Beast of Burden (7 page)

Kennedy gestured at Adams. “Bloke won't tell you to fuck off, someone has to.”

“Here, you just mind your own fuckin' business, alright?”

“It's not your interview. He already told you he doesn't want you in there, messing with his collar.”

“Iain,” said Adams, but I wasn't bothered about him anymore.

I turned around, rolled my shoulders. “The
fuck
has it got to do with you, Colin?”

He put down the folder he was looking at, cocked his head at us. “I work in this office, I have to hear it all the bloody time. You're a bully, and right now, you're trying to barge your way in on someone else's collar because you can't make the numbers.”

“Fuck yourself.”

“I notice you don't try that shit on me, Iain.”

“I'm not interested in your fuckin' suspects, Colin, because you're not clever enough to pick up my CIs.”

“Come on, Conroy's a smackhead who could use a spell in the nick, clean him up.” Kennedy sucked his teeth at us. “You tell him he's a confidential informant, or whatever the fuck you're calling a grass these days, he's going to get ideas. And when a bloke like that gets ideas, he starts thinking the law doesn't apply to him.”

I moved towards Kennedy. He straightened his neck when he saw us coming.

“Fuck's your problem, Colin?”

“Told you, didn't I?”

“I come in, you're humming that fuckin' song—”

“Iain, get a grip on yourself, will you? Jesus, you look like you're about to have a heart attack, mate.”

“You're humming that fuckin' song, you nick my fuckin' chair, you call us Donkey and now you're telling us to back off what's probably going to be a sticky situation if Adams charges one of my valued informants.”

He grinned, folded his arms. “It bothers you that much, does it?”

“What?”

“The name,” he said. “
Donkey
.”

“Nah,” I said.

“You're sure? Doesn't hurt your feelings or anything?”

“Fuck off.”

“Got this little kid thing going, so I wondered about it.”

I got right up to him. “I'll put you right through that fuckin' wall, you keep talking like a
cunt
.”

“Go on, then.”

He didn't back down. He was supposed to. Everyone else did when I got this close, this aggro. I didn't say anything to him.

So he said, “Go on. Show us what you're made of, big lad.”

Stared at him.

“You want something from me, you come 'head.”

And I did want to step up, put that fucker to the floor, start kicking shit out of him, but there was this alarm ringing in the back of my head. He might've been a bastard, but he was a Detective Inspector, too. And that meant he was the bloke in the right if I kicked off. One thing you could always rely on — the brass would cover for the superior officer.

“Fuck off,” I said.

“Right.”

“Fuck. Off.”

“Yeah,” he said with this big grin, his lips wet. “Fuck
off.
Hardcase, eh?”

I stepped back, turned around. Waited for him to jump on my back, but the weight never came. I looked around at the rest of the office. Everyone was watching us. Fucking mouths were open, me and Kennedy were like
Lost
to this shower of shite. Probably waiting to see who would come out on top if we went at it, who'd land the first good punch.

No, hang on a sec. That wasn't it.

They were waiting on Kennedy to fuck us up. Which, thinking about it, was the most likely scenario if it came to a one-on-one and I didn't have the jump on him. Kennedy was a fucking gym rat, and he was lean enough for me to forget about it, especially when I had my blood up.

I looked at him; he looked back. That smirk was back in evidence.

Yeah, he knew he could take us, which was one of the reasons he was acting the twat. My problem was I got too close too fucking quick. I'd have to watch that in future.

I pulled at my jacket, tried to cover some of my gut, like it was no big deal. Adams was still there by the door, watching us, both his eyebrows pointing up.

“Forget about it,” I said. “You do what you want, Derek. Just tell Conroy I said hello.”

I pushed past him out of the office, walked quick to the stairs. This was why I didn't come round the station if I could help it.

I was walking out when I realised I'd left my bacon and sausage barm on my desk. Fuck it, Kennedy could have it, and in the same mental breath I hoped it'd choke him. No more than the wanker deserved.

INNES

“Been a while, Innes. I heard you went all fuckin' special on us. Heard you were in a fuckin' wheelchair an' that, couldn't walk or nowt.”

“Nope.”

