12
It only takes one ring to wake Calum. The last man woken on this wakeful night. He’s never been a good sleeper. Not because he’s waiting for a call – he never worked so often that he got regular calls. It’s just his nature. Cautious, unsettled, preferring to live in a small, controllable world. His sleeping is worse now than ever. He’s been waiting for a call like this. Knowing it would come. Dreading it. He’s supposed to be a professional. He’s supposed to set standards for himself. Make the sacrifices. He’s made an unprofessional error. The error is lying next to him. She’s asleep. Calum’s reaching out and grabbing his mobile from the bedside table. At a glance he can see that it’s not Young’s number. Young calls if there’s a job to do. It’s a local number he doesn’t recognize. That could be good or bad.
He’s already out of bed by the time the phone starts its third ring. He’s answered it, but he’s saying nothing until he’s out of the room.
‘Hello,’ he’s saying. He’s trying not to whisper. There shouldn’t be anyone in his flat that he needs to hide this conversation from. A good gunman is available to talk freely whenever the call comes. Calum’s uncomfortable, trying to cover up his error. He’s along the corridor and into the kitchen now.
‘Calum, this is Peter. I need you to come to the club. Right away. I mean right away.’
There is no answer to that. Jamieson can’t possibly expect him to say anything. He tells you in no uncertain terms to come. Peter Jamieson is the boss; it’s his organization. You do what he tells you, or there are consequences. He tells you to come, you come. You don’t have the freedom to refuse.
‘I’m on my way.’
‘Good,’ Jamieson’s saying, sounding a little depressed as he hangs up.
Calum ought to be worrying about this job. No other thought should intrude upon him at this moment. A middle-of-the-night emergency. He’s hardly thinking about it. It hasn’t struck him yet how odd it was that Jamieson called. In normal circumstances, that would be his first thought. Why Jamieson, and not Young? It’s always Young. It’s part of Young’s job. It’s obviously something worth being concerned about. If he was thinking clearly, he might have thought that Young himself was in some sort of trouble. He hates emergency jobs anyway. They’re rushed. Mistakes are easy and sometimes inevitable. He’s a planner. Meticulous and patient. Slow, some would say. Let them say it. His quality comes from his patience. He’s not even thinking about that, though. He’s thinking about her instead.
Her name’s Emma. Emma Munro. In a sense, she’s Jamieson’s fault. She’s awake now. She’s put the lamp on and she’s sitting up in bed. He’s in the bedroom doorway. She’s rather short, but she carries it well. Short black hair, round face, a stud in her nose that he finds cute, and a tattoo on her wrist that he hates. He hasn’t told her yet that he finds tattoos vulgar. It hasn’t felt like the right time. The right time to pick a fight. It’s unusual for Calum. The whole scenario is. Emma’s the first proper girlfriend he’s had in nearly ten years. He’s always held women at arm’s length. They don’t rush towards him often; he’s, at best, a below-average-looking guy. Any time they’ve threatened to get close he’s found a way of repelling them. Like telling them he finds their choice of body art vulgar and unattractive. Pick a little fight. Let it burn out of control. Let them walk away because he’s unreasonable. You have to do it early in a relationship, though, before they get forgiving. He should do it now. Do it. Pick a fight.
It’s a warm little flat; she’s pushed the duvet down. She’s wearing a vest that’s too small for her, and her underpants. She’s yawning. It’s the second time this week that she’s stayed the night. He likes it – let’s not pretend otherwise. He likes it a lot. It feels normal. It feels the way he assumes all normal relationships feel. Can’t have normal. Not with his job. He’s not normal. She’s a liability. There’s no way of doing the job without her finding out what he’s up to. Or at least realizing that he’s up to something. He can’t have that. No good gunman takes that risk. It’s why most of the good ones are single. Why most of them aren’t a kick in the pants off being loners. It was stupid letting her get so close. It’s weak not to push her away. It would be doing her a favour. She shouldn’t be dragged into his life. She’s only here because of Jamieson. Well, George can take some of the blame.
George Daly is a good friend, a good guy. It’s not like him to turn up out of the blue and start trying to play best buddies, though. Calum has carefully created a life for himself where nobody turns up unexpectedly. A reliable, solid sort of life. Then George shows up. Calum had just moved from the safe house to a new flat. Jamieson pulled strings on his behalf; he was getting a nice little flat, decent sort of area. Nothing too fancy, he didn’t want to stand out. Jamieson was making every effort to win him round. Iron fist in a velvet glove routine. Doing plenty of nice things to make you want to work for him, now and then dropping in a reminder that you have no choice. Making Calum realize that he’s part of the organization now. Jamieson has a good relationship with Frank MacLeod, but he knows Frank won’t last forever. Needs a long-term replacement, needs backup. That’s Calum’s role. But Jamieson’s obviously worked out that Calum doesn’t want that role, so the pressure’s on. Send George round to pal up with him, make him feel closer to the organization. George works for Jamieson too – his best muscle. Entangle Calum in the Jamieson world. Create emotional bonds.
