California (3 page)

5

Four years, three months, six days ago.

A post office in Bathgate, one big cluttered front window, a cash machine set into the wall. Outside, there was an advert for Walls ice creams and a stolen Punto with the engine running. Inside the Punto were Shug, Len and Golly. Golly sat in the driver’s seat, tapping along to the slow beat of the Sam and Dave song on the radio. Len was in the back seat. Shug watched him sweat in the rear view mirror, then turned back to the post office. “Just remember your mark and you’ll be fine, alright?”

“Aye,” said Len.

“Follow my lead.”

“I fuckin’ ken, alright?”

“Alright.”

Shug got out of the Punto, slammed the door behind him. He walked across the road to the post office, the weight under his jacket knocking against his ribs. He patted the pocket with the ski mask in it, just to make sure it was still there, then pushed into the post office.

Sweets and cigarettes on his left, magazines and newspapers on his right. At the back, a long, windowed post office counter, about three or four foot deep.

An Asian couple ran the place. He was small, thin and bald, wore milk bottle glasses. She was round and hidden under vast swathes of material. Her eyes were sunk so dark she looked as if she was wearing glasses too. Or at least looked as if she needed them, the way she peered at Shug as he entered. He went to the till, bought a pack of Lamberts and a Lion bar. When her back was turned, he glanced across at the post office part. The man worked behind the glass, counting something and talking quietly to his customer. He smiled, but then he had one of those faces that always looked as if it was smiling, his teeth too big for his mouth.

Shug paid for the cigarettes and chocolate. He turned from the woman, wandered over to the magazine rack as he waited for the customer to finish off. He moved down the rack, looking without touching at the fishing, motoring, handicraft magazines. When the customer at the post office was done and moving towards the exit, Shug looked out the front window to see Len getting out of the Punto.

Lad had timing.

When Len shut the door, Golly flinched.

Shug felt for the ski mask in his pocket, brought it out as the bell above the front door rang and Len entered. There was a school of thought that said there was no point going in there and then pulling on the mask, but that school of thought reckoned on people remembering anything other than the gun pointed right at them. Shug pulled the wool over his face and turned back to the woman. Len made a beeline for the post office, his mask already on.

The woman saw Len, let out a screech. Shug showed her the double-barrel. She saw nothing but a fallen eight and the screech cut short.

Len had his pistol drawn and pointed at the man behind the counter. He barked orders, told him to open the fucking door else he’d put all six through the fucking glass. Shug knew he wouldn’t. Fact of the matter was, both the shotgun and the pistol were empty. It was the difference between a short hitch and a life sentence if it all went pear-shaped. And Shug didn’t trust himself not to unload into the first cunt that gave him grief. Didn’t trust a high-strung lad like Len to keep his head, either. Too much of the cowboy about him.

The bloke behind the counter started shouting back, freaking like a trapped squirrel, made himself a moving target. Swearing at Len. Calling him names in two different languages. Shug shouted once at the man, then struck the woman hard across the bridge of the nose with the short butt of the sawn-off. She buckled and dropped. She grabbed sweets on the way, brought Twirls and Kit Kats down on top of her. Shug shifted round the counter in time to see her eyes flicker closed.

Silence from the bloke. Shug could hear Len breathing hard behind his mask. He had the barrel of the pistol pressed against the glass.

“Open the door,” said Len.

Shug aimed the sawn-off at the wife. Looked up at the bloke behind the counter, thickened his accent when he said, “Dinnae be fuckin’ daft and open that fuckin’ door else I’ll fuckin’ dae the cunt.”

The bloke opened the door.

Len moved quickly, shoved him up against the wall. “Knuckle the fuckin’ wall, son, and don’t you fuckin’ move, alright?”

The man put his hands up, Len pushed his back and knuckles to the wall. He looked pinned in place. Len shook out a bin bag and went for the drawers. Cleared them of cash, took some stamps, postal orders, whatever he could lay fingers on.

There should have been alarms. There were alarms in Shug’s head, but the only real noise was the rustle of the bin bags and his own rasping breath.

He blinked.

And there was Len, out from behind the post office counter, one black bag full to bursting, the pistol still pointed at the bloke. Shug stepped over the woman on the floor and emptied the till. Then he and Len clattered out the front door.

