2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel (33 page)

She answers after a single ring, causing him to trip up on his words.

“Ha…hi. Hello. That was quick.”

“My reflexes are amazing when I’m desperate for distraction. My eyes are bleeding from looking through these files. I’ve got all his accounts and business records in front of me, or at least what we believe to be all. Please talk to me. Preferably at length.”

“Anything juicy come up yet?”

“Hardly. His accounts are a shambles, but that’s not exactly a red flag when you’re talking about a failing business. The only question mark at the moment is a discrepancy over the use of the lodges.”

“What, the fact that they were actually making money?”

“Boom boom. No, it’s that a lot of the money looks like it’s from corporate hire. There’s a series of irregular payments in US dollars, account in the name of AmberCorp, but I cannae find any corresponding record of when these bookings took place. All the stays in the ledger have the rates and payments listed next to them, but AmberCorp never appears.”

“Could be a third-party booking firm. AmberCorp would appear in the accounts, but individual guests’ surnames would appear in the records.”

“I suppose. Maybe get someone to look into it, but we’re only talking aboot eight grand in total, so it’s not got me shouting ‘Eureka’.”

“I thought cops always said ‘Bingo’ when they made the vital connection.”

“We like to vary it from time to time.”

“So those files, the books from Colin’s lodges, they list who stayed there and when?”

“Yes. Why, what you got?”

“Did Pete McGeechy ever stay there? Or anyone else on the planning committee? I heard that Colin used to let the lodges to friends at bargain rates, and sometimes gratis to others. The phrase used was ‘you scratch my back’.”

“Let me find the folder. We spoke to McGeechy this afternoon, and Tom Fisher’s sniffing around him and the planning committee.”

“What did he say?”

“He said nothing. He talked plenty, but he’s an experienced politico. Very good at answering your questions without telling you anything. There was also lots of legal posturing: ‘not at liberty to reveal’ this and ‘strictly confidential’ that. Very considered responses throughout. Very frustrating because it’s obvious he’s lying but you can’t get a credit card between the chinks, you know?”

“Aye, but could you not goad him into losin the rag? Never used to take much.”

“Like I said, he’s a smoother operator these days. Christ, where is that folder?” she moans, the strain in her voice causing him to picture her with the receiver rucked awkwardly under her chin as her hands search the paperwork. “It was right here a minute ago. Let me try this pile. Anyway, he was full of denials about pressure being brought to bear on the planning committee, or rather, he said pressure was always being brought to bear but that was what they were there to evaluate, blah, blah, blah. Cute, too. Didnae claim Johnny Turner had nothin to do with it or say he’d never heard of him or anythin that might come back to bite him on the arse. ‘Confidential submissions’, ‘can neither confirm nor deny the identities of’…You’re a lawyer, you know the script.”

“Sure. So what was between the lines of the script?”

“Well, obviously he was hiding something, but he didn’t seem especially nervous.”

“He wouldn’t be if the two people who’d been squeezing him from opposite sides had just been eliminated.”

“You think Colin was leaning on him? How so?”

“You got the folder yet?”

“Finally, yes. Let me see…Hang on, back over the page…Yes. McGeechy stayed at the lodges back in January. The rate is written down as complimentary. Oh no, wait a sec. January. That predates the submission of Colin’s rezoning application.”

“It doesn’t predate the Sirius consortium’s approach for the hotel, though. Colin knew he would need him onside.”

“Yeah, but it’s not exactly Jonathan Aitken at the Paris Ritz. Plus we’ll need to check whether McGeechy declared it anywhere. Even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t give Colin any means of pushing him. McGeechy would only be vulnerable to accusations of impropriety if he did what Colin
wanted
, so how does that give Colin any leverage?”

“Maybe that’s not the kind of impropriety you should be looking for,” Martin suggests.

“Why am I picturing you with your hand up right now?”

“Please, miss, please, miss,” he says. It’s supposed to sound good-humoured, even flirty, but as he says it he can only think of Jojo. Binary.
Jesus Christ
.

“You always loved being the one who knows the answer,” Karen says, accurately. “But don’t milk it, Martin, it’s getting late.”

So he tells her, without fanfare and without naming his source.

“Where are you?” she asks.

“On a train. I’m a mobile-phone cliche.”

“I mean where exactly?”

“Just going past Nether Carnock.”

“Get off at Paisley.”

