Beast of Burden (11 page)

Because that's where the smell's coming from.

Mo.

Or what
used
to be Mo. A reasonable, but rotting, facsimile.

He's laid out on the mattress, one leg cocked at the knee, one sleeve rolled up to expose tracks: some are old, some more recent and already festering. No needle in sight, but I could just be missing it. His favourite Berghaus is on the floor next to the mattress, splattered with blood. As I shift round, I can also see a stain behind his head and a larger one around his crotch and arse from his final evacuation, his trackie bottoms stuck tight to the body. Break the seal on that and there'd be complaints from up the hall.

I stare at him until the shock wears off. Lean on my stick, my nose and mouth still buried in the crook of my elbow. Should've guessed it would turn out like this. Mo never could take no for an answer, never could see beyond himself and what he wanted. Just like my brother, got himself into a pattern of behaviour that he couldn't escape in the end.

And what's that they say about hell? Something about making the same mistakes over and over again.

I prod open Mo's jacket with the end of my walking stick. As I lean over to reach into his inside pocket, I catch movement in the torch beam. I shake a long hair from my hand, watch it drift for a moment before I realise where it's from.

Alison's hair finally settles across one of Mo's open palms.

There's a part of me that feels kind of sorry for him, especially considering what's happened. Kicked out of his family, unequipped to do anything but deal, and even that at a low level. Throw in the speed, amphetamine and heroin cocktails he'd obviously been taking, and you've got a brain corroded until one crystal thought remained — the reminder that he was Morris Tiernan's son, and he was a failure at that.

Course, that sympathy only lasts as long as I don't think about everything the cunt did to me and my brother.

I straighten up, feel the weight of the cane in both hands and shift my feet so I'm balanced.

Take a breath, relish that filthy smell, let it out, and bring the handle of my stick down across the bridge of Mo's nose. Fucker went and died, doesn't mean I can't beat the shit out of him. The rap across the nose felt good. So I do it again. And again.

That's for Declan
.

That's for my prison time
.

No.

That's for the first month I spent inside; that's for the second, the third …

And one more each for the sister who had me beaten, the blokes she got to do it, and the father that sent me on a wild goose chase, the first fatal mistake that kick-started me down this fucking road.

And as I lose the strength to continue, as my chest aches with the exertion and my arms start to feel like steel pins have been shot through them, I find myself slowing to a stop. Finally lower the stick, the handle slick with blood. I lean on it, look at the floor.

Check the evidence trail. Cover my arse.

I got the address from Baz. So he knows where Mo was living, and I'm sure there's motive to kill him. That many years with Mo calling him all the cunts under the sun, I'm sure that'd be enough to make anyone snap.

Alison's hair, now in Mo's hand. A strange place to be if she maintains that she hasn't seen him since Newcastle.

And again, plenty of motive.

I look at Mo. Only the eyes and nose are recognisable as facial features, the rest as good as guesswork. When the police arrive, they'll have some digging to do. And with a little luck, they'll have an Orient Express on their hands.

I step back from Mo, scuff my cane marks away from the dirt on the floor, then reach into his Berghaus and take the wallet in his inside pocket. Nothing much in there apart from the usual shite and a photograph, folded in half, that has the colours of an eighties Kodak moment. A woman, large hair, skinny otherwise, sitting in a brown fabric chair with tassels along the bottom. Her legs crossed, her skirt hitched up and tight to the thigh, with an unseen man's hand on her knee. She has a wide, white smile and her large blue eyes are a little too close together. A vague resemblance to Mo, and I guess that it's his mother, though the age of the photo would put her long gone.

I take a photo ID out of the wallet, toss it onto the floor. That should speed things up. Then I tuck the wallet into my jacket pocket.

Head out of the room, making sure not to touch anything on the way. I draw the door closed with the end of my walking stick, bringing a fresh wave of stink out into the corridor. Then I wipe my hands on my T-shirt, the handle of the walking stick, too. Hope I'm clean enough that people don't scream when they see me, then zip my jacket up. Further up the corridor, the door to the occupied flat is still closed, and the television is still on. I try to walk as evenly as I can — the last thing I need is someone telling the police that they heard someone limping around outside their door.

