45
Frank didn’t sleep much last night. A night spent thinking about that phone call. Peter sounded okay. Not too aggressive, not like he was scheming something. He sounded genuine. That doesn’t stop you thinking about all the things this could be. It could be a proper meeting. Jamieson wanting to lay out what work Frank will be doing from now on. Giving him the detail of the future that he hopes will convince Frank to accept his new role. It could be a set-up. No, not a set-up. They wouldn’t kill him in the club – that would be idiotic. Way too much of a risk. Could be the first step to a total removal. Frank knows too much. He’s on the outside now. The old man who bungled a simple hit. Maybe Jamieson thinks it’ll be easy to get rid of him altogether. Frank’s getting out of bed, feeling his hip. Maybe Jamieson’s right. What fight could he possibly put up? He’s walking into the shower, getting ready for the meeting. He has to go.
Out of the house, heading to the car. Looking up and down the street. Nothing stands out. Driving to the club. Thinking of all the conversations he’s had with Peter Jamieson. There were times when he was able to win Peter round. Persuade him that some things were a good idea, when Jamieson was unsure. Persuade him that some things were a terrible idea. There’s at least one person alive today because Frank talked Peter out of the hit. That was then. Frank was a man worth listening to then. Now he’s an old man on the outside, clinging on. He’s out of the car, in through the front door of the club. It’s quiet inside. Up the stairs, those annoying, treacherous stairs. Through the doors to the snooker room. The tables are busy. This is their time of day. The club’s quiet, no music playing; they can pretend to concentrate on their game. Most of them are useless, no matter the distractions. A few faces he recognizes – the regulars. The driver is amongst them.
He’s nodding to Kenny, a polite hello.
‘You here to see the boss?’ the driver’s asking stupidly. Why else would he be there?
‘Yes,’ Frank’s saying. Kenny’s away down the corridor to let Peter know. Frank’s noticed how nervous the driver is. Not a good sign. A driver’s bound to hear things. There could be a good reason why he’s nervous around Frank. He’s coming back into the snooker room.
‘Go through,’ he’s saying and immediately turning away from the gunman. Determined not to get into a conversation. Determined to avoid being seen with a condemned man. Frank’s leaving him alone. No point in agitating the boy by talking to him. This is part of the process of being pushed out. You can’t blame an expendable, low-level employee for avoiding him. If he could get his position back, people like Kenny would want to be his best friend again.
Along the corridor, knocking on the office door. A shout for him to come in. Jamieson and Young, in their usual places. Young’s getting up, though; he’s not going to stay. Not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one. Why does Jamieson not want his right-hand man there? Hard to escape the feeling that it’s a bad thing. If this were business, he would keep Young there. Young has the more detailed business knowledge. He’s always useful in a business conversation. Young’s walking past Frank, not looking him in the eye. Could be a bad sign, but it’s hard to remember when Young ever did look him in the eye. They’ve never been close. That’s another good thing about Jamieson. He’s never forced his men to pal around with one another. Some bosses do. They have a terrible tendency to mistake camaraderie for loyalty. Jamieson’s always been smarter than that. Let people get on with doing their job. If they’re good at it, that’s enough. Young’s closed the door behind him. Just the two of them, in the office. Been here many times before. Never with this atmosphere, though. Frank takes his seat.
‘Good to see you, Frank,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘How are you keeping?’
‘Fine.’ A man of few words when he’s on the defence.
‘Will you take a drink?’
‘No, I have the car.’
‘Of course,’ Jamieson’s saying with a smile. The pros don’t take risks. They’re not going to allow themselves to get done for drink-driving. No minor offence that could lead to bigger convictions. He’ll leave the bottle where it is then. Doesn’t want Frank thinking he’s being weak by drinking. ‘We need to have a good talk about where we both stand,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘I’m not sure we parted on the best of terms last time round.’
Frank’s nodding slightly. ‘Perhaps not.’
‘I want to know what you’re thinking,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘I want to know what you’d like to do with yourself. What are your plans?’ He can’t say it any more bluntly than that. He was never going to come straight out and ask him. Frank has to tell him. He has to share the information willingly.
