Beast of Burden (23 page)

That wasn't the way to play it. Getting angry again, getting emotional.

I breathed smoke.

Had to be calm about this, think it out rationally. It was all about being clever, all about thinking shit through. For once in my life, I reckoned I'd have to investigate without going to my usual sources. There was something about that I didn't particularly like, but I reckoned I'd have to get over it. After all, justice had to be served, didn't it?

Another rumble, getting closer. Rain spotting the windscreen.

There was a fucking storm coming.

INNES

When I get to the Northside, I'm buzzing from a couple of painkiller beers and running late. Tiernan's nowhere to be seen which isn't unusual, considering the place is packed.

A couple of local lads dominate the bill and, from what I can make out, both are rising stars, so this exhibition's brought in pretty much everyone who's interested in the Manchester boxing scene. Won't find many fair-weather Hattonites in this place, but you might bump shoulders with some of his close mates. It's a watch-what-you-say crowd, so I keep my mouth shut and head down. As I push through, I get growled at, pushed back, and a full compliment of dirty looks and idle threats. The guys in here are built like bears, but shaved to the skin on the top. The women are either made up and stinging people's eyes with their perfume, or else bat-faced bean bags chain-smoking their way to an aching left arm.

I see Tiernan through the wall of his lads. I have to push further and harder just to reach the first bodyguard, who takes one look at the bruises on my face and decides I shouldn't be anywhere near his gaffer. One large hand comes out and braces my chest. He's about to tell me to fuck off when I catch Tiernan's eye.

“The fuck have you been?” he says.

“Got caught up.”

“Drinking,” says the bodyguard.

Both Tiernan and I look at this bloke, wondering where the fuck he got the idea he was part of the conversation. He's young, looks aggro enough to be new blood.

“Watch the fight,” says Tiernan. “We'll talk later in the van.”

The fight doesn't have long. Heading into the eighth with five to go, but I'll be surprised if we get all of them. One of the lads, a white kid with swollen eyes and a fierce cut on his temple that doesn't want to close, is already lurching about as if he's about to jack it in. His guard is up, but wavering, looks like a supreme effort just to keep his hands up at his chest. The Asian lad he's fighting doesn't look that much better off, but there's an urgency in his step that means he's set on winning this. That's if the ref doesn't call it first.

I try to get comfortable standing, but there's too much jostling, too much noise for me to watch the fight properly. I'm too hot, my brain already going from buzzed to swimming, and it suddenly strikes me as odd that Morris Tiernan would come out in public if he thought someone was gunning for him. And he might have blokes around him, but the one that put his hand on me looks to be the most experienced. Got to wonder what the fuck Tiernan thinks he's playing at.

The Asian lad throws a weak punch that still puts the white kid to one knee, and the ref starts counting it, the white lad trying to wave him off with one glove. Kid's got heart, I'll give him that, but all the heart in the world can't stop a ten-count.

And that's the bell.

Tiernan moves on the second ring, his boys moving with him as a unit. I see it, follow it, hobble in the slipstream of the entourage.

Then I'm out in the real world. Fresh, cold air slaps some of the alcohol out of my system and aggravates the bruises on my face. Behind me, people are filing out of the club, and their presence is making Tiernan tense. I follow him as he moves off to one side, turning his collar up and his back to the crowd.

“The fuck is it?” he says.

Something new in his expression. Could be something
like
fear, but I don't know for sure. It's not something I've ever seen before, especially when it comes to Tiernan.

“Darren,” he says. “You called the lad, didn't you?”

One of the bodyguards, fattish, starts nodding slowly. “Yeah, no problems on that score, Mr Tiernan.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

Darren's mouth hangs open for a moment. “Uh, that it's all being sorted.”

“No, there
are
problems, Darren. If the lad was here, there wouldn't be any fuckin' problems, but he's
not
fuckin' here, is he? And neither's the fuckin' van.”

Darren, still nodding, says, “Yeah.”

“You called him again?”

“Right.”

“Not
right
. Fuckin' do it. Now. We had this timed for a fuckin' reason, you daft cunt.”

