Gutted (14 page)

‘
Gotcha
.’

‘Then let’s do this.’

First out the door was Mac. He schlepped over to the red Golf. I saw plod following his every move. They never saw Hod approach and put a knock on the driver’s window.

‘Morning, chaps. How goes it today?’ he said.

The window was wound down; a head popped out.

‘I saw you sitting out here and I was thinking to myself, Poor buggers – bet they never even get a break for a bit of breckie.’

Hod passed in the tray. Hands went up. Heads went down. They checked out what the go was with all the smiling and the free scran. They never saw Mac creeping behind to pack the exhaust flange with a damp bar towel.

‘So, you’ll be the early shift?’ Hod said, his mock-bonhomie at full blast. ‘Beats the graveyard shift, eh?’

Plod took over the tray, seemed a bit conflicted. He said, ‘I can’t discuss that kind of thing . . . Look, who the hell are you?’

I started to hear whistling: if I wasn’t wrong,
The Great Escape
. Mac sauntered round to the front of the car. As he passed Hod he gave a little tap on his back. In no time at all, he was behind the wheel of the van, starting up. He had the side door open for me to dive in before plod rumbled.

We pulled out.

The red Golf revved high. Then cut out. Revved again. Cut out.

There was some serious burn from within the engine. Lots of smoke. Suddenly the Golf’s wheels screeched into the street, all of five yards, then the car stalled.

Hod smiled as I checked him in the rear-view. I said to Mac, ‘Nice work, fella.’

His short arms wrestled with the big steering wheel, wide turning circle playing havoc with the needle tickling sixty. ‘Turned out quite well, I thought.’

I grinned. ‘Tell me, the towel . . . where did you get that idea?’

‘Flash of genius, wasn’t it? Truth told, I snaffled it.’

‘From who?’

‘Eddie Murphy.’

I turned in my seat. Mac scrunched the gears, pulled out into traffic, said, ‘
Beverly Hills Cop
. . . He used bananas, though. We were out of them, but the bar towel did the trick.’

I had to laugh. Put the Eddie Murphy
eeh-eeh-eeh
in there, said, ‘Get the fuck outta here!’

We snaked through traffic for a few minutes, working the bus lanes to get as far away from the Wall – and plod – as quickly as possible. We did well – Mac might have made a wheelman in another incarnation. I knew the bus route to Sighthill, but Mac was taking me – there’s a phrase –
all around the houses
.

‘You’re sure about this?’ he said.

‘Am I sure? Of course I’m sure.’ I wondered why Mac the Knife was asking me this. Had he changed his mind about what we were about to do? ‘Are
you
sure?’

He took his eyes off the road, turned to me. ‘Fucking right.’ He pointed me to a carrier bag at my feet. ‘Check that.’ Inside was a length of rope, tied at one end in a hangman’s noose.

Of all the people I knew, Mac was the last one to go bottling it on me. I said, ‘This wee prick’s got something to hide; I can feel it in my bones.’

He crunched the gears, upped the speed as we took a steep hill with a curve to the left. ‘Well, if the Sid you saw is Sid the Snake, you can bet on that.’

‘I’m sure that Vera Fulton’s got more to give us as well, but this Sid fella was rattled, seriously rattled, when I went round there the last time.’

‘Well, we’ll give him a tug and see what’s what.’

I held on to the handle above the door as Mac tanked it into Sighthill.

‘What’s the Jackanory with him and Rab Hart?’ I said.

‘That’s a tricky one. We definitely don’t want to be pissing Rab off.’

‘Think they’re thick?’

Mac eyed me again. ‘Rab and Sid? . . . I’d fucking doubt it. Sid’s a bottom feeder. He’ll have been running some small-time racket for Rab. My guess, since Sid’s a bookie, it’ll be a book on the dog fighting . . . but hey, you can ask Rab yourself when you get up to the big hoose.’

‘You think that’s likely?’

‘Gus, you better get in and see him. He’ll only send someone for you if you don’t.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Gus, the pug he sent round wasn’t messing about . . . Rab wants to see you like fucking yesterday.’

