My mind was buzzing with thoughts; hacked up a line from Aristophanes: ‘A man may learn wisdom even from a foe.’
Mac was a bit too primed. Any day of the week, Mac was a bit too primed. I couldn’t trust he wouldn’t go radge and carve up this Gibby kid. Like he hadn’t the form.
It was working against my better judgement to take Mac along, but it was either that or go alone and it seemed the lesser of two evils. Desperation had a hold of me now.
‘You ready for this?’ said Mac.
‘Look, just cool the beans, okay.’
Mac floored it, spun through the lights. An old giffer with a walking stick raised it above his head. Mac was holding the wheel at ten to two, gripping tight. Add the black leather gloves and he did a fair impression of a post-raid wheelman.
‘Mac, I have to tell you right off, this isn’t your fight.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Do you?’
He turned to me, smiled. ‘Look, I’m Mr Frosty here, okay?’
‘You better be. I don’t want you being put away again on my conscience.’
‘Sure.’
He settled some. Relaxed back in his seat, put a hand on top of the dash, cruised. Sighthill was its normal burnt-out self. I could hear the tyres going over broken glass every fifty yards.
‘Fucksake,’ said Mac.
‘You’re worried about punctures? What makes you think you’ll still have tyres when we get back to the motor?’
The address we had was for a high-rise. Mac didn’t flinch, even though we were going right into the heart of the war zone. I pointed the way through the winding streets littered with deros, trash and more than a few needles.
‘The state of this place,’ said Mac.
‘Not exactly primo real estate.’
‘You can say that again.’
We found our block. Outside a mattress had been set alight. Two kids in trackies chucked branches on the flames. I’d love to have known where they got them — didn’t look like any vegetation for miles around.
Mac parked; we stepped out.
The kids left the fire, turned to the new addition to the landscape. ‘Hoy, mister… want us tae mind yer motor?’
I looked at Mac. He smiled at me. ‘What you think?’
‘I’d say make them an offer they can’t refuse.’
‘And that would be?’
I called the pair over. ‘You the local heavies?’
In chorus: ‘Aye. Aye.’
‘What do you pay for a heavy round here these days?’
Laughter: ‘Fifty quid an hour, man.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘All right, twenty.’
‘Tell you what.’ I took out a skydiver, handed it over. ‘This van’s still in one piece when we come back, I’ll give you another five.’
They took the five-spot and ran off laughing.
‘Wee bastards.’
Mac patted me on the back. ‘What did you expect — a receipt?’
We took the stairs. The flat was only two flights up, but as I knocked on the door, nothing.
‘Empty?’
‘I’d say so.’
I peered in the window where Mark Crawford’s young crew partner in crime stayed. Place was definitely habited: Chinese takeaway boxes on the window ledge and a couple of plates on the table. ‘Looks like they were at dinner not so long ago.’
Mac was peering out over the balcony. Thought he was checking the van. ‘Is it still in one piece?’
He mumbled, ‘I’m not looking at the van.’
‘What, then?’
He pointed. ‘Take a deck at that.’
Down below, in full view of every flat in the street, a pagger was in progress. Two burly roided-up types with pit bulls straining at the leash had a lanky streak of a lad pinned to a wall. He cowered, hands out; took off his Burberry jacket to whip back the dogs.
‘Does that look like our boy Gibby?’ said Mac.
‘That’s the little wanker from the pit fight. Our Corrado man, for deffo… Saw him on the hill with the Crawford kid the night Moosey was killed.’
‘Then this’ll be his payback for fucking up.’ Mac crossed his arms on the rail, settled into spectator mode.
‘You just gonna watch?’
Mac laughed. ‘Think we could do anything?’
The big lads didn’t take too kindly to the jacket being aimed at the dogs: grabbed it off the wee yob and watched the pits pull it apart. The jacket soon turned to threads and the dogs kicked off, snarling, went for each other. Took all their handlers’ strength to keep them apart.
The string bean Gibby screamed like a loose fan belt.
‘Christ, they’re vicious,’ said Mac.
‘No kidding.’
The next move was an obvious one. A knock to the jaw for String Bean and down he went. The pugs stepped back, let the pits off the leash. They went for the throat. A huge arc of claret sprayed out of the yoof’s neck as one of the dogs hit the jugular. One of the big lads took a direct hit, his white T-shirt copping for an enormous splash of blood.
‘Holy fuck.’ For a moment I couldn’t look, turned away. Some wailing called me back. It was the girl, the one I’d seen in Rafi’s store with the poodle.
‘What’s she gonna do?’ said Mac.
‘Run, if she’s smart.’
I thought I should too. Was pure instinct — I dived for the stairs.
Mac grabbed me; we struggled. ‘Where you going, Gus?’
‘Someone’s got to do something.’
‘Like what?’
I tried to free myself. ‘Anything — they’re gonna kill him.’
Mac put a bear hug on me. ‘Gus, get a grip… I’d say they’ve already done that.’
I saw the girl slapped down, carted away up the street by one of the spectators to the scene. The dogs were led away too as the big biffers got into a Toyota pick-up and sped away. From the truckbed the pits barked as if it was a job well done.
A lifeless pile was all that was left of Gibby on the street.
Blood pooled on the pavement, ran into the gutter.
We took the stairs back down to the van. The sight of the yob’s remains up close was enough to have me holding back some chuck. I started to retch. The people who had come to watch while the murder was in full swing, however, seemed to have disappeared altogether. I understood why as a blast of sirens was swiftly followed by flashing blue lights from a trail of police cars.
Three of them blocked in Mac’s van as Lothian and Borders’ finest poured out and headed in our direction.
As I stopped retching, Mac turned to me. ‘You done?’
I looked up at the uniforms. ‘I’d say well and truly.’