Mac put the hilux into gear and released the clutch. We shot out of Restalrig like the four-minute warning had just sounded. Fat Davie pleaded at my side like a spoilt child: ‘Gus, I only did what was best for Michael, I promise.’
‘Don’t use his name again.’
He whined, ‘I wouldn’t do anything to harm Michael… or his family.’
I lost it, put a fist in him. It was like punching a mattress; I felt my knuckles sink as I pummelled Davie’s gut. ‘I told you, don’t use his fucking name. Didn’t I tell you?’
I’d disturbed the balance of the truck — it started to slide on the road.
‘Whoa, whoa… Cool the beans there,’ said Mac.
I locked it down, sat back in my seat. Davie toppled over. His knees hit the ground, his legs buckled under his weight. I grabbed him by the collar, hauled him up. He winced in pain, shrieked, ‘I haven’t done anything wrong…’
‘Shut it.’ He sounded pathetic. I couldn’t believe the way he was still yabbering, after all he’d done. After all the grief that Davie’s antics had brought to me and Debs, to Jayne… the death of Michael, and Andy, and Ian Kerr. And now there was Alice. Oh Christ, Alice. The snow was falling heavily now: she couldn’t survive much longer.
‘Davie, let me say this only once.’ I tried to keep my voice steady, but it quivered, betraying my emotion. ‘The Undertaker has my niece bound and gagged in a field, there is a hole in the ground dug for her. The only hope for that girl is you. Do you understand?’
Davie’s face froze, turned white. His lips tightened into a knot and refused to let out any words. He nodded.
‘When I hand you over, Davie, I don’t care what he does to you. I don’t care whether he demands money or puts you in the ground… All I care about now is Alice.’
The words seemed to register with him; he turned away. Davie stared out of the window like a man who was watching his final moments in slow-mo. I hoped he was thinking about what he had done. About how his actions, his greed, had hurt so many others, and was hurting them yet. I wanted Davie to feel the pain I felt. I knew he hadn’t murdered my brother but he had played his part, and I wanted revenge.
The roads grew busy but Mac pushed on and flashed the oncoming traffic as we powered through the town. The snow pelted down, and the sky darkened with cloud covering; if there were night stars out, they weren’t shining over us.
Christmas Eve revellers started to appear, groups of lads tanked up on designer lager and barely dressed young girls staggering from bar to bar. In an hour the blokes would be singing ‘Danny Boy’ and the girls walking barefoot, their heels in their hands. There would be barf swimming in the gutters and aggro in the kebab shops. Just another Christmas Eve in Edinburgh, but it stung me to think of anyone enjoying themselves while Alice faced a grim death.
I looked at the thermometer in the dash: it was eight-below.
‘Can’t you go any fucking faster?’ I yelled.
‘Trying… trying.’ Mac rounded the bend onto the Grassmarket. A tart in reindeer antlers was touching up a guy in a Santa hat; they stood bang middle of the road, going for it. Mac slammed on the anchors, yelled out, ‘Get up a close!’
The wee hingoot twisted her face and Santa hat pulled in his belt, headed for the car. Mac yanked on the handbrake, opened the door. The guy strutted as he walked towards the truck. He put back his shoulders, gave Mac a come-ahead flick of the fingers. Mac managed three or four paces on his sore ankle, let the guy get closer on his own. When he drew up to the bumper Mac put him down with one sledgehammer right. It was clinical. He dragged him to the side of the road and got back in the cab, gunned the engine. The tart took off her antlers as we passed.
The end of the road looked like a Hieronymus Bosch painting, bodies seething everywhere. Queues from the pubs spilled onto the road. Mac blasted the horn and swerved. The Hilux mounted the kerb as we drove onto West Port; we hit fifty before Tollcross. The truck skidded to a halt outside a busy pub, folk queuing to get in already.
I leaned over and opened Davie’s door, said, ‘Out!’
He was silent now, accepting.
Mac hobbled behind me on his one good ankle, jangling the car keys. ‘Right, let’s fucking nash.’
The snowfall was heavier than I’d seen it all year, and it was the harshest winter I could remember. I thought again of Alice, out in that field, tied to a rusting tractor axle. She was so thin, so frail. I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t perish. I tried to focus, to get moving. I knew I was her only hope — but I just couldn’t shake the sight of her, the image that the Undertaker had shown me on that phone haunted me.
I pushed Davie in the back. ‘I’m telling you now, Davie, anything’s happened to my niece… you’re fucking well done for.’
He slipped in the street, fell. The knees of his beige Farah trousers turned black. I put a grip on his belt and hauled him to his feet. His soft shoes slid about all over the pavement as he walked, glancing back at us.
‘Just fucking get going,’ said Mac.
