And When I Die Read online

  ‘John,’ he says, gives me a wink.

  I feel like he can see me for what I really am.

  And who is that? The cover? The man in the mirror? Or someone else?

  Hold it together, man.

  ‘Pete,’ I say, keeping it cool, shrugging the paranoia. ‘Where’s Wayne?’

  ‘Probably eyeing up some local talent,’ Pete says, and laughs. ‘Such as you fucking get here.’

  They make an unlikely couple, Pete and Wayne, and you’d expect them to be ostracised for their private lives, but they’re two of Scobie Sr’s best enforcers. They act easy going and matey, but give them a chance and they’ll happily break your legs. They’re not subtle. They get the job done. But you’d still rather have them show up at your door than Ray.

  Maybe that’s why so many people are looking relaxed this evening. His death demands mourning, but I figure a lot of people are relieved. A lot of people know they’re going to wake up alive tomorrow morning.

  Inside the pub, the chatter of the assembled hits me, staggers me back on my heels. I take a deep breath. Like a drowning man gasping before his head goes under for the last time.

  I’m trapped.

  I fight to the bar, order a Guinness. Drink of choice for the evening, by the looks of it. Sure, blending in. It’s what I do.

  A hand claps my shoulder. The fingers sausage-slimy. A weight behind them, so it’s hard to tell if the contact’s a greeting or just Fat Dunc’s way of trying to stay upright.

  ‘Hoping I’d catch you before I leave.’

  ‘Not staying to the bitter end?’

  Fat Dunc’s drunk. Bloodshot eyes. Skin an unhealthy shade of grey. Makes me want to ask around, check if anyone has a set of defibrillators.

  He says, ‘It’s been a bugger of a week.’

  I nod.

  ‘Still can’t believe it,’ he says. ‘What we did.’

  Is anyone listening to this? Dunc’s not just drunk, he’s plastered. Well and truly. That shoulder plant really was about staying upright.

  Loose lips sink ships? We’re already on board the bloody Titanic.

  ‘Dunc, remember where you are.’ Meaning, there are civilians here.

  He looks up, as though seeing the inside of the Crow for the first time. ‘Sod it,’ he says. ‘Soon enough it’s not going to matter. Right? I wanted out. I got out. Except you never really get out. The things I’ve done…’

  I used to work under a shift sergeant who talked in clichés the whole time. The uniforms would take bets on how many he’d spout during the morning meeting. His favourite was the old, if life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.

  Fat Dunc was one sodding big bag of lemons. But on the plus side, he could probably make a shitload of lemonade. After all, he knew all the dirty little secrets. Even if he was finding it harder and harder to live with them.

  He and Derek Scobie had their differences, down the years. Dunc had pulled back on his involvement in the business as the noughties progressed, although he still acted as advisor and confidant. His days as muscle were long gone, but his name still carried some weight. And his opinions continued to hold some sway with Derek.

  If I could turn him, maybe there was a way to save my own skin. Make up for all my stupid mistakes.

  I say, ‘That’s dangerous talk.’ Confidential. I’m his friend. Looking out for his best interests.

  Dunc leans in close. Booze breath strong enough to melt my nostrils. He started long before the wake. Was probably already pissed at the church. ‘I’ll show you dangerous, son, if you keep pushing. Think you’re a big-time gangster now? You’re a joke. A pathetic indulgence of the old man’s. Get the fuck out before this mess gets you killed. You’ve had your fun. But you’re just a wee boy playing games he doesn’t understand. A fucking tourist in our world. Everyone knows it.’

  ‘I’m not playing,’ I say, aware instantly that I sound as sulky as the wee boy he was just describing. My heart thump-thumps. Has he figured me out? Has his drunken state allowed him to see more clearly than anyone else here?

  He snorts, pulls back. Whirls on his feet, avoids toppling like a rotted oak, and makes his not-so-merry way through the assembled.

  I watch him go, think about what he said. Is he just pissed? Do I have a chance of getting to him? He used to be Scobie Sr’s most trusted adviser, before Neil slithered his way into the heart of the operation. Maybe I can convince him that turning grass is in everyone’s best interests; a way to save the old man from his worst instincts.

