Riven (28 page)

‘That one’s pretty heavy—’ The assistant looked doubtful.

Stella cut her off. ‘No worries, I’m stronger than I look.’

The assistant pointed to another, smaller knife. ‘There’s one over here which might—’

Stella smiled sweetly. ‘Where do I pay?’

The assistant nodded and led the way.

The Gaggia hissed steam and gurgled and Doyle waited patiently until the thick black liquid had poured into his cup before turning to her. ‘You want a coffee?’

Lizzie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I wouldn’t mind, Mr Doyle, if it’s not too much trouble.’

Doyle turned back to the machine. A few seconds later he settled himself. ‘Right, let’s get started. Stella says you’re an old pal of hers from school.’

‘Aye, well, I was a few years ahead of her. Knew her as Maggie then, before she changed her name to Stella and she went intae all that acting stuff. Before she left the area . . . our families kind of knew each other.’

Doyle stared at her; she was rambling.

She stopped rambling, sat quietly, sipped her scalding coffee. Smiled.

‘You’re big Kenny Coughlin’s daughter.’

She blushed with pride, looked at the floor. ‘Aye, that’s ma da alright.’

‘How’s he doing?’

‘He’s doing okay, Mr Doyle.’

‘You see him often?’

‘Every week.’

‘When’s he getting out?’

‘Not for a while, good few years yet.’

‘Right.’ Doyle sipped his coffee. ‘So, you said on the phone you’ve got boyfriend trouble; is that right?’

‘It is.’

‘And your boyfriend’s Maurice Mason?’

‘Right again.’

‘Is he no a bit old for you, more your da’s age?’

‘Thought I’d go for the more mature man; turns out he’s an immature wee prick.’

‘That right?’

Lizzie removed her scarf. ‘Mason tried to kill me.’

Doyle was calm. ‘Nightmare. All the same, what’s it to do with me? Your da’s pals not help you out?’

‘Da’s clumsy – he’s only got one way of doing business.’

‘So I heard.’

‘Claw hammer.’

‘That’s it. Your da’s a traditionalist. Old school.’

‘Mason thinks he’s coming intae money.’

‘So?’

‘So I wondered where he thinks he’s going tae get it. Says he’s got a deal going with Tenant. I think it’s got tae be wee Stevie Tenant.’

Doyle’s eye darkened. ‘Has he now? What do you know about it?’

‘Nothing except he’s going to get some money soon and it’s because of a partnership with someone called Tenant. That’s about all I could make out. Mason wasn’t giving much away.’

‘So, Mason and Tenant are going intae a wee partnership together? You any ideas what the pair of them might be doing?’

Lizzie sat forward in her seat. ‘It’s got to be drugs, Mr Doyle. See, that’s where I thought you’d come in . . .’ She looked at him. Read the expression correctly. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’

‘First off Lizzie, I don’t know what you’re on about. I run a respectable business.’

‘Sorry Mr Doyle, but I just thought if . . . He’s got off with loads. I gave him my best days . . . went up to the jail every week. Thinks he can just come out and dump me – well that’ll be shining bright. I know too much about him; I could get him banged up again.’

Doyle shook his head. ‘You watch too much telly, Lizzie. We’re not all gangsters, you know. Go home. Forget about Mason; you’re right, he sounds a prick. But he’s a useless prick.’ He gestured to her throat. ‘If he tries that again, get the polis involved.’

‘But—’

Doyle stared at her for a second.

‘Sorry, Mr Doyle.’ Lizzie crossed the room and closed the door quietly as she left.

Doyle dialled, waited. A few seconds passed before it was answered. ‘Weirdo, come over.’

Weirdo stood on the carpet, his purple Mohican damp from the rain. He had sprinted from the car and was panting quietly like a well-behaved dog. He waited patiently.

Finally Doyle spoke. ‘Got a visit from a lassie called Lizzie Coughlin.’

Weirdo waited.

‘You know her?’

Weirdo shook his head.

‘She’s big Kenny Coughlin’s daughter.’

Weirdo looked blank.

Doyle nodded. ‘Okay, not everyone’s a networker like me, and Kenny’s last week’s news. Been inside a long while. Big, clumsy man. No refinement. Old school. Likes the claw hammer. Disnae understand that things are getting more sophisticated.’

‘Lizzie causing you bother, Mr Doyle?’

