Riven (7 page)

‘Pity.’ Ross pulled on his jacket.

‘Yeah, but we’re professionals, remember?’

Ross dropped her outside her flat in the Merchant City. She lived halfway down Brunswick Street and Ross slowed before the heavy wrought-iron gates that led to her home. She flicked the remote and the rusty gates rolled back, sighing and creaking to reveal an inner courtyard of old stone, mossy and damp, and worn copper tubs of evergreens and ivy. Her home. In the heart of the arty area of Candleriggs, not quite as trendy as the West End but close. Champagne bars sat alongside the Italian Centre, the Scottish Youth Theatre HQ and a myriad of designer shops. Alongside these were boarded-up shops, half-demolished buildings and enough swaggering hooligans to prevent the area from tipping too far towards gentrification. She turned to him. ‘See you in the morning smiler,’ then closed the car door and waited until he had reversed the car through the gates before clicking the remote and watching the gates lock.

Inside her flat she kicked off her boots, dumped her coat over the hallstand, the sole piece of furniture in the hallway. She walked through to the lounge: one white sofa, one small glass coffee table, a CD player and a collection of paintings and prints. Her flat had been described as minimalist by one friend, spartan by another, but she liked the austerity of few possessions and felt suffocated by too much furniture or too many belongings. Except art. Wheeler had left the army with everything she owned crammed into one rucksack – that was as much as she needed in her life. She felt the same about relationships: easy, light and temporary suited her best. She crossed to the window and saw below her the streets glistening with rain, darker where it had pooled into shallow puddles. Lights from other windows illuminated the night but the sky seemed to press down on the city. Christmas trees twinkled from numerous windows and reminded her again to buy decorations. She checked her phone. A text from Imogen – apparently the show had been wonderful. Two more texts from her sister, Jo. Jason was still AWOL, could she go and
FIND HIM
? Wheeler glanced at the clock; it was half past one in the morning. She deleted the texts, went through to the fridge and poured herself a large glass of sparkling water. Flicked through the late-night TV stations. Nothing. Opened the novel she was reading and realised she was too wired to read. Flicked through her collection of Thelonious Monk CDs and chose
Monk’s Dream
. She sat on the sofa sipping her water. Decided to text Jason, not expecting an answer.

She was right.

By two o’clock she was tucked up in bed, snoring gently.

In the East End of the city, in a ground-floor flat in Haghill, Lizzie Coughlin pressed the stub of her cigarette onto an upturned saucer, taking the time to grind the ash into tiny flecks before reaching for her mobile phone and checking for missed calls. There were none. No texts either. Nothing. She took the phone across to the window and stared out. Haghill was deserted at this time of the night except for a thin dog, its ribs clearly visible through its coat, wandering through the rain and stopping for a moment to sniff the air before deciding which way to continue. Behind her, her canary, Duchess, moved a little on her perch. Coughlin’s voice was scratched with nicotine when she spoke to the bird. ‘It’s okay Duchy hen, you go to sleep, I’ll see you in the morning.’ Coughlin scrolled down the numbers on her phone, stopped at Mason’s. She started texting furiously:
M where the fuck r u? Get ur arse back here
. Pressed send and heard the chirp of the phone tell her the message had been successfully sent. She waited for a few minutes but heard nothing. She cursed Mason loudly before opening the door to her bedroom and going inside.

Like other sprawling European cities, Glasgow’s ongoing renovation and regeneration had encountered problems. Changes had been enforced in the city and some of the new-world, architecturally envisioned incentives perched nervously beside the resistant old-world buildings. In various parts of Glasgow, shiny new buildings were thrown up in isolation and conflicted with the barren wastelands and derelict tenements that often sat a short stroll away. In the progress-versus-tradition argument, the old pub sat firmly on the traditional, wasted-to-fuck side. Its boarded-up windows were doubly secured with wire mesh and the reinforced door bore the scars of a recent unsuccessful arson attempt. The area was almost desolate; empty premises mourned a displaced or long-dead community and rain battered on corrugated iron nailed across shop fronts. What sign of life there was, came in daylight hours when the bookies and the cut-price booze shop were open and then pale, wasted bodies slipped in and out of each establishment, carefully counting out money to be lost or slugging hard and desperately from bottles encased in brown paper bags.