At the Undertaker’s lap-dancing bar in the Pubic Triangle a flannel-shirted Scouser was arguing the toss after being refused entry. I didn’t recognise the doorman, but I recognised the type. I fronted up, said, ‘We’re expected.’
‘By who?’ He put in some attitude.
We didn’t have time for games and Mac knew it. His chest went out. ‘Ronnie fucking McMilne… Don’t play wide, y’arsehole, or I’ll hand you yer eyes.’
The lump did a mental calculation, nodded us inside. We got pointed up the stairs and told to turn left at the mirrored door. ‘Ronnie’s in the office, down the end of the hall.’
I pushed Davie up the stairs. He was dripping wet now as the snow melted on him. He stumbled and dropped into a crawl for a few steps. I put a hand under his arm and yanked him up. He gasped for air as we reached the landing.
‘Down here,’ said Mac. He led the way to the end of the corridor, pushed open the Undertaker’s door. He was the first to be greeted as we walked in.
‘It’s yer bold self,’ said McMilne, ‘Mac the Knife, indeed.’ He sat on a leather chair, his feet up on the desk as Only Fools spat canned laughter from a wee portable. Dartboard and Sammy picked over the remains of a pizza box that Sammy held in his hands like a chav laptop. They laughed at the telly as Del Boy and Rodney appeared in Batman and Robin costumes.
‘Ron,’ said Mac.
‘Haven’t seen you for a while, you still…?’ He made a slicing motion in front of him, as though he was carving someone with a Stanley blade.
Mac shook his head, turned to me.
‘Can we get down to fucking business?’ I said. ‘I thought it was this cunt you wanted to see.’ I dragged fat Davie to the middle of the room.
The Undertaker sat up in his chair; he put those falsers of his on display. ‘Ah, you found him.’ He seemed unimpressed, turned back to the telly. Dartboard and Sammy picked anchovies off the pizza, dropped them in the box. They got in the way of the telly and the Undertaker kicked off. ‘Get oot the fucking road!’
I looked away. A black-and-white monitor showed pictures from the floor of girls with their baps out, dancing round poles. I tried again. ‘Yeah, so… I’ve done my bit,’ I said.
The Undertaker looked irritated, turned and sized me up. ‘So fucking what?’
A bolt of adrenaline hit me, the flash of heat going to my head. I stormed over to the desk and slapped down my palms. As I moved I felt Mac pull me back but I shrugged him off, roared, ‘I want my fucking niece and I want my brother’s fucking killer!’
The Undertaker lifted a thin leg, then another, lowered his feet to the floor. He sat forward in the leather chair and made a steeple of his long fingers. ‘And just what’re you gonna do if I say no, laddie?’
Dartboard and Sammy threw down their pizza slices. I stepped away from the desk and looked at Mac. He squared his shoulders. Fat Davie trembled so much beside me that I could hear the change rattling in his pockets. The television blared on; Only Fools had finished — they started singing about Hookey Street being magnifique.
The Undertaker stood up. He was the tallest in the room by a head, but his frame was stooped as his neck jutted forward. He looked like a lamp post that had been struck by a car. ‘I’ve missed the end now,’ he said. ‘I fucking like that show as well.’
I tried to think of something to say but my heart was pumping too hard, the adrenaline spiking through me, making me jumpy.
Dartboard wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and Sammy picked a paper napkin from the pizza box. I tried to watch every movement, but my eyes followed the Undertaker as he went into a drawer at the side of the desk. I felt sure a shooter was coming out. I saw Davie collapse at my side. Mac grabbed him, held him up. As the drawer closed the Undertaker slowly raised his hand from below the line of the desk, and then he stopped. ‘You know the trouble with folk like you, Dury?’
It was a prompt. I shook my head. ‘What’s that?’ I kept watching him closely.
‘Nae sense of humour.’ He lifted up his hand. ‘I’m only having ye on, laddie, y’need to lighten up a wee bit.’ He threw an Ordnance Survey map at me. Dartboard and Sammy started to laugh.
I picked up the map: it was folded over at a section of Midlothian. ‘This where they are?’ Biro markings indicated a line from the bypass at Straiton to a circle around a smallholding.
Mac peered over my shoulder then took the map from my hand. ‘Come on, I know where this is.’ He let go of Davie and the fat prick fell on the floor. Dartboard and Sammy laughed once again; the Undertaker joined them.
On the stairs I grabbed Mac. ‘Gimme the keys.’
‘Wha’?’
‘Gimme the fucking keys.’ I tore the map from his hand. ‘You’re not coming.’
