Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1)
Author: Salisbury, Emma
Date: 2014-08-30

Truth

Lies

Waiting

Emma Salisbury

Contents

Copyright

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

Three Days Later

Acknowledgements

Excerpt from Fragile Cord

About the Author

Copyright © 2014 Emma Salisbury

Published by Emma Salisbury

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

Emma Salisbury has asserted her right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

For Dad

And for Dave, for never letting the bastards get you down

1

It’s funny how the do-gooding public think prison is the answer, like a magic wand that wipes your criminal scorecard clean. Only it isn’t like that, the problems you leave behind are still waiting for you when you step back out into the daylight, except now they’re much bigger, and this time you don’t have as many choices.

I was one of the lucky ones, moved back into my family home and into a job that paid decent money. I should send a shout out to my probation officer; she came up trumps, getting me in at Swanson’s rather than pretend work on a poxy job creation scheme. OK, packing cardboard boxes is boring as Hell, but you can have a laugh with the guys on the shop floor and turn the radio up when you run out of things to say.

Even so, only one day in the job and already things started going pear-shaped. I was heading towards the bus-stop at the end of my shift when a small boy riding a BMX bike mounted the pavement, circling round me a couple of times like a playground bully eyeing his victim. Close up he was older than I’d first thought, maybe thirteen or so, with shaved blond hair and a forehead that was way too wide for the rest of his face. His eyes were sunken and further apart than was right and a mouth that hung open as though his lips were too heavy for his jaw.

‘You Davy?’ it came out as a statement rather than a question, but I nodded anyway.

‘Gotta message f’ya.’ The kid had a nasal whine, the kind that’d get on your nerves if you had to listen to it all the time. I wasn’t worried by the sight of him though; a boy on a bike makes a bee-line for you and says they’ve got a message; it’s not that big a deal round here. As far as I know, Hallmark and Interflora don’t stock ‘Glad you’re out of chokey’ gifts and where I’m from your first stretch inside is a rite of passage. News of my release is bound to have got around.

‘Mickey’s givin’ ye till the end o’ the week to make your first payment.’

I nodded in agreement, his terms seemed reasonable; he was hardly going to write off my loan because of my spell inside.

‘Said to tell ye he’s adjusted the figures.’

Ah. Bike Boy’s voice was beginning to grate but he had my full attention. ‘Said something ‘bout the credit crunch an’ compound interest, or was it compound fractures?’ the boy stated maliciously,‘Either way he said I wasn’t tae worry if I forgot the gist, so long as I told ye how much ye payment has gone up tae.’

I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like this. Bike Boy paused for effect, as though I was an X Factor contestant about to learn my fate: whether I was to stay in the competition or return to the life I’d been badmouthing every week.

‘Two hundred quid.’ He said firmly.

I was confused. That was the amount of my original loan. I’d been due to pay it off fifty pounds a week until Mickey got bored but now he seemed to be giving me the chance to pay off the debt in full. It’d be a stretch, after tax I’ll be clearing two fifty a week but it’d be worth it.

Bike Boy smiled, not altogether unkindly but there was a glimmer of pleasure there, even so.

‘Two hundred a week until further notice.’ He clarified matter of factly.

‘Ye havin’ a laugh!’ I began to object but the kid was already peddling away, job done. I know my spell inside meant Mickey’d had to wait for his money but this was some penalty. After bus fares and board I’d be working for nothing.

And so this morning I’m trying to manage my expectations. To start my day as I mean to go on. Good things don’t happen to Davy Johnson, never have done, never will. I’m your original walking talking magnet for bucket loads of shit but today I’m going to look on the bright side; the sun is shining, I have a pack of smokes in my pocket and I have a job. I take a cigarette from the pack and light it, drawing down hard, enjoying the sensation of the nicotine inflating my lungs. Is it so wrong to be drawn to something that really isn’t good for you?

The sun’s rays beam down steadily and I roll my overalls to my waist before lying back on the wooden bench, savouring each lungful of smoke. My upper body tingles; already the skin on my chest is beginning to turn pink. Be good to get some colour, get rid of the grey pallor that is the trademark of a stretch inside. I close my eyes, lifting my cigarette for a final drag before returning to the pallet of cartons waiting for me. All I need to top the day off is a nice cold beer and I promise myself one at the end of the shift with a couple of guys from the shop floor if they’re up for it.

A cold chill across my stomach makes my eye lids snap open. There, in my eye line, blocking out the sun like a spiteful raincloud stands a familiar but unfriendly face. Police Constable MacIntyre arrested me six months ago and here he is larger than life staring down at me as though I’m a giant turd. I look past MacIntyre to the squad car parked by the factory gates and the officer in the passenger seat picking his nose while scrolling through messages on a mobile. I don’t think they’re supposed to use their phones on duty but I know better than to air unasked for views. Instead, I push myself to a sitting position, pulling my overalls up over my shoulders whilst checking across the factory yard to see if my visitors can be seen from the main building. Candy Staton, the boss’s PA has her back to the canteen window while she busies herself getting drinks for the managers. Petite with long shiny hair tied back in a ponytail she is the prettiest girl I’ve set eyes on in a long while. She smiled at me on my first day here even though she must have seen my personnel file. I wonder what she’ll make of the new guy not yet a week in and bringing police to the door.

‘Heard they’d let ye oot.’ PC MacIntyre is a prize prick with eyes that tell you he likes a drink almost as much as he loves a ruck. Thick-set arms protruding from a dumpy body, his Kevlar vest provides an illusion of muscle. ‘Thought I’d come see for meself.’

I say nothing. I learned long ago not to rise to the bait; that smart mouth answers got me locked up for the night. Instead, I stare at the man’s forehead as though looking for his third eye.

‘What’s this…..fancy dress?’ MacIntyre smirks at my overalls and work boots while at the same time taking a step closer, all the better to intimidate. Slowly I push myself up from the bench, making us equal in height though we both knew which man has the upper hand. Over the officer’s shoulder I can see Candy pause by the window, watching us.

‘Look,’ I reason, arms outstretched to let MacIntyre know he’ll get no trouble from me, ‘I need to get back, we only get ten minutes for a break.’

The officer sniggers as though this is the funniest thing he’s heard in ages. ‘“We only get ten minutes for a break!”’ he mimics, ‘Who ye trying tae kid, son? Work’s no’ good enough fe the likes o’ you.’ He snipes, ‘I know for a fact ye’ll not last the shift.’

Not for the first time I wonder whether there is a section in the police training manual called Easy steps to Provoking and Needling only this is a skill MacIntyre really works hard at. Each meeting is like an Olympic pissing contest except there can only ever be one winner. I stay silent, yet still there’s only a slim chance of me coming through unscathed.

‘What they got ye doing then, sweeping the floor?’ MacIntyre smiles but his eyes are cold and hard.

‘Packing boxes.’ I mutter, wondering if this simple answer can incriminate me in some way, although for what, I can’t imagine. MacIntyre nods as though he already knows this answer and I’ve merely been sitting some kind of test. ‘Ye don’t have to be Einstein then, eh?’ He smirks.

I shrug, I’ve been told I was thick by every teacher in school, if this insult is intended to wind me up he’s way off beam; you can’t be offended by a fact.

‘Then again, with your pedigree….’ MacIntyre taunts. Here it comes, the bit about my Dad being an alkie and handy with his fists, especially where Mum was concerned. How come his jibes always end up with my Dad? He was a wrong ‘un so I’m destined to be one too? Is that it?

‘I mean,’ MacIntyre grins as though he’s second guessed my thoughts and has deliberately chosen to change tack, ‘I mean, what with ye mum being on the game and all, not exactly going tae come across many great male role models are ye?’

I keep my mouth clamped shut but it’s getting really hard not to rise to his bait. Digs about me or my old man I can cope with, but there’s not a soul on this earth who’ll get away with saying anything bad about Mum. She put food on the table every day of my childhood, made sure I had decent clothes and a roof over our heads. In fact life improved once Dad was no longer around and Mum was grateful to have a job that meant she was there for me when I’d been small. Ye gotta roll with the punches, Son, was the way she explained it, ye have to deal with the hand ye’ve been dealt. It wasn’t her fault I’d got in with a bad crowd. Yes, my bravado cost me a stint inside, but it was a mistake I had no intention of repeating.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ MacIntyre’s sly little eyes follow my gaze toward the office window and Candy, a knowing look flitting across his face. ‘Way out of your league, Sunshine,’ he smirks, nodding in her direction, ‘Especially when she hears about your pedigree.’

‘Go fuck yersel’.’ The words shoot out before I can stop them and in that moment I know how the rest of the day will pan out. Even at that point, there is little I can do to change the pattern of events.

PC MacIntyre’s eyes light up like a child on Christmas morning, ‘What did ye say, ye lanky streak o’ piss?’

‘Ye heard me.’ I say, in for a penny, in for a pound. I pull myself up to my full height, which I know will look to the copper in the car like I’m squaring up but by now I no longer give a shit.

I turn towards the wedged open fire exit I’d emerged from fifteen minutes earlier. The prefab building which has been my place of work for two whole days had offered endless possibilities; even the vain hope that Candy Staton would notice my existence. I look back to the canteen window; she’s noticed me now, right enough, but for all the wrong reasons.

I turn to MacIntyre. ‘They’re expecting me.’ I say simply.

‘They’re expecting ye to fuck up,’ he says scornfully, ‘Why don’t you do everyone a favour and crawl back under your stone?’

Ignoring him, I walk towards the open factory door; I figure putting some space between us might stop him feeling the need to intimidate.

‘Not so fast, Pal,’ He warns, putting his hand on my chest to prevent me from moving but I brush it aside, the sooner I get back indoors the better. A crowd has gathered beside Candy at the canteen window, watching as MacIntyre’s bulk blocks the entrance into the building, a smile plastered across his face.

A car door slams and I turn to see the other copper hurrying in my direction, handcuffs released in readiness. I don’t need to tell you how the rest pans out.

Three hours later I emerge from Gayfield station charged with Breach of the Peace and Resisting Arrest. MacIntyre had made me wait for two whole hours after booking me in, left me sitting in a cell while he went for his break, pretending to catch up on paperwork. I bite back a wave of anger: Breach of the Peace is handed out to people like me for merely having an opinion, and resisting arrest – who in their right mind climbs into a police car willingly when they’ve done nothing wrong? I know how it works though. The public never question these charges; always assume there’s no smoke without fire. A young guy getting tugged must’ve done something wrong; it’s a view that makes everyone sleep better at night.

Except for the boy and his family of course.

So here I am not a week out of jail and already I’ve been lifted, it doesn’t look good I know. I’d had to endure a lecture from the Custody Sergeant before they let me go, reminding me they could make me sit out the remaining three months of my sentence banged up if they wanted, and it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut and say how sorry I was. I jump on the next bus back into Leith, running the remainder of the way from the bus stop to the factory, hoping that news of my arrest hasn’t reached my supervisor, or that maybe he’d be willing to hear me out before jumping to any conclusion. I know my luck has run out when Candy stops me as I’m clocking in, brown envelope in hand and a look of pity on her face.

2

A notice hangs on the wall of the Volunteer Arms, a spit and sawdust pub halfway down Leith Walk, reminding customers that ID may be required if they look under twenty five. But Dougie, the landlord, has something more pressing to worry about: below the A4 sign is an acid burn.

I nod at the barmaid, order a pint and look around the pub for somewhere quiet to sit. I’ve enough money in my pocket to go home pissed and put off telling Mum I’ve cocked up again.

‘She let ye out then tonight then, did she?’ The barmaid jokes, not unkindly, and I respond by rolling my eyes. When I was released I promised Mum that I’d keep my head down, avoid my usual haunts and the people that frequented them. Getting up for work each day gave me a purpose but now I’ve lost my job I’m back to square one, in fact I’m back a few paces further now I have a loan repayment to make on Friday and no way of raising the cash.

I’d taken no more than two mouthfuls of lager when a black man with mini dreadlocks strolls into the bar with a minder stuck so close to him he looks like a mean looking Siamese twin. The landlord walks towards them, arms outstretched like he’s welcoming long lost relatives.

‘Ye money’s not worth anything here.’ He says, waving his hand at them despite the fact no one has offered him money yet.

‘Kirsty,’ he calls to the barmaid who’d joked with me earlier, ‘Anything these gents want – on the house.’ His generosity is rewarded by a nod. Then, all serious like, he leans over the bar and pleads in a low voice: ‘No need for any trouble, eh boys?’ he falters, pointing to the wall behind him, ‘The insurance won’t cover me anymore.’ He wipes his hands down the front of his jeans, returning to his rightful place at the side of the bar with his cronies.

The man with the dreadlocks surveys the punters around the room, his eyes settling on me as I swirl the remnants of my pint around the bottom of my glass. He turns and whispers something to his companion, who looks over at me and nods. There was a time when I was proud to be on nodding terms with these men, and even now my chest inflates at being pointed out by one of them. It’s like being mates with the school bully – you were safe as long as you played along, let someone else take the brunt of their cruelty. I smile over at the men who are still looking me over while continuing their private conversation. I’ve just swallowed my last mouthful when the leader saunters over, sitting down on the stool beside me without bothering to ask whether it’s taken.

I nod a greeting. Marcus Dreyton doesn’t do small talk and the rule is you wait until you are spoken to, and even then answering only the question you’ve been asked.

‘Me bin meanin’ to pay y’a visit.’ Marcus drawls. His accent is more West Lothian than West Indian but he’s styled himself and his team on the Jamaican Yardies that control Moss Side, a volatile scheme in the north of England. It doesn’t do him any harm. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s going to take the piss out of his accent.

‘Yi kep’ your head down an’ did your time like a man,’ Marcus observes, ‘an’ me don’ forget loyalty like dat.’ He looks down at my empty drink and gestures over to the barmaid to bring a new one.

‘I can’t buy ye one back.’ I say nervously, unsure which is the bigger crime - speaking out of turn or not standing my round with the local gangster. Marcus seems to study me for a moment, not in a hostile way exactly but still in a way that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

‘No matter.’ he replies before standing abruptly and returning to his cronies, though not before instructing Kirsty to keep my drinks coming for the remainder of the evening.

Walking home half cut the pavement takes on a life of its own, like an overfull bouncy castle. I stagger along the top road, eyeing the row of fast food shops like an oasis in the desert. Thrusting my hands deep into my pockets my fingers close around a couple of pound coins, enough for a tray of chips, and I allow myself a smile, at least something is going my way today. A woman walks along the pavement ahead of me, high heeled boots and mottled legs, a short pleated skirt, Britney-style, beneath an imitation leather jacket. She pauses at the street corner, checking her phone and glancing up and down the road. Bathed in the neon light of the kebab shop behind her she resembles a modern day urban angel. She turns to look at me as I get nearer, a fixed smile on bright red lips. There’s a flicker of recognition that transforms her smile into a grin. The face beneath the heavy fringe is lined and weary, and familiar.

‘Jesus it’s you.’ The woman mutters, disappointment mingling with relief, as though she’d made a bargain with herself to call it a night if she got one more rejection.

‘Sorry to disappoint ye.’ My words seem to run into one another and come out shorrytodisspointye instead. I’ll need to speak slowly if I want her to understand me. I try once more: ‘Sorry. To. Dipassoint. Ye.’

The woman laughs for some reason and links her arm into mine. Her front teeth are missing but then I’ve never known her with them. ‘Hi Auntie Jude.’ I slur. The women who work along this road are all similar in age to Mum with a shed load of kids between them. Jude’s daughter had been taken into care years earlier yet she’d been so kind to me when I was little I’d taken to calling her auntie to make her feel better about herself.

‘Got any money?’ Jude asks, then laughing at my face she nods towards the Turkish cafe behind us and the hiss of the deep fat fryer. ‘I mean for scran, ye muppet,’ she chides before confessing, ‘Not eaten since this morning.’

I slip both pound coins and a handful of shrapnel across the counter and ask for as many chips as my money can buy. The owner, Mo, is a decent sort and throws in a couple of slices of curled up donner, his smile lingering on Jude far longer than it needs to. ‘Aw, Jude,’ I groan as something dawns on me, ‘you’ve not, have ye?’ sobering quickly at the thought of either of them having carnal knowledge of each other; neither would see forty again.

‘Let’s just say it’s all in good working order.’ Jude replies coyly, pumping her cheek with her tongue as Mo brings two Styrofoam cups containing coffee over to our chipped formica table, ‘on the house,’ he says magnanimously as though they are fancy lattes instead of cheap, bitter as fuck instant.

Jude’s face creases into a grin as I try to block out the mental image and she starts laughing, her hilarity increasing until she is doubled over in the chair, barking like a sea lion and wiping tears away. I smile reluctantly. She jabs my knee and I start laughing too.

I stir in a spoonful of sugar and raise my cup to my lips, blowing across the top of it.

‘How’s ye ma these days?’ Jude enquires, still smiling. ‘None of the girls see her aboot the place anymair.’

‘She’s gone online now,’ I say proudly, ‘Has her own Facebook page and everything. Punters get their rocks off while she sends them dirty messages.’

‘She was always good with words,’ Jude says wistfully.

‘She got a webcam installed last month so she can do the ironing starkers. Gets her money through Paypal.’

Jude laps the news up while stabbing at greasy chips with a wooden fork.

‘Internet wanking,’ she observes. ‘ye canny beat it for its simplicity.’

‘Not sure how it’s going to work now I’m back home though,’ I admit, ‘She’ll have to put a sign up on the kitchen door so I don’t walk in on her.’ I’m not sure whether
the thought of my old dear ironing my baw bags in the buff was making me feel sick or the shots I’d sunk in the pub once Marcus had given me a tab but I shovel the strips of congealing donner into my mouth anyway, my stomach needs a new lining.

‘It’s safer mind,’ I say shyly. It’s a thin line between caring for someone and patronising them and I don’t want Jude to think I’m guilty of the latter.

‘I know,’ she says kindly, ‘but what would I do with my regulars? I canny let ‘em down.’

Like any of them give a toss who they bang just as long as they can, I think sourly, but Jude won’t thank me for saying it. Maybe telling herself that her regulars give a damn is what makes her get up each day. I suppose we all want to matter to someone.

‘What was it like inside, Davy?’ Jude ventures, all serious now, making me wonder unkindly if Mum has put her up to it. Mebbe they’re more in cahoots than she’s letting on.

I shrug. ‘Grim.’

Jude moves her hand cautiously across the table, placing it over mine. It’s her left hand; her right hand she always jokes is for business use only. ‘Do ye still have your nightmares?’

I nod. ‘On the nights that I sleep, yeah.’ I admit.

‘Ye should get help with that.’

‘Nah,’ I say briskly, ‘I’ll be fine. If I go tae the doctor he’ll feed me tablets and put
on my record that I’m mental. A mentalist who’s been inside, not the best prospects in the world are they?’

‘You’re a good looking boy, Davy.’ Jude says fiercely. ‘A good looking boy with a
kind heart.’

Jude’s not a good liar. Her voice goes up a notch when she’s telling porkies and it’s pretty high pitch right now. The truth is I’m not much to write home about. I’ve the kind of face only a mother can love; flat and round with sunken eyes like I’ve been hit in the face with a frying pan. To add insult to injury my ears are big too, like handles on a trophy, only a trophy no-one’s fussed about winning. I grow my hair long so I can blow dry it forwards to cover them and I would say that my hairstyle is my best feature - if shaved heads ever come back in fashion I’ll be sunk. Jude’s being kind about my personality too: for kind heart read gullible, all I ever want is for people to like me, even people I shouldn’t give a toss about.

We finish the remainder of the meal in companionable silence, accepting a top up from Mo before I glance at my watch and realise I’m merely putting off the inevitable.

‘C’mon Jude, I’ll walk you home.’ I offer. The coffee and chips have sobered me and I feel ready to face the music.

Jude shares a mid-terraced house with a couple of working girls, Marcia and Lorella, mixed race twins who’d come from the children’s home Jude’s daughter was first moved into. At sixteen they’d found themselves cut loose from the care system with a local authority grant for somewhere to live. They’d pooled their money to buy a shared tenancy property from a local housing association, advertising for a lodger to help with the rent. When Jude turned up they’d hit it off straight away, the twins found in Jude the mother they’d never had, and in turn Jude could have a laugh and a joke with the girls without being responsible for them. Going on the game had been Jude’s idea, and they’d both taken to it like ducks to the proverbial water.

The back of the property can be accessed from a vennel that runs adjacent to the high street. Jude turns into the vennel now, sidestepping dog shit smears and broken bottles. As we walk along I tell her about my short lived job followed by this afternoon’s arrest.

‘That’s the filth for ye,’ she sympathises, ‘Once they take an interest you’ll never shake ‘em off, like a horny teenager with birthday money.’ We laugh, our heads touching as we fall into step. ‘Only this lot have the power to bang you up if you don’t go along with what they want.’ She adds in disgust.

‘You need to work smart and keep out of their way, Davy,’ Jude advises as we approach the entrance to her back yard. ‘Mind how you go now, eh?’ she offers as she pecks me on my cheek, the familiar smell of condoms and stale sex engulfing me. I wait until she reaches the back door, fumbling in her bag as though looking for something before lifting the doormat and retrieving a key. She opens the door, replacing the key under the mat before stepping inside.

‘You too, Auntie Jude,’ I whisper into the void.

3

By the time I reach my front door I still haven’t worked out what I’m going to say; by staying out late I’ve merely delayed the inevitable. Mum will be waiting up; I’ve not stayed out this late since my release. She’ll be sat up worrying and I’m going to have to tell her I’ve been arrested then sacked in the space of one afternoon. I could kick myself for falling for MacIntyre’s goading. I let myself into the maisonette quietly, hoping that maybe she’s fallen asleep in front of the TV. Instead, the sound of a lone voice combined with the hiss of a steam iron tells me she’s still in character so I give the kitchen a body swerve and head for my room.

‘Not so fast, buster.’ Mum’s voice booms from the kitchen and I wonder for a moment if she is talking to a punter.

‘Davy!’ The door to the kitchen opens a fraction and a head peers out at me. ‘Give
me five minutes,’ she instructs, ‘we need to talk.’ She has full war paint on with big blonde curls framing her face, a satin robe hastily pulled around her shoulders.

‘OK.’ I mutter, crossing the hall into the front room and flicking on the TV.

‘Now then big boy,’ she coos as she turns back into the room, ‘where were we?’

Mum’s working voice is breathy and quite different from how she speaks to me, thank God; I turn up the volume to drown out the rest of the one-way conversation.

The shopping channel is intent on selling electric toothbrushes to the pished; the news channel is no better, interviewing sad faced victims of celebrity paedophiles and the movie channels are paying homage to Matt Damon. By the time Mum comes through he’s on the run from half the western world security services, having picked up a feisty brunette on the way. Some guys have all the luck.

‘Davy,’ Mum begins in the voice she’s been using since I was five years old and smashed the kitchen window with my football. She’s removed her make-up and swapped her kimono and kitten heels for a towelling bath robe and fake Ugg slippers, her dark hair scraped back into a pony tail. She has a different wig for every day of the week, from Miss Moneypenny business chic to pageboy dominatrix, so as a result she pays little attention to her own hair, which is beginning to turn grey. Only a couple of strands have started to appear, but enough to make her tut when she looks in the mirror each morning.

‘Ye probation officer called,’ she begins matter of factly. Over the years she’s developed a knack of giving the impression she knows exactly what’s going on. One cleverly worded comment and Dad’s latest scam would be rumbled. She uses the same tactic on me and even though it’s tempting to call her bluff I never do

‘So ye heard I lost my job.’ I venture, testing the extent to which my probation officer has breached my confidentiality.

‘I heard one more fuck up and you’re back in clink.’ Mum hardly ever swears at me, saving her potty mouth for her horny punters but this was her way of telling me how much I’d let her down.

I want to tell her that it’s not my fault but she’s taught me that ducking the blame is a sign of weakness. It doesn’t matter that PC MacIntyre is a twat.

‘I’ll start looking for another job tomorrow,’ I promise, trying to conjure up the smile that always makes her go easy on me.

‘Just be careful, though, eh?’ she pleads softly.I nod. I understand what she’s saying loud and clear; I don’t need reminding. If that was our showdown I’ve got off lightly and I peck her on the cheek as I pass her to go to my room, grateful for small mercies.

This morning I’ve been as good as my word. I borrowed Mum’s laptop first thing so that I could register onto a couple of online jobsites, luckily they only need a CV and the employment advisor in prison helped me put a decent one together. I have no formal qualifications to speak of; in fourth year I started going about with a gang who thought they were too cool for school; as a result I managed to fail everything that required attendance at a final exam. Consequently the only certificates I have are for Enterprise and Customer Care which everyone was awarded as long as they attended more than forty per cent of the course. Even so I’m reasonably articulate and can scrub up well when I have to and surely that’s half the battle?

Mum’s sitting at the kitchen table working on an assignment she’s been given by her course tutor. She enrolled on a distance learning Psychology degree earlier in the year as part of her exit strategy from being on the game. ‘My body won’t hold out forever,’ she’d written on the university application form, ‘but after twenty years of servicing men I’d say I’ve got a pretty good insight into half the population.’ Needless to say she was given an unconditional offer.

‘We’re out of milk.’ She mutters as I open the fridge door. Without tearing her eyes from her textbooks she reaches over to the kitchen counter to lift down a jar labelled ‘sugar’, removing the lid to retrieve a ten pound note which she hands to me.

‘Can you do the honours?’ she asks, marking the line she’s reading with her finger so she can look up at me briefly, ‘Get something in for breakfast too, we’re low on cereal.’ She adds sheepishly.

In the time I’ve been away she’s got used to shopping for one, preferring to snack when hungry rather than make proper meals. Since I’ve come home she’s been trying to break the habit by cooking us a meal in the evening but mornings are still a case of every man for himself.

The nearest shop to our house is back along the top road, beside the Turkish place Jude and I ate in the night before. In the daylight the neon sign above the shop looks gaudy, the place standing empty save for Mo having a sly fag while he gets the fryer ready for the lunchtime trade. He raises a hand in greeting and on impulse I step inside.

‘Don’t suppose you’re looking to take someone on?’ I ask, ‘only you probably heard me tell Jude last night how things have panned out?’ Mo nods solemnly. He came over from Turkey twenty years ago with his father, deciding to stay on after the old man died. He’d sent for his younger brother, worked shifts to put him through college then, with some money their father left them they opened the shop. ‘Better to be ze boss of my own small business,’ he was fond of saying ‘than be somebody else’s fool.’ I couldn’t argue with that.

‘Zere’s not enough trade to take anyone else on,’ Mo replies truthfully, ‘My brozzer, he is ze brains of ze family, does ze books and ze advertising, makes sure we comply with food hygiene and environmental health. Me,’ he shrugs modestly, ‘I buy ze meat from ze Cash and Carry and cook it.’

He sympathises over my run-in with MacIntyre the day before. ‘I have my own problems with your police force,’ he says bitterly, ‘Zey come in here expecting to eat on ze house,’ he raises his arms in a gesture of helplessness. ‘and when I refuse zey check ze tax disc on my car, or stop me when I’m driving and ask to see my insurance papers.’

Mo leans towards me, throwing his arms around animatedly. ‘Only I didn’t have any bastard papers, did I? I meant to renew my policy but thought I’d shop around, only forgot my certificate had expired and now I’ve lost my bastard licence. OK,’ he concedes, ‘maybe technically I was in ze wrong but what makes me angry is ze bastarding cop only stopped me because I’d made him pay for his food ze night before. Bastard bloody well told me as much himself, took great bastarding pleasure in it too.’

I think for a minute Mo is going to offer me a job in an act of solidarity but he shakes his head, ‘I need ze car to get deliveries from ze cash and carry so I had to send for my cousin Ahmed. To make it worth his while he now does home deliveries and helps prepare the food when we’re busy so I’m sorry, zere’s nothing I can give you right now, or for a while come to think of it.’

I shrug my shoulders in understanding and turn to leave. ‘I give zem their bastard kebabs on ze house now,’ Mo sighs as though reading my mind, ‘only I go in the back and scratch my balls before I prepare zem.’

As I leave the corner shop with my groceries a car pulls up beside me on the kerb, the rear passenger seat window lowers to reveal Mickey Preston, the local money lender. His nickname is Mickey Plastic, not because of the line of credit he is able to extend to anyone on the surrounding schemes, more the fact he’s rearranged the faces of several of his debtors over the years, though it’s fair to say never for the better.

‘Alright Davy.’ Mickey greets me as though I’m the brother of someone he really fancies. Aren’t you supposed to fear a psychopath more when they smile?

‘Mickey,’ I nod, stepping towards the passenger window. I kind of figure it’ll earn me extra points if it don’t look as though I’m trying to avoid him. Besides, the four wheel drive could mount the pavement and pin me against the shop wall in seconds, if the driver was instructed to.

‘Yous owe me two hundred quid.’ Mickey states matter of factly, like a bank cashier reading out my balance.

‘I don’t have it Mickey,’ I tell him, ‘I lost my job.’ I’m working on the basis that honesty is the best policy here and that maybe we can re-work my payment plan.

Yeah, I really am.

‘Ye lost ye job did ye say?’ All sympathy like.

‘Aye, Mickey.’ I say hopefully, like a child telling Santa he’s been good all year.

Mickey pauses as though taking my altered circumstances into account. ‘In that case,’ he says slowly as though making his point, ‘I want two hundred quid by five o’clock tonight or I’m going to put ye on crutches.’ He pauses, as though to let the threat sink in. ‘That’ll no’ do ye job prospects much good, eh?’

It’s the calmness of his threat that chills me, no menacing voice or gurning, just a clear intention of what’ll happen if I don’t cough up in time. He must reckon that since I’m not working I’ll be going on the rob to raise the money, and I can do that any day of the week.

Mickey nods at his driver and the car moves off, leaving me with no doubt he’ll follow through if I don’t come up with the goods. Even if I find work in a bar or kitchen that’ll pay me cash in hand, I’ll not make two hundred pounds by tonight. I know Mum doesn’t have that kind of money, which is how I got into this mess in the first place. I think of Jude, the nearest thing to family after Mum.

I send Jude a text saying I needed to see her and she responds straight away telling me to come over to her flat. I ring the doorbell and wait for the tap of high heels that always signals Jude’s approach.

‘Been quiet all morning,’ she grumbles as she opens the door, ‘mornings used to be good for expense account blow jobs, but with austerity measures an’ a’ that, the suits are having to justify every penny. S’pose I canny be classed as essential, right enough.’ She says good-naturedly.

I follow her up the stairs to her room, ‘The twins are entertaining,’ she says vaguely, nodding in the direction of the living room, where a deep voice can be heard alongside schoolgirl-like giggling.

I sit on the only chair, hard like it was meant to be in a kitchen but with a blanket thrown over it. It’s been placed in the corner, angled so that it faces the double bed, and I try not to think what sights have been witnessed from this position over the years. Jude sits on the bed, listening as I tell her about Mickey Preston’s loan and the ever increasing interest that means I have to pay him two hundred pounds by the end of the day and what he’ll do to me if I don’t.

She’s shaking her head before I’ve even finished speaking.

‘What possessed ye?’ she asks, shocked, ‘I always thought ye had a good head on your shoulders.’

Her words sting and I can see she regrets them, ‘Look,’ she begins again, softly this time, ‘I’ve got some money put by. Not a fortune but enough to help ye make this payment.’ She walks over to an old fashioned mahogany wardrobe and opens its double doors. At the top of the wardrobe there’s a shelf containing what looks like an array of rubber masks and Jude has to stand on tiptoe to reach behind them to locate a small tin box, the kind tobacco is sold in. Opening the tin lid she lifts out a bundle of cash and counts out two hundred pounds which she hands to me.

‘It’s not a gift Davy,’ she adds, solemnly, ‘I wish it was but I’ll need it back.’

I nod and as I get to my feet I’m compelled to hug her.

‘What was the money for?’ she enquires.

I sit back down on the chair. ‘Mum needed a laptop so she could do her uni work, I wanted to buy one for her birthday but didn’t have enough put by. I knew Mickey would lend me the cash.’

‘He lends everybody cash.’ She says wryly.

‘I know,’ I mumble into my chest, ‘but she’d been talking about giving up the game - using the internet at the library gave her the idea about creating her own website.’

‘And maybe if you weren’t worried about her safety the nightmares would stop?’ Jude adds gently.

‘Something like that.’ I admit.

A look flickers across Jude’s face as though she’s about to say something but thinks better of it. I look back at her puzzled, and am about to ask her what’s wrong when Marcia pops her head around the bedroom door.

‘He’ll pay extra for a threesome.’ She calls over to Jude and I quickly pocket the cash she’s given me and get to my feet.

‘I’ll get out of your way then.’ I say instead.

4

With the pressure of this week’s loan repayment behind me I catch the bus into town in the hope of securing some casual work. If I can find something cash in hand in one of the cafes or restaurants along Leith Walk I can at least sign on and get something to tide me over till I find a proper job. The first couple of restaurants I call into want experience I don’t have and seem to think I’m not capable of carrying plates in and out of a kitchen without dropping them. The cafés are more sympathetic but just not looking for extra hands. I walk as far as Great Junction Street and speak to a sullen looking guy behind the counter of a greasy spoon who glares at the spotty faced girl clearing tables the entire time he speaks to me. Her apron looks as though it should carry a health warning and during the time I’m there she does little other than flick crumbs around, earphones giving off a shouty hiss.

‘I’ll take your number,’ the café owner grumbles, ‘should something come up in the next day or two.’

It’s the best response I’ve had so far so I feel justified calling it a day and heading towards the bus stop to return home.

‘Hey, Davy, wait!’ At the sound of my name I turn to see Candy Staton from the factory waving at me from across the road. She’s dressed in skinny jeans and high heeled boots revealing a figure that would make Beyonce weep. Holding several shopping bags waist high she zig-zags between cars only too pleased to slow down so she can pass in front. The envy of every male driver when she stops right in front of me is palpable. She looks really pleased to see me, large brown eyes dancing beneath long dark lashes; I only hope she can’t tell how pleased I am to see her.

‘Hey stranger.’

I try to think of something clever to say but conscious of looking even more of a moron if I stand there and say nothing I mumble ‘Right back atcha.’ and prepare to go on my way.

‘You in a rush or something?’ Candy asks and I may have imagined it but I thought I saw a look of disappointment flicker across her face.

‘No,’ I shrug, pleased that she wants to talk to me but non-plussed as to what to talk about. Candy looks up the street in the direction I’ve come from and her eyes fall onto the greasy spoon I’d just left. ‘Fancy a coffee?’

I’m amazed she’s even considering going in there, she strikes me as a mocha latte frappe kind of girl and I’m sure as hell she’ll not get one of them in there.

‘OK, my treat though.’ I say magnanimously, taking some of the bags from her as we walk into the café together. I’ve no idea how I’m going to pay as the only money I have is owed to Mickey Plastic but then I have an idea. ‘You sit down,’ I instruct her confidently, ‘I’ll bring you a coffee over.’ It’s the most I’d ever said to her but I need her to be out of earshot when I approach the café owner for the second time that day.

He looks up as I walked towards the counter.

‘I said I’d give you a call.’ He says tersely and I think for a moment I may have read him wrong. ‘Look,’ I say quietly, ‘I won’t let you down, I’ll turn up on time every day, I’ll even bring you new customers.’ I look over at Candy and wiggle my fingers like we were big pals. The guy does all he can to stop his jaw from dropping, and this time when he looks at me there’s a glint of something I’m not used to seeing when people look at me – respect.

‘The thing is,’ I hesitate, then remind myself that apart from my bus fare the only money I have is the loan from Aunt Jude and I’m not about to jeopardise that. If I have to work an hour unpaid to pay for Candy’s drink then it’s worth a punt.

‘Ye’re kidding me right?’ he asks when I explain, ‘I’ve not even said you’ve got the job and you’re asking me for a sub?’ I smile back at him sheepishly, I suppose if you look at it like that it does seem a bit rich but I’m smitten, and desperate, and a man will do anything in those circumstances.

A further glance at Candy seems to make up his mind. ‘Monday morning, 9a.m. sharp,’ he mutters gruffly while wiping his hands down the front of his apron and splitting a sachet of instant cappuccino into two mugs.

‘You must be my lucky charm today,’ I say when I return to Candy’s table with two steaming drinks and a chocolate bar, Now you’re taking the piss, was my new boss’s response to that request. ‘I’ve just got myself a job.’

‘What, here?’ Candy laughs and I feel embarrassed for a minute, but then her hand flies to her mouth in an instant, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that!’ she begins, then, ‘Look, I don’t know how I meant it to be truthful. After the other day I wasn’t sure I’d even see you again.’

‘Ye do know I hadn’t done anything?’ I say defensively, ‘The cops pulled me in because they were bored and it’s a case of let’s go and tug Davy, remind ‘em who’s top dog round ‘ere. Ye get that don’t ye?’ She looks alarmed and I realise I’m starting to rant.

‘Ugh,’ I sigh, resting my head in my hands in an attempt to think calm thoughts and find a way of explaining myself without putting the frighteners on her.

‘They were trying to wind me up,’ I say simply, ‘and it worked.’

Candy reaches across the table to hold my hand. ‘In your personnel file it says that you’re on parole, but it doesn’t say what you were convicted of.’

My shoulders sag at the thought of having to dredge through it again, especially within the earshot of my new boss but I can’t see how I’ve got the choice, not if I want to keep Candy onside. ‘I was stupid.’ I say simply. ‘I owed someone money and I fooled myself into thinking that one easy job for a mate would pay it off.’

‘What did you do?’ she prompts.

I break the chocolate bar in two and offer her half which she declines. I concentrate on chewing for a moment while I put my words in order. ‘I worked in a bent garage.’ I say simply. ‘You know the sort: turning back mileage on the clock, MOT rackets, selling cut and shunt motors on the forecourt.’ She nods slowly, I mean it’s obvious she doesn’t have personal experience of these scams but at least she’s aware of them. ‘I knew the owner’s son.’ I tell her, ‘He knew I was looking for a job. What more can I say? When the police raided the place I was the only one found on the premises.’

‘How come?’

I laugh. ‘Now that’s a great question. I’d like to think whoever gave the others the tip off couldn’t get to me in time. In reality, I think I was collateral damage, if there’d been no one on the premises when they’d raided it then someone high up would’ve smelled a rat. The investigation would have been shelved and several arses kicked. The fact that someone could take the blame meant the case could be closed.’

Candy’s mouth opens in surprise, making a perfect little ‘O’. I think I could look at this girl all day. Candy however, is not so easily distracted: ‘You mean the cops were happy to believe you had the wherewithal to run an operation like that? What about cash flow? Suppliers?’

‘Yeah well,’ I shrug, ‘it doesn’t matter whether they get the right man for the job or not. It’s just one more notch on their bedpost or leader board or whatever name they use for their arrest statistics.’

‘But you took the blame?’

I exhale noisily, as though blowing bubbles under water. ‘What else could I do?’ I say helplessly, ‘You can’t grass and expect to get away with it. Either way I was bollocksed. The way I saw it was I had to keep my head down, do the time and pick up where I left off when I got out. Only I hadn’t figured on the local five-o doing the same.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The cop that came to the factory? He’s had it in for me ever since my old man walked out when I was a kid. My dad was a small time villain, harmless in many ways, just couldn’t keep his hands to himself. I suppose he just thinks “Like father like son”.’

Only I’m nothing like my old man. I think of Mum and the bruises she used to hide from me. Of the marks I used to hide from her. He locked me in the hall cupboard once when I was small. He’d yelled at me for wetting the bed and I wouldn’t stop crying; I suppose he thought that if he couldn’t hear me it would be like I wasn’t there. Only he fell asleep. Mum found me when she came back from work. I’ve had difficulty sleeping in the dark ever since.

I look at Candy’s sweet oval face; her head tilts to one side when she’s listening to me. Just looking at her makes me want to smile. Her hand nudges mine, prompting me to continue: ‘I might be nothing like my old man but I still ended up doing time, with Mum waiting in line with her visiting order, like she used to do for Dad.’ All the years I’d thought I was better than him; turns out I was no different after all.

Candy eyes me cautiously, ‘What do you mean by “pick up where you left off…?”’

‘I don’t mean fixing bent cars,’ I say hurriedly, ‘I mean carry on as I was before I allowed myself to get into trouble.’

‘What about your friend, his dad?’

‘Oh, long gone. They went to Spain on an extended holiday, they’ll not be back for a while, I guess.’

‘So all that’s behind you then? For sure?’

She smiles, but I can see she’s not satisfied. ‘Candy, prison changes your life forever. Ye don’t just lose your privacy; ye lose the options that were open to ye. The choices ye thought ye had, the ones the careers teachers talk about at school are all gone, and for most of us there’s no way to put it right. I always hoped I’d get a decent job, learn a trade or something, but who’s gonnae give me that chance now?’

The job at Swanson’s factory had offered me a way out, a chance to earn a wage and get in to a routine that didn’t include getting up at lunchtime and watching Jeremy Kyle. But MacIntyre had shattered that chance, and along with it any hope I had of finding something similar. What was the point of trying to find a proper job if the cops were going to trail me round like I was a terrorist or something? The thought of a lifetime resigned to working off the books or on the dole makes my heart sink.

Candy says nothing but I can tell she isn’t convinced. ‘There’s no way I’m going back there,’ I insist, ‘Second time inside and your choices fall away even more, I saw grown men spend ten minutes debating whether to have chips or mash for their lunch - the only choices left to them were the options on the canteen menu.’

I look up at the sound of a door slam to see the girl who’d been flicking crumbs around earlier storm out of the kitchen followed by my future boss. ‘I can’t pay two of you!’ He shouts after her, and as she passes our table she hawks a big ball of phlegm into my coffee.

‘That one’s on me.’ She barks as she stumbles out through the exit.

Mickey Plastic lives in an ex-council flat on the sixth floor of Hermitage Tower. Rumour has it he’d bought it for his mum but moved into it himself after she passed away, renting out his four bed detached in Crammond as the other residents in the up market cul-de-sac refused to accept their chavvy neighbour and his low rent mates. Now, back among his own kind he was cock of the walk once more.

Not bothering to check if the lift is working I take the stairs two at a time, not because I’m in any hurry to see Mickey, more the fact there were pools of piss and other foul smelling liquids on most of the steps. The estate has a reputation as home to problem families. As its reputation got worse it became a magnet for the lawless, empty flats taken over by local dealers, under the Right to Buy scheme owners rented out rooms to pimps who filled them with Eastern European girls who couldn’t speak the lingo but gave as good a blow job as the local girls with a lot less hassle.

The majority of the entrances have closed grille gates in front of each door, as though it’s essential to have further protection from the outside world. Two of Mickey’s foot soldiers keep watch from each end of the balcony landing, surveying the car park and tower block entrance for any unwelcome visitors. As I emerge from the stairwell the nearest minder steps forward to block my path. ‘I’ve an appointment with Mickey.’ I inform him quickly. He nods to the other guy as if to say he’s got it covered and pulls out a mobile phone from his tracksuit pocket. ‘Name.’ he barks, a statement, rather than a question, and once I’ve told him he takes a step back to speak to his boss on speed dial.

From my vantage point on the walkway I check out Platinum Point, the private apartment block opposite. I’m still not sure how a flat stops being a flat and becomes an apartment; could it be anything to do with one being council owned and the other having a price tag for a cool one million pounds? I can’t help laughing though, I mean, why would ye? Why shell out shed loads of money to look out over a greying sea on one side and lines of skid-marked washing on the other? The local news had reported complaints from the wealthy residents when they’d first moved in – about the washing hanging over balconies on the scheme flats spoiling their view. If they’d wanted Tuscan hills they’d come to the wrong bloody place then.

To accommodate the wealthy incomers there’s been an influx of Michelin starred restaurants and trendy eateries along Leith shore, Victoria Quay is here too, home to an ever growing number of Scotland’s civil servants. There’s certainly money in the area now, yet it never makes its way into the pockets of the original residents. Unless they steal it.

Having ended his call, Mickey’s minder steps forward and motions for me to follow him. His looks are deceptive, he’s nippy on his feet for someone so bulky and I struggle to keep up with him. At Mickey’s front door he knocks once before it is opened by the BMX rider who brought me the news of my revised repayment plan. We acknowledge each other with a half-smile. ‘Glad to see you’re learning all aspects of the business.’ I observe, and I swear his smile gets bigger.

The interior of the flat is cleaner than I expect with a narrow hallway leading to a kitchen on one side and a small lounge on the other. I follow Bike Boy into the narrow room and stand in the doorway while he makes his way over to where Mickey Plastic is sitting in front of a large plasma TV, playing an on-line war game via a PlayStation. Bike Boy plonks himself beside him on an oversized bean bag and picks up a set of controls. They both wear identical headsets and it strikes me their mannerisms are identical too, the way they screw up their eyes when they are under attack and their laugh has the same hollow bark to it, like a sea-lion following castration. I wonder if they are father and son, or maybe brothers at a push, though Mickey has been peddling his loans across the city for as long as I can remember. He hasn’t changed much over the years: hair slightly longer than is fashionable, with a colour that can only come out of a bottle – a cheap one at that. The screen flashes as though signifying the end of a battle and Mickey throws down his controller and glares at me as though I’m the reason he hasn’t progressed onto a higher level.

I pull Aunt Jude’s roll of cash from my pocket and hold it up for him to see. ‘I’ve got your repayment, Mickey.’ I add feebly, as though an explanation were necessary. Bike Boy sniggers as though I’ve said something funny and is rewarded with a clip round the back of his head from Mickey for his trouble. ‘Go take the money and log it in the book, then.’ he barks at him, watching while the boy scrambles to his feet and scampers in my direction, snatching the money out of my outstretched hand. He takes the cash over to a small table by the window, counting it out before entering my details into a ledger. I haven’t moved an inch during this time and Mickey continues to look at me as though I’m littering his home. Bike boy, enjoying my discomfort shouts over ‘Ye can go now!’

Before turning for the door I make the mistake of asking for a receipt, only to be met by hysterical laughter from both Mickey and Bike Boy, which attracts attention from the minders outside who come and remove me from the flat.

As I head towards the bus stop I feel as though a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. In one day I’ve managed to make my first loan repayment, land myself a job and get Candy Staton’s mobile number. I’m still on cloud nine about the last part, I mean, one minute she’s someone I fantasise about, the next she’s sat beside me in a café laughing at my jokes as though I was the funniest guy on the planet. We exchanged mobile phone numbers before we parted and agreed to ‘do something’ the following week, not that I have a clue right now what that something will be. I can’t believe my luck. Not even the sacked waitress spitting in my coffee has spoiled the roll I’m on.

A squad car pulls up alongside me. ‘Afternoon, Shit for Brains.’ PC MacIntyre and his sidekick smirk through the squad car window. It’s weird, considering I don’t have a car, how he feels the urge when he sees me walking anywhere to ask what I’m doing, as though the hard up aren’t allowed outdoors, that we should be content watching Cash in the Attic and surfing shopping channels selling stuff we don’t need.

‘Not your usual neck o’ the woods eh Davy, got ye passport ready?’

I pull out my mobile and pretend to check for incoming texts, anything to avoid a confrontation. ‘I’m talkin’ to ye, laddie,’ MacIntyre persists, opening the car door. I try to process the extent of our conversation.

‘I’m not aware you’ve asked me anything yet,’ I say quietly, ‘I thought your question about the passport was rhetorical, I mean, I may not be very bright but even I understood you weren’t being serious.’

‘Oh, even you understood eh, laddie?’ MacIntyre stoops to eyeball his sidekick in the passenger seat and without a word being said the other officer climbs out of the car and walks around the front of their vehicle till I have one of them either side of me. Jeyzu, I’ve been here before, right enough. It’s a different sidekick but they all seem to follow his lead. I guess it’s not worth the hassle in the locker room if they don’t. OK, I’d tried to get smart which although isn’t difficult I see now was a bad idea. I make a decision to suck it all up, not let him provoke me.

‘Empty your pockets.’ MacIntyre instructs.

‘What?’ I’m not expecting that. In fact so much so that I start to laugh. Maybe he’s hoping I refuse so he can bring me in anyway, well, if that’s the case I’ll call his bluff:

‘No problem, Officer.’ I reply sweetly, placing both hands in the pockets of my cotton joggers to pull out the white lining. I place the contents across both palms so they’re easy to make out: mobile phone, Rizzla papers and a small pouch of tobacco; cigarettes are a luxury I can no longer afford.

‘What about your jacket?’ MacIntyre asks a little too calmly for my liking and he proceeds to put his hand into the jacket pocket nearest to him, pulling out a small plastic bag containing tiny green stalks. The bag has a printed picture of a cannabis leaf on the front in case there is any confusion over the contents. I laugh again, louder this time. I’m laughing because I’ve never even smoked the stuff; sold it yes, but that made me see close at hand the damage it can do. MacIntyre’s planted it on me, pure and simple. There’s no way he can make this stick, but then as he cuffs me and drags me towards the back seat of the squad car, I realise that’s not his intention; he just needs an excuse to pull me in for a while, cause maximum disruption just because he can.

Harassment, the sport of most bored cops.

There’s nothing to be gained by resisting arrest, yet they still manage to drag me even though I’m compliant, as though a suspect coming willingly is no damn fun at all.

The bus I’d been waiting for chooses that moment to make its appearance. At the sight of the squad car the passengers look my way, a mixture of curiosity and excitement on their faces. Apart from the young woman sitting at the back of the bus, who turns in her seat to get a better look, and as I stare back into Candy’s eyes I see no curiosity at all, just utter disappointment.

It’s late evening by the time they let me go, MacIntyre insisting on driving me home, just to prolong the humiliation. It doesn’t matter that our neighbours are no strangers to the interior of the local cells, it’s how Mum feels that worries me most.

‘It’s me,’ I call out, as I let myself in. There’s no answer as I close the door behind me but I can hear voices coming from the kitchen. There are no theatrical ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ followed by the occasional reference to the size of someone’s knob, instead I hear what sounds like normal conversation. Mum’s using her telephone voice though; I don’t mean her premium rate voice that she uses when speaking to paying punters, but the one she used to use when school rang or anyone she thought was better than us. I listen briefly at the door but it gives no hint at who is with her. My curiosity getting the better of me I push the door open and I don’t think it’s possible for me to be any more astonished.

Candy is sitting at our kitchen table drinking from a proper cup and saucer. Mum, having brought out the tea set she saves for best, is sipping from a matching cup, her finger covering the chip on her saucer from the time when I was ten and asked if I could help her pack it away one Christmas.

‘Speak of the Devil.’ Mum observes as I stand in front of them as though waiting to hear my fate. ‘Sorry for calling in unannounced,’ Candy apologises softly, her eyes never leaving mine, ‘Only I thought your mum would be worried, what with you being waylaid and everything.’

I don’t know whether to be relieved that Candy’s still prepared to speak to me or worried that she’ll wonder why Mum’s dressed like Jodie Marsh in the middle of the day, or worse still be alarmed by the cluster of sex toys lying on the windowsill.

‘How..?’ I begin, uncertain which question to ask first.

‘I saw your address on your personnel file,’ Candy fills in for me, ‘I’ve a cousin who lives nearby…’ I nod, remembering she’d mentioned some relative or other when we were in the café but I’d been so made up at her sitting with me and getting a job all in one day I hadn’t the capacity to take in all she was saying.

‘Never mind all that!’ Mum interrupts impatiently, gathering the crockery towards her in case I lunge for them in a moment of madness, ‘what the helluv ye done now?’

‘It’s that cop, I swear!’ I know stating I haven’t done anything wrong is lame but it’s the truth, so surely they’ll believe me? I decide to give it a go: ‘He’s got it in for me! He’s never left me alone since I got out of prison.’ I shrug helplessly; each time I’m lifted a seed of doubt is left behind in the minds of the people I care about. It’s tough on them, too, I get that.

I take a deep breath, ‘Look, he found a bit of weed on me-’

‘-You’re a stoner?’ Candy’s voice has raised an octave, the accusation that I hadn’t been honest with her earlier hangs between us.

‘Oh, Davy,’ Mum sighs, ‘what the hell are ye doing getting mixed up wi-’

‘I’m not!’ I snap impatiently, shaking my head angrily as if to demonstrate how wrong they both are. ‘Mum,’ I look across at her, ‘for Christ’s sake, ye know I’ve never taken anything like that,’ and to Candy: ‘I just wouldn’t! It’s a mug’s game. I should know, I used to work for a dealer-’

‘Oh, Davy,’ Mum says again, more weakly this time. She looks as though she doesn’t know me, or maybe she’s trying to show Candy that this is all news to her. ‘I only did it for a while!’ I say more sharply than I intended: Candy’s looking at me with alarm while Mum pulls a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket and lights one, drawing heavily on the filter before fixing me with a glare, blowing the smoke in my direction. We aren’t allowed to smoke indoors so now I know how pissed she is with me.

‘Mum, I was an idiot.’ I shrug once more to indicate I’m running out of words and patience, ‘and I didn’t mean to snap at you, but I promise you,’ I look over at Candy once more, ‘both of you, that I didn’t have anything on me today when MacIntyre came over, so he planted some on me.’

‘What?’ The question, in stereo, is disappointing but just shows how those who don’t have a run in with the police have no idea how much cops prod, poke and provoke to get the results they want, and if that includes fitting people up then that’s what they’ll do. If I was telling this story to my mates they’d get it straight away, wouldn’t bat an eyelid at my claim of unfair treatment. It’s my turn to sigh.

‘Funny how he let me go when we got to the cop shop.’ I reason, ‘Didn’t even bother giving me a caution. He knew I’d scream blue murder if he tried to charge me.’

Mum raises her eyebrows as if to convey she isn’t done yet, then gets to her feet so she can begin clearing away the tea things.

‘I expect you two need to talk.’ She says to no one in particular. I smile hopefully at Candy but she’s already pulling her jacket around her shoulders and slipping her bag over her arm. Standing, she’s about five inches shorter than me, yet as I look down into those smoky eyes I’m filled with fear. I walk her out into the hallway and open the front door. ‘It was nice meeting ye!’ Mum chirps over her shoulder, trying as ever to bring normality to her fucked up little world.

‘Are we still on for that drink then?’ I position myself between Candy and the open door although I realise that looks kind of threatening. I shift a little so she can run past me if she feels the need. I really hope she doesn’t.

‘I know it doesn’t look good,’ I say softly, ‘but I’m really not a bad person.’

Candy studies me as though trying to work out where my batteries go. ‘Just an unlucky one, then?’ she challenges, ‘‘Cos every time I see you, you’ve got a police escort in tow.’

‘He’s a twat.’ I explain.

‘So you keep saying.’

‘Will ye give me a chance to prove ye can rely on me?’ I ask ‘Come for that drink. Please?’ I give her my best smile, the one that usually works on Mum and Aunt Jude.

Candy doesn’t even blink. ‘I need to go,’ she says simply.

I stand back to let her slip through the door and out of my life, but then she pauses at the gate and turns, ‘Call me.’ She says simply, and I swear I can see a smile.

5

When I arrive on Monday morning the café is locked; a metal shutter covers its large front window. I knock loudly on the main door, lighting a roll up to pass the time while I wait to be let in. Next door to the café is a betting shop, beside that a pipe shop selling every size cannabis bong imaginable. The police turn a blind eye to its clientele: the school kids shuffling in with pocket money, leaving half an hour later with a carrier bag full of glass pipes and rubber tubing. Jude tried complaining about it once; the officer she spoke to couldn’t have shown less interest if he’d tried. The shopkeeper isn’t doing anything illegal, apparently. Holyrood may be hankering for a multi-cultural Scotland but along this stretch of road the residents are all the same colour: grey, the pallid indoor complexion of the jalkie, out of their brains on dope and booze, whatever they can lay their hands on for the price of a morning roll. They shuffle along the pavement with the hospital gait of the medicated, as though their skeletons have become too heavy to move. The bright lights of Princes Street are less than a mile away yet for many it’s a trip they’ll never make.

The sound of a key in the lock prompts me to turn round and I stub out my cigarette before stepping inside. The café owner throws me a dirty apron and motions for me to turn the sign on the door round to ‘Open’.

‘The name’s Tam,’ he says, a little brighter than the other day, ‘so what do I call you?’

‘Davy,’ I tell him.

‘OK Davy, I’ll pay ye minimum wage and we share any tips. I can give ye five hours a day, do we have a deal?’ We shake hands and Tam shows me into the kitchen where I will spend my time washing dishes and prepping food unless I’m called into the front to help when it gets busy. ‘Usually breakfast and lunch time, so dinnae be late.’ Tam adds.

It won’t be enough to make my loan repayments but if I can get a couple of shifts in a bar somewhere it’ll just about cover it and I can manage on my benefit if Mum waives my rent. Tam’s main business comes from passing tradesmen who want no frills fast food they can eat in their van, those who eat inside tend to work in the local shops and offices; people who know the food tastes better than the impression given from the shop front.

After the morning rush we have a fry up together which will keep us going for the rest of the day. We map out a routine: I’ll come in early and open up; Tam’ll come in after he’s taken his son to school. His son, Jamie, has cerebral palsy and attends the local special school, Tam mentions several carers but no wife, by the sound of it he looks after the boy on his own.

During the afternoon it’s busier than I expect, there’s always a customer to see to or a table to clear. I’m in the middle of serving someone when MacIntyre’s squad car pulls up outside. Tam has gone out the back for a smoke and a couple of city types have wandered in who seem to have lost their way – the only people round here in suits are defence lawyers and these men are dressed sharper than that. All pin-stripes and waistcoats, a far cry from Tam’s down-at-heel regulars. They ask for panninis which is ambitious given the state of our décor so I persuade them to try the house special of fried egg and haggis roll instead.

As I bring the cutlery and napkins to their table MacIntyre climbs out of the passenger seat and heads into the bookies next door. I manage to manoeuvre myself so that I have my back to the window; the last thing I want is for him to clock that I’m working here now. But then a funny thing happens: As I bring the men’s coffees to their table my movement must’ve caught MacIntyre’s eye as he makes his way back to his car, just as his appearance at the window caught mine. We stare at each other for several seconds and my heart sinks at the prospect of losing another job. I’m tempted to quit right this minute just to save him the pleasure, yet he goes all shifty looking and slinks quickly into the passenger seat as though he’s the one who can’t wait to get away. What’s more a flash of something crosses his face, something I never expected to see when he looks at me:

Fear. Or something like it.

By 3pm my shift has finished, so there’s plenty of time to try for bar work. I decide to call into the Volunteer Arms first on the basis it’s the one nearest to home and if I have to work late at least I won’t have far to stagger to my bed. There are a handful or so drinkers propping up the bar, it’s the normal crossover lull between daytime boozers who shuffle home once they’ve run out of benefit and those winding down after work, hanging around till the kids are in bed. Kirsty waves at me as she pulls a pint and it seems sensible to sound her out first. She’s the landlord’s niece, so she should be well placed to know what my chances are.

‘I doubt it, Davy.’ She frowns, ‘unless he’s planning on getting shut o’ me, we’re just not as busy as we used to be, people are making their drinks last longer. A full bar doesn’t mean the till’s rattling every ten minutes.’ I can see her point; I’d been known to make a drink last all evening when I had to. I thank her anyway.

The punter Kirsty has been serving must’ve overheard our conversation as he looks over at me giving a sympathetic shrug. A broad shouldered man with a shaved big head, DIY tattoos on the back of each knuckle indicating he’s spent time enjoying the hospitality of Her Majesty. He spies the self-styled swallow on the back of my hand and raises his glass in salute at another fellow resident. I nod briefly then turn away so that he’s no longer in my eye line. It would be easy to go over and strike up a conversation, swap stories about our time inside, comparing cons we’ve got in common. Before long we’ll be complaining how life on the outside is hard for us, which can only lead to one thing: planning another job. I concentrate on my glass so I don’t appear unfriendly.