Maurice Mason stood in the shadows across the road from the pub. He was wearing a second-hand navy-blue imitation-Crombie coat, black chinos, black DM boots and a thick gold bracelet around his wrist. He was bald and drops of rain clung to his skull, like sweat. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his coat. His pallor was grey. He studied the pub entrance. A few of the neon letters over The Smuggler’s Rest had been smashed and the sign now read ‘The muggers Rest’. Crudely stapled to a noticeboard were four A4 photocopied sheets of paper advertising nightly pole-dancing,
Girls, Girls, Girls
, until three a.m. Mason waited. The pub door opened and a couple staggered down the side alleyway. They were soon followed by a second couple. The women in both couples were identical twins. Heather and Shona Greg had followed their mother into the profession. And their mother had followed her own mother before that. The twins both wore silver platform boots and Shona was already hiking her miniskirt up around her waist as she entered the alley. Two minutes later Shona walked back out, the man walking ahead of her, zipping his fly and turning away from the pub. Shona turned into the doorway, shoved a five-pound note into her plastic handbag and tugged her skirt back into place. A few minutes later Heather emerged behind the second man. As he walked away, she bent over and spat heavily on the road before following her sister back into the pub.

Mason crossed the road and went inside. Behind the bar an obese man, his face smothered by tattoos, looked up. ‘Mason you old bastard, you out already?’

‘Looks like it, Sonny.’ Mason smiled, baring his teeth.

Sonny returned the same smile. ‘Time flies, eh?’

‘Aye, it does.’

‘How goes it?’

Mason tried to keep his voice even. ‘No too bad.’

‘Nah, been in for longer myself. The Bar-L’s no the worst of places.’

‘Not the worst,’ Mason agreed.

‘Cosy wee place.’

‘Aye, sometimes gets a bit crowded though. And I fucking hate that you can’t wear your own gear.’ He patted the lapel of his coat as if stroking a kitten.

In the corner of the bar the sound system cranked into life and a small, skinny woman in her late forties took to the floor, gyrating around a steel pole. After a few seconds she began tugging at the red nylon Santa outfit she was wearing.

The barman shook his head, ‘Fucking mental that Gail. Told her it’s one size fits all but can she stop clawing at herself? Can she fuck. It’s no hygienic and it puts the punters off.’

‘Mibbe she’s got worms?’ sniggered Mason.

‘Naw, it’s worse,’ said Sonny.

Mason watched Gail dance. Recognised the signs: features exhausted by a long and committed diet of alcohol, drugs and violence. A jagged scar ran from thigh to knee. Thin strands of peroxide hair clung limply to her misshapen skull as she gyrated against the pole. Her eyes were already dead.

Mason glanced around the room. ‘That Gail looks knackered.’

‘Well spotted, Mason.’

‘Can you no dae any better than that, Sonny?’

‘Nabody else willing to dae it, wages we pay.’

‘You one of they not-for-profit organisations then?’

‘Aye very funny. I’ve got overheads like every other fucker in this business.’

Mason risked another furtive glance. ‘Anybody still knocking about these parts or have things moved on since I was inside?’

‘Jamieson or McGregor or what? Who are you looking for?’

Mason’s voice was low. ‘Either or. Mibbe no one. Just trying to get the lie of the land, that’s all.’

‘Okay, well Weirdo took a look in earlier. On the hunt for somebody. Didnae say who. Doyle I haven’t seen for donkey’s and the rest don’t bother – they like tae be seen in classy wine bars. A bit more upmarket, where the money is.’

Mason licked his lips.

‘But there’s been a wee upset lately.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Course you’ve probably heard.’

‘Go on.’

‘Guy name of Gilmore got mashed.’ He studied Mason’s face, waited for a response, maybe recognition. Got nothing. Gave up. ‘You been hame yet tae see Lizzie?’

Mason shook his head. ‘Cannae be arsed. I fancy becoming a freelancer, flying solo.’

‘That right?’

‘Aye, commitments just drag ye down.’

‘Totally agree, Mason. Family and commitments, can’t see the point of either myself. I had tae clear my old man’s house last year after he died. House was full of shite. Should’ve just put a match tae it and watched it burn.’

‘Aye, you should’ve just torched it,’ Mason agreed, watching Gail claw at her crotch.

