Gutted (32 page)

I could tell he knew more. ‘You know who told him to kill Tupac, so don’t make me knock it out of you.’

Sid looked at Mac. ‘It was Jonny . . . But that’s all I know, I swear. I don’t know why but he told him to fucking do it. Gibby told me himself – he’s a boasting wee cunt.’

‘Is this Gibby pally with the Crawford kid?’

Sid nodded. ‘I’ve seen them going about together.’

I got Gibby’s address out of Sid and then Mac picked him up by the ponytail, dragged him screaming to the edge of the burn and kicked his arse back into the water.

As we got in the van, I rolled down the window, yelled to Sid as he schlepped out of the water, ‘That rope’s staying up there . . . and if one word of what you’ve told us is bullshit, by Christ, you’ll fucking swing.’

As we pulled out, I could hear Sid yelling, ‘Hey, you can’t leave me here! I don’t know where the fuck I am!’

Thought: Welcome to my world.

MY MIND WAS
buzzing with thoughts; hacked up a line from Aristophanes: ‘A man may learn wisdom even from a foe.’

Mac was a bit too primed. Any day of the week, Mac was a bit too primed. I couldn’t trust he wouldn’t go radge and carve up this Gibby kid. Like he hadn’t the form.

It was working against my better judgement to take Mac along, but it was either that or go alone and it seemed the lesser of two evils. Desperation had a hold of me now.

‘You ready for this?’ said Mac.

‘Look, just cool the beans, okay.’

Mac floored it, spun through the lights. An old giffer with a walking stick raised it above his head. Mac was holding the wheel at ten to two, gripping tight. Add the black leather gloves and he did a fair impression of a post-raid wheelman.

‘Mac, I have to tell you right off, this isn’t your fight.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘Do you?’

He turned to me, smiled. ‘Look, I’m Mr Frosty here, okay?’

‘You better be. I don’t want you being put away again on my conscience.’

‘Sure.’

He settled some. Relaxed back in his seat, put a hand on top of
the
dash, cruised. Sighthill was its normal burnt-out self. I could hear the tyres going over broken glass every fifty yards.

‘Fucksake,’ said Mac.

‘You’re worried about punctures? What makes you think you’ll still have tyres when we get back to the motor?’

The address we had was for a high-rise. Mac didn’t flinch, even though we were going right into the heart of the war zone. I pointed the way through the winding streets littered with deros, trash and more than a few needles.

‘The state of this place,’ said Mac.

‘Not exactly primo real estate.’

‘You can say that again.’

We found our block. Outside a mattress had been set alight. Two kids in trackies chucked branches on the flames. I’d love to have known where they got them – didn’t look like any vegetation for miles around.

Mac parked; we stepped out.

The kids left the fire, turned to the new addition to the landscape. ‘Hoy, mister . . . want us tae mind yer motor?’

I looked at Mac. He smiled at me. ‘What you think?’

‘I’d say make them an offer they can’t refuse.’

‘And that would be?’

I called the pair over. ‘You the local heavies?’

In chorus: ‘Aye. Aye.’

‘What do you pay for a heavy round here these days?’

Laughter: ‘Fifty quid an hour, man.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘All right, twenty.’

‘Tell you what.’ I took out a skydiver, handed it over. ‘This van’s still in one piece when we come back, I’ll give you another five.’

They took the five-spot and ran off laughing.

‘Wee bastards.’

Mac patted me on the back. ‘What did you expect – a receipt?’

We took the stairs. The flat was only two flights up, but as I knocked on the door, nothing.

‘Empty?’

‘I’d say so.’

I peered in the window where Mark Crawford’s young crew partner in crime stayed. Place was definitely habited: Chinese takeaway boxes on the window ledge and a couple of plates on the table. ‘Looks like they were at dinner not so long ago.’

Mac was peering out over the balcony. Thought he was checking the van. ‘Is it still in one piece?’

He mumbled, ‘I’m not looking at the van.’

‘What, then?’

He pointed. ‘Take a deck at that.’

Down below, in full view of every flat in the street, a pagger was in progress. Two burly roided-up types with pit bulls straining at the leash had a lanky streak of a lad pinned to a wall. He cowered, hands out; took off his Burberry jacket to whip back the dogs.

‘Does that look like our boy Gibby?’ said Mac.

‘That’s the little wanker from the pit fight. Our Corrado man, for deffo . . . Saw him on the hill with the Crawford kid the night Moosey was killed.’

‘Then this’ll be his payback for fucking up.’ Mac crossed his arms on the rail, settled into spectator mode.

‘You just gonna watch?’

Mac laughed. ‘Think we could do anything?’

The big lads didn’t take too kindly to the jacket being aimed at the dogs: grabbed it off the wee yob and watched the pits pull it apart. The jacket soon turned to threads and the dogs kicked off, snarling, went for each other. Took all their handlers’ strength to keep them apart.

The string bean Gibby screamed like a loose fan belt.

‘Christ, they’re vicious,’ said Mac.

‘No kidding.’

The next move was an obvious one. A knock to the jaw for String Bean and down he went. The pugs stepped back, let the pits off the leash. They went for the throat. A huge arc of claret sprayed out of the yoof’s neck as one of the dogs hit the jugular. One of
the
big lads took a direct hit, his white T-shirt copping for an enormous splash of blood.

‘Holy fuck.’ For a moment I couldn’t look, turned away. Some wailing called me back. It was the girl, the one I’d seen in Rafi’s store with the poodle.

‘What’s she gonna do?’ said Mac.

‘Run, if she’s smart.’

I thought I should too. Was pure instinct – I dived for the stairs.

Mac grabbed me; we struggled. ‘Where you going, Gus?’

‘Someone’s got to do something.’