‘Arright Daz,’ Grinning, he salutes a pasty faced boy who’s just entered the bar clutching a couple of twenties. The boy looks happy, his tracksuit top is flapping open as he bounces on the balls of his feet. ‘Horse made it passed the finishing line then?’

Daz replies by placing one of the notes on the bar, ordering a Jäger bomb for himself and ‘whatever these guys are havin’’ meaning myself and the big man. I know it’s hypocritical of me to take a drink but hell, I’m not perfect. Kirsty nods and goes about setting up the round but there’s concern in her voice when she asks quietly, ‘Ye’ve remembered to put the electric money back this time, Daz?’

Daz blinks. The sentence contains too many words and he’s unsure whether he’s been asked a question or given an instruction. His gaze slides from Kirsty back down to the folded twenty on the counter top, waiting for her to repeat what she’s said in words of one syllable.

‘Daz,’ more urgently now, ‘has Julie got money for the wean’s milk?’

‘Aye, they’re all fine, hen.’ He responds with a slow motion smile. ‘Dinnae stress yersel’.’

Kirsty says something I can’t quite catch then starts to clear away stale glasses from the bar counter, wiping spills with a j-cloth. She smiles as she brings my pint over but I can tell she doesn’t mean it, that something is bugging the hell out of her and that something has now turned to watch a match on the big screen. The sound is turned down low but Daz stands mesmerized, watching the ball pass from player to player like he’s seeing it for the first time.

‘What’s with him?’ I venture.

‘Ach, dinnae get me started.’ Kirsty moans. ‘He’s a smackhead, married too young to an identikit junkie, three kids to his name already although only two with his wife. He was always trouble as a kid, ended up in young offenders where he got addicted to Heroin, before any of us knew how bad things had got he graduated into big boy prison, decided he couldn’t hack it so now spends his days doing dead end jobs to pay for a gambling habit he can’t afford and grabbing a drink or two here when things are rough at home. Shall I go on?’

I pull a sympathetic face. ‘Sounds personal.’

‘He’s ma brother.’ Kirsty sighs, ‘He’s a wee shite, always has been, but what can ye do? He’s off the smack now like, gets prescribed methadone and diazepam. But it’s the weans I worry about; they’ve got more brain cells than both their parents put together, God help ‘em. Two are already in care, shortly to be joined by the youngest if things don’t improve at home.’

I remember working for the dealers, keeping look out as they doled out supplies to kids on street corners. Tiny wrappers of escape that deadened the pain of gormless teenage parents too poor to buy food for their children; too far-gone to see the link. Kids with nothing but a string of disappointments to look forward to, it was little wonder so many found escape through the companionship of a shared needle. I used to justify in my head that if it wasn’t the men I worked for doling it out there’d be others, all too keen to step in their shoes. The truth is that dealing is easy cash for very little effort, and the attraction of money for nothing is compelling for many. If Daz’s supplier was taken off the street he’d go find another one. I feel sorry for people like Daz, for choosing oblivion over living, but I feel sorrier for their families.

It occurs to me that I could clear my debt with Mickey Plastic in one fell swoop if I got hold of some gear but the fear of returning to old haunts, seeing old faces fills me with dread.

‘Who’s the other guy?’ I motion towards my drinking companion across the bar, eyes darting around the room in an attempt to strike up conversation.

‘Brad?’ Kirsty asks, ‘He’s harmless enough. Big and daft is his trouble. Gets used a lot to provide muscle, not bright enough to talk himself out of the shit that comes with it.’

Seems we’ve got more in common than I thought. It’s hard to reinvent yourself if you continue to move in the same circles, living cheek by jowl amongst men with so little aspiration they judge each other by the number of drinks they can hold or the damage they inflict. Maybe Brad and I are kindred spirits for altogether different reasons. I move over to his end of the bar, pointing to his empty glass.

‘Another?’ I offer, whilst surreptitiously checking that Daz’s attention is still caught up in the game, I’m not sure I can stretch to a third drink. Brad nods, pushing his empty glass away to make way for the new one. My gaze falls onto his heavily nicotine stained hands. ‘Can sit outside if ye want a smoke?’

‘Nut.’ Brad replies hastily, casting a glance back at the entrance, ‘Keeping me head down, ye know how it is.’ I think of MacIntyre and smile sympathetically, ‘Pretty much.’ I agree.

‘Haven’t seen ye around here recently.’ Brad observes, making conversation.

‘Been away.’ To his credit Brad doesn’t ask for details, nor to my shame does he use it as an introduction to his own story. Instead we lift our drinks to our lips, drinking and focussing on our own thoughts. Our silence is shattered by Marcus Dreyton striding in with a mobile phone clamped to his ear. He’s giving someone a bollocking as every other word is a swear word followed by a threat. The pub’s decibel level drops instantly as everyone attempts to listen in to his one way conversation:

‘Yi know what wi’ happen if it isn’t done by den….’ he says menacingly.

At first I thought he’d ventured out without a minder but three strides later two men emerge behind him like smoke from a gun. By the time Marcus has ended his call his pint has been poured and placed at a table by the jukebox where the original occupants finish their drinks and gather their coats in record time.

Two pints are placed in front of us causing Brad to catch my eye. ‘For services rendered.’ I mutter, and we dutifully raise our glasses to Marcus.

If only he gave me cash instead of keeping me topped up in drink I could make Mickey Plastic’s next repayment without needing a second job. Of course I know it doesn’t work like that. Marcus is a gift horse you certainly don’t take for granted. I’m not daft. He’s oiling me for a reason, there’ll be something he’ll want doing, a wee favour, something someway along the line. Brad, it seems, is way ahead of me on this one. He gulps down his pint, wiping the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he says, inclining his head in the direction of Marcus and his cronies, ‘I’m off.’

I feel exposed now he’s gone. A Billy-Nae-Mates nursing a drink can’t pretend he doesn’t see what’s going on around him, can’t avoid the conversation of a stranger without it looking like a snub. I start to take larger gulps of my drink so I can be on my way too when my eye accidentally catch’s Marcus’s. He pushes an empty chair back from the table he’s sitting at then motions for me to sit down.

6

When I wake the next morning I feel as though someone has driven over my head with an articulated truck. I’d felt quite sober by the time I’d gone to bed and my sleep had been deep but that doesn’t stop my skull from feeling as though a family of woodpeckers are trying to break their way out from the inside.

I make it into work thanks to half a packet of painkillers but it’s a close call what with the smell of fried food and the attack of vertigo every time I try to clear a table. In the end Tam lets me go early, or rather in his words: ‘Ye may as well fuck off hame, Davy, ye nae use to me here,’ quickly followed by: ‘but dinnae think I’m payin’ ye tae lie in your bed.’

I’m glad to get away. I need to think. Last night Marcus made a proposition that was tempting but only because I’m broke. The reality of doing a one-off job and then walking away is non-existent. I understand that, really, I do. There would have been a time, not so long ago, where the status of being in tow with Marcus was attractive, but my time inside is too recent, too fresh in my mind for the shock of it to have diminished. In truth, prison doesn’t work as a deterrent. So many young men I met in Saughton have fathers and brothers inside that it’s become a way of life. Just as some folk take gap years, childhood in these families is punctuated by absences of relatives that no one even questions. There’s none of the shame that’s intended by the sentence, for many it’s nothing more than a family reunion.

For me it was nothing like that. I saw what it did to Mum during Dad’s frequent spells inside and though she put on a brave face when she came to visit me I knew it hurt her. I can’t go back there again, can’t put her through that a second time.

I phone Candy. Her mobile goes to voicemail as I expected it would; she’ll be in work right now and not able to answer but at least she’ll know I tried, that I was thinking about her. We’ve spent hardly any time together but I can sense a connection. I feel like I’ve known her forever yet I know nothing about her, not really. Her mother is dead and her father dotes on his only child. We’ve spent so much of the little time we’ve had in each other’s company talking about me that I don’t even know what bands she likes, what she likes to drink when she’s out or what her favourite colour is, yet it almost doesn’t matter, for I can learn all this in the future, providing, that is, I don’t fuck it all up.

There’s a river behind the café, accessed by a set of metal steps, which winds its way through Edinburgh from the Pentland Hills flowing out into the Firth of Forth. It used to power mills producing paper, fabric and flour, with the river mouth supporting a dock and boatyard. Those industries have all gone; the common trades now are prostitution and drugs. I make my way down the steps, holding onto the rail as my limbs still feel shaky. Beneath the bridge a group of jalkies argue over nothing in particular, their slurred voices carrying along the path causing unwary joggers to give them a wide berth. I’m surprised by the number of runners who take their chances along this river, ear plugs drowning out the sound of approach, state of the art MP3 players strapped onto the outside of their arm, a thin layer of lycra providing their only defence.

The jalkie shouting gets louder and the most sober or maybe least high member of the group acts as a human barrier between two pals hell bent on putting the other straight. A woman with bony legs and a tattoo on her calf sits on a broken bit of wall, chain smoking and swigging from a bottle of Buckfast; the sovereigns on each finger catching the rays of the afternoon sun. Her mini skirt has ridden up her thighs revealing stained pants and an ugly bruise. I try not to stare but she catches my glance and smiles, tugging the v of her t-shirt down to show off low slung deflated breasts.

‘Fancy a blow job, Mister?’ she asks and the only bit of that question that I’m surprised by is the title she’s given me. Maybe I’m looking older, or being in debt to Mickey Plastic has put frown lines where there previously hadn’t been any. It’s hypocritical I know but I enjoy the deference in her voice, the acknowledgement that I am better than her somehow. Taking this route is my guilty pleasure, as it reminds me that however bad things are there’s always someone more fucked up than you. I straighten my shoulders but shake my head politely, the way Mum and Aunt Jude said was kind, like it was something you’d consider but you don’t have the time.

Kirsty’s brother, Daz, is a few yards ahead of me. I wonder if he’s still scoring and if so, whether I know his dealer. The face of dealing has changed though; even in the short time I was involved. Time was you’d need a bent medic to access prescription drugs; now whatever you need is available on the internet. Many drug syndicates trade online, too. Want to try Ketamine or snort Ritalin up your nose? There are hundreds of fake medical sites happy to oblige. The truth is the biggest dealer in the country is Royal Mail.

Daz doesn’t have the junkie swagger of the other evening, his movements are more self-conscious, more self-contained somehow. He’s walking close to the bridge wall as though he’s trying to blend in. Instead of calling out to him I decide to keep my distance; he looks decidedly shifty and I want to know why.

The river bed along here has become a tourist attraction over the years. The council spent thousands raising the profile of the area, moving on the tramps and investing in some serious pieces of art – lifesize metal men placed along the path of the river, rising out of the water like an amphibious army. I doubt Daz is here for cultural purposes and there are other attractions along this stretch, albeit for those looking for their kicks below the belt. The public toilets below the Dean Bridge have long been used by rent boys and prozzies, but I hadn’t put Daz into either of those categories and yet here he is turning into them sharply as though he’d been caught short and was too modest to pee behind one of the bushes that border the path. I slow my step, deliberating what to do next. If I walk into the toilets now it would be hard to make out I hadn’t been following him, but then it is a public place and though no one in their right mind would use it for its intended purpose there’s no reason why I couldn’t.

I make my way quietly towards the entrance at side of the building which is littered with condoms and manky knickers. The floor tiles are sticky underfoot; the urinals have been blocked up with clumps of toilet roll, the once white porcelain now the colour of smokers’ teeth. There are three cubicles in the block; each heavy wooden door has been left open revealing toilets with broken seats, every shade of shit pebble-dashed around the sides as though there’s a prize for the best pattern. Semen and other stains splatter the wall tiles with occasional smears of blood. If Daz is waiting for a trick he’s come to the right place, it’s a popular cottaging haunt used by rent boys and their married punters, the squalor adding a level of danger I can only imagine is missing from cruising the gay bar up on Leith Street.

Daz has bypassed the toilets and gone beyond the cubicles to the row of wash basins just out of sight. He’s not taking a leak then. I slip into the cubicle nearest the entrance and quietly bolt the door. The partition walls are greasy as though many hands, knees and other body parts have slapped against them over the years; the graffiti is predictable, someone has drawn a set of cock and balls and several girls have been outed as ‘slags’. There’s no toilet lid to sit on and there’s no way I’m going to lean against the smeary walls so I stand up straight with my hands in my pockets, my ears alert to everything going on around me – water running through the cistern next door, a tap dripping into one of the washbasins out front and the sound of a match being struck followed by the first hungry drag on a cigarette. A series of farts punctuate the silence and I discover I’m not the only one who likes to eke out a tune if I can.

A year ago it would have killed me to keep so still, but in prison you learn not to draw attention to yourself. You learn about patience too. Each night I would count down the months and weeks and days to my release, converting my sentence into hours, for that way large chunks of it would be wiped from the total each morning.

Prison life was hard enough during the day but it’s the nights that are worse, for there are no distractions, and all too often you’re left with nothing but your conscience to keep you company. At the beginning of my sentence I would lie awake for hours out of fear, but as time progressed the fear turned to anger as I realised the sheer futility of what I was doing, and worse still that I was the cause of it. At night there is no escape from the mistakes you have made, the memories that tug at you and mock you in the early hours; the people you miss, the ones you wish you’d never met. Amid the snoring and the coughing and the frantic wanking grown men wept silently, others dreamt of a parallel universe where they lived life out in suburban bliss; others still dreamt they were harder, faster and meaner, that next time they wouldn’t get caught.

Me, I counted.

The months, the weeks, the days, converting them into hours.

Hiding from my demons through multiplication.

Footsteps echoing on the hard tiles signal the arrival of the person Daz is meeting, either that or it’s a potential punter, and there’s still nothing to say they can’t be one and the same. Instead of a greeting there are sounds of a scuffle and a body being slammed against the walls repeatedly. The violence doesn’t alarm me, I know what rough sex sounds like; normally I’d be at school or out playing when Mum brought men back to the house but there was one time when I was ill and she’d kept me home, settling me into bed with the TV on low. I must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was being startled awake by the sound of furniture smashing and I tip-toed onto the landing to see her bedroom door had been knocked off its hinges and Mum leaning back awkwardly against an oversized wardrobe, eyes bulging because the man who was fucking her had his hands around her throat.

I wish I could say I did the heroic thing and picked up something hard to whack him over the back of the head with but even then I knew when the odds were stacked against me and men like this thought nothing of battering a child. Besides, there was something about the look in Mum’s eye that told me she wasn’t scared, that this wasn’t the first time she’d found herself in this situation and it wouldn’t be the last. I returned to my room and burrowed beneath my duvet, terrified to come out again until I knew the man had gone.

I’d counted to six hundred by the time Mum came through to check on me. Her make-up was heavier than it had been earlier and she wore a scarf around her neck. Her eyes, which to me were beautiful, were unusually shiny and her voice sounded brittle. If she knew what I’d seen she never let on, she simply snuggled beneath the duvet, holding me close while I clung on like a limpet, soaked in piss and shivering.

The slamming outside the toilet cubicle stopped as abruptly as it began, followed by heavy breathing and Daz’s docile ‘Wha’ was that fe?’ Even his junkie outrage has no substance to it.

‘Fe being a fuckin’ wee shite.’

The reply makes my chest thud so loudly I have to hold my breath to compensate.

MacIntyre.

What the hell is he doing in here of all places, meeting Daz? I don’t know which bit of that my brain is finding hard to compute. Could he be undercover or trying to pull down some sort of trap using a junkie as an informer? The idea doesn’t make sense. MacIntyre is a lardy cop with no more ambition than playing cat and mouse with the local Neds. He’d planted the weed on me just to show he could but what more is he capable of? Every tingling nerve ending tells me I’m on the brink of something; I’m just not sure what.

‘You owe me money.’ he barks.

‘Julie found it!’ Darren’s voice comes out in a whimper; as though he knows whatever he says will be useless. I feel sorry for him; I sure as hell know what it’s like to be on the losing end of an argument with MacIntyre.

‘You. Owe. Me. Money.’ Each word is punctuated by the sound of MacIntyre’s fist meeting different parts of Darren’s body, some bony, some cavernous, followed by a groan or sharp intake of breath.

‘Honest!’ Darren protests during a brief pause, ‘Julie went through ma clothes and found the envelope! Ah could’nae tell her it wis’nae mine,’ he reasons, ‘she’d know I was up tae somethin’.’

‘So?’

‘I said it wis a bonus from work, that it wis for her and the wean.’

‘Aw,’ MacIntyre groans, ‘Dinnae tell me I’m gonna have tae go after your mangy skank now.’ If that is meant to rile Darren, it fell way short.

‘She’s spent it.’ Daz adds quickly, ‘Bought food and clothes fi the bairn, an fe hersel’’.

‘I knew the moment I clapped eyes on you you’d be fuckin’ trouble.’ MacIntyre grumbles. His voice is calmer now, as though he’s resigned to the fact he’ll not be seeing this money any time soon. I wonder how much is involved and where it’s from and more importantly what MacIntyre is going to do next. Darren has more chance of repaying him if he stays in one piece. MacIntyre obviously thinks the same.

‘OK,’ he sighs, ‘Ye’ve got forty eight hours to pay me back.’

I know I don’t have a clue how much is involved but I’m surprised that rather than showing gratitude Daz starts to protest. It’s only when MacIntyre orders him to get down on his knees and I hear a zip being opened that I understand why. Moments later the air fills with animal-like grunts and I have to bite down on my hand to stop feeling sick. In that moment I feel a connection with Daz, the way victims of crime often do, yet there is precious little I can do for him that won’t make a bad situation worse. So while MacIntyre’s groans of pleasure reach their peak, I slip out from my hiding place and get the hell away.

My head is reeling. I knew MacIntyre was a thug but I can’t believe what he’s just forced Daz to do. I thought all he was guilty of was throwing his weight around, but forcing himself on someone makes him sink to a whole new depth. And the money, what the hell is that about?

How is it possible to be disappointed in someone that hates you and you hate back? Yet that’s how I feel. When someone has a go at you for as long as you have known them, for being inferior, for being worthless, for being a general waste of skin, there’s some part of you that believes the truth of it, that there must be some flaw inside of you that others can see. And even though you hate the way that makes you feel, you believe these people are better than you, that even though they treat you like shite you deserve it. The teachers who wrote me off at school were entitled to because they were educated. The bank managers who’d refuse Mum an overdraft then fuck her on a Friday night could do so for the very same reason. They were better than us. Bad teachers and horny bankers were better than prozzies and needy kids, and the police, though heavy handed, were on a continuum of good that justified what they did. Or so I’d thought. But police on the take? Committing assault? No reason could ever justify that.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I realise I haven’t turned the sound back on since finishing work – Tam doesn’t like my mobile going off when we’re serving customers, not that my phone is a hot bed of communication, unless you count recorded messages from legal firms asking if I’ve been miss-sold PPI. I look at the screen and my heart does a little flip when I see that it’s Candy. ‘Hey’ I practise before hitting the talk button, wanting to get the tone just right. I want to convey keen not lonely, don’t want my voice to smack of desperation.

‘Hey’ I say again, deciding the pitch was a couple of octaves higher than I would have liked, more Graham Norton than Vin Diesel. In the end I don’t need to worry, for Candy doesn’t let me get a word in edgeways.

‘Davy,’ she sobs, and every nerve ending goes on alert as I wait for the axe to fall. ‘There’s been a robbery.’

7

The factory car park is so full of cop cars it’s like a police officers’ convention. Cops of all shapes and sizes mill about the forecourt as though that area alone contains all the answers. I’ve never understood the public’s faith in the police, for they never detect anything, just trample over people’s lives once a crime has taken place.

One of them must have been told to man the gate for he stands rigid between the posts like some Third Division goalie. He’s a bit of a kid by the look of it, probably not even started shaving, his skin is pale and free from razor bumps and missed sections of stubble. As if on cue he steps back to let an armed police unit drive out of the forecourt. Inside it a dozen men in dark clothing give me filthy looks because they weren’t able to use their guns. Two community cops, around MacIntyre’s age, are talking to members of staff seated on the wooden benches I’d been sunning myself on a few days before. They were from the shop floor: a man close to retirement age who operates the printing machine that puts customers’ logos onto the boxes, two engineers and several workers from packing. The kitchen staff are still in the canteen, I can see them through the open window serving teas and coffees in polystyrene cups to a line of officers. I can’t see Candy or any of the management but I know from the frantic call she made to me that they are still inside being interviewed by CID.

Today was payday and Swanson’s paid their staff weekly in cash. It’s not that unusual around here, what with the number of people working temporary contracts on the increase and even more living a hand to mouth existence; waiting to get paid at the end of the month would push most families to their financial limits. It was one of the reasons I’d been placed there by my parole officer, otherwise she’d have had to arrange a crisis loan to tide me over and she couldn’t be arsed with the paperwork.

The plod on the gate eyeballs me as I wait for Candy and with the niftiness that only someone our age can muster he bounds over as though he’s seen my mug shot on Interpol and is about to wrestle me to the ground.

‘Jog on, Pal.’ He barks, which is a bit of an anti-climax given the energy he’d put in making his approach.

I stand my ground. ‘‘fraid I canny, Pal.’ I state pleasantly enough. He narrows his eyes, squaring his shoulders and barrelling his chest in the identikit way of his elders that makes me wonder if there is some identifiable gene in police DNA that means no matter how decent they are when they start they all turn out the same way.

‘Did ye no’ hear me, Son?’ He’s sneering now, the curl of his lip letting me know he’s talking to shite. I wouldn’t mind but he doesn’t even shave all his face yet, by the look of him.

‘I heard you perfectly well, Cunt Stubble.’ I inform him brightly enough, ‘Only I’m here to take the boss’s PA home.’ I pause while he works out what the initials stand for, ‘You wouldn’t want to add to her fright by telling her you’d sent me away?’

He looks fearful as though I’ve asked him a trick question and glances over at his elders for help but they’re sipping tea and fiddling with the knobs on their radios as though they’re already bored.

‘What’s your name?’ he asks grudgingly before stomping into the factory’s main entrance like a toddler with a burst balloon. Five minutes later he returns, barely looking in my direction. ‘Wait there.’ He instructs, as though it was his idea.

Candy emerges from the factory’s main entrance supported by Derek Swanson, the factory owner. I’d never met him but he’s recognisable from the framed photographs dotted around reception, shaking hands with the great and the good of Edinburgh. In each photograph he’s grinning, shiny white teeth exposed for the camera, golf course tan. He isn’t grinning now; instead his mouth is set in a grim line as he holds Candy like some fragile china doll. She’d told me on the phone she’d been helping the book keeper make up the wage packets, counting out bank notes to slip into the little brown envelopes when two armed robbers had barged in.

‘Candy!’

I wave my arms till she can see me by the gate, a look of relief flashing across her drawn face. Her eyes are rimmed red and her make-up has run leaving dirty streaks down her shirt. She tries to conjure a smile but it falters at the last moment. I’ve seen enough. Pushing passed the kiddie cop I run to her side and I can tell even her boss is pleased to see me.

‘I’ve ordered a cab,’ he says, gratefully replacing his arm around her waist with mine and I kick myself for not having thought of how I was going to get her home. I accept his kindness with a nod, returning my attention to Candy as a four door Skoda drives onto the forecourt, the driver ignoring the kiddie cop’s raised hand with a trite ‘I’m here fe the big yin, son,’ which brooks no room for discussion. The driver steps out and opens the passenger door, eyeing me warily as I guide Candy onto the rear seat before climbing in beside her.

‘On account please, Ken.’ Mr Swanson calls in our direction and the driver grunts his acknowledgement.

Seeing the armed officers made me realise that Candy had down-played what had happened over the phone so that I didn’t go barging in shouting the odds. Given the circumstances I guess she was right, but it irks.

‘Ye didn’t tell me they had guns.’ I try to sound reasonable but that’s a far cry from how I’m feeling. Jesus, she could have been seriously hurt. Or worse.

Her large brown eyes look up at me, stung, her voice full of reproach. ‘I said they were armed.’

‘But I thought you meant knives!’ even as I say this I wonder what hairs I’m trying to split and why. The cab driver turns his radio down and eyeballs me in his rear-view mirror. His look seems to convey a warning to go easy, and I figure he’s seen many a numpty over the years blow it over an ill thought comment, though how many involved a row about weapons I can only guess at. I know I’m being stupid; it’s just that guns can go off by accident, there’s more control over a knife. I pinch my eyes shut in an attempt to calm down, collecting my thoughts as I try to make sense of the alternative scenarios fighting for attention in my brain.

‘Were they young or old?’ I demand. I know she’ll have been through this with CID but the police go through the motions of asking questions to justify their existence. If the robbers get caught it’ll be because someone’s grassed, not because they’ve been detected.

Candy hesitates: ‘Young, I think.’

‘Whaddaye mean, think?’

‘They had masks on,’ she shrugs, ‘so it was hard to make anything out….one was bossing the other around a lot. The bossy one sounded scary, you know, really hard, the other one tended to do as he was told….he definitely sounded young.’

‘How young?’

‘I don’t know…’ another shrug.

‘My age?’

‘I don’t know Davy! Christ…..what is this?’

She starts to sob, moving her head this way and that in frustration, combing her fingers through her hair in an attempt to control it. Anger rises up inside me like vomit, I want to lash out at whoever has frightened her so; I also want to be sick.

‘When I find out who’s fucking behind this, I’ll-’

‘What?’ Candy demands, ‘Do something that’ll put you back inside? Smart move.’

She’s shaking her head like a wild woman, glaring at the interior of the cab as though it’s her prison. I feel a cavern open up between us.

‘Candy,’ I say softly, ‘they could have killed ye.’ The words catch in my throat, I slide my arm round Candy’s shoulders and hold her tight; it doesn’t seem like much but she relaxes into me and slowly her shallow breaths become deeper, more regular. I hold her like this for the remainder of our journey, brushing my lips across the top of her head, rubbing her back gently as though she were a child. My mind is on alert, processing thoughts that for the moment are better left unsaid. We sit like this for several minutes, holding onto one another, each afraid to let the other out of sight for very different reasons.

The taxi pulls up outside a smart converted tenement block where Candy lives with her father. ‘Shall I see you in?’ I ask, and as I speak the building’s main door bursts open and a grey haired man hurries out, frown lines etched across his brow. Before Candy can answer he’s yanked open the cab door, pulling her out of my arms and into his own, his frown deepening when he takes in the state of her.

‘I’ll phone ye later,’ I call but already she’s disappeared, drawn into her father’s orbit.

The cab driver looks at me in his rear view mirror and asks where I want dropping off. I’m about to tell him I’ll walk as I don’t have any money when I remember Candy’s boss is paying. ‘De ye have tae log the address where ye drop me off?’ I enquire. The cabby’s eyes narrow as though weighing me up before answering. ‘Aye,’ he nods.

‘Drop me at the waterfront then.’ I tell him. I’ll walk the rest of the way. The cabby looks at me but says nothing as he manoeuvres the car back into the stream of traffic. He offers me a smoke from the packet of fags he has beside him on the passenger seat even though there are ‘No smoking’ stickers plastered throughout the cab’s interior. He’s maybe just being friendly, but there’s a caution in his eyes that tells me he’s shrewder than that.

‘I can drop ye at the apartments, Son,’ he offers, ‘I’ll mark it up as Ocean Terminal on the receipt.’ I nod but say nothing more; he’s on to me and is happy for me to know it. Before I step out of the cab he passes me his business card, saying: ‘I’m on call twenty-four-seven, like.’

I smile gratefully; he’s keeping his options open no mistake. And so, for the second time in a week I’m back at Leith’s harbour, only this time I’m standing on the other side of the tracks.

Gus McEwan lives at Platinum Point, occupying the penthouse suite of all places in a fuck you gesture to Police Scotland or whatever Lothian and Borders are calling themselves these days. He’s amassed his fortune trafficking drugs through a string of legit businesses from designer furniture stores to floristry. He sends his kids to boarding school in Perthshire, away from the glare of publicity they’d attract if they went to a local private school; weekends he can be found shouting from the rugby side-lines, head to foot in Barbour.

Gus is the original bad boy made respectable; surrounding himself with wealthy friends and people in high places he’s a regular face at society fundraisers and a patron of several charities if the local press reports are anything to go by. Yet he hasn’t forgotten his roots, sponsoring several junior football teams and donating a state of the art scanner to the Sick Kids’ hospital. It’s made him a local hero of sorts, a man of the people, albeit people with short memories who live nowhere near the junkie ghettos he’s created round the city. Those ugly high rise flats, now listed thanks to someone’s warped sense of humour in the council, are known locally as Trip Towers, but only by those fortunate enough not to live in them.

Marcus Dreyton works for Gus, so if I do the job Marcus has asked of me I’ll also be in Gus’s collar. Now Gus doesn’t know me from the hole in his backside but I know he keeps his minions close so Marcus won’t be that far away.

I walk around the perimeter of the car park until I find Marcus’s black X5 and set up camp on the pavement close to the car park’s exit. I had mates used to work this car park: puncturing tyres then ‘coincidentally’ spotting the frustrated drivers, offering to change their spare wheel so they could be on their way. They were never given anything less than a twenty pound note for their help, not bad for fifteen minutes work. The developers have installed CCTV cameras now which means that it takes two to work the scam, one to slash the tyres and scarper before the other one ambles along, but there’s still money to be made. As long as you know which cars are fair game and which to steer clear of, everyone’s a winner.

Marcus runs a tight ship around Leith and nothing goes down without his say-so. The men who robbed the factory had made off with just under ten grand, a small fortune in my world, though it won’t register quite so highly in the big boy world Marcus moves in. Even so, it happened on his territory which means that as a matter of respect he’ll have been made aware of it. I can only hope he’s willing to share this information.

The X5’s light’s flash signalling its owner’s approach so I stand on the edge of the kerb. Marcus wears shades but I know that he’s seen me. He says something to Devlin, one of the two henchmen with him, who glances briefly in my direction. Devlin opens the car’s rear passenger door, waiting while Marcus climbs in before moving around to the other door, motioning for me to do the same. I fasten my seatbelt (I like to play it safe) and nestle back into the leather upholstery while Barrington, Marcus’s driver, starts the engine. The car interior is pale leather, even the steering wheel, and I slip my hands under my legs so I can feel how smooth the seat is.

‘Who told you fi come here?’ Marcus’s drawl sounds casual but I know not to be taken in by it.

‘No one.’

Marcus sucks air between his teeth. ‘Then why yi come?’

‘I need to ask ye something.’

‘Drive.’ He barks at Barrington who had been waiting to see if I was to be thrown out before moving off and I can only assume I’ve passed some kind of assessment. Either that or they’re going to drive through Niddrie and bury me on the way out to The Wisp. Ha ha.

Marcus fixes me with a steely gaze which has an almost laxative effect.

‘Yi seem fi forget I hask you sumtin’ firss.’

Candy’s face and the ordeal she’s gone through spur me on. I want to find the fucker who’s scared the shit out of her and…what exactly? My shoulders slump at the truth of it: I want Marcus to find the fucker, but to do that I need to play to his ego.

‘Marcus,’ I venture, ‘this is important.’ I’ve got his full attention now; I don’t think anyone has ever spoken back to him before.

‘About the robbery today at the packaging factory,’ I thought I’d use Mum’s technique - assume he knows all about it. I pause, waiting for him to nod and say “Yeah, Davy, and what specifically would you like to know?” Only it doesn’t quite work like that. Marcus glares at me as though I’ve insulted his sister and his mother in one fell swoop, then with the briefest of nods to Barrington - who’s been monitoring the conversation in his rear view mirror - conveys a message which I’m not party to, which presumably says ‘to The Wisp’. Perhaps they are going to murder me then bury me after all.

The vehicle lurches as Barrington carries out a U-turn forcing the van behind us to slow. The van driver bangs on his car horn, staying close on our tail and gesturing in case he hasn’t made his point.

‘Yi see dat?!’ Barrington splutters as though he’s blameless. We all shrug what can you do? to show our sympathy. There are temporary road works along this stretch and as we approach them the traffic lights ahead start to change. Barrington could have nudged the car through if he’d wanted to; instead he slams his foot on the brakes, checking out the van behind us in his rear view mirror. Unable to resist I take a look behind me; right enough the van driver is doing his nut, banging on the horn again and yelling at the windscreen. His passenger is gesturing with his hands: wanker and dickhead is the gist of it.

It’s at times like this Marcus must get a kick out of blacked-out windows, for without a word being uttered between them he and his minions climb out of the car, moving as one in the direction of the van and its occupants who’ve been protesting so noisily. I don’t know whether it’s the sight of three angry black men bearing down on them or the machete Devlin pulls out from his jacket but the occupants of the van become silent.

The driver even winds down his window: ‘Nae offence, Pal,’ he’s smiling now, we’re all mates here. He looks to his companion for corroboration. They’re builders by the look of it, muscle turned to fat but still capable of holding their own under normal circumstances, only these circumstances are far from normal.

‘Aye!’ agrees the driver’s mate, ‘Jist havin’ a laugh. Thought ye wiz some daft mare from Morningside, lost her way.’ His hands are still moving, but in a placating gesture, easy now, let’s all just go hame and forget all about it. The lights have changed but none of the cars behind complain, each driver hoping that whatever happens next won’t involve them.

Hear no evil, see no evil, speak even less.

Marcus and his men intimidate the traffic lane just by standing there and I know they’ll not do anything because of what happened outside the army barracks in London, the builders are just too thick to realise. Instead Devlin takes out his mobile, takes a picture of the front of the van: the fat men inside it and the vehicle registration. He walks up to the driver’s window, shows them the image on the screen.

‘A keepsake,’ he says merrily, ‘Means mi cyan get y’address any time mi like. In case mi need fi come look fe yi.’ Marcus and Barrington walk back to the X5, Devlin takes his time, enjoying the moment, turning to salute the vehicles behind to thank them for their patience.

Once back in the car we head out towards Salamander Road and the industrial estates along the approach to Seafield. Gus McEwan owns a scrap yard along this stretch of road, just before the turn off to Portobello, and Barrington turns into the entrance for it, heading towards a couple of lock-ups at the arse end of a dirt track. At that moment Marcus’s mobile starts to ring and he answers it with an abrupt ‘What?’ He remains silent as he listens to the caller for a couple of beats before snarling: ‘Why me juss hearin’ dis?’ I start to pity the other person when Marcus ends the call and turns his full attention to me.

‘OK. Tell me what you fuckin’ know.’

I swallow. ‘Swanson’s was turned over today. They got away with ten grand.’

‘How ye know dis?’ Marcus continues to stare.

‘My girlfriend works there.’ I say simply. The word feels strange, although I’ve never used Candy and girlfriend in the same sentence before it’s what I’m hoping for. I only hope she feels the same.

Marcus digests this information for a couple of minutes. He sits perfectly still as he does this, whether wondering who might be behind it or contemplating world peace I can’t be sure, but he settles back in his seat as though waiting for his favourite song to start. I wonder if he’s been inside. There are no tell-tale tattoos, and his dark skin is flawless save for the chib on his chin. Rumour has it the dealer who inflicted it still takes his meals through a straw. Marcus turns his head in my direction. ‘Wha’ ye wan’ me do?’ He smirks, as though he already knows the answer to that and is just seeing if I have the guts to spit it out.

‘They could have killed her.’ I tell him. Not an answer, I know, but a statement of fact.

‘Armed?’

I nod. ‘Guns.’ I add quickly to avoid any confusion.

Marcus rubs a finger along his scalp as though his dreads are too tight. He seems to make up his mind. ‘Mi cyan get y’a name,’ he offers, ‘What we do affer dat, well, is down to you.’ His grin makes the Cheshire Cat look morose, and I know in that moment I’ve sold my soul, my granny and my first born to the devil, that I no longer have to make a decision about whether I’ll do Marcus’s job, the deal is in the subtext, loud and clear.

‘We’re on.’ I say to him.

8

Marcus drops me at the VA. I figure a swift one’ll do no harm, the way the day’s been shaping up. Before I step inside I try Candy’s mobile but her father answers, informing me that his daughter is asleep. Exactly like that. My daughter is asleep. His voice is pained, as though it hurts even talking to me. I figure it’s pointless texting her if he’s guarding her phone so I decide to leave it for now, I’ll give it another try in a couple of hours. Two smokers step outside to stand in the pub’s doorway, hands shielding their eyes as they emerge into the daylight like rescued Chilean miners. I resist the urge to stand with them, they’re well known faces, harmless enough but hard to shake off once back inside, experts on everything with the drink inside them.

‘Usual, Davy?’ Kirsty greets me as I enter the bar and I’m jolted back to earlier this afternoon and her brother’s meeting with MacIntyre. I look around at the punters; no sign of Daz.

‘Hear about the robbery?’ She asks as she sets my pint in front of me. I mumble a yes into the neck of the glass as I drink it down greedily. I’m guessing she doesn’t know about Daz’s run in with MacIntyre, then remind myself that if this happens frequently he’d be a dab hand at hiding tell-tale bruises. I should know.

‘Got away wi’ twenty grand.’ The know-alls are back at their regular space at the bar, eager to embellish on the scarce facts already circulating. By the end of the night the amount stolen will be closer to eighty so I don’t bother correcting them.

Kirsty settles herself opposite me, turning her back to the gob-shites so they can’t overhear:

‘Cops came in earlier, spoke to Uncle Doug, told him to be on the lookout for anyone splashing cash around.’ We laugh at the stupidity of it.

‘The canny old bastard would take their money without a second glance, right enough.’ She grins. The VA is well known for not asking questions; Marcus and his fifty pound notes get the red carpet treatment whenever he comes in. After here the police would visit the pawnbrokers up and down Leith Walk, asking them to report anyone buying back expensive items they’d deposited in recent months: watches, wedding rings, kids’ X-boxes. Ten grand wasn’t a fortune, split two ways it wasn’t going to change anyone’s lives, but it would buy a bit of peace from a loan shark.

‘Daz been in?’ I try to keep my tone light.

‘Why’dy’a ask?’ suspicious now.

‘Just wonderin’. I shrug. ‘I know you were worried about him.’

‘Och, ‘s’a way o’ life with him as a brother.’ Kirsty picks up a filthy cloth and wipes it half-heartedly across the counter between us. ‘I must admit…when I first heard about the robbery…’

‘No way!’ I say confidently. At least he was someone I didn’t have to suspect, unless he’d mastered time travel. The robbery occurred at the very same time he was being mauled, for want of a better word, by MacIntyre. ‘Why would he?’ I ask her.

‘No, you’re right.’ Then, ‘You know, sometimes I feel guilty misjudging him like
that, I mean, if I don’t give him the benefit of the doubt, who will?’

I grunt in sympathy. ‘He gets on alright with the polis though?’

Suspicious again. ‘Why’d’ya ask, like?’

I shrug. ‘Sometimes when you get a name for yourself it’s like you’ve got a big target stuck on the back o’ ye every time ye go out.’

Kirsty relaxes, ‘Och, I know, but with Daz it’s no’ really like that’. I mean, he’s gets a ride tae the cells when they want to score some easy points, but other than that they leave him alone.’

It’s common knowledge that junkies help keep the arrest stats afloat: stop and search a junkie or a stoner and hey presto you’ll find some substance which will count as possession.

I nod. It’s obvious Kirsty isn’t aware of her brother’s relationship, or whatever you’d want to call it, with MacIntyre. But then who’d brag about being on friendly terms with the police?

‘Does he have many lucky days at the bookies, then?’ I venture.

Kirsty rolls her eyes, ‘He loses more than he wins,’ she mutters, ‘which is why he keeps in with Uncle Doug, so. He’s bailed him out more times than I can count.’ And then, more bitterly: ‘Which is why he keeps making the same fuckin’ mistakes.’

‘Sounds decent of your uncle. Is he your Mum or Dad’s brother?’

‘Neither.’ Kirsty shrugs, ‘He shacked up with Mum when we were wee. Although it didn’t work out between them he’s continued looking out for us. It’s why we call him uncle.’

I smiled, thinking of Jude. ‘I geddit.’

‘Now if you’ve finished with the interrogation,’ Kirsty’s smiling but her eyes are having none of it. ‘I’ll get on with some work.’

I laugh, but I can feel my cheeks burning. Kirsty walks round to the other side of the bar, starts collecting empty glasses and discarded packets of crisps. Occasionally she glances over at me as though trying to fathom something. Her uncle, who must’ve been sitting in the back room, pokes his head into the bar as though weighing up whether he’s needed. In his late fifties, he has a year round tan, courtesy of regular Spanish holidays and frequent visits to the local Polish tanning salon during busy periods. The VA is as far from a destination pub as you can get: sticky carpets and overflowing toilets, the smell of strong disinfectant masking the odour of piss and vomit, yet during the Festival unsuspecting tourists flock inside on their way to HMS Britannia docked at Ocean Terminal. It’s worth calling in just to see the shock on the visitors’ faces - folk that’ve paid good money to leave behind the Mediterranean and come here.

It’s relatively quiet at the start of the week and with a quick nod from Kirsty the landlord retreats into the back once more. I’m nearing the end of my pint and debating whether I can afford another and more importantly whether I want to carry on drinking alone at the bar. The gob-shites several feet away have been eyeing me up and I would swear they’ve been moving closer since their return from their smoke half an hour ago. A few more inches and they’ll be in talking distance and I’d rather poke my eyes out than become their bar buddy.

I replace my pint glass on the top of the counter when I become aware of a lull in the decibel level in the room. It’s a noticeable dip, the kind of hush before a fight breaks out, but rather than glee there’s a palpable hostility that can mean only one thing. I turn round to see several uniformed officers standing in the pub’s doorway, surveying the bar like a bunch of newly landed aliens. All around me I can hear the shifting of buttocks as those with a guilty conscience toy with slipping out the back way and those with nothing to fear jockey for a ring-side seat.

A woman sitting at a small table by the window throws a jacket over the knock off foot spa and electric blanket she’d been about to offload. A canny shoplifter with the ability to steal to order, she carries around catalogues so ye can pick out what ye want, a bit like a mobile Argos. Yet the police don’t give her a second look. Instead, unless I’m being paranoid, they seem very pleased to see me. I look from one to the other: most had been at Swanson’s factory earlier in the day: the tea-drinkers and the kiddie cop, all looking at me like I’m some long lost family member.

There’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach which intensifies when MacIntyre himself appears, pushing through his colleagues like the front man in a boy band. Well, not so much boy band, more X-Factor rejects on a tour no one gives a shit about. The point is that I know, even before he comes up to me and shoves his big fat head in my face that it’s me they’re looking for. What I can’t fathom is the reason.

‘Davy Johnson,’ MacIntyre begins, the adrenaline making him bounce on the balls of his feet like he’s Ricky fucking Hatton, ‘I am arresting you in connection with the armed robbery carried out at…’

The remainder of his words are drowned out as I realise the trouble I’m in. I feel as though I’m swimming underwater, as though someone is deliberately holding my head down so I can’t take in any air. ‘Anything you say may be…’

‘You’re kidding, right?’ I look around the bar and hold the gaze of each one of the punters around me. I feel their combined disappointment: not at my guilt but by my capture. Already the two gob-shites are creating the epilogue to this story. I only wish I knew how it’ll turn out myself. As far as the plods are concerned I have the perfect motive: losing my job as a result of my arrest earlier in the week. My shoulders sag as I realise it gets better than that: I don’t even have an alibi. Not a credible one anyway. For at the time of the robbery I was hiding in a toilet cubicle listening to MacIntyre get a blow-job from a doped-up junkie, and how the hell can I tell them that?

‘If I’d known ye were coming back so soon I’d a put a reserved sign on the door.’

The custody sergeant booking me in is trying to be funny but I no longer give a shit. This is either an elaborate wind up or MacIntyre is hell bent on sticking the boot in over and over. Even my parole officer has written me off, saying perhaps I’ve been let out too soon and that different individuals take longer to rehabilitate than others. The duty lawyer took one look at my arrest sheet and patted out the creases in his shiny suit; seems robbery is a welcome distraction from car twoking.

I slump onto the hard bed in my cell and put my head in my hands. The air is warm and stale as though the previous occupant has just vacated it though not before farting several times in a row. I shift away from the skid marked blanket folded beside me and close my eyes. I feel as though I’m on some Groundhog Day loop where no matter what I do I always end up back in the same situation. The only thing I can be certain of is that MacIntyre will return here sooner or later to have another pop. Christ, I’d started the day needing time to think about Marcus’s job offer, now I had all the time in the world.

Guns. That’s what he wants me for. I’m to pick up a shipment of guns being smuggled into Leith Docks and move them across town – I’ll only be given the location of the drop on the day of the job. At first I couldn’t understand why Marcus wanted me; there were other drivers he could use, others with more experience. It didn’t make sense; till he explained I was to provide the transport.

‘You mean I’ve got to nick the car too?’ I’d asked when he first sounded me out.

‘Jesus Marcus, don’t ye think I’ve done enough fe ye?’ Marcus had been involved in the garage scam which had resulted in my six month stretch. Motors stolen to order – by his gang – were brought to the garage to get their VIN numbers and plates changed before being shipped overseas. He didn’t own the garage, but the owner was on his payroll, and Marcus was their only client.

This time, I’d not only be providing the wheels I’d be transporting a crate load of weapons, and in this current climate if I’m caught they’ll throw away the key. Last year a squaddie from Redford Barracks had been killed on a night out – shot in the back by a young Muslim chanting Jihadist propaganda. Even though the killer had handed himself in the public perception of the threat from terrorism went through the roof, with councillors promising more than they should to keep the locals happy. There’d been armed officers on the streets for months afterwards, right up until I’d gone inside. I don’t suppose they were removed because the threat had gone, just the budget.

The whole notion of the job horrifies me, especially after the armed robbery at Candy’s workplace.

Guns.

I mean that’s serious shit. When I worked as a lookout for the dealers last year I knew what I did carried some risk, that a gun would feature somewhere in the scheme of things, whether packing one or staring down the barrel I couldn’t be sure but it was one of the reasons I wanted out; there were simpler ways of earning a living; only at the time I thought working in a dodgy garage was one of them.

And now not twenty four hours after my girlfriend is held at gunpoint I’ve agreed to move a shipment of weapons across the city, even though that’s specifically the reason that made me agree to it.

Rock, meet Hardplace, he’s heard all bout ye.

The cell door opens and MacIntyre swaggers in, gloating. I feel almost sorry for him, that his life is so shit picking on someone like me makes it better.

‘Pleased with yersel’?’ he enquires, folding his arms across his man boobs as he leans against the door.

‘I’m pleased that I rate so highly in your world that you feel the need to stalk me.’ I tell him defiantly.

‘Someone’s gotta keep an eye on ye.’ He throws back.

I laugh. ‘Not well enough if I’ve managed to rob a fuckin’ factory under your nose!’

‘Mebbes I jist wannae give ye enough rope tae hang yersel’.’ His double chin wobbles as he speaks and his face is wide and flat like a squashed marshmallow.

‘Come on,’ I reason, ‘you know it wis’nae me.’

‘I know you were sacked from there.’

‘Because of you!’

‘Because you haven’t learnt how to respect your betters.’

‘And that’s you?’

MacIntyre shrugs, spreading his fat arms wide. ‘It’s my job to keep shit off the streets.’

‘Take a look in the mirror next time ye go searching then!’

He’s clutching at straws and he knows it. ‘Is that all ye got?’ I challenge.

MacIntyre smiles. ‘You needed the money to keep your little drug sideline going…’

‘What?’

‘Mebbe it’s an addiction, I don’t know, or maybe you just buy more than you need, sell it on; Mebbe it’s in the genes…’ I ignore the bait about my Dad again.

‘Ye planted that stuff on me!’ I remind him, ‘If you hadn’t you’d have been desperate to charge me. We both know ye wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire so don’t try and make out you were doing me any favours.’

MacIntyre laughs, all jovial like we’re two pals shooting the breeze. ‘You’re a wee scrote,’ he spits, ‘a nothing, a complete and utter waste of skin. I dinnae think about ye at all, Pal, but when I do see ye, I want tae flush you away like last night’s turd. Lads like you spend all your life waiting tae move into the big hoose, I’m jist trying tae gi’ ye a helping hand.’

MacIntyre’s insults wash over me, after what he’s done this afternoon he no longer has the moral high ground and I no longer give a damn. But he won’t let up.

‘No one could blame ye, right enough.’ He adds, ‘You’d been sacked, you’d been made tae look small in front of that little secretary you’d got the hots for; you wanted revenge, and it would do no harm to teach her a lesson in the process.’

And then it dawns on me. He has no idea that Candy and I are seeing each other. He wasn’t at the factory when I’d collected her earlier, so I suppose in his warped imagination his little theory is plausible.

‘You don’t know I’m going about with her, do you?’ I smile. If he’s working on supposition his case is getting weaker.

‘What are you talking about?’ already his eyes are narrowing.

‘I’m dating the secretary you say I have the hots for,’ I say proudly, ‘so why would I want to teach her a lesson? And as for losing my job, you said yourself it was nippy. I got myself sorted with something that pays me the same money with all I can eat fry ups thrown in – you saw me there on your way out of the bookies. As much as it hurts me to say it, you did me a favour. Pal.’

The use of that word seems to tip him over the edge.

‘Why, ye wee shite,’ he lunges towards me but I scramble to my feet; even so there’s nowhere I can go that isn’t within his reach. Two strides and he has me pinned against the rear wall, his face so close to mine I can smell his sour breath.

‘Ye think you can wriggle out of this, son?’ His left arm pins me against the wall but it’s his right arm that’s worrying me, or more specifically his right hand. He holds it mid-air as though we’re on some sort of raft and he’s steadying us. I study his fingers for some outward evidence of Daz’s earlier assault, but are were no clumps of pubes or skin beneath his nails and no give-away scratches on the back of his hands. He’s evidence free. I’m cornered by an animal with nothing to defend myself. If I call out the custody sergeant will suffer temporary deafness, and if I do get the better of MacIntyre one shout from him and there’ll be half a dozen police clambering in in record time and no one would give a shit what he’d done first.

‘Trying to work out if ye’ll get away with it, aren’t ye?’ I goad.

MacIntyre looks at me non-plussed, but drops his hand to his side as though a string holding it in place has been cut.

‘Ye’ve got a lot to say for yerself.’ He nods.

‘I saw ye.’

MacIntyre has been trying to psyche me out with a stare but now he blinks. In fact he blinks a couple of times. It’s that nervous little tell that gives me the confidence to continue.

‘I have an alibi for this afternoon’s robbery ye fuckin’ moron!’ I shout at him. ‘I was standing in the toilets beneath Dean Bridge watching you shove your limp little cock into a junkie’s mouth!’

‘Why you lying little fu-’

‘Why don’t we put it to the test?’ I challenge, ‘I know the lad you were in there with. You were going at it so hard I bet there’s evidence all over the poor little fucker’s clothes, face, hair.’ I shudder at the thought. It’s a big risk I’m taking; Daz doesn’t really know me, he certainly doesn’t owe me any favours, but it’s all I have to get this beast away from me. Something must convince MacIntyre that I’m telling the truth because the next minute I’m falling, and as I land on the floor he aims a kick at my knee-cap that’s intended to remove it. My scream is genuine, it hurts like a bastard and I can feel it swell beneath my hands. I want to roll over and die, my knee feels like it’s splintered into several pieces. I look up at MacIntyre and there’s a look in his eye that tells me he doesn’t want to stop, he’s just waiting for me to give him the reason he needs. I have to let him know that he’s won this battle so I can get the hell out of here. I screw up my eyes and whimper and believe me, there’s no play acting needed. MacIntyre straightens his uniform before kneeling down beside me so that his face is just inches from my own:

‘Ye need to watch your fuckin’ self, Pal,’ he hisses, ‘cos next time I might just finish what we started.’

He lifts his head back and spits at me, then wipes his saliva across my face with his dumpy hand. Instinctively I clamp my eyelids and mouth closed but still I can feel the warm lumpy texture against my skin, can taste his foulness on my lips. He lets go of me and moves towards the cell door, knocking to be let out. I wipe traces of him off my face with my sleeve, glaring at his doughy back.

‘Right, Son,’ he says amiably as the door opens wide, ‘I’ll give ye a lift hame.’

I can’t be sure whether he’s serious or I’m hearing things. Even so I don’t need telling I can leave twice.

I make my way out of the cell tentatively, my knee feels like it has exploded and I’m scared to put my weight on it in case I do it more damage. As I limp along the corridor out of the custody suite, one hand flat against the wall in order to keep my balance, other officers glance in my direction. Their glances are fleeting, followed by an approving nod at MacIntyre, the equivalent of a Facebook ‘like’ I suppose.

The Custody Sergeant is brisk this time, as though keen to process me and send me on my way before someone with a conscience sees the state I’m in. MacIntyre has been careful not to hit me anywhere that’ll show a mark while I’m dressed, but I can’t mask the pain radiating out from my knee nor the rivulets of sweat running from my hairline. The Custody Sergeant’s antipathy suits me; I just want to be away from here, so I can crawl into a corner and die. It seems ridiculous now but Mum wanted me to join the police for a while, back when I was in school. She thought it would be a good way to channel my aggression. She didn’t seem to get that they were often the cause of it.

Out in the car park the glare of the low evening sun forces me to shield my eyes as I emerge from the station building. The car park is quiet; shift change isn’t for another couple of hours so the only people milling about are those bringing food or clean clothes to sons or husbands held in the cells overnight, or drivers ordered to produce their documents at the main reception.

I wish I’d thought to phone someone. I pull my mobile out of my pocket and remember I don’t know anyone with a car apart from Marcus and there’d be more chance of him voting than coming to pick me up. All the while MacIntyre is hovering around me like an expectant father, even helping me down the station steps when my knee gives out. The touch of his hands on my arm makes me shudder, and the thought of climbing into a car with him fills me with dread. This is a man capable of carrying out two vicious assaults in one day – one within earshot of his peers, the other just yards from passers-by; just what the hell was he capable of if he knew he was totally alone?

‘John, wait up!’ We’re nearing a row of parked squad cars and MacIntyre has unlocked the nearest one. It’s the kiddie cop, bright eyed and eager like a new puppy.

‘Sarge has said I’m to go with ye,’ He slows to a stop by MacIntyre’s shoulder, leans into him so he can lower his voice. ‘Regulations an’ all that shite,’ he adds, then quieter still:

‘For ye own protection.’

I bristle, the one who needs protecting here is me, not this maniac, but then if Kiddie cop is tagging along MacIntyre should keep his hands to himself. MacIntyre catches my eye as though reading my thoughts and I force the corners of my mouth into a smile. We climb into the car and drive in silence bar the cackle of their radios and an occasional wise crack from MacIntyre regarding some of the call outs broadcast over the network. Tosser seems to be his word of the day and is used for criminals and colleagues alike, along with pedestrians stepping onto zebra crossings or small children who wave at his car. Kiddie cop is tapping away on his smart phone like a terrorist sleeper. MacIntyre doesn’t seem to mind, occasionally he glares at me in his rear view mirror and I glare back at him to let him know we are even.

As we turn down Leith Walk I see Aunt Jude with the twins outside Majestic Wines. They are walking arm in arm, Aunt Jude in the middle, heads tilted back to catch the last of the sun as they laugh and swing their shopping bags about them. They turn into the vennel that leads to their home, heads together as they share a joke. ‘Can ye take me down here?’ I ask quickly, pointing to the narrow entrance.

‘We’re no’ City fuckin’ Cabs,’ Kiddie cop snipes, but MacIntyre ignores him. ‘Aye, it’s nearer than your place,’ he agrees amiably, ‘Whereaboots?’ I point to the back entry where I want to be dropped off, knocking on the car window as we pass the women.

‘Ye know ‘em, like?’ Kiddie cop enquires, and I hear the meanness in his voice, the way he’s judging them because their clothes are shabby. A sly smile spreads across his face as he turns to look at me and there’s a glint in his eye like he has my measure. He wants to know if I’ve fucked them but isn’t sure he can get away with asking in front of MacIntyre. The car comes to a stop some twenty yards or so in front of them and the older cop studies them in his wing mirror. The girls have spotted me and nudge Aunt Jude; all three are now smiling and waving like it’s a limo I’m about to step out of rather than a patrol car. Their pleasure at seeing me makes me feel wanted. ‘They’re my family,’ I say proudly, before climbing out of the car.

Jude’s smile fades as I move gingerly towards them. ‘What the hell happened?’ she asks urgently, simultaneously unhooking herself from the girls and rushing to my side. ‘Lorella! Quickly, help him!’ she motions with her free hand for Lorella to move to my other side and help Jude carry my weight. Lorella’s twin, Marcia, takes her sister’s shopping bag, stepping in front of us so that she can undo the latch on the gate which leads to the back of their home. The girls make sympathetic noises and Lorella pats my arm every time I suck in my breath, Jude is already in practical mode, saying she’ll have a proper look and strap it up for me.

An old memory floats into my mind’s eye, Jude in a starched uniform, picking me up from school when Mum’s work ran on. ‘Didn’t ye used to be a nurse when I was little?’ I ask, eager to confirm or deny the picture in my head. Jude throws her had back and laughs, ‘Aye, Davy, right enough,’ she splutters, ‘I was also a French maid and a dominatrix the other days of the week, only your teachers asked me to keep my coat on if I was wearing those get ups when I came to pick you up.’

The girls, relieved I wasn’t going to pass out on them, join in: ‘Ye get asked to wear all sorts now though, Davy,’ Lorella begins, ‘I’ve got a traffic warden’s uniform I wear for one punter,’ ‘an’ I’ve got a lollipop lady’s uniform for one o’ mine!’ Marcia adds. ‘Including the lollipop?’ I ask mischievously and she nods, ‘Too right!’

I play along with the banter as a way of reassuring them I’m OK, although in truth it couldn’t hurt more if my leg had been hacked off with a blunt instrument. To their credit, despite seeing me climb out of a police car, injured, no one asks me any questions, although I’m not yet sure what answers I can give. As we pass through the gate into the girls’ back yard I look back towards MacIntyre’s squad car, still parked at the end of the close where he’d dropped me off. The kiddie cop, oblivious in the passenger seat, picks his nose with his index finger before transferring it to his mouth.

And MacIntyre, rigid in the driver’s seat beside him, stares at me as though planning how to wipe me off the face of the earth.

9

Once indoors I drop the bravado and let Marcia help me into a chair in the shared front room while I mutter every swear word I can think of to describe the pain.

‘Roll down your jeans Davy,’ Jude instructs and I lift myself gingerly off the seat as she helps pull my jeans down over my hips, halting mid-thigh. Lorella goes into the kitchen returning with what looks like a bottle of cough medicine and a blister pack of pills. She hands me two tablets: ‘Co-codemol,’ she says authoritatively, ‘swill them down with this,’ The bottle is labelled Oramorph and the patient’s name beneath it does not belong to anyone in the house. I unscrew the bottle cap and tip my head back to swallow the pills in two large gulps. Jude lifts the bottle from my hands and replaces the lid, placing it on the table beside me. Marcia, the quieter of the twins, steps forward: ‘Can I get you something, Davy?’ She asks. I nod slowly; already my senses seem dulled. ‘Drink,’ I gasp. Marcia fetches a bottle of brandy from a makeshift bar in the corner of the room and pours me a large glass.

‘You were lucky Davy,’ Jude says sternly as she cuts through the denim on my right leg so she can access my knee. I’m not sure I would describe today as one of my luckiest, but the morphine/brandy combo has started working its magic and I can’t be arsed contradicting her. In fact, I start to feel giddy, like everything’s a blast even when I see the extent of the damage: my knee has swollen to three times its original size. The women are frowning, which makes me want to laugh. Ignoring me, Jude continues:

‘This could’ve been a lot worse. The fact that you had jeans on meant the damage has been limited. The denim held your knee in place, providing support. You’ve been a lucky wee sod, Davy.’