They were friends already. They’ve done jobs together. Lewis Winter and Glen Davidson. Two in quick succession. George is always good company, so Calum agreed to go to a club with him. Not into clubbing. Never dances. Sweaty, unpleasant places, full of sweaty, unpleasant people. George was out there, throwing shapeless shapes and drawing attention. Calum hung tight by the bar. Two girls, young, student types. A boringly pretty blonde and an entertainingly pretty brunette. They were right next to him, but Calum said nothing. Just sipped at his orange juice. No alcohol, ever. Keep control. The new flat, being a part of an organization now, it was different. Made him willing to do things a little differently, but not a lot differently. No getting blitzed and chatting up random women in bars. Then George came back.
‘Ah, I hope Calum’s being keeping you entertained,’ he grinned, sticking out a hand towards the blonde first. ‘My name’s George.’
It hadn’t occurred to George that Calum wouldn’t have spoken to them, and nobody ever corrected him. The four of them stuck together that evening. George and the blonde – Anna or Annie something-or-other – disappeared together at the end of the evening. Calum didn’t make a move. He was saying goodbye when Emma gave him her number and asked for his.
‘You really are the strong silent type,’ she said with a mocking smile. It was cute.
‘Mostly just silent,’ he shrugged. He gave her his number. Just seemed rude not to. She called the next day. He answered. Now here they are. Behaving like a normal couple, three weeks later. It’s just fun. Good, innocent, dangerous fun. Innocent for her. Dangerous for him. Maybe dangerous for her too, if the wrong people find out. He’s known a return to work was coming. That butcher with a medical certificate and a pill problem that works for Jamieson was round to check on him a few days ago. Sent by Jamieson, no doubt. Said the stab wounds to each hand and the right arm had healed nicely. A little healing still to do in the left hand, but mostly fine. Davidson’s knife shouldn’t leave permanent damage. This call’s been coming since then.
She’s only twenty-one. Nine years his junior. Still a student. Finishing her last year of politics at Strathclyde University. Finished in three months. She’s said she’ll probably end up in Edinburgh or London. Seems to think she has an in with a research organization that’ll take her on. Unlikely she’ll stay in Glasgow. That would solve it. A short-term relationship, fun while it lasts. Three months is still too long to hide a secret like this. If she doesn’t already know. She’s a smart girl; she might have worked it out already. Not as serious as Calum, but every bit as sharp. He’s spun a yarn about his hand injuries. Said he worked for a printing company and the machinery chewed his hands. Said he’s not sure he has a job to go back to. She nodded along, and hasn’t said anything about it since.
She looks adorable, sitting there. She must know something. Must at least know that he’s been lying to her about working for a printer. Her friend had a night of fun with George, hasn’t seen him since. How much did the friend glean from George? He wouldn’t have told her anything incriminating, he’s not so daft, but he might have given something away. If she knows and she’s turning a blind eye, then that’s positive. She won’t know that he’s a gunman. If she can live with the fact that he’s a criminal, then it would seem okay. But it’s not. He’s not concerned about her finding out and dumping him. His concern is much more selfish than that. He’s concerned that she might find something that gets him into trouble. That she might make his job harder. That she might be the very thing that trips him up.
Hard enough doing a job you don’t want to do, without having her there. Having to think about her, factor her in to every decision. How to avoid her knowing anything she shouldn’t know. Tell her to go. Just tell her it’s over. It was a bit of fun and it’s run its course. He’s looking at her, and he’s hating himself. Too weak to tell her. Enjoying her too much. It’s unprofessional. Hard to admit, but he wanted this. He wanted her. Not specifically her, but a girlfriend, someone to be with. Loneliness was catching up with him. That’s why he let this happen. She’s not Jamieson’s fault or George’s fault. She’s his own fault. He chose to let things happen that he should have stopped. A year ago he would have stopped it. He hasn’t sent her away. Hard to admit, but he’s unprofessional. First time that’s happened.
‘Well,’ she’s saying, staring at him with a bemused smile, ‘who was it?’
He’s been standing in the doorway looking at her for nearly twenty seconds. The phone’s still in his hand. ‘Oh, it was William,’ he’s saying, referring to his older brother. This is a lie he’s been preparing for a while. From the moment he realized he was going to let her spend the night at his flat. It’s thin, but plausible enough. ‘He’s stuck without a lift. Sounds a bit pissed. Has no money for a taxi. I said I’d go and get him. He’s always a good sport for me.’ Don’t give too much detail – that would be unnatural. Just tell her what she needs to know. Sound a little put out, but forgiving towards your brother. Not so annoyed that it prompts her to make something of it.
‘Huh,’ she’s saying. ‘I hope you give him what for, dragging you out at this time.’
He’s smiling and nodding as he’s pulling on a plain hooded top. Someone’s going to get what for.
Does she know? It seemed like a knowing smile was threatening to break out, when she said that about giving William what for. He’s out on the street, getting into his plain car. A car incapable of drawing attention to itself. He knows what’s going to happen. He’ll go to the club, there’ll be some sort of emergency and he’ll have to go and work a job. She must know. She’s too smart not to have realized that he’s up to something. As long as she only suspects that he’s a criminal. As long as she doesn’t know he’s a gunman. If she thinks him no more than a rogue, then she might keep mistaking him for a decent human being. He’s pulling away from the flat. There’s still a little discomfort in his left hand when he grips things. The steering wheel, for one. Presumably a gun too, although the last time he handled one was when he killed Lewis Winter. More than two months ago. Feels a lot longer.
