‘Should we wait for the lady of the house?’ said Hod. He returned to the notebook. ‘… That would be Mrs Katrina Crawford, nee Fairbanks.’
The judge took his hands from his pockets, a white handkerchief in one. ‘Look, no, we don’t need my wife. What is this all about?’ He mopped his large brow, returned the handkerchief to his pocket. He had no sooner completed the movement when his wife appeared through the doorway.
She was what the Scots call thrawn. A tall woman with pale skin and paler eyes, she haunted the room like a ghost. As she walked in, her mouth parted ever so slightly. Words, suspended on her lips, never appeared. She wore an apron, which she hastily tried to unfasten as she moved towards us. She faced me, managed some sangfroid. ‘What is going on here?’
I motioned Hod to put away the notebook, walked into the centre of the room. ‘Nice place you have here.’
Mrs Crawford turned to her husband. ‘Joe, what is this?’
The judge looked lost. ‘Look, if this is some kind of-’
‘Some kind of what, Mr Crawford?’ I said.
‘Well, I don’t know…’
I walked over to the yob, stared right into his eyes. ‘What were you doing on Corstorphine Hill the other night, Mark?’
He said nothing. He had a strong gaze for his years. Most would have turned away; I raised my volume a notch. ‘With the dog and the gang and the guns, Mark.’
The woman approached. Hod stepped in, raised a palm — it was enough.
I grabbed the yob’s shoulders. He spun them away, drew fists. It made me smile. ‘A man’s dead, Mark… His name was Thomas Fulton.’
His mother lurched for me, grabbed my arm. ‘Please, please, he’s just a boy.’
I turned. Her grip was strong — I could feel her anguish. I didn’t want to bring any more hurt to her but what else could I do? ‘Look, I appreciate how painful this must be, but you must see how this looks.’
The judge moved towards his wife, put an arm round her shoulder, led her away from me.
Mark was still staring at me. His eyes were slits, his fists still balled up in anticipation.
The judge spoke: ‘If this is about money…’
I was incredulous. ‘How much money do you think it would take to cover up a murder?’
Mrs Crawford’s eyes widened; her mouth fell open. ‘What… what?’
Hod spoke: ‘You heard right.’
The judge stepped in front of his wife. ‘I’ve had just about enough of this. Get out of my house or I’m calling the police.’
I laughed out, couldn’t help myself. ‘Somehow, Your Honour… I think that’s the last thing you’ll be doing.’
Chapter 7
On the street I sparked up an Embassy, watched Hod come trailing down after me.
He said, ‘Think we got to them?’
I drew deep, said, ‘No chance.’
I moved off. Hod clipped at my heels, yelled, ‘Why not?’
‘Their lot have had centuries of practice.’ As I looked up to the window I could see Katrina Crawford was watching us. I felt a stab of guilt; the woman had suffered enough with the loss of a child. My face must have conveyed my thoughts — she shook her head and turned away.
‘What’s up?’ said Hod.
‘Nothing. Let’s get out of here.’
I lay in bed listening to a bit of synthpop. Oh yeah, there’s still a place for Depeche Mode — if you remember ‘Enjoy the Silence’, you forgive them the last ten years. I had a bottle of gin to the side of the bed, an ashtray balanced on my chest and a pack of Marlboro within grabbing distance. The red tops. Proper lethal. Was the best I could do; nearest I got to therapy.
For some time I’d had a rage on. Long before this corpse-on-the-hill headache; this goes way back. I’d hit the books. Close as I got to an approximation of myself was from Virgil: ‘Impotent fury rages powerless and to no purpose.’ That was me. Debs, my ex-wife, put it in simpler terms: ‘You take your life out on the world.’
When I took over my late friend Col’s pub it came with a flat. Not the room I used to have, the one he gave me above the gents’ cludgie whilst I was his doorman, but the apartment he used to share with his wife. There was a stack of books, religious mostly, but also some self-help. I don’t think they were Col’s, I think they belonged to his wife, Bell. She was a shy woman, quiet. One of life’s strugglers. I know the type, because I struggle myself.
Some of us strugglers give in. Bell, I think, not so much lost the will as never had it in the first place. Me, I’m a rager. That’s not a noble stance, it’s stupid. I’m the level below Bell. Her type have the nous to know the fight’s not worth it. Me, I care so little about losing that I welcome the fight with open arms. If it hastens the end, all the better.
The first time I picked up one of Bell’s books, I threw it across the room. There’s that anger again. It had some dumb title like How To Be Happy and had a headshot of the author smiling through porcelain veneers into the soft-focus lens. But if you’re a reader, you read, be it cornflake packets or Jean-Paul Sartre. In a dark night of the soul, I got my introduction to this snake-oil psychology. It was full of mantras like ‘Every day and in every way I am getting better and better’. Repeat ten times an hour, on the hour, for a month and the idea is you get the porcelain-veneered, soft-focus look and all’s peachy.
It churned my gut. People making money out of others’ misery. I felt sorry for Bell. Did she buy this? Did she think it was helping? I knew it wouldn’t; it could only make her worse. I knew this because I’ve heard the phrase ‘Get your act together’ so many times. The effect of it — contrary to the intention — is to drive you closer to the abyss. It misses me, though — I’m living in the abyss.
I reached for the gin bottle. Empty.
I raised myself and went downstairs to the bar. For the first time in weeks we had a fair crowd in. Took a stool at the front, twiddled with a beer mat until Mac caught my eye.
‘Want something?’
‘Usual.’
He poured out a Guinness and looked down at me as I fished for the television remote control. I flicked.
Got some groans from around the room.
‘Gus, there’s folk watching that.’
‘What?’
‘ X Factor…’
I scanned the place: they were all old soaks, old enough to remember proper television. I raised my voice: ‘Was anyone watching that shite?’
A chorus of ‘Aye. Aye. Aye.’
‘You jest, surely.’ I flicked back to see Simon Cowell tearing into some utterly deluded bell-end of about sixteen, a Scouser with a swagger you could power a small town on. ‘… You’re encouraging this type of moron, you realise.’
‘There’s nothing else on,’ called out one of the regulars, a stickthin sixty-something with a crater where his nose should be.
‘And there never will be if you keep watching this crap… Honestly, you’re like gerbils in a wheel. Don’t you remember when it took talent to be on television?’
The Scouser started to kick off, told Simon he was wrong, he was ‘gonna be bigger than Robbeeee!’
I roared at the telly, ‘Dream on! The biggest cockhead in the music industry slot’s taken for now, pal. Come back in a few years, though — you look the type they’re after.’
I stood up, yelled, ‘Look at these strutting little twats… working in Sainsbury’s and thinking they’re the next Ricky fucking Martin. We’ve bred a generation of delusional egomaniacs and we wonder why the country’s gone
