Slammer (7 page)

'In my book he has. He attacked my wife.'

'Technically, yes, pushing her might be an assault. But was she injured?'

'She was bruised. Her wrist.'

 
'But not badly enough that we could photograph it.'

'Jesus. She was scared out of her mind.'

'I don't doubt it. But it's his word against hers. Bottom line, it won't go to court.'

'So you're saying you can't do anything until he really hurts somebody?'

'Have a word with him, maybe. But, yeah, that's about it. Sorry.'

'Right,' Glass said. 'But if he'd stolen a golf ball, you'd lock him up with the dog.'

*

'So how do we get them to back off?' Lorna said, later, once Caitlin had gone to bed.

They were sitting on the floor, backs to the settee, two-thirds of the way through a bottle of cheap wine. Glass had only opened it ten minutes ago. 'I could do what Caesar wants.'

'Be serious.'

He was being serious, but he didn't push it. 'I just want to make sure you and Caitlin are safe.' He'd put chains on the front and back doors, and had spoken to a security company about getting an alarm fitted. But that didn't seem like enough.

'Maybe we should leave.' She crossed her ankles. 'Go back home.'

'To
Dunfermline
?' Now it was Glass's turn to wonder if
she
was serious. 'To your parents'?'

'Yeah,' she said. 'I know what you're going to say.'

'We've worked hard for what we have. Might not be much but we can't let these bastards ruin everything.'

'My mum would be happy to have us.'

'She'd be ecstatic. Finally, proof that she's been right all along. You married me because you had to. We're not good for each other. It'll never last. Great.'

'What's that got to do with it?'

'She thinks I'm a crap husband and father. I can't provide. Can't look after you.'

'It wasn't my fault I got sacked.'

'I didn't mean that.' Shit, he really hadn't meant to bring that up. 'I
want
to look after you.' An old-fashioned attitude, maybe, but there wasn't much choice. Lorna had been sacked from her last job, part-time admin assistant for an insurance company. Caitlin had caught a bad case of chickenpox, and Lorna took the week off to look after her. When she returned, her boss, childless and in her mid-fifties, was entirely unsympathetic. Said some pretty harsh things to Lorna, in private, about how much it pissed her off that mothers expected to be treated differently. It was Lorna's choice to have a kid, she'd said, and if it was going to interfere with her job, she wasn't much good to the company. Lorna had kept her mouth shut that time. Her boss continued to make her viewpoint clear, though, and, a few weeks later, when she told Lorna she was 'interfering with productivity' by showing her colleagues photographs of Caitlin's fourth birthday party, Lorna dropped the photos on her desk, spun round and slapped the bitch. And while she stood there, shocked, Lorna calmly unplugged her computer keyboard and smacked the cow over the head with it.

Lorna was very lucky she wasn't charged with assault. But, yeah, hard to get another job after getting sacked for violent conduct. So they'd agreed that she would stay at home and look after Caitlin while Glass brought in the money. Had to be practical.

'I just meant that going back home would be admitting defeat,' Glass said.

'Doesn't matter what Mum thinks. We'll get through this.'

'Not by running away.' Glass pressed his thumbs hard against his temples. 'I'd have to give up the job. We'd have to take Caitlin out of school. Sell the house.'

'We can start again.'

'By taking a massive step back? Is that what you want? We've built a life here. It's not ideal, but it's ours. You really want to live with your mother again? A weekend in her company and you're ready to strangle her.'

There was something else. Lorna's dad had never recovered from losing the bakery in
Dunfermline
where he'd worked most of his life. He'd had one breakdown after another. He was so fragile, he cried at the slightest thing. Like seeing Lorna or Caitlin, or the postponement of a football match, or poor TV reception. Glass had never known a more miserable bastard. For Lorna, seeing her old man in such a pitiful state was unbearable. Glass knew that and he knew he'd hate to hear himself say, 'And what about your dad?' But he said it anyway.

He thought she might cry too. But her voice stayed firm. She said, 'Do we have a choice?'

'Give me a few days.' He looked at her. 'I'll sort things.'

'How the hell are you going to do that?'

'That's my problem. Let me deal with it. I'll make sure you're safe.'

'And what about you?' Lorna asked.

'I can look after myself.'

'You think so?'

He was going to reply but she wasn't even looking at him.

She gulped down her wine, filled her glass. 'Another bottle, please.' She smiled at him, lips purple. 'I need to get rat-arsed.'

FRIDAY

'But just supposing,' Glass said to Mafia.