It was drizzling. Hard to see. Shug tore the mask from his head, stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Len launched himself into the back of the Punto, rolled the bag across the floor. Shug hit the passenger seat just as Golly floored it and the car doors shut themselves. That was the thing about Golly – he was too gangly, too recognisable, the albino bastard, his hair out like blonde springs – but he was quick enough behind the wheel, and he was good at gutting the motors when they were finished.

He was good at getting them out of there, too.

Five seconds, then ten, and they were on the A road.

“Ya fucker,” said Shug. He wiped his nose.

“Ya fucker’s right.” Len grinned through his mask, pawing the money out of the bin bag.

“Take your mask off, man. Have the fuckin’ polis on us.”

Len tugged at the mask, chucked it onto the seat next to him, but didn’t take his eyes off the cash. “How much did you say was going to be there, Shugs?”

“Ten, fifteen on giro day. Bit more in the till.” Len laughed. Shug turned a little in his seat. “Why, what you got?”

“I don’t know, but it’s more than fifteen.”

Golly looked in the rear view. Shug nudged him, told him to keep his eyes on the road.

Turned out Len was right. It was more than fifteen. Twenty-three grand in total, split three ways with the surplus tossed for, which left each with about eight grand, give or take. Len wanted to get the bottles in, Shug told him to hang fire for at least a week. No sense in drawing attention to themselves. Didn’t want to extend an open invitation to the law, did they?

Of course they didn’t. So Shug stashed his cut with his Granda’s watch and a couple of passports in a shoebox, put that shoebox under the floorboards in the bedroom and went on with his life. Told Fiona where it was just in case something happened to him. In hindsight, he reckoned he must’ve known something was going to happen.

In hindsight, mind, everything looked preordained. That was the killer.

The police were round Fiona’s house the next day. Two bull uniforms and two CID, asking him all sorts of questions about where he’d been, what he’d been doing, did he know Leonard Mullan and Derek McDonald. Shug gave them vague answers and tried his best to figure out what the fuck had tipped them, or who. Because even when it got to court, Shug didn’t see the moment that had tipped the police to him in particular. There were eye witnesses, right enough – turned out the woman had remembered a lot more than the sawn-off – and the Punto hadn’t been burned as well as Golly normally did, but that didn’t explain why he was the only one pulled, and why he was the only one sent down.

And the only thing that could explain that were the two men on either side of him now. Golly taking long strides, chattering away to himself and nobody else, Len with one hand squarely in the middle of Shug’s back, breathing lager into the night air and smiling.

“You’ve got some timing, eh?” said Len. “There’s me and Gol going to go down the pub –“

“Don’t let me stop you.”

“Nah, it’s crowded with cunts.”

“Pricks to a man,” said Golly.

“We’ll do better with what we’ve got in the house, what d’you think?”

“Oh, aye.”

“Got the
good
stuff in, Shugs,” said Len and slapped him between the shoulder blades. “Almost like we knew you was coming.”

“Almost,” said Shug.

As they approached Len’s house, Len tossed Golly the keys to his front door. Golly ran ahead to open up.

“It’s good to have you back,” said Len. “Seriously.”

“Can’t stay for long, Len.”

“Ach, never mind about that. We’ll give you a braw send-off, eh?”

Shug nodded, but didn’t say anything else as he was escorted to the front door and then into the house, where it smelled of cheap resin and takeaways.

All this time, and some things never changed. It was almost comforting.

Almost.

6

Whisky and beer, the whisky nicked, the beer out of code. Both cheap and nasty, the kind of booze people drank when they all they cared about was getting off their face. Shug had tried to remember Captain Dollar’s rules, chief of which was don’t get pissed, but if he didn’t drink, he wouldn’t be able to leave. He nursed his can. He tipped the whiskey to his lips, already cracked and burning, and he watched Len and Golly knock back the booze like someone was going to take it off them.

That wasn’t new. The boys had always liked a drink. They were only human.

But it wasn’t just the booze now, was it? There was something else going on, something that had bought the new telly, the array of consoles under it, the DVDs and Blu-Rays scattered on the lino by the games. This was something that meant quick money, and because Len was stunted, he’d spent it just as quickly. In the background, a mini hi-fi played west coast rap. Same shite he’d listened to when he was a kid.

“So what you been doing with yourselves all this time?” said Shug.

“Business,” said Len.

“Ah, right y’are.
Business
.”

Len was leaning back in a gaming chair, rocking slightly with a half pint of whisky held in both hands. Staring at Shug like he was ready for anything. “Once you got took, Shugs, we had to have a word with ourselves, ken what I mean?”