She looks over at the twins who are standing like sentries by my side. ‘Get an old sheet,’ she instructs them, ‘cut it into wide strips………and find me some safety pins.’ The girls set about following Jude’s instructions, which gives her the privacy she’s looking for.

‘What the hell happened?’ She asks quietly.

‘The cop did it.’

‘Which one?’ she asks sharply, taking the glass I’d been drinking from and re-filling it with brandy which she knocks back in one go. ‘You mean the one who’s been causing trouble for you?’

I nod. ‘It was him that drove me here.’

‘Ye mean he did this tae ye then was going to take ye hame?’ Jude shakes her head angrily. ‘Shit, I wished I’d known, I was too busy looking at the state of you,’ she mutters, adding, ‘I didn’t pay him any mind.’

Jude’s looked out for me ever since I was a kid, threatening school bullies who made my life a misery, making sure Mum’s boyfriends didn’t pay me the wrong sort of attention. She means well but I doubt there’s little she can do to MacIntyre, other than give him an STI.

I give her the headlines, starting with MacIntyre’s assault on Daz, the robbery at the factory and my subsequent arrest. I leave out my car drive with Marcus; there’s nothing to be gained by revealing I’m now in debt to him, besides, there’s a limit to how much Jude will help me before deciding that Mum has a right to know. Don’t get me wrong, I think the world of Mum, but she’s always been useless in a crisis; Jude’s the one that I’ve turned to over the years and she seems to know instinctively what support Mum is grateful for her giving and what she’d resent.

Jude has been listening to me carefully as I tell her about the assault on Daz, her eyes darting to the front room door in case one of the twins walks back in. ‘Jesus Davy,’ she sighs, puffing out her cheeks like a mechanic assessing the work required on a damaged car. ‘Are you sure that’s what you saw? I mean, junkies’d sell the steam from their piss if they could get it in a bottle, if this Daz needs money he’ll not be fussed who he fucks, if it wasn’t your man…. it could easily have been someone else.’

Jude isn’t interested in the fact that MacIntyre is a cop; she’s serviced enough of them – both in and out of uniform – to know they’re as partial to a guilt free leg over as the next man. She’s shocked by my naivety: ‘You’ve accused a copper who hates you of having sex in a toilet-’

‘-against Daz’s will!’ I interrupt, reminding her.

‘Ye know that?’ she demands, ‘You’ve actually asked this boy to confirm he was there against his will?’

I shake my head: ‘I haven’t had a chance yet-’

‘-But still, you thought you’d rake it up without checking your facts first?’ I forget Jude has also serviced several lawyers over the years; her knowledge of legal argument brings a whole new meaning to on the job learning.

‘Ye think I like the men who fuck me?’ she challenges, not waiting for me to answer, ‘I hate most of ‘em, for their double standards and their nice lives, not forgetting the bastards who want to hurt you because their mummy didn’t love them or loved them too much. Most of the time I put on a brave face but sometimes they want to see me flinch, they’ll even pay me more if I do - are you sure that isn’t what you saw?’

I’d forgotten how much she could lambast you when she wants to make a point, I’m beginning to regret saying anything when she goes for the jugular: ‘I mean, you didn’t even see any of this did you? You heard it, from a toilet cubicle, but it may have sounded a lot worse than it actually was.’

I can’t think of anything worse than sucking MacIntyre’s dick but I have to concede she has a point. I’d been looking at this from my point of view; I’m not a junkie and I hate MacIntyre. How would I feel if I was desperate for money, for my next fix? Wouldn’t he just be a means to an end?

Then I remind myself he’s a cop and if word gets back to his superiors he’ll be up shit-street and he knows it. He also knows that no-one’ll believe me. Each time I’m arrested I become less reliable as a witness and making an allegation against the officer who arrests you is hardly original. Now I’ve shown my hand to MacIntyre all he has to do is keep pulling me off the street me until something sticks. Christ, I’ve been stupid, I can see Jude’s fear for me: I’ve handed him a reason to declare an all-out war.

Jude pours herself another brandy. Her hand is shaking slightly, causing the liquid to form little tears down the side of the glass. She catches me staring and turns her back to me.

‘Davy….’ The return of the twins stops her mid-sentence which is just as well as I’m starting to get tired. A cloudy haze starts to come down as the painkillers kick in and the room takes on a sepia glow. The women’s voices waft over me like a balm and my eyelids become impossibly heavy: Jude is instructing Lorella to hold my leg steady while she bandages it, ignoring Marcia’s questions about how my injury has come about. As I listen their voices become distant, like they’re coming from another room. Someone puts pressure on my knee as they pull my jeans back up but this time there is no pain. They’ve been cut mid-thigh showing off milk bottle legs which I find really funny. I try to join in their conversation but the words I say come out as a daft gurgle; Jude dabs the corner of my mouth with a tissue before continuing her task regardless.

When I awake it is gone midnight. I am still in the chair I’d collapsed into several hours before but a blanket has been placed across me and my legs lifted onto a stool. A glass of water has been left on a small table by the chair, together with the Oramorph and codeine. The house is dark and silent; the living room door has been left open but I see no lights coming from upstairs. I’m alone. The girls will have gone back to work; it’s early in prozzie terms, another hour of knee tremblers before they need call it a night. I lift my legs off the stool and tentatively place my feet onto the floor. As I try to put my weight on them the pain explodes in my knee like a detonated bomb.

‘Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!’ I grab the Oramorph and take a couple of gulps before breaking into the blister pack of codeine and swilling two tablets down with the tumbler of water. I lean back in the chair while I wait for the drugs to kick in, checking my mobile for messages. There’s a text from Jude to say she’s told Mum I’m staying at hers for the evening, and one from Tam reminding me to open up for him tomorrow.

Some chance.

My heart pumps with hope as I scroll through the remainder, and along with it, the dread of disappointment.

There is nothing from Candy.

The pain in my legs starts to subside and I push myself out of the chair as I need to take a leak. I stumble across the room, steadying myself against the door jamb as my head thickens. The toilet is upstairs and I find myself facing the staircase trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to get there. I turn and sit on the bottom step, pushing myself up each stair by my hands, resting midway before dragging myself up the final steps. Using the bannister to pull myself back onto my feet I feel euphoric once more as the pain ebbs away, my movements are less wooden as I hobble the last remaining steps to the bathroom. The pain begins to ebb but I start to feel dizzy and need to concentrate to make sure as much of the stream goes down into the pan as possible. A wave of nausea engulfs me as I lean forward to flush the toilet and I am sick several times. I try to move but the floor feels uneven beneath my feet. I can feel myself sliding further and further down the wall as though my legs have turned to jelly. I lean back and close my eyes.

The buzz as the strip light in the kitchen is turned on wakes me. I hear voices, laughter. A light goes in the hallway; music starts to filter up the stairs, current chart stuff that I don’t imagine is Jude’s choice. Cupboard doors are opened and closed; the clink of glasses being carried and of cans being opened. Jude’s 40-a-day voice, clearer than the others, concerned:

‘I’ll check the bedrooms.’ Her steps up the stairs are hurried.

‘Davy?’ she finds me huddled around the toilet as though we’ve become bezzie mates.

‘You OK?’ Her words are softened with drink but her eyes are full of concern.

‘I’ve been better,’ I say truthfully. Jude offers me her hand and I grip onto it gratefully as she helps pull me to my feet. Then, from nowhere I admit: ‘I thought Candy would ring.’

‘This girl you told me about?’ Jude raises an eyebrow, ‘Sometimes you don’t really know a person till you see them in a crisis,’ she advises, ‘problem then of course is it’s too bloody late.’

I’m worried that word of my arrest has got back to her. Without me there to explain, to reassure her that I’ve been released without charge, how will she know it was just another figment of MacIntyre’s imagination?

I lean my head back against the wall to get my breath back. ‘I wouldn’t put it past that bastard to call round her place just to tell her I’d been arrested.’

Jude sighs irritably, ‘Christ’s sake Davy, get a grip! There’s no reason he’d even know where she lives.’ She’s right of course. Maybe the drugs are fuelling my paranoia, either way I know I’ve got to put my deadlock with MacIntyre into perspective – he hates me, but is he so petty he’s willing to drag everyone around me into his pathetic little web?

I shudder as I try to ignore the answer that’s forming in my head.

Jude wraps her arm around me as she steers me to a bedroom at the rear of the house. It’s a box room really, just big enough for the single bed that’s been pushed up against the wall. She helps me onto the bed before pulling a thin sheet over me. She turns and looks at me brightly. ‘Things’ll look better in the morning.’

I hold her gaze. ‘Bollocks.’

We look at each other, then start sniggering like schoolkids. I’ve never understood the trite phrases people come out with in times of trouble and Jude feels the same. Sometimes we quote them just to wind each other up:

There’s light at the end of the tunnel.

It’s always darkest before dawn.

This too, shall pass.

The things people say to make a shit situation bearable. To remind themselves they might have it bad but it could have been a damn sight worse. Well, if life has taught me anything it’s that things usually do get worse and trotted out platitudes don’t make them any easier to bear. Jude has never tried to shield me from the truth; she’s always been willing to tell it like it is.

I ran away from home once, not long after that bloke beat the shit out of Mum. I waited until the middle of the night before slipping out, ending up on Jude’s front step as I had nowhere else to go. ‘Christ Davy, ye gave me a fright!’ she gasped when she opened the door, ‘Ye’d better come in then, eh?’ She led me into the kitchen, told me to sit myself down while she poured me a glass of milk.

‘So what is it then?’ She turned towards me so that I had her full attention.

I’d told her what I’d witnessed at home, Mum nearly having the life throttled out of her by a punter. She listened patiently, when I started to cry she rinsed a dishcloth under the sink and wiped my face with it.

‘What do you want to happen, Davy?’ she asked me softly.

I thought about her question. It’s easy to know what you don’t like or don’t want, but how could I describe an alternative if I’d no experience of it?

‘I want to live somewhere else,’ I said simply.

‘Where?’

‘With you.’

‘But then you’ll see me get hurt by angry men, too. How will that be any different?’

I thought about that. ‘I could tell my teacher.’ I answered reasonably. The teaching staff must’ve had me down as ‘at risk’, for I was always being taken to one side at school and asked how things were at home.

Jude nodded. ‘Ye could,’ she agreed, as though this was a viable option, ‘but then social services would take ye away.’

I’d already considered this. ‘But then I’d go to a new family.’ I answered brightly, ‘One where I wouldn’t feel frightened.’ I described the families I saw on TV: fathers with important jobs, mothers who wore aprons when they cooked, shiny children in fashionable clothes.

Jude lowered her head to mine. ‘Ye would think so, wouldn’t ye?’ she said reasonably, ‘After all you’re a bonny wee lad right enough, but let me tell ye that disnae happen, darlin’ - it’s the wee bairns that get picked by people wanting a family. You’re too big for a’ them now, you’d end up in some unit with problem kids who’ll take a pop at ye because you’re so nice.’ She paused, as though waiting for it to sink in.

‘So, would that really be any better?’

I shook my head anxiously, but I felt cheated by her reasoning. ‘So you’re saying I don’t have any choice?’ I spat angrily.

‘No,’ she soothed, ‘I’m not saying that. Far from it, but what I am saying is that different isn’t always any better. The busybodies at school see a kid with a prozzie for a mum, but how would you feel if you never saw her again? If you’d been taken away from her as a baby?’

She crouched down in front of me as she said this, her hands holding on to mine but her gaze was fixed on something in the middle distance.

‘You’d feel cut adrift Davy, that’s how you’d feel. Like there was a part of you missing. You’d yearn for something you’d never had, give anything to be amongst people with the same blood as yours running through their veins and trust me, you’d be nae bloody happier.’ The last part, spoken on a sigh, seemed to come from deep within Jude’s soul.

I sipped my drink in silence so I could process what she had said.

‘So you don’t think a problem shared is a problem halved, then?’ I piped up when my glass was empty. Jude looked at me as though I were simple. ‘God no, who the hell told you that?’

‘Some woman who came into school. She gave a talk in assembly about not letting anyone force us into keeping secrets. I couldn’t stop thinking about what she said so I told my teacher I spied on the girls when they got changed before games. I knew it was wrong but all the boys in class did it.’

‘And what happened?’

My shoulders slumped at the shame of it. ‘She gave me a detention and now none of my class will talk to me. The girls say I’m a pervert and the boys are calling me a grass.’

‘Christ, Davy, sounds like your problem quadrupled, to me.’ She cuffed me round the back of the head affectionately. ‘Let that be a lesson to ye.’

It was Jude’s honesty that made me return home that night. That made me realise running away wasn’t the answer, because the place I was running to could be a whole lot worse. I smile now as I recall that conversation. It was my first glimpse of adulthood: the realisation that disappointment is an inevitable part of it.

I let out a groan as a wave of nausea sweeps over me. Jude perches on the edge of the bed, her face serious. ‘How much medication have you taken?’

I shrug, ‘Enough to deaden the pain,’ I answer, ‘only it doesn’t seem to last’.

‘You need the hosp-’

‘No!’ I say irritably, ‘I’ll be fine, don’t fuss.’

Pursing her lips Jude gets up from the edge of the bed and moves to stand in front of the small window. It overlooks the back yard which is now cloaked in darkness yet she scans the horizon like an old sea dog looking for land.

‘Sorry.’ I mumble.

‘S’Okay,’ she acknowledges, not moving from her vantage point. ‘Ye know, Davy, you’re like a son to me,’ she says quietly, so quietly I’m not sure she means for me to hear. I stay silent; the fog is descending again and I’m enjoying the ride. ‘A bloody son to me you are, yet how does that work when I gave away my own kid?’

‘Ye were young.’ I remind her.

‘No younger than your mum.’ She says bitterly.

I don’t have an answer for that.

‘Mum says she was taken from you.’ I offer.

Jude shrugs. ‘Same difference. I didn’t care for her properly,’ I look at Jude in surprise. This was a side to her I’d never seen before. She was talking about herself. She turns to face me and there’s a bleakness in her eyes that she’s sharing for the first time.

‘I used to leave her on her own.’ She lowers her eyes as she says this. ‘The stupid thing is she never came to any harm.’

‘So what happened?’

‘I started taking her to nursery. Thought socialising with other kids would do her good. She made friends easy enough; started getting invited to their houses and that was the problem. At the time I was staying in a shit hole, remember the block of flats up the road that were condemned?’ I nod. A series of police raids had uncovered a large sex trafficking ring so prolific the only way to control the situation was to demolish the building.

‘Ye don’t really see a place till you look at it through others’ eyes, an’ their faces were a picture, right enough, when they turned up at ours. Lots o’ girls like me stayed there, the place was riddled with pimps and dealers. It was only ever gonna be a matter o’ time before someone picked up a phone to social services.’

‘Ye know, they took her on a Sunday.’ Jude laughs, but the sound is hollow, ‘I was naïve enough to think they didn’t work weekends. Answered the door as happy as a sandboy, holding her in my arms.’

Jude turns back to the window, to the sky so dark it looks like black card has been placed against the glass. ‘They let me see her regular like at first. Her foster family were a decent sort, didn’t judge me, you know? But then they split up, and Keira was transferred to a home. The council moved her about a bit after that, meant I couldn’t see her as much. Seemed to me they were trying to shake me off and in the end I stopped fighting it.’ Jude raises a hand so that her fingertips rest against the window.

My eyelids are heavy once more and I lean back against the pillows, fighting a losing battle to stay awake.

Jude sees that I am fading and pulls the curtain shut. ‘I just need to rest.’ I tell her.

‘What about your job?’ she asks.

I hadn’t thought about that. ‘I’ll see how I feel tomorrow, after I’ve had some shut eye.’ Right now my leg feels fine, like I could run a marathon if I set my mind to it. It will be a different story once the drugs wear off.

Jude nods, moving towards the door. ‘Better get back to the party,’ she states matter of factly, ‘got a punter downstairs that the twins are warming up for me. Says he can’t get it up without a bit of lezzer action.’

I put my hands over my ears. This is more information than I can handle at the moment.

I must have drifted off again, for when I open my eyes she is gone.

The music downstairs has stopped. Moonlight streams in through the crack in the curtains and I wonder how long I have slept. I reach for my phone to check the time:

3.20 am.

I push myself into a sitting position and shuffle along the bed so that I can place both feet on the floor. So far so good. I brace myself for the pain as I push myself to a standing position and it comes at me in waves but I can bear it, in as much as I know I’m only five minutes from oblivion if I need it. I move my good leg then drag my bad leg behind me; I can’t put my weight on it but the knack is to make sure there’s always something to lean on, or something to give me purchase so that I keep my balance. If I can get to grips better with the meds then I should be able to take the edge off the pain without knocking myself out. Maybe I’ll be able to open up Tam’s café tomorrow after all.

I step out onto the landing. The house is quiet except for the sounds coming from Jude’s room. If her punter’s still with her then they’ve not long been upstairs, they tend not to stay once they’ve had their bit of fun. The bed creaks rhythmically and Jude can be heard proclaiming how big and strong and hard he is and it occurs to me she’d be a great politician, with her ability to say something is so when it isn’t. The creaking gets faster which is my cue to press on; the last thing I want is to come face to face with her ‘client.’ At least with Mum’s on-line business the men are faceless, just a series of log-in IDs and avatars, making it less personal somehow.

I make my way across the landing, trying to work out how best to tackle the stairs when Jude makes a noise that sounds like a gasp. Finally. I wonder idly what excuse her punter’ll have for being late home. A crashing sound comes from behind me, stopping me in my tracks and I turn to look back across the landing. The noise coming from Jude’s room is louder now, frantic, like furniture being thrown about or someone being silenced against their will. Someone is hurting Jude and I don’t care if this is part of some elaborate sex game he’s got it coming to him. For a stupid split second I look back down the stairs, as though I’m expecting the twins to come running to her aid but she doesn’t need them, she has me. Adrenaline blocks out any pain from my knee as I run lob-sided towards Jude’s bedroom door, charging against it with my shoulder to give the bastard a measure of my mood. There’s a crunch as the door swings back on its hinges revealing Jude pinned against the bed, her fingers flaying wildly at the hands around her throat.

‘Ye bastard!’ I shout, lunging myself at the man kneeling fully dressed astride her. He turns towards me, grinning, and at first I am confused the way you are when you see someone you know out of context.

MacIntyre.

Even in civvies he looks an evil twat. His face is gleaming like he’s having the time of his life and he continues his strangle hold on Jude as though he was fully expecting my interruption. The memory of him sitting at the end of the close in his squad car staring right at me slides into view and I realise now that this was what he was plotting.

To come back and fuck Jude and make sure I knew about it.

I want to kill him there and then for using her to get at me but something is wrong. He’s got his revenge, he’s made sure that I’ve seen him by creating a disturbance he knew I’d respond to, so why the hell hasn’t he stopped? Why the hell is he still hurting her? These questions swirl through my head in a nano second yet it feels as though the moment will never end: Jude grabbing at his hands but they are locked tight around her throat, the sound of her choking, the low moan rising up that would be a scream if her voice box wasn’t being crushed. She looks tiny beneath him, his fat arse and thighs pinning her onto the bed, his sausage like fingers pressing onto her windpipe. In the seconds it takes for me to process the scene, I finally understand the truth of it – MacIntyre isn’t trying to wind me up.

He’s killing her.

I throw myself between them, grabbing at his knuckles but I can’t prise them away. I raise my fists to punch him repeatedly, but it’s like my hands are made of rubber, he doesn’t even blink.

‘You fuck! You fat fucking fuck!’ I yell at him, ‘Leave her! It’s nothing to do with her!’ I look at Jude and she stares at me as though I’m her hero, like she knows I’m going to save her and I grab at his hair and jerk his head down but it’s like I’m not even there. Jude’s fighting for her life and it’s like I’m not even fucking there. I shove my face into MacIntyre’s and scream at him to man up, to take it out on me, not some woman who can’t fight back but he doesn’t even hear me, it’s as though someone has hit my mute button. I throw another punch and this time as my fist connects with his face something inside my wrist cracks.

‘Leave her, ye bastard!’ I beg and he grins like my misery has made his day. Jude has been trying to bend his fingers back, to pry them from her neck, but her movements are slowing and her breathing is laboured. I hope the noise we’re making will rouse the twins but in my heart I already know how this will end.

‘Jude!’ I cry pathetically and there’s so much I want to tell her but not in front of this bastard, but then I look in her eyes and the light has already left them and it’s then that I realise two things: that I’m a chicken shit coward no use to anyone in a crisis and the woman I love even more than my mother is dead.

‘No!’ I scream, as though denying it will make it true. MacIntyre releases his grip; leaning back on his haunches he pats the side of Jude’s face as though he now wants to revive her. Too little too late I know, but I pick up a lamp on the bedside table and bring it crashing down on his back. He doesn’t react, merely picks the lamp up and puts its back in its rightful place. He’s on his feet now, brushing the creases out of his trousers, smoothing back his hair. It’s as though I’m no longer in the room.

Jude lies spread-eagled on the bed. She’s wearing a black bra but no pants; her make-up is streaked with snot and tears. The bed sheet beneath her is wet and stained and I can’t think of a more undignified way to die. The room starts to spin and I throw up down my shirt. The liquid is yellow and sour tasting. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. MacIntyre tucks his shirt into his trousers and fastens his belt buckle. All the while he is studying me.

‘Ye know what this means. Don’t ye?’ he asks.

I have absolutely no idea.

‘It means the end of your life as ye know it.’ He gloats. ‘When the police come they’ll find your prints all over the place, and two witnesses saw ye enter the victim’s house this afternoon, making you the last person-’

‘You and the kiddie cop?’

‘Together with the anonymous call from a concerned passer by reporting a disturbance from this property, oh, in about…’ He makes a show of looking at his watch,

‘five minutes’ time. Ye’ll still be in the vicinity even if you decide to make a run for it. No offence intended, like.’ He laughs, looking at my leg. ‘You’ll be picked up before the night is out, Pal, and this time the case will fuckin’ stick.’

An uneasy feeling starts to tingle in my head as I try to compute what he’s saying out loud and what he’s implying.

‘Marcia and Lorrella, they saw ye! They were with ye downstairs!’ Even as I say it I realise I’m putting them in grave danger but it’s like my mouth is disconnected from my brain. Instead of registering alarm MacIntyre throws back his head and laughs, the kind of laugh I imagine him doing in his local, surrounded by cronies.

‘Yeah, about that.’ He sneers, and his words come at me like a body blow. The tingle in my head moves down into my spine and I have to steady myself against the wall as I try to work out what he means by it.

The house is ominously silent.

Too quiet for the murder that’s just taken place. Jude’s struggle and my yelling should have brought the girls up here, shouting, screaming; between us we could surely have overpowered him. Where their absence reassured me they were safe it now fills me with dread and I wonder what the hell he’s done. My heart is thumping so fast I fear it’s lost its rhythm, my body begins to shiver and the bones in my legs feel as though they’ve turned to rubber. I start to back away, feeling my way along the wall as I’m too scared to turn my back on him. This fat bastard frightens me and I hate myself for that. That even now my fear of him trumps my rage. I thought rage made you powerful, made you capable of revenge but I can tell you that’s not true, that it’s another fucking cliché trotted out by those who don’t know any better. Rage makes you impotent; light headed, weak limbed. Your head is over-run by a kaleidoscope of images of the things you’d like to do but even the thought of them exhausts you, and unless you’re a psycho you’ll already be thinking of the consequences.

I don’t want to go back to jail.

As I leave Jude’s bedroom door I steal one final look at her. I know she is dead but the idiot part of me hopes her face will look peaceful, that although her passing was traumatic she is finally at rest. What I see is a dirty face twisted in fear, eyes open wide, searching for a child she wasn’t allowed to keep. I try to swallow but there’s a lump so big I fear it’s going to choke me.

MacIntyre pulls out his phone and starts tapping on the screen, his interest in me already extinguished. I go in search of the twins. My steps down the stairs are wooden; I have become a series of moving parts but nothing more. My head is empty save for that last image of Jude that seems to be tattooed on my eyelids. I propel myself in the direction of the back of the house, to the two rooms belonging to the girls. It’s like a macabre game of hide and seek: I know they’re here somewhere, I’m just not sure whether they’re alive or dead. I pass through the living room where I slept earlier this evening, pocketing the Oramorph and Codeine from the table beside the chair. For now, the adrenaline surging through me blocks out any feeling but I know I’ll need medication soon enough. At the back of the living room a door leads to two rooms, one accessible only by going through the other. When I first saw the layout of this place I wondered what the girls’ punters would think of this lack of privacy but the girls had laughed, amused by the notion that sex and privacy went hand in hand somehow.

I turn the handle, ignoring the thumping in my chest, after all the worst has already happened. MacIntyre could be bluffing, letting me believe some harm had befallen the girls to give him time to clear up in Jude’s room, remove any traces of his presence. But it’s the lack of what he said that unnerves me, the fact that he’s happy for me to make this discovery on my own. I try to think of a reason why the twins wouldn’t come to our aid with all the noise we were making upstairs and the only answer I come to is the one I fear the most.

The first room is Marcia’s.

Small, with just enough space for a double bed and a side table and a wardrobe. It was prozzie tidy: Sex toys and lubricants littered the small table, a waste paper basket overflowed with tissues and condom wrappers. I’d painted the walls for them last year, a job lot magnolia which they’d customised with stencils, love hearts in different sizes made it resemble a teenage girl’s room, or at least a teenage girl who had lots of sex. Marcia’s bed is empty. This makes sense. Jude said they were warming up a client for her, so they would have used Lorella’s room, which was bigger. MacIntyre would do whatever he had to do in the furthest away room so as not to pre-warn us of his plans. Jude and I hadn’t a clue what was going on while we’d been talking upstairs. I feel sick at the thought of what he’d been doing while the two of us were blissfully unaware. I feel even sicker knowing it was me that had brought this to their door.

Lorella’s room had been decorated identically to her sister’s but today that was where the similarity ends. Where Marcia’s room had pale magnolia walls Lorella’s are sprayed with scarlet, her side table and wardrobe are scarlet too. There’s a bitter tang in the air. The room smells of death which settles on my skin like a mist. I stand in the doorway trying not to breathe, waiting for the air from both rooms to equalise. Both girls are laid out like book ends in the centre of the bed, their necks cut from ear to ear. Every ounce of their blood that hasn’t sprayed onto the walls has pooled onto the bed before dripping onto the nylon carpet. Panic rises in me like bile. I’d call the police but MacIntyre is one of them, how many more are there like him, all too keen to help a scrote like me go down for this?

I stumble out of Lorella’s room, making my way back towards the hallway in time to see MacIntyre slip out through the back door carrying a black plastic bag. He must have brought a change of clothes for the clothes he’s wearing are spotless. My body starts to tremble at the thought of him planning this right down to that level of detail. The sound of a siren getting louder jars me into action.

I have to get the hell out of here.

10

Our house is in darkness. Mum, asleep on the sofa. The presenter from the BBC news channel looks sombre as she shows footage of a war torn city. Mum claims she likes to keep up with world issues, as though arming herself with other people’s tragedies will save her from her own. I turn off the TV; cover her with the blanket she keeps over the back of her chair. If only she fucking knew. I have a sudden urge to wrap my arms around her, to ask her to hold me like she did when I was little, but I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve anything ever again.

My body feels drained. The pain in my knee has returned good style, I’m sure it would hurt less if I cut through it with a hack saw. I stumble into the kitchen emptying my pockets of the codeine and Oramorph but I’m not going to take them, instead I throw them into the bin. I deserve pain. I don’t care if it blights me for the rest of my life; it’s a penance for what I have done. Or at least, the start of it. The smell of vomit coming from my clothes is vile. I strip them off, putting them straight into the washer, pushing several buttons until the machine begins to click and hum. I take a shower, standing beneath the jet of piping hot water for the longest of times, as though in some way it can cleanse me, as though it’s that fucking simple. The water begins to cool, but I stay there motionless, head bent, my forehead touching the cool tiled wall as the water runs over me, washing away silent tears.

My fault.

My fault.

My fault.

Whichever way you look at it I led MacIntyre to Jude’s door.

I dry myself, patting carefully around my bandages then put on a pair of cottons and a tee-shirt, throwing more clothes into a rucksack.

‘Hey.’ Mum’s voice from behind me makes me jump. She’s standing in the doorway of my bedroom, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. ‘I must’ve nodded off in the chair,’ she begins, combing her hair back from her face with her fingers. ‘I’ll not get back off now,’ she mutters, ‘fancy a brew?’ she turns back into the hallway, tightening her dressing gown around her.

‘Mum,’ I say quietly. When she doesn’t respond I say it louder: ‘Mum!’ She turns to look at me, one eyebrow raised but she says nothing. Instead I feel her gaze sweep over me, assessing my damp hair and the fact that I’m standing to attention in the middle of my room rather than slouching on my bed. Her gaze takes in the dressing on my knee that bulges out beneath my joggers and the bag that I’ve packed lying by my feet…the cogs are moving in her head, I feel the apprehension coming off her in waves. I walk towards her, already raising my hands in mitigation.

‘What the hell have ye done, Davy?’ She demands. Her words cut through me like a laser, telling me how it is between us, that as far as I’m concerned disappointment is her safest bet. Then something inside her seems to shift:

‘You look like you’re in pain.’ Softer now, so much so I can’t bear it.

‘It’s nothing.’ I say, deliberately misunderstanding her as I touch the bandage like a sacred talisman. I take a good look at her. At her lined face and her trusting eyes, at the love she’s trying to conceal because I’m frightening her. A spasm of anxiety pulses through me as I know she’ll never look at me this way again. She sees the tremor in my hand.

‘Davy, what’s wrong, love?’ she asks, already dreading the answer.

‘Please don’t hate me,’ I begin.

I open my eyes slowly and look around the small room. In the fading light I can make out an unmade bed adjacent to the one I’m lying on and a crumpled pile of dirty underwear on the floor. The bed I’m lying on has not been made, the stained mattress is bare and a coverless duvet has been folded to make a pillow. A yellow net hangs from curtain wire obscuring the view from either inside and out. A thin film of yellow coating indicates the usual occupant of this room likes to light up at night, the spoon on the bedside cabinet coated in a tarry substance indicates their preferred smoke is Crack. I quietly open the bedside cabinet: an assortment of tea-lights and biro casings confirm my suspicion.

I am struck momentarily by a wave of sadness that even this evidence doesn’t narrow down where the hell I am – so many of my old friends are addicted to something. It had been a way of earning easy money, I hadn’t given a thought about the consequences: mates relegated to shit lives in even shittier homes, any hope of a good future fading in line with their aversion to getting their arses out of bed. I look down at the piss-stains on the mattress and push myself into a sitting position, careful where I place my hands.

The bedroom door opens and a skinny boy in a cheap tracksuit enters the room carrying a mug of coffee and a slice of buttered toast, which he places proudly on the bedside table.

‘Alright, Davy.’ The boy says cheerfully, sitting cross-legged on the bed opposite. He pulls out a pouch of tobacco and Rizzlas and starts to make a roll up. He offers me his pouch but I shake my head, ‘Na.’

‘So what’s going on?’

A slideshow of images fast forward through my mind: Jude’s lifeless body after MacIntyre had strangled her, the twins head to foot in each other’s blood. I’d barely had time to tell Mum what had happened, to prepare her for the enormity of it when more sirens wailed nearby and it would only have been a matter of time before MacIntyre turned up officially at Jude’s place to ‘find’ the so-called evidence that will put me in the frame. Of course it had been too much for Mum to take in - it was too much for me and I had been there. Jude was like a sister to Mum, their friendship spanned back to before I was born and yet there I was explaining that I’d been present at her murder. I helped Mum through to the kitchen where she collapsed onto a chair. She couldn’t take it in at first, kept asking me the same questions over and over:

Why had I been there?

Why couldn’t I save them?

‘Mum,’ I’d pleaded, ‘you’re going to hear some things about me, some claims are going to be made that aren’t true.’

‘They never fucking are, Davy.’ She’d spat harshly, eyes glazed like she’d heard it all before.

‘You’ve got to trust me.’ I’d persisted.

Her mouth twitched. ‘I do.’

‘Only I’ve got to go away.’

I ran then. Out of the house, away from her cries.

The fastest way to make money when you have nothing is to sell your body or drugs. I’d grown up with prozzies but selling sex holds no appeal, call me old fashioned but I only want to sleep with someone I care about. Jude always used to laugh at that: Sleep disnae come into it, Davy, she’d remind me often enough.

So it has to be drugs then. The network of suppliers across Edinburgh is so large that on any given day you’re only five minutes from oblivion. I always swore I’d never sell the stuff. It was bad enough being a lookout for the local dealers when I was younger but there’s no room for my conscience now; I need money fast to help me disappear before MacIntyre sets me up for murder. One phone call later I arranged to meet a contact in the car park of Leith Waterworld who handed over £200 worth of pick and mix on credit because I told him Marcus knew I was good for it, concealed in a pizza delivery box in case we were being watched.

I needed a place to stay but hadn’t a clue who to approach. I figured it was best to keep moving, criss-crossing back roads and alleys until I came to a halt, breathless, outside a large Victorian building converted into a halfway house several years before. The skinny boy - Malkie, I was sure I’d heard him called that – had been heading up the front steps of the building after being locked out the night before when he saw me leaning against the metal railings along the edge of the pavement. Recognising me as a look out for one of his suppliers back in the day I reckon he saw an opportunity open up before him, for without asking questions he signalled for me to hide around the back of the building while he signed in the residents’ book, stopping on the way to open the fire escape door and smuggle me into his room a couple of doors down.

We’d not spoken a word at first, which suited me fine – visitors weren’t welcome over-night and even though the staff didn’t enter residents’ rooms they listened outside doors from time to time, making sure that no unhealthy attachments were being formed. I’d been here a couple of times before when I worked for the local dealers; some of their best clients have stayed here at one time or another so I was familiar with the rules. Things were changing though, the clientele was widening. Due to Government cutbacks the house was being used not just as a stepping-stone for ex-cons but also sex offenders whilst they were waiting to be re-housed. Yet Malkie wasn’t an offender, he was homeless. Kicked out of his home for being gay he was currently on the emergency housing list, waiting to be allocated his first council flat.

I hadn’t realised how exhausted I was until I woke just now. The fact that I could sleep at all shames me. I pick up the mug of coffee and nod appreciatively at my host.

‘Who you runnin’ from Davy?’ Malkie asks shyly. He looks up to me because I used to run around in Marcus’s gang, saw us as members of a hand-picked family. That unity earned us respect and I think Malkie hopes his small act of kindness will lead to some of the glamour rubbing off on him.

I shake my head. ‘You dinnae want to know.’ I say simply. I blow across the top of my coffee and take a gulp, trying not to pull a face – it’s steeped in sugar. I move my legs over the side of the bed and stand up tentatively as though checking they still work. A bomb goes off in my knee making me wince but pain is good, the ultimate payback, the gift that keeps on giving. I pull the curtain back with the tip of my little finger and look outside. A shortcut by the side of the building leads to Great Junction Street. There are several bus stops along the way and Waverley station is a ten-minute bus ride away. The small car park is empty, the residents not being the kind that have their own transport.

A police helicopter looms by overhead; the noise of its blades causes me to spill some of my drink.

‘S’Ok, Davy,’ Malkie reassures me. ‘There’s a gang going round stealing motor bikes, been going on for the best part of a week now, ridin’ them up and down the roads at the back near the school,’ he places his hand on my arm in a friendly gesture, ‘it’s them the helicoptor’s after.’

I didn’t realise I’d been holding my breath. ‘Any idea who it is?’

‘Nah, but kids probably though, eh?’

‘Aye.’

A bank of privets obscure the building from its neighbours; the gravel drive gives way at the back of the house to a patch of freshly dug earth in what was otherwise a neglected garden.

‘The staff want us to start growing stuff,’ Malkie informs me, ‘ye have to put your name down on a rota so everyone gets a turn.’

‘When’s your turn?’ I ask, trying to summon as much interest as I can.

‘Tomorrow,’ Malkie says smiling, ‘I get to choose where some of the plants go – we don’t have a gardener or anything, it’s up to me.’

I wondered if this is the first decision Malkie has ever got to make, the way he makes it sound like it’s a big deal. ‘That’s cool, man.’ I say evenly, turning to smile at him.

‘How long you been here?’ I ask.

‘Three months.’

‘You get on OK with them?’ I indicate my head towards the bedroom door, where the other residents would be getting ready for the day ahead: a trip to Job Centre Plus via the local playground. Malkie’s smile slips, one hand instinctively moving to his mouth to mask the lie. ‘Och, they’re OK; take a wee bit o’ getting used to, that’s all.’

There’s no way I’d be able to crash in his room without it coming back to haunt him.

‘I need to get away, Malkie,’ I begin, ‘but I need to shift some gear to raise the cash,’ I pull out the freezer bag full of tiny packets of powder and crystals from the pizza carton, watching as his eyes pop out on stalks, ‘are you willing to help me?’

We agree to rendezvous back at the hostel later this afternoon, Malkie reckoning he can offload his share to friends and other residents, while I try my luck on the south side of the city. Borrowing one of Malkie’s sweatshirts I pull the hood down low over my face, listening out carefully for the sound of sirens as I walk down the gravel driveway, staying close to the bushes in case I need to make another run for it.

It’s four thirty in the afternoon. Half an hour later than our agreed meeting time but Malkie isn’t waiting for me at the foot of the hostel’s steps as agreed. I check my watch once more before deciding to front it out with whoever is on duty, tell them I’m a relative, something, anything, to get me access inside. The heavy wooden door is slightly ajar so I push it wide. The glass panelled entry door is open too, one of its panels smashed as though someone has broken in. My chest begins to thud loudly, making me wonder if it can be heard outside my own body.

I creep along the hallway, my senses on alert for someone lunging from a doorway or creeping up behind me. The house is silent; the only noise to be heard is the sound my breath makes as it comes in shallow bursts. Outside, a police siren wails in the distance. I propel myself forward. I know better than to call out Malkie’s name, instead I mount the stairs in silence, telling myself there is nothing to be afraid of, since when did a junkie remember to keep to an appointment? Malkie will be smoking or snorting his profits away with a group of cronies right now, his concern for my welfare obliterated along with his concept of time.

The sight that greets me at the top of the stairs changes all that. A man lies sprawled across the top two steps, arms outstretched in the direction of Malkie’s room, as though trying to fend off an intruder. He is face down, the back of his bald head a mass of dark matter and bone where a bullet has exploded into his skull. I gag, pressing my fist over my mouth to block out the sound. I step over the body, holding onto the wooden banister to steady myself, careful not to step into the blood already pooling beside him.

‘Malkie?’ I manage to whimper as I round the corner to my friend’s room, hope swapping places with fear. The door to Malkie’s room has been left wide open and he is sitting cross-legged on his bed, a line of cocaine and a twenty pound note beside him. The force of the bullet to his forehead has caused his head to fall back against the wall behind him, his face frozen in a startled look as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

I have no time to think, the siren from several streets away is getting louder and it occurs to me that I might not have been the first to discover the bodies. I pause for a moment to consider my options. I’d come back for the cash Malkie had scored for me, but there’s no way I can go through the pockets of a dead man. Cursing my conscience I open the bedroom window and jump onto the soft earth below.

Standing on the corner of the street I watch two police cars cruise along the ring road, occasionally pulling into the side roads, pausing at the opening of a vennel as though looking for something. I step back into the shadows. My breathing is erratic, as though I’ve forgotten how to do it and my body’s refusing to remind me. I gulp air in greedily but can’t seem to let it go; my lungs feel full and my head feels as though it wants to roll off my shoulders. I lean back into the brickwork to steady myself. A boy on a motorbike speeds along the top road, his baseball cap turned back to front against the wind. Behind him a smaller boy straddles a bigger bike, eyes focussed on his pal in front, mimicking every move.

A gang of NEDs stagger towards the tower block at the end of the road, hands in pockets, hoods up, they pass me in a cloud of Cannabis, the leader acknowledging me with a nod. It doesn’t seem right that others can go about their business, laughing and getting off their faces like fuck all has happened while my world has changed beyond repair. The world I inhabit is still here but it’s different now, like a photograph left out in the rain.

‘You alright, pal?’ the NED leader hangs back, fixing me with stoned eyes.

It is only when I touch my face I realise I’ve been crying.

I phone Candy but her voicemail picks up. I toy with leaving a message but there’s nothing I want to say that’s safe to be recorded. I want to tell her what has happened, so she’s heard it from me rather than see it in the paper but how do I begin? I want to explain that I’m laying low because I need to clear my name and if I’m banged up inside I can’t do that.

I want to tell her she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

It occurs to me that she could be deliberately screening my calls but I cling onto the hope that her father is holding her phone and an even vainer hope she’s worried that I haven’t been in touch. Either way she must be wondering what the hell she’s got herself mixed up with, it’s not surprising her old man didn’t stick around long enough to make introductions. I don’t blame him; I’d be the same if she were my daughter. An image of a tiny Candy calling me Dad forms in my mind and I shake my head as if to rid myself of it. I don’t deserve happy ever afters, what with everything that’s happened I don’t deserve anything at all. I stare down at my phone. It starts to beep to tell me a message has arrived and my hand shakes as I tap the screen to retrieve it. A message from Tam:

Ye sacked.

I throw back my head to laugh but the sound is hollow. Right now work is the least of my problems but it rankles he thinks I’ve let him down. I’d text him back but I can’t risk it. I’ve seen enough cop shows on TV to know they’ll be able to trace me through my mobile. Pretty soon forensics will run the prints they find at Jude’s place and Malkie’s hostel through the police computers and my name will flash up before them. I need help, but from someone who won’t ask questions and can handle themselves when MacIntyre comes calling. I reckon I can use my phone one last time before I need to throw it away. I scroll through my contacts list, find the name that I’m looking for and hit the call button.

11

By the time the cab arrives I’ve smoked through three roll ups and limped up and down the street a couple of times in case the residents see me hanging about outside and get the wrong idea. They won’t call the cops around here, just come at you with a paving stone, give you a seeing to for lingering in the wrong place. I climb into the cab tentatively, my knee is stiff now, the tendons feel tight, like they’ll snap if I try to bend it. The cab driver watches me grimace when I knock my leg against the dashboard but says nothing, instead he puts two cigarettes in his mouth, lights both of them and passes one to me. I nod my thanks, taking a deep drag.

He’d passed his business card to me the day he’d driven Candy home after the robbery then dropped me off at Gus McEwan’s: Ken’s Cabz, available day or night. I’d keyed his number into my phone then forgot all about him. It’s always useful having a cab number on your speed dial and one that submits a monthly invoice to local businesses has the opportunity to bump up their fares here and there, to take account of any pro bono work they might do, or at least that’s how I put it to Ken when I phoned him this evening.

‘You’re a cheeky wee chancer, I’ll give ye that.’ He says to me as we head along Leith Walk followed by Leith Street and into the city centre, past a tram making its long awaited journey down Princes Street. It’s all I can do to shrug my shoulders. It doesn’t matter that Ken’s going to fiddle someone’s invoice; it’ll be a month before he submits it and probably twice that before he gets paid. This small act of kindness, that he’s willing to drive me across town when he could be earning proper cash is almost too much.

‘I have some money.’ I confess, ‘Sold a few bits to a mate o’ mine. I can pay ye.’

Ken considers this. ‘Keep ye cash, Son. We’ll stick tae our agreement, but thanks anyway.’

I smile at him gratefully. I’ve only half the cash I expected to make, and if my plan fails it may have to last me a long time.

‘How’s your girlfriend?’ Ken asks.

I sigh so deeply it feels like air is coming from the soles of my feet. At least my lungs are working again. ‘You tell me,’ I shrug, ‘I hav’nae seen her since the other day.’

‘The day I picked yous both up?’

I nod.

Ken smiles in sympathy, ‘That’ll be her auld fella then!’

I nod once more. ‘He seems hell bent on keeping us apart, right enough. I wouldn’t mind but he disnae even know me.’

‘Aye,’ Ken nods, ‘that’s Dads fe ye. I’ve a daughter mesel’, mind, sixteen like.’ He says no more, as though her age sums up the attitude, the battle he fights daily - and loses.

‘This guy’s made his mind up about me before we’ve even met.’ As I talk I try to look at it from Candy’s dad’s point of view.

‘I’ve been in prison,’ I say aloud, ‘I’ve done mesel’ no favours.’

‘We all make mistakes, Son,’ Ken offers kindly, ‘not like you’re Jack the Ripper is it?’ I wonder if he’ll feel the same once MacIntyre’s false evidence makes it into the papers. I decide to leave that worry for another day.

‘Can ye no’ go tae her work?’

If only. ‘Don’t think she’d thank me.’ I say truthfully.

‘Seems such a nice wee lassie, too,’ he says brightly, ‘always has a smile on her face when I go round there.’ I turn to look at Ken as he speaks; notice for the first time the pock marks on his cheeks, the bulbous nose that says he likes a drink when he’s not working. His hair stands on end, a bit like a sweeping brush with hard bristles and there are random flakes of dandruff round his collar. When he turns to look at me his eyes are kind, decent. It strikes me that there haven’t been enough men like him in my life.

‘Ken,’ I say carefully, ‘are you saying ye see Candy a lot?’

‘Aye.’ Ken acknowledges, ‘that boss o’ hers is the captain o’ the local golf club, spends more time there than he does at work. Likes a wee tipple too, if ye know what I mean,’ Ken jiggles his hand in the universal sign language for a pint, ‘got a ban last year, didn’t he?’ he chuckles like a dog who’s found a second dick, ‘can’t go anywhere without me now, I’m like his personal bloody chauffeur.’

‘So you’re in there every day?’

Ken nods. ‘Just said so didn’t I?’

An idea hatches in my head. ‘Ken,’ I say simply, staring at him with renewed admiration, ‘I could fuckin’ kiss ye.’

‘Only if ye want tae shit through ye teeth for a week’, he says good naturedly, ‘why, whadd’ya want?’

I tell him I want to sneak Candy a second phone so I can contact her. He must be an old romantic at heart as he seems taken with the idea. ‘Ye can invite me tae the weddin’, Son!’ He laughs when I thank him once more, then I remember I’ve not even been out on a date with her yet.

The cab slows outside a row of Victorian villas opposite Portobello beach. They are double fronted with large windows looking out onto the sea. Some have been converted to flats, others are B&Bs, with signs out front saying vacancies and wifi are available. One villa is set apart from the others by carefully planted shrubs which obscure it from its neighbours. There’s a Merc people carrier parked on the pink gravel driveway, a row of pot plants either side of the imposing front door. A discarded child’s bucket contains a selection of sea shells which have spilled out onto the gravel. There’s a light on in an upstairs bedroom, the sound of children’s laughter wafts down through the open window.

‘It’s like another world.’ I say simply.

‘Yup.’ Agrees Ken. Then, ‘Are ye sure ye want tae do this?’

‘I don’t have any choice.’ I reply.

I step out of the car, hoping that no one spots me from the front windows; the element of surprise will make all the difference. I hear the Skoda’s passenger window lower behind me and I turn around to see Ken watching me anxiously.

‘Let me wait for ye.’ He pleads. He looks genuinely worried.

I shake my head, shooing him away with my hand. I need to be on my own for this. Besides, I’ll not be thanked for bringing witnesses; it’s in Ken’s interest to get away.

Walking up the driveway feels like the walk of shame, but I can’t think of anywhere else I can turn. I slow my breathing down to steady my nerves. The doorbell is one of those fancy chimes, it goes on for ages yet at first no one answers. Then I remember the children laughing upstairs; kids from these houses probably get changed after school, bathed even, and I suppose their parents like to help them. As if on cue the door opens and a woman greets me jiggling a chubby little boy with curly black hair and dark eyes. The boy wears bright coloured pyjamas and wriggles on his mother’s hip. The woman is slim with shoulder length hair and a creamy complexion that contrasts with the child’s dark skin. She wears make up but not heavy like the women I’m used to, her clothes cling to her but not because they’re too tight. The child is bored already and tries throwing himself onto the floor so he can join his brothers who are beckoning him from the landing. Two boys like carbon copies of the toddler only taller and slimmer stand on the landing watching us and they laugh when their mother clamps both arms around the little one’s body. The woman smiles distractedly but I can see her assessing me: my pallid skin and unkempt hair, the swelling around my knee and Malkie’s dirty hoodie. Her smile begins to slip and she tightens her grip on the child. What she makes of me is anyone’s guess as a voice booms out from the belly of the house: ‘Who is it, Hun?’

She tilts her head waiting for my answer.

‘Tell him it’s Davy.’ I smile back at her.

Marcus stares at me. He looks like he wants to rip my head from my shoulders but he is trapped because his wife is standing in the hallway, watching to see who blinks first. I remain on the doorstep, Marcus hasn’t invited me in and I don’t expect him to. I say nothing, waiting to see how he wants to play this out. I’ll pay dearly for this, but I can’t see any other way.

‘Are you going to introduce me, Mark?’ His wife’s tone is light but curious. I don’t fit the demographic for this neighbourhood, for their lifestyle for that matter, and she’s trying to suss out where I do fit. The tension in the air is palpable; already I’m beginning to regret coming, or at least coming empty handed. I should have brought a bag of dusters to sell which would have given me a reason to be knocking on their door. Marcus laughs as though he’s forgotten his manners, turns a full beam smile onto his wife. He’s wearing a close fitting t-shirt and long baggy shorts, his feet are bare but there are traces of sand around his toes.

‘Sorry Gem, this is Davy.’ He offers. His voice is different, free of patios. He sounds educated, like her. ‘I meant to tell you he was going to call round this evening. He’s just started with us, doesn’t have his own suit yet, I said we’d got a couple of spares in the office that he could borrow.’

Marcus’s official business is security. His firm provides doormen to most of the pubs and clubs along Edinburgh’s George Street, employing around 250 bouncers. He has a small office in Dublin Street but it’s for show really. A book keeper comes in once a week to do the payroll; the rest of the time if anyone rings they get an answer machine.

Gem’s smile slips. ‘You’re not going in now, are you?’ It seems getting the kids ready for bed is something they do together; she looks at me now like I’m a nasty bastard that’s interrupted their routine and I feel myself redden. Marcus pulls a silly face which seems to be an in-joke between them for she laughs and turns her face so he can kiss her on the cheek. The baby raises his arms and chunners, so Marcus takes him from his mammy and lifts him in the air, spinning him around while making aeroplane noises. The boy’s pyjamas have been ironed and he flies through the air leaving a scent of freshly washed skin. He’s squealing with laughter and clapping his hands and I see all at once what I missed out on growing up. Marcus blows a raspberry onto the top of the toddler’s head before handing him back.

‘Sorry, Babes,’ he pleads, ‘won’t be long, I promise.’ His eyes as he waves to his family are laughing; when he turns back to look at me they are flint.

Marcus strides across the gravel, pressing a button on his key fob to open the garage door. His X5 is inside and it’s the only thing I recognise of the Marcus I know. He unlocks the car and we climb in silently. I wonder if he can hear the thud in my chest and whether it would make any difference if he could. We pull out of the garage and the shutter door lowers behind us.

‘Marcus, I’m-’

‘-Shut it!’ He hisses, ‘Don’t say a fuckin’ word!’

His fists are clenched tight around the steering wheel and I image them around my neck, pressing harder and harder. He’s the only one who is able to help me and I’ve broken his sacred rule: Never approach him on his home turf. I close my eyes, remind myself that I’m part of his crew again and that alone must count for something. When I open them again the seafront is behind us and we’re moving along a road that leads to Gus McEwan’s lock-up at the scrap yard.

The yard looks deserted and Marcus has to climb out of his car to unlock the padlock around the tall wire fence. As he does so two large Dobermans move towards him then turn back as though sensing his mood. He returns to the car, drives into the compound then stops the car once more to lock the gate behind him. This is the first time I’ve seen Marcus do anything for himself; he pays men to drive for him and open his doors then lock them; having to do these tasks himself compounds his anger. When he returns to the car he opens the glove compartment and retrieves a phone, punches a button and waits for the recipient to answer. When he speaks his patios has returned, turned up a notch as though making a point. I don’t understand all what’s said but I get the gist right enough: Devlin has been told to get his arse here fast.

Marcus drives as far down into the yard as we can get, we are surrounded now by broken cars piled upon each other, some have been stripped down into smaller parts for resale, others remain intact, awaiting their fate.

A bit like me, I suppose.

Marcus stops the car. Without uttering a word he reaches down between his legs, pulling out a gun from under the driver’s seat. He turns the gun over in his hands as though this is the first time he has ever held one and he’s fascinated by the feel of it. The breath catches in my throat and I am aware of time slowing down as I watch him decide what to do with it. Out of nowhere his left hand shoots out and grips the back of my head, slamming me down face first onto the dashboard. I feel a crunch as my nose breaks; the warm sensation of blood spilling into my mouth. Lights explode across my eyes and when my vision clears I see that Marcus is pointing the gun at my right temple.

‘Don’t. You. Ever. Come. To. My. Home. Again.’ Marcus moves so close to me I can feel his breath on my face. His face is twisted and I know there is nothing I can say now, nothing I can do to stop him from killing me if he wants to. I’ve seen enough destruction over the last forty eight hours to know that survival has nothing to do with the victim’s strength or will, just how angry or mental the killer is. As I look into the barrel of the gun something inside me snaps and I know that I’m not afraid of it, that this gun is my one true friend, for it can take me away from the hell my life’s become.

Death is easy.

It’s living that’s fucking hard.

‘Kill me!’ I yell at Marcus, spitting out broken teeth and stringy blood. ‘Go on then!’ I urge, my fist banging onto the dashboard over and over. ‘Do us all a fuckin’ favour!’ My response shocks Marcus and his grip on me loosens but I don’t move. I don’t want to move. Suddenly it’s OK to be bent over like this, waiting for my head to get blown off because that’s all I deserve.

All I fuckin’ deserve.

I try to find the words to tell him about MacIntyre’s murder spree but all I can picture is Marcus playing aeroplanes with his son and I realise that I’ll never have that life; It wasn’t mine as a child and now I’ll never have it because Candy will think I’m a killer and she’s right. I am a killer. I’m like a disease, a deadly infection killing everyone I touch. I don’t deserve to exist.

‘Marcus,’ I say again, quietly now, reaching out towards the gun. ‘I’m sorry, but I no longer give a shit,’ My right hand is on the gun, my thumb is edging its way towards Marcus’s index finger resting on the trigger. He is staring at me, the way rubberneckers stare at the wreckage of an accident.

‘I’ve had enough,’ I say simply, before squeezing the trigger.

12

I open my eyes to see a man standing over me. He’s holding onto my wrist whilst looking at his watch. The man is casually dressed, coloured jeans with a woollen jumper. His hair is thinning on top and he wears small round glasses that have slipped down his nose. He looks intelligent, the kind of person who doesn’t care about how they look.

‘Fuck are you?’ I ask, but my words feel slurred as though my tongue has swollen to twice its size.

‘Ah! Back in the land of the living then!’ He laughs as though he’s said something funny before pulling a phone out of his pocket. ‘Excuse me,’ he says politely, ‘I just need to make a call.’

He steps away from me and I realise I’m lying on a bed in a small room. The walls are tiled floor to ceiling and the only light is provided by fluorescent strips overhead. A narrow table runs the length of one wall and I make out a set of scales, a camera and a saw. There is a table beside me with what looks like a collection of metal knives and scissors laid out on display. The room smells of disinfectant and something else quite unpleasant and I realise I must be in hospital although I’ve never been to a ward that looks anything like this one. I try to sit up but that makes me feel dizzy.

‘Whoa, easy there.’ The man rushes over and places a hand on my shoulder, ‘better to lie still a while longer.’ He explains, ‘Not uncommon after surgery to feel nauseous.’

‘Wha-?’

The man speaks into his phone hurriedly: ‘Soon as you can, Marcus.’

Marcus? I remember setting off in Ken’s cab to ask Marcus for help. I remember ringing the doorbell. I remember him going ballistic at me. The gun….

The man puts his phone back into his pocket and gives me his full attention.

‘My name is Donald. I performed a procedure this evening to remove a piece of torn cartilage from your knee. It had become infected; you were quite delirious by the time you got here.’

I don’t understand. I remember grappling with Marcus for the gun, even pulling the trigger.

‘But what about the gunshot wound?’ I ask.

Donald’s face is blank.

‘I shot myself.’

‘No gunshot wounds I’m pleased to say. Though the same can’t be said for all of Mr Dreyton’s…referrals.’

‘Can I sit up, please?’

Donald looks confused, as though patient comfort is someone else’s remit only there’s no one here he can delegate to. ‘Just a minute,’ he says, heading towards the only door. ‘I’ll need to get you a wheelchair.’

Nothing makes sense. I try to push myself up again but my hands slip and when I lift my head I realise I’m not in a bed, I’m still on the operating table. My fingers run over the cold metal beneath me and I remember being carried in, struggling, and Donald’s face asking me if I was allergic to anaesthetic before scratching the back of my hand then asking me to count backwards from ten. I look down at my body just as Donald returns, pushing a wheelchair and looking very shifty. ‘Marcus is on his way.’ He informs me. ‘We need to get you ready for departure.’

‘Why am I still wearing my clothes?’ I ask reasonably, ‘I thought ye had to wear a gown if ye were going for an operation. And why am I not back on the ward? Did I wake up sooner than ye expected?’

Donald clears his throat, ‘The bang to your head didn’t do any damage I see.’

I raise my hand instinctively to my face. An image of Marcus’s dashboard looms before me.

‘Ow.’ My nose feels as though someone has flattened it with a brick and when I run my tongue along my front teeth they are jagged.

‘Marcus asked me to treat you.’ Donald explains, ‘Life threatening injuries only. You’ll have to get the cosmetic stuff done through the proper channels.’

He helps me into a sitting position on the metal table and then down onto the floor where he manoeuvres me into the wheelchair. My repaired knee is covered in a dressing but there’s very little swelling compared to how it had ballooned after MacIntyre had kicked it. Without warning, the last few days play out before me as I remember what he’s done.

‘I need to get out of here.’ I say quickly to Donald. ‘Before anyone else sees me.’

Marcus should never have brought me here. It’s too bloody risky. Cops are stationed in the emergency ward twenty four hours a day, how the hell did we get passed them?

‘What about the other staff?’ I ask, ‘Can they be trusted not to say anything?’

‘There is no one else.’ Donald informs me.

‘It’s midnight.’ He adds, by way of explanation. ‘The next shift doesn’t start until six am tomorrow.’

‘Oh.’

‘And as for the other patients,’ he adds mysteriously, ‘they’ll not utter a word.’

‘How can you be sure?’ I press.

‘Because, young man, to use the common vernacular, they’re dead reliable.’

My brow furrows in confusion.

‘You’re in the mortuary.’ He explains.

Just then the door bursts open and Devlin, Marcus’s right hand man swaggers in.

‘Misser Drayton sen’ ‘im tanks.’ He drawls, handing a thick brown envelope to the doctor. Donald accepts the package without counting its contents then points in my direction.

‘He’ll need his dressing changed in a couple of days …’ His voice trails off as he realises he’s talking to someone who doesn’t give a shit.

Devlin helps me to my feet and asks if I think I can make it on foot to the car which is parked directly outside the entrance. The question is couched in a way that means the right answer is yes, so I nod and suck in my breath each time I put my weight on my bandaged leg. To be fair, the pain is nowhere near as bad as it had been before, and I try to blank out Jude’s voice urging me to get proper medical help. I wonder if there’ll be a time when it won’t hurt to think of her, or whether I’ll be resigned to pretending she never existed because the alternative hurts too much.