  Or maybe Dunc’s just pissed and talking out of turn, while I’m looking for any solution I can to my own problems.

  What happens when Ray’s body is found? When everyone figures the deception I played?

  It’s going to happen eventually. The young doctor can’t go on thinking that he’s assisting a police investigation. He’s naïve, but surely not stupid. And the fake paper trail? An idiot could see through it if they bothered to look.

  I was just buying time to sort out my own mistakes.

  Sure, I’m running away from them all. But not before I make one final gesture to show how truly sorry I am for everything, how I’m still dedicated to the cause.

  Tonight, I turn over one viable witness to Crawford and Burke. I give them the key to taking down the Scobie family.

  And then I scarper.

  I’m about to order when I hear another voice nearby. I look up. See her ordering a white wine. She hasn’t clocked me yet. Of course she hasn’t. She’ll be praying I’m not here. She’ll be thinking maybe I did the decent thing and stayed away.

  Decent?

  One thing I know: my cover’s far from decent.

  So I say, ‘How’re you holding up?’ Not a tremor in my voice. The cover so practiced and natural that the observer at the back of my mind can’t help but chuckle.

  She turns and stares at me. I can see it in her eyes, the hatred and the betrayal. The disbelief, too. She can’t believe I’d have the balls to just ask her how she’s doing, like nothing happened between us, like she never told me where to go stick all that cash I was making doing odd jobs for her uncle.

  She shakes her head, and I’m not sure what the gesture means. She finally just sighs and says, ‘It’s a funeral.’ Pure statement. I nod.

  ‘I had to drive Neil over.’ She knows she has to say something.

  ‘Talk about making a bad day worse.’

  It gets a laugh at least. Although she cuts off almost immediately.

  I swivel, catch the bartender, ask for, ‘Anything but a Chardonnay.’

  She says, ‘Don’t.’

  ‘It’s not a move.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘An apology. Too little, too late, I know.’

  I feel bad. She won’t believe that, but I do. The worst thing about this whole affair, this whole screw-up, has been having to hurt her. Early on, I would have said it was part of the gig. Now, feeling the way I do, it’s the only thing that still makes me feel anything. Even if that feeling is little more than shame.

  ‘I was just talking to Dunc,’ I say, by way of keeping the conversation going.

  ‘He’s pissed.’

  ‘As a fart.’

  I wonder what else he’s been saying. And who he’s been saying it to. My opportunity is close, I know.

  ‘Oh, he’ll be fine. Just dealing with it in his own way.’ But she doesn’t look as sure as she sounds, and I wonder if she has the same suspicions as me about the old bugger’s loyalty to his old friends. Whether he’s finally reached breaking point with the life.

  He wouldn’t be the first. Loyalty is tough to keep in the life.

  Kat says, ‘He told me to leave. Like, early. Think I might take his advice.’

  ‘He say why?’

  ‘He said the evening wouldn’t end well. I told him that wakes seldom do.’

  ‘Especially in this family?’

  Around us people talk and laugh and share stories that may or may not have anything to do
with the deceased. Kat says, ‘They chose this life, you know. All of them. They all know that they could die. Even Uncle Derek.’

  I laugh. No humour. ‘He’ll go on forever.’

  ‘They said that about the Queen Mother.’

  ‘Death wasn’t afraid of her.’

  ‘I just... I can’t believe Ray is...’ she doesn’t finish the sentence.

  I can’t look at her.

  She says, ‘I need to go’

  I’m still scanning the assembled, thinking about how many years combined this group would do if the police were to bust them all right now. My brain can’t focus on two things at once. Maybe she thinks I’m as uncomfortable with our reunion as she is. Maybe she doesn’t care.

  Wayne comes up beside me, tenner in hand, ready for another round. Smaller than Pete, he looks more comfortable in his dark brown suit. His standard issue funeral-black tie is loosened just enough to give the impression that he’s relaxing into the late afternoon. He sees me, says, ‘She still not wanting to talk to you?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘She’s a tough cookie. She’ll be okay. Give her time, all right?’

