Random (16 page)

The little people crossed the road to stay out of Hutton’s way. He was always given room and he loved it. He had three kids by three women. None of them to his wife. Hutton had been inside twice and had put his share of people in hospital. He liked his work.

He was close to Docherty and there were even those who thought Mick was afraid of him. That seemed unlikely but you could bet Hutton was happy with the idea.

Same thing with Spud Tierney. There was some talk that Hutton had stuck Spud but Kirkwood doubted it. The knife wasn’t Hutton’s style. A baseball bat maybe, a drop off a tall building or simply beaten to death. Not the blade though.

Still, Hutton knew folk had made the whisper about him doing Spud and he did nothing to stop it. He knew his name was floating but he didn’t sink it as he should have. It was part of the game that sometimes you took credit for things you hadn’t done, add a notch to your score and a boost to your rep.

The trick though was to pick and choose your moments. Playing the smart arse and letting people believe you had offed one of Alec Kirkwood’s boys was stupidity. Kirky was still very unhappy. He was convinced someone had murdered Tierney to taunt him. That someone had cut off Tierney’s finger as a sign.

Every time I caught the tail end of a whisper put out by Kirkwood, I shuddered. It wasn’t the way it was meant to be. It had nothing to do with him.

But the word kept coming. He was saying that it wouldn’t end, wouldn’t be forgotten. No one would be allowed to take the piss out of Kirky. It seems he thought Hutton was doing just that.

Hutton had a council house in Christie Street in Shettleston with his wife. A typical sixties dump from the outside but inside it was kitted out with the flashiest gear that shady money could buy.

Tuesday morning and Hutton had left that council house and began to walk down the street. He had turned just one corner when an unmarked white van pulled up and three men got out.

They grabbed Hutton and threw him into the back of the van. The big man didn’t put up much of a fight.

Of course, nobody in Christie Street was able to describe the men when the police came asking. Of course, no one saw anything they could tell the cops.

It was Davie Stewart and the Grant brothers, Charlie and Frank, each as mental as the other.

The white van drove out of Christie Street at a good pace but not racing. There was a kettle full of boiling water sitting in the front seat and you don’t want that spilled on your upholstery.

They drove no more than two minutes to the hill known locally as The Womb on account of the number of kids conceived there. There are few places in suburban Glasgow that are very far from bits of green that could be used by desperate teenagers.

Hutton was marched to the top of the hill at gunpoint, his hands tied behind him. Frankie Grant carried the kettle.

They kicked his legs from him until Hutton was on his knees before them. They cracked the side of his head with the gun barrel and forced his mouth open.

Frankie poured half the kettle of near-boiling water down his throat then covered him in the rest.

Hutton screamed.

He did the same again when Frankie smashed the empty kettle off the side of his face, leaving a red welt that stained him from his cheek to his forehead.

Charlie Grant tore the trousers off him and forced Hutton to bend over, spreading his legs wide.

Davie Stewart went behind him and shoved the barrel of the gun up Hutton’s arse. He forced it roughly into his hole and spiralled it as deep as he could inside him.

Hutton still played the big man. He told them to fuck off. Told them to do it. Told them to go ahead and pull the trigger. So Davie Stewart did.

There was a click and nothing else. The gun had never been loaded in the first place.

That was the point when Hutton began to cry. He sobbed a bit and laughed out of relief. Just before Davie Stewart raped him.

Charlie Grant did the same but Frankie settled for kicking Hutton hard in the balls. Each to their own.

They left Hutton on top of The Womb, bleeding, blistering and greeting his eyes out. He’d thought they were going to kill him and chances are he ended up wishing they had. The message was that were some things worse than death for a Glasgow hard man. There were worse things that Alec Kirkwood could do to you than that.

Everyone who lived and breathed in the inner city knew the value of image and dignity. Lose those and you’d be as well losing your balls. Hutton had tried to be smart with the wrong guy. Anyone else fancy trying that? Thought not.

They would be calling him a mad bastard again. That was fine. They’d be saying he was just a psycho in a good suit and he could live with that. This time it had all been about getting that message across, not about wee Spud’s killer.

As Hutton lay blubbering on the top of that hill, Davie Stewart eventually asked him who had killed Spud Tierney. Through his snot and tears, Hutton said he had no idea. Davie Stewart hadn’t expected to hear much else but kicked him in the head anyway. That was for being stupid. You should have said that in the first place, arsehole.

News of what was done to Hutton was quickly fed to all corners. No point in doing it otherwise.

Had to make you wonder what he might do to the person who had actually killed Tierney. It certainly made me think. Not scared, not of what he might do. Worried that it might get in the way of my plans. A complication I could have definitely done without.

Some people asked how it was known Hutton was leaving the house at the time he did. They wanted to know how Kirky’s men knew to have that kettle boiling.

Some said Hutton was a creature of habit. Others knew that wasn’t true. The smart money said Mrs Hutton made a phone call. Three unanswered rings then hung up. Come on down, the price is right.

Hutton didn’t go to the cops, of course, and didn’t go to a hospital. He went to the flat where the mother of one of his children lived. She took one look at him and closed the door in his face.