As we arrived, the jungle bus was pulling in just ahead of us, dislodging a grim cargo of trackie-wearing neds and defeated old folk too afraid to lift their heads from the streets.

‘Look at the state of this,’ said Mac.

‘Tell me. It’s grim as death.’

An old man, so bloated he could hardly walk, was struggling with two Lidl carrier bags at the side of the road. As he waited for a gap in the traffic, two young yobs sneaked up behind him and pulled down his joggers. The bloke was exposed to the world, but too scared to put down his bags for fear they’d be stolen. He struggled to get both bags in one hand before struggling again to hitch up his joggers.

‘The wee bastards,’ said Mac.

The yobs stood at the side of the street laughing it up. Between them they were an advertisement for fluoridation of the water supply – hardly a good tooth in either head.

‘This place is a fucking nightmare.’

‘Think yourself lucky you’re not living here.’

It was on my mind to say ‘Maybe soon’, or perhaps ‘I could be facing worse’, but I let the thought pass without giving voice to it.

We pitched up outside Moosey’s home. The street was deserted, save a few half-starved mongrels that trotted about in packs, sniffing at bin bags and the litter and scraps that blew everywhere.

‘You think those dogs belong to anyone?’ I asked.

‘Aye,’ said Mac, ‘fucking everyone.’

‘What – they’re a feral pack?’

‘What else would you call them? They’re not looked after, that’s for sure . . .’ He sat upright behind the wheel. ‘Oh, hang on: show time.’

Voices came from Moosey’s house. A couple of young yobs emerged, spraffin’ away together and passing a bottle of Woodpecker between them.

‘Thought they’d be on the White Lightning,’ I said.

‘Did you check the clobber?’

‘Can hardly miss Tommy Hilfiger lettering a mile high.’

‘They’re wedged up, those wee bastards.’

‘No question.’

As the young crew schlepped down the street, Mac said, ‘Recognise any?’

‘Nah, not them. They’re about fifteen, sixteen . . . The pricks on the hill were older, eighteen at least. I’d clock them straight off too.’

In a minute, another figure appeared. Shuffling and hunched, leaning over a tab as if it was a life-support machine.

I clocked him straight away. It was Sid, though looking a little less sure of himself than on our last meeting.

‘That the Sid you know?’

Mac squinted over the steering wheel, peered down to the gate where Sid emerged onto the street. ‘That’s the Snake all right. No missing the slimy wee bastard.’

‘Let’s give him a tug.’

Mac took the keys out the ignition. ‘C’mon and boost.’

I climbed out the door, caught sight of Mac putting on a pair of black leather gloves. ‘What’s this? Anticipating bruised knuckles?’

A grunt: ‘Worse than that . . . much fucking worse.’

SID LOOKED SHIFTY
. As he walked down the street he kept turning left to right as if he expected someone to emerge from one of the half-derelict hovels and lay about him. Mac and I watched the Snake with suspicion.

‘What the fuck’s he up to?’

‘Dunno. All very sus,’ I said.

At the end of Moosey’s row, Sid turned left and continued down past the high-rises to another street of mainly boarded-up and deteriorating homes. The pack of dogs had migrated to this end of the scheme and were running about, barking and savaging each other and anything else they could get their jaws around. Sid shuffled through them, let out a few shouts to disperse the pack as he reached the gate at the bourne of his own run-down heap.

Mac prodded me. ‘Round the back.’

I nodded.

In the alley skirting the street, two teenage girls were buzzing lighter fluid. They didn’t look up as we passed, even as I kicked at the canisters around their heels. They were too far gone to register it. I tapped Mac on the arm, shook my head, but he didn’t so much as blink.

The back gardens lined up against the street consisted mainly of grass that had grown out of control, a couple of feet high, and the
usual
schemie detritus – burst couches, wrecked children’s toys, rusting engine parts and the occasional burnt-out car. Sid’s garden was more orderly. For a kick-off it was secured like Fort Knox – a six-foot fence and razor wire over the top of it.