Baz raises his head, his eyes half-closed. He's either knackered or piss-drunk. I wouldn't be surprised if it was the latter, considering the place is heaving now, the early liquid lunch brigade out for the afternoon. I find him at the same table he used to occupy with Mo and Rossie. Back to the wall, good view of the rest of the pub, it was originally a position that mirrored Morris Tiernan's seat in the Wheatsheaf. But now that Baz is the only one here, and the drinkers on either side are seeping into the spaces that Mo and Rossie used to occupy, he's become a bloated ghost. Still off to one side, as if he's still waiting for Mo to come back, shoulders bunched up at his ears, one hand protective of his pint. Last time I saw him, those hands were bandaged. Now when he shows his palms, I can see the scar tissue shine like plastic.

“You got a stick,” he says in a low slur. “What happened to you anyway? I heard something like fuckin'
popped
in your brain.”

I don't answer, don't react. Make it obvious to him that he's not going to wind me up. Instead, I clear my throat and say, “I asked you a question, Barry.”

He tightens his fingers around his pint, takes a large swallow that spills out and leaves his lips wet and shining. After he puts the glass down, he looks at me straight, his eyelids still heavy. “Last time I saw Mo, you threatened to kill him.”

“Really,” I say.

“Remember that?” He's genuinely interested.

“Yeah. I remember.”

Mo was slumped on the carpet right where I'm standing now, his hands up over his face, a large blood bubble from the wad of chewed meat that used to be his nose and top lip. And I stood over him with broken, bloody hands.

“I see you anywhere near Paulo, near the lads that go to his place, near the club, near me, I'm going to kill you on sight.”

I look at Baz's scarred hands, see blackened walls and the sick grin on Mo's face that meant him and his two mates were behind it all. But he's still lying, having a pop at me because he's pissed up and amused at the state I'm in. Reckons I'm a far cry from the bloke who dragged Mo Tiernan over a table and beat him until my knuckles broke.

“You haven't …
seen
him. Since then?”

“Who?” he says, squinting at me.

Still playing games.

“Mo.”

“Ah, Mo.” He shifts in his seat, taps the side of his pint glass. “Aye, you're right.”

“So, when?”

“I need a slash,” he says.

Baz knocks his pint into a wobble as he tries to pull himself from behind the table. A guy in a tweedy jacket with the smell of years-old whisky sweat on him shifts towards me as Baz lurches past. I make the mistake of putting a hand on the guy's arm, and my fingers come away damp. With what, I don't want to know.

“Baz,” I say as he moves towards the toilets.

He doesn't answer, pulls a face as if he's thinking about knocking me down, and as he does his skin creases, showing wrinkles that weren't there the last time I saw him. Now I see him moving, I notice the weight on him, too, and I wonder how long it's been. Can't be any more than five months, but there's been some damage done in that time.

When I look up, Baz has already gone, headed for the gents. I get up, head to the short corridor that houses both sets of toilets, and I lean on the old cigarette machine. I'm not about to follow him in. Bad memories associated with that particular pisser, and I like the idea of being out in the open just in case the drink makes Baz handier than usual. That way, at least I've got plenty of witnesses.

Just like when I beat the shit out of Mo. Some of whom are in this afternoon, and they remember me. Something about that incident managed to stick well into their otherwise booze-blasted memory. Looking around the Harvester, I realise that Baz wasn't the only one around here to get older and fatter. They never were a pretty bunch in here, but now it's definitely a pub you walk into drunk for fear of seeing who you're drinking with. The bloke in the tweed glances at me over the rim of his lager. One eye is haemorrhaged and swollen, a dispute ended with a single blow; his nose is a burst strawberry well past its sell-by. When he catches me looking at him, he attempts a Paddington stare. Then he puts down his lager and shouts something at me. I don't make out the words. Sounds like he's barking.

“What'd you say to piss Hamish off?” says Baz.

I put a hand on his chest, nudge him back into the corridor. There's a fizz behind his eyes that tells me he didn't just have a slash.

“When did … you see him?”

“Fuckin' hell, you know what you sound like?” He tilts his head to one side. “You sound like a right fuckin' joey.”

“I know.”