He went to Mick Docherty’s and didn’t get a much better reception. Mickey stuck a bundle of cash into Hutton’s pocket and sent him on his way. It was the last anyone heard or saw of him.

Not all my fault. Hutton put himself in that world. I just put him in that situation.

My view on other people’s happiness was not what it was. There was a time when I’d have wanted everyone to be as happy as me. As us.

The day we were married. The day Sarah was born. The first day she went to school. The day she won that poetry prize. I had so much happiness that it burst out of me and there was plenty to share.

Things changed.

Other people’s happiness became something I didn’t consider greatly. It became something I didn’t consider at all. My priorities were my own. She was my only concern. Other people didn’t exist. Other people were noises that fluttered at my ears or drifted past my eyes. They were in the world but not in mine. People were obstacles and stepping stones. They thought they were talking to me and that I was listening. They thought I cared. They thought. I didn’t think about them.

Oh we all live in our own self-centred little worlds but my isolation was more than that. Their selfishness was no match for my obsession. Other people live for themselves but want to be loved by others. I lived only for her and had no need for love.

I wouldn’t say it was callous. More indifference. Maybe that amounted to the same thing but I didn’t care to hurt. I just didn’t care. Other people’s feelings were as irrelevant as they were, somewhere on my horizon, shadows upon shadows. That is how I could do what I had done and what I was about to do.

I picked up the
Herald
.
Glasgow Herald
as was. I didn’t like it when things were changed without good reason.

Page 22 is the Gazette page. Why it is called that has never been particularly obvious to me but it didn’t matter. The Gazette page is where they have the obituaries and the BDMs. Births, Deaths and Marriages.

Except in the
Herald
it is Births, Marriages then Deaths. They probably consider it a more natural order of things but I was always uneasy with the change from the conventional. The Gazette page is where people celebrate themselves in print. It is where they let their friends and neighbours know of their achievements or failures in genetics.

That was not to be it.

I felt for John and Fiona though. They were pain waiting to happen. John and Fiona still thought life was fair. Beautiful twin girls. Victoria and Emma. Lovely. Victoria. Emma. Sisters to Jack. Good weight for premature twins too.

So many bad things could happen to Victoria and Emma. A world of bad possibilities. That was a fact. I almost despised John and Fiona for their ignorance. How could they be so unaware of fate, so naive, so stupid to think otherwise?

Not the one.

Angus, a good name but anachronistic. Parents really had to be more considerate when naming their offspring. We had taken two months to settle on Sarah’s name. Sarah was a princess, wife of Abraham and mother of Isaac. If it was a boy it was to have been David, the beloved one.

Two columns of births. One and a half of marriages. Four and a half columns of deaths. Three of acknowledgements which was really just another three of deaths.

I looked carefully at the last seven and a half columns. Why so many more deaths than births and marriages? The population was dropping but not that quick.

If deaths were more worthy of noting in a national newspaper then that sounded more like guilt to me than honouring those that had gone. Anyway, deaths clearly didn’t suit my purpose. That would have been impractical on so many levels.

It was to be the last marriage. I’d settled on that before picking up the paper. No reason. Just a random choice. Those at the end of the alphabet were at a distinct and dangerous disadvantage but that was life.

The newly wed Brian Sinclair and Mary Anne Gardiner. Brian and Mary. Mr and Mrs Sinclair. By the time the glorification of their union appeared in the
Herald
they had enjoyed thirteen days of wedded bliss.

It struck me that the right thing to do would be not to separate Mr and Mrs Sinclair. Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder. Matthew 19:6.

The thought struck me but I dismissed it. God and I were no longer on speaking terms. Mr and Mrs Sinclair together would pose far more problems. The rights and wrongs of separating them paled beside the practicalities of what had to be done. Brian and Mary were both obstacle and stepping stone.

So, Brian or Mary? Husband or wife?

I was ambivalent but thought I should redress the unfairness of the alphabetical disadvantage.

And behold, there are last which shall be first, and there are first which shall be last. Luke 13:30.

God and I did not speak any more but I still remembered his words. It would be Brian. Mrs Mary Sinclair, wallowing in the blissful ignorance of the newly wed, would soon be a widow.

These days I had only misery to share. It burst out of me now.

Brian Sinclair was a runner. Twice a day, every day, he left the house at Inchinnan overlooking the White Cart and headed onto the hill behind it where a path cut a trail through the woods. I didn’t know how far he ran but he was gone a good hour each time and seemed to pick up a very decent pace. He was very fit, which was a bit of a worry. Not necessarily a major problem but definitely an issue.

Thankfully the new Mrs Sinclair was not a runner. Their inseparability did not seem to extend to staying fit together.

I’d parked half a mile away and positioned myself in the shadow of a tree that let me view their house without being seen.

I waited. And waited some more.

I was wearing jeans and walking boots, a shirt and waterproof jacket. In the back pocket of my jeans was a rolled-up newspaper. I didn’t care much for papers or the people who wrote them. I’d known journalists. I hadn’t liked them. Pretending they are your friend. Just there to help. Only wanting to tell your side of things. Then when they write stuff you didn’t say, put it in ways that you didn’t mean, then it isn’t their fault. The editor wanted it that way, the sub-editor wrote the heading, nothing to do with them.