Marcus is waiting in the back seat of the X5, sunglasses in place even at this hour. I feel like I should raise my hand in greeting but decide against it, given the last time we met we both wanted to blow my brains out. I follow Devlin around the side of the vehicle; he climbs in to the driver’s seat and I climb into the back. Barrington is in the front passenger seat but it’s like I don’t exist. Immediately Devlin begins to drive and to be truthful I don’t even care where they’re taking me. I imitate Marcus and turn my head towards the passenger window like we’re tourists admiring the view. He says nothing, so I don’t. My face is too raw to get on the wrong side of him again.

Several seconds pass.

‘Yi some sick fuck or what?’ Marcus demands, still looking out through the window.

I turn to look at him. He’s wearing a designer suit with an open necked shirt. He always dresses like he works for some hot shot legal firm but I suppose that’s all part of how he divides his life: the sharp-suited gangster and the surf’s out father of the year.

‘What do ye mean?’ I ask.

Marcus snaps his attention onto me, studying me like I’m stupid or playing him for compliments. ‘Yi pull de trigger! Lucky for you it wasn’t loaded.’

‘Mebbe that’s a matter of opinion.’ I shrug.

He stares at me but it’s not like we’re in a stand-off, I think I genuinely freaked him out yesterday. He’s used to people begging for their life, how can you control someone if they no longer give a fuck? He hands me an early edition copy of tomorrow’s Evening News. Another one of his contacts, I guess. Pictures of Jude and the twins are on the front page beneath the thoughtless headline: Working girls slain by killer on the loose. I throw the paper onto the seat between us.

‘Fucksake!’ I explode. The paper’s telling its readers that there’s no need to be fearful - only prozzies are dead so no real harm done.

The photos are old too, blown up out of proportion and taken on camera phones when they were crap. Their faces are blurred and the pictures taken when the women were pissed or high as their eyes are dead and their smiles overdone. The article is brief, no one cares when a prozzie is killed so there’s no need to interview their friends; instead, a brief run-through of the investigation is given: police are making house to house enquiries; anyone with information should contact Crimestoppers.

I look over at Marcus. ‘How..?’

‘Dey work fe me.’ He said simply. ‘Or dey use to…’ This couldn’t be right. Jude had been pimped out when she worked at the Fort but the police had raided that place, arrested the Romanian gang running the scheme at the time. It made the national news because a ring of sex traffickers had been arrested; underage girls had been kept in the flats illegally, brought over from Eastern Europe to service wealthy men too frightened to fiddle with their own kids. At the time the police had milked the publicity, giving interviews on camera about the year-long operation yet it had been no secret what was going on. The fact they’d left those girls to be fucked twelve months longer than they needed to just so they could build a case was sinful. Rumour was there were senior police involved in the paedo ring, but make an allegation like that and you’re treading on very thin ice. With the flats being torn down I thought it meant Jude could work for herself but I see how naïve I was; the regular prozzies were simply sold onto the highest bidder, like job lots in an auction.

But still.

‘I never saw ye around the place.’ I tell him.

Marcus shrugs. ‘Y’eva see me dealing?’ He asks.

I see his point. Then, ‘So how did ye know we’re related?’

Marcus laughs, ‘Yi juss tol’ me.’ he says, then, ‘Me knew she a frien’ a yi mudda’s. From back in de day when she on de game too. When I ‘erd about de murders I reckon I fin’ de reason yi wen’ loco yessaday.’ He moves his index finger in a circular motion at the side of his head in the universal sign of a crazy person.

‘I was there.’ I say quietly.

Marcus looks at me sharply. ‘Yi kill ‘em?’

‘No! She was my fuckin’ aunt. They were my friends.’

Devlin watches in the rear view mirror, awaiting his boss’s reaction.

‘I saw it happen.’ I tell them, ‘I saw him kill her in front of my own fuckin’ eyes.’

‘Who?’

‘That bastard cop! MacIntyre!’ I can feel my breathing going out of control once more. ‘He’s going to pin it on me too. That’s why I came to ye, I need ye help Marcus.’

‘Why did he kill dem?’

‘Just to show me that he could!’ I spit, ‘That he could get away with it and set me up.’

Marcus doesn’t look convinced.

‘He’s the sick fuck, Marcus!’ As if that explains everything.

I know I need to give him more, I just don’t know if I can get my head around it yet. I try to put the events in order in my mind, remembering to start at the beginning.

I tell him about the number of times I’ve been lifted by the police but Marcus’s face and those of his cronies are blank and I remember that I’m talking to black men. Being pulled over by a narky cop is a default setting; they are subjected to this so regularly there must be a section in the policing manual to train for it. I try again, this time telling them about the threats MacIntyre had made and how he attacked Jude deliberately so that I’d run in and find him with her. As I tell them how it happened I conjure up the image of her lying broken on her bed and I have to blink several times to remove it.

‘I might not have been there to see it but I know he killed Malkie too.’

Marcus looks at me sharply. ‘Who’s Malkie?’

‘It disnae matter.’ I shrug, but I feel guilty for how that sounds. ‘He was a junkie
friend; tried helping me out, s’all. Didn’t deserve tae be killed.’

‘An’ dis Babylon did it?’

I hesitate, then nod. It was too much of a coincidence to be anyone else.

‘Look,’ I plead, ‘I need time so I can prove he did it.’

Marcus nods at Devlin which must contain some hidden message as he steps out of the car to make a call. I feel safer keeping Devlin in my eye line, so I watch him as he walks around the vehicle, back towards the gate where I guess the signal is better.

‘You mustn’t kill him, Marcus.’ The words are out before I can stop them but that’s the truth of it. Marcus will want MacIntyre dead for killing his girls and as much as that would please me he can’t do it yet.

‘He’s already told me he’s going to frame me for this, if he has his way I’m going to go down for a long time.’ I search Marcus’s face for some level of understanding. ‘If anything happens to him before I prove my innocence then you might as well throw away the key.’

Bent coppers don’t work alone; MacIntyre’ll have his back covered by mates on the job; mutual arse covering by comrades as bent as him and colleagues too spineless or too close to retirement to rock the boat.

‘I need your help, Marcus.’ I plead, ‘I need money and phones, somewhere to stay. Let me have this time to clear my name, then he’s all yours.’ It hurts me to say this, I want to be the one to avenge Jude’s death but I’m not a hardened killer; I’m a wee neddy gobshite way out of his depth already.

The car door opens; Devlin climbs in, pocketing his phone. He’s either got a copper on the payroll or a hack that owes him favours for he nods in my direction as he turns to update Marcus.

‘Him tellin’ de trute boss. A bwoy was shot dis affernoon at a hostel. Him case worker too. Babylon dem tink it drug related. Victim had been seen sellin’ gear.’

I lower my eyes. I can feel Marcus’s glare bore into the top of my head.

‘My fuckin’ gear?’

I nod guiltily. I should’ve known better to enlist a junkie in palming off goods for me. Malkie might as well have shouted it from the rooftops.

‘It isn’t gang related, Marcus.’ I say in my defence.

‘Me fuckin’ ‘no dat!’ he spits, ‘Me de fuckin’ gyang leader!’ He sucks air through his teeth which comes out like a whistle. ‘Yi tink dey need an excuse to crawl all over us?’ he hisses.

I drop my gaze to my hands sitting limply on my lap.

‘OK,’ he says wearily, scratching the scalp visible between his mini dreadlocks. ‘Dis is what me do.’

I raise my head a little; try my hardest to meet his eye.

Devlin has brought me to a derelict townhouse in the city centre that Gus McEwan’s construction company is turning into flats. Work was suspended due to lack of vehicle access during the tram works and McEwan’s lawyers are locked in discussions with the council over compensation as the buyers subsequently pulled out. It’s a perfect place to keep my head down as it’s right under everyone’s noses. Marcus has sent me the two mobile phones I asked for, both pre-paid, pay as you go, and after copying the numbers I needed onto my new phone Barrington took my old one away to be destroyed.

They’ve given me cash, but not too much, Gus’s shipment of guns is arriving soon at Leith Docks and Marcus wants to keep me close and needy. I don’t blame him. If the job goes according to plan our original agreement still stands: Marcus will get me the name of the armed robbers who terrified the shit out of Candy, with the additional condition that he’ll give me enough cash to help fund me clear my name.

After a fitful sleep I wake early and ring Ken the cabbie and arrange to meet him at the corner of York Place and Broughton Street, the high visibility vest and hard hat I found in one of the townhouse’s empty rooms give me the perfect cover. Ken is waiting where we agreed and I climb in to the passenger seat grateful to see him. We nod at each other and I hand him the second phone, already populated with my new mobile number. The beauty of Ken is that he never asks questions. If he’s wondering why I’m dressed like someone from Village People he doesn’t show it. Instead he looks at my leg, ‘See the limp has gone.’ he says.

‘Aye,’ I nod.

‘Swapped it for the broken nose, then.’

‘Right enough.’ I grin like a mad man to show him my broken teeth.

‘Aye,’ Ken laughs, ‘Ye might want to rethink that look when this poor girl agrees to see ye.’

If, I remind myself.

‘So you’re pickin’ her boss up tomorrow afternoon?’ I check.

‘Aye.’

‘And you’ll tell her to hide it from her Dad like, and that I’ll call her on it as soon as I can.’

‘Aye, Roger that,’ Ken rolls his eyes at my fussing, ‘I’ll get the phone to her even if I have to absail from the fuckin’roof.’

‘It’s a single storey building, Ken,’ I remind him, ‘but I take your point.’

‘Thank Christ for that.’ He grumbles good-naturedly.

I hand Ken some cash for his trouble but he pushes it back at me. ‘Keep it,’ he says, ‘Ye never know, there may be somethin’ ye can dae for me in the future.’ I nod, happy with that bargain, although something tells me he already has a job for me in mind.

We’ve been sat in the cab for no more than five minutes but the traffic wardens are circling around us and Ken gets fidgety. I climb out of the car, pulling my hard hat low over my forehead. There’s a newsagents across the road and I call in to buy a bottle of coke and a couple of papers. The Asian man behind the counter doesn’t give me a second glance yet I’m shaking when I hand him my money: Jude and the twins are on the front page of the Scottish papers. It’s the same photo as on the cover of the early edition of the Evening News yet the sight of them jolts me, a reminder that the nightmare I’m living is real. I need to hurry back to my room, see if anything new has been written.

The sun shines steadily as though it’s forgotten this is Scotland and people are walking about wearing clothes they’d normally save for Spain: tattooed men in wife beater vests and women in skimpy tops with bras showing. Workmen wear high viz vests over bare skin. Pavement cafes are doing a roaring trade as workers jockey to find somewhere to tan during their break. Every available bench or patch of grass is taken, yet still the crowds keep coming.

I wish I could stay out here, take my top off and catch the rays, spend the day drinking with Candy.

I wish I could see Jude again.

The traffic lights at the crossing on Broughton Street take an age to turn red, as though the council are making amends for the years of tram disruption by allowing cars to move freely, unhindered by road crossing pedestrians. I turn to look at the crowd behind me to gauge their mood. Stepping into the traffic to force it to stop only works if there’s ten folk behind you, preferably disabled or pushing oversized prams. I catch the eye of someone several rows behind me and he looks away so quickly I feel a ripple of alarm.

I’m being followed.

I take my chances and step into the road. A BMW driver slams on his brakes before banging his horn in a tune of shame as I avoid making eye contact and scuttle across the remainder of the road. The other pedestrians, smiling at my discomfort, take the opportunity to step around the car as the shaken driver looks on. As I reach the other side I check the crowd behind me once more but all I can see is a wall of people going about their business, none of them showing any particular interest in me. I increase my pace. I need to get back indoors as soon as I can to scan the papers, see what’s been written since Marcus showed me the early issue. I look about me but can’t see anyone I recognise, or even strangers who look shifty for that matter, yet the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach won’t go.

I let myself into the building through the main door, climbing cautiously up the three flights of stairs to the third floor where I’ve set up camp. My knee is miles better but still creaks a little when I bend it and what pain there is I’ve got used to. The rooms are spacious with high ceilings edged with ornate plaster cornices which knowing what I do about Gus McEwan will eventually be stripped out and replaced with artex. I’ve been told to only use one room, so I’ve chosen one at the back of the house which hasn’t yet been stripped out: a small settee will double as my bed and Devlin dropped off a microwave and kettle and a box of Pot Noodles earlier which will see me through the next couple of nights.

I throw myself onto the settee, working my way through the papers to see what information has come to light since Jude and the twins’ murders had initially been reported. I suppose there’s some daft laddie in me expecting to see a picture of MacIntyre being led to the cells in cuffs, the evidence against him overwhelming. But then as Jude and I used to joke, there’s no such thing as a happy ending, why the hell should this be any different? MacIntyre will make damn sure I’m in the frame and just because my name hasn’t been mentioned in the press doesn’t mean to say I’m not already banged to rights with the police.

There’s a small breaking news item in the City Roundup section:

Two men found dead in a hostel in Leith, a spokesperson for Police Scotland said they were treating the incident as suspicious.

No shit. The Evening News continues their front page photo of Jude and the twins with an article on the centre pages. The story is a rehash of the earlier report, with one new development:

Police are keen to speak to a man seen leaving the crime scene in the early hours of Tuesday morning. He is described as white, medium build, wearing ripped jeans and walking with a pronounced limp.

At least my leg won’t give me away any more. The article is followed by a feature on the state of prostitution in Scotland, the journalist claiming these deaths wouldn’t have occurred if the police had continued their ‘live and let live’ stance concerning Edinburgh’s notorious saunas. I screw the paper into a ball and throw it across the room. To reduce Jude’s death to a point scoring exercise is insulting.

I move my hand instinctively to my pockets to feel for my cigarettes and realise I smoked my last one with Ken. I’ll not settle without a fix of nicotine inside me so I push myself to my feet even though I’m in no hurry to go back outside; I feel safe within these walls; safe and useless. I move over to the large dirty window, scanning the street below for some sign that I’m being watched, a man in a raincoat standing beneath a lamppost striking a match perhaps, or a surveillance van with a steady stream of people climbing in and out of it. Instead all I see are the same fat workmen dismantling traffic barriers and dumpy girls wearing hot pants Rihanna would baulk at. Sighing, I head for the door.

It’s when I step out of the newsagents for the second time that I see him. He’s startled that I’ve caught him out, like he’s been found taking photos of his genitals. He’s sitting across the road in a café not meant for people like us: it has tablecloths and teapots and women with large handbags sipping from china cups. He’s so out of place, like a BNP supporter in a Gospel choir, that I feel almost sorry for him. I wave at him to confirm he’s been rumbled; he nods sheepishly and practically runs out of the café.

‘What the fuck?’ I grab his arm in case he’s planning to out-run me but he stops dead in his tracks without a struggle.

‘Were you following me before?’ I demand.

Brad looks away as though eye contact will answer my question. He shrugs.

‘I was looking for ye.’ He says simply.

‘Well ye fuckin’ found me, Brad, man, then ye disappeared.’

Brad continues to look everywhere but at me, scanning the crowd as though storing their faces to memory.

‘I lost ye when ye crossed the road,’ he says as though it’s me that’s done something wrong. ‘I wasn’t sure where ye went.’

‘So ye thought ye’d take tea while ye waited me out?’

Brad’s neck reddens and he finally turns to face me. ‘Look,’ his face is serious, his eyes roam over my shoulder for so long I turn to see what he’s looking at but no one is there.

‘Can we go somewhere else?’ he asks, and I’m torn about taking him back to my hideaway. I stand my ground. ‘Whatever it is ye’ll have tae tell me here.’

He stares me down.

‘I think ye being fitted up for murder, Pal.’

‘OK,’ I say, stopping him from saying anything else, ‘I think we do need to go back to mine.’

13

Brad folds himself onto the settee, his knees and feet jutting out at awkward angles. He’s a big man and there’s no room for me without us both feeling awkward so I perch on an arm, my feet resting on the seat cushions, while he tells me what he knows.

‘Polis came in the VA looking for ye, night before last.’ he begins. ‘Dinnae worry, naebody said that they knew ye. They passed a photo round; barmaid said she didn’t remember ye.’ I smile my gratitude.

‘Thing is,’ he continues, ‘this cop, he kept asking the same questions over an’ over, “Did we know ye aunt was a prozzie?”’ Brad raises his hand as though fending off my objection, ‘nae offence like mate, then he asked if ye mebbe had a problem wi’ prozzies.’

I throw my head back and laugh; a hollow laugh that resembles a witch’s cackle.

‘My Ma’s a fuckin’ prozzie!’ I shout with pride, ‘How the hell can they say I hate prozzies?’

Brad stares at me as though I’ve lost the plot. ‘Because three prozzies are dead,’ he states calmly, ‘an’ he’s saying you were the last person to see ‘em alive!’ He catches the look on my face. ‘I’m sorry, mate.’ he mumbles, only I’m unsure whether he’s referring to the murders or Mum’s occupation.

It’s my turn to shrug. ‘This copper, the one asking all the questions. What did he look like?’

Brad runs his fingers across the top of his shaved head and grunts. ‘Dunno, all look the same to me.’

‘Fat fucker with a red nose, mean lookin’ eyes….?’

‘Looks like a sly twat?’

‘That’s him!’

‘Bastard.’ We say in unison.

‘I had a copper after me once.’ Brad confides, ‘Got a name for meself growing up, right enough, mine was the first house they came knocking on when something went down, but this last time he stitched me up. Charged me with stuff I hadn’t even heard about, never mind done. I got sent down for two burglaries I didn’t commit; an article in the local paper reports arrest rates have doubled, he gets promoted to sergeant.’

It’s my turn to say sorry.

‘It disnae matter,’ Brad shakes his head as though to emphasise the point. ‘There’s many would say I’m guilty of mair than that; so it was justice in a way, I guess.’

I tell Brad about MacIntyre’s vendetta against me. About him killing Jude and the twins in cold blood. As I retell the story I study his face for a reaction but instead of shock or horror there’s just a disappointing sadness; ‘It’s what happens when they turn,’ he says matter of factly, ‘They get so full of themselves that they lose sight of right and wrong. They need to win no matter what; to prove their point at all costs.’ He pauses, as though trying to find some moral to the story and if he has one I can’t wait to hear it.

‘At least my copper got promoted out of the area.’ He says sympathetically, ‘If he was still here he’d come after me, right enough, just to show who’s in control.’

I nod my understanding. ‘But killing?’ I still can’t believe it.

‘Ye putting the police on a pedestal Davy, when the only difference between them and the people they serve is they get to wear a uniform which gives them access all areas. It’s mad innit?’ he adds, ‘Look at me - most people cross the road to avoid me but put me in that uniform and they’ll let me walk straight into their homes.’

He’s right.

‘But there’s more Davy. This copper - MacIntyre, ye say? He came back to the bar the next night, trying tae provoke someone into saying somethin’ bad about ye.’I look at him, waiting. ‘They didn’t, like,’ he reassures me. ‘But he had a different photo this time. It was a photo of Malkie Clements.’

My heart quickens. I didn’t even know Malkie’s surname. ‘How de ye know Malkie?’

Brad shrugs. ‘When I came out of Saughton they put me in the same bail hostel as him ‘cos my missus wouldn’t take me back. I was there for three weeks. Malkie was a rent boy…..’ he adds for my benefit. Brad looks at me as though he’s trying to work something out; either that or he’s trying to hold back a fart.

‘I don’t have a problem with folk who sell sex, for fucksake!’ I remind him. Brad reddens, holding up his hand in mitigation, ‘Fair enough! Fair enough! Thing is, this copper was asking if we’d seen ye together. Well of course we all said no, we had to whether it was the truth or not - how could we say we’d seen you together when we’d told ‘im the night before we didn’t even know ye? So the question was pointless in way.’

‘Good thinkin’,’ I nod.

‘Only next thing Daz strolls in, cocky like, and when he gets asked this same question he turns round an’ says yeah, he’s seen ye both together loads o’ times.’

‘Lying bastard!’ I shout, ‘I only met him a couple o’ days ago!’ I punch the arm of the settee with my fist. ‘It’s a set up! Daz was givin’ that copper a blow job the other day.’

‘No way!’ Brad finally looks shocked.

‘Yes fuckin’ way.’ I tell him about what I’d heard in the toilets under Dean Bridge. About my subsequent run-in with MacIntyre in the cells.

‘Christ, Davy,’ Brad says quietly, ‘Now I know why the copper wants tae get ye out o’ the picture. Ye shouldnae o’ told him that you’d seen them.’

‘I know that now!’ I snap, wishing like hell I could turn the clock back. We sit in broody silence. Still, something bothers me. ‘I don’t get it,’ I say, thinking aloud,

‘MacIntyre is trying to frame me for Malkie’s murder, and I can see that Daz will do whatever MacIntyre asks of him to keep on his good side. But how the hell did MacIntyre know I’d been at the hostel in the first place?’

Brad looks smug. ‘That’s what I’m getting’ to,’ he says, ‘Daz told him.’

‘But how did he know?’

‘Because Malkie phoned him.’ He says this slowly, giving me time to keep up, ‘I was there when he took the call.’ He rubs his eyelids with the heel of his palms.

‘We were in the bookies. Daz had just placed a bet when he gets this this call. “Alright, Malkie, Man,” he says, you know, the way how junkies let on to each other. He nods a lot then he finishes the call. “Mate o’ mine’s got some gear if ye fancy it,” Daz says to me only I’m like “Na, yer alright, Mate.” The horse race is due to start in five minutes but he doesn’t want to watch it any more. “Gotta go” he says and he’s off, faster than the nag I’d put my beer money on come to think of it… Christ, when I heard Malkie was dead I thought Daz might o’ done it at first but he’s a lanky streak o’ piss and it didn’t make sense.’

I start to join up the dots. ‘So he goes round to Malkie’s. Malkie’s so chuffed that I’ve given him this gear he can’t wait to brag only Daz knows that information is worth something. He owed MacIntyre money - it’s what they were arguing about in the toilets.’ Information about me has a currency; enough to maybe wipe out his debt with MacIntyre.

Brad’s nodding: ‘So he phones MacIntyre and lets him know you’re dealing at the hostel, gives him Malkie’s name to prove he’s not making it up.’

Put like that it all makes perfect sense.

‘Kin’ ‘ell Davy,’ Brad exhales slowly, ‘if this guy hates ye so much, why does he no’ just kill ye?’

I sure as hell don’t know the answer to that.

Brad offers to stay over and I’m in no position to refuse, I mean, why the hell would I? He’s a brick shithouse right enough, hardly inconspicuous, but his bulkiness is reassuring. It’s the kind of build that naturally intimidates people. He lives on a bad scheme yet has never had any bother; walks home all hours yet has never been jumped. His stomach may be flabby and hang over the waistband of his jeans but you know if you punched him there you’d still break your wrist. Besides, it feels good not being on my own, with only my thoughts to brood over. Brad coils into the settee using his jacket as a pillow. He doesn’t look at all comfy. I turn out the light and hunker down into my sleeping bag. The room is draughty and I switch the gas fire on and lie in front of it, but that just accentuates the chill settling into my bones.

The security lighting from the multi-story car park across the road fills the room with a yellow glare. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, my eyes burning.

‘If I hadn’t gone to Jude’s place she and the twins would never have been killed, and if I hadn’t got Malkie involved he’d still be alive too. I’m fucking up people’s lives.’

‘Not you.’ Brad answers sleepily. ‘That prick.’

Then something occurs to me: ‘I could be putting you in danger.’

‘Ach, I put myself in danger the moment I took my first breath. Dinnae worry yersel’ about me.’

Given the past seventy-two hours, how can I do anything but?

14

Today is the day I’ve to move a shipment of guns across the city. It’s also the day Ken will slip Candy a pay as you go phone so I can call her, reassure her everything will be fine again after the trauma of being threatened by an armed robber. As well as a coward I’m now a hypocrite and I don’t know which of those shames me more.

I’ve had my instructions from Marcus: sit tight and he’ll be touch when it’s time. I’m to wait in the house until I hear from him but my nerves are making me narky. He’s told me nothing about the job – the less I know the less I can slip up and blab to someone, which suits me fine, if there’s a cock up I don’t want to be on the receiving end of another of his bollockings.

Brad got up before me and nipped out to the café I saw him in yesterday to get two carry out lattes. His face was beaming when he came back: ‘They’ve given me a loyalty card.’ He bragged, as though being encouraged to return somewhere was a new experience for him.

Breakfast consists of the lattes and half a pack of my smokes each, as we listen to the local news on a radio left behind by the builders carrying out the renovations. Even though we’re doing this to check any progress with the investigation it comes as a body blow to hear Jude’s name in the same sentence as murder victim. The newsreader’s tone is impassive as he refers to her and the twins in the past tense:

“Police are continuing their investigation into the brutal murder of three prostitutes in Leith last week. Jude Kennedy and sisters Lorella and Marcia Davies were killed in their own home in what appears to be a motiveless attack. A man seen leaving the premises in the early hours has yet to come forward and police are urging him to do so. A spokesperson for Police Scotland confirms that this man, thought to be known to the women, is a person of interest and urge him to contact them so he may be eliminated from their enquiries.”

There’s no mention of Malkie but the truth of it is dead junkies don’t make the news. Being shot will have raised his profile far more than he’d ever managed during his lifetime but even so there is little about his murder to keep the press interested.

Brad helps himself to another ciggie and throws one over to me which I light from the dying embers of the one I’ve been smoking. The room is thick with tarry fog like pubs before the smoking ban.

‘Ye think Marcus would jist take MacIntyre out after he did that to three of his girls.’ Brad observes reasonably.

‘Aye, but where dis that leave me?’ I remind him, ‘I need to be sure any evidence MacIntyre’s planted is destroyed or I could still be sent down for their murder.’

Brad nods, scratching himself absentmindedly. ‘But how are ye goin’ to do that? How will ye know who to trust?’

He has me there.

‘Listen, I’ve got to do something later, but we could speak to the people the police have questioned, see how bad the case is against me.’ I suggest, ‘You in?’

Brad nods. ‘Aye,’ He finishes scratching then cocks his leg up off the settee to let out a fart, sniffing the air as if to check its potency, ‘Ah, good one,’ he says proudly. I kick the base of the settee and tell him he’s a dirty bastard, while wafting the smell away with my hand. ‘So,’ he says grinning, ‘What ye doin’ later?’

I consider lying to him but if he’s staying around he’s going to work out that I’m up to something.

‘Got a job to do for Marcus.’ I say truthfully.

‘Doin’ what?’

I shake my head. ‘Better if I don’t say.’

‘Or ye’ll have te kill me.’ Brad laughs.

‘Jeezo, don’t even go there.’

Brad looks stricken by his thoughtlessness. ‘Sorry, mate.’

‘Look, Marcus is helping me with all this,’ I point to the room we’re in and the food by the microwave, ‘but I’ve to steal a car and take it to a job for him this afternoon.’

Brad whistles. ‘Are you desperate to go back inside or what?’ He looks at me as though I’m mental. I’m beginning to wonder if I am. Maybe it would be better if I did have a slate loose, then none of this would matter so much. Or hurt.

‘The way my luck’s going I could end up inside for five murders I haven’t
committed, I remind him, ‘so what difference will it make?’

Brad tilts his head as though conceding I have a point. ‘Right enough.’ he says.

I try to explain: ‘Look, earlier in the week, the firm where my girlfriend works was robbed.’

‘Aye,’ Brad jerks his head in a nod, ‘I heard aboot that.’

‘The robbers threatened her with a gun; it terrified the shit out of her.’

‘It would.’

‘We’d only just got together. Well, not even really together like, you know, but we’d planned to go out and then the robbery happened and everything between us changed. Her Dad’s keeping her under lock and key, I can’t even speak to her on the phone. If I find out who did it….’

‘Be careful, Davy.’

Brad’s concern makes me feel better, like it’s not just me against the world. ‘Cheers, Pal.’ I tell him.

‘I mean it,’ He says, ‘Just go easy, eh?’

‘I just want to….’ I pause, after everything that’s happened this week I’m not sure exactly what I want to happen anymore, ‘…..they need to know they can’t go round fuckin’ pointin’ guns at people…..They need to know that.’

And this afternoon I’ll be bringing in a shipment of guns for Marcus, just because he’s asked me to.

I can’t face the bus. I phone Ken and ask if he’s available to drive me around this morning while I wait for Marcus to get in touch. Ken’s been as good as his word, carrying me about the place: ‘The cops won’t think you’re going aboot the toon in a cab.’ he promises. This time I insist on paying the fare. As I climb into Ken’s cab I see a pile of discarded newspapers on the passenger seat. One paper has been folded open on the page where police have described the person of interest they’re keen to speak to – a man with a limp. Ken sees me staring and throws the papers into the back of the car.

‘I’m sorry to hear about….’ He trails off mid-sentence.

‘What exactly have ye heard, Ken?’ I turn to look at him.

He shrugs ‘Och, ye know, the shite ye always get after these things.’ He pauses, as though realising the answer he’s given me is bullshit and I deserve better: ‘I heard ye wiz shaggin’ the sisters….’

‘Fucksake! The older woman, Jude, she was a mate ‘o me Ma’s. She was my friend.’ I scrunch my eyes tightly to block out her terrified face, the hope in her eyes when I ran into the room.

Ken stares at me, unwilling to be fobbed off: ‘So ye weren’t shaggin’ the sisters then?’

‘Jude rented a room from the girls - that’s how I knew them!’

I shake my head in frustration. It didn’t take a genius to work out where the rumours were coming from but even so it galled to think people could believe this rubbish.

‘I didn’t do it Ken,’ I say simply, ‘Ye know that don’t ye?’

‘Ye were there though?’

I nod. ‘Aye, but….’

‘Jeezo Davy, do ye think that’s what the polis are about? Catching the right person?’ He smiles kindly, as though talking to someone simple.

I splay my arms out in a helpless gesture. ‘That’s why I had to get out of the way – I need time to clear my name.’

‘So, what’s the plan?’

‘I need to find out who the police have been talking to, then go and talk to them, find out what they’ve said. I need to find people willing to speak out about the bastard who did kill them.’

‘So what’s the big deal? If you were there you know who did it.’

My shoulders sag with the weight of it. ‘It was a cop. A cop who’s got it in for me.’

Ken doesn’t even blink. ‘How so?’

I tell him about MacIntyre. He listens without interrupting, staying silent when I’ve finished as though calculating worst case scenarios and plans of action. He scratches his head absent-mindedly; several skin flakes settle on his shoulder.

‘Ye’ll get no help from the polis,’ he agrees, ‘I see that now. And ye can forget trying tae make a complaint cos they won’t want to know. They won’t want some scrote tryin’ to tell them how to do their job, interfering with their clean-up rate. The same wee scrote they’re after pinning it on.’

Brad and I had said as much the night before.

‘So what are ye saying?’ I ask Ken, ‘I should contact my MSP?’

He throws back his head and openly laughs.

‘Are ye serious?! How long have ye got Davy? Only go te them if ye happy to spend the next ten years in clink while they get to the bottom of it, and even then I wouldn’t bet on the outcome. Christ Davy, even if ye spoke to someone who believed ye they’d hate ye for bringing it to their door. This has got career suicide smudged all over it.’

The high midday sun shines in through the car windscreen. The interior smells of air freshener and stale tobacco. Ken opens the windows and turns up the radio, The Proclaimers are singing Sunshine on Leith.

‘You’re a High Bee, then?’ I ask him, as he pulls out into the traffic.

‘Every fuckin inch.’ Ken says with such ferocity we drive the remainder of the song in silence.

Our first stop is Mo’s kebab shop, the one around the corner from both mine and Jude’s place.

‘Davy!’ Mo flings his arms wide as I enter the shop, as though he’s proud of his sweat stained armpits and wants to show them off. I look back out onto the pavement and put my finger to my lips. Ken’s waiting for me in his cab but I need to be careful I’m not spotted by passers-by.

‘Come! Come through to the back!’ Mo gestures with his arm that I’m to follow him, and I step through a curtain of thin plastic strips into a stockroom containing pallets of fizzy drinks piled on top of each other creating a makeshift table, with a plastic kettle and a cup on top. Mo points towards the kettle but I shake my head, keen to get on. He nods excitedly when I ask if he’s been questioned by the police.

‘Zay ask me whether I see anyone covered in blood walking down the road late Tuesday night or Wednesday morning.’ He gushes, using a dirty tea towel to mop the sweat from his brow.

‘And did ye, Mo?’

‘I say not bloody likely.’ He shakes his head as if to make his point. ‘Weekends, yes, it’s no big deal,’ He nods so much I start to worry about whiplash, ‘but week days, not so much.’

‘So ye didn’t see this fella they’re talking about, the one they want to speak to? ‘Young fella with a limp?’

Mo eyes me shrewdly, his gaze moving down to my legs. I follow his line of sight, see that my right knee is still slightly swollen compared to my left.

He shakes his head. ‘I didn’t see you Davy,’ he states quietly, ‘if zat’s what you’re asking.’ I smile at him, this man who used to fuck Jude and give her curled up donner on the house. It occurs to me that life is a series of barters, and in the grand scheme of things there’s always someone giving and someone taking away. Mo was kind to Jude, in his own way.

‘I saw that bastard copper though,’ Mo says fiercely.

I turn my attention back to him. ‘Say that again.’

‘Ze bastard cop who took away my licence. Ze one I told you about. I saw him zat night.’

My heart skips a beat. ‘Mo, this is important. Where was he?’

‘Getting into his car. It was parked at ze end of ze alley. He wasn’t wearing his uniform but I recognise him all ze same. He drives an old beamer right?’

I shrug my shoulders. ‘Don’t have a Scooby, Mo. Fat fucker though….looks a sly twat?’

Mo nods, swatting away my lack of car knowledge with his hands. ‘No bloody matter what he drives, I saw him.’

‘Have ye told anyone?’

Mo carries on nodding. ‘I tell his bastarding colleagues of course! Coming in here, asking all zeir questions, typing my answers into zeir little bastard machines.’

‘And?’

Mo laughs as though I’m being particularly dense, ‘Zey ignore it of course. Didn’t type a bastard word I said.’

‘Are ye sure ye want to do this?’ Ken throws me a wary look, as though he’s not sure this is the best idea I’ve had but is too kind hearted to tell me outright. I want us to drive by Jude’s place so I can see what’s going on. Holed up in my hideout, reliant on news reports, it’s hard to get a measure of how hard the cops are working on this; if they’re simply paying lip service or being as thorough as they would if the murder victims were school teachers.

‘The house was all cordoned off, ye know, with police tape all over the place. They had a cop on the doorstep like ye see on the telly,’ Ken tells me, as though giving me a belated running commentary will satisfy my curiosity. ‘Mind you I think they’re just there for the TV crews, makes the rest of us think something’s being done, even when it isn’t.’

‘So you don’t think the cops are doin’ much?’

‘I wouldn’t say that, I think all the routine stuff has been done, right enough. The place was teaming wi’ detectives the next morning, uniforms turning up every so often then going away again. I suppose they do the fetching and carrying for the big yins. They put a screen up by the gate, so ye couldn’t see them carrying the bodies out.’ Ken glances at me sharply, ‘Sorry, Davy.’

‘S’OK,’ I tell him, ‘Look, I know you mean well, but I’d still like to see for myself. I won’t get out of the car, I promise, I just……..I just need to go there.’

Ken sighs but starts the engine anyway; he knows I’m not going to change my mind. Minutes later as we turn into the road Ken’s earlier reluctance is forgotten:

‘You should o’ seen the number o’ white suits going in and out the place,’ Ken says excitedly, ‘Loads o’ them there was, but then there were three bodies I suppose, right enough.

‘Three private ambulances parked at the back of the house, I knew that because the polis blocked the road off for the morning. Didn’t know till I tried to drive down it though, had to reverse back up the way and scuffed the wheel trim in the process. I ripped one young cop a new arsehole for not warning drivers properly. Later in the day they put a road block sign out to stop other drivers doing the same.’

There is no officer stationed on the doorstep anymore, though the crime scene tape is still in place, zigg-zagged across the front door, frayed edges blowing in the breeze. The house looks the same as it always did, slightly shabbier than its neighbours, for all the men that entered there none stayed long enough to turn over the front garden or revarnish the windows. The house is separated from the main road by a narrow pavement; several bouquets of garage bought flowers have been placed against the doorstep. As far as outpouring of emotions go it wasn’t a lot considering three women were slain that night, but I feel happier knowing that people cared enough to do this small thing.

I look at Ken, ‘If I give ye the money….?’ Ken raises his hand in a gesture to quieten me, ‘Course I will, son.’ He says softly.

The back of the house is visible from the gate once more, which is also zigg-zagged in crime scene tape. ‘There were cops on their hands and knees in the yard,’ Ken pipes up, pointing to the small garden not even big enough to swing a cat. I’d helped lay paving stones the year they’d moved in so the twins didn’t have to worry about keeping the grass tidy.

‘Finger-tip search do they no’ call it?’ Ken continues, ‘they went along the back wall too, probably did the bins as well I imagine.’

‘That will o’ made someone’s day, then,’ I laugh.

‘How?’

‘Can ye imagine the bucket load o’ johnnies there’ll have been in there?’

‘Right enough,’ Ken laughs, ‘Someone’ll have had to do it though.’

I picture MacIntyre wading his way through someone else’s spunk but I know that wouldn’t happen, he’s a long serving cop, jobs like that get passed to the new ones, those who don’t know the system well enough to dodge the shitty jobs, either that or they’ve put someone’s nose out of joint.

I don’t know what I was expecting but there’s nothing to see that gives me any comfort.

‘There’s no one there.’ I say simply. Ken turns to me and smiles sympathetically and I wonder if he thinks I’m referring to my friends.

Now the investigation is underway and all the CSI work is done does that mean they’ve now gathered all the evidence MacIntyre planted to frame me? A few fingerprints transferred here and there and wham bam you’re in the can. I shudder to think that it’s so easy to set someone up.

Ken has stopped the Skoda just by the back gate but keeps the engine running just in case.

‘We should go now, Davy,’ he says, frowning, and I realise it’s not just me that’s at risk staying here.

‘Right enough.’ I say as he pulls out onto the main road.

Brad has gone into Leith ahead of us. He’s on the dole but does occasional debt collection work for Mickey Plastic; Brad’s bulk is intimidating even when you’re not on the wrong side of him. He had a couple of calls to make at the flats behind the Kirkgate Centre so I’ve arranged to meet him outside The Foot o’ the Walk, a landmark pub now owned by a restaurant chain trying to upgrade its punters by claiming to be family friendly. They’ve missed the point though. Alcohol has been at the centre of most families round here for years. That and other substances. I stay in Ken’s cab while I wait for Brad, from here we will go to Daz’s place together. As it approaches midday Ken leaves us so that he can collect Candy’s boss from the factory – and pass on the mobile phone I’d got for her.

The tenement has a buzzer entry system. I guess the broken buzzer will be Daz’s and press it. The speaker crackles and a gormless voice answers: ‘Yeah?’

Brad leans into the intercom: ‘Daz, man, let us in.’

‘Hissit?’

‘It’s Bradley man, C’mon. Don’t be a dick.’

The entry system buzzes suspiciously. As we reach Daz’s landing one of the doors opens slowly. Daz stands in the doorway dressed in a grubby t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. His jaw hangs open in a junkie smile, rotten teeth jut out of his gums like neglected tombstones. I want to smash him in the face but I know I need to keep him on-side.

He doesn’t see me at first, his gaze, now settled on Brad, seems content to stay there.

‘Shall we go inside?’ Brad prompts, like a courteous estate agent.

A toddler sits in the middle of the floor, bare legs splayed out showing a dirty nappy that hasn’t been changed all day by the colour of it. The child makes no eye contact with either Daz or the woman slumped on the settee behind him, instead clings onto a bottle lined with scum and mouldy milk.

The woman opens her eyes as we enter her living room. ‘Arright,’ she says, as though she’s met us before and we’re welcome in her home. She sits up straighter, adjusting a greying bra strap. Daz rummages around the inside the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms and pulls out a small pack of tobacco, a thin roll of papers and a box of matches. A pile of discarded Scotrail tickets have been torn in half and rolled up to make roaches; a bag of skunk sits in the centre of a coffee table beside an overflowing ashtray. ‘Fancy a smoke?’ Daz asks us, rolling a joint, and I have to clench and unclench my fists.

Brad speaks for both of us. ‘Nah, yer awreet man, we’re sweet.’

I crouch down until I’m in the toddler’s eyeline; wiggling my fingers in the boy’s direction. The toddler stares hard at my hand, begins to shuffle his bottom my way, leaving a trail of sodden nappy filling in his wake. His mother smiles vacantly as she shares Daz’s joint, both parents unfamiliar with the concept of keeping an eye out for their child. Three strides and I’m in the kitchen, scanning manky worktops for a changing bag or mat. Nothing. In the small rectangular bathroom I find a waste paper basket containing several discarded pill packets and a tampon. I finally locate a clean nappy in the wardrobe in the bedroom, it’s the last one and there appears to be no other packs. I clean the baby up as best as I can, returning him to the invisible spot by his parents’ feet. Brad catches my eye as I bring the baby back; I nod to him to start the ball rolling.

He settles himself on the arm of the settee. I stay on my feet.

‘Daz, man, what is it wi’ you an’ that five-o?’

Daz doesn’t answer; instead he lolls back on the settee, a stupid grin on his face. ‘Daz,’ Brad repeats, firmer, louder. Daz moves his head in Brad’s direction as though he’s heard a noise and is trying to locate it.

‘You gotta keep the questions simple,’ I say to Brad, ‘questions he can only say yes or no to.’

Brad nods and leans a little closer to Daz. ‘Daz, ye scrawny wee fuck, do ye know a cop called MacIntyre?’

‘Aye.’

‘Are ye MacIntyre’s grass?’ Brad’s eyes are like slits but it’s his smile that is menacing. Daz finally locates where the voice is coming from and stares at Brad’s mouth as he works out what he’s saying.

‘No!’

‘Does MacIntyre give ye money for information?’

Daz, still lip reading, gives a nod. ‘Aye.’

‘And does that information sometimes get people arrested?’

A nod.

‘Then you’re a fuckin’ grass, ye wee prick.’

Daz, starting to realise he’s in trouble, tries to back pedal: ‘Brad man, I never telt him anything about ye.’

‘What aboot him?’ Brad points at me, keeping his arm extended so that Daz can follow the line of trajectory to my face. Daz grins at me sloppily. ‘Arright, man.’

‘Do ye know his name, Daz?’ Brad prompts.

A pause as though this is a trick question. ‘Naw.’

‘His name is Davy.’ Brad informs him slowly, ‘But I think you already knew that.’

‘Nah, man.’

The woman jumps to her feet as though she’s remembered an urgent appointment.

‘We need tae go, Daz.’ She tells him, folding her arms across herself as though suddenly cold. Her face is flushed as she picks up the baby and dumps it in a buggy, not one word spoken to it during the process of fastening him in.

Daz slides to his feet, stupefied by the spliff but not so far gone he’ll miss his Methadone.

‘Daz, man, ye canny go yet,’ Brad reminds him, ‘I’m talkin’ tae ye.’

‘Need to go now.’ Julie raises her voice to make her point.

‘Go later, man.’ Brad’s voice is low, making his.

‘Canny go later,’ Daz says hazily, ‘Julie’s tagged.’ He points to the band around Julie’s ankle that makes sure she sticks to the curfew she’s been given.

‘Ye better talk real fast then, Pal.’ Brad says chirpily and I swear his chirpy voice makes my colon twitch.

Daz looks from Brad to Julie, as though waiting to be told what to do next. Julie tutts, grabbing Daz’s spliff and sucking on it to calm her nerves. The baby slumps in his buggy, too lethargic to protest at being fenced in without the benefit of being taken outside.

‘I saw ye, Daz.’ I say quietly.

Daz turns his head in my direction, tilting his head like a child looking at something it can’t quite figure out.

‘Under the Dean Bridge, in the toilets.’

I sneak a look at Julie, who is oblivious to our conversation now her lungs are full of dope.

‘Brad, why don’t ye help Julie carry the pram downstairs?’ I suggest.

‘Ye sure?’ He asks, eyeing me warily.

‘Aye.’ I smile to let him know everything’s sweet.

Brad lifts the buggy and the baby under one arm, with the other he links Julie like they’re old pals.

‘Fuckin’ hurry up, Daz.’ Julie snipes, but her heart isn’t in it. The baby chunners as he is lifted down the stairs, excited at the prospect of a trip to the pharmacy.

I turn my attention to Daz.

‘Ye gave that cop a blow job.’ I say quietly.

Daz says nothing, just stares at my mouth as though he’s trying to keep up.

‘Daz,’ I say, louder this time, ‘Can ye hear me?’

A nod.

‘Why did ye give the cop a blow job?’

‘He forced me.’ He says quietly, then, as though he’s just worked it out: ‘Is that what ye want too?’

‘No, Daz.’ I hay hurriedly, ‘I just want to know what he’s got over ye.’

Daz shrugs, but on him it looks wrong, his shoulders and arms respond at different levels of slowness. ‘I tell him stuff for money. Ye know, who’s been twockin’, who’s fencing’ gear, he gives me a bit o’ cash now and then.’

‘So why was he raging when you met him in the toilets the other day.’

Daz looks blank, then nods once he’s caught up with my question.

‘Because I owed him money. The garage I work for gives him cash to keep his nose out. Only they give it to me to pass on to him. Not obvious like. The boss puts two hundred quid in the petty cash every month, every month I take it out and give it the cop. Only Julie found it in my pocket and thought it was mine. Went mental till I said she could buy something nice with it.’

I laugh, ‘I walked round the flat when I was looking for a nappy for the bairn. There’s nothing nice here, Daz, what the fuck did ye get with it?’

He grins then, like we’re playing some silly little guessing game so I hit him.

‘You got off your faces on his ‘n hers smack, didn’t ye?’

Daz doesn’t respond so I hit him again.

‘He said he’d treat it as a sub as long as I gave him information about you, only I didn’t have any!’ Daz yelps, raising his hands in slow motion.

‘Until the day after the murders when ye hear I’ve gone missing!’ I yell, ‘Ye must
have thought all your Christmases had come at once when Malkie rang telling ye he was selling some gear for me.’

‘Aah, right. Malkie.’

‘Yeah, Malkie! He calls you up to let you know he’s got some gear only the best bit is he’s got it off me.’

‘He said ye were coming back later for the money!’

‘So ye score some smack off him, then ring MacIntyre to tell him where to find me, are ye for real?’

‘I didn’t know he was going to kill anyone! I swear on ma bairn’s life!’

‘The bairn ye canny look after properly!’ I shout.

It’s only when Brad grips my shoulders and wrenches me away from Daz that I realise I’m beating the shit out of him.

Ken’s waiting outside in his cab. If he saw Daz stumble out of the tenement behind us wiping blood from his mouth he doesn’t let on. Daz hurries to catch up with Julie, slipping a scrawny arm around her waist. A happy wee family on a trip out for their meds.

‘Leave it.’ Brad warns me, as though he thinks I’ll run after Daz to finish what I’d started upstairs. He’s wrong. I beat up a junkie; I’m wondering how much lower I can get.

‘C’mon,’ Brad says. He places his hand on my arm, easing up the pressure a notch, ‘Ye got what ye wanted from him.’

Ken catches my eye as I climb into the cab. He nods, smiling:

‘Mission accomplished!’ He says brightly and that’s just about the best news I’ve heard in a long time. ‘What’s that then?’ Brads asks, looking from Ken to me, but I’m having none of it. ‘Nothing.’ I say quickly, unwilling to jinx the moment.

‘How did ye get on boys?’ Ken asks, as he pulls out into the traffic.

Brad’s sitting in the front passenger seat so I lean forward between his and the driver’s seat to run through what we’ve established so far: ‘Mo’s willing to make a statement confirming he saw MacIntyre getting into a car just up the road from Jude’s place not long after she and the twins were murdered. He already told this to the polis when they turned up the next day to interview him but they didn’t take down anything he said.’

Ken nods, ‘If they don’t take it down it never happened.’

‘Aye.’

Kens face creases into a frown.

‘Something wrong?’ I ask him. He looks in his rear view mirror then shrugs, ‘Nah…..probably imagining things but….’

‘What?’

A shrug, ‘I thought I had an Audi on my tail on my way over to pick yous up then it seemed to disappear, thought I saw it again just now.’ I can feel the blood drain from my face, ‘Dinnae worry,’ he adds hastily, ‘I’ll just start taking the long way round to places, jist to be sure.’

Ken can see I’m not happy. ‘Good result today though, eh?’ he says kindly.

‘That doesn’t prove your man killed them though.’ Brad offers.

‘Tell me something I don’t know!’ I snap. He catches my eye and I smile
apologetically. ‘If we can convince Daz to come forward about passing on details of my whereabouts to MacIntyre, about telling him I was crashing at Malkie’s place just before he was murdered…..’

‘Doesn’t prove anything.’ Brad says helpfully. ‘Doesn’t prove he killed them.’

‘Fucksake, Brad.’

‘I’m just saying.’

‘Listen!’ Ken pipes up.

‘Look Ken,’ I butt in, ‘I know we don’t have much, but I’ve -’

‘Shut it!’ he orders.

‘Wha?’

‘Shut the fuck up and listen!’ Ken stabs at the radio with his index finger:

“…Davy Johnson is believed to be a family friend of one of the working girls found murdered after an anonymous call alerted police to a disturbance at the women’s home in the early hours of Wednesday morning. The twenty three year old, who is believed to have been staying at the house at the time of the murders, has been missing since the bodies were found. Today’s discovery of the gun used to kill Malcolm Clements and his key worker Paul Reeve - at what was originally thought to be an unrelated incident - during a search of the home Johnson shares with his mother, has shocked the local community. A knife found behind bins outside the women’s property has been confirmed as the weapon used against two of the victims and has been taken away for testing.

A police spokesman confirms that both cases are now being investigated by a dedicated murder investigation team who urge Johnson to come forward so he can be eliminated from their enquiries. If members of the public see Johnson they are not to approach him but to contact Crimestoppers immediately.”

Ken switches the radio off at the start of the weather forecast and we sit in silence while he manoeuvres the car through the traffic.

‘Fuck.’ I mutter over and over. ‘FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. That bastard’s been in ma house!’ The thought of him talking down to Mum, badmouthing me before hiding the gun he’d used on Malkie is almost too much to bear. ‘Why the hell would she let him in?’

‘Because he’ll have turned up with a warrant,’ Ken reminds me reasonably, ‘with several cronies in tow.’

‘Aye,’ Brad agrees, ‘While she’s talking to one of the others how’s she to know where he’s got to?’

Brad has a point. ‘He’ll have been able to lift loads of my prints from Jude’s place, right enough,’ I concede, ‘given I stayed overnight and went in just about every room in the house that night.’

‘D’ye still want to go over to see Kirsty?’ Ken asks gently, approaching the roundabout on Leith Street extra slow in case I change my mind. I catch his eye in the rear view mirror and shake my head.

‘Better go back,’ I say numbly, ‘Can’t risk being seen by any o’the punters now.’ I’d intended to go to the VA to see if Kirsty suspected anything about MacIntyre and his relationship with Daz, maybe even find out what some of the punters have been saying but the cops will be watching my regular haunts now to see if I make contact.

‘Shit,’ I say aloud, to no one in particular, ‘I manage to get a phone to Candy so I can speak to her for the first time in days, just as I’m outed as Scotland’s Most Wanted.’

Ken throws his packet of fags to me; I take one and pass one to Brad.

‘At least the day can’t get any worse.’ Ken says reasonably. I think of Jude’s response to that and bite back a smile.

Just then my phone vibrates with an incoming text. I look down at the screen.

It’s from Marcus:

Get yi batty here now, ur on.

15

OK, so the day just got worse. I’ve to collect a shipment of weapons then drive them across the city without attracting the attention of police already on the lookout for me in connection with five murders and the discovery of a gun in my home. I can only pray they don’t stop me. I can hardly plead I’ve never owned a weapon with a box full rattling around in the boot.

Marcus and his minders are already waiting for me in the hideout when I return. They are big men and they fill the room making the few items in it look ridiculous. There’s nowhere for the three of them to sit so Marcus takes the sofa while Barrington and Devlin stand behind him like runners up in a Mr Universe pageant.

‘Who di fuck’s dis?’ Marcus glares at Brad who to be fair stands his ground beside me, arms folded across his chest like he’s on the door of an upmarket bar on George Street.

‘He’s been keepin’ lookout for me.’ I tell him. ‘He’s cool, Marcus.’

‘You sure ‘bout dat?’ Marcus barks, giving Brad an appraising look as though trying to get his measure.

‘Sure.’ I say. Brad’s taking a risk going about with me; if the police find out he’s been giving me a hand he could be sent back to Saughton, made to sit the remainder of his sentence out in jail. It’s no small thing he’s doing for me.

I’ve obviously not sold Brad well to Marcus. ‘Do one.’ He says sharply, his minders bouncing on their toes at the prospect of getting physical with a brick shithouse. Brad rolls his shoulders in a shrug, ‘Catch ya later,’ he growls before heading out the way he came.

‘Surprised ye still want me for this job…’ I mumble. The three men look at me like I’m here for an audition and they’re waiting for me to start, which makes me nervous.

‘….what with the cops releasing my name as a suspect, they’ll be looking out for me on every street corner.’

‘No matter.’ Marcus states.

Easy for him to say.

Marcus’s phone beeps and he pulls it out of his jacket pocket, reading the message before turning his attention back to me. ‘OK.’ He begins, reading the information from the screen.

‘Di shipment come. Yi colleck it from Albert Dock Basin at half past four. One o’ di port officials is on Gus’s payroll and dey’ll make demself known to yi. Dey’ll pass yi two containers. Yi need fi look like you’re checking dem over before signing fi dem, put dem in di boot o’ yi car, den fuck off.’

‘Job done.’ Barrington adds, stepping towards me with a piece of paper. It worries me that he’s wearing gloves, but I push that worry to the back of my mind where it has plenty of company at the moment. ‘That’s the address you’re to take it to.’ He says, ‘Someone’ll meet you there.’

Marcus stands, conversation over. Before leaving he turns to me: ‘When you’re done, come fin’ me an’ I’ll give yi de information yi want.’

Finally I’ll know who robbed Candy’s workplace. It means I can tell her the men who scared the shit out of her won’t be scaring anyone else anytime soon.

Marcus chose me for this job because I have a reputation for letting myself into most cars. I say let myself in because I never took the cars I broke into away, in fact once I’d disabled the locking system I was ready to move onto the next. It was a party piece, that’s all, an attention seeking skill that earned me respect when I was at school. Later, when I worked at the dodgy garage owned by my mate’s dad stolen cars came in all the time – that was their main stock in trade – but the vehicles were stolen by organised gangs, not kids like me, desperate to impress their mates. It seems ironic that today will be the only time I’ll have actually stolen something – not even two weeks after being released from jail. So much for rehabilitation.

Time is against me. I don’t have the luxury of doing a reccy, working out car owners’ movements by staking out a street or cul-de-sac. This is going to have to be a random opportunity, a lapse of care on the driver’s part when they run into a newsagent’s leaving the engine running. Yeah, it still happens. A car pulls up beside me at the kerb and the passenger window lowers. I’m guessing it’s a tourist asking for directions, either way it’ll do. It’s a Volvo estate no more than a couple of years old and I wonder if I’ve anything in my pocket I can use to intimidate the owner into handing it over. I sigh; this is where Brad would have come in really useful: he has the kind of face only a mother with a drink inside her would love.

‘Get the fuck in then.’ Brad hisses from the driver’s seat and I do a double-take when I see him behind the wheel.

‘Wha-?’

‘Get in.’ He repeats and as I realise what he’s done I don’t need telling a third time.

Brad smiles at me. A smug smile that says he knows he’s played a blinder. ‘Ye said ye needed a car.’

‘How the f-’

‘S’easy.’ He brags. ‘I phoned Ken, asked him if he’d driven anyone to the airport in the last few days. “Aye, this one couple,” he tells me, “off to Morrocco for a fortnight.” Then I asked him for their address. They stay in one of the new townhouses built at the back of Haymarket Station. Middle aged couple I reckon, going by the car. Impressed or what?’

I nod eagerly, relieved that it’s one less thing I have to do. ‘How did ye get the car keys though?’

Brad laughs as though I’ve said something funny. ‘How de ye think?’

‘You broke in to the house?’

‘Aye, how else am I to get the keys?’ Brad replies matter of factly. ‘I was in and out though, didn’t take anything else if that’s what ye wondering.’

I smile sheepishly; I’m hardly in a position to criticize.

Brads flicks on the car’s indicator and inches out into the traffic. ‘Hang on mate,’ I remind him, ‘You need to disappear. Let me do this on my own. Don’t get caught up in this as well, for Christ’s sake.’

Brad ignores me and pulls out in front of an Audi that’s letting us out so it can move into our space. ‘I’m already caught up aren’t I? My prints are all over this car now and people saw me going about the town with ye this morning, it’s a bit late to start worrying about not getting involved.’

He’s right, but still. ‘Fine.’ I sigh, giving in, ‘If ye want to tag along that’s one thing, but I do this job. That’s the deal I’ve made with Marcus.’

‘Fair enough.’ Brad manoeuvres the Volvo across a traffic diversion along York Place and pulls into the entrance to the bus station so we can swap seats. As I open the driver’s door a police car pulls out of the junction opposite and I hesitate, just for a moment. The Volvo is blocking the entrance to the bus terminal, just the type of thing to attract their attention if it’s a quiet day and they’ve time to kill. The squad car drives on, oblivious, but there’ll be other cop cars, other cops not quite so sloppy.

‘Aw, bollocks, man.’ I mutter under my breath. ‘Let’s get it over with.’ And I slide into the driver’s seat.

‘So, where are we going?’

I turn back onto York Place and put my foot down, turning the car in the opposite direction, speeding over tram lines, turning a sharp left from the roundabout and out onto Leith Street.

‘To the docks.’

‘Ye’ll no get many Romanians in the back there.’ Brad grins, inclining his head
towards the Volvo’s large boot.

‘Nah, mate…..’ I say cautiously, ‘guns.’

That wipes the smile from his face. ‘Ye shittin’ me?’

‘Why would I do that?’ I challenge, ‘Jeezo, after everythin’ else that’s gone on do I really need to make stuff up?’

Brad thinks for a minute. ‘Shit man, can I change my mind?’

I look over at him while trying to miss suicidal pedestrians near the Foot o’ the Walk.

‘I’m jokin’!’ he says when he sees the look on my face. ‘If nothing else I can give yer a hand if it starts to get nasty.’

I keep my distance from the car ahead, not wanting to draw attention to myself by braking quickly. The road is busy but that’s normal along this stretch, with vehicles heading in the same direction as me – not to Leith Docks, but the commercial part which houses a shopping mall and HMS Britannia. Unlike the other vehicles, we’re heading towards the port, so I take the less used turn off before Ocean Drive which brings us out beyond the casino, stopping at Albert Dock Basin just as Marcus instructed.

There’s a parking bay as we approach the dock but it seems sensible to park somewhere our contact can see us. I opt for the yard beside a large brick and corrugated iron warehouse and kill the engine. I glance at my watch: 4.20pm. ‘Ten minutes.’ I mutter, ‘We’ve made good time.’

Several vessels have docked including a couple of cargo ships, their containers already unloaded. Two port officials walk along the dockside, checking a number on the side of each container against a printout one of them is holding. Both men appear stocky but they’re wearing heavy overcoats over their uniforms, they have outdoor complexions: broken veins and ruddy cheeks, deep lines etch their mouth and eyes. A lifetime being battered by the East Coast wind. Satisfied with their inventory they head towards a single storey building with arched windows overlooking the dock.

