Cry Uncle Page 6

  Not like in the movies, then.

  Findo said, ‘Fuck this,’ and chucked the bat like it was a spear. It hit the poor bastard square in the forehead, and he dropped the weapon. The gun went off, the explosion echoing round the small room. The sound had a physical presence. My ears popped with the noise, and I hunched in on myself. When the noise cleared, became little more than a background hum, I checked myself just in case. No sign the bullet had hit me. I’d seen men shot before. I’d shot a man before. Didn’t fancy the idea of a bullet ripping through my flesh.

  I looked at the guy with the bad haircut. He was on the ground. Hand at his side, jaw dropped, catching flies. He coughed twice. Said, ‘… the fuck?’ and lifted the hand he had pressed against his side. Stained dark red with blood. He started to breathe fast, then flopped back. Passing out. Shock and blood loss.

  Maybe he’d live. Hard to tell. But with prompt medical attention, I figured there was a good chance.

  Findo was bending down. Came back up with the gun. No hesitation the way he held it. No doubt. The wee prick with the hat had been frightened of the gun. Probably never actually fired the thing before, just showed off to his mates, waved it around in folks’ faces and expected them to fear him.

  Gun runs on the force had always been bad news. Like a nuclear bomb had been found in the city. The kind of call that made adrenaline spike. They were unexpected. Unknown. Dozens of officers at a gun scene. Specially trained firearms officers flanking normal uniforms, everyone keeping their distance, everyone terrified.

  I’d been at the centre of a gun raid once, as a civilian. The officers who stormed the room had been wide-eyed with restrained fear. This was Scotland, not South Central LA. We have firearm issues, but rarely do they cause a real problem.

  Findo said, ‘D’you feel lucky, punk?’ He hoisted the gun, pointed it at the guy with the cap.

  ‘Come on, man,’ I said. ‘This isn’t …’

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ He turned his attention back to the punk with the hat. ‘Well? Do ya?’ Clint Eastwood with a Charleston twang.

  The kid backed off. ‘Come on, man. This isn’t …’

  ‘You know the kind of cunt you work for?’

  ‘I don’t know, man. Just come here, do the work … like, better than on the dole, know what I’m—’

  ‘Do you know the kind of man you work for?’

  ‘I—’

  Findo pulled the trigger. The kid’s head jerked back. His body twisted. Blood arced.

  I watched. Like it was a movie. A computer game. A TV show. Something separated from the world that I knew and accepted as real.

  I didn’t feel anything. Not at first.

  Not for a few moments that were more like hours.

  Findo turned away. Dropped the gun on to the hard wooden floor. And smiled.

  I ran for him, head down. Roared so loud my throat scraped like a cheese-grater.

  THIRTEEN

  Findo’s breath slammed out of his body, right as my shoulder slammed into his midriff. I wrapped my arm round his waist, the momentum carrying us both back and over the table. The bags broke along with the table and we crashed on to the ground. Powder exploded. Wood cracked and splintered.

  I rolled off Findo. Tried not to breathe in the powder that had exploded into the air. My body ached. My muscles stretched to snapping point. Bruises threatened to form across my abdomen and upper body following the impact. I waited a few moments and then used the wall to clamber back on to my feet. My movements were stiff and slow. I looked down, saw I had wound up next to the prick with the cap, the one who now had a hole in his face. I swallowed. Tasted copper and vomit.

  Findo got to his feet. Slowly. Maybe feeling the same pain I was. But he was confused. His face twisted with a lack of comprehension. ‘The fuck, man?’

  ‘There was no need for that. Jesus, you didn’t have to kill anyone!’

  ‘Fucksakes, you really are a Bubbly Bairn, aren’t you? I’ve been telling the old man you don’t have the stomach for this. Every time, he says you’re an asset. Aye, well, he’ll soon know, eh?’

  ‘We were here to fuck the operation. Not kill anyone.’

  ‘Is that your line, then? Fucking think about it, pal. We sell drugs. Those drugs kill people. One way or another. What I did was fucking humane!’