Doyle shook his head. ‘No, but Maurice Mason’s her bloke and she’s pissed off with him. Any ideas what he’s up to?’

Weirdo shrugged. ‘Don’t know Mason myself but Sonny down at the Smuggler’s said he’d been in, looking jammy, like he’d hit the jackpot. Splashing the cash and gobbing about coming intae money.’

‘You’ve got my interest. Go on.’

‘Said he’d come into some merchandise which would give him a wee income. Said it could roll and roll.’

‘Merchandise?’

Weirdo nodded. ‘Aye but he never told Sonny what it was, said it was secret.’

Doyle sounded bored. ‘Right, well it’s probably got nothing to do with me or my business interests, but I need to be sure. You keep an eye out, speak to Sonny again. Tell him to find out what Mason’s up to.’

‘Okay, boss.’ Weirdo waited, then realised he’d been dismissed. Biker boots marched silently to the door.

Rab stood outside the door of his house, his key in his hand, listening. He heard his mother’s voice, heard her curse her boyfriend. Heard the boyfriend curse her back, only he was louder and more aggressive. Heard the bottle smash against the wall. He knew where she would have been standing, in front of the television. Heard the pause, the seconds it took the boyfriend to cross the room, the sound of his mother’s head being rhythmically bounced off the living-room wall.

Better just leave them to it.

Rab zipped up his anorak, put his key back in his pocket and began walking to the bus stop. He huddled inside the deserted shelter, shifting from foot to foot, trying to keep warm. Somehow the air in the shelter seemed colder – he shivered, heard his stomach rumble. It had been four hours since he’d had the cheese sandwich at Alec’s house. Rab checked his pockets, came up with thirty pence, not even enough for a bag of chips. He glanced back at his home. At least there might be a packet of cheese and onion crisps in the kitchen. He wavered, thought of his mother and her boyfriend, decided against it. Saw the lights of the bus in the distance. Rab waited.

Twenty minutes later he jumped off the bus and began running. He heard his breath rasp into the cold, felt his muscles respond to his desire to quicken his pace, heard the sound of his trainers landing on concrete. Soon he would warm up, he would overcome the elements, he would succeed in conquering the hunger eating at his belly. Rab clenched his fists as he ran, thought about his last boxing match, how he had wanted to pulverise his opponent’s face. How Keely, his trainer, had forced him to stop. Later, Keely had told him to take some time out. Anger-management issues, he’d said. Rab smiled. He didn’t need boxing now. That had been his training as a child and an adolescent; it had kept him safe from bullies, including his mother and the succession of bastard boyfriends. Now he was old enough he would move out and his life would begin.

He turned into the allotments, raced through the deserted paths until finally he slowed his pace, stopping outside the hut, his hut, panting. He bent down, reached around to the side of the building for the plastic bag containing the torch, switched it on, flicked the beam around the area. Nothing. No one. He slipped the key from the pocket of his anorak and unlocked the padlock. Rab paused, listened. Other than the rain and the distant noise from traffic on the main road, there was nothing to suggest that there was another living soul in the area. The wooden door of the shed opened with a creak; the smell of damp and rotting vegetation clung to the air.

There had been another smell, one that had interested Rab much more than any of the others. He stepped into the damp space, closed his eyes and let the rush of adrenaline hold him, squeeze him until he could hardly breathe. He inhaled deeply, let the memory of the smell come to him, feel its way into his nostrils, snake its way to his heart. He could feel his heart quicken its beat in response. Rust and iron, the metallic smell of blood. Rab could almost have tasted it when the bloodied bat had first arrived. He’d been told to get rid of it. He shone the beam from the torch into the corner of the shed – it was still there; he couldn’t get rid of it. It lay hidden behind boxes. Rab closed his eyes and tried to imagine the night it had been used. In his mind a series of images began playing. He imagined the initial resistance a body would have to the bat, resistance which would evaporate as the force increased. He imagined the crack of wood against flesh, the sound of bone breaking. Imagined first curses, then screams, then the pleas which would have reverberated around the room. He imagined the heft of the bat and how the weight of it would increase the damper it had become, at its heaviest when it was coated with thick, sticky liquid. He wished that he’d been there to see Gilmore suffer. He wished he’d done it.