‘Took most of it to the skip. A few bits and pieces I sold. Hardly worth the bother.’

‘Nae inheritance tax tae keep ye up all night worrying then, Sonny?’

‘Nuthing keeps me up at night, Mason, it’s called a clear conscience. Whit about you? You got big plans with all this talk of freelancing?’

Mason felt the package in his pocket. ‘I’ve got a wee plan. A friend of mine in the jail’s got me ontae something.’

‘Oh aye, whit’s that then?’

‘Let’s just say that I’ve come intae a bit of merchandise; it’ll give me a wee income.’

‘Merchandise?’

‘Aye, I think it might roll and roll.’

‘And I suppose it’s top secret?’

‘Correct.’

‘You staying for a pint or are ye just farting in the wind?’

‘Might as well have a pint, if the coast’s clear. Pint of heavy.’

He paid and took his drink to a table at the back of the room. Mason made a point of sitting with his back to the wall, giving him a clear view of the door. He took out the package and looked inside. Saw the home-made video his cellmate Davey Tenant had made all those years ago. Smiled. Piece of luck Davey and him sharing a cell and Davey telling him where to find the video when he got out. They were splitting the money 50/50. Mason paused, thought about the money, what he could do with it, then he put the package back in his pocket.

‘All in good time,’ he muttered to himself. He sat back, ignored the come-on from the twins and watched the scarred Gail gyrate and twirl, lost in a world of her own.

Outside the rain fell in sheets against the building, hammering on the roof and pouring from the gutters as if the water were trying to sluice the old pub from the city and make room for something cleaner and less contaminated.

By four a.m. the rainfall, which had waned temporarily, began increasing again and with it the wind. Rows of streetlights struggled to emit their glow as the weather settled in over them and to walk any distance from their dim light meant that visibility was poor. No matter, Weirdo knew what he was doing. He parked the car in a residential street a quarter of a mile away and walked back to London Road in the downpour, his biker boots squelching over concrete pavement. Eventually he stopped at the edge of the graveyard wall and breathed in. The night air was heavy with earth and wet and decay. The wind shrieked and howled past his ears and pawed at his coat; his Mohican lay crushed and flat under his black beanie hat. Raindrops fell on his skin and rolled down his face. He took a few steps back and then half jogged, half ran towards the lowest part of the wall and began clambering over. Lichen had woven itself through the stones, making it difficult to climb, and he slipped and slithered over the wall.

On the other side he landed heavily, rasped a cough and doubled over trying to get his breath. The bottle rattled against the lighter in his pocket and the smell of petrol cut through the sodden air.

He crept on through the graveyard, stumbling over toppled headstones and discarded debris, empty bottles and syringes nestled beside tinfoil and used needles. His biker boots crunched on broken glass and the sound reverberated around the abandoned graveyard.

He paused.

Waited.

Listened.

Nothing.

Weirdo started on again. Felt the rain smear his face. Heard the wind wail through naked trees and wind its way around ancient headstones, loud enough to summon the dead.

Finally he reached the far wall and scrambled over. He fell hard on the frozen ground and heard the crack of his knee against stone. ‘Fuck Fuck Fuck.’ He felt for the pain, blood on his leg, designer jeans ripped at the knee and then he whispered a curse to a man already dead, ‘You cunt, Gilmore. Fuck you to hell and back.’

Weirdo limped on, taking a wide skirt around the dirt track where the police car was parked. He kept under the cover of shadows until he was at the back door of the house. Christ, his knee hurt. He felt for the knife in his pocket, slashed the air silently. The police tape offered no resistance to his blade. He slid the Yale key into the lock. Once inside, he stood in the darkness, listened to the silence, waited for his heartbeat to slow, then he quickly stuffed the rag into the bottleneck, flicked his thumb on the lighter and when the flame caught, hurled the bottle against the wall and heard it shatter. The flames rose, catching the hem of the filthy curtains and devouring them in seconds, then searched greedily for more to consume.

Weirdo bolted, running and gasping through the freezing night air, the metal stud raw against the tender flesh of his nipple. Bleeding hard. Like his knee. Pain, adrenaline, the fire already blazing behind him. On he went, cursing and running. Not looking back. Trusting himself and the job he had done.