I couldn’t bear to open the envelope from Fitz.
I looked at it: a padded manila job, dog-eared corners; on the front a white label with my brother’s name and a case number written in black marker pen. I couldn’t stop my imagination picturing what was inside, but I didn’t want to go there yet.
I remembered Michael lying in the mortuary, how pale he’d looked, so still. The small grey hole beneath his heart, barely a half-inch wide, where the bullet had entered, and taken his life.
I sat with the envelope on my lap, then brought it up to my chest.
‘Och, Michael.’
The blood was coursing through my arms as I gripped tightly to the package. I felt ready to howl out my hurt. I was ready to tear down the world that had taken away my brother. ‘I find who did this, Michael… I’ll kill them. I promise you. I’ll take a life for yours.’
I got up too quickly from the couch — black dots flashed at the edges of my field of vision. I needed another wrap. I took the envelope through to the bedroom and put it on top of the wardrobe. I played with the idea of taking it straight to Jayne, but I knew she wasn’t ready for that kind of shock either.
I fired some more speed, felt twitchy. The backs of my eyes itched; felt like scooping them out with spoons. Knew I was ramping up, raring to go mental. I’d reached the point where I just didn’t want to think any more about how things might play out; I didn’t care, it was an irrelevance now. The loss I felt was all-consuming. I was ready to start with the scatter gun; if I took down some innocents along the way, so be it.
I picked up my mobi. One side of it was covered in slap. I looked at the window ledge where I’d sat it and saw a thin layer of Debs’s face powder; there was an oblong imprint where the mirror usually lay. It looked like dust had settled, as though more time had passed than was possible; the image tripped me out. I dipped my fingertip in the powder and watched the sheen transfer itself. It felt like touching a ghost.
I turned away. Rubbed my fingertip on the couch as I sat down, then buffed my phone in the same way. The powder showed up on the couch like a shiny film of grease. I rubbed at it with my hand but it wouldn’t go away. I put a cushion over it.
I went into my contacts. I had two calls to make; the first to Alice went straight to voicemail. Thought, Fucking hell. I hate talking to machines, said: ‘Hi, kiddo, it’s Gus… Can you give me a call? Just wanted to check how you were doing. Is everything okay? Jeez, I don’t suppose you’d say, would you… Look, just go easy on the Scrumpy Jack, eh… I know what I’m talking about, here… Right, so give me a call, huh? Be good, Alice, I’ll see you soon.’
I winced at the pathetic tone of my message; I was trying too hard and I knew she’d sense that right off. I dropped the phone, got up, cursed myself and sat back down. I vowed to do a better job with the next one.
Ringing.
‘Hello, David Prentice speaking.’ I was surprised fat Davie had answered his own line, but then again, wondered why I should be — way things were headed in that place.
‘I’ve got a message to give to you, Davie.’
‘Who is this?’
I laughed down the phone. ‘Don’t play the wide cunt with me.’
‘Gus?’
‘Got it in one. Now let’s see if you can keep up that perfect score. I have a message for you from guess who.’
‘Is this some kind of a joke?’ He actually managed to press a note of indignation into his tone.
‘Fucking smart up, Davie… Do you really think I’m messing about? If you do, then maybe I’ve got to come and take you for another birl up the Craigs.’
His breathing faltered. ‘No. No. I’m sorry, I understand, I–I mean, who? Erm, Ronnie? Is your message from Ronnie McMilne?’
‘He shoots, he scores. That’s two out of two, bonnie lad.’ I lit a tab, let him hear the burn of it down the line. ‘Let’s try for a hat-trick, eh?’
Silence. I could hear the clock ticking on the wall.
‘Yes…’ said Davie.
‘Good, good. Now, your friend and mine, the happy, smiley Undertaker, has got it into his head to be fucked off about something… What do you think that might be, Davie?’
He paused; I could hear him scratch the stubble on his chin. ‘I know what that might be.’
‘Oh, you do?… Great, because if you get the hat-trick, Davie, you win a prize. Know what it is? It’s, well, it’s not much of a prize, it’s your sorry arse. You get to keep your sorry arse above the ground.’ I let the words settle, took another blast on my Marlboro. ‘Tell me then, Davie, what the Undertaker told me to remind you?’
He stammered, spat words: ‘The trucking…’
I jumped up, yelled, ‘Un-fucking-believable!.. Davie Prentice, you are a winner!’ I threw myself back on the couch. ‘Yes, Davie, the Undertaker wants you to keep on trucking. He wants you to tell your Czech friends to get tae fuck and he wants you to know that every week that goes by that he’s short of some Polish vodka to punt in his pubs, that’s another fifty Gs you owe him. How does that grab you? And don’t say by the balls.’
No answer.
I heard movement on the other end of the line. ‘It’s not for me to-’
‘Oh, no, you’re not going to blank our friend Ronnie, in favour of your new friends, are you?’
‘I–I…’
‘Come on now, Davie. Are you telling me you’ve got a better offer?’
‘Gus, it’s not as simple as that. You don’t understand what kind of people we’re dealing with. I–I… I mean, we’re not dealing with rational people here.’
I adopted a sarky voice. ‘Are you saying they’re the kind of people that might do you some damage if you crossed them?’
Fat Davie’s words trembled over the phone: ‘I think that’s understood.’
I sat up straight. Hammered nails into my pitch. ‘What’s understood, y’cunt, is that you’re about to be thrown to the wolves, Davie… Just like you did to my brother.’
I hung up.