Gutted (31 page)

‘How do you gather that?’ I said.

‘They got away.’

‘Ah but . . .’ I got out of my stool, reached over for a bottle of Haig, poured out a wee goldie, downed it.

Mac grew impatient. ‘But
what
?’

‘We got a direct hit on the car . . . and I caught sight of a very cosy scene that will take some looking into.’

‘What?’

‘Sid the Snake and Jonny Johnstone sharing a motor.’

A head-shake, rapid eye movement, a swallow. ‘I’m gonna stretch that wee cunt’s neck.’

I raised my pint, pointed a finger. ‘Hold that thought.’

I left Mac in the bar, went out to the hallway to make a phone call. My mind was on one thing, and one thing only. In the midst of such an overwhelming crisis, I couldn’t believe I was focusing on this.

By the back door sat a cardboard box. Inside were old pictures of my father in his playing days. By the look of it, old Scottish Division One. I remembered a row with the Wall’s original proprietor, Col, about these very pictures. He’d taken them down so as not to offend me. As I looked at them now, I wished he’d thrown them out altogether. I laid a kick into the side of the box, heard a loud crack from the glass.

‘The fucking last I want to see of you.’

I dialled up Debs’s number.

Ringing.

An answer: ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Debs, it’s—’

‘I know who it is.’

Well, that was something. ‘Are you all right now?’

‘Gus, I’m always all right.’

I knew what she meant: there is
all right
and there is
well
– the two aren’t the same thing.

‘I wondered if you were still, y’know . . .’

‘Gus, you don’t need to worry about me.’

‘Debs, c’mon, you were in bits when I saw you. I don’t stop caring just because you’re out of sight. You know that.’

Silence.

The gap on the line stretched out.

‘Debs . . . Debs, you still there?’

I heard her begin to cry down the line. ‘Gus, I’m sorry . . . I just can’t play the hard bitch any more.’

‘You were never that, ever.’

Sobs. ‘I just feel like it’s all getting to me now.’

‘What, Debs, the baby thing?’

‘Gus, it was a fucking abortion – can’t you say the word?’

I could say it; I just didn’t want to. And moreover, I knew she didn’t want to hear it. ‘Stop it, Debs. Just stop torturing yourself.’

‘Why? Have you got the monopoly on that?’

‘No, I—’

‘Gus, why did you call?’

Why did I call? I wondered that myself. Did I want to help her? Was I being selfish? ‘I don’t know.’

‘Neither do I, Gus . . . This is all pointless. You know we’re not going to get back together, don’t you?’

I felt wounded. I had no hopes of us getting back, no real ones anyway. But to hear her say this cut deep. ‘Of course not, Debs . . . I only wanted to . . . Christ, do I need a fucking appointment now to check on you?’

Silence again.

‘Debs.
Debs
.’

‘I’m going to go now, Gus.’

‘What have I said?’

‘Nothing. Nothing. I’m just going to go.’

‘Debs, just tell me you’re okay.’

I heard her voice start to quiver; her words struggled to get out. Tears, more this time. ‘I told him, Gus.’

So Jonny knew. I wanted to ask how much he knew. ‘You told him everything?’

‘I told him why I can’t have children, Gus.’

Debs’s voice came clouded in sobs. I wanted to be there for her now, put an arm around her, tell her it was all going to be okay. Tell her it was better out in the open. Any old cliché, just to make her feel better.

‘You did the right thing, Debs.’

She yelled down the phone, ‘No, Gus, I didn’t! I never do the right thing. Never. I never do that.’

‘What do you mean, Debs? What do you mean?’

‘I can’t save you this time, Gus . . . I just can’t.’

I didn’t understand. ‘I’m not with you . . .’

‘Gus, I’m not able to . . . I just can’t do it. I don’t know what you expect me to do. Jonny isn’t in my control, you know.’

This was out of left field. ‘Debs, I don’t want you to do anything for me.’ I didn’t want her to put herself in any danger; I’d go down for Moosey’s murder before that happened. I couldn’t believe I’d given her any other impression. ‘Debs, I only want you to be happy. I’m sorry if I—Debs, Debs . . .’