  ‘That’s not what I’m talking about.’

  ‘You sure?’

  I ran at him again. He was ready this time. Sidestepped and locked me into a headlock. His thick forearms threatened to cut off my oxygen supply. My head swam in bubbles. He walked me round fast, got my feet off the floor and threw me on top of the corpse with the hole in his face.

  I got back up, fighting the urge to vomit. My legs felt light and useless beneath the leaden weight of my upper body. But I remained standing. I wiped the back of my hand across my face, certain I could feel blood there.

  ‘You done?’

  I wasn’t done, but there was no point running at him again. I held up my hands. Findo laughed, stepped towards me. ‘You’ll learn, pal.’ Like all was said and done. Forgive and forget. Like I was the kid here, the one with a lot to learn.

  I took a deep breath. My legs felt more solid. My head clearer. I could think straight. I could step back, look at the situation and see what needed to be done.

  When Findo was close enough, I grabbed his shoulders, hoisted my right knee into his balls. Hard. He let loose a loud breath and collapsed. I grabbed the back of his head, slammed his face against the side of the table. He didn’t resist.

  He collapsed.

  I watched him for a moment. No movement other than his chest rising and falling. He was still alive, at least. Although in that moment, I could happily have killed him.

  I staggered back, pulled my phone out my pocket. Swapped sims with the one hidden behind my driver’s licence. Called Griggs. Figuring he might have a few ideas.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘So what happened?’

  No sign of the old man. No, this was the kind of shite he stayed well away from. Instead I was dealing with Malone, the buffer between the old man and his less than legitimate businesses. Bald head, white goatee, tattoos on his arms he liked to show off with short sleeved T-shirts. Used to work as a bouncer at some of the rougher clubs during the eighties. Still looked like he could hold his own if he had to. Short, but tough. Not exactly a wee man complex, but more like he had compacted the muscles of a man twice his size. Had this thing about baring his teeth when he got impatient. Used to be that was the warning to anyone stepping out of line. So far, he’d resisted with me.

  But only because he’d likely been told to go easy.

  ‘What happened was we got caught up in a raid.’

  ‘A raid?’

  ‘Seriously. Findo, he didn’t … I mean, he didn’t fucking think. You know how he is. He was in the zone. Neither of us thought. But he was right in there, and then the cops and then …’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then I got the fuck out of there.’ Like he had to ask.

  We were in the backroom of a barbers near Dens Park. The owner had watched us walk through the front shop with his eyes narrowed. He didn’t like us being here. But then he probably had no choice. Like so many people, through accident or design, he was clearly in debt to the old man. A gambler or a John, maybe. Didn’t look like he had issues with drugs, anyway. The eyes were too clear. Just a normal man who made some stupid mistake.

  But then isn’t that the way with most folk who get dragged into the wrong side of the law? It’s never so much a conscious decision as it is a perfect storm of circumstance: interior and exterior influences in perfect alignment.

  Malone nodded. ‘You used to be polis.’

  ‘Aye, I did.’ I was seated on a swivel chair. Even walking from the car across the road had been an effort. The fabric of my shirt had brushed against the bruises, lighting them up, reminding me of the punishment I was putting myself through.

  ‘No favours?�
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  ‘Ask the old man if you like. I’ve been a pariah for a long time when it comes to Tayside’s finest.’

  ‘Stand up.’ No emotion there. No hint he gave a toss about my explanations.

  I did as he asked.

  ‘Take off your shirt.’

  ‘Not without dinner and flowers.’ Didn’t get a smile, so I pushed it. ‘Even a movie would do.’

  ‘Take it off.’ Sounding bored. Humour not his thing.

  I undid my shirt, took it off. Slipped off my T-shirt, too. Gave him a pirouette that wouldn’t trouble Wayne Sleep. ‘Happy?’

  Malone nodded his head down the way.

  ‘Fucksakes.’

  ‘You going to make this hard?’