“I see.”

“Robberies weren’t the way to go, were they, Gol?”

Golly shook his head, obscured by a cloud of weed smoke. He made a series of little coughing noises, then added to the cloud by exhaling. “Too much risk.”

“No risk for you,” said Shug.

“Ah now –“

“You were the driver. You weren’t in there.”

“Hey, still risky, Shug.” Golly sniffed. “Something happens to youse two, I’m a sitting duck, aren’t I?”

“Exactly,” said Len.

“So,” said Shug.

“So we decided to pool our resources, didn’t we?”

“Aye.”

“And do what?” said Shug, even though he knew the answer. He gestured to the telly. “You a fence now?”

Len laughed. “Do I look like a fuckin’ fence?”

“Well, you don’t look much like a fuckin’ dealer, if that’s what you’re building up to.”

The laugh disappeared into a cleared throat. Golly blew more smoke.

“I am, though.” A quick spasm of irritation as Len caught the whine in his own voice, then: “I am a fuckin’ dealer. Biggest one in the surrounding.”

“Tack.”

“Naw, not just. Tack. Coke. Dope. Crack.”

“Give the dog a bone,” said Shug.

Golly giggled. He waved a hand through the smoke, reached for his Belgian lager. Hummed to himself.

“Take the piss if you want,” said Len. “We’ve got it fuckin’ made here.”

“Oh aye, it looks it. Fuckin’ Scarface, this, eh? Living the high life.”

“Too right,” said Golly. He finished his lager and tossed the can. Pulled another from the plastic. “Got it made, Shugs. You want in –“

“There’s money,” said Len.

“Aye, I bet there is.”

“Fuckin’ serious, man. Constant. Don’t have to go out to get it, neither. It comes in here.”

“You deal from here.”

“Aye.”

Shug wiped his nose. “Course you do.” He raised the can. “Then here’s to your continued success, eh?”

“Fuck’s that supposed to mean?” said Len.

Shug shook his head. “Nothing.”

Len had stopped rocking now. He leaned forward on the chair. He sipped his whisky and swallowed.

“Honestly,” said Shug. “I wish you nothing but the best.”

“You can come in on it with us if you want,” said Len.

Shug looked at Len, then at Golly, already mashed, and tried not to let the disgust show too much. He could come in on it with them, what a fucking treat, what an opportunity. Get stoned off his face every fucking night, slumped in front of the widescreen, watching porn and MMA until he went blind or stupid enough to get robbed by a couple of fucking kids. Because they way this was set up, that was definitely on the cards for these two. Daft thing was, they didn’t even see it.

Shug lowered his eyes, pretended to think it over. Then he said, “I don’t know, lads.”

“What’s not to know?” said Len.

“Things are a bit fucked up with us at the moment. Got some loose ends I need to tie up before I commit to a new career, know what I mean?”

“Like what?”

“Like ... What’s your long-term goal, Leonard?”

“Come again?”

“Your long-term goal. Your dream.”

“Make as much fuckin’ money as possible,” said Golly, leaning across with the spliff.

Len waved it away. “That’s good enough for me an’ all. Why, what’s yours?”

“I want to see the world,” said Shug.

“Fuck off.”

“Seriously.”

“When’d this happen?”

“Saughton.”

“Fuck off.”

“Not kidding. Had a lot of time to sit and think in there. When you get that, you get a chance to look at your priorities, and one of mine turned out that I wanted to travel a bit, see outside of the lowlands. Which is why I’m not staying long.”

“You’re going on holiday, then,” said Golly.

“Could say that.”

“What about your licence?” said Len. “You have to report in.”

“I’ll work something out.”

Len didn’t say anything. He drank his whisky. Topped up the glass. Held the bottle out to Shug, who took a couple of glugs and kept the bottle down by the side of his chair. He drank some this time, felt the violent burn at the back of his throat, felt his gut contract. He didn’t show it.

Golly held out the spliff again. “Anyone want to get on that, they’re more than fuckin’ welcome.”

“Watch yourself,” said Len.

Shug looked across at Golly. His skin had gone from its usual white to green. A toke or two from whitey, and he knew it. Golly moved on the settee. Something metal showed between the cushions and the back. Shug didn’t get a chance to see it in any detail before Golly moved in front of it with his beer.

“Where you going?” said Len.

“Away,” said Shug.

“How long?”

“I don’t know yet. Depends on if I like it there.”