They were in his peter, whispering. When Glass had first come in, he'd asked if he could speak to Mafia in private and Darko had shrugged, put on his headphones and turned up the volume on the radio. Prison privacy. Hardly ideal, but Glass had decided to take the chance. He'd lain awake all last night wondering what Watt was going to do next. And then he'd spent all morning hoping for a call from the cops to let him know they'd visited Watt. He checked with Lorna to see if they'd called her. But they hadn't, of course. It was pretty clear after speaking to the police yesterday that they weren't going to do a damn thing.

There was only one person who could help him now and that was Mafia. Problem was that Mafia wouldn't be likely to put his own brother in danger, so Glass couldn't tell him the truth. And Glass had to hope that Mafia wasn't in the loop. Caesar certainly wouldn't have told him what was going on and Glass crossed his fingers that Watt hadn't either. If Mafia
did
know about it, that meant he hadn't done a thing to persuade his brother to stop harassing Glass's family. And Glass didn't want to believe that.

Mafia whispered, 'This is called entrapment.'

'I promise you,' Glass whispered back, catching the odd tinny thump from Darko's headphones. 'It's personal. I just want a name.'

'Why should I believe you?'

'Haven't I always been honest with you?'

'Yeah, but that's no reason to suspect it to continue.'

'Come on, Mafia. I just want to know where I can buy a gun.' Glass had made up a story. Told Mafia a version of the truth, leaving out the fact that his wife's stalker was Watt and that Caesar wanted him to smuggle drugs into the prison.

'You've been to the police?'

'They won't do anything. Not till it's too late.'

'So, you get a gun. What then?'

'I find this bastard.'

'Aha,' Mafia said. Indicated with a circular motion of his hand that he wanted more.

'And I threaten him.'

'Okay. And then?'

'And then my family's safe.'

Mafia scratched his chin with a thumbnail. 'You think this stalker will scare when you show him your gun?'

'Why not?'

'Cause you won't use it.'

'He won't know that.'

'Yes he will.'

'How?'

'It's written all over your face. Even I can tell you're soft and I'm a blind bastard.'

'I swear I'll use it if I have to.'

'I don't think so.'

'I will. I'll prove it. I'll prove it to … to him.'

'How?'

'Kneecap him or something.'

Mafia chuckled. 'That'll certainly stop him. But only for a while. Till he's better. Then he'll come after you. Limp or not.'

'So what would you suggest?'

'If it was me,' Mafia said, 'I'd kill him.'

Glass stared at the toes of his shoes. His face was in there, small and distorted. He wished he saw Mafia's face instead. Wished he had that kind of bottle, that kind of resolve, that kind of … bravery. Cause it
was
brave. Must be, since however nice it might be to believe that the reason he wasn't prepared to kill Watt was a moral choice, the real reason he was copping out was because he was terrified of the consequences. Prison officers were treated like stoats on the other side of the bars.

Glass said, 'I can't do that. I can't kill someone.'

'Then forget about the gun.'

'I need it. I'd feel safer. Lorna would feel safer. Tell me, for Christ's sake. You want me to get down on my knees?'

'I really don't—'

'Tell me.'

Mafia folded his arms. 'If I do, you'll owe me.'

SATURDAY

Mad Will was a chubby guy with an unfashionable hair parting. Glass could see how he'd got his nickname: his teeth and eyes were way too big for the rest of his face, giving him a sort of crazed look.

Before they'd spoken on the phone earlier, Glass hadn't thought about the fact he would have to avoid using his real name. But when Mad Will introduced himself it became obvious Glass would have to make up a name for himself too.

'Jesse,' he said. 'I'm Jesse James.' Well, he was buying a gun.

No reaction from Mad Will.

'Mafia vouched for me.' Glass had given Mafia fifty quid and bought him a phone card, asked him to say a few nice words on his behalf. Get things moving. Quickly.

I have an appointment at the Castle Esplanade at four o'clock. With your brother. I'm in a fucking hurry.

'Mafia vouched for some guy called Glass,' Mad Will said. 'Not for some Jesse James arsehole.'

Wasn't the best way to start off, but they'd sorted it out after an awkward minute or so and here they were now, face to face, all nice and friendly, in the sitting room of a flat in a highrise in Niddrie, midday sun streaming through the window, a handgun and a thermos flask of coffee angled on the slightly lop-sided glass table between them, and Mad Will lighting a half-smoked joint.

The room was as sparsely furnished as a prison cell. The whole block of flats was abandoned, most of the windows boarded up. Presumably squatters had moved in at some point, but it didn't look as if anyone lived here now. Glass expected it was used only for conducting illegal transactions. Not just guns either, by the looks of things. He could see various pills and powder in bags and packets and bottles and blister packs in the open shoulder bag at Mad Will's feet.

'Regular pharmacy,' Glass said.