Grabbed the Evening News. The front page splash was a police raid on a house full of illegal immigrants. I’d read the story a couple of times before it struck me why it seemed so unusual. They’d raided Marchmont. The price tags on houses there carry a long row of Bobby De Niros. I saw we were now talking big business in this racket.
I dipped into R.S. McColls, asked for a pack of Mayfair. Cheapest tabs on the shelf. Yellow-finger specials. I was on a Presbyterian guilt trip, aware I was the only smoker left in Scotland still buying fags from reputable retailers. Christ, what had become of this country? When Joe Public starts buying daily essentials like tabs on the black market, we’re in trouble. Was like the war years.
Sparked up outside. Wasn’t a bad smoke. But knew I’d wake up tomorrow reeking like pub curtains.
I felt a cold snap coming. Suited me fine, took the edge off the craving. And I needed my wits about me if I was gonna press Fitz the Crime for anything useful. Since Milo’s killing, I needed him more than ever.
I’d been besieged by nightmares. They played like this: I’m back at the Fallingdoon House, flames everywhere, and screams… young girls crying their hearts out. I burst through the door, hold out my hand.
‘Come on! Quick, give me your hand,’ I say.
The flames lap all around us, but the girls look like they did the night I saw them, pale-grey ghosts. Half starved, frightened. They recoil from me.
‘Come on! Give me your hand,’ I roar.
I rush into the room, flames lap at the walls, all around thick black smoke chokes us.
‘Christ, I’m not the enemy!’ I say. ‘I’m not the enemy.’
The girls run screaming, huddle in the corner, terrified.
Suddenly, I feel a tap on my shoulder and I turn. It’s Milo, but he’s changed. His face is battered to a bloody pulp. Two dark sockets sit where his eyes should be. As he begins to speak, I see flames creeping up his coat tails.
‘Milo, Milo you’re on fire!’ I call out.
I slap at the flames, try to push them back. The heat is intense now, the palms of my hands smoulder in agony.
‘Milo, move would you!’
The girls’ screaming increases in pitch. Everywhere there’s flames and fear. It’s the worst fear I’ve ever known.
‘Milo, you must move. We have to get outside.’
At once, he tips his head down to face me. He begins to speak, and as he does so, the flames engulf his body. He cries and taps at his chest, then speaks but his words are in a language I don’t understand, except for one: ‘Latvia.’
Nadja’s revelation about Billy’s get rich quick plan had been unexpected. It gave me a few bargaining chips to tempt Fitz with. But he was filth, and unpredictable. I’d have to lay it out finely. Make it worth his while.
The bus was packed.
A young jakey barfed in the aisle as we drove down Leith Walk. On a bus full of Leithers, only one woman held her nose.
‘Out,’ roared the driver.
‘Och c’mon…’ said the jakey, ‘It’s pishing doon!’
‘Out now or it’s the polis!’
The driver stood up, tucked himself behind his perspex screen as the jakey pulled down his baseball cap and rolled off the bus. He kicked out at the doors as they closed behind him. Then fell on his arse in the wet street.
The bus pulled out from the kerb, but stopped suddenly in the middle of the road. ‘Just stay in your seats, please!’ said the driver as he opened the doors to let two cans of Omega white cider roll onto the street. After the cans, the jakey’s vomit followed down the aisle and slid over the steps.
I shook my head. Don’t know why, had seen this all a million times before. Somehow, today, things seemed that little bit more annoying. This place was riding on my nerves.
An old boy leaned into my space. He took off his cap, slapped it off my seat. ‘I’d bring back National Service for the likes of him,’ he said.
I turned, faced him, said, ‘I’d bring back hanging for the likes of him.’