I need a story for Tiernan, and I think I have one: I got a note of Mo's old address from one of his mates, and I was all set to check it out in the morning, but when I got there, the place was swarming with busies. Which they will be once I drop a twenty on the whereabouts of Mo's corpse. That's it. Son found, give me my fucking money and I'll be on my way.

I know it won't end like that. But I need Tiernan to be the one to instigate it.

The last landing, and a final flight of stairs. There's a pain in my leg, which is unusual, and a tightness in my chest, which isn't. Above all that, though, there's this nagging sense that everything just went to shit, that I'd missed something, maybe left some incriminating evidence up there that would make the police come straight to me.

Think about it. I took his wallet, but that'll come in handy later. Other than that, I didn't touch anything, and fingerprints are hardly that important. The hair's not mine, and it's unlikely that I've left any of my own, considering how short I keep it. It's possible that I could've moved some dust or something — it was dark enough so that I wouldn't see — but I don't think so.

Doesn't matter. Everything's fine. Even if I have left some evidence up there, the police will naturally think it's from whoever rang in the body. Which, if they come to me, is what I'll say. Anything else, it's me worrying about fuck all. I just need to get it over with.

I head down the rest of the stairs, pull my mobile out of my pocket as I walk through the lobby and barge through the exit. It's cold out here, feels like it's getting colder all the time.

But I'll soon be home. Still a little blood on my walking stick, plenty more on my hidden T-shirt, and there's an image of Mo that I'll need to kill with a couple of swift drinks and some sleeping pills.

I'm about to dial 999 when I see the car.

A big, old car. Someone behind the wheel with a cigarette in their mouth. The engine's running, which is enough to make the temperature around me drop even further. I stop, clear the number from my phone display.

Then the headlights come up full glare. I shield my eyes, blinking at the sudden light.

The engine keeps running. The sound feels industrial, ominous. Whoever this is, he likes his fucking drama.

“Y'alright, Innes?”

Fuck. Should've guessed.

I push the mobile back into my pocket and wave my hand at the lights. They dip to a normal level, and I manage to blink away the afterburn in time to see Donkey getting out of the car. More blinking, and I can see the grin on his face.

That grin says he knows everything, that he's caught me red-handed.

DONKIN

I wished I had a camera because, seriously, his face was fucking priceless.

Switched on the headlights and he was caught like a rabbit, big wide eyes. I had to watch myself, because when I saw the dopey look on his face, I almost burst out laughing. And that certainly wasn't the plan — I had to be serious about this. Mind you, I made a mental note to use the headlight trick in the future. If it shat anyone else up like it did the cripple, it was a technique worth remembering.

“Y'alright, Innes?” Nice and loud so he knew it was me. I started rolling a cigarette.

He didn't say anything. Screwed up half his face.

“Asked you a question, like.”

I was trying to keep it friendly, but reckoned if this bastard didn't feel like talking, I could always knock his stick out, see how he liked that.

Instead, I saw him nod. “I know.”

“And?”

“Not bad.”

“Fuckin' terrific night for it, isn't it?” I walked over to him — proper strolled like I was enjoying the night air, always come round here to do it — and I said, “I love it this time of year.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, smells like Christmas.”

He stood in the middle of the car park, didn't move. Probably reckoned that if he moved, I'd be on him, which was pretty clever of him. Because he knew if he did a runner, that'd just be worse later on when I
did
catch up with him. Anyone who knew us was quick to learn that.

“You know what I mean when I say that, don't you?” I said. “Like it's all
crisp
an' that. Course, not so much now.
Now
it's just brass fuckin' monkeys and reeks like a fuckin' canal, and I don't want to be out here longer than I have to. Which is a pain in the arse, because I've been sat in my car waiting for you to finish whatever the fuck it is you were doing in there. You
are
finished, aren't you?”

He rubbed one eye and sniffed. Didn't say anything.