Baz was never like this before. Out of the pair of Mo's lads, it was Rossie who acted the hardcase; he was the one more likely to go aggro on you. But with Rossie absent, Baz seems to have bristled right up, bent himself all out of shape to project an image he needs a wrap of speed to maintain.

And I know why: Baz was the butt of the trio. Used to be, because Mo was the one in charge, he'd put Baz under his boot more often than he'd give him a voice. Now Mo's gone, Baz has had to build himself up like he doesn't need the bloke anymore.

But it's a cowboy job — Baz's problem is he thought he had something to say only while he was forbidden to say it. Now he realises, he's just as fucking useless as Mo told him he was.

“You dealing?” I say.

“Eh? What'd you say, Mong?”

“Speed. You dealing?”

“You got cash on you, maybe I am.”

Shake my head. “You take over, Baz?”

Baz sticks his tongue under his bottom lip, breathing through his nose. “Take over what?”

I grip the handle of my walking stick, lean into him. Smell the booze on his breath. “You and Mo, Baz. Did it not … work out?”

He flinches back, the speed prickling at him. “You what?”

“You know. Mo's gone. You're selling. What happened?”

Baz backs up further, looking at me with wide eyes. There's a smile that keeps trying to sneak its way onto his face, but he won't let it pitch tent because his brain is too busy sifting through possible answers and because Baz is such a thick bastard, it could take a while, even with the speed kicking in. He starts working his mouth, chewing invisible gum. I watch him, blocking his exit back to the main bar, the only close sound the intermittent flush of the urinals.

“What you saying?”

I stare at him. He knows only too well what I'm saying. Wants me to repeat it so he has an excuse to kick off.

“What, that I had summat to do with Mo, is that it?”

“He dead?”

His eyes shock wider for a second. “I didn't say that.”

“Don't fuck about.”

He breathes through his teeth. I can almost hear his heart thumping in his chest. That wrap was a tough one, ripped the water out of him, as he smacks his lips. The only thing he wants right now is a pint, and I'm hardly in a position to get in his way for long. He knows that, too.

“Fuck off.”

Baz steps forward and my first instinct kicks in, which is to stand firm. He slams me into the wall, the impact knocking the wind from me. As I peel myself from the wallpaper, I can't do anything but watch him march out into the main bar.

I take my time, stare at the swirls on the carpet until I catch my breath. Once I'm mobile, I swing out after him, arrive at the bar just as Baz gets his pint. He picks up the glass, raising it to his mouth as I double-grip my walking stick and swing at him.

The rubber end of the stick catches the edge of his glass, whips it out of his hands and into the bottles lined along the back bar. There's a terrific crash, shit lager spraying the bar, Baz and anyone within a four-foot radius. The landlord, a fucking bull of a man with more tattoos than skin, shouts: “The fuck d'you think you're playing at?”

I'm staring at Baz. Fucking fearless. Bring it on.

He turns to me, sucking beer from his thumb, looks like some giant psychotic baby. Thoughts churning, he's trying to work out what to do, whether to give in to the simple chemical urge to break me down quick and nasty.

“Talking to
you
, you fuckin' cunt.” The landlord again, getting closer. “The fuck you think you are, you spastic fuck, come in here—”

“Morris Tiernan,” I say.

I don't need to see the landlord to know he's stopped in his tracks. Don't need to hear him to know he's wondering what the hell Morris Tiernan has to do with his wrecked back bar. But he's not about to ask any questions. I might as well have said Candyman five times into his cracked bar mirror.

“He wants to know.” I take a breath. “Where his son is.”

The landlord doesn't say anything. Neither does Baz, but he's gone grey and he's stopped staring at me, started staring
through
me. And with the speed well in his system by now, those thoughts have jumped the rails, become full-tilt paranoid.

“We need to talk,” I tell him. “Like fuckin'
adults
.”

He looks around him as if he's just sobered up after a fortnight drunk, wondering where the fuck he's ended up. I dig around in my jacket pocket, find my cigarettes and hold the pack out to Baz.

“You want a smoke?” I say.

Baz looks at the Embassys, pitches a sigh, and reaches for the pack.

“Outside, lads,” says the landlord.

“I know.”

Baz reaches for a cigarette, and I nod towards the doors. He trudges out into the street, and I'm not far behind.

INNES