  I nod, thinking that it’s insane, me taking advice from a man who makes his money beating the shite out of drug addicts and wasters. Hardly the measure of what you’d call sympathy. And yet here he is, giving me advice on how to deal with Kat and her grief. And it’s making some sense.

  All I want is to come clean with Kat. Tell her everything. Ask for forgiveness. She’s Catholic, after all. Aren’t they taught about the power of forgiveness? Or is that all left up to God?

  I wonder where she is.

  I scan the crowd. Tell myself not to get impatient. She’ll be back if she’s ready. Jesus, the day’s been tough enough without me adding to it.

  Mean Jean’s talking to Anthony, and it’s strange to see the wee big man about town cowed by the sheer force of his auntie’s personality. She’s the kind of middle-aged woman who’ll give it to you with both barrels whether you deserve it or not. And it only gets worse when she’s had a few. Which she surely has. That poorly dyed hair of hers rises up like a reanimated corpse when she’s drunk, and right now it’s reaching for the stars and making me think of the bloodied hand that bursts out of the ground at the end of Carrie.

  I hunker down at the bar, nurse what’s left of my drink. Try not to make eye contact with anyone.

  And that’s when I hear the gunshots.

  That’s when the screaming starts.

  KAT

  I want to be at home.

  Curled on the sofa. Watching Downton. Or Midsomer Murders. Something so patently, ludicrously unreal that it means I don’t have to think about Ray. Or any of my family.

  The funeral was fine. Necessary. Something we all needed to go through. It’s the wake that’s going to destroy me: all the Scobies – and all those who want to be Scobies – gathered in the same place at the same time, drinks flowing freely with memories, anecdotes and stories.

  Oh, dear God. The stories. Always the same old anecdotes told in the same old way by the same old people before someone disagrees about an unimportant detail. And the first punch of the evening gets thrown.

  Which is why I need to get out of the bar. Why I’ve locked myself in this cubicle. I’d rather be anywhere than in the Crow. But the obligations are engraved too deep, so the best I can do is a momentary escape to the loo and a deep, cleansing series of breaths to clean out the inside of my head.

  All that, and John too.

  I couldn’t have lasted another minute. Had this tight feeling in my chest, and my head was too hot. My eyes were not quite watering, but they could have been persuaded.

  Delayed grief? Righteous anger? Outside the church I’d found myself confiding in Pete – big, camp teddy bear that he is – about how much Ray meant to me. He was more than my cousin. He was, in my head, an idea. A representation of…something I could never quite put into words.

  Safety, I suppose. I always felt safe around Ray. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen.

  Alone, in the cubicle, I get this odd gasping sensation. Can’t hold it in. Blink a few times and then let it out. Cry hard enough that my whole body trembles. I’m shaky and uncertain, my throat closing up, each breath coming in odd and uncertain little gasps.

  The feeling reminds me of being a child and finding world too big to cope with.

  I let it all out.

  And then I lean against the cubicle wall, close my eyes, breath in and out. Slow and steady. I’m heavy, head wobbling about, threatening to roll right off my neck if I’m not careful. But I’m fine. A glitch, that’s all. I’m entitled. My cousin’s dead.

  Murdered.

  Family members had died before. Stabbings, shootings, plain old assaults. But death by bomb was a new level of madness. He died without seeing a friendly face. So badly burned, they kept the casket closed. No-one saw his face. Not even his father.

  The day after it happened, the police came round to the flat to talk to me about what happened. Giving me chat about how they needed to have a word with every member of the deceased’s family in a case like this.

  But they weren’t there to comfort me. Or any other Scobie. They wanted the dirt. Hoping that what had happened would be horrific enough that we’d talk about family business, finally give them what they had been looking for all these years – a way to get my Uncle behind bars.

  I drop the toilet lid, sit down again. My head swimming. Maybe I’m not quite ready to go out there again.