I turn to Brad: ‘Mebbe they’re due a break and one of ‘em’ll come back out once he’s shaken off his friend.’

‘Aye.’ Brad says encouragingly.

A young woman steps out of the office and walks round to the back of the building. She’s wearing smart black trousers and a fitted jacket which she pulls tightly around her; even in the suit you can tell she has a great figure. Once out of the wind she pulls a cigarette and lighter out of her trouser pocket and lights up. She seems lost in thought as she takes her first drag, her curly hair dancing around her face in the wind. Her skin is the colour of highland toffee, with dark eyes and a cupid bow mouth. A guy in a boiler suit shouts something over to her on his way into the warehouse, making her laugh. ‘In ye dreams, Lewis!’ she shouts back.

Brad nudges me. ‘Canny blame him fe trying though, eh?’

‘Right enough.’ I say. I look down at my watch, it’s approaching half past. I glance back towards the office entrance but no one emerges.

‘Marcus said half past.’ I say to Brad.

‘Is ye watch fast?’ he asks.

‘Not that I know of,’ I shrug, ‘what time is it on your phone?’ Brad pulls his smart phone out of his pocket and looks at the screen. ‘Half past.’

‘Right, then.’

The woman finishes her cigarette and drops it onto the floor before stepping on it. She catches us gawping and tilts her head the way attractive women do when they want you to know you’re punching above your weight. Undeterred, Brad leans his head out of the car window. ‘Arright, sweet cheeks,’ he drawls. I can feel my face redden in embarrassment.

The woman glares at him, striding towards the Volvo with a malicious look in her eye.

‘Ye canny park there!’ She shouts.

‘Fucksake, Brad.’ I hiss, starting to panic. The success of this job relies upon the car and driver being as inconspicuous as possible. Now, thanks to Motor Mouth, we had one cute but mean looking official bearing down on us like a ton of bricks.

‘Hey, you,’ she demands, looking at me, ‘Who said ye could park there?’

‘We’re waiting fe someone.’ I say honestly.

Now Brad’s staring daggers at me.

‘Fucksake yersel,’ he mutters, shaking his head. Her waist is now at my eyeline and she stoops to lean into my driver’s side window.

‘Ye waitin’ fe me, shit fe brains.’ She hisses, ‘now go round the back of the warehouse like a good wee boy, park beside the back door and I’ll meet ye there.’ She casts a withering look in Brad’s direction. ‘And tell gob shite here to keep his comments to himself.’

She straightens up and walks back the way she came, lights another cigarette while sheltering behind the office block.

‘Lezzer.’ Brad mutters, his face tripping him.

I turn the key in the ignition but the car stalls, ‘Crissake, Davy.’ he snipes. I sneak a peek over at Bossy Tits and she’s smirking. I make sure the Volvo starts on the second attempt, moving it along the back of the warehouse until I see the back door. It’s a single door with glass panels top and bottom covered in a wire grille. The words NO PARKING are painted on the tarmac outside it. I park right on top of them. The back door opens and the guy in the overalls we’d seen earlier steps out, carrying a crate which he places on the tarmac beside the car. I go to open the boot but the guy calls out from the doorway: ‘Canny load it till she’s signed my docket, Pal. She needs tae check the goods before they can be released.’

‘No bother, Pal,’ I tell him, ‘I’ll wait.’ I ask Brad to throw me a cigarette and my lighter and I’ve smoked half way down it when Bossy Tits herself walks through the back door, followed by Overall Man carrying another crate. She’s carrying a clip board, right enough, the sheets of paper attached to it fluttering in the wind. Overall Man places the second crate on top of the first, then steps back as though awaiting further instructions.

‘Open it then!’ she snaps, and he slides the lid off. The top of the crate is full of bubble wrap screwed into balls to wad around the contents and stop them slipping around in the box. Bossy Tits pushes through several layers of wadding with her hand and lifts out a box of hair straighteners. She opens the box, pointing the straighteners at me as though defending herself.

‘Just sign where indicated!’ she barks, ‘to say you’ve seen the contents and they are correct.’

With her other hand she thrusts the clip board in my direction and I snatch it from her like a novice in a relay. The sheets of paper clipped to the board are blank; however I play along and scribble a couple of wavy lines across the top sheet for effect.

Bossy Tits turns to Overall Man, ‘I could murder a brew Lewis, fancy putting the kettle on?’ She flashes a smile that I reckon must get her anything she wants and Lewis scurries into the warehouse like a happy wee bunny. I hand the clipboard back to her.

‘You might want to check the second layer.’ She advises, stepping to the side of the vehicle to give me some room. I move round until I can rummage in the crate myself and I push back the top level of identical straighteners.

The bottom of the crate is crammed with semi-automatic handguns and ammunition.

‘That’s fine.’ I say in a voice that sounds nothing like me. I lift the crate and place it in the boot of the Volvo while Bossy Tits removes the lid from the second crate. Without Lewis observing we go through the motions on mute: I acknowledge the hair products I’m shown and scribble on the same blank sheet before lifting the second crate into the car on top of the other one.

‘The top one’s clean.’ She whispers as I’m closing the boot lid, ‘So if you’re stopped you’re OK if someone wants to take a look inside it.’ I nod my head, climbing into the driver’s seat as slowly as I can muster given my gut reaction is to slam the car door and put my foot down to get the hell out of the place.

‘Everything OK?’ Brad asks as I buckle my seatbelt. I turn the key in the ignition, glancing in my rear view mirror in time to see Lewis step back into the yard with two steaming mugs and Bossy Tits marching back to the office block.

‘Just fuckin’ peachy.’ I tell him.

16

The laundrette is in a purpose-built concrete unit, no bigger than a council lock-up, flanked by a betting shop on one side and an off-licence-cum-grocers on the other. The pavement in front of it is narrow and littered with beer cans and dog turds. A boy in a plastic Jason mask lurks beside a bull mastiff searching for somewhere clean to squat. They may be some time.

‘S’not even Halloween,’ Brad remarks when he clocks him.

‘So what’s your excuse?’ I laugh.

‘Very funny.’ he mutters into his chest.

We sit quietly for a moment then Brad turns to me in the car, ‘Are ye sure it’s here?’

‘Dunno,’ I shrug my shoulders, ‘It looks so ordinary.’

‘Told ye to use the Sat Nav.’

‘Aye and that’d go down well if the cops find the car and decide to check it.’ I snipe.

‘Might as well put a big sign on the fuckin’ door, Guns R Us.’

‘Fine,’ Brad retorts, ‘no need to go off on one.’

We’re parked outside the address Barrington gave me back at the hideout. ‘Ye’d have thought he’d have said if it was a launderette.’ I say aloud. ‘He could have said “Take it to the launderette off Ferry Road”. I mean, it’s easy enough to find when you know what you’re looking for.’

‘If this is what you’re looking for.’ Brad counters. ‘Why don’t ye call Marcus and
check?’

‘Are you for real?’ I glance at Brad to see if he’s joking but his face is deadly serious.

‘No chance!’

Brad shrugs his shoulders before turning to gawp at passers-by. I’m starting to get twitchy though. Two scrotes in a Volvo are certain to start attracting unwanted attention and the one thing I can’t afford at the moment is attention of any kind. I make a decision.

‘I’ll go and reccy the place.’ I tell Brad, climbing out of the car.

A row of coin-operated machines line the wall floor to ceiling, dirty plastic chairs sit in the corner of the room facing out. Two middle-aged women occupy chairs furthest from the entrance, deep in conversation while staring at their tumbling washing. Shapeless bras and skid marked pants burst into view to be replaced by soiled sheets whose colours have long since run.

The far wall contains a drinks machine and a contraption that spits out laundry tokens if the correct money is inserted. A plump woman in a tunic looks up from sorting a pile of dry cleaning.

‘Back room, Son.’ She tells me as though she’s been waiting. I move through the
room self-consciously, as though she and the women will start talking about me once I’m out of earshot.

The back room consists of a boarded up window, a small rectangular table and four chairs. Sitting in one of those chairs is Les Mahago, one of Gus McEwan’s main runners. I’ve never met him before but I’ve seen him about the town often enough. He’s older than most of the people Gus has working for him. Rumour has it they grew up together, but that’s as much as I know. He looks like he was sporty once; a muscular body that is starting to sag, black rimmed glasses balancing on a bent nose. His hair is grey and beginning to thin at the temples; a silvery scar runs from his nose to his top lip. He’s wearing jeans and a faded sweatshirt and brown trainer-style shoes that men his age like to wear.

He’s drinking tea, but not from the drinks machine; a teapot and sugar bowl have been set out on the table beside a carton of milk and a spoon. He holds a steaming mug in his hand.

‘Can I help ye, Son?’ He asks, but the fact he’s asking me politely rather than telling me to get the fuck out confirms me he’s my contact.

‘I hope ye can,’ I tell him, ‘otherwise I’ve been sent to the wrong place.’

‘Drive down the cut-through at the side,’ he instructs, all business like, ‘My lad’ll take your delivery.’

I return to the Volvo and let myself in the driver’s side. ‘No good?’ Brad asks as I start the engine.

‘They want us round the back.’ I tell him. I pull onto the pavement and turn sharply into the narrow access-only road that runs down the side of the launderette. It’s a tight squeeze to park the Volvo beside the transit van waiting there but I manage it. The company name is painted in large letters across both sides of the van: LM Domestics – all aspects of home cleaning and laundry undertaken. I climb out of the car as a guy a little older than me steps out of the van. He’s wearing a uniform of black jeans with a polo-shirt that matches the van’s logo. He looks like a younger version of the man I’ve just spoken to, only the surgeon who worked on his cleft lip wasn’t so skilful. His top lip is puckered in the centre exposing his front teeth even when he’s scowling, which by his demeanour he does often. He catches me looking which seems to make him madder and without a word being spoken he opens the van doors, stepping back while I load both crates into it without offering any help.

‘Pleasure’s all mine,’ I call out before returning to the Volvo.

‘That’s Coll Mahago.’ Brad says when I climb into the car.

‘I know, his Da’s in the back room.’

‘Jeezo,’ Brad sounds impressed.

‘He was a coupla years above me in school,’ I tell him, ‘nasty bastard, right enough.’

‘Surprised he went.’

‘Nah, it was Park View.’

Park View is a residential school, a borstal, a place for kids needing alternative education. It was selective right enough, in that you had to have been excluded from a state school to get a place there. It opened afternoons only, as pupils were unlikely to get out of their beds till mid-day. It wasn’t really a school, more a holding pen for problem kids.

‘So he knows ye then?’ Brad asks.

I shake my head. ‘Won’t know me from the hole in his arse. I was a scrawny thing
back then, the kind o’ kid he’d o’ picked on if he hadn’t already set his sights on someone. He had it in for a few o’ the kids, like he was trying out different methods of bullying, see which one worked best.’

‘Charming.’

‘Aye, but with a Da like his how can ye blame him?’

‘I heard Les put the chippy owner’s hand in the fryer for forgetting to put sauce on his fish.’

‘Coll tried something similar with one of the dinner ladies.’

‘Naw’, Brad looks distraught, ‘Who’d hurt a dinner lady?’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘So what were you there for?’ Brad cocks an eyebrow as he readies himself to hear about my fall from mainstream grace. I look down at my hands, tongue tied.

‘You know what?’ I say aloud as the truth of it dawns on me, ‘I haven’t a fuckin’ clue.’

‘Aye, right.’ Brad sneers, but one look at my face and he changes tack:

‘Were you there long?’

I shake my head, ‘About a year,’ I say absent-mindedly, glad this job was over and to be getting the hell away. I’d fulfilled my part of the bargain and once we get rid of the Volvo I’ll be on my way to see Marcus.

‘You must’ve improved then.’ Brad says encouragingly.

‘Improved from what?’ I ask glumly.

We drive out to a scheme in Niddrie where burnt out cars are part of the landscape. The tower blocks have been demolished in favour of low rise villas but the tenants remain the same, out of their faces on smack or methadone, depending on whether they’re getting high or getting clean. Either way they’ll not give a damn about the view, assuming they’d notice in the first place. A wiry man stands on a patch of grass in front of his house yelling at a group of kids. He clutches a cat to his chest as though it were a baby, holding it close while swearing at the gang. ‘Ye bastards, leave her the fuck alone. She’s already on tablets from the vet for stress.’ I’m not sure what surprises me most, that he’s trying to reason with them or that cats suffer from anxiety.

‘They’re just bored.’ Brad observes, ‘an’ he’s givin’ them a reaction.’

The kids pick up their bikes and gather by the roundabout when they see Brad soaking the footwell of the car in petrol, hood up in case the CCTV from the housing office car park is working for once. He throws a lighted match at the car from the safety of a hedgerow while I slip the oldest of the gang a twenty pound note to create a diversion. As the car ignites twelve boys with scarves around their faces circle around it while Brad and I sprint across the road to catch the next bus going into town. We keep our hoods up, playing on our phones throughout the journey, careful not to let anyone see our faces.

‘Ye gonna ring this girl now?’ Brad asks, referring to Candy.

‘No.’ I keep my head low as I explain: ‘I want to be able to tell her it’s safe to go out.

That she won’t be passing guys in the street and wondering if it’s them that pointed a gun at her.’

Brad shifts in his seat to let someone with shopping bags move down the bus. ‘Why not just call her now, ye know ye want to. Ye can do all the detective stuff with Marcus later.’

‘I know.’

It’s hard for me to explain that I made a pact with myself when I took on this job. That if I can put Candy’s mind at rest at least some good would have come out of it.

‘Look at it this way,’ I begin, ‘she may not know who robbed the factory that day but they’ll fuckin’ know her. What’s to stop them coming after her, or worse still, silencing her if they think she can identify them?’

‘Jeezo Davy, they’re no’ gonnae do that.’ Brad sighs, ‘they’ll be long gone by now.

Glad no one’s any the wiser.’

‘I’m not convinced.’ I counter, ‘At least when I find out who they are I can let them know I’m on to them.’

‘Put the frighteners on them ye mean?’

‘Mebbe. But better than that, they’ll know that Candy and her work mates are not the only risk once they realise other people know it was them.’

‘C’mon,’ Brad says quickly, ‘Our stop.’

We get off at The Bridges, caught up in a group of Spanish students on an exchange trip by the look of it, their bright clothes and clear skin at odds with the pasty Scottish faces around them. I wonder what it’s like to live in a country where there’s so much sunshine, where people earn respect for the values they hold rather than the amount of drink they can put away, or the fights they start.

We turn onto Princes Street where a fleet of Mercedes line up outside The Balmoral Hotel. Each car is chauffeur driven, waiting to deposit its passenger on the red carpet leading up the hotel steps. The concierge opens every car door himself, greeting each guest and snapping orders to the junior staff hovering by the hotel’s revolving door. As we draw level with the front car Gus McEwan steps out of it, pausing just for a moment to wait for his wife, a hard faced blonde in a designer dress, on nodding terms with Botox if her upper lip is anything to go by. She takes Gus’s arm and they enter the hotel in unison. Flash bulbs go off inside the hotel foyer where a politician I recognise from the telly is waiting, arms outstretched as though welcoming long lost relatives.

‘Reckon he’s a terrorist then?’ I ask Brad once we are well out of earshot.

‘Cos o’ the guns ye mean?’ Brad asks.

I nod.

‘Nae chance.’ Brad laughs. ‘He runs a loan scheme, that’s all. Makes a fortune renting ‘em out by the day. Years ago if ye wanted a gun ye had to find someone who’d sell ye one, which is daft if ye think about it ‘cos ye may only need it for a one off job. They’re harder to come by now anyway, after the polis raids a coupla’ years ago, more expensive too. This way you rent them and return them the next day.’

A bit like with Blockbuster before Lovefilm got in on the act, I suppose.

‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

‘Aye, well. I work in security; need to carry a piece from time to time.’

While we wait at a pedestrian crossing I make a call to Marcus who agrees to come by the flat after the meeting he’s at has finished. I smile at the term and picture some business associate tied to a chair.

Brad takes a call from a debtor he’s been chasing: they have a payment for him if he picks it up now. He looks over at me for approval. ‘It’s fine,’ I tell him. He gets ten per cent of the money he collects and he can’t afford to turn it down because of me. ‘you go, don’t want to get a name for being unreliable.’ We cross Princes Street together then Brad heads towards the cut-through behind the St James’ Centre.

By the time I reach York Place Marcus’s X5 is parked on double yellow lines, seemingly invisible to the two parking attendants working their way along the road. Marcus is sitting on the back seat and I wait for Barrington to nod his permission before I open the rear door and climb in.

Marcus greets me with a wide grin. ‘De delivery arrive’ on time.’ He says pleasantly, as though he’s telling me something I don’t know. ‘Gus hassk me fi pass on ‘im personal tanks. “Tell Davy,” ‘im say, “Tell Davy ‘im do a good job,”’ He hands me an envelope which I open straight away and count: Inside is two grand in twenty pound notes folded drug dealer style; there’s a couple of hundred more than I was expecting, enough to settle this week’s payment to Mickey Plastic and help me get away from here if I can’t clear my name.

‘Thanks,’ I tell Marcus, stuffing the envelope into my pocket. I wait a beat. ‘You were going to tell me who robbed Swanson’s factory,’ I prompt him, ‘remember?’

Marcus studies me then shrugs, ‘Me tort yi change yi min’.’ he informs me, though I can’t think what I’ve done to make him think that. ‘Yi sure yi still wan’ to know?’

‘I need to know, Marcus.’ I say firmly.

Marcus glances at Barrington as though it’s really him that calls the shots; Barrington shrugs in a fucked if I give a shit kind of way.

Marcus turns his attention back to me: ‘Me fin’ out who did dis ting de night you tol’ me about it.’ he begins, ‘Me took a cyall from Mickey Plastic an’‘im hoffer me fifty per cent o’ de stolen cyash as a mark of respec’.’

My head is reeling: ‘Wha-’

Marcus holds up his hand to silence me. ‘Me not finish yet.’ He says sternly. ‘Him talk about de recession, about de internet an’ payday loan firms stealin’ ‘im clients,’

‘So, what do you care?’ I say impatiently.

‘Where d’ya tink ‘im get de money to lend out in de firss’ place?’

The penny drops.

‘So you lend him the money he loans out to poor suckers like me. Only if he has no one to lend it to he doesn’t make any money, and if he’s not making money he can’t pay you back.’

Marcus nods.

‘De misstek him make is stealing on my turf, and we’re workin’ on dat.’ Marcus catches Barrington’s eye in the rear-view mirror and with a shudder I wonder where Devlin and his machete is.

‘He wasn’t working alone!’ I remind them, ‘he had a sidekick.’

Marcus nods. ‘Him son was der.’

‘You’re shitting me!’ I gasp, ‘Dim looking scrote, always on a bike?’

Marcus nods again.

‘He’s only a kid!’ I say in wonder but then I remember Candy saying that one of the robbers was much younger than the other. It stands to reason Mickey’d use his own son. Keep it in the family.

‘Ting is, Mickey plans de job, den realise ‘him too old to go tru wid it. ‘him need
someone wid a bit o muscle.’ Marcus stares at me as through readying himself for my reaction. I must have really freaked him out that day at the scrapyard.

‘Him not do de robbery,’ Marcus says slowly, ‘Him get yi mate ti do it.’

I can count my mates on the fingers of one hand; since I’ve been out of jail I’ve given every one of them a body swerve. Then it dawns on me.

‘What,’ I laugh, ‘Brad?’

Marcus nods.

‘No way!’ I say quickly, ‘No fuckin’ way.’ If it’s possible for both men to look sorry for me they do it now, their faces a combination of pity and curiosity. When I first approached Marcus I’d wanted revenge, but then I hadn’t expected one of the robbers to be someone I know, or more importantly someone who’s been looking out for me the last couple of days. And why exactly is that, I wonder? What’s in it for him? It explains why Marcus was off with Brad earlier today, and it also tells me why Brad was keen for me to put off speaking to Marcus and call Candy instead.

‘OK.’ I say aloud, even though that’s the opposite of what I’m feeling. I feel as though I’ve been kicked in the teeth. Then I think about it.

‘The wee fuckin’ shite.’ I say to no one in particular.

‘Yi want me deal wid ‘im?’ Marcus asks. By deal with him he means tie him in duct tape and throw him off the Forth Road Bridge but I don’t know what I want any more. I need time to take this in. I shake my head as I stumble out of the car.

I let myself into the townhouse and climb the stairs to my room. I stand in the doorway surveying the empty takeaway cartons and upturned boxes that represent the sum total of my life. When I got out of prison I swore I would make a real go of things, be someone my family could be proud of; surround myself with people who gave a damn. Yet here I am, on my own and on the run for murder. Jude always said it was wrong to look back. Spend too long staring in that rear view mirror and you’ll miss what’s right in front of you. I know she’s right, I know that, but now that she’s gone I feel like a kite cut loose from its string. I wish I could turn the clock back, go back to a time when I felt safe; with a thud I realise there wasn’t one.

I watched a documentary once, one of those catch it, kill it, eat it food programmes tracking the journey meat makes from pasture to plate. A farmer’s wife had slaughtered a chicken, cut off its head with a cleaver, yet for several moments it had continued to run around the yard like nothing had happened. Minus its head of course. That was what I feel like right now.

A headless chicken.

I think about making myself something to eat but can’t face another Pot Noodle. I make a roll up instead, lighting it as I plan my conversation with Candy. To say it’s going to be tricky is an understatement, that’s assuming she even wants to talk to me. I try to put myself in her shoes, hooking up with some guy fresh out of jail who instead of knocking on her door sends her a covert mobile so the police can’t trace his calls. It’s hardly going to instil her with confidence, is it?

My phone beeps signalling the arrival of a text. I tap on the screen to open it:

Davy its Brad mate. Am outside. Can I come up?

I’d left the door unlocked. Brad texting me is his way of testing my mood.

I type one word:

Aye

Might as well put him out of his misery.

17

‘Ye bastard!’ I yell as he appears in the doorway. I’d been rehearsing what to say as I waited for him to walk up the stairs.

‘Whoa, Davy wait!’ his hands are up in mitigation, he’s walking toward me like this is something we can resolve like adults. ‘Let me expl-’

‘Fuck off with your excuses!’ I spit, swatting his hands away, yet even as I’m doing this I know it matters that he came back, that he didn’t bail on me because he couldn’t face the row. It feels disloyal to Candy but there’s a part of me that respects the fact he’s standing here, but there’s another part that wishes I was five stone heavier so that my anger actually scares him. At best we both know this is the equivalent of a toddler’s tantrum.

‘You absolute bastard!’ I want to hit him but am aware my hand’ll come off worse.

‘I thought you were a mate!’ I’m still shouting, but I don’t have the stomach for it. I feel foolish, allowing myself to be duped by a local schemie.

Brad tries approaching me once more: ‘I didnae know she was your bird!’ he pleads, ‘How the fuck could I o’ known back then?’

I stay silent; I want to see where he goes with this.

‘Look, I was desperate for money!’ His eyes are wild like it really matters what I think of him, ‘My wife left me while I was inside and there’s a bairn to pay for. I’d taken out a loan to buy a cot and a pram but then I ended up in jail and couldn’t pay it back. Things were getting nasty,’ he’s standing in front of me and his eyes never leave mine.

‘She was opening letters from the loan company who were threatening to send bailiffs, I borrowed money from Mickey Plastic to pay off the loan company. Only thing is he makes up your repayment schedule as he goes along.’

Don’t I know it. Borrowing money from Mickey hasn’t been the smartest move I’ve ever made. I feel some sympathy for Brad but I’m determined not to show it. ‘Then Mickey gave me a call two weeks ago, said he’d write off my debt if I did a job for him. He told me what he wanted me to do. It was a piece o’ piss: In, out, money for nothing.’

I can feel my blood pressure rise: ‘Ye scared ma girlfriend shitless!’

‘I know that now, but I didnae know she wiz ye bird at the time!’ Brad reasons, ‘Be fair, I didn’t even know you properly.’

He had a point, right enough, but even so. ‘It wiz the fat copper, when he came into the pub asking questions about you after the prozzies were murdered, he said you’d gone mental when he lifted you for the robbery, said you were mad enough to kill, that mebbe they’d wound you up. I felt such a twat that something I’d done could make you react like that.’

‘But it didn’t!’

‘I know that now as well! But then I heard Malkie had been murdered, just after me hearing Daz arrange to meet him and I knew someone was setting you up. I thought that mebbe I had a chance to make up for what I’d done. Then when I find you all you can go on about is what you’re gonna do to the bastard that robbed the factory and I could hardly own up then, could I?’

‘Fucksake, Brad.’

I slump onto the settee, my anger has gone, I hate to admit it but I can see his point. That’s what makes it worse in a way: finding myself empathising with an armed robber.

‘Oh, shit,’ I mutter, putting my head in my hands.

‘What?’ Brad asks.

I look at my watch: 11.30pm. ‘It’s time for me to ring Candy.’

Brad wanders off to the other end of the room as I key in her number to give me a little privacy.

Candy’s phone rings out several times and I’m about to disconnect when a hesitant voice answers:

‘Hello?’

‘Hey Candy….’ I say in relief, ‘you had me going for a minute, I thought you weren’t going to answer.’

‘I had to find somewhere where Dad couldn’t listen in; he won’t let me out of his sight.’ Her voice is low; I picture her looking furtively over her shoulder to make sure her old man’s out of earshot. ‘I’m not sure which worries him most,’ she continues ‘the fact I was held up by an armed robber or the prospect of me seeing you again.’

So she’s not ruled it out then, I think excitedly.

‘Are ye OK?’ I ask.

‘Yeah,’ she answers softly, ‘Sorry for freaking out like that.’

‘Ye weren’t freaking out, ye were in shock.’

‘Well, even so.’

I laugh with relief that she’s actually on the other end of the line, speaking to me. Ken, I could kiss you a million times over. Though I’d rather snog Candy.

‘Never mind me, Davy, how the hell are you? I’m so sorry about your aunt….’

My throat feels suddenly dry and I know my voice will give out on me if I don’t change the subject:

‘What happened to your other phone?’ I croak, ‘I tried calling you.’

‘Dad took it.’ She sounds embarrassed, ‘Didn’t like the idea of you trying to contact me.’

That figures.

‘S’OK,’ I reassure her, ‘Don’t worry about it. He’s entitled to his opinion.’

‘Only it’s not just his opinion any more Davy, is it?’ Candy states matter of factly.

The way she says that makes my spine tingle.

‘Not you as well!’ I blurt out. ‘I didn’t kill them, Candy!’

It’s hard to conceal the anger in my voice but I’m trying really hard. Brad, at the other end of the room had been minding his own business during my conversation but he’s openly listening now.

Candy says nothing.

‘Christsake Candy!’ I say, annoyed as hell, ‘Ye’ve got to believe me!’

‘I don’t know what to believe.’ Candy says carefully. ‘The police have been round
here-’

‘-I bet they have!’

I’m shouting now but I can’t believe she’s taking their word against mine. Brad casts worried glances in my direction. ‘Davy, calm down.’ He signals across the room but how can I calm down when I’m listening to the extent MacIntyre has gone to, to cast doubt in Candy’s mind?

‘The police came round to tell me they’d arrested a suspect for the robbery,’ Candy informs me. ‘They asked me if I knew you, and it didn’t take much to put two and two together.’

‘Well thanks for that!’

‘I didn’t mean it like that!’ She snaps defensively, ‘But, anyway, what am I supposed to think when they turn up at my door?’

‘How many came round?’ I ask.

‘What?’

‘How many cops came round?’

A pause. ‘Two.’

‘Are ye sure?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘How many actually came into the house?’

Another pause. ‘Just one I think…..The other one stayed in the car.’

‘Ye sure?’

‘I’m positive,’ she snaps, ‘why?’

‘Ye know they’re not supposed to do that, don’t ye?

‘What are you talking about?’

‘When they come round to your house to speak to ye, they shouldn’t come in on their own as they can’t corroborate anything that’s said.’

‘But I didn’t say anything Davy!’

‘Ye sure about that?’

A sigh. ‘Christ, Davy, you’re not making any sense!

‘A cop comes to see ye and tells ye they’ve arrested someone for the robbery and Oh, by the way, what do ye know about Davy Johnson? You MUST’VE fuckin’ SAID SOMETHING!’

I can’t believe I actually just yelled at her.

Silence.

‘I told him that I didn’t think that was possible you’d do something like that, besides, I’d have recognised your voice. I know you weren’t involved, Davy.’

‘Right! See! That’s the problem. Did he write that down?’

‘No.’

‘I bet he didn’t! And with no one to corroborate what you told him do you think he’ll climb back into his car and tell his mate that’s what you said?’

‘I dunno.’ She says uncertainly.

‘Come off it Candy, the answer’s NO! He fuckin’ won’t.

More silence.

‘This copper,’ I prompt, ‘what was he like?’

A pause, ‘I dunno….I didn’t pay him any mind really, you just look at the uniform don’t you-?

‘-think!’ I interrupt, ‘this is important!’

Another sigh, ‘quite stocky, I suppose. He seemed nice. He got on alright with Dad.’

No surprise there.

‘And the other copper, the one who stayed in the car?’

‘Couldn’t really see him.’

‘This nice copper,’ I say sarcastically, ‘did he bother coming round again to tell you I’d been released, that they weren’t charging me with anything as there wasn’t anything to charge me with?’

‘No,’ Candy concedes, ‘but I already knew it wasn’t you, didn’t I? Anyway, have you heard anything about who did do it Davy? It would be a help knowing who they are at least.’

‘No.’ I lie, glaring at Brad.

‘Listen, the same policeman did come round after your aunt and her friends had been murdered – and Davy, I’m so sorry about that-’ Candy’s the only person so far who has referred to the twins as Jude’s friends rather than lumping them together as prozzies with no other connection to each other than selling sex, and it makes me fall for her just a little bit more. ‘but next breath he’s telling us that you’ve gone missing. I mean, it doesn’t look good does it?’

‘And he was on his own again?’

‘No!...well, yeah, I suppose, if you mean did his partner stay in the car…’

‘Candy, that’s the cop who hates me. The one I told you about. He’s fitting me up, it’s him that’s-’

‘SHUT IT DAVY!’ Brad lunges towards me waving frantically, making slicing signs with his hand across his neck. I move the phone away from my mouth, ‘What?’ I snap at him.

‘Dinnea go telling her something that’s gonnae put her in danger ye fuckwit!’ he hisses.

Shit.

‘Davy, what did you say? Who’s there with you?’

‘No-one.’ The second lie I’ve told her in ten minutes. ‘It doesn’t matter, OK?’

Her sigh tells me she doesn’t believe me. I close my eyes and rub my hand across my jawline; I can’t remember when I last had a shave.

‘Look, Candy, I’m sorry if I snapped at ye.’

‘If!’

‘I just need ye to know that I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I can’t tell ye that.’

‘Aw, Christ, Davy!’ Then, ‘Can’t you hand yourself in?’

‘Ye haven’t been listening to a word I’ve just said!’ I snap, ‘That bastard is fitting me up, can ye no’ just accept that? Ye think I can walk into the cop shop and tell his mates he’s bent? Ye think they’ll listen? DO YE ACTUALLY BELIEVE THAT?’ I yell at her.

‘DO YE?’

The phone line goes dead in my hand.

‘That went well.’ Brad observes grimly.

‘Shit.’ I say aloud. If I’d had to describe the exact opposite of how I’d wanted our conversation to go that was it. I bang my fist against the wall in frustration.

‘This is all your fault.’ I sneer at Brad.

‘How?’ he fires back, his face a picture of hurt. ‘Ye canny blame me for the fact ye bird’s wishin’ she was seein’ the school chess club champion rather than some on the run scally outta Saughton.’

I look at him suspiciously. ‘Ye had a chess club at your school?’ I say, ‘I’m surprised ye even know what it is.’

‘Listen Shit fe Brains,’ he says defensively, ‘I know it’s a board game even if I don’t know how ye fuckin’ play it. Point is none o’ them guys would be giving her this grief. She’d be getting candle lit dinners then back to their pad on the waterfront by now.’

I study Brad to see if he’s trying to wind me up or he really is that tactless. His overgrown baby-head gives nothing away. I must look depressed because he laughs self-consciously then punches me on the arm.

‘I’ll go and get some cans,’ he says magnanimously, ‘we can stay up till the early hours getting hammered.’

It’s the most sensible thing he’s said all evening so I nod, feeling around in my pocket to give him some cash. ‘Nah, mate,’ he says, waving my hand away, ‘this is on me.’

‘So it should be.’ I grumble.

Fuckin’ chess club. There was nothing like that at Park View. Pupils weren’t allowed anything that could be used as a weapon and small pieces of rock could trigger a lunchtime massacre if the staff weren’t vigilant. Even the playground supervisor wore a stab vest.

Brad’s not been gone five minutes when my mobile rings. Thinking he’s ringing to check what I want I speak without checking the screen:

‘Can ye not pick up a beer without me holding ye hand now?’ I joke.

‘Have ye no’ heard?’ Ken asks urgently, his tone erasing the smile from my face.

18

I shake my head; already my heart is thumping. ‘Heard what?’

‘The polis have raided Marcus’s house. Got him out o’ bed in the middle o’ the night. One o’ my drivers was taking hame a fare, saw it happen. Saw them kick the door in, officers storming upstairs and round the back o’ the property. Bollock naked he was, like he’d been dragged oot of his bed.’

‘What, ye mate saw him?’

‘In all his fuckin’ glory, his missus beside him, covered in nothin’ but a sheet.’

Ken’s disgust matched mine: ‘I know, ye’d think they’d let them get dressed before they drag them outside but humiliation’s all part of it, Son. The shame o’ the neighbours seeing them like that, their kids too probably.’

‘Christ,’ I put my head in my hands; I barely dare ask the next question: ‘What
happened next?’

‘Paul, the driver I wiz tellin’ ye aboot, he dropped off his fare and on his way back pulled over outside the property. Marcus was dressed at this point, or at least had some clothes on, and was lying on the floor cuffed, some cop sitting on his legs. They’d brought trackers dogs but they mustn’t have been able to find anything ‘cos they looked bored shitless.’

‘Aw Jesus Ken, I need to get over there, can you take me?’

‘I thought’d ye’d say that,’ he says, ‘I’m already downstairs.’

Nothing could have prepared me for the state the house is in. The front garden has been dug up; mounds of soil litter the driveway mixed with decorative gravel. There are several large craters with nothing but mud and dirty water at their base, as though an indecisive person has tried installing a pond.

‘They do it to make a point,’ Ken mutters.

I don’t reply, I’m still taking it all in. There is a light on behind every window in the house. Every curtain and blind is open revealing squint pictures and empty shelves, a curtain rail has been pulled from its fixings in one of the upstairs rooms, it leans in across the window like a wooden pole vault. I climb out of the car.

‘De ye want me to wait?’ Ken asks and this time I nod. I can feel his eyes on me as I move towards the house; the place is eerily silent save for the click of his lighter followed by his first long drag on a cigarette. I’m grateful to Ken for staying, I’ve no idea how Marcus will react to this, or how he’ll react to me turning up uninvited once more. The front door hangs open and I step inside timidly.

The police have done a good job of gutting the place. They’ve pulled back carpets and lifted floorboards which they’ve placed back down unevenly. A leather L-shaped settee has been cut open along the back, its yellow stuffing spews out like a boil that’s just burst. A giant plasma TV has had its moulded plastic back prised off then reattached badly. Wires hang out at the side.

The place is uninhabitable.

There’s no sign of Gemma. Ken’s driver had said she’d driven off with the kids, the wee one screaming because one of the officers had ripped the head off his teddy bear. After a fruitless search and a failure to rile him they’d had to untie Marcus, one of them muttering ‘Let that be a lesson to ye,’ like they’d done something worthwhile.

I find him walking unsteadily from room to room like a prospective buyer. Only very drunk, and very angry. I follow him into the open plan lounge where he weaves his way towards the settee, planting his feet wide apart to maintain some sort of sitting position. He looks me up and down as though sickened by the sight of me and blinks slowly.

He may be pissed, but he’s extremely lucid.

‘Jesus Marcus, can I help?’ I ask meekly.

‘Are you havin’ a laugh?’ He asks, waving his arms around the room; I feel like a dog having his nose rubbed in his shit.

‘I’m so sorry.’ I say honestly.

‘I didn’t need to help you.’ He says, reverting to his normal accent, after all there’s no one else to hear it.

‘I could have said no, or strung you along then handed you over to the filth or better still, I should have fuckin’ wiped you out the day you came snivelling on my FUCKIN’ DOORSTEP.’

‘You were being watched?’ I gasp.

‘Are you for real?’ he splutters, ‘Of course I was being watched! It’s an occupational hazard, but one I can deal with, NORMALLY, as long as my private life and business world don’t collide.’

‘But how-’

‘-How WHAT?’ he snaps

‘How did they know-?’

‘They saw you here.’

It makes no sense. ‘I….I was careful,’ I stammer, ‘made sure no one was following us.’

‘They didn’t need to follow you. My home was under fuckin’ surveillance!’

Shit. There’d been stuff on the news about the National Crime Agency, some politician spouting on about targeting gangs shifting drugs around Edinburgh, dedicated teams watching them around the clock but I hadn’t paid it any mind. I mean I had my own bloody drama to deal with. I thought I’d been so careful when I came to Marcus’s home unannounced, was so focussed on the cops looking for me I hadn’t stopped to think that they’re always after Marcus, biding their time. Then I stroll up, a serial killer on the run, aw, Jesus, I handed Marcus to them on a plate.

‘They were searching for the guns.’ I said flatly.

‘Yup. Reckon I’m planning on starting a turf war.’

‘If I’d had any idea this would happen Marcus…’ My voice trails away as I
recall Brad saying something similar to me about the robbery at the factory. If only he’d known the shit it would cause…even earlier than that, cornered in the cell with MacIntyre: If only I’d known what would happen when I told him I’d seen him with Daz…

If only.

‘You did this.’ Marcus’s voice is low, steady, loaded with accusation. He looks like he wants to kill me but there’s a part of him that isn’t in the room at all. I look around at his decimated home, the laughter and love and aeroplane sounds noticeable by their absence.

I hang my head. ‘I know.’

I have to fix this. I can’t go about destroying everything I touch. ‘Marcus,’ I say suddenly, ‘I can help you.’

He looks almost sorry for me, ‘No,’ he says, ‘really, you fuckin’ can’t.’

‘Marcus seriously, please, let’s think about this just for a minute.’

He looks at me stupefied. ‘What is there to think about?’

‘This is all connected, can’t ye see? Look, de ye mind if I sit down?’

Marcus shrugs, glancing round the decimated room. ‘Be my guest.’

His phone beeps and he glances at the screen. My heart quickens. If that’s Devlin and Barrington on their way I don’t have long. They’ll be hungry for revenge and anyone close by will do.

‘This is all connected-,’

‘-I fuckin’ know that,’ he glares.

‘Not in the way you are thinking!’ I blurt, ‘Aye, I know I’m the common link between everything that’s been happening but I’m not the only one.’

‘Meaning?’ Marcus’s eyes are like slits.

‘Meaning the cop that’s after me.’

‘You think he goes about settin’ the national agencies after me?’ Marcus laughs, ‘He’s a plod!’

‘Right enough,’ I agree, ‘but he can provide information to them. They’d listen to him.’

‘What information?’ Marcus still looks at me suspiciously, ‘Did you tell anyone what you were doin’ for me?’

‘Nut.’ I say quickly, pushing Brad from my mind, after everything that’s happened I do actually trust him. ‘But I didn’t have to tell anyone. All they needed was an excuse to come round here tonight, do you agree?’

Marcus shrugs, ‘Suppose.’

‘Well think about it,’ I say stubbornly, ‘why now?’

‘OK!’ he grumbles irritably, ‘Make your point.’

‘When I turned up here that day, if they’d any idea who I was at the time they’d have called it in. Pickin’ me up would have been a result in any agency’s books, and it could have been done discreetly. I could have been picked up while I was standing on the doorstep – all they had to do was get a patrol car to ‘coincidentally’ pass by. It would’ve worked, I’d have been banged up and the surveillance guys wouldn’t have had to show their hand.’

‘So?’

‘So the National Crime Agency, or whatever they’re calling themselves didn’t know who I was. Tonight’s raid has come on the back on local information.’

‘Does it fuckin’ matter?’ Marcus snorts. ‘Do you think Gem’ll give a shit who was behind this?’

He has a point.

‘Just bear with me.’ I plead. I’m trying to work it out myself as I speak so I’m not much more confident than Marcus of where this will lead. ‘Remember I told ye MacIntyre was in cahoots with a junkie?’

Marcus nods.

‘That same junkie has seen us drinking together in the VA a coupla’ times now,
and I know for a fact he gets a premium rate off MacIntyre for any information about me.’

A shrug. ‘OK….’

‘So MacIntyre works out I’m working for you again, remember he was the cop that was behind the sting at the garage? The sting I took the rap for….’ I remind him.

Marcus finally sees where I’m going. ‘So he works out I’m the one who helped you disappear.’

It’s my turn to nod. ‘He’ll hate that.’ I tell him, ‘He’ll want to teach you a lesson. All he has to do is tell the NCA I got the gun that shot Malkie from you….’

‘I’ll kill him.’ Marcus barks, ‘and the scuzzuie junkie.’

‘No!’ I object, reddening when Marcus glares at me.

‘At least not yet.’ I say hastily, ‘I have to clear my name first, then I’ll deal with them.’ As I say the words I know them to be true, MacIntyre’s done too much for me to watch someone else bring him down. When the time comes, that pleasure will be all mine.

‘I’ll make him pay,’ I promise.

Marcus glares back in reply.

‘And you’re goin’ tae help me.’ I tell him.

19

It’s closing time when I arrive at the bookies beside Tam’s café. I’m careful as I get out of Ken’s cab to turn my face away so Tam doesn’t see me if he looks out through the café window. I wanted to go see him but Ken talked me out of it; the more people I speak to, he reminded me, the higher my chances of being picked up by the cops. He’s right, I know that, but I hate the thought of someone thinking I’m not only a scumbag, but a murdering one at that. It irks even more when I see that the girl who had the job before me has been reinstated; I can see her slouching about wearing my apron, moving between the tables half-heartedly serving the diners. I don’t blame Tam, better the devil you know after all.

Inside, the betting shop is every bit as grim as I remember. Hard up men in no hurry to leave, as though returning home will catapult them back to the lives they were trying so hard to get away from. I used to come in this place with Dad. He’d ask Mum for a fiver, say he was taking me for an ice-cream then make me sit under the counter out of the owner’s sight while he prayed for one of the horses he’d bet on to come in.

‘Let’s play Hide and Seek, Davy,’ he’d say, ‘See what number ye can count to before I find ye.’

‘But you already know where I am.’ I’d say, unimpressed, ‘Aye,’ he’d counter ‘but I’ll no’ start looking for ye until after the horses have set off.’

Some of the punters felt sorry for me curled up on the floor, gave me old sweets they’d find in their pockets, fluff covered lozenges or brittle chewing gum and I’d eat them gratefully, anything to stave off the boredom. The woman behind the counter would slip me a mug of hot chocolate she’d made in the back, ‘But only ‘cos the boss is oot, if he comes back and finds ye, I didnae know ye was there.’

Daz’s wife, Julie, stands at the counter jiggling her baby on her hips. She’s wearing the same clothes she had on the other day, lank hair scraped back in a ponytail. Her skin is blotchy like someone has slapped her with a nettle.

‘I know he’s been in,’ she accuses the teller behind counter, ‘because he’s taken the fuckin’ electric money.’

It’s the most I’ve heard her say, her voice thick with anger she’s trying to keep at bay. The child begins to whimper, the first sounds I’ve heard him make too. I wiggle my fingers at him but he’s having none of it; he glares at me angrily like I’m the cause of his mother’s angst.

The manager comes through from the back room; face blank, glancing at his watch as though he has a pressing appointment. He’s about the same height as me, with white hair around his temples like a badger and heavy black brows practically joined in the middle.

‘Can I help?’ he asks smoothly, although less sincere words have never been uttered. ‘Jimmy,’ Julie begins, her tone implying the cavalry has arrived. ‘He’s taken the money I need for the bairn, have ye seen him?’

Jimmy lifts the counter top and moves over towards Julie and the baby, smiling as he does so.

‘You know this place is like the confessional, hen.’ He begins, hand placed firmly into the curve of her back, moving her effortlessly towards the door as he speaks quietly into her ear. ‘I canny comment on what goes on in here, nor confirm or deny who’s been in.’ I can tell from the blank look she gives him he’s lost her but then he pulls a wallet from his jacket pocket, unfolds a twenty-pound note and places it in her palm, just as the child’s wails get louder.

‘I’ll lend ye this tae tide ye over.’ He says pleasantly, ‘I’ll take it oot o’ his next winnings.’

‘Thank’s Jimmy,’ Julie says as she shuffles through the door, already anticipating that afternoon’s hit. Jimmy shakes his head. ‘Ye canny help some people.’ He says to no-one in particular.

I clear my throat.

‘Yes?’ the cashier behind the counter barks at me.

‘S’OK,’ I tell her, ‘I’m here to see him.’ I nod at Jimmy who, about to retreat into the back room, turns to look at me. ‘Do I know ye?’ he asks suspiciously, glancing at the cashier who smirks back at him.

‘No, but you know a pal o’ mine,’ I say mysteriously, ‘told me to look you up.’

Jimmy’s face falls as though he’s worn out all his happy muscles being nice to Julie and a scrote shooting the breeze is a step too far.

‘What is this?’ he sneers, ‘Long Lost fuckin’ Families? Get out, son.’ He nods his head in the direction of the door as he heads toward the back office.

‘That’s a shame,’ I say brightly, ‘only my pals out there said you’d be a lot more hospitable.’

Jimmy peers over the opaque glass to see Brad and Devlin waiting in all their menacing glory. He pauses as though there really were options he could weigh up, then swivels round till he’s eyeballing the cashier: ‘Fuck off,’ he tells her stonily, waiting while she grabs her belongings and slams out of the door. The shop is empty and Jimmy turns the sign on the door to closed.

‘OK,’ he says warily, ‘What’s all this aboot?’

‘I want your CCTV tapes,’ I tell him, ‘going back about a month.’

Jimmy studies me. ‘That it?’ he asks. Already I can sense his relief.

‘For now.’ I tell him.

‘Come through to my office then,’ he says all friendly, making the best of a bad situation. We go through to a box room with a desk and chair against one wall and a free standing safe against another. A small window with bars across it lets in minimal light. A baseball bat is propped up in the corner of the room and I make sure I stand between it and Jimmy in case things get a little heated.Although small, there’s enough room on the desk for a calculator, a mug with several brown rings in it, a pile of receipts on a spike and a TV monitor. A photograph in a wooden frame sits on the furthest edge of the desk. A formal family picture by the look of it, Jimmy and a woman with frizzy blond hair sit either side of a fireplace, a girl and a boy placed between them, grinning like models in a toothpaste ad.

‘I thought your camera would be in the front of the shop,’ I observe, pointing to the wall above the door where a small lens peeps out behind a metal grille.

‘All the interesting stuff goes on in the back,’ Jimmy replies, ‘no fun watching people lose their rent money.’

‘So what do you use it for then?’

Jimmy shrugs, ‘People forget the promises they make when they’re down on their luck. It helps to keep a reminder of any agreements we come to. S’funny how they get amnesia when they’re winning.’

Jimmy glances at his watch again, then rubs his hands together as though his body temperature has dropped.

‘Am I keeping you?’ I ask.

‘Not really,’ he says, studying me, ‘just, you know, I need to cash up before I can go.’

‘Right enough. Well,’ I reassure him, ‘this won’t take long.’

Jimmy continues to stare at me. ‘I know who you are.’ He says slowly.

‘What?’

He points to the newspaper in the waste paper bucket beneath his desk. ‘It disnae matter to me,’ he says quickly, ‘I’ll no’ tell anyone.’

‘So why tell me you know then?’ I ask irritably. All I want is the memory stick and to be out of there.

‘I…I just meant to say that you’ll get no trouble from me.’

‘Good.’

Jimmy opens the desk drawer and pulls out one USB stick, then reaching behind his computer monitor he pulls out the other. ‘We just rotate them,’ he says sheepishly.

‘Fine.’ I snap. Asking him questions about MacIntyre is going to be risky now he knows my identity. I’ll need to try a less direct approach.

‘Was that Daz’s missus in here before?’

‘Aye, soft cow.’

‘She looks like a junkie.’

‘Aye, she is.’

‘I thought they were on the green stuff now?’

Jimmy nods. ‘They are. But junkies have addictive personalities – I should know,’ he laughs, ‘I take enough off Daz in here every week. They take whatever shit they can lay their hands on.’

‘Where does he get the money to keep a habit like that?’

‘I dinnae know,’ Jimmy shrugs, but his face gives away the lie.

He leans against his desk, he’s more at ease now we’re on safe ground; dissing a smackhead and his slovenly wife. I stand by the door, all the better to make a run for it should the police get wind of my whereabouts or Jimmy gets hold of his bat.

‘Is Daz pally with many of your punters?’

Jimmy searches my face, ‘I really don’t think it’s-’

‘Forget it!’ I snap, moving towards the desk to pick up the memory sticks. I need to do something to make sure he stays onside otherwise two seconds out the door and he’ll be on the phone to MacIntyre.

I pull out my phone.

‘Just one thing,’ I add; taking a leaf out of Devlin’s book I point it at the framed photo of Jimmy’s happy family and press a button. I pause in the doorway, holding the phone out to him so he can see their smiley faces on my screen.

‘Yeah?’ He whispers, the colour draining from his face.

‘No one must know I’ve been here Jimmy, ye get that?’

‘I do now.’ He says, all traces of his smile gone.

We watch the CCTV footage crowded round a laptop Ken uses to do his invoicing which he picked up from his place on the way back to the townhouse. ‘I didn’t realise it would be boring,’ moans Brad, as we see Jimmy arrive every morning with a coffee and a bacon roll, lunchtimes he’d pop out for half an hour and return with a carry out from Greggs.

‘What did ye expect?’ Ken asks, ‘A man’s got tae eat.’

‘Keep fast forwarding,’ I instruct Brad, who insists on operating the controls.

‘I am doing!’ Brad says impatiently, ‘All he does is eat and shit, hang on a minute tho....’

‘What is it?’ we all lean into the screen to see MacIntyre walk into Jimmy’s office. He’s in uniform, his face is partially blocked by his hat which he leaves in place and he angles the chair before sitting on it so his back is to the camera. Even so there’s no mistaking him. ‘Thank fuck for that.’ Brad mutters as Jimmy can be seen opening a drawer and lifting out an envelope which he hands to the cop.

‘The nets starting to close in on him, Davy.’ Ken says encouragingly and I nod my head, too frightened to jinx the moment.

‘Fast forward to a week from that date.’ Ken orders Brad. ‘His visits will be weekly, I reckon.’

‘I know that!’ Brad pouts, doing as he is told anyway and sure enough there is MacIntyre paying another visit to Jimmy in his back room. We get to the end of the memory stick so Brad inserts the second one into the laptop’s USB port and begins to scroll through. Occasionally the odd punter is brought through to Jimmy’s office by the cashier on the counter and they usually leave five minutes later, their faces cheesing or tripping them depending on whether Jimmy’s extended their credit or not. By the end of the second disk we have enough evidence to show that MacIntyre’s visits are as regular as clockwork, each time Jimmy handing him an envelope. Even though we don’t see what the envelopes contain it’s hard to imagine what else it could be other than cash. Besides, the look on Jimmy’s face as I left the bookies tells me I’ll have no problem getting him to confirm this when I need him to.

Brad and I leave the townhouse with Ken; Brad’s in the mood for getting off his face and even though it’s the middle of the day I think we deserve it. Ken’s keen to get home for some shut eye before his next shift so I chum Brad to the Tesco Metro to buy whatever’s on offer. We emerge with a cheap bottle of rum and own brand coke and already I’m anticipating the headache I’ll wake up with.

‘Davy, wait.’ Brad says sharply.

‘Huh?’

He’s pointing to a car parked across the road from us. There’s no driver; I look back at him puzzled.

‘What make is it?’ he asks.

I glance at the distinctive design on the front grille. ‘An Audi.’ I reply. Already I know what he’s thinking but I’m so determined not to let anything spoil our result today he’s going to have to spell it out for me.

‘Didn’t Ken think an Audi had been following him the other day?’ Brad reminds me.

I nod unhappily. I’d seen one too but couldn’t bring myself to mention it.

‘It’s parked opposite the hideout Davy; chances are it followed us here when Ken brought us back.’

My shoulders sag in disappointment. ‘Could be a coincidence.’ I say lamely.

The Audi is an old S reg, black, seen better days by the look of it, the driver’s door has several dents as though it’s been kicked several times.

‘S’a cop’s car.’ Brad says confidently.

‘Aye,’ I nod, looking up and down the street to see if I can see its owner.

‘We need to get out of here quickly,’ I add, grabbing him by the arm to steer him across the road to our hideout but he pulls his arm away. ‘Dinnea lead them to it, ye knobhead!’ he hisses, ‘we need to go in the opposite direction.’

He has a point. ‘Probably need to split up too.’ I tell him. Brad saunters off in the direction of the St James’ Centre, ‘I know a couple of the guys on security,’ he says shaking the carrier bag containing the rum and coke, ‘I’ll go and have a drink with ‘em.’

I begin to walk towards Queen Street half-heartedly. ‘Davy!’ Brad calls out, ‘take it easy, OK?’

We agree to meet back in the same spot in an hour, but instead of scarpering I stay put, my curiosity getting the better of me. I walk over to an optician’s shop facing out onto the road. It has a huge display window and I stand in the doorway pretending to look at their frames, waiting to see who returns to claim the Audi. I know I’m taking a risk, that someone could be watching my every move, but why leave the car unattended? I look around to see if there are any transit vans where a surveillance team could set up camp, then kick myself –this street is full of hotels and wine bars, at any one time there’s a refit going on as new owners come and go, the only vehicles along this stretch are transit vans, belonging to the shop fitters.

If the police know where I am they’ll just pick me up, I remind myself, it’s not like I’m dangerous or anything.

Except they think I’ve killed five people.

After a couple of minutes I hear the Audi’s car lock beep and I shift my position to check out its owner. A guy is approaching the car from the direction of Multrees Walk, the row of high end designer shops behind the bus station. He’s carrying a take-out coffee from Café Nero and a sandwich in a paper bag. He’s slim built, similar height to me with a base-ball cap low over his eyes. At least he’s on his own; I reckon I could take him if I need to but I stay still, I’d rather he doesn’t clock me till I’ve worked out what the hell I should do.

He puts the coffee cup on the roof of the Audi while he opens the car door. Is it my imagination or does he glance over towards the townhouse where I’ve been staying before he climbs in? Shit. If he knows where I’ve been hiding then I can’t go back there. He doesn’t start the engine; instead he unwraps his sandwich and takes a sip from his drink, all the while staring at the building’s main entrance like a mad stalker. I look along both sides of the road once more – none of the other vehicles are occupied and there are no Ninja-type figures lurking on the top of neighbouring buildings.

He’s on his own, and something about that is wrong.

I step back from the shop window and turn to face his car so that he will see me in his rear-view mirror. It takes a minute. He must be hungry as the contents of his meal take up all his attention but as he uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth he checks himself out in the sun visor mirror and I can sense his confusion that the fugitive he’s after is staring straight at him.

He doesn’t seem to react and it occurs to me he could be using a Bluetooth headset to call for back up but his lips don’t move other than to utter fuck. He opens the car door, cautiously, as though frightened I’ll make a bolt for it. He steps away from the vehicle, all the while eyeballing me. We’re staring each other down like two cowboys in a Western when he removes his baseball cap.

‘Jesus it’s you!’ I spit, as Kiddie Cop holds out his arms in mitigation.

‘It’s no’ what ye think!’ he stammers, moving towards me slowly.

‘Stay where the fuck ye are!’ I shout back warily.

‘I’m on my own, honest!’ he yelps, his eyes darting along the pavement and at the shop behind me.

‘I saw ye in the car just now,’ I remind him, ‘when ye clocked me ye stayed put for a minute, ye were calling for back up!’

‘I canny, man!’ Kiddie Cop shouts. He’s agitated, but hours drinking lattes can do that.

‘How no?’ I shout back.

‘Cos I’m no’ on fuckin duty!’

He runs at me then but his heart’s not in it. When he’s right in front of me he stops. I shove him a couple of times to show that I’m raging. ‘What the fuck...?’ I yell.

A couple of workmen dismantling road work barriers look over in our direction. Not through alarm, more that we’re in their line of vision.

‘Who knows you’re here?’ I hiss.

‘No one!’ Kidde Cop stammers, ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell ye! When I saw ye
there a minute ago I thought you were setting a trap but then I figured either way I’m fucked, so you might as well call your pals out and get it over with!’

‘There’s no one here.’ I tell him honestly. Kiddie Cop looks uncertain.

‘The big man?’ he asks, his eyes darting about me as though Brad was concealed behind a lamp post.

I shake my head. ‘He’s no’ here.’ I tell him, ‘We saw your car and agreed to split up.’

Kiddie Cop considers this, ‘He’s no’ gone fe reinforcements?’ he asks nervously. To be fair, I can’t be certain. ‘I didn’t ask him to.’ I say truthfully.

Kiddie Cop replaces the base-ball cap on his head and shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

‘I’m not a killer.’ I tell him.

‘Ye would say that though, wouldn’t ye?’

I throw my arms in the air in frustration, making Kiddie Cop start.

‘I’m no’ gonnae hurt ye!’ I snap but we’re so close we’re facing each other off so I move back a couple of steps.

‘I’m not a killer,’ I repeat, ‘I’m being set up and I need to prove it!’

I study Kiddie Cop’s face but he’s giving nothing away. ‘I reckon you believe me,’ I add, ‘or else you’d have had me picked up the moment you sussed where I was.’

I move a step closer. ‘So why didn’t ye?’

‘Look,’ It’s Kiddie Cop’s turn to look shifty, ‘can we go somewhere private? Only I can’t be seen talking tae ye and then no’ bring ye in.’

I look towards the Audi. ‘I’ll drive.’ I tell him.

He starts to protest: ‘I’m no’ insured fae other drivers-’

‘-Like that’ll make a difference if ye caught hanging out wi’ me?’ I cut in.

‘I’ll say you kidnapped me!’

‘All the more reason for me to be drivin’ then!’ I say finally, holding my hands out for his car keys. He hands them to me reluctantly before climbing in the passenger seat, just as Brad saunters round the corner on his return from the St James’ Centre, his arms outstretched in a What the fuck? gesture when he clocks us. Two seconds later my phone vibrates alerting me to an incoming text. It’ll be Brad wondering if I’ve lost the plot; I decide not to reply till I know the answer to that.

Kiddie Cop stares out of the car window as I take us down Leith Walk, tutting when I press the Audi’s cigarette lighter. ‘I dinnae smoke,’ he says sourly.

‘Poor you.’ I shoot back, de-pressing the button anyway to show I’m not a complete twat.

I turn up the radio but it’s a weather report, pretty pointless in Edinburgh as we get rain and sun no matter what the season. I turn it back down.

‘Where we goin?’ Kiddie Cop asks not unreasonably, but I don’t answer, I’m too busy forming questions I want to put to him. That’s assuming he’ll play along.

I park in the open air car park at Ocean Terminal, it’s busy with shoppers going about their business and I reckon we’re as invisible as we can be in daylight. Kiddie Cop relaxes, as though he’d feared I was going to take him out to The Wisp and I’m flattered he thinks I’m capable.