“Being awful secretive, Shug.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Like you’ve got something to hide.”

“No.”

Len smiled, but there was no humour in it. He leaned back in his chair again. “Y’know, it’s funny, when Fi texted us, I thought she was having a laugh. I said that to Gol, didn’t I, Gol?”

Golly didn’t say anything. Had a Stan Laurel face on him as he nodded.

“I’d be lying if I said we were expecting you out so soon, Shug.”

“Same here.”

“So how’d that happen, then?”

“Good behaviour.”

“Fuck off.”

“It’s true.”

“You’re not the good behaviour type.”

“I am now.”

“Fuck off,” said Len, with less conviction this time. “Mad dog like you disnae just do his fuckin’ time. You’re telling me there weren’t incidents?”

“There’s always incidents.”

“What’d I tell you?”

“It’s how you handle them that counts.”

“And you managed to keep your fuckin’ temper the whole time?” said Len, his eyes slits. “You. Of all the fuckin’ people in this world to get his early licence.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“That’s the way it happened.”

“You know what I think?”

“What’s that?”

“I think you kept your head down. I think you buckled under.”

“You what?”

“You ken what I mean.”

Golly laughed, short and sudden.

“You’re asking did I turn,” said Shug.

Len didn’t answer. He just kept smiling. Shug wanted to plunge his fist into that grin, turn the fucker inside out.

“No,” said Shug. “I didn’t turn. Not like that. And if you’re asking did I sell you and the boy here –“

“Who the fuck you calling a boy?” said Golly, too mashed to get too emotional. What would have been anger registering as mild irritation thanks to the tack. “Watch your fuckin’ tongue, Shugs.”

“If you’re asking did I tell the authorities who was that masked man with me? Who was the daft twat who couldn’t burn a fuckin’ car properly? Then no, I didn’t. Because why would I, Len? No point in telling them what they already know. What I’m more interested in is how I managed to do four in Saughton while youse two are playing New Jack City out here.”

Len smiled, some of it reaching his eyes.

“Come on, now,” he said.

“Fuck off, now.”

“Let’s have another drink, eh?”

“You brought us here to drink, aye. And I’ve done that. Now you do me the courtesy of answering my fuckin’ question, son.”

Len glanced at Golly. Golly nodded slowly and emphatically. Irritation flashed on Len’s face. “Tell you what, how about we stop the fucking about, eh? Get the good stuff out.” He stood, kicked the settee. “Golly, wake up, you dozy cunt. I’m going to get the good stuff.”

Golly pulled himself up to a sitting position. Shug caught the metal again. He drank his beer, felt a bubble of gas burst into a belch.

“I’ll away and get some glasses and then we’ll be having you,” said Len.

Shug watched Len leave the room. Golly had started giggling. A snort every now and then, stifled by one fist. In the background, Tupac sang about California, and the song made Shug feel a little sad that it had come to this.

“You think this is funny,” said Shug, quietly.

“Naw, Shugs, naw.”

“Aye, you do. Sitting there, you’re playing gangster. You’re loving it. The pair of you. So what’s he off to get there, Gol?”

“The good stuff.”

Shug picked up the bottle of whisky by the side of his chair, held it up to Golly. “The good stuff, eh? Hope so, because this is shite, this. Wouldn’t give this to the fuckin’ homeless.”

“You ken how it is, Shugs.”

“I know how it is, Golly.” Shug stood, glanced at the closed door, then over at Len’s gaming chair.

Golly shifted on the settee. One hand moved towards the dip in the back of the cushions.

Shug wanted to tell Golly not to do it. He wanted to say that he knew exactly what he was doing, that there was a sawn-off down the settee there and Golly was going for it. That Golly was too fucking mashed or too fucking stupid not to realise Shug was onto him. And he just wanted to tell Golly to leave it. It didn’t matter. Whatever Len had told him to do, it didn’t matter. Because Shuggie Boyle was a changed man. He hadn’t lied about that. He wasn’t the same bloke who’d stood in the dock and said nothing. That bloke would’ve taken a quick and nasty revenge on whoever he thought had put him there. That bloke wouldn’t have even needed the confirmation that it was either of them that’d shopped him. Chances are, he would’ve taken that revenge regardless, as a means of exercising his frustration at having the last four years of his life taken off him.

But he’d changed.

He was calm now. Gentle.

Which was why he turned away when he brought the whisky bottle down across the back of Golly’s head.