“That’s what all the Catholic girls say.”

“Don’t go there, wee man.”

§

Party time. Pished the night, ooooooh yes. Going to get blootered. Going to get stocious. Going to get steamboats.

Wooh-wooh, all aboard. Can’t wait. Colin and Panda Beattie and Big Tico Hughes and Matt K-9 and Aldo Daws-Baws, and not forgetting the lassies, not forgetting, no indeed, lice’s got ID says he’s eighteen, but if he gets a knockback, there’s always K-9’s big brother Bongo who’s in Sixth Year. They’re all coming back to his place—Tempo’s Temple—after the disco. That’s where the real action’s going to be. The school disco’s going to be a fucking Smartie party, all the wee daft weans thinking they’re on a real night out. All the wee lassies that wouldn’t let you do anything and have got hardly any tits anyway eating crisps and drinking Irn-Bru out plastic cups in between dancing to Kim Wilde or some shite, same as they were in First Year. All the wee fannies like Scotty and Marty still going out in their trainers and clothes their mammies bought them, standing round the walls spending all night plucking up the bottle to ask for a dance and then going back with a beamer when they get the inevitable knockback. And all the daft wanks like Keany and Liam with no chance of a carry-out, trying to get pished by putting aspirins in Coke. It’s a fucking myth, but he’s seen them drink it and then try to convince themselves they’re getting a buzz from it. Wanks. Near as bad as that daft bastard Kevin Duffy. Duffle heard about banana joints, but nobody told him you need to get tons of the wee stringy bits and dry them out. According to Aldo, the stupid prick tried to light a whole fucking banana like it was a big cigar. Total tube.

And then, of course, there’s Turbo, but the least said, eh? Fucking Turbo. Used to think he was a wee hard man, but now he’s a fucking joke. Too stupid to realise he’s having the pish ripped out him half the time. Just stands there and takes it because he thinks that means he’s in with the boys.

Seriously, it’s amazing that all these people are in the same year. There were always folk taller than others, and in some cases nearly a year between folk in the same class because of the March cut-off date, but now, at the tail-end of Third Year, it’s like men and boys, young women and wee lassies. He used to hang about with Marty and Scotty at St Lizzie’s, but fuck’s sake, how could they hang about together now? He doesn’t mean to act the big man, and feels bad about slagging them, but they’re still just wee boys. Their idea of a carry-out is from the Golden Dragon, they know nothing about fashion and they don’t have a clue what music is in these days. They slag off Bowie, for Christ’s sake. Just shows they don’t have a scoobie, and not just about music, but about being cool. If you don’t like Bowie, fair dos, but you should have the suss to keep quiet about it. Tempo’s cousin Charlotte is up at Strathclyde Uni. She said everybody’s into The Velvet Underground and gave him a tape of some albums. He found them a bit boring, to be honest, but it sounds good to be able to talk about this kind of stuff. That’s what the likes of Marty and Scotty don’t get; that’s how they’ll never be in with the boys. They lack maturity.

Going to be time to get ready in a wee while. Seven o’clock the disco starts. What’s that like?
Seven!
Finishes at half-nine. For a Third and Fourth Year disco! Just shows you: it’s so the weans aren’t out too late past beddy-byes.

He’ll have a shower in a wee bit. Got some nice wet-look gel for his hair when he was in the town last Saturday. Him and Tico went in on the train, then straight across to Union Street. Virgin and HMV are practically next door to each other. That’s real record shops, not like the wee pishy one on the Main Street. He got a Japan twelve-inch,
I Second That Emotion
. It was going cheap because it’s been out for ages. He wasn’t into them before, but K-9’s brother Bongo likes them and he’s in Sixth Year. K-9 said Bongo might come along tonight, later on, so he’ll make sure that song goes on the record player if he does.

He’s still got his uniform on the now, but he’s already looked out what he’ll be wearing. He’s got his Bowie trousers, the ones with the double pleat on each thigh, and this peach penny-collar shirt like David Sylvian wears on that poster in Bongo’s bedroom. Got that in the town on Saturday as well, with his birthday money.

Mum and Dad are away overnight to stay with Nan and Papa in Perth. They’re taking Great Uncle Jim and Auntie Vera with them as well. They’re over from Canada for a month, and they’ve been staying here the last five nights since they arrived at Prestwick. Now it’s somebody else’s turn to have them, thank fuck. Could hardly get in the bathroom for one or other of them this week, and when he did it was usually honking.

