On the street my thoughts were gnashing in my head. There was more to the killing of my brother than I had first thought. I knew from the off it was no mugging gone wrong, but I couldn’t grasp the idea that there was so much serious shit attached. There was a war going on inside me: demons wanted me to burst fat Davie’s head for answers, and they were teamed up with the crew who wanted to get me back on the drink. At the moment the only force waged against them was the need to find justice for Michael, but that lot were being held back by my desire to do right by Debs. The way things were stacking, with Czech crims in the picture, it didn’t augur well for our reformed relationship.
I battled with the snow. It was coming down hard. A bloke with a Christmas tree in polythene wrapping T-boned me at the junction. I slipped into the road but got held up by a big biffer in a parka. I thanked him; he had the hood up, couldn’t speak, but nodded. I read the North Face badge on his chest, said, ‘Be warmer there, likely.’
I carried on back to the car, got the notion I was being followed and turned round to see North Face trailing me. He had the parka hood zipped up to the hilt. I saw two eyes, there’s a phrase, like pissholes in the snow. I upped my pace — wasn’t easy, the soles of my Docs had worn thin. I cursed Debs for refusing me a new pair. Still, the toecaps were hard enough; might be grateful for those soon, I thought.
The parka guy stayed on me as I reached the car. He’d upped his work rate but was obviously feeling it, took down the hood to expose a shaved head and bright red cheeks, puffed with the exertion.
As I got to the car, Usual sprang up at the window. He saw me and lobbed himself into the driver’s seat. I looked up the street and saw North Face get into a run. A few yards off he reached out a hand for me as I got the keys from my pocket. Usual sensed my anxiety, started to bark. I had the key in the lock, turned it as the biffer appeared, put a grip on my shoulder — sent the dog ballistic.
‘You got a fucking problem, mate?’ I said.
He held tight. ‘Trying to do you a favour.’ He was Leith, I knew the accent. Saw him at Easter Road on a Saturday; not for the footy, for the post-match pagger.
I pushed him away. ‘I’m very careful about who I take favours from. Never know what they might want in return.’
He turned his head towards the car, saw the dog snarl, teeth bared. I had a grip on the handle — if he moved he could go a few rounds with those jaws. He got wind of his predicament. I watched him look back up, caught sight of a spider’s web tattooed on his neck. It looked amateurish, probably prison-issue. He spoke: ‘Man up there wants a wee word.’
I glanced into the road. There was a line of cars. ‘And who might that be?’
He brought his hand up to his nose: a sovereign ring on every finger, more tats. ‘Come and see.’
I didn’t like where this conversation was going; I saw that collection of Elizabeth Duke’s finest coming the way of my mush soon. ‘How ’bout I don’t.’
The dog went Radio Rental, sprayed white froth at the window. The pug weighed his options; snow collected on his eyelashes. Any second now that one lonely brain cell was going to overheat. ‘The big man won’t be pleased if I tell him that.’
‘Your trouble, not mine.’
‘I could fucking drag you.’
I pressed out a grin, indicated the car. ‘You could fucking try.’
Bastard did. Went for a low headbutt. He was too tall to disguise the move and I ducked it in time, pulled open the car door as he nutted the air and landed on the ground. Usual went right for his throat. The pug screamed like a loose fan belt as the dog tore into his parka. I let Usual take a few chunks out of the fabric, some orange lining spilled out. People in the street turned around; I didn’t give them enough time to grab any details for a witness statement.
‘Usual, drop it.’ He stopped, stared up at me. ‘Come away.’
The pug’s feet slipped out before him as he pushed up the street on the bones of his arse. The dog watched him cautiously, growling. When North Face got far enough away to feel safe he leaped up, pointed to me and said, ‘You’re done, pal.’ He drew a finger down his cheek. I’d seen this before: it meant I was to be marked with a razor. No one had ever come good on any ripping threat made to me. I put the dog on him again; Usual went for his heels as he ran. He attached jaws as the pug reached a dark Daimler.
I whistled and the dog let go, ran back down the street and jumped in the car. He sat on the passenger seat, panting. I swore he was smiling.
I got in the car and spun the wheels. Chucked a U-turn, palm in the windscreen like the taxi drivers do. I got blasted by the oncoming traffic, but I made my manoeuvre with only one front wheel clipping the kerb.
As I drew alongside the Daimler I checked out the pug. He had his Timberland boots up and was rubbing his ankle, grimacing. Beside him, sat between us, was a face I recognised instantly. Long and dour, pasty white. It was Ronnie McMilne. The man they called the Undertaker. I didn’t know him, I only knew of him. I knew about lots of people I wished I didn’t.
McMilne caught me staring at him. His face looked hollowed out, the cheekbones poking beneath the skin like meat hooks. I wondered if my own face registered what I was thinking: Holy fucking shit.
An electric window went down. I heard the pug cursing; rolled down my own window. The Undertaker put a bony hand on the edge of the car. I could make out the veins and liver spots from where I sat. He said, ‘You’re Gus Dury.’ His voice unsettled me, a low rasp that sounded like sandpaper on glass.
I spat a quick reply: ‘Yeah, that’s me.’
‘We need tae have a wee chat, Gus Dury.’ I knew what one of his wee chats might amount to. I felt my chest tighten, like a belt was being pulled around it.
‘Why would that be?’
The pug sussed me, couldn’t believe what he was hearing and started to roar, ‘I’ll fucking do him here!’
He got out the door before McMilne calmed him, ‘Sit doon, Sammy.’ It only took three words: the big mug stood in the street, glowering over the car’s roof towards me like he’d been tied to a post.
McMilne turned slowly around. He had the movements of a man much older than he was, or perhaps a heavily medicated one. He wore a double-breasted grey jacket, a black T-shirt underneath with a heavy gold chain sitting below the neck. It wasn’t a good look, like a jakey trying to dress as Tony Bennett. His lips looked blue; little flecks of spittle dislodged as he spoke. ‘I’ll no’ ask you again, laddie.’
I saw a break in the traffic. I got edgy now, creeped out by him to tell the truth, said, ‘Glad to hear it.’
I didn’t give him any time to reply, floored it.
The pug slapped the roof of the Daimler as I gunned the engine. I left the Undertaker, and whatever the fuck he wanted with me, behind. Vowed I’d worry about him another day.