Afterwards James Gilmore’s blood had still clung to the bat, with particles of flesh and hair. Rab had touched the bat, brought it to his face, closed his eyes and inhaled again. He had smelled blood, sweat and definitely fucking tears. He’d been told that Gilmore had grovelled for his life. It hadn’t been worth saving.

Rab opened his eyes and leaned into a dusty box he’d salvaged from a skip, rummaging around until he found it. He brought out the gold chain and medal. Looked at the motif, a man with a child on his shoulders and a staff for walking. Rab heard his stomach growl. He turned the chain around in his hands, flicked the medal over and over. Rab made up his mind. He needed to eat. He would sell it. Weirdo or Sonny at the Smuggler’s would take it on – he’d offload it to one of them. Then he’d fucking take Alec and they’d go for a pizza and lager. And sit in, not just a takeaway to eat outside in a piss-soaked bus shelter. Rab tucked the gold medal and chain into his anorak pocket. He made sure the bat was still hidden in the corner before locking the hut and double-checking the padlock.

When he got home the house was empty. There must be a party on somewhere and the two of them had fucked off. Rab crept into the kitchen, took the last slice of bread from its greaseproof package and spread margarine on it, looked about for crisps. There were none. He reached up and took down a bag of granulated sugar and sprinkled some of it over the margarine. He folded the bread over and wolfed the sandwich down. He checked the cupboards and the fridge to see if there was anything else. Nothing except a four-pack of cheap lager; he grabbed one. He’d get battered for it but he was past caring. Rab closed the door behind him and slipped back out into the cold night. He’d go to see Alec and explain his plan. Maybe they’d go to see Sonny together; maybe Rab would go on his own. He’d need to pick the right time – the Smuggler’s could be dangerous. As Rab walked he wondered about the wee bird, the racing pigeon. He hoped it had managed to get back home. Remembered that that was the night Smithy had chased them. Rab had told Manky, who’d told Weirdo. He knew that he’d relay the message to Mr Doyle. Rab walked on through the freezing night. Hoped that Doyle would sort Smithy out.

If you were to place an equilateral triangle on a map of Glasgow, the Royal Infirmary would be in one angle, Wheeler’s flat in the second and, in the third, Buchanan Street bus station. The station replaced the old one at Anderson and was built in keeping with Glasgow’s modern image. At this time of the night Buchanan Street was floodlit, illuminating the buildings in a cool blue light. At the top of Buchanan Street stood the Buchanan Galleries, John Lewis dominating the smaller shop units. Outside in the freezing cold night the bronze statue of Donald Dewar dripped rain while the wind screeched around it.

Inside, the bus station was brightly lit. When the overnight coach to London pulled into the stance, a sleepy group of passengers stood stretching and yawning and made their way in an orderly queue towards it. Some had plastic bags with sandwiches for the journey, bottles of Irn-Bru or Coke tucked into pockets with crisps and chocolate. Others had spent a few hours drinking and would sleep for most of the overnight journey, awakening to a new day at London Victoria cramped and sore and mildly hung over. One passenger stood at the end of the line, clutching a new holdall containing a pile of shop-bought sandwiches, a packet of crisps and a bottle of sparkling water. In the pocket of his anorak there was a new leather wallet containing ten twenty-pound notes and the phone number of a man he’d never met. Weirdo had made sure George Grey had everything placed in the holdall before he handed him the ticket to London. It was one-way. Weirdo had shaken his hand and left him at the bus station.

The four-by-four waited a short distance from the station. Doyle watched the last of the passengers climb onto the coach. Watched until the driver had loaded the luggage and settled himself behind the wheel, closed the doors and reversed out of the stance. Doyle watched the coach pull out of the station. As it passed the four-by-four, George Grey lifted a hand in recognition, smiled quickly at Doyle before turning away from the window and closing his eyes. Leaving Glasgow had been Doyle’s idea; George Grey had listened, followed instructions and felt that for the first time in his life he could trust someone. The coach pulled into a lane and George opened his eyes and stared out of the window, watching as Glasgow passed him by, understanding that he wouldn’t see the city again or at least not for a long time. Thought of his mother, wished that she were dead. Wished again that he had never had a mother. It might have been better, he decided, if he had never been born in the first place. The coach was warm; he closed his eyes again and scrunched down in the seat. A few minutes later he was sleeping, dreaming the now-familiar dreams. His finger, the one with the scar cutting across the fingertip, twitched throughout the long journey.