Frank’s looking down at his feet. He’s thinking of what he wants to say. This is the chance. Jamieson’s laid it on a plate for him. All he has to do now is be honest. Tell him that the police were in touch. Tell him that he went to meet the copper, to see who he was and what he had to say. Pretend you went because you were hoping to find out where he got his info. Jamieson might not buy that bit, but he’ll accept it. It’s Peter; he’ll accept the gloss as long as what’s underneath is close to honest. There won’t be another chance.
‘I’m a gunman, Peter,’ he’s saying. Focusing on the wrong thing, and he knows it. ‘I don’t know how to be anything else.’ That was a stupid opening. He’s cursing himself. No wonder.
‘Just because you haven’t done other things doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be good at them,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘You have to give it a chance.’
Frank’s nodding. Peter used the words ‘have to’. That wasn’t an accident.
‘Look,’ Jamieson’s saying, leaning forward for emphasis. ‘You and me go back a way. I think we know each other well enough not to bullshit each other. I can’t give you work as a gunman. Not right now. You understand that, right? Shit, after what happened, I have to give you distance. It’s not that I want to – I have to. That’s how it is. That was a really bad night. Not just for you, but for all of us. I have to handle this carefully. I need to keep you away from the gun work. Maybe not forever, but for now.’ A pause. ‘So what are you going to do? You can stay with us, do other work. Maybe, eventually, I can get you some of your old work, if you still want it. You could go work for another organization, but do you really want to do that? I mean, there are a lot of complete shits out there. You know that. You know what it’s like, going into a new organization. What else is there?’ he asks. He can’t make it any easier that this.
The only other thing is the police. All Frank has to do is chuckle and say it’s funny Peter should ask. Say he got a phone call from a copper. The offer of protection. It’s so easy. But it’s impossible. It’s about trust. If there was anyone in this business he should trust enough, it’s Peter Jamieson. But he can’t. He just can’t. Forty years. All that time thinking one way, now you have to think another. You spend your whole working life being told not to trust anyone. Learning to be sceptical. You trust people up to a point, but never all the way. Doesn’t matter how good a boss is, you hold a little back. Telling Jamieson about the meeting with Fisher would require complete trust. He doesn’t have that. It would be nice to believe that Peter Jamieson would accept the info. Nice to believe their relationship could go back to the way it was. But that’s not realistic. Jamieson would assume the worst.
‘I guess what happens next is up to you,’ Frank’s saying. He’s hearing the words come out and he’s wishing he had the courage to change them. The courage to trust his friend.
‘Aye,’ Jamieson’s saying, and he’s slumping back in his seat. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. ‘If that’s how it’s going to be.’ There’s silence. Awkward. Frank looking at Jamieson, seeing the sadness in him. ‘I’ll look around,’ Jamieson’s saying with no enthusiasm, ‘try and find a few jobs for you. Something interesting, no bullshit. We’ll talk about it, maybe next week.’
‘Sure,’ Frank’s saying, and he’s getting up. It’s a relief to be leaving. It didn’t go well, he knows that, and he wants out. Get away from Jamieson and stop pretending to be relaxed. Stop pretending this isn’t the end of the world. He’s at the door, glancing back at Jamieson. His boss. Sitting there, one hand on the table, his forefinger tapping it. Looking down at nothing at all. Looking depressed. Frank wants to say goodbye, but that would be admitting that this is the end.
He’s stepping out and closing the door behind him. Through the snooker room, not looking at Young or Kenny or any of the others. Down the stairs, out into the street. Into his car. Still the hard look on his face. Always the hard look as long as there’s a danger of being seen. Driving away, and softening. Cursing himself. Cursing Jamieson. Wanting to cry, if he only knew how. There’s one last option. The chance to run.
Where to go? People would go looking for him. Jamieson wouldn’t let him settle anywhere. If he disappears now, Jamieson will be convinced it’s because someone’s rehoused him. London? No, not safe. Nowhere in the UK would be safe. Couldn’t even go abroad. Jamieson would follow. He’d have Frank hit, no matter where in the world. A high priority is worth the extra risk. Wherever he went, Frank wouldn’t find work. Glasgow is his city. Always has been. He has no name anywhere else. He would just be an old man with a bundle of old glories. Plenty of old men like that around. Nobody would hire him. A life of poverty on the run. No. Maybe twenty years ago, but not now. Now, he has to stay. This is how it ends.