I switch off the engine.

‘OK,’ I begin pleasantly, ‘What’s ye name?’

‘Paul.’ The word is said reluctantly which gets my back up.

‘Look, Pal, we operate in different worlds, I get that. But that doesn’t mean ye can’t be civil. I’ve seen the way ye look at me and write me off because I live on a scheme but I know for one thing I’d rather be in my shoes than yours.’

‘Why’s that?’ Paul says defensively.

‘I know who I am and where I’m from. I’m no’ kidding myself about my shortcomings, whereas you want to fit in to something that doesn’t even exist anymore.’

‘What de ye mean?’

‘Well, your idea of crime for a start. The most notorious bank robbers work on the inside these days, turning over bonuses the most skilled con artists can only dream of. And accountants are just as bad, helping rich folk avoid paying tax. And as for lawyers…..’

‘-Aye, well, we can agree on that one at least.’ Kiddie cop smiles as he says this.

‘Right enough,’ I concede, ‘but you come down on schemies like me like we’re responsible for the state the country’s in. How ye can do that when you’re working with a bent bastard, watchin’ his back like-’

‘-I’m not,’ Paul cuts in.

‘Ah, there ye go defending him!’

‘I’m not!’

‘Not what?’

‘I don’t watch his back, Davy.’ Paul says quietly. ‘Look, can we start again?’

We both fancy a coffee but neither of us trusts the other so we both walk over to the Costa counter inside the shopping centre then chum each other back to the car. Paul tells me he joined the force two years ago because his girlfriend’s dad was a sergeant and he wanted to impress him. By the time he’d completed his training the girl was long gone but by then being a cop was the only thing he knew about.

‘I’ve seen her dad a coupla times since,’ he adds, ‘she’s married to a banker now.’

‘It’s not what I thought it would be though,’ he says cautiously, ‘I suppose I watched too many episodes of The Bill when I was growing up but I thought I’d be part of a community, someone people could turn to in a crisis but is doesn’t work that way. The public don’t trust us, and career criminals take the piss. We’re not all like MacIntyre, though, ye know,’ he says defensively when he sees my expression, ‘but, yeah, there’s a lot get worn down by it.’

He removes the lid from his latte before blowing across it though the sound comes out like a sigh.

‘Even the officers I respect tell you to give up thinking you can make a difference.

Turns out we’re no better than a fuckin’ contract cleaning company. In, out, wiping up the mess.’

‘Ye dinnae even do that well.’ I throw in, thinking of Candy after the robbery.

‘You’re welcome.’ Paul throws back.

‘Look, that’s all very well.’ I tell him, ‘Ye made a career mistake. Mebbe’s you should have gone into social work instead.’ I say irritably, ‘I’m not being funny like, but what’s this got to do with MacIntyre, or me for that matter?’

‘I know MacIntyre’s bent.’

‘Well, woopy-fuckin’-do, tell me something I don’t already know.’

‘Aye,’ Paul says solemnly, ‘but I can prove it.’

20

Beneath the bluff and bullshit there’s something about Paul that I like. I think in different circumstances we could have been friends. Maybe I’m drawn to him because he holds a key to my freedom, either way I’m listening.

‘MacIntyre’s been taking money from local businesses.’ Paul states matter of factly.

‘How do ye know?’

‘Because I’m in the car when he collects his payments.’

‘Who does he take money from?’

‘Older, mebbe more dubious businesses in the town that have been trading as long as he’s been in uniform. Where it pays for him to turn a blind eye.’

‘Like the betting shop?’ I ask. ‘I used to work in the café next door and I saw him slip in once while he was in uniform, when he came out and saw me watching him he looked like he’d been caught stoning his granny. I’ve got proof he gets a back hander from them every week.’

‘Aye.’ Paul nods. ‘I have the names of other businesses he’s on the take from too, and the days and dates he’d go to them.’

He pulls out a notebook from his jacket pocket, opens it at a certain page then hands it to me.

There are row after row of entries, names and dates, all neatly recorded. ‘You wrote this?’ I ask suspiciously, I’ve never seen a man write as neat. Paul reddens as he nods.

‘Why go to all this trouble?’ I ask him.

‘I had to be sure at first that I wasn’t imagining it, or that it wasn’t just a series of isolated incidents.’ Paul laughs, as though reminiscing about happier times: ‘He was always full of excuses at first, “Och, I’ve te call in on so and so, they think they’ve had an intruder,” or “So and so’s getting crank calls again,” only it was never ending, the number of people he had to call on to reassure, and you know yourself he’s a mean spirited bastard.’

‘Aye, right enough.’ I agree.

I scan down Paul’s meticulous handwritten list, ‘Jeezo,’ I say in admiration, ‘you’ve even logged the free dinners he gets from the kebab shop,’

‘It’s hard to miss.’ Paul explains, ‘He comes out with shedloads o’ food and not once puts his hands in his pocket.’

‘Did you eat any of it?’ I ask, remembering what Mo told me.

‘Nah, he’s the reason Statins were invented, I’m strictly a ham salad man.’

I look back at the notebook. ‘So why bother?’

‘I had to do something to keep meself busy.’ He shrugs, ‘He wouldn’t let me go in any of the places with him. He said I had to stay in the car. I suppose that was the final straw, whatever excuses I’d been making for him, I couldn’t ignore the fact him not wanting me around was putting both our jobs on the line.’

‘And he never caught ye recording his comings and goings?’

‘Nut.’ Paul shakes his head proudly, ‘I used my phone, logged every activity onto my calendar, he thought I was texting my girlfriend. He was glad of it really; he knew I wouldn’t mind being left so often if I had something to do.’

‘How long you been doing all this?’

‘Since I got transferred here, about eight months ago. I’m sure I don’t know the half of it. We’d be paired up on a shift but I’d go out to the car park in time to see him drive off. I covered for him,’ Paul looks sheepish as he admits this, ‘I thought he was just taking the piss out of me, making his point – that he didn’t want to be saddled with a probationer. I never said anything to anyone, didn’t want to rock the boat.’

‘What were you planning to do with all this?’ I hold his note book aloft.

Paul looks thrown, ‘I dunno, I hadn’t really thought that one through.’

‘You’re not going to keep it to yourself though, eh?’

‘No. No, I was intending to hand it in, though to be truthful I wasn’t sure who I can trust. Then you came along.’

‘What about me?’

‘I saw the way he treated ye,’ he holds his hands up to stop my obvious question,

‘Wait! You’ve got to put this into perspective,’ Paul shrugs, ‘he treats everyone like that, like…’

‘...Like you’re an enemy of the fuckin’ state.’ I interrupt.

Paul nods, ‘Aye, right enough. We all do, to a certain extent though,’ he admits, ‘sometimes we keep score, ye know, on quiet nights, who can make the most arrests, who can come up with the most charges, who we can wind up, but it’s mostly harmless,’

‘Now you’re talking like them.’ I say harshly.

Paul blushes. ‘You belong to a gang,’ he reminds me, ‘you know how it works.’

‘It doesn’t work like that,’ I say sharply, ‘besides, we don’t pretend to be something we’re not.’

‘Listen,’ Paul throws his arms wide, ‘You asked me a question, I’ve answered it. Ye canny greet if ye don’t like the answer.’

He has a point.

‘Look,’ Paul says, ‘I know he beat you up that time. I mean, I’d have had to have
been stupid not to notice that ye left the cells with a limp ye didn’t have on the way in.’ he explains, ‘and I can’t turn a blind eye to that. Christ Davy, that was the reason I came with him when he took you home, I didn’t want you to be alone with him…What I’m saying is that if you want to make a complaint about him the notes I’ve made in this book will discredit him. I know it’s probably not much use to you given…everything else, but you deserved to be treated better and you weren’t.’

I don’t know what to say so I concentrate on the book, flicking though the pages, stopping at random to see any changes in MacIntyre’s pattern. Page after page of day, date, and times. Paul must be verging on OCD the amount of detail he’s put into this. I turn to the first page, started when Paul transferred to Lothian and Borders before the police regions merged and became Police Scotland. Christ, he’d only been in the job a couple of weeks when he saw that things weren’t right.

And then my eye catches the final entry.

21

The final entry on the first page is a payment from the garage where I worked before I was sent down. I look from the notebook to Paul then back down at his entry once more. I shake my head.

‘I knew the jobs they took on were illegal but it never occurred to me that they’d been paying MacIntyre to keep the police off their radar. But hang on a minute, if that was the case what went wrong?’

Paul shrugs, ‘Ye mean how come you ended up in chokey?’

And then it dawns on me. ‘Nothing did go wrong.’ I say slowly, ‘I always suspected my mate’s excuse that his dad had had a tip off that didn’t get passed on to me in time was a lie, it was far more likely that I was a scapegoat so it didn’t look like they had someone on the inside in their pocket. So…it was MacIntyre who warned the garage owner there was going to be a raid. What’s the betting there was a condition to his blindness - he’d give them a tip off if a raid was planned - as long as they left me in place to take the blame?’

‘Wouldn’t put it past him.’ Paul admits.

And there was me thinking I’d been collateral damage.

‘Jeezo, that bastard’s been waiting to fit me up long before I even knew he existed.’

The same question occurs to both of us at the same time:

Why?

‘Paul, you need to help me.’ I say slowly, ‘I mean, really help me.’

Paul looks sympathetic. ‘Look, I’ll do as much as I can, we can probably prove that he’s treated you unfairly but I can’t see how that’ll make much diff-’

‘-I’ve not told you everything yet!’ I butt in, staring at Paul’s face, waiting for a reaction. ‘MACINTYRE’S the killer, not me.’

Paul stares back at me. He looks confused, as though I’ve asked him to work out a really difficult puzzle.

‘What are you saying?’ he says slowly and it’s the wrong answer. I hold his gaze:

‘Y’already know, don’t ye?’ I demand.

Paul shakes his head. ‘No!’ he says quickly, ‘I mean, I knew something wasn’t right….but…but not murder. Christ,’ he runs his hands over his bum-fluffy chin, ‘he’s bent, not a killer.’ Yet the way he says it is though he’s trying to convince himself of that.

‘I was there when he killed my aunt! I saw it with my own eyes. I was in the same room but I couldn’t fucking stop him.’

Paul stares at me.

‘Why would I lie about something like that?’ I ask him.

‘Well,’ he begins, ‘apart from avoiding a life sentence….’

‘I didn’t fuckin’ do it!’ I yell, ‘They were my friends, Jude was like a second mother to me; I loved the bloody bones of her.’

Paul shakes his head. ‘I can’t believe it.’ he says simply, ‘MacIntyre’s a mean bastard right enough, but a killer?’

‘He had sex with her.’ I tell him. ‘His DNA will be inside her, maybe even on the sheets.’

‘There was no sheet on her bed.’ Paul admits, moving his head from side to side as
though checking it still works. ‘Christ’s sake, I shouldn’t even be telling you this.’

My stomach churns. MacIntyre would have needed to lift Jude to move that sheet. To touch her and move her while she lolled about like a rag doll. What a bastard. Even in death she wasn’t left in peace.

‘He told me he was going to fit me up for it straight after he killed her.’ I tell him, ‘When I came out from the twins’ bedrooms I saw him leave with a bin bag. It probably had the bed sheet and anything else in it he needed to remove.’

I should have stayed with Jude, protected her in a way I’d failed to when she was alive. I don’t think it’s possible to feel more ashamed. I lower my head as something inside me contracts. Then it occurs to me: ‘Aw shit, he’ll have used a condom, won’t he?’

Paul clears his throat. ‘The PM report - that’s post mortem - identified there’d been sexual activity, consensual, a couple of hours before her death.’ He looks away.

‘Ye mean ye didn’t look into if further because she was a prozzie!’ I say sourly.

Paul moves his head slowly to deny this, ‘I’m sorry but I can’t get my head around it. It’s a big leap from winding someone up to committing murder. I still don’t see it.’

I try to explain it to him as best as I can: ‘You were with me when he saw Jude and the girls for the first time. When you smirked at them because you thought they were rough.’

Paul reddened. ‘I wasn’t smirking!’ he denies hotly, ‘I was just winding you up, that’s all….’

‘Ah, that’s OK then.’ I say sarcastically. I remember something else: ‘After you’d dropped me off, you know, where the girls live,’ I force myself to swallow, ‘lived,’ I correct myself; I have to remember that everything about them is resigned to the past now, ‘you and MacIntyre stayed parked at the end of the road for a while. Why was that?’

Paul shrugs. ‘No reason. We were supposed to return to the station but he was in no hurry. Made no difference where we were, really, we were just killing time.’

‘No,’ I insist, ‘he was already planning how he was going to come back later.’

I recall MacIntyre’s face when I looked back at him before going into Jude’s house. It had been cold, calculating.

The face of a killer.

‘He was watching to see who I was closest to.’ I gasped. Jude had held on tightly to me as she helped me up the steps into the house. MacIntyre must’ve loved that, deciding there and then to kill her in front of me.

‘What was he like the next day?’ I ask quietly.

Paul looks at me impatiently as though I’m asking too much of him. ‘I don’t know!’ he snaps, running his fingers through his hair, ‘normal, I suppose.’

‘“Normal?”’ I mimic him, ‘What’s fuckin’ normal?’

He thinks for a moment: ‘Sarcastic, unhelpful, a bit of a bell-end really.’

At least we agree on something. Suddenly he screws his face up in disbelief before turning to me: ‘He was sat beside me when we attended the morning briefing following the womens’ murders.’ He recalls, ‘he was his usual self, he didn’t look out of sorts or anything...put it one way he wasn’t quaking in his boots, he even asked to go to the locus – that’s what we call where a murder takes place – when the Inspector was giving out everyone’s actions for the day.’

‘He’s bound to, isn’t he?’ I remind him, ‘so he can explain away any finger prints that come up later that need checking out.’

‘I just don’t see it.’ Paul shakes his head.

‘Then I’m worried for you.’ I say as calmly as I can, ‘You’re in the wrong job if you can’t accept that anyone can be capable of murder.’

That seems to jolt him. ‘Aw, fuck.’ He says quietly, leaning onto the dashboard as though resting a head that’s become too heavy.

‘I’m sure he killed Malkie Clements too.’ I say gently, as though breaking bad news to a nervy relative.

Paul’s head drops even further. ‘Why did I just know you were gonnae say that?’

‘One of MacIntyre’s informants confirms telling him that I was due to meet Malkie the afternoon he was murdered.’

‘Doesn’t prove anything.’ He says stubbornly.

‘The same informant I heard MacIntyre force to do a blow job on him under Dean

Bridge.’ Paul takes a moment to digest this, then looks up at me with frightened eyes.

‘There’s CCTV over-looking the entrance to the hostel, where the druggie and his
case worker were killed.’ He informs me, ‘Me and MacIntyre were sent to collect it, only when we arrived we were told the tape was missing.’

‘Convenient.’

Paul rubs his eyes with the heal of his hands, ‘I’ve only been in this job five minutes,’ he searches my face for clues, ‘what the hell do you want me to do?’

‘Have a look at the hard evidence against me. Start looking with an open mind. Then tell me what ye see.’

Paul laughs, ‘Ye think what I see or think will make a difference? Did ye no’ hear what I’ve been telling ye? Besides, no-one above my rank gives a shit what I say and that’s just about everyone at the station ‘cept the cleaning lady and even she calls me Son.’

I take his point but it’s frustrating. Is it any wonder corruption thrives when the old school rides rough shod over the new because of the number of stripes on their arm?

I rub at my collarbone which feels suddenly heavy.

‘I thought this might have been my chance,’ I sigh.

‘Listen,’ Paul looks alarmed, as though he thinks I’ll jump in the harbour in concrete boots at the setback. ‘I’m not saying I can’t ask questions, get someone in the murder team to mebbe look at the evidence with a fresh pair of eyes.’ He’s looking at my arms where my sleeves have ridden up, the crisscross of scars along each wrist. I drop my arms, yanking my sleeves back into place.

‘What happened?’

‘Prison.’ I say bitterly. I blink back the memory of the searing pain, the release as the blood seeped into my clothes. The prison officer who found me lost a boy on his watch three months earlier; he held my arms in the air and yelled for back up, wouldn’t stop yelling till the paramedics arrived, even then they had to prise him away. ‘I’ve one at home the same fuckin’ age!’ He kept shouting over and over.

‘The hospital patched me up and sent me back, good as new,’ I say to Paul. I never saw the screw again; long term sick, some of the men reckoned.

‘Did you get referred anywhere?’ Paul asks me. His voice is different now, like he’s speaking to someone elderly or in a wheelchair.

I laugh. ‘What? Ye mean the mentalists? Nah, there was a waiting list. Anyway, the last thing I wanted was someone poking round in my head. I knew what was wrong,’ I say simply, ‘I just wanted to go hame.’

Paul considers this. ‘You’re not going to do anything stupid now, are ye?’

‘It’s not stupid at the time.’ I correct him. ‘At the time it feels like the only thing that makes sense…but, no,’ and as I say it I know it to be true. If I was going to do that it would have been after Jude’s murder, but now…now I feel I’ve a score to settle.

And that’s when I think of the one person who can help make that happen.

22

‘How do I look?’ I pull at my tie nervously while Brad gives me the once over.

‘This place is too classy for me tae give ye a wolf whistle, eh?’ He laughs nervously, intimidated by the racks of judicial robes on display. ‘They’re no’ all in the back wi’ their trooser legs rolled up are they?’ he’d stammered when we first came in.

‘It’s where the sheriffs come to get kitted out,’ I told him wisely, although I only knew that because Marcus had pre-warned me. Away from the formal legal attire the other side of the store displays rack upon rack of country tweeds from single breasted jackets to trousers that only come to the knee. Brad tries on a Deer Stalker to lighten the mood.

‘Good o’ Marcus to let ye use his tailor though.’ He says, pulling the side flaps down around his big baby head before admiring himself in the mirror.

Adam, Senior Outfitter, going by his name badge, returns to my cubicle with a pair of brogues, black socks and a fancy silk hanky. He waits while I slip on the socks and shoes, instructing me on how to ties the laces properly before putting the hanky in the breast pocket of my jacket in what can only be described as a flourish. I’d never understood what the word meant before but his fingers take on the speed of a street hustler as he unfolds it then pleats it into a flower.

‘One moment, Sir,’ he says firmly as he shoves both hands beneath my jacket, working them round to the back of my waistcoat. ‘Just need to be sure it fits you properly,’ he adds authoritatively as I try not to catch Brad’s eye. A couple of tugs along the waistband of my trousers and he seems satisfied.

‘There,’ he says, stepping back to check me over at every angle, ‘Very fetching, if I say so myself, Sir.’

‘Can I keep the clothes on?’ I ask him.

‘Of course, Sir.’ Adam nods, then goes about packing the clothes I wore on arrival into smart carrier bags. ‘Bit light on his loafers.’ Brad comments and I punch his arm to quieten him. Marcus has bought me a seat at a charity dinner being hosted by Gus McEwan. We figure it’s the best way I have of getting some time to speak with him. Or at least, I do. Marcus would rather just bring me along the next time he’s summoned but from what I know of Gus I’d be thrown out in a heartbeat. He takes no prisoners, so going to him with a sob story of being fitted up by the police won’t generate any sympathy, let alone concrete help. I need to go in with an angle, a transaction whereby he stands to gain something by helping me.

Although unsure how successful I’ll be Marcus is keen to even the score with MacIntyre, so once we’d agreed on this plan he called Adam, his tailor, to tell him to expect me.

‘Christ,’ Brad observes, checking me out in the mirror, ‘A week ago ye had one pair of cottons to your name, now ye rocking up like you’ve won the fuckin’ lottery.’

‘I told ye.’ I say quickly, hoping Adam isn’t following the conversation from behind the changing room curtain. I motion for Brad to pull it back and when he does we see the shop assistant is ringing my purchases through the cash register at the other end of the shop floor.

‘It’s all part of the act,’ I remind him, ‘I gotta look the part if I want Gus to give me his undivided attention.’

Brad finally seems to accept this. ‘K,’ he says begrudgingly, ‘can I go back to York Place then or wid ye rather me no’ bother?’

I thump him jokingly on the arm, gently this time, letting him know everything’s alright between us.

‘Aye.’ I nod, ‘I’ll even bring ye back a doggie bag if you’re good.’ His face brightens at this before clouding over once more, ‘none o’ the fuckin’ poncy stuff,’ he scowls.

‘I’m on it, big man.’ I tell him. The shop door opens and a man in a chauffeur’s uniform approaches the counter. ‘Mr Johnson,’ Adam squeals proudly, hurrying to the door with the bags containing my grundies. ‘Your transport is here.’

I wink at Brad as we catch sight of the black Mercedes parked on double yellow lines outside.

‘Ye jammy wee chav.’ He mouths, jabbing me between the ribs with his knuckles. ‘Do I get a lift?’ he grins eagerly, like a puppy when you pick up his lead.

‘The townhouse is two hundred yards up the road,’ I remind him pleasantly, ‘ye can fuck off.’

‘What aboot this?’ he asks as he shuffles to the door. He’s holding the Deer Stalker aloft like he’s saying good day to the local squire. I look over at Adam. ‘Charge it.’ I say authoritatively, then turn back at Brad, ‘ye can keep it,’ I explain, ‘a wee souvenir.’

Brad overtakes us on foot while we’re stationary at the lights by the Conan Doyle pub. Wearing his Deerstalker and high-tops, re resembles a modern day Sherlock as he raises his fist in a show of solidarity. The chauffeur eyes me in the rear-view mirror, ‘Would you like me to offer your friend a lift, Sir?’

‘Nut.’ I say firmly, flicking Brad the finger as the lights begin to change.

23

I’m on my third glass of champagne. Everywhere I turn there are waiters ready to top up my glass and it seems rude to say no.

A choir from a local private school sings from the galleried landing as guests arrive. After clapping for what seemed like ages I follow the line of diners into the high ceilinged function room behind Palm Court, which is a giant tea-room by the look of it, with china cups and saucers and silver trays of finger sandwiches and mini cakes. I’d have been happy staying here but our hosts are ushering us into a grand looking dining room where guests pause to see if their name is on a board just inside the room’s entrance. I know it’s a seating plan, Marcus told me as much, said I didn’t need to bother with it as he’d take care of the arrangements. I pass the circular tables scattered around the room, heading towards a long table in front of a raised platform.

‘Can I help you, Sir?’ A waiter dressed like an extra from Downton Abbey approaches me and I tell him my name, just as Marcus instructed. He consults a sheet of paper and seems to perk when he sees my name beside the host’s. He practically clicks his heels together. ‘Very good, Sir, please follow me.’ I follow him around the table, a journey he obviously feels I’m incapable of doing alone, and wait while he pulls out my chair.

‘Don’ hoffer to do it yerself, Davy,’ Marcus had warned me, ‘it juss’ confuse dem.’

I take my seat and nod curtly, looking about the room as other guests file in scanning the name cards on each table.

‘One advantage of the top table,’ a man states as he walks towards me holding out his hand, ‘is you never have to remember what table number you’ve been allocated,’ he chuckles, ‘The name’s Peter Campbell by the way,’ I take the man’s hand and shake it, it’s firm and strong and I try to match his grip without looking like that’s what I’m doing.

‘Stewart MacAllister,’ I tell him, the name I’ve been rehearsing in the car on the way over, ‘Pleased to meet yew.’ I’ve also been working on my accent. We don’t have the opportunity to say anything more as people are arriving and soon our table is surrounded by guests greeting each other with air kisses and well-oiled back slapping. At least while all this is going on nobody gets the chance to ask me any awkward questions like what the hell I’m doing here or what business I’m pretending to be in.

Gus is the last to arrive and for some reason the people round our table stand and start clapping him in as though by reaching his seat he’s achieved something special. I get to my feet as I don’t want to draw attention to myself and clap my hands together like there’s a prize for the loudest applause.

‘Sit down for Christ’s sake,’ Gus instructs jokingly, ‘You’re making the place look untidy.’

Everyone laughs at this and does as they’re told. The waiters begin unfolding napkins and placing them on our laps before filling glasses with water and wine. Gus waves his arm in the direction of the head waiter who seems to have stationed himself permanently behind him. ‘G&T on the rocks.’ He barks, prompting several other diners to order drinks from the bar even though they’re knocking back the wine. I stick with the wine I’ve been given, if I mix my drinks I might forget the life story Marcus helped me concoct should anyone try to make conversation.

The man who introduced himself to me – Peter – is sat to the right of Gus, on my left is an entrepreneur who seems quite happy to talk for both of us so I nod at him every so often while glancing at the others around the table. A couple of people wear name badges, they are the event sponsors and seem hell bent on making sure everyone is off their faces before the charity auction begins. One of them catches my eye and smiles across encouragingly, I can see them racking their brains as to who I am and my importance in the grand scheme of things. To be on this table I’m a mover and shaker so I feign boredom and look pointedly at my watch as though there are a thousand and one more exciting places I’d rather be. My reaction seems to satisfy them and they smile back eagerly. The food courses go on forever and I follow my companions’ lead when it comes to which knife and fork to use with each dish.

Gus relates a couple of stories which have the table laughing, even the people seated out of earshot seem to think his stories are hilarious; I guess that’s what having money does for you.

He catches my eye a couple of times and I smile at him weakly; is it me or can he see right through my act? During the auction a pattern emerges: Gus joins in the final stages to get the bids bumped up then bows out magnanimously at the end so the other millionaires around the room get to show how philanthropic they are.

He gives a speech at the end of the auction for which the audience give him a standing ovation. His company are going to build a new hotel at Haymarket and he pledges to recruit staff from Edinburgh’s poorer catchments. ‘Knighthood’s in the bag.’ Peter murmurs in my ear.

The waiting staff start to move in as the guest begin to disperse although a hard core from our table seem intent on making a night of it. Gus has been collared by a couple of business men but he brushes them off and locks eyes with me as he returns to our table.

‘Not your kind o’ thing then?’ he asks.

I shake my head. ‘Don’t really know anyone.’ I say truthfully.

‘Come wi’ me, Son.’ I follow him out of the function room obediently, attracting curious glances as guests try to place who I am. We cross the large foyer towards a smartly decorated bar with low lighting that draws attention to a large oak panelled whisky cabinet which is the focal point of the room. Around it are dotted cloth and leather winged chairs and settees clustered around small tables. A group of Japanese business men are gathered around one table reading a menu.

Gus heads towards the granite bar.

‘Good evening, Mr McEwan, your usual?’ The man behind the bar looks like a regular barman but the title under his name tag reads Whisky Ambassador.

Gus nods an acknowledgement before turning to me: ‘They’ve got over four hundred whiskeys here, from Speyside, Campbeltown, the Highlands and the Lowlands.’

He is waiting for a reaction so I stare at the bottles in the cabinet and frown, the way the experts do on Cash in the Attic.

‘Not bad, eh?’ I reply. The barman with the fancy title puts three small plates onto the bar. He sees me watching him and points to the contents of each plate in turn: ‘Smoked almonds, Sir, wild boar salami and dark Swiss chocolate.’

I look at him suspiciously, I can see the last plate is chocolate but then I catch sight of myself in the mirrored tiles behind him and I’m not Davy the Ned, but Designer Davy in a suit that he’d probably have to work a month to pay for and I’m standing beside one of the most powerful men in Edinburgh. Of course I’d want to know what kind of chocolate it is.

Gus misreads my discomfort. ‘Can’t get your head around the choice?’ he asks kindly, nodding towards the cabinet, ‘Let me recommend something,’ he offers, ‘see what you make of it.’

While he is talking the barman retrieves an expensive looking bottle from the whisky cabinet and places it on the bar beside two crystal glasses. Gus nods his approval before the barman pours us both a dram. I want to tell him that I don’t like whiskey. I drank a half bottle of Bells on my fourteenth birthday and was so sick afterwards that it put me off the stuff for life. Gus slides a glass towards me and lifts his own to his lips. I copy him, lifting the glass, putting it under my nose to smell before rolling the liquid around in the glass. Finally he takes a sip. I do the same. The flavour is intense, sharp, like acid on my throat but it leaves a flavour that is warm and pleasant, unlike the sour taste of Bells from a lifetime ago. I help myself to a square of dark chocolate.

‘1940 Macallan,’ Gus informs me, ‘What do you think?’

‘The dog’s bollocks.’ I smile.

Gus laughs. ‘Aye Son, at £85 a dram it should be!’

Shocked, I sip at my glass more slowly this time, rolling it around my mouth to show my appreciation.

‘Same again.’ Gus instructs the barman.

‘No, seriously, I’m fine!’ I protest.

‘I canny take it with me son, now do me a favour and enjoy the drink.’

I can’t say I’m loving it, but the flavour is growing on me and at that price it’s a certainty I’ll never taste it again. The barman pours our drinks then moves a discreet distance away, polishing glasses and whatever else whisky ambassadors do.

No time like the present then:

‘You’ve done a lot for the city Mr McEwan,’ I simper, ‘you must be proud of your achievements.’

Gus looks at me like a headteacher admonishing a straight A student.

‘Ah, Son, don’t spoil it now by blowing smoke up my arse, I can go back into the other room fae a’ that.’ He glances in the direction of the dining room with contempt.

‘Wall to wall pompous bastards, all expert at meaningless small talk. Desperate for my money yet not one of them would take the steam from ma piss when I started out.’

‘Does it bother ye then?’ I ask him.

‘What?’

‘That ye still not good enough.’

McEwan casts a steely look in my direction. ‘If anyone else had said that to me they’d be shittin’ teeth for the rest o’ the night.’ He stands back to study me: his gaze sweeping my face, pausing on my squint nose and swollen jaw. I’ve the face of a toe rag – a toe rag recently given a pasting – but the suit Marcus has paid for throws him.

‘Ye know, ye remind me o’ myself when I was younger.’ He concludes, ‘A Flash

Harry but I didn’t have a pot to piss in. Dressed up to the nines but yer pockets are empty, am I right?’

I nod, deflated. All I’ve managed to do is wind him up and drink his whisky and any second now he’ll summon his minders to throw me out on my arse.

‘Look.’ I plead, ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that, well, sometimes, it seems to me that no matter what I do I never get it right, I never fit in. Sometimes I make out I don’t give a shit but if I really didn’t give a shit why would I need to convince myself it disnae matter? And I…..I just wondered if it was like that for you too.’

‘I think your problem is that you think too much.’ Gus jokes, then pauses, as though trying to get his head around what I’ve said.

‘Kid, I could buy every single person in this city if I had a mind to but what would be the point? In truth I know most of them despise me. Or fear me. I’m a necessary evil, a means to an end, but none of them actually like me. I’ve tried to make up for some of the shit I’ve caused over the years, you know, what’s the phrase? “Give something back”. I’ve donated paintings to art galleries, bought scanners for the hospital, provided research funding for the university but when it comes down to it all they see is some minted scrote who’s had more good fortune than he deserves.’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he concedes, ‘I was no angel, but that’s in the past now.’

Even I know now’s not the time to mention the gun smuggling so I keep my mouth shut.

Gus continues: ‘I don’t want this to be it, though.’ He jerks his thumb in the direction of the function suite across the lobby we’ve escaped from, ‘Another fuckin’ project sponsored by a political party that needs my cash or my endorsement, one that’ll amount to fuck all in the grand scheme of things. I want to really make a difference.’

‘And you think lunching at the Balmoral will do that?’

He laughs at this and I laugh with him.

‘Aw fuck,’ he motions for the barman to bring the bottle of Macallan over and leave it with us. ‘This place is like my constituency office, the place folk come when they need a favour, one that requires a bit of muscle behind it.’

‘Mebbe I should call ye Don Corleone.’

‘I’ve been called worse.’ Gus grins. ‘De ye fancy getting hammered with me, son? I don’t even know your name.’

‘It’s Davy.’ I laugh and already it’s too late to take it back. Gus stares at me, the cogs in his head working their way through where he’s heard that name recently, followed by recognition when the answer wings its way to him. The message he sent me via Marcus:

Tell Davy he did a good job.

The smile dies on Gus’s face, replaced by a flash of anger. ‘Ye need to start talking, Son.’ He spits, ‘And fast.’

I throw my hands up in mitigation: ‘Alright, I’m sorry Mr McEwan but I needed to speak to ye and I didn’t know any other way to get ye on yer own. Marcus said you wouldn’t speak to me direct, you’d expect me to approach you through him but....well, he’s got his own problems right now.’

‘So I hear.’ Gus says tightly.

‘Look,’ I say honestly, laying my hands out across the bar, like a card shark showing he’s clean, ‘I’m desperate. I’m in serious trouble, and I think you’re the only man in this city who can help me.’

Gus picks up the whiskey bottle and following his lead I pick up our crystal tumblers. We head towards two leather chairs in the corner of the room. ‘I reckon I’m gonna need to sit down for this.’ He observes drily.

I tell him about MacIntyre, how he killed Jude and the twins then Malkie and his care worker, framing me for the murders. I tell him that Jude was like a Mum to me, better at times, that just because she’s a prozzie doesn’t make her loss easier to bear.

‘Ye dinnea have tae tell me that,’ Gus states, ‘ma Da’ was a proper villain but I cried like a banshee at his passing.’ I’m not sure what constitutes a proper villain in Gus’s world but that’s a question for another day.

‘Where’s this cop based?’ he asks, ‘What rank is he?’, it’s as though a switch has been flicked and Gus is back in his default setting, weighing up the pros and cons of a job before agreeing to take it on. He asks a series of rapid fire questions about the night of Jude’s murder: where I was standing, what did I touch, who saw me leave, as though trying to trip me up.

‘I didn’t fuckin’ do it if that’s what you’re getting at!’ I hiss, the single malt making me bold.

‘So ye fuckin’ say, Son,’ He hisses back, ‘but ye no’ givin’ me much tae go on!’

‘There’s a probationer cop come forward, based at the same station as the bent one, partnered him more often than not.’ I see a flicker of interest light up behind Gus’ poker straight face, ‘he’s kept a record of all MacIntyre’s backhanders over the last year. Names, addresses,dates, all in a notebook.’

‘How’s he know they’re backhanders?’

‘OK, he doesn’t. But without explaining the reason MacIntyre drives them to addresses where he’s promised to look in on someone only Paul – that’s the probationer – mustn’t go in with him, makes him sit in the car. Five minutes later he comes back out, says nothing about it. ‘S’all in his notebook. Same people, week after week, month after month. How’s tha’ no’ dodgy?’ I ask.

‘Can ye get me the notebook, Son?’

My bowel twinges. ‘I can get you a copy.’ I say bravely.

Gus tips back his head and laughs. ‘Ye right tae not trust anyone, Son. I dinnae blame ye fae that, but if ye want me tae help ye I’m gonny need more than the say-so of a laddie on the run.’

I think about it. ‘What if I get Paul to come and show you this book? Anywhere you like, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Gus mimics.

‘Mr McEwan,’ I say seriously, ‘Without your help I’m going to go down for this, and I didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘Ye think you’re the only innocent man been sent tae jail, Son?’ he growls harshly and I know I’ve misjudged him. I sit up straight in my chair.

‘I got you all wrong.’ I tell him matter of factly, ‘My auntie and her prozzie mates are dead, a wee Ned and his case worker were killed in the hostel he was staying in. These are ordinary people. Not one fucking thing about them was special ‘cept they had the bad karma of knowing me. They weren’t killed in anger or because of something they’d done; they were murdered in cold blood by a cop who wants to put me away for a very long time.’

I get to my feet. ‘JESUS!’ I yell, ‘THIS HAPPENED ON THE STREETS OF YOUR CITY GUS, THE CITY THAT THINKS YOU GIVE A DAMN!’ I’m shouting at the top of my lungs but not one drinker turns to stare at us. A gorilla in a lounge suit and ear piece appears at the bar’s doorway but I’m already on my way. ‘Ye know, I’m outta here!’ I say for the benefit of the room, ‘I’m choosy about the company I keep!’

I walk towards the exit but instead of dragging me through it the gorilla blocks my way, holding out his hand like Kanute at the sea.

‘Ye dinnae leave till Mr McEwan says ye can leave.’ And when I turn round sullenly to glare at Gus he is watching me with an amused look on his face.

‘Pick up your dummy and come sit the fuck back down,’ he says pleasantly but there’s ice in his eyes and I know when to cash in my chips. I return to our table, slowly like, to make my point.

‘There’s a Superintendent on my team,’ Gus states matter of factly, ‘amongst others. I could get him to make a few enquiries, get your mate assigned to the murder squad so his interest doesn’t look out of place. He can lean on the people who would mebbe have blocked the boy’s path.’

‘What will that do?’ I demand rudely, I hardly dare hope this is the breakthrough I’ve been looking for so I need Gus to spell it out for me.

‘It’ll give your friend a chance to gather evidence without getting people’s backs up,’ he explains, ‘and it’ll put this cop – MacIntyre?’ I nod quickly, ‘he’ll go under a microscope the likes of which he’ll never have experienced before.’

‘Is your Superintendent from that station?’

‘Why?’

‘What if he can’t wield that kind of power over officers in another division?’

Gus laughs like he’s talking to a child, a not very bright one at that. ‘What do I do for a living, Son?’

Questions like this terrify me. There is no correct answer without causing offence. I think of the townhouse I’m currently staying in. ‘You’re a property developer?’ I say meekly.

‘Right enough, Son.’ Gus indulges me. ‘And more senior officers choose McEwan Homes to live in than any other house builder in Scotland.’ He says proudly. ‘For some it’s the preferential rates that attract them; for others, further up the greasy pole I might add, let’s just say no money changes hands at all.’

My head is swimming. I’m finally going to get the help of someone senior in the police, but only because they’re on the take from the most powerful crook in the city.

‘When ye got big pockets like mine, Son, ye no’ short o’ folk tagging along fae the ride.’ Gus adds as though reading my mind.

‘We’re gonnae have to play this carefully, your man’s got to find some serious evidence to nail this bastard, dae ye think he’s up for it?’ I swallow hard, brushing aside the look of panic on Paul’s face when I asked if he’d help me.

‘Aye,’ I feign a confidence I don’t feel. ‘He’s up for it.’

24

‘Davy, It’s me. Paul.’

‘What is it?’

‘The knife we found at the murder scene…the one that killed your aunt’s...friends...’

‘What about it?’ I ask urgently. There’s something about the tone of Paul’s voice that has me on alert.

‘The report’s just come back from the lab...’ he pauses, then seems to begin a row with himself about calling me, ‘Jesus I shouldn’t be telling you this…’

‘You know you should!’ I remind him, ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have bothered calling…’

‘Shit.’ Paul’s voice is disembodied, as though he’s walking around a force nine gale, ‘It’s just that I know what you’re like, you’ll go off like a rocket-’ he sighs into the phone.

‘-Just say it! Whatever it is, for fucksake!’

‘The forensics came back on the knife,’ Paul falters, ‘that’s what I’m trying to tell you.’

‘And?’ I bark.

‘They found unidentified blood on the blade. Only a small amount….’

‘I don’t understand….’

‘The girls had the same blood type,’ Paul explains, ‘they were identical twins, it’s not that uncommon, yet the volume of blood found on the blade wasn’t consistent with two arterial bleeds.’

‘What? You’re gonnae have tae spell it out for me.’

‘When an artery is cut it forms a pattern as it sprays out, however the pathologist reports that there was other blood present, its pattern not consistent with an arterial spray,’ Paul pauses for breath, ‘Sorry to tell you like this, over the phone,’ he says quickly, ‘Only I thought you’d want to know this as soon as possible.’

‘I’d want to know what?’ I prompt. I still don’t get it.

‘The pathologist has says it’s not unusual, when the killer attacks someone so ferociously, they end up cutting themselves.’

‘Jesus Paul, what the hell are ye telling me?’

‘There’s unidentified blood on the knife.’ He says patiently, ‘It’s layered between each of the girl’s samples, so it had to be either another knife victim – and as you know yourself, there wasn’t one – or the killer.’

The penny drops: ‘MacIntyre cut himself when he killed them.’ I say quietly.

It’s too much to take in. ‘Let me get this right, you’re saying…..’

‘I’m saying MacIntyre’s tripped himself up after all.’

At last, this is the break I’d been waiting for.

Brad and Ken look up at me as I end the call. We’re sitting in Ken’s Skoda, waiting for the owner of a rival cab firm to return to his car. The house we’re outside is on a new scheme in Niddrie, the gardens are all identical squares, the paintwork fresh and bright. Not all the homes are occupied yet but the residents of number 27 moved in a month back. I keep my eyes trained on the upstairs window as I tell them Paul’s news.

‘Jesus, that’s massive Davy,’ Brad says.

‘So what happens now?’ Ken asks, ever the practical one.

‘Someone’s opening the bedroom curtains,’ I say quickly. We turn our attention to the maisonette’s upstairs window. A woman looks out onto the street below but she doesn’t see us. She’s around Mum’s age with brown hair; if she’s wearing clothes they’re flesh-coloured. She opens the window slightly and a stream of smoke seeps out followed by a hand holding onto a cigarette. She is talking to someone, her head turning slightly to look back into the room. A man appears at the window behind her, he pushes her hair to one side to kiss her neck. ‘That him?’ I ask Ken.

‘Aye.’

It’s hard to get a proper look, all that is visible is the top of his head as he works his way along the woman’s shoulders.

‘I could have him.’ Brad states confidently and none of us doubt it.

‘We said no violence,’ I remind him, ‘only the threat of violence.’

A small child walks along the road dragging a broken scooter. One of the wheels have come off it but every few steps he climbs back on to see if another has grown in its place. Each attempt to ride it is met with frustration and he kicks the other wheel as though by being in place the loss of the other one is all the more annoying. He turns in at the gate of the house we are watching and flings his toy onto the path in disgust. The woman sees him first and the sight of him makes her snap to attention, wafting the man away from her like a stinky fart.

‘Poor kid,’ I mutter, remembering the men that lingered after screwing Mum. I used to think they were old fashioned sorts, equating sex with care, pawing at her afterwards like there was something between them. ‘They’ll have paid extra fae that,’ Jude told me once, ‘some crave the intimacy even more than the shag.’

The front door opens and the man rushes out flattening his bed hair with his hands. He passes the child on the doorstep but neither acknowledges the other.

‘He’s not the father, then.’ I observe.

‘He’s not the husband either.’ Ken says knowledgeably.

‘The dirty bastard.’ Says Brad.

Two beats and Brad’s out of Ken’s cab, two more and he’s pinning Mr Lover Man up against his own car, holding him high enough that his feet leave the ground. I stifle a laugh as the man pumps his legs angrily but Brad’s grip round his throat is firm and steady and soon Lover Man runs out of steam. And oxygen. ‘What’s the hurry Pal?’ Brad asks him, ‘could ye no’ see the wee bairn needs a hand?’

‘Or are happy families jus’ no’ your thing?’ I throw in, still smarting. The man’s eyes dart about wildly before resting on Ken who steps calmly from his cab.

‘Aw, I should’a known it was you!’ he spits, ‘Can ye no’ take a joke?’

‘Making hoax calls is funny then, is it?’ I ask him, ‘sending Ken’s drivers so far out of town ye pick up all the local trade, spreading rumours one of his drivers is a peado so he loses a school contract.’

Ken watches me like he’s proud of the way I’ve turned out and is grateful I can do this small thing for him. He’d been almost embarrassed on the phone: ‘Davy, de ye remember I said I might have a favour to ask? Well, I’m needing yer help, Son.’

I turn to Ken now, ‘De ye think ye mebbe missed the joke there?’ I ask.

Ken shakes his head. ‘No, Davy, I dinnae.’

‘I’m sorry, Ken,’ his rival squawks, ‘I wis messing with ye, I admit, but tell ye son an’ his mate I didnae mean anythin’ by it.’

Neither Ken nor I correct him though we look at each other shyly. ‘Let’s make a deal,’ Ken offers generously, ‘Ye leave ma drivers alone, ye move outta ma patch, an’ I’ll no’ tell yer wife where ye get to when she’s oot at the bingo.’

The man’s face reddens; a quick glance at the upstairs window tells him his lover’s been watching us, he smiles weakly up at her while nodding his head vigorously to show his compliance. ‘A deal.’ He splutters quickly.

Back in the car Brad is basking in the glory of roughing someone up. ‘Did ye se the tosser’s face?’ he grins, but it’s all good natured revenge. He’d never lay a hand on someone who hadn’t done wrong, he’s never harmed a Boy Scout in his life.

Ken turns to me.

‘Seems like Gus came good on his promise then,’ he says, ‘there’s no way Paul would have access to that kind of information without help from the higher ups.’

He’s right, of course, but it still feels half-hearted, ‘They’re making sure no one block’s Paul’s path, right enough, but they’re not nailing MacIntyre to the cross either.’

‘But you know what to do now,’ Kens says encouragingly, ‘a blood or DNA sample will prove it.’

‘But who’s going to sanction that against a serving officer?’ I reason, ‘Paul says the Police Federation won’t allow it, the only evidence is my word against his.’

Brad tutts: ‘So no one’ll listen till ye give ‘em hard evidence like DNA, but they canny request he takes a test without hard evidence against him?’ It’s the longest sentence I’ve head Brad utter. Sometimes I completely underestimate him.

‘In a nutshell, aye.’ I agree.

‘S’a bastard.’

Then, ‘Can ye no’ break in to his hame like?’ he asks hopefully, ‘Nick his toothbrush or razor?’

‘Paul says it’s not admissible in court.’

‘That’s shite.’ Brad and Ken say in unison.

‘What’s even more shite is that Paul remembers MacIntyre had a cut on his hand recently but didn’t pay it any mind.’ I add. I try to imagine MacIntyre slicing his way through Lorella and Marcia with such force that he cut into his own skin. I don’t know how he can sleep at night. I’m surprised no one’s tried having a pop at him the way he forces himself onto other people. And then it occurs to me. ‘The evidence I need has been right in front of me all along!’ Brad and Ken stare at me. ‘Well put us out of our misery then!’ Ken barks.

‘Daz! Remember, he gave MacIntyre a blow job in the toilets under the Dean Bridge.’

Brad and Ken exchange glances. ‘He’s hardly a credible witness, Davy.’

‘I know that,’ I say impatiently, ‘but there’ll be DNA evidence on his clothes, you know…from MacIntyre’s spunk.’ I can hardly say it without feeling sick; the thought of Daz having to… ‘He probably spat most of it out.’ I say to no one in particular but Ken and Brad both see the relevance.

‘We need his clothes, then.’ Brad says.

‘Davy, when was this?’ Ken asks, ‘Over a weeks ago? Nearer two? There’s no way ye gonna find anything, his clothes’ll be washed and put away long since.’

Now it was my turn to exchange glances with Brad. ‘He’s a junkie, Ken.’ I remind him, ‘he’s probably still wearing ‘em.’

‘So we find him and take his clothes,’ Ken says, ‘what happens next? There still needs to be a connection made between him and MacIntyre. Don’t you see? Daz is going to have to make a complaint against him, tell the police MacIntyre raped or assaulted him, offer up his clothes as evidence.’I know what’s coming next. ‘Why will Daz want to do that?’ Ken persists, ‘MacIntyre’ll make his life hell, even more so than now. At least he gets handouts and a blind eye turned from MacIntyre, what’s he going to get from you?’

Brad looks at me. ‘He’ll need protection, for a start.’ He says practically.

25

Brad’s right. I can’t go charging round to Daz’s place and strip him of his manky clothes without giving him a cast iron guarantee he’ll be safe from MacIntyre.

And I can’t give him that.

I’m going to have to make him safe first, and that will take time, time I don’t have. I’ve arranged to meet Paul, he’s coming to the hideout after his shift – I can hardly keep him at arm’s length when he’s putting his life on the line for me. My phone rings and I answer distractedly, ‘What?’ I snap.

‘Charming!’ It’s Candy. I hadn’t looked at the caller display as so few people have my number I can virtually predict who it’s going to be – Brad, Ken or Marcus and occasionally Paul with an update. I’d completely forgotten Candy was the reason I’d asked for a new pay as you go in the first place.

‘Sorry!’ I splutter, ‘I didn’t know it was you!’

‘I should hope not!’ she jokes. She seems to have forgiven me for being so bolshie with her on the phone the other day. Maybe things aren’t so grim between us after all.

‘That cop been round again?’ I ask her. I know, I just can’t help myself.

A pause. ‘No. Look, I’ll ring you if he comes round OK?’

‘Fine.’

‘Dad says the police aren’t looking for anyone else, though.’

‘He would.’ I murmur.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing.’ Sigh. If we’ve a future together I need to be able to trust her, so I decide to be as frank as I can: ‘I’m pulling together evidence that will clear my name, Candy, prove it wasn’t me who committed the murders.’

‘What evidence have you got?’

How do I explain everything is hanging on a smackhead’s spunky top? I start from the beginning, explaining how this will discredit MacIntyre and give us the evidence needed to persuade Police Complaints to put him under the microscope and even make him do a DNA test. ‘Once that goes on record,’ I tell her, ‘It can be cross matched with the blood found on the knife used to kill Lorella and Marcia.’

The line goes so quiet I have to ask Candy if she’s still there.

‘Jee. Sus. Christ. Davy!’ she blurts when I’ve finished. ‘You should have told me!’

‘But what was the point? Ye Da’s made his mind up about me and I was worried he was going to poison ye against me too.’ I admit.

‘Aye, that’d be right.’ She retorts, ‘He’s never liked a single one of my boyfriends, do you really think that I GIVE A SHIT?!’ She shouts the last bit which I guess is for his benefit and the fact she’s doing it to reassure me makes me smile. That and the fact she referred to me as her boyfriend. I’d do a cartwheel only my life is already freewheeling out of shape.

‘Anyway, by the sounds of it this bastard’s about to be nailed which puts you in the clear.’

‘Not quite,’ I explain, ‘first I need to get my hands on Daz’s clothes and for all I know he or his missus could be throwing them into a washing machine as we speak.’

‘Assuming they have one.’ Candy reminds me.

‘I know!’ I say impatiently, ‘So they use the local launderette instead! Either way until I have the clothes Daz was wearing the day I saw him and MacIntyre under the Dean Bridge I can’t take anything for granted. Ken’s taken Brad round to Daz’s flat; they promised they’d call me when they have any news. In the meantime I’ve got to find someplace he’ll be safe.’

‘Is there anything I can do, Davy?’

Unless she knows of a safe house where I can hide a junkie and his gormless wife then I doubt it. ‘Nut,’ I say quickly, ‘if you get involved you could be putting yourself in danger.’ Even more danger than she’s already in just by knowing me.

Candy sighs. ‘That’s what Dad says.’

‘He’s right about that,’ I tell her, though it pains me to say it.

‘Davy, I-’ The door entry system buzzes, I look at the screen to see Paul’s face staring back.

‘I’ve got tae go Candy.’ I say, more swiftly that I want to, ending the call.

Paul looks around at the cluttered settee and sleeping bag, the microwave in the kitchenette with used Pot Noodle pots towering beside it, the plug-in heater and old newspapers in the corner.

‘So this is how a fugitive lives.’ He jokes.

He’s carrying a large brown envelope in his hand which he passes to me without comment. I open the flap and peer into it at first, fearful of what I might find. Paul decides to help me out: ‘I’ve been taking photos of MacIntyre all week.’ He reassures me. ‘Each time we’ve had a shift together and he’s asked me to stay in the car while he pays someone a visit I’ve taken a shot of him,’

I pull three 8x10 photos out of the envelope. They are poor quality, blurred, ‘obviously I had to take the photo through glass,’ Paul says defensively, ‘and I could hardly ask him to pose and smile, could I?’ Even so there is no mistaking MacIntyre’s fat ugly mug.

He’s in a different location in each photograph, talking to or shaking the hands of a different man in each one. In the first photo he’s talking to Jimmy the Bookmaker and Jimmy looks like he’s raging. ‘S’after I paid him a visit.’ I explain.

In the next photo MacIntyre’s walking into a night club on Lothian Road. It’s early evening, before the punters have finished gelling their hair and rubbing on fake tan. ‘That’s Craig Dunstall,’ Paul informs me, ‘he owns that club and a wine bar along the road. Fairly harmless,’ he adds, ‘passes off fake cigarettes as the real thing, reckon MacIntyre is in on the scam.’

The third photograph makes me look up at Paul questioningly. ‘I know this place,’ I say to him confidently, ‘and I know that man too.’

26

‘Ye can fuck right off, pal.’

Tam scowls as he finishes buttering a morning roll, slapping bacon onto it before squeezing the life out of the brown sauce bottle like he has me by the throat. The customer he’s serving casts a sly glance in my direction, sensing it’ll kick off when he’s gone. He’s right. Tam waves away the man’s offer of money before walking him to the door and holding it open.

OK, so I misjudged his reaction. I wasn’t exactly expecting him to roll out the red carpet but I thought he’d at least be curious as to why I’ve come to see him. I turn to go; I can’t risk staying where I’m not wanted. Tam glares at me then slams the door shut before I reach it, turning the Open sign to Closed.

‘Second thoughts,’ he snarls, ‘you can stay!’ he turns the lock then pockets the key. His eyes are bulging and there’s a vein throbbing on each temple that can’t be at all healthy. Anger pours off him in waves.

‘Tam,’ I say urgently, trying my best not to escalate his temper. ‘we need to talk.’ I hold my arms out in a semi-begging gesture.

‘Nae chance, Pal.’ He barks, pulling a business card from under the front of the till then waving it at me. ‘But I’ll keep ye here till the cops come.’ He pulls his mobile from his apron pocket then reads the phone number on the card.

‘I’m not a killer, Tam!’ I shout, moving towards him with my arms still outstretched. ‘Whatever he’s told you, whatever that cop claims I’ve done, I’m not a killer!’

Tam raises his eyes to the heavens like he’s dealing with a consummate liar – or a moron.

‘It’s on the fuckin’ news, Davy!’ he splutters, tapping the numbers with his index finger. ‘s’all over the papers too, ye wanted for five fuckin’ murders.’

‘Not me!’ I shout, inching closer. Tam’s got balls, I’ll give him that. To call the cops in front of me takes some doing, and stare me down while he’s doing it. Mind you, so does taking his phone. He a big fella, even if the cause of it is too many pies. But I’m going to have to take it if I’m to stay out of jail.

‘The cop who came here,’ I say to him, ‘what did he threaten you with?’

Tam eyes me suspiciously.

‘You’re no’ a grass, Tam.’ I say reasonably, ‘Don’t do anything you’d regret.’ I reach forward while we glare at each other, knocking the phone out of his hand. The back breaks off it as it hits the floor and as Tam tries to reach for it I kick it beneath the counter.

‘Ye little fucker!’ Tam splutters, rubbing the space between his elbow and his shoulder. ‘Ye kicked me fucking arm!’

‘I didnae!’ I yell back, ‘I wiz going for the phone, same as you!’ he stares at me like I’m a mad man then I realise that’s exactly what I am.

‘Tam,’ I sigh, ‘There’s a cop outside in the car, man, if that make’s ye feel better. It was him brought me here. He’ll vouch for me, but then I need tae talk tae ye about the cop that came to see ye.’

He walks to the window and looks outside. Paul sees him looking and offers a timid wave causing Tam to tut and turn his back on him. ‘He’s no’ the one been coming here.’ Tam states, jerking his thumb in Paul’s direction.

‘I know that Tam,’ I say patiently, breathing out as I speak. He’s calmer now, willing to hear me out at least. ‘The cop who’s been coming here is a bad man.’ I tell him. ‘Paul – the cop in the car outside - is trying tae help me.’

‘You’re a serial killer, Davy. How do I know the kid in the car isn’t some accomplice going to come in after you’ve murdered me and clear up the mess?’

‘If I was going to kill ye Big Man, believe me I’d o’ done it by now,’ I say sourly. I look down at my hands, turning them over so my palms can be seen.

‘There’s no blood on these hands, Tam,’ I tell him. ‘I’m a victim in this too. He killed my aunt.’ Jude’s face flashes across my vision and I have to blink several times to be sure she’s not real.

‘He killed my fuckin’ aunt.’ I tell him again. ‘He did it to set me up; he murdered the others to pile on the charges. I’m a dead man walking if he gets away with it.’

‘How do ye know he did it?’ Tam asks.

I tell him my story, conscious that Paul is sat outside in full view of MacIntyre should he pass here on his rest day. I try to stick to the facts, ignoring the stabbing pain every time I mention Jude’s name. When I am done Tam pulls a tea towel from the counter top and dabs at his forehead.

‘He tried to make out I knew where ye was.’ He says simply. ‘Reckoned I’d be sent down for aiding and abetting a killer.’ Tam pauses, ‘He said Jamie would go into care and everyone knows how badly the disabled ones are treated.’ He looks as though he’s going to cry.

‘He’s been calling in for backhanders ever since. Hundred quid every coupl’a days.’ Tam looks ashamed, ‘I didn’t know ye hadn’t done it, kid, I’d only just taken ye on, I didn’t really know ye, did I?’

‘Disnae matter,’ I reassure him. ‘The important thing is that we’ve got evidence on him now. Or at least we’re getting some.’ I correct myself, terrified of tempting fate. ‘He can’t hold anything over you any more, Tam, you and the wee one are safe. Besides, ye did nothing wrong, did ye? Jist hold in there for a while longer, OK?’

Tam nods. His face is calmer now, the veins in his temple no longer throbbing.

‘And if he comes in again?’

‘Jist act like I’ve never been here.’ I tell him quickly, reaching under the café counter to rescue the component parts of his mobile. The screen has a jagged crack running diagonally from top to bottom. I turn it over quickly to check the battery’s not dislodged before sliding the back of the phone into place. When I turn it over I press the ‘on’ button and thankfully the screen saver jumps into view, though Jamie and his wheelchair have been sliced in two by a black bolt of lightning. Sheepishly I hand the phone to Tam.

‘Like ye’ve never been here, right enough,’ he says sarcastically.

‘Jist give him whatever he wants Tam, he mustn’t find out you’ve seen me. Trust me, ye don’t want tae get on the wrong side of him.’

Tam goes to the counter and opens the till. He counts out several notes which I know will be the entire day’s takings. He holds the money out to me. ‘Ye must be running low, Davy,’ he says kindly, ‘It won’t get ye far but it’ll give ye a head start. If things don’t pan out ye gonna need to get away – and fast.’

I place both hands in my pockets so he can’t force me to take his cash. ‘I dinnae want money Tam,’ I say truthfully, ‘I could have run when all this first happened but I’d never have been able to come back and anyway, why should I be the one to be forced to leave? If I run now I’ll look guilty and I’m not giving that bastard the satisfaction.’

Someone chaps at the door and we turn to see Paul peering in anxiously. He jabs at his watch with his index finger. ‘I need tae go, Tam.’ I say hurriedly, moving towards the door and waiting while he unlocks it.

‘What the fuck did ye do?’ Tam calls out, ‘I mean, tae make this bastard hate ye so much?’

If only I knew the answer to that.

As I climb into Paul’s car my pocket vibrates alerting me to an incoming text. It’s from Brad:

One shit fe brains junkie and his scuzzy clothes in the back of the car. Julies cheesing cos she thinks shes goin on a mini break. Kens bringing them to hideout but will need minding round the clock.

‘We’ve got Daz’s clothes!’ I say to Paul. ‘How fast can ye boss get them tested?’

The superintendent overseeing the murder enquiry is one of Gus’s inside men and has already been primed that Daz’s clothing is a crucial chain of evidence required to topple MacIntyre.

‘Normally it’s anything up to 72 hours,’ Paul answers, ‘but he’s been given clearance to fast track anything relating to this case so my best guest would be 24 hours, depending how quickly I get it to him.’