  I haven’t smoked since I was fourteen, when I spent a year and a bit hanging round the toilets at the back of the school, chaining it and laughing at the stark black and white health warnings on the back of the packets. But now I have the urge. As though a cigarette could change everything. Give me the space to figure out what it is that I’m feeling.

  I finally manage to stand without feeling dizzy, leave the cubicle and walk over to the sinks. Run cold water, splash it across my face. I put my bag on the sink, pull out my makeup for a touch up. I need more than that, though. The girl who looks back at me could be an extra in some zombie movie with the sunken eyes and the red blood vessels attacking her iris.

  A cool breeze whispers on my face, making me look up. There are small, frosted windows above, prised open to keep the fresh air circling. Or at least what passes for fresh air in the alley behind The Crow.

  Voices float in with the breeze. Male. Low. Angry.

  I try not to listen. Knowing that it’s likely drunken posturing; two men getting upset over nothing, braying like lions vying for dominance

  And then:

  ‘Don’t fuck with me, Raymond.’

  The words are crystal clear. I have no choice but to listen. Hearing my uncle talking to a dead man. To his dead son. Oh, aye. Definitely my uncle. Trying to sound in control.

  But it can’t be Ray he’s talking to.

  Unless I’m the one cracking up here.

  ‘Don’t fuck with me, son. You know what you did. Know what I fucking well had to do.’

  I want to peek out of those half-open frosted panes, see what’s happening. But the sinks are too small to clamber on, and I can’t risk slipping. Of the top ten embarrassing places to injure yourself, a crappy pub toilet’s got to be in the top five.

  I head for the rear fire exit. All the action’s near the bar. Back here, it’s just a long corridor, the store room and the fire exit. The fire door is prised open a couple of inches, maybe to help the air flow – Glaswegian air conditioning. Boxes and crates make for an obstacle course. Maybe health and safety’s on holiday.

  Surprise, surprise.

  As I reach the door, something catches in my chest. A shortness of breath. A sudden sense that I should turn and run. The same feeling you get in a nightmare; no matter what you do, something bad is about to happen. You just don’t know what.

  I listen for my uncle’s voice. I push the fire door right open, step out into the cool, late afternoon air and se
e him on his knees, looking at the ground. Ashamed? Penitent?

  ‘You fucked with your own. You betrayed us. What did you think was going to happen?’

  There’s a man standing in front of him. The alley is cramped, and the shadows from the buildings make for a bad light even in mid-afternoon. I can’t quite make out his features, but there’s something about him that’s familiar. He’s dressed in a long, grey coat that doesn’t quite sit on his frame: maybe a few sizes too big. In fact all his clothes are badly fitted, as though he just ran through a jumble sale, threw on whatever he could find.

  I step closer.

  He hasn’t seen me.

  The man is holding a gun to my uncle’s head. A handgun with a black body and dark grey handle. I don’t know guns, don’t know the model. But it looks fake. Too insignificant to be real.

  The man in the too-big coat turns his head.

  His face is scarred. Pale skin, red marks criss-crossing here and there, angry and inflamed. His eyes bulge. His appearance is sickeningly plastic. He looks like someone tried to melt his face off.

  He’s a monster. An approximation of a human being.

  But I know him. I know him.

  Ray.

  His eyes grab me. Don’t let go. I stop. Held there by those eyes. By the hate that burns behind them. Not hate directed at me, but a general, all-encompassing hatred of the world. Uncle Derek lifts his head. Looks at me, and I see only sadness in his eyes. Sadness and weakness.

  Ray’s mouth opens, as though to say something. But he merely croaks. No words, just a strange sound, a short gasp as though there are no words to say what he feels.

  His body hums with anger.

  I never really believed what people said about him, but seeing him like this... It’s more than just the physical deformity that terrifies me, roots me to the spot.

  Again, he tries to speak. It’s a tremendous effort, as though the same fire that melted his skin also melted his vocal chords.

  My uncle takes the opportunity. Throws himself forward, wraps his arms around Ray’s waist and forces the bigger man to stagger backwards into the opposite wall. My uncle’s not a big man any more, but he has the element of surprise.