She’d hung up on me.

SID THE SNAKE’S
street was quiet, maybe too quiet. After the raid we’d staged on the pit fight Hod had word that certain folk were none too chuffed. I anticipated another howk from Rab’s pugs but was more concerned with some rasslin’ of my own.

We sat just up from Sid’s gaff and waited. He had to emerge sooner or later and when he did I’d be there. And more worryingly for him, so would Mac the Knife.

‘You look pumped.’

Mac squeezed the steering wheel. ‘That wee prick’s gonna be pumped.’

‘You’re remembering your record, of course.’

A laugh, cut in half, replaced with a smile. ‘I’m playing my record!’

There was some movement down the street; Sid’s door opened. Two skelky yoofs stepped out and slouched themselves into the wind. I couldn’t see their faces hidden behind hoodies. I let them traipse along the pavement. When they passed the van I saw one of them had a bag over his shoulder.

‘What you think’s in there?’ I said.

‘Fuck knows . . . Skag? Could be anything. They’re in with Rab and he’s into it all.’

I thought about going after the yob for a look, but then Sid’s door opened again and I was harshly thrown back in my seat.

As Mac brought the van to a halt there was a screech of tyres. A gust of black smoke lingered in the air as I pulled open the slide door. Sid stood on the pavement wide-eyed, his mouth drooping like a feedbag above his scrawny neck. I reached out and grabbed him by the collar. He was surprisingly light as I threw him into the back. Mac spun the wheels again as the door slammed shut.

I said nothing, let Sid wonder.

I kept eyes on him as he jittered before me, wiping a dribble from the side of his mouth.

He looked like a cornered rat, hunched over and ready to bound away first chance he got. His thin knees poked through his keenly pressed denims like tent poles. In the van there was an atmosphere you couldn’t mistake. Sid was shitting himself. Not literally, but if he was you wouldn’t catch it over the reek of Blue Stratos he was wearing.

‘What the fuck is this?’ he said finally.

I blanked him.

‘C’mon, this is out ay order. I’ve told you all I know before.’

I rubber-eared him again.

He banged on the side of the van, yelled, ‘Hey, let me out!’

He’d pushed his luck. I leaned forward and grabbed Sid by the neck. He squirmed; hands shot up as he tried to speak. His voice came like a croak, but there were no words he could form.

I watched Sid struggle before me, slap my hands pathetically, then I smacked his head off the side of the van.

He slumped, hands clawing at his collar, gasping for air.

Mac shouted to us, ‘What the fuck’s going on back there? . . . If I’ve to stop this van I’ll do the cunt here and now.’

Sid’s feet paddled on the floor of the van as he retreated from me in blind panic.

I said, ‘He’s settled now. If he moves again, I’ll do him myself.’

We drove for an hour.

Mac had obviously done this before; he knew how to stretch out the tension.

None of us spoke, though I swore I saw Sid mouthing the rosary. His complexion had gone from the natural schemie grey to white as a maggot. He sat with his knees folded under his chin and his arms wrapped around his shins. Only occasionally did he look in my direction and if he caught my eye he’d divert his gaze promptly.

I saw through the front windscreen that Mac had driven us out into the country. We were coming off a B road and heading down a dirt track. I saw trees. Don’t ask me what kind – I’m from Leith – but they were lined up along the banks of a little burn. They had thick branches, kind you could get a rope over; more than strong enough to hold a skelf like Sid.

Mac brought the van to a halt. Turned off the engine and put the keys in his pocket. He made a great show of hunting under the front seat for the rope, shouted, ‘Gus, where the fuck’s that rope?’

I was watching Sid. He dropped his hands, pushed himself up on his palms. ‘The noose?’ I said.

‘Aye, the fucking noose,’ said Mac.

I reached behind me, opened the tool carrier fitted into the van and took out the rope. Mac had tied the slip knot. The sight of it made Sid start to whimper, spout nonsense I couldn’t make out.