  ‘For you or me?’

  Malone smiled. ‘Guess.’

  I undid my belt. Dropped the jeans. Held my hands high. ‘Happy.’

  ‘Can’t be too careful.’

  ‘No. You can’t.’

  No wires. No recording devices of any kind. That was the rule. Me and Griggs had gone back and forth on the idea, but even though I’d worked my way in close to Burns, the fact remained that the old man was a paranoid of the highest order. He regularly checked his closest friends for wire taps, hired cleaners for his home who were also trained in the art of surveillance detection. He wasn’t just scared of the police. He was a target for far worse than men in uniform.

  Malone seemed happy. Gave me a wink and then pulled out his mobile. Dialled in a number. Waited. ‘He’s here. He’s clean.’ Then, to me: ‘Sit.’

  I grabbed the swivel chair next to the desk.

  Malone stood by the door. Like one of the Queen’s Guard, I suspected he wouldn’t have moved for anything.

  I was struck by the scene. The man waiting in the room. The strong, silent type by the door. Put Malone in uniform, I could have been a suspect waiting for the lead detective to arrive.

  You always keep suspects under observation. You never know what they might try. I’d seen cases of suspects trying to strangle themselves with handcuffs, battering their heads off desks and walls, all in an attempt to avoid the inevitable. The confession. By the time they were in the room, they knew it was coming

  Burns arrived about ten minutes later. During this whole time, neither Malone nor I said a word to each other. We understood the situation. Knew the roles we had to play.

  When Burns entered, I stood up.

  The old man said, ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘Findo won’t talk.’ But I couldn’t be sure that’s what he meant.

  ‘No, he won’t. And you?’

  ‘I’m here because I had the good sense to get out.’

  ‘Aye, Findo always was impulsive.’ Already speaking about him in the past tense. ‘The idea of getting you two together was that you might have curbed his excesses.’

  And, I supposed, he might have helped me find mine.

  ‘But instead, McNee, you go and make him worse. What is it between the two of you? Always had you down as a people person.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He never trusted you.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Maybe he saw you as a threat.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘The new golden boy.’

  ‘Basic Freud.’

  ‘Without the bit about shagging your mother.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That was a joke.’

  I gave him a laugh. A dutiful one. He shook his head. My laugh wasn’t enough. ‘Sit, McNee. Sit down.’ He rarely called me by name. Usually ‘son’ or ‘lad’. Made me worried. Meant the situation was serious.

  I did as he asked. No fooling around. His expression was taut. His eyes impossible to read. Was he angry at me? Or someone else?

  Did it matter?

  ‘I’ve already sent a solicitor down to the station. Fat Boy McArdle.’

  Euan McArdle. Bane of every arresting officer’s life. The kind of solicitor you turned to when you wanted sleazy, sweaty, crumpled amorality. He was going to end his days either rich, arrested or at the bottom of a ditch. Even money whatever way you looked at it.

  ‘He talked to Findo yet?’

  ‘They’re playing with him just now. Delaying the inevitable. You know what they’re like. Especially if they think they can get anything on the likes of me. But McCardle will get in the room with our boy.’

  I nodded. Wondered if Burns could see the sweat on my forehead. An ocean of cold shivered through the pores in my skin, drenching me, dripping in my eyes.

  But if the old man saw anything, he didn’t react.

  Which somehow made things worse.

  ‘Think he’s going to say something different to your story?’

  How do you answer that?

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘Oh, He does, lad. He knows everything.’

  FIFTEEN

  Back at the flat. In the shower. Heat turned all the way up. Skin lobster red. The pain enough to keep me awake. Eyes closed. Colours dancing in the dark. The sluice slapping against my skin.

  I was alive.

  I could feel it. In the water. In the heat.

  I was alive.

  For now.

  When I was finally done, I towelled vigorously. Skin softened, threatening to rip off beneath the thick material of the towel. It felt good. I felt good.

  I was alive.

  The idea percolated in my brain. An important thought. Something to be remembered.

