59 Minutes (26 page)

I walked back into the living room and eyed my jacket
hanging on a coat peg next to the front door. If anyone was watching then my
shadow would be a give away. I walked to the stairs and dropped to my knees,
then to my belly and wriggled towards the front door. If someone came in now I
was a goner.

I reached the door and slid up the wall until I could
relieve the coat peg of my jacket, caught it as it fell and wriggled back to
the stairs.

I was half way up the stairs when the front door
opened with a vengeance and the goons reappeared. Common sense would have been
to lock it but it had never occurred to me.

I flew up the remaining steps, ran into my bedroom,
slammed the door behind me, picked up my bag and scrambled through the open
window. The door to the bedroom bounced off the wall behind me as the goon patrol
entered at high speed.

I was on the coal hut roof and, with a leap, I dropped
to the concrete below. Above me one of them shouted but I was over the fence
and back into the field - this time I didn’t double back I just kept running.

As my breath shortened I began to ease up and turned
sharp left. In the far distance I could see the main road through the
village
of
Eaglesham
.
Behind me there was another shout but it was too far away to be an issue. I
made for the light.

The trek was tough - crossing fields in the dark is
not easy and I had no light to see by. After an hour I reached the village but
stopped short of entering the pool of light that the street lights cast.

I had no idea where I was heading but it needed to be
away from here. The goon patrol would not give in easily. Dupree was a bastard
of the first order and failure was not tolerated well. The fact that they had
been given a second chance and sent in after their failure in
Spain
was
surprising enough.

I skirted the road and made my way through another
field - keeping the road to my right. Twice I had to divert to avoid houses and
then I hit a stretch of homes running across my path. I picked the one with the
lowest fence and jogged through the garden and out onto the road on the other side.

The main road was to my left and knew if I turned
right there was the Chinese restaurant on one side and the row of shops, a
little further down, on the other side. At this time they would all be shut.
Turning right would lead me into an estate and, much as I wanted to play hide
and seek with the goon patrol, I needed to put distance between the village and
me.

I had a local taxi number on my mobile and I gave them
a call before dipping back behind the house to wait.

Ten minutes later a car turned up and I walked out as
if I had just left the back door. If the driver knew the occupants he didn’t
ask or couldn’t care. I told him to head for
Glasgow
and I sat back to
think.

I had no place to go. No one to turn to. Martin’s
disappearance could mean that Dupree had found out he was harbouring me and
that was that for Mr Sketchmore. The hostel was a maybe until I realised that
there might be a second goon patrol waiting for me at my old haunt.

The car cruised into the outskirts of the city and the
driver asked where in
Glasgow
.

‘The Gorbals.’

I told the driver the street I wanted and I wasn’t
even sure that it still existed. The car soon swung into the road and, to my
amazement, familiar tenements sprang up on both sides. I showed the taxi driver
which close to stop at and paid him from my ever-dwindling supply of cash.

Standing on the pavement, bag in hand, I realised this
was the long shot of all long shots but desperate people do desperate things.

I walked into the close, climbed the stairs to the
second floor and stood in front of a large storm door. There was no nameplate.
I rang the bell and waited. I was about to hit it for the second time when I
heard movement inside.

The inner door opened and the left hand storm door
pulled back an inch. I waved sheepishly at the crack and the door closed. A
second later and the sound of bolts being withdrawn scraped around the landing.
The door opened and a woman in a badly fitting dressing gown looked out.

‘Hi Rachel.’

‘Fuck.’

The awkwardness stretched for a while before she
stepped back and let me in. She looked good, better than she had when I last
saw her in the prison visiting room. I wondered if she thought the same about
me.

‘I take it you want a bed?’

I nodded and she opened the first door on the left.

‘In there! We’ll talk in the morning. I need my sleep.
I have to work.’

With that she closed the door and left me. I looked at
the room. Well kept. A single bed. Nice carpet. Fresh wallpaper and the various
bits and bobs around the place suggested that Rachel wasn’t scraping by.

I kicked off my clothes, dropped them in a bundle next
to my bag and slipped into the bed.

I hated using the digital recorder at first and I’ve
no idea why I keep doing it. I don’t expect anyone to listen to it but I don’t
care. Somehow it seems to keep things in order despite the craziness around me.
Sometimes I just whizz the thing back to a conversation I recorded or a little
rant from myself and find a little oasis at the end of the day - when I’m in
the mood. An oasis that lets me mull over my life in bite sized chunks.

It’s also useful to flick back through time and get a
sense of proportion over circumstances. It’s anything but neat and at times
sounds like someone spinning an FM dial and recording the output. But it is important
to me.

My life is a long way from where I expected it to be
at my age. My prospects are shot. I’m a wanted man on the run with little or no
one to turn to and I have no resources to fall back on. I thought the low
points in my life were the first day in prison or the first day in the hostel.
I was wrong. This is far worse.

At least in prison I had some sort of future. Bide my
time and I would get out. In the hostel I had the same feeling but now I can’t
see the future. I can’t see a way out of this. I can see my death and somehow
that seems less important than it should. The alternative is living in fear. Forever
on the run. Begging for food. Sleeping rough.

Maybe I could get back on my feet but would Dupree let
me?

Surely he would be waiting, a spectre waiting in the
shadows. What kind of life would that be? Maybe death is not such a bad option.

Maybe?