‘What the fuck’s with the wire?’ I said. As we got closer a volley of deep, vicious barking started to rumble from the garden.

Mac didn’t answer. He had a hand-jemmy at the padlock and was already through the gate before I needed to know any more.

The yard was fitted out with some of the same gear as there had been in Moosey’s – treadmills, weights and car tyres with teeth-marks in them. There was a kid of about thirteen standing with a six-foot-long flirt-pole, what looked like a dog’s tail on the end of it, taunting an angry bull terrier that had been tied to a stake.

Mac grabbed the pole, smacked the kid on the side of the head. ‘Beat it, fannybaws.’

The kid shot a hand up to his head, took a look at Mac’s face and ran for the gate. I took the flirt-pole from him, looked at the end of it. The dog snarled and strained as I took the tail into my hands. ‘That’s off a fucking Labrador or something . . . Check it.’

Mac looked uninterested. He’d already located Sid – who was walking towards us. The dog pulled on his rope when he saw his master, his own tail going into motion. Sid carried a racing pigeon in his hands. He saw us in his yard but played it cool: ‘Wee bastard, ain’t he?’

‘The dog?’ said Mac. ‘He’s that.’

‘No’ a patch on the pit bull, though. Yon forty-two-teeth American’s a bastard and a half.’ Sid held up the pigeon. ‘I do the burds as well . . . but they piss me off. This cunt should have been back two days ago. Fucking no good to me!’ He snapped the pigeon’s wing in his hand, dropped the bird to the ground and laughed as it flailed about helplessly. ‘Fucking no good to me!’ He watched the bird complete a few desperate circles, creasing up his hollow cheeks – it was a deep pleasure to him – then he kicked the creature towards the snarling bull terrier.

The dog lunged on the pigeon and caught it in his jaws. He threw it in the air and then pounced on it again before shaking it violently. The dog was still shaking the bird as I looked back at Sid to see him laughing so much he had to take off his big glasses and wipe his eyes.

‘You are one sick fuck,’ said Mac.

‘It’s just some fucking fun; a wee bit of sport.’

‘You what?’

‘Come here.’ Sid motioned us over to the wire mesh cages he kept his dogs in. ‘Look at that.’ He became excited, animated, as he pointed to a fox that was pacing one of the far enclosures. ‘Caught that wee bastard under the pigeon hoose the other night . . . Going to make some pagger, that, eh!’ He was smiling and laughing, rubbing his hands at the thought.

Mac lost it, ‘This guy’s a fucking roach . . . You want me to do him?’

I saw Sid reach for the handle of the enclosure that held the dogs. He was too slow. Mac was close enough to throw a windmill right, decked Sid. As he lay pegged out on the ground I told Mac to pick him up.

‘You better watch yourself, Sid . . . Mac the Knife’s got form for this lark.’

I saw the name registered with him. He spluttered, gripped at his collar with his fingernails and yelled, ‘What the fucking hell do you want with me?’

‘Oh, I think you know . . . You were very reluctant to let me speak to Vera Fulton.’

Mac pressed his forearm hard against Sid’s neck. ‘You poking her? That what the game is here? You were poking Moosey’s wife and decided to do away with him, that it?’

I wanted to congratulate Mac. He was doing a great job of putting the shits up Sid, said, ‘All the more attractive a proposition, given Moosey was holding fifty grand of Rab’s, eh, Sid?’

‘I don’t know what you’re fucking talking about . . . I don’t.’

I glanced at Mac. It was enough. He put a wrecking-ball right
into
Sid’s gut. The gimp bent in two and fell to the ground, clutching at his stomach as though his insides were about to become outsides. Over the chaos the caged dogs went mad, barking and clawing at the wire. I could see a dash of red as the fox tried to leap out. It had no chance.

I bent down, leaned over Sid. His glasses had come off. I picked them up, snapped them in two between the lenses. ‘Shame – they’re broken . . . Might need a wee bit of Elastoplast for them now.’

Sid wheezed, tried for words. Found none.

‘Where did Moosey get the fifty grand?’