  The buzzer intruded. Insistent.

  Kellen?

  Not Findo.

  The old man, then? Malone? Someone with a gun or a knife?

  Schrodinger’s hard man? You’d never know until you answered the call.

  I answered, wrapped in the towel, still dripping water. If death was waiting, I wasn’t meeting him with dignity.

  ‘It’s me.’

  I buzzed her in.

  Susan.

  Memories.

  Mistakes. Skin against skin. Whispered words. Broken promises. Secrets that tie people together as much as they tear them apart.

  Susan and I had a complicated history.

  We almost worked it out. A few years back, just before her father died, we almost got it right. But we had always been hanging by a thread, and the revelations in the wake of Ernie Bright’s murder marked the beginning of the end for us.

  She walked out. Went travelling. To ‘find herself’.

  No dramatics. No lingering resentments. No long building and simmering hatred. But things just went wrong. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong people.

  I took it personally. Pretended I didn’t.

  And now she was back in my life. Sandy Griggs’s lover. And his partner in the SCDEA. Both of them keeping it covert, knowing the kind of shitstorm that would come down on their heads if anyone found out.

  Mind you, I had a feeling there was a lot that a man like Griggs kept hidden from his superiors.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  Susan walked through to the living room, sat down on the sofa and looked at me with eyes that hid their intentions. Her dark hair was cropped short, and she was dressed down in jeans and a heavy jumper. She looked tired. You could see it there, in and around her eyes. Bloodshot pupils. Dark patches that makeup couldn’t quite disguise. Lack of sleep. You had to wonder why. Or maybe not.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘So why?’

  ‘Tell me why you did that with Gaske? You put everything we’ve worked for in jeopardy.’

  ‘He killed two men.’

  ‘There are bigger—’

  ‘Jesus!’

  Silence between us. The Susan I knew would never have mentioned ‘the bigger picture’. She’d have winced at the very idea. Had what happened to her been so bad that it destroyed her sense of right and wrong?

  I remembered the death of the man who was responsible for her father’s murder.

  No one was ever sure who it was that burned down the storage container where he
’d been tied up.

  But I always had my suspicions.

  We all do crazy things in grief. I should know.

  I always wonder what would happen if I met the man who ran me off the road. So many years past. The car crash, and the death of my fiancée a memory, now. Sometimes it felt as though it had happened to someone else. Although I still retained the yearly ritual of visiting where she had died. As though I was afraid that to stop would mean losing her entirely. All the same, while the memory of the accident informed who I was, it no longer defined me in the way it once had.

  All the same, I had to wonder.

  What would I do if I met him? If I knew his name? His address?

  Could I control myself?

  Could I maintain the detachment I’d forced myself to build up over the years? Or would I discover the foundations were rotten? Useless, even before they were laid?

  ‘There is a bigger picture, McNee.’ Her voice was calm and steady. But just underneath that you could sense the hurt scratching away at the confidence, scrabbling to be heard. ‘You know it. I know it. We wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

  ‘He killed two men.’

  ‘He would have paid for it.’

  ‘And so would I.’

  ‘You’ve been paying for your imagined sins your whole life, McNee. I thought your dad was only a lapsed Catholic. Didn’t figure he’d brought you up with the finer art of guilt.’

  I went to the window, looked out at the street. The sky was getting dark. The threat of rain was in the air. An oncoming storm.

  She said, ‘We have to make sacrifices.’

  ‘That you speaking? Or Griggs?’

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘Is he? Aye, well, he used to be. I know that much.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I’m not so sure. Being righteous is not the same as being right.’

  I took the armchair. We looked at each other across the living room. Between us, you could have crossed time zones.

  ‘He blackmailed me into this,’ I said. ‘Whatever way you look at it.’

  ‘You’re a stubborn man. Sometimes you need a little persuading.’ A smile threatening at the edges of her lips. Something of the Susan I remembered. The woman I could have fallen in love with if I wasn’t careful.