‘Like what?’

I tried to free myself. ‘Anything – they’re gonna kill him.’

Mac put a bear hug on me. ‘Gus, get a grip . . . I’d say they’ve already done that.’

I saw the girl slapped down, carted away up the street by one of the spectators to the scene. The dogs were led away too as the big biffers got into a Toyota pick-up and sped away. From the truckbed the pits barked as if it was a job well done.

A lifeless pile was all that was left of Gibby on the street.

Blood pooled on the pavement, ran into the gutter.

We took the stairs back down to the van. The sight of the yob’s remains up close was enough to have me holding back some chuck. I started to retch. The people who had come to watch while the murder was in full swing, however, seemed to have disappeared altogether. I understood why as a blast of sirens was swiftly followed by flashing blue lights from a trail of police cars.

Three of them blocked in Mac’s van as Lothian and Borders’ finest poured out and headed in our direction.

As I stopped retching, Mac turned to me. ‘You done?’

I looked up at the uniforms. ‘I’d say well and truly.’

THE POLICE CARS’
doors had barely swung open before plod was reaching for me, with a smile on his face.

‘Trust me now, Dury . . . you are well and truly fucked,’ said McAvoy. He gave a nod to the uniform to cuff me behind my back, then placed a playful slap on my cheek. ‘. . . Well and truly fucked.’

‘What’s it this time? Let’s see now. You’ve already had me for possession of a bit of puff. Maybe jaywalking?’

‘Droll, Dury, very droll . . . I think I’ll wait till we get you down the station, though, before I fill you in.’

‘Is that literally? Cos I’m a bit delicate after the last booting.’

He firmed his gaze, pointed to the street, said, ‘Get this clown out my sight.’

I watched Mac being led away too. Could see people appearing at the windows of homes, but nobody came out to help the police get their story straight.

‘Aren’t you going to go house to house?’ I bawled out.

I got a knee in the back for my trouble, thrown in the cart.

I spent my time in the back of the meat wagon wondering what the filth had in mind for me this time. I knew it wouldn’t be pretty. Somehow, all I could think about was how Debs might get dragged into all of this. I didn’t want that. She’d suffered enough. I’d let
them
throw the book at me, and catch it square in the coupon before I’d let Debs be harmed again.

The booking-in went by in a daze. Handed over: belt, shoelaces, lighter and wallet.

Said, ‘Can I hold on to those?’ nodding at my pack of Marlboro.

Desk sergeant raised a dark eyebrow towards a white mop of hair, said, ‘What do you think?’

He didn’t want my answer to that.

The cell was cold.

For about seven hours the cell was cold while I sat there on my own without so much as a knock at the door. At eight-thirty a uniform brought in a tin tray containing two scoops of mashed potato, a greasy pile of mince and some carrots, diced. I looked at this, said, ‘No afters?’

Uniform pretended to stifle a sneeze, then let rip, spraying the tray. ‘You hungry, are you?’ he said, putting the food on the table before me.

I wanted to say,
You filthy pig bastard
. What I went with was, ‘No, not so much.’ Rubbed my stomach. ‘Had a good feed before I got here . . . but thanks for asking.’

He left the mince and tatties. Fucked off.

It took reserves of calm I didn’t know I had to stop me lifting the tray and battering it off the back of his head. I wasn’t for playing games any more. I’d be telling it straight and McAvoy could get as rough as he liked. I had my version of events to play with and it would make better reading in the paper with some police corruption allegations thrown in. Let him deny it.
Veritas
is an absolute defence.

Another half-hour or so passed. The uniform came back for the tray. I tried him with, ‘Look, is anyone going to come in here to interview me? I’m kinda keen to get this over with.’

‘Shut yer fucking yap!’

‘Is that a no, then?’

He lifted a fist, showed me his bottom row of teeth – grey and jagged; reminded me of a graveyard.

‘Careful – you’ll spill the mince.’

He fucked off again.

I got the message: they were keeping me waiting. I figured on a morning session. Hunkered down on the cold bench. I ached after the dig to my back earlier. I checked it out: bruising up nicely. The hard bench didn’t do me any favours. I turned over. As I lay there, hands tucked behind my neck, I knew this was one of those moments where drink wasn’t going to come and fill the void.

I thought of lots of things: Moosey, the life he had led with Rab and the huge sums of money they’d made from the misery of those poor animals. I thought of the Crawfords’ loss, how they felt for little Chrissy, how they still hurt. I wondered how these two different worlds had collided. How? How did that happen? I knew that in a city of haves and have-nots it was inevitable: the paths must cross sometime. It was all a bloody mess. I thought of Tupac and Gibby, two more casualties, and I thought of Mark Crawford and the role he played in all of it, but I knew there were parts of the puzzle that were still missing.

I wanted to know the score but, barring a miracle now, I wasn’t hopeful.

I felt sweats breaking out along my back. Even though the temperature was plum-clenchingly cold, I had the sweats. I was craving alcohol. On top of the pain in my back it was quite a combination. A night in hell faced me.

I’d read somewhere that Richard Burton, the great Welsh actor, had once gone under the knife for his back. Apparently some fuckwit, jealous of how much Burton could put away and not get drunk, spiked his drink with wood alcohol and he fell down a flight of stairs. Years later, when he needed an operation to repair the damage, as they opened him up his surgeons were shocked to see the entire length of his spine covered in crystallised alcohol. They spent eleven hours scraping it off.

The sweats intensified.

I rolled onto my side. Made no difference.

Oh, shit . . . I saw a face. Debs.

I knew she wasn’t there. I knew it was the booze calling, like the bats when they came swooping.

‘
Debs
?’

Why was I saying her name? I knew she wasn’t there.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I trembled.