“So,” I said. “What's the score?”

“Score?”

“You heard.”

“Looking to … move here.”

“That right?”

“No.”

“Never mind. Least you're talking, eh? So what're you doing out here?”

“Nowt.”

He gave us a smile, but it only worked on half his face, just like when he scrunched it up before.

“Don't play funny buggers,” I said. “You know what I can do to you.”

He shook his head, still had that twisted smile on his face. “Not on licence. Not anymore.” He pointed at us. “You can't … do
nowt.
Donkey.”

And I nodded. Because there was the dilemma. There were plenty of people I knew who didn't reckon that I gave much thought to my actions. There'd been reports I saw with the words “IMPULSE CONTROL ISSUES” written all in capitals like that was the key to my personality. But I
did
think about my actions, right then especially. I stood there, my arms folded against the cold. In any normal situation, I'd be well within my rights to grab the cunt and slam his head in his car door. But the problem was, it was obvious to us that Innes was a special needs. And not just any special needs, either. It honestly looked like something'd just mangled fuck out of him, inside and out.

So there it was: I wanted to kick shite out of him, but he was a cripple. And there was no kudos is kicking shite out of a cripple. Even if the cripple was an arsehole.

“I heard something bad happened to you,” I said.

He squinted at us.

I waggled a finger at him, then folded my arms again. “So what was it?”

He shook his head and made a move for his car. I watched him hobble over to the Micra, then followed him over. Waited for him to put his hand on the door. When he pulled it open, I kicked it hard, slammed it shut. Hey, fuck him if he got hurt by accident, right? Hardly my fault if that happened. And he shuffled back quickly, like I almost clipped him. Then he stood, one hand gripping the handle of his walking stick tight, looked like wanted to plant one on us. There was something smeared on his hand and the stick.

“You got something you want to say, son?” I looked him in the eyes. “Because you feel like you want to take a swing at us, you be my fuckin' guest. Reckon I never had too much trouble putting the fuckin' pain on you when you were whole, I don't think you're going to pose any particular problems now that you’re the walking fuckin' wounded, what do you think? And then it won't matter if you're on licence or not, will it?”

He cleared his throat, spat something at the ground. Then he started talking to us again, and there was something about the way he spoke, like he was saying everything all over-clear, like
I
was the fucking mong. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you, didn't I?”

“About what?”

“Been looking all over the place for you, but you're an elusive bastard, I'll give you that. Fuckin' slippery.” I smiled. “Got so's your poof mate doesn't want to see us round the club no more. Apparently I'm scaring the kids, like.”

Didn't get a reaction, but then that was usual. This fucker was internal all the way and at the moment, he seemed calm with it. Like he was just waiting for us to stop talking so's he could go home. Back in the day, he would've kicked off with us. Course, back in the day, he was a bloke with a bit of fight in him. Now, he looked like someone'd nicked his balls.

Or maybe he just needed a bit more of a prod.

“How's your brother?” I said.

“Dead.”

“Yeah? How?”

I saw his neck move. “Overdose.”

“Once a smackhead, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Don't get us wrong, like. Feeling your pain an' that, but I'm guessing you saw it coming.”

“Not really.”

“Well, you should have. I mean, I don't know much about smackheads other than, y'know, what I have to deal with every day, but the one thing I do know? Once they're on, they're never off. Even when they think they are, know what I mean?” I went into my pocket for my tin, held it out to Innes.

He wasn't having any of it. Fair enough.

I put the roll-up in my mouth and lit it. Took in the smoke, then let it go as I said, “So you ask
me
, it was just a matter of time before something sparked him off and he went and scored from the wrong bloke. I mean, let's face it, if there's one thing that smackheads can't deal with, it's stress, eh?”

Watched him, tried to wait him out for a reply, but he still wasn't playing. I moved a bit closer to him.

“I'm right, aren't I?” I said. “I mean, I liked your brother an' that — he was a great fuckin' grass — but he was a smackhead. Which is probably why he didn't save your skin when he could've. But then you know all about that.”