I swallow my frustration. ‘I’ve got to find somewhere safe for Daz to stay. He’s going to be next on MacIntyre’s list when it gets out he’s making a complaint against him.’

‘Where will you get that kind of muscle?’

‘Marcus can get me a couple of bouncers willing to work round the clock.’ I reply, ‘I just need to make sure we move Daz somewhere that’s out of the way.’

‘Ye mean somewhere that MacIntyre would stick out like a sore thumb if he tried to track him down?’

I shake my head. ‘Somewhere Daz can’t slip out and score any gear.’

We sit in silence as we think about this.

‘We’re fucked, then.’ Paul says, deflated.

I’m having none of it. ‘Nut. There’s a fella named Les Mahago, works fe Gus McEwan. He looks after all his rental properties. Gus told me I only have to ask and Les will help me.’

Paul nods approvingly. It amazes me that for someone who was so up his own arse when we met he’s taken to working outside the law easy enough. I don’t say this to him now, of course.

‘Shall I drop you there before I go and pick up Daz’s clothes?’ Paul offers. I nod gratefully, giving him the directions.

We’re so close to proving MacIntyre’s guilt and it all rests on the word of a feckless smack head.

What can possibly go wrong?

27

The launderette is in darkness. The shop door won’t budge, the sign turned to ‘Back in five minutes.’ I walk around the side of the building to the loading bay where Les Mahago’s son, Coll, unloaded the guns I’d collected for Gus McEwan. The van is there once more, though Laughing Boy’s nowhere to be seen. The back door to the launderette is open and I step inside calling out ‘hello’ in case someone thinks I’m snooping.

Les is seated at the same small table, his son standing in front of him, scowling, as though he’s on the receiving end of a fairly large bollocking. He turns at the sound of my voice.

‘What the fu-?’ He spits as I enter the room, but it’s half-hearted and we both know it.

He looks to his Dad for guidance. ‘Leave us.’ Les commands and he scuttles out in silence, happy to escape his Dad’s anger. ‘And do as yer fuckin’ telt!’ Les yells after him before turning his attention to me.

I haven’t moved from the door yet. I’m waiting for Les to give his permission. He inclines his head like a Mediaeval king and I move a little closer.

‘A little bird telt me tae expect ye.’ is all he says.

There’s a bottle of whisky on the table beside him and two glasses. I suppress a groan. What is it with men of his age and the need to prove themselves by the malt they drink? I can’t imagine a time when it’ll matter so much but my life has gone so out of shape in the space of a week I wouldn’t bet on anything. The glass closest to Les already has whisky in it but he pushes the empty one towards me. I accept his invitation and take the seat opposite before pouring a small amount of the liquid into my glass.

Les studies my face as I do this, as though trying to place where he’s seen me before.

‘I did the job at the dockyard,’ I remind him, ‘I brought the merchandise here for ye.’ He looks at me strangely, ‘Aye, ah know that.’ He says, as though that’s not what he’d been trying to remember at all.

Les pours himself another drink and motions for me to do the same. I don’t really want another; but he thinks he’s being nice and Les Mahago is the kind of man you don’t want to offend. I top up my drink and gulp at it as though I’m expecting to find this week’s Lotto numbers etched into the base of the glass.

‘I knew your Da.’ Les says out of nowhere.

The whisky I’m drinking catches in my throat and I splutter for a few seconds while trying to work out if my ears are playing tricks on me. Dad went out of our lives so abruptly it was like he had died, and in many ways that suited us, there were no arguments over custody or visiting rights, just the permanent silence of a parent who falls off the face of the earth.

They’d not even been rowing much, my parents, though when they did it was usually about Dad’s drinking or how much time he spent at the betting shop. Mum never talks about him. It’s as though, when he left, the memory of him had gone too.

Occasionally I’d wonder if he’d left us for someone else, a wife who didn’t sell her body or a son more appealing than me. Sometimes the question would form on my lips but I saw no point in upsetting the applecart; the world kept on turning and we kept on functioning and before long I stopped thinking about him at all.

Les has been watching me all this time, waiting for a response.

‘Ye did better than me then.’ I say to him. I’m surprised at the bitterness that has crept into my voice, the armour plating that has wrapped itself around my shoulders.

‘He wisnae a bad man, Son.’ Les responds.

The man I remember locked a small child in a cupboard but I say nothing, instead I shrug my indifference.

‘De ye no’ keep in touch then?’ Les asks.

He’s still alive then, I realise and I hate the feeling of elation that that news brings, as though somewhere someday I’ll see him again only this time he’ll love me. I close my eyes and I can feel Jude beside me, sniggering at my stupidity:

Yer a gullible wee shite, Davy, ye’ll be hearing sleigh bells next.

When I open them again Les is looking at me sympathetically. I’m used to this. So many adults have looked at me like that since I was small it’s become white noise.

‘Ye don’t know where he is, de ye?’ There’s a thud in my chest as I am carried back to the playground, to bigger kids standing around me, jeering. A teacher pulling me to my feet, leading me to the headteacher’s office where they talk in hushed voices:

‘….don’t realise what they’re saying….’

‘Oh, I think they know, right enough….’

‘When did ye last see him?’ Les’s question jolts me to the present and I realise my hands are shaking. I reach for the whisky bottle but he places a hand on my arm, ‘Ye’ll no find the answer in there, Son, trust me, many have tried.’I pull my arm free and lean back in my chair, sullen. There’s a pounding in my chest and my head feels like it did when I was high on painkillers.

‘He didn’t leave us did he?’ I ask, although I’m certain now of the answer.

‘No, Son.’ Les says evenly. ‘He was taken.’

28

The woman on the reception desk’s face lights up when she sees me as though I’m a loveable scone in short trousers, her chubby finger pointing towards the row of empty chairs behind me, ‘Take a seat dear,’ she says kindly, ‘and I’ll tell them you’re here.’

I nod at her politely and shuffle backwards into a hard plastic chair. There’s a small table with out of date magazines and someone else’s water cup, I try not to stare at the greasy liquid inside. The corner of the room has been converted into a kids’ play area with brightly coloured toys and building blocks and dolls in every skin tone. I cross and uncross my arms before placing my hands on my knees but this stance is unnatural and I try several more before returning to my original position, slouched forward, biting my nails. The woman is mid-forties, with a body mass index that’s way off the charts but her clothes are cheerful and well cut and her wrists jingle with a dozen or so bangles. She looks kind, the sort of person who doesn’t make you judge yourself. I catch the woman’s eye and she smiles again, and I wonder if she’s ever tempted to look at the patients’ notes and if so, she obviously hasn’t read my father’s.

When Les dropped the bombshell that Dad was in a mental hospital I’d thought he was joking, only his face didn’t split into a grin when I burst out laughing. ‘I’m serious, like,’ he’d said sternly, before answering my silent question, ‘fe killing someone.’

That’d wiped the smile off my face, right enough.

A man carrying a clipboard walks up to the reception desk, says something quietly to the receptionist which makes her laugh. The man is slim with white hair and a kind looking face and it occurs to me that the job description requires staff working here to be nice to people, especially since many of the patients aren’t nice to themselves. Two young women and a man enter the reception area carrying drinks in cardboard takeaway cups. They move towards the desk with their heads cocked like naughty school kids. They are all wearing badges saying Medical Student.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ one of the women gushes, ‘the queue was crazy,’ her two friends start laughing as she looks apologetically in my direction, ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ she says to no one in particular, holding a coffee cup out to the kind man like a peace offering. I stare at the floor and pretend to be deaf while the older man chastises them, ‘Remember where you are,’ he says sternly. Christ, even his bollocking is kind.

I’m halfway through counting the floor tiles when a female staff member enters the reception area and calls out my name. As I walk by reception the fat lady looks up at me and I smile back at her lamely. The woman who’s collected me is tall and wiry and her clothes seem to hang off her at angles. She has long brown hair which looks like it’s never been cut and half-moon glasses attached to a plain face. I have trouble keeping up with her, her pace is brisk and mine is still hampered by my injury. We pass through a wide corridor with large windows that let in plenty of light. Several doors lead off into a number of rooms, some are small and look like doctors’ consulting rooms, others are larger, with chairs around the perimeter. The woman leads me into a small room big enough for two cloth armchairs either side of a round table. She offers me a seat then waits while I sit before taking the other one. The chairs are high backed and very comfy. The table between us is low, a box of tissues the only item upon it. Across the room several brightly coloured cushions are piled upon each other but even the pile is meticulous: the corners of each cushion are at right angles with each other and the pattern on every one is uppermost. If I turn my head I can see a round clock on the wall beside me and I wonder if it’s placed there so appointments don’t run over their allotted slot.

The woman smiles and I glance at the tissues wondering how they could be needed in a place where everyone I’ve met seems so pleasant, but then these people get to go home at night, are allowed to wear belts and use sharp instruments if they choose to.

‘Where’s my dad?’ I ask bluntly. I look around the room as though there’s a chance he may be hiding.

‘I’ll take you to see him in a minute.’ The woman says, ‘I just wanted to take the opportunity to introduce myself.’ She waits while I turn to face her. She gives the impression she has all the time in the world but I’m guessing that’s how she gets her patients to open up.

I am not your patient. I say silently.

‘My name is Tanya Abbott. I’ve known your father a long time.….’ She pauses, as though trying to find the right words, ‘I’ve worked with him closely since he was first admitted.’

‘Sixteen years.’ I say quietly.

‘Sorry?’

‘That’s how long you’ve known him.’ I tell her as I work out the maths, ‘5,840 nights that he hasn’t been around.’ I’d worked this out in the waiting room, hadn’t got round to working out the hours or minutes.

‘Did you miss him then?’ she enquires.

I don’t know how to answer that so I stare at the cushions instead.

‘What do you remember?’ she asks softly.

I shake my head. ‘Nothing,’ I say honestly. I close my eyes to think, to put some order to the kaleidoscope of images in my brain. ‘Little things, I suppose, pictures in my head that don’t make sense.’

‘You don’t remember him leaving?’

‘Obviously!’ I snap. I think about the man that I remember. I was scared of him, I know that. I got the brunt of his moodiness and he was angry so much of the time. My parents’ marriage was certainly volatile, but they seemed to thrive on the friction.

‘They’d been rowing.’ I told her. It wasn’t a conscious memory but now that I’ve said this it fits in with what I sensed of their mood. ‘They were always shouting,’ I add, ‘I don’t think they ever really spoke civilly to one another. She hated his gambling, and I guess he hated her being a prozzie but was too used on the money she brought in tae really mean it.’

‘That’s very astute.’

‘For a scrote, you mean.’

‘I didn’t say that.’ She says patiently, ‘I mean that’s a lot for someone so young at the time to consider.’

‘Not really,’ I shrug, ‘I haven’t thought about those days in a long time. This is the first time I suppose I’m thinking about it from an adult’s point of view.’

We sit in silence; Tanya stares ahead as though she too is admiring the cushions.

‘He wasn’t always angry.’ I say suddenly, recalling a time when one of his horses came in and he bought me ice-cream. Another time I spilt a can of coke down a clean shirt he’d just put on and instead of going ballistic he laughed. Maybe that was the start of his madness…

Tanya twists towards me in her chair, ‘Can I ask what you hope to get out of seeing your father today?’

I shrug. ‘I…I want some answers I s’pose. Why he didn’t want to keep in touch. And why he…’ I let my voice trail away. I understand suddenly why Mum was able to think the worst of me. After all, with the genes I’ve inherited, is it any wonder?

‘And what if you don’t get those answers?’ Tanya asks.

‘I dunno.’

‘Or what if you get answers you don’t like?’

‘Jeez, I never been given straight answers from being a kid, you’ve no worries on that score,’ I reassure her, ‘I’m used to it.’

‘But this is different,’ she reminds me, ‘until recently you didn’t know where your father was or anything about him.’

‘I knew he was no good!’ I interrupt.

‘And now you’ve discovered he’s been living near you all this time, how does that make you feel?’

I shake my head. ‘What does it matter?’ I ask her. ‘Look, I’m not the one here needs counselling,’ I say irritably, ‘I just need to see him.’

My head feels like it’s going to burst. Tanya’s questions are confusing; I’ve no idea why seeing Dad is so important to me now that I know he’s here, it just is. In the same way I managed without him when I didn’t know where he was; now I know he’s been in Edinburgh all this time I feel like a part of me is missing. Certainly a big part of my past anyway, yet saying this out loud to a stranger before I make sense of it seems weird.

‘You’re about to embark on a voyage of discovery,’ Tanya says soothingly but I start to snigger.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but come on.’ Tanya purses her lips in disapproval and glares at the tip of her shoe.

‘Look,’ I say in a way I hope shows I won’t be put off, ‘I promise I’m not trying to make this into a big deal. I’ve not come here with any expectations, so I can hardly be disappointed, can I?’

‘It isn’t you I’m concerned about.’ Tanya retorts.

He wants to meet me in the clinic’s garden. There’s a courtyard, behind the main hospital building that has a grassy area with tubs of bright coloured flowers dotted here and there. A gravel path dissects it and wooden benches have been placed at discreet intervals for patients to spend time with visitors in a less institutionalised environment.

I step out into the afternoon sun, pausing a moment while my eyes adjust to the light. It’s mid-afternoon and the temperature is still freakishly warm. Two nurses sit at a wooden table at the far end of the garden, sipping bottles of mineral water. A gardener is working his way along the perimeter, deadheading flowers. There’s a bored looking lad behind him dragging a bin bag; he looks at me with interest, then turns to look at a man sat alone on a bench waving in my direction.

The man is older than I imagined but I can tell instantly he’s my dad. He’s not as big as I remember; his face is thinner and he’s bald with a straggly beard which makes him look like a tramp. I try to ignore this unkind thought and wave back at him as I make my way over to where he’s sitting.

‘Dad,’ I say uncertainly. The word feels uncomfortable, like I’m making fun of him. We may be related but I don’t feel any connection. I thought there’d be a flash of something, familiarity, emotion, I’m not sure what exactly, just that there’d be something. Instead I feel like I’m approaching a stranger.

A stranger in a nuthouse.

Dad doesn’t get up but he grins at me like I’m a longed for visitor. His teeth are rotten although some have been filed into pointy stumps. ‘I’m getting new ones,’ he tells me proudly when he sees me staring, ‘Dentist’ll have to put me to sleep though, eh?’

‘What happened?’ I ask him. We have to start from somewhere and the reason he needs new teeth is as good a place as any.

‘The meds they give you here,’ he answers, louder than he needs to, ‘teeth don’t stand a chance.’

I nod, glancing around the garden self-consciously but no one out here seems to give a damn what we’re talking about.

‘Did ye bring me anything?’ he asks eagerly, like a child on his birthday.

My face flushes with embarrassment; I hadn’t thought to bring him a gift. This visit, this voyage of discovery to use Tanya’s phrase was all about me and what I could learn from my past. I simply hadn’t thought about it from Dad’s point of view: a visit out of the blue from a son he thought was lost to him.

I rummage about in my pocket and locate my cigarette lighter. I hold it out to him. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble, ‘I’ll bring you something better next time.’ Dad snatches the lighter from me and turns it over and over in his hands as though it’s made from precious metal rather than cheap yellow plastic. ‘Thank you, Davy.’ He says formally as though he’s been told to mind his manners.

We lapse into silence, regarding each other openly. He’s wearing old man jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. His neck is darker than his face and scaly, reminding me of a lizard. The longer I study him I see there is a likeness between us – at last I have someone to blame for my moon shaped face. It’s feels really weird though, seeing him close up like this, like catching a glimpse of the future only this doesn’t make pleasant viewing. I watch as he pockets the lighter with care, then checks several times that it’s secure before turning his attention back to me.

He shuffles along the bench so I can sit beside him.

‘I thought you’d left us.’ I tell him.

‘Aye.’ He responds, as if that had been the intention. He scans the lawn in front of us as though looking for weeds.

‘Would have been better if I had.’

‘It all amounts to the same.’ I shrug.

‘Mebbe.’

‘Ye were a bastard to us.’ I say suddenly, forgetting Tanya’s veiled warning to tread softly.

A shrug. ‘Didn’t mean I didn’t care.’

‘Aye, right.’

It’s funny how things come around. I’d been scared of him once, yet I feel nothing now, not fear, despite what he’s done, just a burning curiosity about how he ended up in a psychiatric unit.

Was he mad? Or just plain bad.

‘Doe’s ye Mum know you’re here?’ he asks, his voice lower now.

I shake my head. ‘I figured that there must be a damn good reason why she never told me where you were. And that reason wouldn’t change just because I started asking questions. I didn’t want us to fall out over me coming here…’ As my words tail off I realise it’s much more than that though, part of me is stung by the lie that I’ve been made to live with and I need to be in possession of all the facts when I tell her that I’ve seen him.

‘How did ye find me?’

‘I wasn’t really looking,’ I tell him truthfully. ‘Ye remember Les Mahago?’ I wait while he locates him in his mind before nodding. ‘He told me he knew ye. When he found out we’d never been in touch he told me where ye were. And why.’

Dad looks at me warily. ‘So how do ye know Les then?’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t really. I did some work for a friend of his. He’s returning the favour.’ I suppose that’s one way to describe Daz’s safe house.Dad looks as if he’s about to say something then changes his mind. He can hardly counsel me on the company I keep, I think darkly.

‘Why was it all a big secret?’ I demand, suddenly impatient for answers.

‘This is no place for a wee laddie,’ Dad says simply, ‘it’s not always been like this ye know,’ he spreads his arms open indicating the modern hospital building and spacious grounds. ‘Time was these places were built to keep ye out of sight. Ye could be brought in one afternoon and never see the light of day again. They didn’t call ‘em mad houses for nothing, ye know.’ He sighs, ‘Ye could make yourself demented trying to convince them you were better.’

‘Times change.’ I say.

‘Ye think?’ he says, then, ‘Mebbe so,’ he concedes, ‘but don’t be fooled by the modern buildings or the kiddie play area, to be sent here you’ve fallen into a dark pit, Son, and sometimes the best remedy is to be left the hell alone.’

‘Did Mum come and see ye?’

‘No.’

‘Did ye want her to?’

A pause, ‘No. I could hardly expect that of her could I?’

He starts to rock then, slowly, back and forth, like a child in reception class impatient for the home time bell.

‘Why did they bring ye here?’ I ask.

‘I did a bad thing,’

I blink away his face as he pushes me into the hall cupboard.

‘Tell me what happened.’ I prompt, a cold feeling forming in the pit of my stomach.

He breaks eye contact to look off into the distance. The rocking revs up a notch, his back and shoulders hunch as he moves to an internal beat.

‘Who was the woman ye killed?’ I prompt.

He jerks his head from side to side. ‘Don’t want tae talk about it.’

‘That’s the only reason I’m here,’ I persist. ‘Tae find out why ye did what ye did.’

‘I made a stupid mistake, Davy,’ Dad slows his rocking as he says this, but his eyes remain locked straight ahead, ‘Don’t make me re-live it.’

‘I don’t want to,’ I say truthfully, ‘but I’ve been lied to all my life and I need to know why.’

‘Don’t blame your mum,’ he says quietly, ‘we all agreed it would be for the best.’

‘What would?’

‘Growing up without me in your life.’

As I look at him I recall the crap days out: visits to the bookies dressed up as a treat, the tip-toeing on eggshells when we trudged home later; the quick fire temper after a row with Mum. He’d been a selfish bastard right enough, and locking me in the hall cupboard that second time showed he could be cruel, but it was still a big leap to murder.

The rocking continues, as though the constant motion keeps him focussed on the present.

‘What do you know?’ he asks quietly.

I try to sort out the facts I’ve gleaned so far into some sort of order. ‘I know that you killed a woman.’ I say, ‘That’s all Les would tell me, the rest I got from the internet.’

‘Like what?’ he asks suspiciously and I realise his experience of Google would be
limited. ‘I looked up copies of old newspapers that reported the murder at the time,’ I explain. ‘They helped a little.’

‘What did they say?’

‘That you’d been having an affair with her. That she’d broken up with ye because she felt guilty deceiving her boyfriend, only ye couldn’t stand her choosing him over you.’

Dad’s rocking picks up pace as I talk. I know I’m upsetting him but how does he think I feel? It’s bad enough thinking your Dad is a loser, but a killer? That takes shame to a whole new level.

The online news archives I’d read described a typical love triangle gone sour, instead of walking away Dad chose to punish this woman for dumping him, for choosing her old man over him. ‘How long had you been seeing her?’ I ask.

‘Six months.’

‘Where did you meet?’

His rocking stops abruptly at this, as though the memory of it requires all his energy.

‘She worked at the bookies.’ He says, avoiding my eye.

‘You’ve got to be kiddin’ me?’ I laugh, ‘The woman who turned a blind eye when ye brought me in and slipped me sweeties when her boss was in the back? Christ Almighty, I’d laugh out loud if it wasn’t so fuckin’ tragic.’

Dad’s rocking starts up again, more focussed, like it’s become an Olympic sport and he’s training for the national squad.

‘Did Mum find out?’ I ask, shaking my head, anticipating his answer.

‘Not till after.’ He says.

‘And this woman’s fella, did he have any idea what had been going on?’

‘No!’ Dad’s voice booms out.

I stare at him, my lip curling in disgust. ‘Probably didn’t have a clue until he came home and found her body, eh?’ I sneer.

‘All those years,’ I spit, ‘All those years people looked at me like I was some sort of sad case and I thought it was because of Mum! The teachers, the do-gooders, Jesus, I must have been the talk of the staff room!’

Dad covers his ears with his hands. ‘I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry-’

‘Yeah, like that’s makes it all better!’ I snipe. Then something occurs to me. ‘So that’s why I was sent away to another school for a while, to let it all die down. The fact that my dad was a killer, a mean spirited one at that. And there was me thinking I was bad. Better bad than mad though eh?’ I lurch forward and grab the front of his shirt, ‘Do ye know what you’ve done to me?’ I shout, ‘Do ye?’

‘That’s enough!’

I turn in the direction of the raised voice to see Tanya marching across the lawn towards us. ‘Can’t you see he’s distressed?’ she demands, motioning for the nurses sitting at the picnic table to give her a hand. I hadn’t realised he was so shaken; he sits hunched forward, curling into himself as though hell bent on making himself disappear. He’s genuinely terrified. Of me.

‘Take him back to his room,’ she instructs, eyeing him with concern before turning to me: ‘You’d better go!’ She says angrily, her eyes narrowing, ‘You could have set him back years, you know, this was foolhardy to say the least.’

I watch in alarm as Dad is helped to his feet by the nurses. Shoulders stooping, he hangs his head as though the muscles in his neck have given up. My face burns with shame.

‘Dad, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset ye.’ I put out my arm to reassure him but he recoils from my touch. ‘Come on Donnie,’ Tanya coaxes, ‘Let’s get you back inside.’

Dad nods jerkily as the nurses guide him into the clinic. He looks smaller than when I arrived, as though he’s retreated into himself. Instead of a monster I see a little old man. A little old man frightened of his son. The gardener and his apprentice look over in my direction but I can’t return their gaze. Instead I count the blades of grass beneath my feet, willing a sink hole would materialise big enough to swallow me up. On the floor by the bench is the lighter I’d given him; it must’ve fallen from his pocket in his rush to get away. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands, much as I’d watched Dad do before. Someone must’ve stepped on it; the plastic casing is cracked beyond repair. Out of habit I flick the barrel, watching as the spark amounts to nothing.

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself.’

I look up in surprise, I thought Tanya had followed Dad inside but she’s standing just a couple of steps away looking right at me. ‘I’m sorry if I was harsh with you,’ she says, ‘but meeting your father like this was always going to be a huge risk, for him as well as you.’

‘So why did you allow it then?’

Tanya laughs bitterly, ‘I didn’t, but I was over-ruled. Seems you have friends in high places.’

I shrug. If Marcus can arrange for me to have surgery in the mortuary of Edinburgh’s Royal Infirmary then it stands to reason Gus McEwan could pull strings to get me into this clinic.

Tanya continues: ‘Normally I would have advised some counselling, possibly over a period of time, so that both parties had realistic expectations for the outcome of this meeting. I was over-ruled on that, too.’ She mutters tartly. ‘Your father, for example, thought he could carry on where you both had left off.’

I close my eyes and am back inside the hall cupboard, banging on the door with my fists to be let out. The door opens a fraction and Dad’s angry face looms in: ‘Fucksake Davy,’ he hisses, ‘keep quiet!’ I try to remind him I’m scared of the dark but he slams the door anyway.

‘The last time I saw him he pushed me into a cupboard,’ I say honestly, ‘why the hell would I want to pick up from there?’

‘Did you ask him about that?’ Tanya questions, ‘Is that why he became agitated?’

‘No,’ I say truthfully, ‘I was trying to make some sense of the murder.’

Tanya sighs. ‘You can’t apply logic to someone else’s actions, she says firmly.

‘Certainly not after the fact. In your father’s case he reacted to what he saw as a threatening situation – the woman he loved ending their relationship.’ I flinch at her reference to Dad’s relationship with this woman as love, but then what could I possibly know about that time? I was a small child growing up with mismatched parents; maybe he’d found someone that made him happy.

Tanya continues: ‘In many ways your father’s act could be described as a classic crime of passion, one where feelings are heightened to such an extent the killer fails to think or care about the consequence of their actions.’

‘But why was he sent here? Why is he a patient, rather than a lifer at Saughton or

Barlinnie?’

Tanya studies me for a moment. ‘Do you really not remember what happened?’ She asks gently.

‘Should I?’ I ask, baffled.

It’s Tanya’s turn to nod.

‘You should,’ she says carefully, ‘You were there.’

29

‘Your father suffered a psychotic episode.’ Tanya explains, ‘In his case it was an isolated fit of rage that he never experienced again and has little recollection of. He went literally out of his mind with anger.’

We’re sitting in her consulting room, either side of the round table and the solitary box of tissues. I think she feels sorry for me, she’s offered me water and tea but both times I refuse, all I really want is to burrow into the pile of cushions opposite and never emerge again.

‘He’s never denied his guilt,’ Tanya has a file open in front of her – Dad’s patient records I imagine – and consults it occasionally as she speaks. ‘However, he refuses point blank to discuss what triggered his rage.’

I’m still looking at the cushions, imagining a world with no hard edges and I close my eyes as her words drift over me: ‘Clearly, the end of the affair was his tipping point, and what happened after that will never be entirely clear – I mean in terms of the order of things – other than what the post mortem and forensic evidence at the scene could prove.’

I’m back inside the dark cupboard again. I hear voices this time, raised, just beyond the door. There’s a scuffle, I hear swearing and the smack of fist against skin. More voices, urgent this time. Someone turns the door handle. My eyes snap open.

‘Where was I found?’ I demand.

Tanya consults her notes. After sixteen years the file is several inches thick and she uses both hands to work her way through her typed up reports.

She looks at me. ‘Police found you in a storage cupboard under the stairs.’

I nod. ‘I remember being lifted out.’ I tell her. ‘The shouting had stopped.’ I force my memory to stay in that room, to try and put an image to the fear that has gnawed at me ever since and been the cause of countless nightmares and one failed attempt at suicide. I rub my fingers over the scars on my wrist as though a genie will appear if I’m firm enough.

‘Dad was in a state,’ I say in surprise, ‘I’d never seen him like that before.’

‘That was probably the start of his breakdown,’ Tanya says authoritatively, ‘reality starting to return and with that came the comprehension of what he’d done, and what he was about to do.’

‘What do you mean?’

Tanya hesitates. She removes her glasses before rubbing her eyelids with the heel of her palm. ‘There was no lock on the outside of the cupboard, Davy.’

‘So?’

‘So your father hadn’t locked you in,’ she says simply, ‘Can’t you see? You’d gone in there to hide.’

‘You mean he was going to kill me too?’

‘That’s what witness statements confirm at the time.’ She says gently.

‘What witnesses?’ I demand.

Tanya replaces her glasses, continuing to skim read the reports until she finds what she is looking for. ‘Emergency personnel first on the scene.’ She reads aloud.

Something niggles at the base of my skull but I can’t quite locate it. What Tanya is telling me doesn’t make sense. Dad was an angry man, yes, I remember that, but however foul his temper there was no way I’d run and hide in a confined space, not after that first time he’d shoved me in a cupboard for punishment, I’d have been too terrified to consider it.

‘I thought I was suffocating,’ I say quietly, recalling that first time, ‘I could make out shapes in the dark, like there was something in there with me. I kept calling out for Mum, kept banging on the door telling him I needed the toilet but that made him madder. When Mum came home she went ballistic, screamed blue murder at him, threatened him with all sorts…’ I look at Tanya, ‘See, that’s what hurt so much that second time, that he’d do it again when he knew how scared I’d be.’ It barely mattered that the door couldn’t lock, I remind myself; I was hardly in a position to defy my father.

‘Tell me about the first time he scared you?’ Tanya regards me curiously. ‘Where were you?’

‘At home,’ I tell her, ‘Mum was working.’

‘Was there a lock on that door?’

I nod. ‘He used to hide his knock-off in there; there was a padlock on it in case we got burgled. He was more bothered about his counterfeit cigs than he would have been if the telly or stereo got nicked.’

This seems to satisfy Tanya, for when she speaks next it’s as though she’s proving her point:

‘You weren’t at home on this occasion, Davy,’ she says carefully, ‘You remember that don’t you?’

I look at her, confused. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask sharply.

‘He’d taken you with him,’ Tanya explains, ‘to his girlfriend’s home.’

I feel as though I’ve been jolted by an electrical charge as something I’d previously been unable to fathom slips effortlessly into place. I remember my confusion as I was carried out to the waiting police car. The décor was different yet the room shapes were the same. I’d never given it much thought before.

‘She must’ve lived on the estate, then.’ I say aloud. ‘That would explain why the house was similar to ours.’

‘It’s possible,’ Tanya agrees, ‘I don’t have the address of where the murder took place but I’m sure it won’t be difficult to find.’ She gives me a sidelong glance, ‘What with your contacts and all.’

‘What was the woman’s name?’ I ask. Even though I’d skim read articles on the internet only last night I’m shocked by how little I can remember. It’s as though my brain has gone on strike, refusing to take in any information it can’t handle. Tanya mutters as she consults her notes. ‘Ah, here it is…..Sonia Reevie.’ She reads aloud.

The name means nothing to me. At the time I’d have known her only in the context of her job: The lady in the betting shop.

‘So I was his cover when he took me out at the weekend then?’

Tanya looks at me quizzically. ‘He used tae tell Mum he was taking me out for an ice cream, and instead we’d either go tae the bookies or from what you’re telling me slope off to this Reevie woman’s house when her fella was out of the way.’

Tanya doesn’t reply. She’s in professional mode, sitting quietly, studying me, waiting for me to say something further. I’ve a feeling I know what she’s waiting for but I can’t say it yet, not until I work it out for myself.

‘Do you have a picture of her?’ I ask. The on-line articles I’d read had pictures of Dad being led out of the sheriff’s court in handcuffs or being taken, head stooped, into the Orchard Clinic. I couldn’t find any pictures relating to his victim. These days there’s Facebook or Instagram to find out what someone looks like, back then it was whatever photo the victim’s family were willing to provide.

Tanya hesitates. ‘C’mon,’ I cajole her, ‘It might help jog my memory.’ Tanya sighs, sifting through the file papers until she finds a brown envelope. Upending it she lifts out a sheet of photobooth pictures and holds it out to me. There are eight identical photos in total, two large ones and two rows of passport size photos, three pictures in each row. Sonia, Dad’s girlfriend-cum-victim is sat on his knee, smiling, she leans into him as he rests his chin on her shoulder. I feel the breath leave my body as I look up at Tanya in alarm.

‘I remember her alright!’ I say, shocked, ‘She taught me the fuckin’ times table.’ I conjure an image of her up in my mind. She was always smiling, even seemed to like me tagging along. I didn’t realise then that I was a gooseberry.

‘She used tae give me a pad and a pen and ask me tae do sums for her: how many hours in a week, how many seconds in a day, even showed me how tae work out what tae pay out on bets that had been placed on the horses. Then she and my Dad would go into the other room.’ I’m embarrassed by how sordid it sounds, but at the time I was used to adults going into other rooms whenever I was around.

I hold the photos closer to take in every detail: Sonia’s hair was blonde, reaching down to her shoulders but for the photo she’d tucked it behind her ears. Her face was oval with a strong jaw, large blue eyes dancing for the camera. She wasn’t attractive – in my view anyway, her nose was too pointy and her lips too thin for that - but she was fun, I remember that, and the laughter in Dad’s eyes says it all. I’d never seen him look so happy.

‘Davy?’ Tanya leans forward and takes the photos from me. ‘We found it in your father’s belongings,’ she explains, ‘only it didn’t seem appropriate, for his recovery, to have a picture of his victim in his cell so I removed it for safekeeping. No one else has seen this.’ she adds, as though for my benefit.

I say nothing; I’m still trying to get to grips with what my eyes are telling me: two people in love posing for the camera. It’s the kind of thing I’d do with Candy, if I ever get the chance. But still, is it wrong to resent a dead woman? I mean, I always knew I disappointed him in some way or other and now I knew why: I wasn’t hers.

I stand abruptly, making Tanya jump. ‘I’ve got to go.’ I tell her. There’s an urgency about me that doesn’t leave room for argument, she simply nods, closing Dad’s file as I rush out of the room.

Ken’s eyes widen as I approach the cab. He says something to Brad who had been napping in the passenger seat beside him and both men regard me cautiously as I open the car door.

One look at my face and Ken, who spends all day reading passengers’ moods, starts the engine; Brad who doesn’t share the same subtlety gives me the thumbs up sign. ‘How did it go then?’ he asks, looking behind me as though I’d maybe brought Dad to the car to make their acquaintance.

‘Like watching your family home burn down.’ I tell him truthfully. I lean against the window, letting the glass cool my head which is bursting with unwanted thoughts. Brad shoots me a puzzled look and is about to ask me something else when I catch Ken glaring at him, making a slashing motion with his hand in front of his neck.

‘What?’ Brad demands, to be met with Ken muttering ‘Fucksake, Numbnuts,’ under his breath.

‘It was shite, OK?’ I say to them both, ‘Now leave it.’

Ken drives us back to the hideout at York Place and switches off the Skoda’s engine. ‘You go on up, Davy,’ he instructs, looking at me in his rear view mirror, ‘Einstein here can stay at mine tonight.’

‘I am fuckin’ ‘ere ye know,’ Brad moans, but neither of us is listening.

‘De ye mind?’ I say to Ken gratefully. He waves away my concern with his hands. ‘Och, the Missus loves having company,’ he lies kindly, before looking at Brad, ‘an’ I daresay you’d pass as company in a dark enough room.’

Brad scowls, forcing Ken to offer a dealbreaker: ‘It’s stovies tonight,’ he says proudly, ‘ye’ll be glad of something home-cooked, will ye no’?’

‘Mebbe,’ Brad says non-committedly, hurt at being left out of the decision making process.

They wait while I climb out of the car, checking no one is watching as I let myself into the building. I want to say more, to confide in Ken and ask his advice, to relate the story of my betrayal with the anger and pain churning inside me. Instead, I lean back against the wall, close my eyes and wait miserably for the onslaught of my own tangled, unavoidable thoughts.

30

‘Get a move on Davy! Stop dragging ye feet.’ He half drags me across the road, yanking my arm like a chain attached to a timid dog. It’s cold, he’s forgotten to do my coat up at the top, the wind rattles around my neck making me dig my chin into my chest. ‘Don’t ye want an ice-cream?’ he asks, ‘No!’ I shout, the wind swallowing up my answer and blowing it in the direction we’ve come from.

‘I want tae go hame!’ I whine, this makes him swear and he pulls harder on my arm making me yelp. The ice-cream van is at the end of the road and he waves at the driver who stubs out his cigarette and greets us at the window.

‘Whit can I get yez?’ he asks, and though I point to a 99 what he actually hands over is a cheap ice lolly that my tongue will stick to. I shoot the man a filthy look but Dad winks at him as he hands over the money. ‘Dinnae want te get the carpet dirty, do we Davy?’ he asks and before I can answer she is standing on the doorstep, grinning at us both like she’s pleased we’ve come. ‘Has your horse come in Dad?’ I ask as his pace quickens, my legs moving double time to keep up with him. ‘Aye son,’ he says, smirking back at her.

Living in this makeshift den is beginning to take its toll. I miss my home, even the sound of Mum’s voice as she talks dirty to her on-line punters. Most of all I miss the feeling of living where someone gives a shit. I know that it’s risky but I need to see her. I need answers that only she and Dad can give and since my attempt with him went so badly she’s my only hope. I peer out through the window. The glass is smeared with dust making the street outside take on a hazy glow. It’s late afternoon; passers-by are either students or unemployed. The pavements have been divided up into lanes by a series of cones herding pedestrians into different directions. There’s tall fencing along the centre of the road and a bus stop less than ten metres from my door. If I wait until the bus approaches the lights I can jog to the stop and jump on with little chance of being seen.

I make up my mind.

Mum readjusts her face as she opens the door, ushering me into the hall whilst glancing up and down the street. ‘Don’t jist stand there,’ she says gruffly, ‘There’s a police car passes by three or four times a day, away in.’

I don’t have time to say anything before she pulls me into a bear hug. She starts crying but they’re happy tears and I wait until she’s done before I speak. ‘Let’s go through to the kitchen,’ I tell her, ‘I’ll not be seen from there.’ She nods; wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, following close behind as though she daren’t let me out of her sight.

The kitchen is the messiest I’ve seen it: several days’ worth of dirty cups on the work surface, chip wrappers sitting on the lid of the bin, an overflowing ashtray on the small kitchen table.

The ironing board and web cam are nowhere to be seen, and as I study her I see that her hair is unwashed, her face free of makeup. She looks tired, she’s still in her pyjamas and she pulls her dressing gown around her as though that makes all the difference.

I’ve been so busy trying to clear my name I hadn’t thought what it must be like for her. I’d imagined somehow she’d carry on as normal, as though not knowing what was happening to her fugitive son was no biggie. I guide her into one of the two chairs and set about making us both a drink. I look in the fridge. There’s a pint of milk on a shelf and I smile to myself. She goes ape if there’s never any left for her tea so the fact she’s still popping out to buy stuff is reassuring. ‘Neighbour gets it for me.’ She says, telepathic as always.

‘When’s the funeral?’ I ask quietly.

Mum shrugs. ‘They can’t release any of the bodies yet,’ she says matter of factly. She glances up at me, ‘Need to keep them for evidence.’ She watches as I wash two mugs, placing a tea bag in each as I wait for the kettle to boil.

‘Why did ye run?’ she asks sharply and I blow out my cheeks while working out the answer. I turn to look at her. ‘Mum, ye get it that I’m being framed, don’t ye?’

I wait while she nods. ‘But who would do such a thing Davy?’ She asks.

I ignore her question. ‘Ye listen to the news, ye’ve heard about police tellin’ lies…’

‘Ye mean like down south with that MP?’ I nod eagerly, ‘Exactly-’

‘-but that’s not murder, Davy,’ she interrupts.

I pour boiling water into the mugs and add milk, removing the bags with my fingers before bringing both cups to the table.

‘Think of the other cases then, where people have died,’ I remind her, ‘Hillsborough-’

‘Yeah,’ she concedes, ‘but we knew the police were lying about that for years-’

‘-They do bad things then cover up for each other. It happens every day.’

Mum says nothing.

‘Even so, Davy,’ she sighs, ‘It’s a lot to take in. I mean, you know they found the gun here, the one used on that boy in the hostel?’

‘Yes!’ I nod my head vigorously, ‘but they would, wouldn’t they, when the bastard who killed him was conducting the search!’

She considers this but I can see it’s too much for her. ‘Mum,’ I say calmly, although my heart is pounding, ‘It boils down to this: I’m telling ye I didn’t do it. I’m telling ye I saw the person who did, and that he’s a cop. Can ye see now why giving myself up is like signing my own death warrant?’

‘You’ve changed, Davy,’ she says sadly, ‘but then that’s no surprise, we all have I suppose.’

‘You haven’t answered my question, Mum.’ I remind her, ‘Do ye believe in me, or no’?’

Mum reaches across the table, placing both hands on mine. ‘Aye, of course I believe in ye.’

I nod, satisfied. ‘Then ye need to tell me everything about Dad.’

You can know someone all your life yet in an instant you learn you didn’t know them at all. Mum’s response to my request is to withdraw into herself; the relief she displayed earlier at seeing me is gone, replaced by an undercurrent of fury which she’s trying to hide. She reaches for her cigarettes but the packet is empty. I offer to make her a roll up but she declines. ‘Can’t stand the bits getting in your mouth,’ she grumbles. ‘I’ve got filters,’ I tell her but she shakes her head.

She falls silent so I wait her out. I stare at my tea, blowing across the top of it before placing my hands around the sides to warm them, taking small sips, just for something to do.

‘What makes you ask about your Dad after all this time?’ she asks casually but I’m having none of it.

‘Because I just learnt ye lied to me,’ I say sharply, ‘that he didn’t run off and leave us; he was carted off to a mental hospital after killing some bird.’

Mum flinches, despite what she does for a living she brought me up to be respectful to women and wasn’t averse to slapping me if I stepped out of line. There was a time when I admired that, now I just see it as a knee jerk reaction to me seeming too similar to Dad for her liking.

‘Who told you?’ she demands.

‘Does it matter?’

She shrugs half-heartedly, ‘Mebbe not.’

‘He had a short fuse on him,’ she says, ‘always did, I suppose. I was like any stupid woman in love though. I thought I could calm him down, that I’d be enough for him.’

‘Perhaps he thought he wasn’t enough for you!’ I snap, ‘I mean, you’re the one going off with different blokes left right and centre.’

‘Alright, enough!’ she yells.

‘Alright?’ I yell back, ‘You’re kidding me, eh?’

Mum pushes herself to her feet, leaning across the table towards me she places one hand flat onto the top of it for balance, the other she clenches into a fist which she bangs on the table’s centre to make her point.

‘It’s no’ fuckin’ Disney!’ she says harshly, ‘I wasn’t the local gala queen fallen on hard times, I had a drug habit I was trying to keep.’ She sees my eyes widen but carries on anyway: ‘I was on the game when I met your Da’, Davy, work that out for yersel!’

‘He was a punter?’ I whisper.

Mum nods. ‘Aye! Only he kept coming back.’ She laughs at something she’s not about to share with me and I’m grateful.

‘Probably thought he’d get a discount,’ I say bitterly, ‘or better still get it fe nothing if he took up with ye!’

The slap when it comes doesn’t have its normal sting; she’s weaker now, whether physically or mentally I don’t know for sure but it feels like a slow motion slap and the execution of it seems to bring more pain than pleasure.

‘I’m sorry,’ she gasps, burying her face in her hands as she collapses back into her seat, her body shakes with the anguish of it; these are not happy tears.

‘Mum,’ I whisper, as I begin my second apology to a parent in one day but my words are drowned out by her sobs. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say genuinely, ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

She’s not a pretty crier, when she lifts her head her eyes are swollen and her face is red and blotchy. Her nose is streaming and when she wipes it with her sleeve a string of snot stretches to her wrist like a trip wire. Her chest heaves with each sob and I’m scared that I’ve undone something that can’t be put back.

‘I was a junkie, son.’ She says simply, her shoulders heavy with the shame of it. ‘Your Dad got me off it. He kept coming back because he really loved me back then,
told me he couldn’t stand by and watch me kill mysel’. We had a deal: if I got clean he would marry me.’

‘The deal worked then,’ I say gently.

Mum nods. ‘It wasn’t easy,’ she confesses, ‘none of it was. In fact I reckon I pushed him away too many times during my recovery and had too many relapses for him to keep any shred of respect he had for me. I think we would have gone our separate ways if you hadn’t come along.’

No wonder Dad resented me then.

‘He wasn’t a saint.’ She concedes, ‘He had his own addictions, although it turns out gambling wasn’t one of them. He was letting me think one thing when he was really, like all men, up to the other.’

I wait for her to continue.

‘He was feckless, and he was shagging another woman, Davy,’ she sums up, ‘and it turns out he was a murderer too, but for all that he got me off Smack and I’m grateful.’ She says simply.

‘He tried to kill me.’

‘So they say.’

‘Ye don’t believe that?’

Mum lifts her shoulders in a lethargic shrug. ‘He was a moody bastard, and he had no time for bairns, right enough, but he wouldn’t have harmed ye.’

‘Ye sure of that?’

‘Well, no, obviously,’ she shakes her head to make sense of it, ‘I mean, you were traumatised when the police brought you home, wouldn’t speak for days afterwards, you wouldn’t have been like that over nothing. And well, after killing Sonia I reckon he was capable of anything.’

‘What actually happened?’

Mum sighs as she casts her mind back. ‘They got into a fight, I heard afterwards that she wanted to end it, he didn’t; you heard them shouting and ran up the stairs tae see what was going on. Turns out ye got there in time to see him strangle her and started screaming your head off. He went mental and chased after ye.’

A cold feeling runs over me; something isn’t right, I just can’t put my finger on it. ‘Ye had a lucky escape.’ I say.

‘What d’ye mean?’

‘He used to hit you, he could have snapped any moment, same as he did with Sonia.’

‘Wasn’t a bruise on her, so I believe.’ Mum remarks, ‘I remember being jealous at the time, wondering what made her so special that he didn’t raise a hand to her. Hah,’ she laughs, but there’s a hollow ring to it, ‘imagine being jealous of a dead woman.’

She sees the look on my face. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say truthfully, ‘Something isn’t right, that’s all.’

‘Ah, none of it was right Davy, ye Da’ shouldn’t have been seeing some tart behind my back, he certainly shouldn’t have killed the poor cow, and tae do it in front of you, well, that was unforgiveable, it’s no wonder ye had problems sleeping after that.’

‘I could get tae sleep, right enough,’ I correct her; ‘it was the nightmares I couldn’t cope with.’

‘It took every bit o’ strength I had to stay clean,’ Mum says sorrowfully, ‘Jude would stay up with me when I was going through the worst of it.’ She looks in my direction, ‘That’s why ye were sent away tae school,’ she admits, ‘the social workers said it was either that or foster care and I wasn’t standing for that.’

‘I thought I’d done something bad,’ I tell her, ‘It was a school for bad kids.’

‘Mixed up ones too,’ she says, ‘and you were certainly that. The council offered to rehouse us but word travels fast, we were better among people who knew us, I was sure about that.’

‘Why didn’t we ever go tae see him?’

‘He never denied his guilt, Davy, but he couldn’t remember anything. Medical reports said he’d had a mental breakdown, so his lawyer got him into The Orchard Clinic.’ She sees the look on my face. ‘It was no place for a child,’ she said, repeating pretty much what Dad had said earlier. ‘never mind one who was still coming to terms with everything that had happened. Doctors were worried you’d get flashbacks every time ye saw him and that was enough for him tae make me promise tae keep you away. I owed him that Davy.’

I mull this over. ‘So he was happy tae kill me but he didn’t want me remembering it every time I saw him?’ I ask.

‘He’s a deeply disturbed man Davy, we all thought it was for the best.’ An image of him rocking back and forth on the clinic’s garden bench comes to mind and I can see her point. Even so…

‘Did this woman live close by?’ I ask.

Mum nods. ‘Aye, I was beginning to think that was the only reason ye’d come.’ My face must look confused, ‘I thought the gob-shite who told ye where ye dad was would have given ye all the details.’ She says sourly.

‘Ye can see her place if you stand at the front door.’ She adds, ‘look as far up the road as you can, where the ice cream van parks every afternoon? Just up from there. Been a coupl’a different families living in there since.’

I walk back to the front door and open it a fraction so I can see for myself. ‘There,’ Mum says, moving behind me so she can point it out. ‘The one with the blinds closed?’ I follow the line of her finger. ‘Christ.’ I mutter. It seemed a trek when I was small yet it couldn’t have been more than three hundred yards up along the street and sure enough, the ice-cream van is parked outside although it’s more of a mobile grocers now, selling mainly fags to those too lazy to go to the shop on the main road.

So my memory of combining going for ice-cream and visiting Sonia are correct. I return to the kitchen with Mum but something is puzzling me. ‘Why didn’t I run home then?’ I say aloud.

‘What do you mean?’ It’s obvious Mum doesn’t want to have this conversation, her voice sounds pained, as though I’m forcing the answers out of her under duress.

‘Her place and our place are opposite ends of the street.’ I explain, ‘Why didn’t I run home to get away from Dad?’

‘That’s what Jude used to ask.’ Mum mutters.

‘Say that again.’ I ask her sharply.

‘Jude used tar wonder why you didn’t run, said ye were smarter than staying put.’

‘Did no one ask me?’

Mum looks at me as though I’m being really stupid ‘That’s what I’m saying!’ she snaps impatiently, ‘Ye were in shock for days afterwards; even when ye did speak ye weren’t making sense, the doctors felt the best thing was tae send you away for a while, give your memory a chance tae heal itself.’

‘You mean forget?’

Mum pauses, ‘If that’s what it took tae make you better, then aye.’

‘Jesus,’ I grumble, ‘on the basis I can barely remember any of this it seems to have worked.’ Instead I’d been left with frightening dreams that no one chose to explain to me.

‘Weren’t you worried when I had problems sleeping?’ I ask sourly, ‘Didn’t you think I might need help with all the nightmares I was having?’

‘All bairns have nightmares, Davy,’ Mum says defensively, ‘you were a jumpy wee thing right enough but no different from anyone else-’

‘-from anyone else whose Dad kills someone right in from of them!’ I remind her.

‘Christ!’ Mum snaps, ‘De ye no’ understand how fucked up I was? I was hardly thinking straight myself.’

‘Yeah but ye were the “responsible adult”’ I sneer, using my fingers to make quotation marks to show I’m taking the piss. ‘My mistake in all this has been letting you fob me off every time I asked you for help.’

A red flush spreads across Mum’s face and neck and her voice quivers when she speaks: ‘I was only going off what the doctors and social workers were telling me.’ She says. Her voice is pleading, like a defendant asking a sheriff for mercy. ‘They said it was better to treat you as normally as possible.’

I shut my eyes, counting slowly down from ten in my head. When I am done I open them and get to my feet. ‘I need to go.’ I say abruptly, and make my way towards the hall. Mum has been staring at me, studying the break along the ridge of my nose. ‘What happened to your face?’ she asks, her hand stopping mid-air as though frightened to touch it.

‘Life happened.’ I say before letting myself out through the front door.

31

From our house I set off towards the bus stop at the top of our road and without planning to I find myself passing Sonia Reevie’s old home. It looks the same as ours, same shape, same number of windows at the front, but there’s something about it that’s not right. I stop to give it a once over, stepping back onto the edge of the pavement, regarding the property like a mechanic might view a car. There’s a small patch of neglected garden at the front of the house, long grass juts out at angles beneath rockery stones that have become dislodged. Screwed up chip paper has been dropped into an empty plant pot and a dented beer can has been left on the door step like an offering to a Pagan God. A wooden To Let sign has been pulled out of the ground and discarded; it lies at right angles to a wonky gate. The yanked out sign gives me an idea and before I have time to talk myself out of it I march up to the front door and ring the doorbell.

A youth in jogging bottoms and a wife beater vest opens the door. He stares at me suspiciously. ‘I’ve come to view the property.’ I tell him. He glances at the wooden sign on its side then gives me a filthy look. ‘Mum!’ he yells at the top of his voice, scratching himself while he waits for an answer.

A voice booms down the hall at us: ‘Can I no’ have a crap in peace! Wha’d’ya want?’

‘Someone’s come to look at the house!’ he shouts back.

A pause. ‘Fine! Let ‘em in!’ The reply comes back begrudgingly. The youth stands back to let me pass, cupping himself with both hands. ‘Ye can do what ye want, pal,’ he says menacingly, ‘we’re no’ leaving.’

I move along the small hallway and open the first door I come to which in our house leads into the front room. ‘D’ye mind?’ the voice booms out again, peppered by a series of small farts. The boy sniggers as the toilet door is kicked shut in my face. ‘Front room’s this way,’ he points, walking towards a door on the opposite side of the hall. I feel out of sorts standing here. I’m disorientated; the staircase is on the opposite wall to ours at home, the door to the under stairs cupboard opens the other way. I stare at it, confused while in my head a scene plays out:

Dad’s face as it looms towards me in the dark, ‘Shut the fuck up Davy,’ he hisses. I want to pee so am hopping from foot to foot to distract myself, squeezing my eyes shut to blot out the dark. There’s a scuffle outside, someone is shouting my name. I crawl into the furthest corner, wrapping my arms around my body to make myself as small as I can.

Then the door to the cupboard bursts open.

‘Are ye coming or no’?’ I walk behind my reluctant host into what in our house would be the downstairs toilet but here turns out to be their living room. The room is cluttered with kids’ toys and a child’s buggy has been positioned beneath the window. A one-eyed doll is lying in it, being fed a real baby’s bottle by a toddler wearing pull up pants and a washed out Hibs football top. Three other children are lined up on the sofa, their ages ranging from two through to nine or ten. They’re watching a music channel, laughing as the youngest tries to copy Miley Cyrus. The TV is the only new item in the place; everything else is how I remember it: a square table and chairs are pushed up against the wall opposite the window; I used to sit there when I worked on the math problems Sonia gave to me. The chairs are covered in scratches and someone’s crayoned across the table top but it’s definitely the same. The sofa the kids are sitting on has seen much better days; the removable covers have never been put back. I was sick on it once, Sonia smiling as she lifted the cushions to strip them, Dad glaring at me behind her back. It must have left a stain; a blanket had been thrown over the sofa the next time we went. There was no blanket now; the children were sitting on stained yellow foam. I turn to the boy: ‘Is the furniture included?’

‘Are ye having a laugh?’ he snipes. ‘Who’d want this shite?’

‘Aye, son,’ says a voice behind us, ‘are ye setting up on your own?’ It’s the woman from the toilet, not at all embarrassed that I’ve seen her wiping herself.

‘Girlfriend’s expecting a bairn,’ I tell her, don’t have the cash to furnish it ourselves.’

‘Aye, I know the feeling, son.’ She sympathises, ‘It’s not up to much, and we’ve not exactly been careful with it,’ she glares at the children on the sofa who automatically lower their heads, ‘but it’s all included, right enough.’

‘Ye said we weren’t going anywhere!’ the boy who’s been showing me around objects.

‘Aye, but the laddie’s here now,’ she chides him, ‘it’s not his fault we’re in dispute with the landlord, besides, what choice have ye left me?’

‘Why?’ I look from one to the other, intrigued, ‘what happened?’

The woman points a thumb in the teenager’s direction. ‘Let me introduce ye to the King o’ the ASBOs.’

The boy smirks and she clips him across the back of the head in a way that reminds me of Mum. ‘Don’t go thinking it’s anything to be proud of, Shit-fe-Brains.’

‘What’ve ye been doing?’ I ask him. I don’t recall any wild parties at this end of the street, I’ve seen MacIntyre drive along the road right enough but only long enough for me to get out of sight.

‘Having a go at the neighbours one by one till none of ‘em will speak to us.’ The boy’s mum answers, ‘If it’s not his BB gun it’s his fitba’, only gobshite here carries it a stage further and does it all the more to get a reaction, bloke across the road had a heart attack.’ The woman pauses but I doubt for one minute it’s because of that. ‘Council got in touch with the landlord,’ she shrugs ‘that’s us out on our arses.’

The boy’s been studying my face. ‘Ye from round here, aren’t ye?’

I nod. ‘I live across the road with my Mum just now, I can’t stay there though.’

The mother and son nod in sympathy. It’s common around here to get thrown out by your parents, like a rite of passage I suppose. I need to change track, I don’t want either of them working out the real reason I might seem familiar. ‘I thought these houses were the same as ours but they’re different,’ I say to them.

‘Same builder,’ the woman explains, ‘just built in a mirror image. I’m friendly with a woman across the street and it’s weird going in there ‘cos everything’s the other way round.’

I’m running down the stairs. I’m swallowing my sobs as Dad has warned me to be quiet. I yank open the living room door only it’s the toilet. Confused, I start to whimper.

‘Davy!’

I turn; Dad is standing at the top of the stairs. His eyes are wild and scary.

He runs towards me.

‘You OK, Son?’ the woman is eyeing me with concern and I realize I’ve been gripping onto the bannister. ‘I’m fine,’ I tell her. They are waiting for me to go upstairs to check the bedrooms - it’ll look suspicious if I don’t. I take the stairs two at a time, keen to get out of there. The landing is small with four doors leading off it; I open each door randomly, going through the motions. The first door takes us into a tiny bedroom, crowded with small toys and discarded clothes, there are two sets of bunk beds pushed against opposite walls and a window with a permanently closed blackout blind. The next door opens into the bathroom, revealing a tired green bath suite with threadbare towels discarded on the floor. The boy and his mother are standing behind me. ‘Go in if ye want to,’ the woman offers.

I shake my head, ‘I’d better be going in a minute.’ I tell her. ‘I just wanted to get a rough idea.’ I open the third door and the smell of sweaty boy and weed causes the woman to slap her son once more. ‘Ye been nicking my gear?’ she accuses him, and I’m forgotten as they start shouting at one another. As I turn the handle into the main bedroom my heart begins to quicken and I try to slow my breathing as I push open the door.

The curtains are drawn, plunging the room into darkness. The bed is unmade, the crumpled sheets tumble halfway onto the floor; items of clothing are scattered around. I’m looking for Sonia; I can’t work out the answer to the math problem she’s set me. She’s lying on the bed but she doesn’t seem to see me. As I call out her name I lock eyes with my father and in that instant I know I’m in danger.

I stumble backwards out of the room causing mother and son to stop bickering. ‘Seen enough?’ the woman asks me.

Shaken, I try to muster a smile. ‘Aye,’ I say darkly, ‘more than.’

As I step out into the street I try to put what I’ve learned into some sort of order: I was with Dad when Sonia was murdered. I ran into her bedroom and found her lying on the bed. I realise now she was dead or dying but back then I must have thought she was asleep, or cross with me, either way the look on Dad’s face made me run from the room but I didn’t run home which is odd. Instead, cornered like an animal, I cower in the under stairs cupboard waiting for Dad’s anger to subside.

Yet the significance would have been lost on me, for a while longer at least, if I hadn’t asked the people living in Sonia’s house who they rented it from.

32

The receptionist at the hospital smiles at me warmly. It’s a different woman from this morning and I can see her trying to fathom whether I’m a visitor or an outpatient. Hedging her bets, she smiles professionally. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I need tae see Dr Abbott,’ I say urgently, ‘She saw me earlier today,’ I add, ‘tell her it’s important!’

‘What’s your name?’

‘It’s Donnie Johnson’s son, tell her.’

‘Your name. Please.’ She’s not as smiley now; in fact she seems hell bent on reminding me I’m on her turf. She’s wearing a name badge. Patience, it states in bold type. I stifle a smile.

‘It’s Davy,’ I say as calmly as I can manage.

‘Surname.’ She’s telling me she doubts I’m from a stable home, that it’s unlikely I’ll have been given my father’s name, that he probably sired hundreds of kids before going mental.

‘Johnson.’ I tell her, drumming my fingers on the counter top, looking around for someone more helpful to come along.

‘I need to see her.’ Resisting the urge to snatch the phone from her hand and make the call myself I pull my lips into a smile and I realise it isn’t a name badge she’s wearing but a user guide.

Patience picks up the switchboard phone then dials a number before speaking quietly into the receiver. After a moment she replaces the handset before staring me down.

‘I’m sorry,’ she can’t wait to tell me, ‘she’s in a meeting at the moment.’

‘How long will she be?’ I ask reasonably.

The receptionist shakes her head. ‘Hard to tell.’ She says authoritatively.