Darren pulls a mobile from his puffer pocket. Tiernan turns away from him, looks as if he's about to grab my arm, then drops his hand. I watch Darren poking at his mobile while Tiernan stands next to me, breathing through his mouth and shifting his weight from one leg to the other. He reaches under his jacket, tugs at something I can't see, then zips up again.

He looks back at the entrance to the Northside. I follow his gaze: there are still people coming out of the building.

A car door slams loud up the street. Engines, talking, some loud laughter, a mess of noise that appears to tense Tiernan right up.

And Darren's still on the phone.

“Darren, get the cunt here right now.”

“It's ringing.”

“It's ringing, you want to go fuckin'
look
for him.”

Darren moves the phone from his ear. “What, now?”

“Fuckin' keep ringing him, get your arse moving while you do it.”

A fat bloke in a T-shirt shuffles past Tiernan, jostles him. Doesn't realise who he's nudged and how fucking dead he's about to be until Tiernan's almost on him.

“Sorry. Jesus,
sorry
,” he says.

Tiernan backs up, watches the guy head on. His mouth hangs open. “Fuck it. Can't get the fuckin' …” His eyes wide, he points at me. “You wanted to talk.”

“Yes.”

“Let's do it now before I fuckin' kill someone.” He gestures to the aggro lad. “Glen, you tell Darren to keep phoning, right? We're going to take a walk around the block and when we get back, that cunt better be sitting here with the fuckin' van, you understand me?”

“You want me to come with?” Glen eyes me up like I'm about to hold a knife to his boss's throat.

“No, fuck's sake.” Tiernan grabs me by the arm, hurries me along, away from the crowd that's developing in front of the Northside. Glen jogs over to where Darren is ambling up the road. Tiernan breathes out, shaking his head. He attempts a kind of rueful smile and says, “No fuckin' point in me leaving early if I'm going to be stuck in all that, is there?”

I make a negative noise. Having trouble keeping pace with him. We hit a corner and Tiernan slows down.

“That cunt out there, he's got one job to do and that's have the fuckin' van outside when I need it.”

“You had threats?” I say.

He glances at me, then stares down the street. “More importantly, what happened to you?”

“Got a problem.”

“Thought you might.” He jerks his head for me to follow. I do as I'm told.

“Police,” I say.

“Right.” Tiernan fishes in his pocket, brings out his cigarettes. “You told me that wasn't going to be an issue. Told me you had that sorted, Callum.”

“They're not a problem. As a
group
.”

“So,” Tiernan lights a Rothmans as he walks, “it's an individual gave you that. What's his name?”

“Donkin.”

“Why's that name familiar?”

“Donkey. He's a sergeant. CID.”

“Right,” he says. “Got you now. Heard about him. He's a right piece of work, isn't he?”

“Yeah.”

“Should be kicked out by now, eh? I mean, the stuff I heard he got up to.”

“Still does.” I shake my head. “The only people he hurts … they're
grasses
. Nobody really cares.”

“And you.” Tiernan stops and looks at me. “What does that make you? You got worked over—”

“I'm not a grass.”

“This copper your police contact?”

“Was.”

Tiernan sniffs loudly, and we've arrived round the back of the Northside. He pulls out his cigarettes, offers the pack to me. I decline — smoking
and
walking is tough on me. He blows smoke straight up at the sky, showing me his throat.

“So what do you want?” he says.

“Help.”

“With the copper?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of help?”

“You know.”

“I don't like dealing with police,” he says, working his mouth as if he's desperately trying to stifle a smile. “There's rules in place.”

Obviously Tiernan's gone fucking soft on me. Should've seen it coming — the bloke's been popping at the seams the past couple of days.

I nod. “It's okay.”

“No, leave it with us. Let me look into it. I'll let you know if it's doable.” He leans against the back wall of the club. “In the meantime, you got anything?”

So that's what it comes down to. You scratch my back, I'll get the copper off yours. Fair play, he's been working on trust for a while now.

“Been working the hair,” I say.

He tenses up a little. “Okay.”

“Kevin Ross … doesn't know. Baz: again, nothing.”

“Anything else?”

“Police know … it wasn't robbery.”

“They're sure?”

“Yeah.”

“So what now?”

“Check on Mo's … love life.”

We stare at each other for a short while. Tiernan's obviously trying to work out if that was a dig at his daughter. It wasn't, but it's not a bad thing to get Alison back in the man's head. For all intents and purposes, I'm off the Alison lead, but there's no harm in refreshing his memory every now and then.