House to himself, oh yes. Nothing mental. If any fucking chancers turn up trying to get in, they’ll get told to get to fuck. He’s not having the place wrecked. Just a select wee gathering. Cocktails of an evening with chums, eh Jeeves? But before any of that, there’s the first reason he couldn’t wait for the folks to get in the motor and go: he’s got a porno off of Mick Garvie, or, more accurately, Mick’s big brother Tommy. He had to laugh when Mick gave him it, thinking back to how Momo used to ask after Tommy because he was ‘such a good boy’. Good? He’s fucking brilliant, far as Tempo’s concerned. He’s seen plenty of pornos at other folk’s houses, but it’s dead frustrating because all you want to do is have a wank. Everybody just sits round and laughs at it, or kids on they’re dead cool about it and
don’t
have a raging fucking stauner. But that’s because the bastards are sharing them round and getting a wee bit of private viewing action once their folks are away to bed, which is an option Tempo’s never had because he’s got VHS and every other bastard’s got Beta.

Fucking peasants, that’s the problem. VHS machines are dearer, whereas you practically get a Sanyo Betamax free with every council house. Tempo’s dad always buys the best, prides himself on it. “Never be ashamed to show you’ve got a bit of money,” he always says. “Being skint’s nothing to be proud of.”

“Aye, fine, Dad, but that’s not helping
me
get hold of scud-films, is it? There are plenty of VHS pornos under the counter at the video club, but that’s still no use. Depending who’s on, they can sometimes refuse you if you try to rent an Eighteen, never mind hard-core. But besides that, it would be a pure riddie, renting a porno, especially if it’s from one of the women. When you hand over your money, you might as well say: Two pound, there you go. I’m away hame for a wank, noo.”

But now, at last, here we go. He closes the blinds and turns on the telly. There’s a tape already in the video, so he presses ‘Eject’. The machine starts its lengthy process of whines and whirrs. Takes fucking ages to eject a tape, unreal, and near as long when you put one in. Might as well make use of the time, he decides, and nicks upstairs to get some bog roll. Andrex: soft and absorbent three-ply tissues, so your spunk won’t soak through and dribble on the carpet.
There
’s a catchphrase for their adverts, never mind a fucking Labrador puppy.

He slings the old tape on top of the machine, pushes it a bit too hard so it slides off the back. Get it later, can’t wait. He puts in the porno and kneels by the telly for a minute, waiting to picture-search forward through the guff at the start. He doesn’t need to, though. The film’s not been fully rewound, so it’s straight into the action as soon as he changes the telly to channel eight. Fucking amazing, man. Absolutely fucking amazing. There’s a bird sucking this guy’s boabby, and another bloke at the back shagging her doggy-style. Fantastic, but he wants her to turn over so he can get a better view of it going in and out her fud.

It’s stunning, magnificent. He used to think getting a view of Mars through his telescope on a clear night was something to get excited about, but this is a whole other universe of wonder. He sits down on the settee and undoes his trousers. Yes, here we go. They change positions and you get a good look at her gammon flaps as she sits on top of the guy and guides it in. Aw yes, man. This is the best wank ever. Never mind Andrex, it’s the Artex that his load’s liable to splatter at this rate. Fuck, man, yes. They’re changing position again and, Jesus, she’s got her ankles practically round her own neck, and, man, the guy’s boabby is huge and his arse is a blur, absolutely going for it. Aw, man, what he would give to be doing that to…aaaaah…aaaaah…Aaaaaaah.

Aw.

Yes.

Aw.

Fuckin…

He hears the noise of a key hitting the lock on the front door and his mother’s voice as it opens. After that, the only thing moving faster than that guy’s bare arse is his own as he trips on his unhoisted trousers in his urgency to reach the telly. He falls flat on the floor with a thump as he hears footsteps coming down the hall, as well as two voices: his mum and Uncle Jim. The living-room door is closed, thank fuck, so they don’t see him lunge to change the TV channel before getting to his feet and pulling up his trousers.

“It’s just us,” his mum says, walking into the room. “Jim forgot his specs.”

“Oh, right.” Colin nods, standing in front of the telly, beneath which the video is still humming as it continues to play the tape.

“Have you got a sniffle?” she asks.