I try appealing to her better nature. ‘Patience,’ I say quietly, ‘I have some information for Dr Abbott relating to a murder that took place 16 years ago.’

‘It’s hardly life or death then is it?’ she states drily. ‘The best I can offer you is….’ she looks at the monitor in front of her, clicks her mouse a couple of times, ‘…. an appointment Thursday week.’ I could laugh but am fearful I’ll sound crazy and crazy is not good in a place like this. ‘What time does she finish?’ I ask instead but this makes Patience reach for the phone.

‘I’ll call security if you don’t leave.’ She threatens.

‘Jeezo,’ I sigh, rubbing my hands over my face as though checking for stubble. I’ve been trying not to show how panicky I feel in case someone carts me off to a side room but I’m rapidly running out of ideas. ‘If I canny see the doctor can I see ma Da then?’ I ask.

Patience purses her lips as though I’ve asked her something inappropriate.

‘What’s your father’s name?’ she demands.

‘Johnson!’ I say, biting back my irritation, ‘Donnie Johnson.’ I watch as she stabs her fingers across the keypad then lifts the phone to her ear once more.

The automatic doors of the main entrance behind me open and I turn to watch a woman enter the reception area carrying a couple of carrier bags filled with clothing and toiletries. Her hair has been scraped back into a pony tail it’s too short for and strands of it are sticking up at angles. Her eyes are red and wild looking and her breathing comes in rapid little bursts. She takes her place behind me at the desk.

‘I’m back, Patience,’ she says in a sing-song voice. Patience glances over at her and nods, ‘Right enough Chelsea,’ she says amiably, ‘ye canny keep away, hen.’

‘Can ye tell Calum I’m here,’ Cheslea asks in a pantomime voice, as though there’s a room full of toddlers listening. ‘He said I could come back any time things got………too much.’ Her voice catches at the end and I turn to smile at her sympathetically.

‘Will do hen, jist wait there.’ Patience replies, cancelling my call and dialling another number. My concern for Chelsea evaporates: ‘What the f-’

‘They dinnae want ye topping yerself on their conscience,’ Chelsea informs me in a stage whisper. This gives me an idea. I eye Chelsea’s shopping bag and see something that could be useful. ‘Can I have your hairspray?’ I ask her nicely.

She looks at me warily, ‘I need it.’ she says, pulling the bag closer.

‘Do ye?’ I ask, looking at split ends breaking free from the elastic band at the back of her head. ‘Really?’

‘Aye….’ she claims, less certain now. ‘Ye can borrow it, though,’ she adds shyly, reaching into the Aldi bag and pulling out the large green canister which she hands to me solemnly.

‘Calum’s on his way for ye.’ Patience informs Chelsea, then turns to look at me as though wondering why I’m still here.

I lift up the hairspray can, turning the nozzle so it’s pointing at my head and push down on the ‘press’ button, moving the can about me so that every inch of my hair, neck and shoulders are covered in a flammable cloud. Patience looks at me unimpressed; Chelsea, who’s on the same wavelength as me, stifles a giggle. The air around us has become thick and toxic; the receptionist starts to cough, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve.

‘Can you stop that please!’ she splutters, pulling a face because she can taste the chemicals in the air. I pull out the lighter Dad dropped earlier and cover the broken barrel with my hand so that all Patience can see is my thumb on the hammer. ‘If you don’t get me Tanya I’m gonny set myself alight!’ I yell at her and for a moment I think she is going to call my bluff but as the spray settles onto my clothing she jumps into action. Jabbing at the switchboard she punches in a number, looking up at me worriedly, ‘don’t do anything rash, Son,’ she says gently and I wish I could flick the switch just to teach her to be nicer to people in future. She speaks hurriedly into the phone and for a moment I wonder if she’s calling security after all.

‘I mean it!’ I say as menacingly as I can and she nods as though she’s in no doubt. ‘Someone’s going to interrupt her,’ she says, lifting her bag onto her knee and pulling out an inhaler. ‘She’ll be here as quick as she can,’ she adds between wheezy breaths, ‘I promise.’

I watch as she sucks on the inhaler greedily. ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her, still holding the can and lighter in the air in case someone’s watching on CCTV. ‘I didn’t know you had Asthma,’ I tell her, ‘but this is important.’ The woman jerks her head in a choking equivalent of a nod. ‘Though you were being a twat,’ I say in mitigation.

‘Don’t use it all, I need it!’ Chelsea warns me, a sulky tone creeping into her voice. My eyes are streaming and my lips feel as though they’ve been glued together so I begin to depress the canister just as Tanya runs along the corridor in my direction, her face creased into a worried frown.

‘I hope you’ve got a damn good reason for turning up unannounced, threatening my staff like this!’ she hurls at me and I’m thrown for a moment, I was expecting touchy feely and a fast track entry to the cushion room.

‘He wisnae threatening Patience!’ Chelsea offers up in my defence, and we all look in the receptionist’s direction for corroboration.

‘I’m fine!’ Patience confirms, her cheeks flushed with over-coughing. Her breathing has returned to normal and her inhaler lies on top of her desk, spent. ‘Jist got caught in the cross fire, I suppose.’

‘And that’s the reason I’m back.’ I say to Tanya, desperate for her to hear me out.

‘How’s Dad?’

We’re sitting in a consulting room, not the one Tanya took me into earlier today but a smaller room with just a table and two chairs. Not a single squashy cushion in sight. Before Tanya was willing to speak to me I had to hand my personal possessions to a nurse (including the broken lighter which was a little bit embarrassing) and take a shower to remove the flammable liquid from my hair and upper body. When I stepped out of the shower my outer clothing had been removed and in its place a clean white t-shirt and grey jogging bottoms had been left for me to change into.

Tanya pauses as though weighing up how honest she can be. ‘Today wasn’t a good day.’ she says simply.

‘Will he be OK, though?’ I don’t want to be responsible for his set back; I need to know that any damage I’ve caused can be reversed in some way.

‘Davy, it’s very hard with mental illness to say for certain that someone is well, it’s not like treating a broken leg. We can say that your father is responding to the support he is being given,’ she says slowly, ‘and that is a good sign.’

‘Will he be here forever then?’ I ask her, ‘is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m not saying that, no,’ Tanya says hesitantly, ‘although for some release isn’t all it’s cut out to be.’ I only have to think of Chelsea to see her point.

‘Davy, what is it?’

I stare at my hands spread out like starfish on my lap. I want to put my feelings into words but it doesn’t come naturally. Emotions and conscience aren’t for people like me. And yet.

‘It sounds daft I know, but I feel cheated of the life we’d have had together if Dad hadn’t killed his lover. Is it wrong of me to wish they’d never met?’

Tanya says nothing, waiting for me to continue. ‘I’m not blaming Sonia,’ I add quickly, ‘how could she have known what would happen that first time she set eyes on him?’ But still.

‘From what Mum has said this afternoon he was a better man than I gave him credit for,’ I admit.

‘And you feel guilty about that?’ she prompts.

I nod, ‘All these years I’ve called him every name under the sun but it turns out he wasn’t all bad.’

‘None of us are, Davy.’ Tanya concurs.

Yet everything’s turning full circle now and I’m finding answers to questions I didn’t know existed. I meet Tanya’s gaze. ‘Do ye know the Police are after me?’

Tanya hesitates before nodding. ‘It’s pointless lying,’ she shrugs, ‘I looked you up on the internet when our benefactor rang asking if we could grant him a wee favour. As I’m sure you are aware, Gus isn’t a man you say no to, so the next best thing was to find out who I was dealing with.’

‘And what did ye find?’

Tanya looks away then back at me again. ‘That you’re wanted for murder. Multiple murders in fact.’

‘Does that scare ye?’

She shrugs, ‘A little, maybe.’ She says truthfully, ‘You have to remember I work with killers every day.’

‘But I’m not a patient.’ I remind her.

‘True.’

‘I didn’t do it.’ I tell her.

Tanya raises an eyebrow. ‘Why is it important to you to tell me that?’

‘Because ye need tae know I’m not a bad person.’

‘But we’ve just established that we’re not all bad.’ Tanya says patiently, ‘Do you think I grade my help depending on someone’s level of guilt?’ she smiles. Now it’s my turn to shrug. ‘It would be understandable,’ I tell her.

‘Understandable, but not professional.’ She tells me.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say simply, ‘I didn’t do any of what I’m being accused of. I was set up.’

‘By whom?’

‘A cop.’

Tanya sighs, ‘Well,’ she says slowly, removing her glasses to give them a wipe with her scarf. ‘it wouldn’t be the first time.’

I tell her about MacIntyre, how he hounded me for months before killing Jude and the twins then later killing Malkie and his case worker. Each time planting evidence that points directly to my door. Tanya listens intently, studying my face as I talk; this must be her way of separating the truth from the lie. When I finish she remains silent.

‘I know it’s hard to believe.’ I say.

Finally Tanya speaks. ‘You know, Davy, I’ve found over the years that the more unbelievable a story, the more likely it is to be true.’ Her head is nodding as she says this, as though to emphasise the point. ‘But the question is why? Have you any idea what would make him single you out like this?’

I try to speak slowly for fear of not making sense but the words come tumbling out anyway:

‘That’s just it!’ I tell her, ‘I didn’t have a clue until today! Then our conversation this morning made me think about what I’d been told about my past – and Dad’s past – and I realised I had tae go and find out for myself. I hadn’t known I was there when Sonia Reevie was killed until today, yet after talking to Mum and going to find Sonia’s place I’ve started to remember things.’

‘You went to the victim’s house?’ For the first time I hear surprise in Tanya’s voice.

I nod. ‘I must have passed by it thousands of times over the years but it didn’t mean a thing to me.’

Tanya leans forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her lap, chin resting on knuckles. She studies me. ‘Our brains are designed to close down where distressing memories or images are involved,’ she explains, ‘it’s not unusual for victims of trauma to be oblivious of their past until some sort of trigger reactivates it.’

‘What can act as a trigger?’

‘Lots of things, physical impacts, such as a blow to the head, or something equally traumatic like a bereavement.’

‘Jude’s murder?’

Tanya nods.

‘There’s been something bugging me,’ I admit, ‘but until today I couldn’t work out what it was, but I need tae speak to Dad again to help me work it out.’

‘I don’t know if I can let you do that.’

‘But ye have tae!’ I insist, ‘I know why that cop’s had it in for me all these years! Sonia Reevie was his girlfriend! When I asked the people living in her house who they rented it from they told me their landlord was John MacIntyre. There can’t be two of them surely?’ Even the thought of it makes me shudder.

‘He could have bought the property subsequently.’ Suggests Tanya.

I breathe in sharply. I hadn’t thought of that.

Tanya eyes me sympathetically. ‘We can check,’ she adds gently, ‘just to be sure, but I can see your point…Are you sure it could be him?’

‘Aye!’ I tell her impatiently, ‘his tenants said he was a cop!’

‘OK…’ Tanya pauses, as though trying to get it right in her own head, ‘so this man’s holding you accountable for your father’s actions.’

I nod again, ‘Bit extreme though, eh?’

‘But if that is the case, Davy, who knows what he’ll stop at?’

‘Finally!’ I roll my eyes but Tanya is oblivious. She stares right at me, her face creased in concern. ‘Davy, what’s to stop him coming after you?’ She asks, ‘If he’s hell bent on exacting revenge for his girlfriend then neither of us can predict how far he’ll take it.’

‘I know, but I can hardly call the cops for help, can I?’

‘What about Gus then, you obviously know him; surely he’d be a good person to get on side? He seems to cast a long shadow.’ Tanya says meaningfully.

‘That was why he helped me tae come here, tae find out the truth about my past.’

‘Do you think he knew?’

I shrug. ‘I don’t know. It was a long time back. Even so, it changes nothing; I’ve still got a mad bastard on ma tail, only difference now is I know why he’s doing it.’

‘Still doesn’t explain his timing.’ Tanya says, ‘I mean, after all these years, why dredge up old grudges now?’

‘He could hardly come after a bairn,’ I laugh, ‘maybe he just thought I was fair game now.’

‘Possibly,’ Tanya concedes, but I can tell she’s not convinced. We sit in silence for a moment, considering the question.

‘Mebbe he kept his anger in check all these years then seeing me going about the place tipped him over the edge.’ I suggest.

‘Hmm.’ Tanya acknowledges. ‘Or you became a threat.’

‘What d’ye mean?’

‘Given your relationship – as you say he’s had it in for you for a long time – do you think you could have said or done anything to him to make him feel threatened in some way?’

‘What, threatened enough to kill my auntie and her mates, get real!’

‘I’m sorry,’ Tanya agrees, ‘I see your point.’

‘He’s always hated me right enough,’ I concede, ‘I mean, he could never leave me alone. If I was out with friends it would be me that he’d stop and get to empty my pockets. I could be minding my own business and it’s like even that wasn’t good enough, he had to let me know he was around.’

Tanya nods. ‘Then without warning he becomes the very thing he hates most of all – a killer, like your father.’

Something flickers at the back of my mind. ‘Look, this is probably nothing,’ I begin, ‘but he caught me watching him once, when I started work in a café after he got me sacked from Swanson’s factory. He was coming out of the betting shop next door and when he looked in through the café window he saw me. I was bricking it, I thought he was going to come storming in and find something to have a go at me for but instead he gawped right back at me, scared out of his wits. He couldn’t get away fast enough.’

Tanya leans forward: ‘Any idea why that would be?’

I shake my head. ‘I thought it was the fellas I was serving at the time, they weren’t locals, they were wearing suits.’

‘So?’

‘I shrug, ‘I thought that mebbe they were big names looking at moving into the area, someone who he knew from the past.’ My stomach turns over as I say this, like when you’ve been caught smoking at school and get sent to the head or when the girl you really fancy smiles at you. Anxiety or excitement I can’t be sure but something’s jangling my nerves.

‘But you don’t think it was them, now?’ Tanya prompts.

‘I don’t know,’ I say truthfully, ‘I mean, he’s a no-mark plod, why should he know movers and shakers belonging to out of town gangs? But if it wasn’t them that spooked him it had to be me and that wouldn’t be right at all.’

‘Why not?’

‘It was like he’d seen a ghost, yet he sees me all the time.’

Tanya looks at her watch and sighs. ‘I was supposed to be going out for dinner this evening…..’ I stare at the side of her face as she wrestles with her conscience. She turns towards me and sighs: ‘Fine,’ she smiles eventually, ‘I’ll make a few calls, see if I can corroborate what you’ve been told regarding the ownership of the house where Sonia was murdered. In the meantime I’ll check with the team looking after your father to see if he is willing to see you again.’ She pauses. ‘But it’s his choice Davy, if he won’t see you nothing you say will make me go against that…though I suppose at least this time you have specific questions to ask.’

I furrow my brow. ‘Do I?’

‘Of course! Your mother can only tell you what she’d been told at the time, her information is second hand. The only person who was actually there was your father.’

‘And me.’ I say quietly.

33

Tanya’s brought me back to reception while she goes off to make her calls. There’s a different woman behind the reception desk, but I can tell she knows who I am by the way she keeps looking over at me suspiciously. Patience must’ve finished her shift, that or been sent home early I suppose. This woman is younger and slimmer but there’s a hardness about her that lets you know she’s having none of it. If she’d been on duty earlier my hair would be a tarry smear by now. Tanya had asked her to fetch me a coffee but it’s yet to materialise and I’d rather go thirsty than remind her.

My phone vibrates in my pocket telling me I’ve got an incoming text. The screen tells me it’s from Brad:

Tryin to get lifted or what? Everyones sayin u went hame u mad wee shite!

I type a reply:

Had to. Found out something massive. Get Ken to pick me up from clinic in an hour.

I glance up to see Tanya standing by the reception desk beckoning me to follow her. Her face is animated, but I can’t work out whether that’s good or bad.

‘I spoke to a friend of mine who’s a journalist.’ She says quickly, ‘well she used to be before she had kids but she still has contacts around the city. She put a call through to the Registers of Scotland, Sonia Reevie bought her home under the Council’s Right to Buy scheme in ‘84; put the deeds into joint names so the property passed to her partner when she died.’ Tanya studies me.

‘It seems you are right, her partner’s name was John MacIntyre. My friend had been a junior reporter at the time and she remembers he’d been away at Tulliallen – the police training college – when the affair started.’

I blow air out through my cheeks. ‘My dad was some boy.’ I sigh.

‘Try not to be too judgemental.’ Tanya warns me.

‘What do you mean?’

Tanya smiles, ‘He’s willing to see you.’

We’re in a room set aside for visitors. Only close relatives or friends can visit with patients in their rooms the lead nurse tells me and he hasn’t decided whether I’m friend or foe. ‘Your father needs to feel he’s in a place of safety,’ he explains, adding ‘the room is by the Nurses’ Station so we can keep an eye on how you’re both getting along.’

I don’t much like the idea of someone keeping watch on us but I’m in no position to argue. I nod gratefully, trying not to get my hopes up as I wait for Dad to be brought through. The room is large and bright with two cloth sofas facing each other and a low formica coffee table which when I try to push to one side discover is nailed to the floor. ‘For the visitors’ safety.’ the nurse adds matter of factly making me remember I’m visiting a convicted killer in a madhouse.

When Dad enters the room I am struck by two things: that he is walking unaccompanied - the last time I saw him he was being helped across the lawn by two nurses. Instead he walks confidently towards me, stopping in front of my chair with his arms outstretched. I stand, allowing myself to be bear hugged but unsure whether to do anything back. I have little experience to go off, my memories of him are when I was wee and my friends’ dads are either dead or inside. I have no terms of reference on how to relate physically to him, so I stand there, counting down from twenty in my head.

My second thought is how similar we look. I mean, really similar, to the point it’s no wonder MacIntyre hates me. I must be a permanent reminder of what Dad took away from him. When he saw me in Tam’s café after calling into the betting shop he must have seen it too. The likeness around the eyes and nose, the familiar set of our jaw. That could maybe explain the look on his face, the look that said he’d seen a ghost.

Except this ghost was very much alive locked up in the nut-house.

‘I’m sorry.’ I tell him as we sit down beside one another. Dad lifts his feet and places them on top of the coffee table like a footstool and I do the same. We could be like any father and son hanging out together in those American films, and the thought makes me smile.

‘Ye don’t look sorry.’ Dad responds but he’s not having a go, he doesn’t seem able to snipe or take the piss, just state things as they are. Or as he sees them, only I’m not sure that’s one and the same.

‘I am,’ I tell him honestly, ‘when I came here earlier today I was angry, I admit that, but I didn’t mean to do anything that would set ye back.’

Dad tips his head back and laughs, ‘you’ve been paying too much attention to what that lot have been saying haven’t ye?’ he asks, ‘I mean, it’s all about perspective. I’ve been sentenced to stay here for the rest of my life, or at least until I am deemed to be ‘normal’ so that I can be shipped off to Shotts with the regular killers. How appealing is that, do ye think?’

I shrug my shoulders, ‘not much.’

‘So ye can see that any ‘setback’,’ he sums up, ‘is hardly a hardship in my book.’

I take his point.

‘I’ve spoken to Mum.’ I tell him, eager for him to confirm what I’ve learned.

‘Go on,’ he encourages, raising his eyebrows just a little.

‘She says ye got her off smack.’

He nods slowly. ‘Aye, she was in a bad way when we met.’

‘But ye helped her.’

Dad shrugs. ‘I loved her,’ he says simply, ‘not like I had any choice in the matter.’

‘Then it all changed,’ I state.

‘Like a lot o’ things.’ He agrees. ‘Look Davy, something I’ve learned while I’ve been in here is that looking back all the time isn’t good for ye. Ye have to keep looking forward. I’m not proud o’ the fact I stopped loving your mum and I’m even less proud that instead of leaving I was unfaithful.’

‘Mum reckons she was hard to live with….says she had a couple of relapses that made her push you away,’

Dad’s eyes widen in surprise, ‘Christ, she has opened up to ye. How did ye make her do that?’ he asks in admiration.

‘I think she would see it more as being backed into a corner.’ I tell him honestly. ‘It wasn’t pretty.’

Dad’s face becomes serious. ‘Don’t fall out with her son,’ he cautions, ‘she’s a different woman from the one than I met back then so you can’t blame her for not being nostalgic.’

‘Right enough.’ I concede. Then, ‘She says ye must have really loved Sonia.’

Dad’s eyes flash with anger. ‘Why, because I killed her?’

‘I don’t think she meant it like that,’ I say weakly, though it does sound like that.

‘Listen,’ he says angrily, ‘she’s right in that I did love Sonia,’ he looks away, thoughtful, ‘but love is wanting the best for someone no matter how that turns out for ye. Not wiping out all trace of them to settle a score.’

I get it. ‘It’s OK,’ I tell him, ‘I’m not about to go following in your footsteps if that’s what you’re worried about.’

For a moment he looks at me confused, his forehead creases as though he’s concentrating very hard on what I’ve said. ‘Talking about what ye did won’t turn me into a killer,’ I say to him. ‘Don’t worry on that score. I just need some answers.’

Dad nods, but the stoop in his shoulders tell me how difficult this is.

‘I know I was there, Dad.’

He looks genuinely shocked. ‘Let it lie, Davy.’ He says sharply.

I wasn’t expecting that. ‘What do ye mean?’

‘Jist leave it, eh? What can come from dredging up the past? Ye come in here wanting answers but there’s nothing to tell. I did what I did and I’m paying the fuckin’ price, eh, what more do ye want?’

‘I remember Sonia.’ I persist. ‘She was kind to me; she taught me how to do multiplication.’

Dad looks confused.

‘It’s how I make sense of things,’ I tell him, ‘by counting them…gives me something to focus on. I must have got that from her.’

‘She thought the world of ye, she did.’ He smiles, ‘She felt sorry for ye I reckon, I mean, me and your mum were hardly model parents and me bringing ye tae Sonia’s house as an alibi put you right up there with Bambi as a soft wee shite needing a bit o’ love and attention.’

‘She still went upstairs and fucked ye though.’ I remind him and he has the grace to blush. ‘Sorry,’ I add quickly, ‘I’m not here to point any fingers, honestly.’

He shrugs, whatever.

‘I went to her house today, Dad.’

Dad groans. ‘Aw, fucksake Davy, what did ye go and do that for?’

‘I wanted to see where it happened.’

He is silent now. Waiting.

‘I remember running upstairs. There’d been shouting. But it wasn’t the shouting that worried me; I mean that was normal in our house wasn’t it? It was the quiet afterwards that scared me.’

‘Aw, Davy.’

‘I remember seeing her lying on the bed.’

Sonia was still. She didn’t turn when I called her name. I thought she was cross with me.

‘It’s in the past, son.’

‘I saw ye.’

Running down the stairs, too scared to look back.

‘I saw ye.’

Please Daddy no! Don’t make me go in there.

‘What’s done is done, Davy.’

‘I saw the look on your face.’

‘It was shock, Son.’

Then I hear her voice:

‘Davy! Come and have a look at this! You can do the nine times table on your hands, did you know that’ We’re sitting at the wooden dining table. Dad’s in the kitchen opening a couple of beers. ‘Here, let me show you’. Sonia moves behind me and slips her arms through mine so she can spread her hands wide on the table top. She folds the little finger on her left hand into her palm. ‘You can work the answers out on your fingers. Watch this...’

‘One nine is…’

I count her remaining fingers. ‘Nine!’ I say.

She unfolds her little finger and this time folds down the second finger on her left hand. ‘Two nines are...’ she tells me what to do: ‘count my fingers either side of the finger that’s folded down.’ I do as I’m told.

‘One,’ I say, ‘and eight’.

‘And what number does that make?’

‘Eighteen.’ I grin.

‘Clever boy!’ Dad is standing in the doorway watching us. He never calls me anything like that at home. I beam at him but he’s looking at Sonia, holding out a can to her. Sonia ruffles my hair before moving to Dad’s side.

‘Now you go work out the other numbers Davy, have the answers ready for when I come back.’

I don’t mind Dad going upstairs with her; he’s always in a good mood when he comes down. I carry on working out the sums with my hands, writing the answer down on the pad Sonia left me. I’m halfway through when I hear what sounds like a key turning in a lock. I’ve nearly finished by the time the shouting starts.

‘Davy, what is it?’ Dad’s voice jolts me back to the present. He’s looking at me oddly as though something has put the frighteners up him.

‘I saw ye, Dad.’ I repeat, only this time I get what it means.

‘Ye didn’t kill her, did ye?’

He doesn’t need to answer; the look on his face says we both know the truth of it.

34

Dad rubs the back of his neck with his hand, his fingers working at the base of his skull as though searching for the erase button. When he speaks next his voice is choked, ‘I’d gone tae the bathroom, too much bloody beer in those days, that was my problem. Only on the way back tae the bedroom I hear shouting and realise Sonia’s fella must’ve come home and walked in on her getting dressed. He was supposed to be on a course till later that evening but one of the instructors had gone home ill so they’d finished earlier than expected. He thought he’d come home and surprise her. Well, he did that alright. Found her scrabbling about trying tae get into her clothes…well, ye’d hardly need tae be a genius.’

Dad’s shoulders sag as he talks and I wish I didn’t have to put him through this but there’s no other way. I try to encourage him with a nod.

‘He went mental,’ Dad continues, ‘calling her every name under the sun and she gave as good as she got at first, in fact I think yelling back at him was her way of providing a distraction so I could slip away with you, but I wasn’t about tae leave her tae take the flack on her own. Part of me was glad it was out in the open, gave us a chance to make a life together – that’s all either of us wanted. All this was going through my mind when the shouts turned to screams and I ran into the bedroom prepared to have the shit kicked out of me, only he didn’t budge.’

Dad looks up at me as though he still can’t believe it after all this time, ‘The bastard held his ground, standing over her with his hands around her throat.’ He holds his hands out at arm’s length, as though I need a masterclass in strangulation.

‘He turned to look at me, as though wanting to gauge my reaction as he squeezed tighter and tighter.’

‘I ran up the stairs the same time ye ran out of the bathroom.’ I add, ‘I saw ye on the landing.’ Dad confirms this memory with a nod.

‘I went into Sonia’s bedroom the same time as you.’

‘Aye.’ Dad agrees, ‘Ye frightened the fuck out of him, right enough. The look on his face, it was like he’d seen a ghost. He let go of her then but she was already dead.’

‘I thought she was sleeping.’ I tell him.

Dad’s eyes cloud over as though shielding him from the image. ‘That was no bad thing. I didn’t want ye to realise what had happened to her.’ He shakes his head as though he still can’t believe it.

‘I thought I was seeing things,’ He says quietly, ‘her old man was a cop...there was no way he would have killed his girlfriend like that…but the truth was lying on the bed in front of us.’

An image of Jude fighting for her life looms into view and I have to blink it away.

‘What did ye do?’ I ask him.

Dad stops rubbing at his neck and jerks his head up angrily. ‘I wanted to fuckin’ kill him!’ Tears mingled with snot run freely down his face. He resembles a rabid dog, saliva flying from the corners of his mouth.

‘But what did ye do?’ I press.

‘He was staring at ye!’ Dad spits, ‘You were still in the doorway looking at Sonia. I was beside ye. You looked up at me as though I’d know what to do but I knew fuck all.’

‘Ye were crying.’

‘Aye,’ he says angrily, dabbing at his face with his sleeve, ‘and a fat lot of good it did her. Ye held my hand, do ye remember that?’ I start to shake my head but then I remember him slumped in the doorway, broken; I’d wanted to make him feel better.

‘But even then I could see he was working something out.’ Dad recalls, ‘Mebbe he already knew he was going to pin it on me, only he can answer that, but he was staring at ye like you were the fly in the ointment, like he would crush ye if he got hold o’ ye.’

A shiver runs across my shoulder blades. ‘Ye told me to run.’ I say quietly.

Dad nods. ‘I’d just seen what he was capable of and here was a bairn able to point the finger right at him.’

‘I ran downstairs but I couldn’t open the front door.’

‘He’d locked it when he came back.’

‘I panicked, ran into the front room.’

‘I yelled at ye to hide.’ He adds, ‘There was nowhere but that bloody cupboard and you wouldn’t go in.’

‘Because of last time.’ I remind him.

‘I know….but this was different, Son, I was trying tae protect ye.’

‘You were swearing and shouting and I was scared. Ye pushed me in and closed the door.’

Dad sighs. ‘I stood in front of it and blocked the door with my body. Told him he’d have tae get through me if he wanted tae get tae you. We were taking pelts out of each other, but he knew how tae come out of it smelling o’ roses. We heard sirens as the police cars pulled up outside – turns out a neighbour had dialled 999 when they heard Sonia screaming. He turns to me and tells me that if I don’t take the blame he’ll come after you and kill you. I went mad then, kicking the living daylights out of him just as the police break down the door. They take one look at the both of us and who are they going to believe?’

Dad’s looking at me but I can’t meet his eye. ‘And I crawl out of the cupboard too traumatised to go near ye which backs up MacIntyre’s story that you’ve lost the plot.’

Dad places a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t beat yersel’ up about it Davy, they were always going to look after their own, any other version of events would never have got a look in.’

‘Even so.’

‘If ye’d said anything different you’d o’ been dead by now. I made a point of confessing early on so ye didn’t need to give evidence. At least that way I knew you’d be safe.’

‘How could ye be sure he wasn’t going to kill me anyway?’

Dad looks into the distance as though he can see the events of that day playing out in front of him. ‘He came to see me in the cells. I was to go in front of the Fiscal the next morning. Mebbe he was panicking about whether I’d give him up or not but he gave me his word he wouldn’t touch ye as long as I took the blame.

‘He told me ye were being treated up at the Sick Kids Hospital and you’d clammed up, wouldn’t talk to any of the doctors. He reckoned as long as I stuck to his story no one would press ye for any details…..and he was right.’

‘Then what happened?’

Dad shrugs. ‘I went up before the Fiscal the next morning, pled guilty. The fiscal wanted a psychiatric report completing, next minute I’m carted off here.’

‘As simple as that?’

‘I was beside myself, I didnae need tae play-act at being demented.’

‘And Mum?’

‘She came to see me. Just the one time. I’d been here a few days and she brought me some stuff in, clothes, toiletries, I can’t really remember, my head wasn’t in a good place, I didn’t know what day of the week it was let alone anything else. She told me the doctors had recommended you go away for a while, only she was worried about how you’d be once you came back. We agreed it would be for the best to make a clean break of it, that way any chance of you seeing me and remembering anything from that day would be limited. Besides, she was angry as fuck with me so it suited her not to have to see me again.’

‘Does Mum know?’ I ask him. ‘That it was MacIntyre?’

Dad looks shocked. ‘Not a chance,’ he says, ‘It’s too big to trust someone with.’

‘But what about all the tests you’ve had? The psych-’

‘-The psychiatric reports, mental health evaluations, group counselling and talking therapy…?’ he cuts in.

‘-aye,’ I nod, ‘all that, are ye saying it wasn’t needed, that ye faked it to stay here rather than go to prison?’

I hate the thought of him being mentally ill, that even if this all comes out into the open nothing will change for him. He seems to read my mind.

‘I loved her Davy,’ he says simply, ‘and that bastard killed her right in front of me. How will I ever recover from that?’

‘And what about MacIntyre?’

‘He returned to work after compassionate leave. Never seen or heard from him since.’

‘Ye took the blame to save me.’

‘You’re ma boy, what else could I do? Anyway, look at ye now,’ he says proudly, ‘you’re like a chip of the old block, right enough.’

And that’s when it starts to make sense. MacIntyre must have been on pins when I was growing up, wondering whether I would suddenly remember the events surrounding Sonia’s murder, then as time passed he grew in confidence, though just to be sure he’d rub me up the wrong way every so often to see how I’d react. That day when he caught me watching him through the café window he must have thought I’d remembered something; he looked terrified.

Like he’d seen a ghost.

A ghost who could make his world come crashing around him.

No wonder he wanted to take me out of the picture, and framing me for murder – the first murder so similar to the one Dad had been convicted for years before – would have got me out of his hair for good.

I start to laugh. ‘Dad, this is brilliant don’t ye see?’

He looks at me as though I’m the one that lives here rather than him.

‘No.’ He answers, none the wiser.

‘MacIntyre doesn’t have anything over you now, however it pans out between me and him nothing changes the fact you are innocent. With a good lawyer we should be able to go back to the Fiscal for an acquittal.’

Dad frowns. ‘On what evidence?’ he asks. Christ, now he is definitely sounding like the sane one.

‘Mine of course!’ I tell him.

‘Ah,’ he soothes, ‘ye mean the serial killer on the run? Now Son, I don’t want tae piss on your bonfire right enough but how reliable does that make ye seem?’

He has a point. Again. My shoulders slump in defeat.

‘We can’t do nothing!’ I say impatiently.

‘Mebbe not,’ he says calmly, ‘but ye need to clear ye own name first before ye can try helping me.’ He sees the disappointment in my face, ‘Not as if I’m going anywhere.’

‘Fine! Fine!’ I mutter impatiently. I know what Dad’s saying makes sense but it feels like an anti-climax. I mean, I knew we weren’t going to break him out of the clinic there and then but I kind of expected more anger, more fire from him. I suppose that’s what a lifetime on meds does for you.

‘It’s OK, Dad,’ I tell him, getting to my feet, ‘I know people who can help us.’ I push Marcus’s anguished face to the back of my mind, promising myself that I’ll make it up to him once I’ve cleared my name. I wave at a couple of nurses chatting around the nurses’ station, signalling that I need to leave. The last few days have passed in a tragic haze of craziness that I couldn’t have made up if I’d tried; to top it all I meet my Dad, who very probably saved my life when I was a child.

For the first time, in Christ, like ages, I feel that I’m getting some control back in my life.

A nurse comes in to take Dad back to his room, he waves away her offer of assistance and I tell myself it’s because already he feels stronger. Maybe the tide is turning for both of us. At the doorway he turns and for a moment the fog has lifted. He beams his best smile yet at me.

‘Go easy, Son.’ He says.

Outside the air is cool and I make a roll up while I’m waiting for Ken. I walk down the driveway towards the main road which leads into the city. There’s a bus stop nearby; a crowd of schoolboys gather, hitting each other with rucksacks and giving the younger ones dead-arms. I never really had school mates and those I was on friendly terms with weren’t allowed back to mine. Jesus, was it any wonder?

I try to imagine what it’s been like for Dad, cooped up in an institution when he’s done nothing wrong. It’s hard not to look at him and see my own future lurching in the same direction. Even the thought of it makes me shudder inside. I have to get Dad out of there, but he’s right; to secure his freedom I have to clear my own name first.

The boys at the bus stop are giving each other wedgies; they push by other passengers to climb onto the bus before heading upstairs to show their arses at passers-by. The decibel level on the street plummets now they’ve gone and I wish more than anything I could jump on the bus too and swap places with them.

If only my life was that simple.

My phone rings. Paul’s name flashes up on the display.

‘Davy, where are you?’

‘Been to see my Dad at the clinic,’ I tell him, ‘long story,’

There’s a muffled sound as though a hand has been placed over Paul’s mouthpiece, I can hear his voice but not what he’s saying. ‘Paul?’ I say into the phone. ‘What’s going on?’ Seconds later he is back.

‘Never mind that,’ there’s an urgent tone in his voice which sets me on alert. ‘it’s MacIntyre.’

My colon twitches. I wait, moving towards the Perspex bus shelter so I have something to lean on to; already my legs feel weak. My free hand automatically grips the plastic seat.

‘Complaints were ready to call MacIntyre in regarding Daz’s allegation only his federation rep tipped him off first. Seems they joined the force at the same time, attended Tulliallan together.’

‘So?’

The anguish in Paul’s voice is unmistakable. ‘He’s gone missing, Davy.’

‘How the fu-?’

‘He’s entitled to representation,’ Paul says simply, ‘and the investigating officer is obliged to tell the federation rep why Complaints want to speak to him so they haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Other than give a killer a head start now we’re closing in on him.’ I say angrily. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Daz was moved to a safe house, an old pig farm on the outskirts of East Lothian yesterday afternoon, with Coll Mahago providing round the clock muscle.

My mind is racing. ‘What if…..’

Paul is already ahead of me: ‘We’ve mobilised a squad car to keep watch on the farm.’

‘Great,’ I say sarcastically, ‘might as well put up a sign saying ‘junkie grass lives here.’

‘I know!’ Paul says defensively, ‘I’m doing my bloody best.’

How can I tell him that’s still not enough?

I mentally tick off the people who know Daz’s whereabouts: Les Mahago, Paul, me. Plus the cops tear arsing their way to Ballencrieff right this minute. I grimace as I realise something isn’t quite right. There’s something Paul isn’t telling me.

‘It’s not Daz he’ll come after is it?’ I say evenly.

Paul goes quiet.

‘Is it?’ I persist.

Paul’s voice is laced with concern. ‘Davy, you need to stay right where you are. We’ve already despatched a car to pick you up while I’ve been on the line.’

‘But Ken’s coming.’ I sound like a young child arguing over bedtime.

‘Ken can’t protect you Davy, we can.’

I’m not so sure. ‘Do you know these men?’ I challenge him.

A pause. ‘Fucksake, Davy I’ve only been here two minutes, I can’t vouch for every single person in the division.’

‘Thanks,’ I say quickly, climbing into the car as it pulls up beside me at the bus stop.

‘That’s all I needed to know. Tell me the moment you hear anything about MacIntyre, OK?’ I say before ending the call.

‘What the hell is all that about?’ Ken asks when I turn to him. He signals before pulling out, narrowly missing a police car racing in the opposite direction, blue lights flashing, siren wailing; in his rear view mirror he clocks it turn into the access road leading to the clinic. He sees the stricken look on my face. ‘Where to, Davy?’

‘Just drive.’ I say to him.

Brad is in the back of the Skoda trying to work out what he’s seen. ‘They’ve twigged where ye are then?’

I shake my head urgently. ‘Worse than that.’ I tell him. ‘MacIntyre’s disappeared.’

‘How the fu-?’

‘One of his pals gave him the heads up about Daz.’

‘How did his pal know?’

‘Works in Complaints.’

‘Right enough,’ Ken says wisely, ‘they all piss in the same pot.’

I fall silent as the sheer bloody enormity of it: MacIntyre won’t rest until I’m banged up like Dad yet the only person who knows what he’s capable of is me. For every cop willing to look for him there’ll be another prepared to look the other way.

Rock, meet Hard Place, he’s heard all about ye.

‘How’s ye Da?’ Ken asks kindly.

‘He was knocking off MacIntyre’s girlfriend.’

‘No way!’ Brad responds, shocked. ‘The girl he murdered?’

I’m already shaking my head. ‘MacIntyre killed her!’ I say, animated, ‘He killed his girlfriend right in front of Dad like he killed Jude in front of me!’

‘Then MacIntyre fitted him up?’ Brad asks.

‘Aye! Only Dad went mental in the process and ended up at the hospital.’

Brad jerks his thumb in the direction of the police car that passed us. ‘De they think MacIntyre’s going to come after your Da?’

I shake my head. ‘It was coming to take me somewhere safe.’ I tell them both.

‘Don’t ye believe it, Son.’ Ken says with such conviction I know giving the cops the slip was the right thing to do.

‘Paul says MacIntyre’s going to come after me.’ I tell them.

‘Defo,’ agrees Brad, ‘he’s gonnae want tae knock seven shades oot o’ ye.’

I can see by the set of Ken’s jaw he doesn’t agree. ‘Ken?’ I prompt.

We’ve been heading in the direction of the city centre; I’m not sure where best to go when we get there, returning to the hideout may be too risky now. In transit I feel safe; at least while I’m on the move MacIntyre can’t reach me. We’ve been travelling at a steady speed for the last ten minutes, but the needle on the Skoda’s speedometer is starting to creep up.

‘Ken,’ I repeat, ‘dinnae get us pulled for speeding, pal,’ I laugh weakly, ‘not today of all days.’ Ken doesn’t reply but he doesn’t adjust his speed either.

‘When did ye last speak tae Candy?’ He asks this so casually the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise.

‘Fuck off, Ken,’ I snipe, ‘what ye getting at?’ He doesn’t take his eyes from the road ahead yet I know it’s not the vehicles in front that have his attention.

‘I reckon if MacIntyre really wanted to teach ye a lesson he wouldnae come after you, Son,’ he says seriously, ‘he’d go after someone ye really care about.’

And I’d gone and told him me and Candy were an item.

I’ve already pulled out my phone and my fingers fly across the screen to speed dial her number. I turn to Ken panic stricken: ‘Can ye take me-?’

‘We’re nearly there.’ he says and I realise we’re on the approach road to Candy’s home.

My hand shakes as I hold the phone to my ear. ‘C’mon, pick up,’ I say impatiently. My heart feels like it’s in freefall; I try not to think of the things MacIntyre would do to Candy if he had the chance. Ken throws concerned looks in Brad’s direction when he thinks I’m not looking. Brad places a hand on my shoulder, ‘She’ll be fine-’

‘Don’t say that!’ I warn him, twisting out of his reach. My voice comes out rasping, as though something’s squeezing my windpipe. I turn round to glare at him.

‘Ye canny say that!’ I say simply, quieter now.

Candy’s phone rings out.

35

‘Why’s she not picking up?’

Ken’s obviously learned from Brad’s mistake as he doesn’t try to bullshit me:

‘I don’t know.’ He says solemnly.

Candy’s tenement comes into view. ‘C’mon!’ I yell, as Ken swerves the Skoda to a stop outside the building’s main door. Residents’ cars fill all the proper parking spaces forcing Ken to double park but right now I couldn’t give a toss. I thrust my phone at Brad, ‘Ring Paul,’ I say urgently, ‘tell him what’s goin’ on! Keep phoning Candy till she answers.’

Brad shoves the phone toward Ken, ‘You do it!’ he barks, then glares at me as though daring me to argue, ‘Ye need me tae cover ye back!’

Like a lot of Edinburgh tenements the main door isn’t closed properly so we slip inside the building. The interior is smart: brightly painted walls with polished floor tiles. A wooden sideboard stands against one wall with a pile of mail on top of it. I look at the numbers on the doors either side of the stair. ‘Shit!’ I say louder than I intended. Brad looks at me questioningly, ‘I don’t know which flat she stays in.’

‘Here!’ he says, snatching up the jumbled post from the wooden dresser then handing it to me. ‘What’s her surname?’ Thank Christ one of us is thinking straight.

‘Staton!’ I tell him as I shuffle through the envelopes until I find one addressed to W. Staton which I guess is her dad.

‘Flat 6B, 3rd Floor.’ I read aloud before tossing the envelopes into the corner and heading for the stairs.

‘What ye gonnae do if MacIntyre’s there?’ Brad asks, keeping level with me on the wide stone steps.

‘I don’t know!’ I snap.

I can’t think of anything beyond seeing Candy again.

And keeping her alive.

By the time we reach the third floor I can hear raised voices – Candy’s and a voice I don’t recognise which I guess is her dad’s. I run at their front door but Brad grabs me before I reach it and rugby tackles me to the floor. I look at him in alarm as he clamps his hand over my mouth. I search his eyes for clues in case I’ve misjudged him.

‘Keep quiet!’ He hisses. I glare at him to show I’ll not forgive this. ‘I’m trying tae help ye!’ he adds quickly. ‘If ye go barging in he’ll be ready for ye. Ye gonnae have tae take him by surprise.’

Candy and her father’s voices are getting louder; a neighbour opens her door a crack to see what the commotion is; she clocks Brad pinning me down and takes a step back.

‘Go back inside, Doll,’ he instructs her, ‘call the cops as quick as ye can.’ She doesn’t need telling twice.

Brad turns his attention back to me. ‘Before ye say anything, I needed to give the old dear something to do.’ he explains. I’m not in a position to argue, I can barely breathe.

‘Listen!’ he says sharply, ‘As long as ye can hear their voices ye know they’re OK. Don’t go rushing in for the sake of it. You’ve got to think through what you’re going to do next.’ His weight is crushing me. ‘Mmmm….mmmmnn.’ I mumble into his palm. He shifts to one side before removing his hand from my mouth.

‘Let me go ye moron!’ I gasp, pushing myself up into a sitting position – Brad hasn’t let go of me entirely, he’s still holding onto me by the scruff of my neck.

‘We don’t barge in, we break in,’ Brad says quietly. ‘We enter the flat then separate. When one of us finds MacIntyre we cause a distraction.’

‘Then what?’ I snap impatiently.

‘Then we jump him or call for help.’

He makes it sound easy. I could argue the toss but we don’t have time. ‘Fine!’ I say impatiently, ‘But how the hell do we break in - ye carry lock picking tools around with ye then?’ I ask spitefully.

‘Aye,’ Brad answers unfazed, pulling a metal hook and pick from an inside pocket in his jacket. He carefully places it into the door’s locking device moving it this way and that until we hear a ‘click’. He turns to me, grinning: ‘we’re good tae go,’ he whispers proudly.

He watches me get to my feet. ‘Ye sure about this, though, Davy?’

The sound that comes next tells me I don’t have any choice.

The sound of furniture and glass bouncing off the walls masks our entrance. I step inside the flat slowly so that I can work out which room the commotion is coming from. The hallway is small and square with four rooms leading from it. Two of the doors are wide open and we can see that they are bedrooms. We can also see that they are empty. Brad touches my arm and puts his finger to his lips. He moves towards the first bedroom and gestures for me to step into the other. We keep the bedroom doors ajar and peep out into the hallway through the gap. The flat has fallen silent; I feel my hackles rise at the sound of a whimper. Candy’s voice drifts across the hallway:

‘What’ve you done to him?’

‘He wouldnae do as he was told!’ MacIntyre’s voice is low and menacing.

‘He let you in!’ Candy reproaches him, ‘Even when I told him not to…’

‘Aye,’ MacIntyre acknowledges, ‘and why was that exactly?’

Please Candy, don’t tell him what ye know.

I try to think how long we’ve been here. Long enough for Paul to mobilise help? Or is he still pleading his case to some knob with more stripes than sense?

‘He needs help,’ Candy’s voice is shaky; she’s trying her best to hold it together but her dad must be in a bad way. ‘We need to call an ambulance for him. Please.’

‘I asked ye a question, ye stupid bitch, an’ I’m still waiting on the answer.’

There’s a low moan, and Candy cries out in relief. ‘Dad! Stay with us, it’ll be alright!’

‘Did ye no’ hear me?’

‘Let go of me!’ she shouts, ‘I want to stay with my Dad!’

‘An’ I want to know what that little fucker said tae ye!’

There’s an urgency that tells me they’ve reached the point of no return, that whatever happens from here on in will be down to me. MacIntyre won’t give in now, won’t ever stop until he’s hurt me where I’ll feel it most. He sensed it from that first day at Swanson’s factory when he caught me gawping at Candy, the hope I’d pinned on her. He’ll want to annihilate that, wipe out my chance of a life with her. I always knew he was a nasty piece of work, even now I can only guess the extent of it. I shudder.

There will be no coming quietly, no compromise.

It will be do or die.

I move out into the hallway, inching closer to the partly open door opposite. Ahead of me I see MacIntyre in profile, dragging Candy by the hair. Her hands are tied behind her back and as he pushes her backwards onto a wooden chair she cries out in pain. The furniture around them is upturned; a corner unit has been upended shattering vases and scattering photo frames across the wooden floor. A man’s body can be seen beneath a large double window. His hands are also tied but more worrying is the bloody gash across his forehead. I stare at his chest long enough to see it rise and fall. He’s alive.

Brad moves to my side.

‘Easy, Davy.’ He warns, yet it’s not his concern that keeps me rooted to the spot.

MacIntyre is holding a gun.

I look back at Brad to see if he’s seen what I’ve seen; he stares back at me wide-eyed. I know what he’s thinking as I’m thinking it too: Aw, fuck.

MacIntyre points the gun at Candy. ‘Ye need tae keep still,’ he says quietly, ‘and ye need tae tell me what that scrote ye’ve been going round with has told ye.’

‘What’s the point?’ Candy cries defiantly, ‘You’re gonna kill me anyway!’

Candy no, ye need to keep him happy.

I’m not afraid of death. I know that now. I just don’t want it to be in vain. No point getting my head blown off if he kills Candy anyway. The chicken shit part of me is rearing its head again and I hate myself a little bit more.

My heart is pounding so much it feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest. Directly in front of me Candy is tied to a chair, mouth open, forming the start of a scream. Through the window behind her I see movement on the rooftop opposite. A group of men dressed like Ninjas are getting into position. Paul’s come up trumps then, but MacIntyre will know that. He’ll know his window of opportunity is narrow, that if he doesn’t act soon the moment will pass. Marksmen, once in place, will wait for their signal. I should hold back, leave them to do their job. If I rush into the room I’ll be putting Candy in danger.

The last time I held back had cost Jude her life. All that had separated her from death or a happy ending had been the fraction of a second, a bigger set of balls.

There’s a moment of silence, as though the world is holding its breath.

Then someone’s mobile starts to ring.

I turn to Brad in alarm but he’s shaking his head wildly. Back in the room MacIntyre grabs at a phone on the windowsill.

It’s the phone I’d given to Candy.

‘Someone’s keen tae get hold o’ ye!’ he tells her mockingly and I know it will be my name that comes up on it. My heart leaps into my mouth. I’m the only one that calls her on that phone and I was stupid enough to save my name as a contact.

MacIntyre’s eyes light up when he sees the screen. ‘Your man wants tae speak to ye.’ He says sarcastically as he moves towards her, ‘I reckon ye should take it.’

He thinks I’m ringing to warn her. I stare at his outstretched arm.

I realise now how this nightmare will end.

He’ll kill her the moment she answers.

Brad had said to find a distraction; I glance at him to say This is it.

Ahead of me Candy is shaking her head as though she can see through MacIntyre’s plan.

‘Kill me if you have to!’ she sobs, ‘but don’t make him hear it…’

MacIntyre presses the phone’s loud speaker button. It continues to ring out, Ken doing exactly as he’d been instructed. With one hand MacIntyre places the phone in front of Candy. With the other he points the gun at her temple. I look from the window back to where he’s crouching; the crafty bastard has positioned himself behind her.

Candy is in the direct line of fire.

I push the door open and step into MacIntyre’s line of vision. A momentary look of surprise flashes across his face.

‘Even better.’ He says darkly, discarding the phone.

In the time that it takes for me to calculate the distance between the doorway and Candy, MacIntyre stares straight at me, pausing just for a second to compute whether to kill me first, then go for her, realising by then he’ll be dead. By the time he turns his attention back to Candy I’ve moved towards him, arms outstretched in the sign of the cross.

‘I learnt to tell the time from Sonia!’ I goad him. ‘My dad would fuck her for twenty two minutes before she called out his name. Ye could set your watch by it!’

MacIntyre is up on his feet. His hand shakes as he points the gun straight at me.

‘Ye wee bastard.’ He spits.

Then he fires.

It’s like being in some electrical thunderstorm. The room explodes into gunfire as shots rain in from the building opposite, shattering the windows and hitting MacIntyre in the head and chest. His body jerks as each bullet rips through him as though he’s suffering from some kind of seizure before falling to the ground. Brad runs into the room as the gunfire starts, knocking Candy to the floor and shielding her with his body. Armed officers move in quickly, securing the scene. ‘Stay where you are!’ One of them yells as I rush towards Candy but I’m having none of it. She’s crying silently into Brad’s shoulder and I try to console her.

‘Your dad’ll be fine,’ I reassure her, watching as an officer assesses the old man’s injuries before talking into his radio.

I put my hand on Brad’s shoulder. ‘Ye can move now,’ I tell him, but he doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even answer me. ‘Davy!’ Candy cries urgently, ‘I can feel something warm.’

That’s when I see the blood pooling around them.

I get to my feet and start shouting:

‘We need help here! Please!’

I don’t stop shouting until someone wraps a blanket around me and leads me away.

Three days later

I never thought our first date would be attending a funeral. Candy arrives early to help make tea for the dozen or so prozzies that have descended on our home to pay their respects. The funeral cortege is leaving from our house as Mum was insistent on doing the right thing by Jude and the twins. It isn’t going to be a religious ceremony, God wasn’t there when they were taken, it’s a bit late to get in on the act now. Instead there’ll be readings by close friends and family at the crematorium chapel, followed by an all-nighter back here for those with a stomach lining for it.

It’s not unusual for the police to attend the funerals of murder victims. However, given the circumstances surrounding these killings it was agreed their presence would not be required. Devlin stands guard on the front door making sure it stays that way. He’s on loan from Marcus who has taken an extended holiday to the Caribbean with his family, though not before wiping out my debt with Mickey Plastic as a reward for dealing with MacIntyre.

Mum’s going about the room topping up everyone’s cups from a crate of Macallan that Gus sent over this morning. He’s paying for the funeral too. I guess over the years he’s put a lot of business the local funeral director’s way but it’s the thought that counts. Mum catches my eye, waving the bottle in my direction.

‘Go on then,’ I smile, holding my mug out to her.

I’m already steaming.

Mum’s wearing her good coat, her head and shoulders draped in a lace mantilla. I’m wearing the suit Marcus bought for me; Candy nods her approval, whispering she thinks I look hot.

‘Like a professional footballer.’ She grins. I think she’s being kind; with my misshapen nose and broken teeth I resemble a boxer after an ill-advised come-back fight. Candy’s been the only person I’ve spoken to over the last couple of days. I’ve been in shock over Brad, couldn’t bring myself to talk about it with anyone that wasn’t there. She’s been great.

I move into the kitchen. Tam is making up sandwiches and arranging them on large plates before covering them in cling film. He looks up at me and winks. ‘Ye’ve done well fae yersel’ there.’ He grins, nodding in Candy’s direction. I move over to where she’s standing by the kettle and nudge her playfully. ‘Did ye no’ hear what he just said tae ye? I’m quite a catch by all accounts.’

‘Right enough, Davy,’ she jokes, handing me a tray with several mugs on it to hand to those just arriving.

I look at my watch. ‘Ye seen Ken?’ I ask her.

‘Aye, he’s out the back,’ she nods, pointing in the direction of our postage stamp garden, ‘A wreath came from someone high up on the Police at Fettes, he’s chuckin’ it in the bin.’

We nod in agreement, smiling at each other shyly. ‘Better hand these out then get going,’ I say, carrying the tray out into the hall, ‘Mum’s so heavy handed folk’ll be pished by the time they leave in the cars.’

Candy catches my eye. ‘Like it matters, though, eh?’

More prozzies turn up, straight from shift by the look of it: they huddle in groups sipping Macallan coffees gratefully. Paul’s the last to arrive.

‘You’re cutting it fine.’ I say good-naturedly.

‘They’d want me in uniform if they knew I was coming,’ he explains, pointing to the civilian suit he’s wearing, ‘I’ve taken today as annual leave.’

‘Nice one.’ I hand him a coffee mug; Mum is already beating a path towards him.

Paul smiles but it resembles a grimace.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m moving on.’ He says bluntly. He registers my disappointment then tries to soften his words. ‘I’m sorry, mate.’ he adds, ‘I’ve been dreading telling ye, but I can’t stay here.’

‘But MacIntyre’s dead.’

‘Aye, but I ratted him out.’

‘Ye saved lives that day.’ I remind him. Impatient with red tape Paul had broken in to MacIntyre’s locker. Inside he found an empty evidence bag that had once contained the gun MacIntyre claimed he’d lifted from our home. With the bent cop and the gun both missing the superintendent heading the investigation mobilised two armed police units, sending them to Candy’s place once the call came in from Ken.

‘I got backs up.’ Paul says honestly. ‘Someone’ll want to put that right, send me out on a shout that’s dodgy, turn a blind eye if I’m outnumbered.’

‘So where are ye going, then?’

‘Better ye don’t know,’ is all he’ll say.

We step into the yard for privacy.

‘My lawyer rang,’ I tell him, ‘confirms the search of MacIntyre’s digs turned up items belonging to Jude that he’d taken after the murders.’

Paul nods. ‘They found the missing CCTV tapes from Malkie’s hostel at his place, too.’

I shove my hands deep into my pockets and kick at the gravel beneath my feet. ‘He robbed my dad of everything.’ I murmur, trying to block out those lost years where I thought my old man was dead or wished him so. Would my life have been different with him in it?

He was leaving us anyway, I remind myself.

‘He traded his freedom for my safety,’ I say to Paul, ‘I guess that means he thought I was a good enough son after all.’

‘At least you’ll get to find that out,’ Paul reasons, ‘when’s he coming home?’

I shake my head. ‘His doc wants him to have a phased release, a couple of days at a time, see how he copes. Reckons she had no say over how I came back into his life, so she’s digging her heels in over this.’

‘She’s mebbe right.’

‘Mebbe.’

My lawyer emailed over a copy of the statement he’ll be making later today. I’ve been advised to keep quiet for now, save it all for the civil action against the police, though I can assure you there’ll be nothing civil about it.

Paul clears his throat. I step away from him, moving further down the yard to where the paving stones are uneven, weeds pushing through the cracks like they’ll be rewarded for the effort. I stare at a Dandelion head like it’s a precious work of art. The question is coming, I can feel it, but I will not make it easy for him.

‘When did you last see Brad?’

‘This morning,’ I say gruffly. ‘They’re moving him to the specialist unit today,’ I add, ‘Ken’s driving me down tomorrow.’

‘How’s he doing?’

And there it is. What’s the prognosis for someone with a bullet in his spine? I know the consultant’s glib phrases off by heart:

His injuries are significant but its early days…

The bullet position is precarious but at least it’s not moving …

Your friend’s been very lucky, could have been a whole lot worse…

Yeah, right.

‘Same.’ Is all I can manage.

Candy steps out into the yard and moves to my side. ‘Cars are here,’ she says gently, slipping her hand through mine. ‘Are you ready?’

I squeeze her hand as I smile back at her.

‘Bring it on.’ I say.

Acknowledgements

Can a story exist without someone to read it?

I hope you enjoyed this book, I hope more than anything it challenged your perceptions. You’ve been kind enough to purchase it, can you do me one last favour? I would greatly appreciate it if you could post an honest review of it on Amazon.

With my sincerest thanks

Emma

AVAILABLE NOW FROM AMAZON:

FRAGILE CORD

Emma Salisbury

Prologue

Tracey Kavanagh stroked her swollen belly absentmindedly as she reached for the drawing Kyle proudly held up for her inspection. It was three thirty on an uncomfortably hot day and the infant inside her shifted lethargically; the playground was full of red-faced mothers with excitable offspring and the sound of happy chatter reverberated around the red brick walls.

She swallowed hard as she studied Kyle’s picture, her hands began to shake uncontrollably as an uneasy, anxious feeling worked its way through her chest. She could hear her heart pounding, the thump, thump thump increasing its crescendo until it drowned out the babble from the children around her and startled her unborn child.

Her troubled gaze slid to the beaming face of her ruddy-cheeked son and in that moment she knew she must kill him.

About the Author

Born in Salford Emma moved to the Peak District as a child, commuting into Manchester’s financial district as a consultant for HSBC. Spells in Brummie beckoned (Selly Oak then Solihull) after winning a bank scholarship to Birmingham University before working out of bank branches in Castle Bromwich, Coleshill and Shirley.

Emma loved English Literature at school but studied Business and Finance in order to secure a ‘proper’ job. Other jobs have included selling ladies knickers at Grey Mare Lane Market and packing boiler suits in a clothing factory. “I did try for waitressing work at one point,” Emma says, “but restaurants seemed to think I wasn’t capable of carrying plates from one room to another.”

After moving to Scotland Emma worked in the public sector supporting socially excluded young men into employment before setting up her own training company.

Married with two sons Emma writes from her home in East Lothian, which they share with their rescue dog, Star.

Find out more about the author and her other books at: https://www.emmasalisbury.com