The conversation with Rachel started as well as could
be expected. It was shit. I mean what did I expect? Apart from the brief
meeting in prison, when she handed me the letter, I’d had no contact with her
from the day I crapped on her and Martin. She had said nothing during the meet
in prison but she had plenty to say this morning.

I woke up to the smell of cigarette smoke. I dressed
and followed the trail to the living room. Like the bedroom it was neat, tidy
and well furnished.

Rachel sat at a small table next to the main window
with a cup of coffee in front of her and a ciggie hanging from her left hand.
She was dressed in a neat two piece suit with a crisp white blouse and a pair
of smart dark shoes with a low heel. The skirt showed off enough leg to tell me
she was keeping herself in shape.

She looked up when I entered.

‘I leave for work in half an hour,’ she said. ‘This
had better be good.’

I hadn’t planned this conversation and I felt at a
loss. Should I tell her everything, nothing or something? Could I trust her? I
started by giving her a little potted history about me since prison but she cut
me off.

‘Stow it. Martin’s told me it all.’

Now that was a revelation. Martin hadn’t mentioned
Rachel since we met up again. I assumed it was over, but clearly it wasn’t.

‘He says you’re trouble.’

Thanks Martin.

‘I can only assume you’re here because he’s thrown you
out. So I’ll tell it as it is and then you leave.’

She took another drag.

‘I’m doing ok. I’m off the game and have been for
nearly two years. I’ve got a nice little job as a sales rep for a lingerie firm.
I’ve put enough cash away to own this place and I don’t need any shite in my
life. So here is how it is going to go down. When I leave you leave. You move
on and don’t come back. I ain’t scared of you anymore. Martin has told me where
you’re at in life and I can’t say I’m sorry. You caused a lot of pain, and hurt
a lot of people. In my view God is getting even with you. So I don’t expect to
see you again. If I do, I make a call to the police and tell them you are
stalking me.

Is that clear? Crystal clear?’

Not much you can say to that really. I nodded and
opened my mouth to say something. She didn’t let me get a word out.

‘I’m not giving you any cash. So don’t ask.’

Psychic or what.

‘Pack up your stuff and go.’

I couldn’t think of anything to say. So I didn’t and
went back to the bedroom to pack up. A wash and brush up in the neat and tidy
toilet and I was ready to go. The problem was where?

I had a thought and went back to see Rachel.

‘When did you last see Martin?’

‘None of your business - now shift.’

‘Only,’ I went on, ‘I haven’t seen him since Thursday.
He hasn’t been back at his house.’

She looked away and reached for another cigarette.

‘I haven’t seen him since Monday. He phoned Tuesday
night but he was in a bad mood.’

‘I got back mid week.’ I avoided saying from where.
‘He could have been out when I got in but he certainly hasn’t been there
since.’

She sat down and lit up.

‘Martin’s been uptight for months now. A real pain in
the tits!’

Rachel picked up her mobile from the mantelpiece and
hit a few buttons.

‘Answer machine’ she said after a few seconds. ‘No
point leaving a message. He never returns the call.’

It occurred to me that Martin had more than one
mobile. The number I had didn’t have an answer machine. The clock chimed the
half hour and I expected Rachel to move but she sat, drawing in the smoke,
staring at the window.

‘What made you come back?’ she asked.

‘Where else would I go? You know the hole I’m in.’

‘Kind of. Martin said you’re in the mire with some
French boy. Is that true?’

‘In a way.’

‘So what will you do now?’

‘Back to the hostel and see if they will give me a bed
for a while. After that I’ve no idea.’

She pulled in another lungful and exhaled slowly.

‘Are you skint?’

‘As a cow after a butcher is finished with it.’

She stubbed out the cigarette and stood up.

‘Do you think Martin is in trouble?’

‘I don’t know. Were you and him an item?’

‘None of your business.’

She reached for another cigarette. She had the habit
bad or she was nervous. It was hard to tell which.

‘We used to be. Not long after you turned up on the
scene,’ she said. ‘At first he was just a good customer. In a way he probably
paid for a fair chunk of this flat. Then things changed. I didn’t want to
charge and he didn’t want to pay. He didn’t seem to mind that other guys saw me
and for a while things went along well. Then he upped sticks and moved south.
Not a word. One day he was here - next, all I get is static. I didn’t see him
for the best part of ten years and then one day he rolls up at my door and
wants to carry on as if he had never left.’

‘When was this?’

‘Four years ago. I told him that I wasn’t interested.
He wouldn’t take no for an answer at first and even tried to pay me, but I held
firm. He vanished again only to reappear the week before I came to see you.’

She stopped and went back to the cigarette. I waited
for her to continue and risked sitting on the settee.

‘He appeared again only this time he wasn’t interested
in me. He hands me a letter and says he needs it delivered to you. He puts a
thousand pounds on the table and a scrap of paper with the prison name on it.
So I do the good girl thing. After all a grand is a grand.’

A thousand pounds? It seemed a hell of a lot for a
small errand.

‘But you are back with him?’ I said.

‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. He started
pestering me again. Only this time he did it in nice way. He sent flowers. He
called, but now he was as polite as I had ever known him to be. Then one night
he turned up in a limo. Corny or what. He had two tickets to the Rod Stewart
concert at Hampden. He knows I’m a massive fan and the tickets came with a meet
and greet with Rod. How could I say no?

He was a changed man. After a great evening he kissed
me on the cheek and left. A week later and we were back on again.’