Tiernan nods, drops his cigarette. He digs into his jacket, revealing what looks like a bodywarmer underneath. As he brings out a thick envelope, the light catches the fabric of the body armour he's wearing. When Tiernan notices me staring, he zips up and smiles.

“It's a lot of money,” he says, handing me the envelope. “Plenty more where that came from an' all. C'mon.”

He heads off around the side of the club. I follow him at a distance. As we emerge from the alley on the other side, Darren spots us, twisting round with his mouth open. By the kerb is a large black SUV, its engine idling. The guy behind the wheel — bald, heavy eyebrows, face on him like a bulldog licking piss off a kettle — glances at Tiernan, then faces front, staring at some obviously uncomfortable point in the middle distance.

“Thought we'd lost you,” says Darren.

Tiernan strides towards the SUV. As he passes the driver's door, he slams his hand against it. The driver flinches. “The fuck were you, you lazy cunt?”

The driver opens his mouth, flaps for a second before he says, “Thought you said—”

“Don't make a difference what you
thought
.” The SUV door slides open noisily; Glen's already inside. “You
be
here when you're supposed to be here. And you keep your fuckin' phone on, dickhead.”

The driver starts to say something else, but his mouth's long stopped working in tandem with his vocal cords. All that comes out of his gob is what sounds like a throaty cough. Darren steps ahead, holds the door to one side for Tiernan.

Before he gets into the van, Tiernan stops and looks at me. “That thing we talked about. We'll sort it. You keep on doing what you're doing.”

“Thanks.”

He ducks into the SUV. “And you lot get your fuckin' heads out your arse. Safer with him over there than I am with you bunch of twats.”

Darren shoots me a glare that makes me think he wants to chop me in the fucking throat. “You can never be too careful.”

“Yeah, you never fuckin' know, son.” Tiernan laughs, stretches out in his seat. “Wake the fuck up, Daz. Look at him.”

Darren does. Tiernan waves a hand for him to get in and close the door. He backs up, slides the door across and into place with a loud metallic bang.

But before Tiernan disappears from sight, I hear him say: “How the fuck is he a threat to
me
?”

Too right.

After all, I'm just a mong, aren't I?

It was supposed to be a family meal, but we weren't much of a family, so it wasn't much of a meal.

My last night in Scotland, the night after the funeral. Promised my mum that I'd show up for a farewell dinner, just me, her and Uncle Kenny. Supposed to be a nice way of saying goodbye, but as me and her sat there — nine o'clock, Christmas tablecloth spattered with wax from the now-guttering candles, the throat-closing smell of a roast dinner that had gone from succulent to husk about an hour before — I realised I'd had enough of watching my mum try not to show the tears and pushed away from the table.

“Where are you going?” she said.

“Going to get …
Kenny
.”

“He's—”

“I know where.”

Out in the hall, and I knew she wouldn't follow me, but I turned around anyway. I saw her silhouette flicker in the candlelight, then I was gone.

Port Edgar was more boneyard than boatyard when the bad weather rolled in, foul icy winds sweeping in across the Firth of Forth that took the skin from your face, dug in and put a chill right through the marrow. I caught a cab out to the marina, left him outside the main gate with the engine running.

Place was supposed to be closed at this time of night, but it was a home away from home for my uncle, and he didn't need to tell me why.

Thing was with Kenny, when I was a kid, I barely remembered him. He was a wallpaper-suit kind of bloke. Whenever we'd have to trudge round to my Auntie Linda's for Christmas and she got out all the spare chairs, there'd always be one missing, and that would be Kenny's. So he'd stand by the wall, try to blend in. And when the conversation faltered between the adults, plunging into a thick silence, he'd be the one to break it with a nonsense sound — “Uh-
huh
…” — as if that would get people talking again.

He faded into the cigarette smoke. He barely registered, even when he started fucking that nurse in Bo'Ness and him and Linda called it a day with fourteen years and two kids under their belts. After that, we didn't go round for Christmas anymore. Can't say I shed any tears. Nor did I when I heard that Kenny and the nurse split up, and he was living the lonely bachelor life in Leith.