Mac looked me in the eye; he knew what I had planned. ‘No way, man. You’re hypo, you’ll get in some right fucking lumber if-’
I pushed my forearm against his neck, forced him up against the wall, hollered, ‘Gimme the fucking keys, Mac, I’m not messing about.’ He froze. I pressed my arm deeper. ‘I mean it, Mac… gimme them.’ I felt his arm move at his side. His hand went into his pocket and brought out the keys.
I let him go. Ran down the stairs.
As I went, Mac shouted, ‘Gus, don’t fucking do it… They’ll put you away, man.’
I didn’t listen.
In the street I tanked it; my Docs slipped all over the pavement. At the truck my hands shook so much I struggled to get the key in the door. When I got it started I put the steering to full-lock and spun the tyres. It was a tight spot and I clipped the tail of a jeep; its alarm sounded. Pissheads pointed as I reversed and smacked the car behind but I didn’t care. I got out of there and pelted it.
I couldn’t find the wipers, kept hitting the indicators as the snow fell harder. Christmas lights shone from the shopfronts and jakeys rolled into the road but I got out of the city and made for the bypass.
It was a white-out on the main road. Got trapped behind a gritter. The snow came heavier, stacked itself on the road. It was a blizzard now. I drove faster and then slowed in a panic at the thought of coming off the road, but edged the needle up higher and higher until I had to brake.
The back end slipped away. I thought it would fishtail but the truck righted itself. I felt the wheels lurch and then I headed for a ditch at the edge of the road. I pumped the brake again as the truck skidded and saw the front end dip suddenly — I thought I was in the ditch — but the truck had stopped on the last inches of tarmac. I put it into reverse and rejoined the road.
I raced on for a mile, driving into the blizzard.
There was very little traffic and I was thankful for that. A couple of night buses had pulled into lay-bys; I saw people inside shivering, waiting for a break in the blizzard, or perhaps the snowplough. I found it hard to follow the map and keep eyes on the road. It was made worse by the countryside being completely blanketed in snow — the signs were all blocked out, the markings indistinct.
The map indicated a turn-off and a smallholding with outbuildings but I couldn’t find the turn-off. I backtracked, got out and wiped the snow from the front of a signpost. I got rolling again, followed the instructions, but there didn’t seem to be any smallholding.
I banged the wheel, thumped fists into the dash. I stopped the truck and got out again. The whole area was in darkness, there were no street lights. I climbed up the side of a fence, slipping on the icy, frozen slats. All I thought was: Alice, Alice, Alice. ‘Hang on, Alice… please hang on.’
I leaped a gate and ran through the blizzard.
She had to be close by. This was the smallholding, I was on it now.
It was too dark to make anything out. I went back to the truck and turned in the road, revved and headed straight through the gate. I drove a circle in the field. Saw nothing. I drove further. The tyres had little traction on the icy surface — it was like skating.
The land undulated and I bounced in the cab; my head kept hitting off the roof. The temperature gauge hit the max, I felt sure the truck would cough any minute, and then I saw I was heading straight for a drystone dyke. I slammed on the brakes and skidded out of control, the truck spun and the headlights danced on the side of an outbuilding. I glimpsed it only for a second before it fell out of view. On the second pass, I caught a better sight of it. As the truck stopped, my heart stilled.
It was Alice.
She was slumped on her side, still tied to the rusting tractor axle.
I put the truck into first and rolled over the field.
‘Alice, Alice…’ As I ran from the truck she lay still. The headlights burned over her; she was covered in snow, almost completely white.
I saw Vilem tied behind her — he had freed his legs and kicked out to let me know he was there.
‘Alice… Alice…’ I said.
I grabbed hold of her: she was cold. Her eyes were closed.
Vilem tried to speak, kicked out again with his legs.
I put a hand on Alice’s head, wiped away the snow. She was almost as pale beneath it all. I removed the gag and her mouth flopped open. I put my face to hers to see if she was breathing. I couldn’t tell.
Vilem kicked out again.
I tried to untie Alice’s hands but I couldn’t. My fingers turned blue in the cold, I lost feeling in them. I tugged at the ropes but I couldn’t get them off. I ran to the truck, grabbed the little tool case from the glovebox. There was no knife, only a screwdriver. I poked it in the knot to ease it open. Alice’s arms fell at her sides as I untied her. I did the same to the knot on her legs and dragged her feet free.
There was no movement, no life in her, as I lifted her from the ground and took her to the truck.
I placed Alice on her back, across the seats. I got the heater blasting, high as it would go. I took off my coat and put it over her. I expected to see some colour return to her face, but none came. She didn’t even shiver. I held her hand, tried to find a pulse but I couldn’t.
‘Alice, come on… fucking live.’
I slapped at her wrist.
Nothing.
I didn’t know what to do next.
There was no sign of life.