‘Give us it here,’ said Mac.

I passed the rope and Mac left the van to throw it over a branch.

I leaned towards Sid. He shrieked. I opened the slide door behind him and he fell backwards into the daylight.

Mac already had the rope in position as I raised Sid by the scruff of his neck to the edge of the burn. Mac took Sid from me as though I was passing him a bag of trash. ‘You are a slimy little fucker, Sid, y’know that?’ he said.

‘What? What the fuck have I done?’

I moved forward. ‘You know why you’re here, Sid. Don’t shit us.’

He was staring at the noose. Couldn’t take his eyes away for a
second
. ‘Nowt. I’ve done fucking nowt. What have I done? What have I done?’

Mac looked at me. He was ready to pound into Sid. I raised a hand. As Mac walked away to the front of the van, I looked at Sid. His glasses were held together in the middle by a strip of Elastoplast – my doing. But beneath the big lens of the left eye there was a shiner coming up. He had a cut lip and some scratches on his temple. ‘Who gave you the doing, Sid?’

‘What? What doing?’

I half turned, enough to throw a windmill right. I decked him. As he lay pegged out on the ground I told Mac to come back and pick him up. He held Sid; I tried again.

‘Rab’s boys have paid you a wee visit, haven’t they, Sid?’

He was looking at the noose again. A nod. ‘Aye, aye, they came round.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t fucking know.’

Mac tightened his grip on Sid, said, ‘Let me string the cunt up. I can’t be doing with this.’

Sid hollered, ‘The other night at the jolly house.’

I turned to Mac. He explained, ‘The pit fight.’

I faced Sid again, squeezed his hollow cheeks in my hand. ‘I saw you there with Jonny Johnstone . . . Very fucking cosy with the filth you are, Sid.’

He stuttered, ‘I’m not, I’m not.’ He started to fluster, whimper. ‘He was just after a bit ay sport.’

Mac lost it: ‘I’m not being fucked about any longer.’ He dragged Sid into the burn. The gimp was crying now, what we call
greetin’ like a wee lassie
in Scotland. I let Mac get the noose around Sid’s neck then start to tighten it.

‘You better talk fast, Sid . . . Mac the Knife’s not happy.’

I saw the name tip more fear into Sid’s eyes. He spluttered, gripped at the noose with his fingernails and yelled, ‘Pay-off! He was there for his pay-off!’

‘What pay-off?’

Sid’s fingernails were all that was keeping the rope from strangling him. ‘Rab feeds Jonny a wedge to turn a blindy to the dog fights.’

It made perfect sense to me. ‘How long’s this been going on?’

‘I don’t know, I promise I don’t. Moosey used to pay him . . . It was my first time.’ Sid kicked out at Mac, tried to push him away. ‘Call him off! Call him off, for fucksake!’

I nodded to Mac. He let down the rope.

Sid collapsed in the burn, panting.

‘Speak,’ said Mac. ‘I can easy fucking string you up again.’

Sid tried to get up. The stones underfoot were slippy and he fell again and again. I walked into the burn, placed my hands on his neck and belt loop – threw him onto the bank.

I followed him out and placed my foot on his shoulder as he tried to get up. I pushed him down again. Mac joined me. We towered over Sid, put the heavy threat on him as I said, ‘Speak.’

‘I don’t fucking know any more, I promise I don’t. That’s it, man . . . Jonny Boy’s Rab’s fixer with the polis.’

‘Who else?’

‘What do ye mean?’

‘Who else in the filth is Rab paying off?’

‘I-I don’t know. I swear, I only do the books on the dogs.’

I looked at Mac. His face was non-committal. I turned back to Sid. ‘Who’s the little fucker in the white Corrado?’

‘What?’

‘The little bastard that ran over Tupac.’

Sid was gathering his senses, his breath returning to normal. ‘It’s Gibby – top man with the young crew . . . He’s a wee fucking Jack the Lad.’