The Sin Bin (2 page)

Hound of
Culann

He was your typical
'
Troubles are over, my arse
'
Ulsterman. Tats. Sovereign rings. A
swagger you could dry clothes on and a number-one to the nut. They were ten a
penny in the city now. Usually, I
'
d have sent him packing with a brick up his hole but the well-used
Webley in his waistband said he meant business.

I knew right off what he was here for.

I knew right off I didn
'
t have it.

There was a crowd of say, eight, nine
people between us. Good ol
'
boys sucking back stout, stocking up for a shot at the local hoors. None that
would move to pull a greasy stick out of a dog
'
s arse, or a lit firework for that matter.

'Any service going, mate? Murder a
beer.' I stood up to meet the barman as he rose, slapping the local rag down on
the bar-top.

'Beer?' he said.

'Yeah, two ...  one for me and ...'

He lifted a hand, I thought he was
flagging me shut-the-fuck-up, 'What kind?'

'Come again?'

'Look, lad, I
'
ve got beers and beers.'

The hard-nut was two yards off, homing
in on me, 'Right, right, eh ... the Deuchars
'
ll do.'

The barman softened. Ironed out his
creased brow, said, 'Good choice.'

I watched him slide off, caught sight
of two scab-cracked elbows poking through his flannel. The fuck was I doing
here? I had Marie now, waiting. I
'
d promised her.

A sovereign-ringed hand pounded the
bar.

****

Culann had said take it easy, but take
it. I remembered the words because I
'
d followed them to the letter.

'Time and place is all I need,' I said.

'You
'
ll get a call. Don
'
t
miss it. Don
'
t question it. Don
'
t even respond. You got it?'

'Sure mate, no need to boil up yer
piss.'

Culann had the appearance of what he
was, a parasite. A fat fuck. A lazy, loose-moralled — scrub that — amoral,
piece of shit. He let his heavy lids hang on his bloodshot eyes for a moment or
two then he flashed his tongue like a lizard, 'You straight?'

'Mate, you know I am ... I fuck up you
go medieval on my arse, Culann, that
'
s not happening.'

I had him. The eyes sunk back in his
fat head. His face played that moronic expression he wore most days. Only this
wasn
'
t most days for him, or
for me.

****

I felt a tap on my shoulder. Not
gentle, but a lot less than I was expecting. These big guys, all talk and no
trousers. It
'
s the size, the
sheer scale that usually excuses them from any kind of conflict. Pound to a
pail of shite, the jaw
'
s never
been tested. I mean really tested. As I turned, suddenly, I wasn
'
t for trying the theory.

'Gilmour.'

'Who
'
s asking?'

The knuckle-dragger removed his hand
from the bar. Put his dark eyes on me, 'That wasn
'
t a question.'

From the pocket of his cheapo leather
he produced a picture of me, dropped it on the bar. I could hardly look, I was
with Culann; I
'
d never wanted
out the life more.

'Looks like you got me.'

A nod. No change on his face though,
that ancient Scots' wisdom thing going on. I tried a smile. Nothing.

The barman arrived with the Deuchars. 'Get
them down ye!'

'Cheers, mate.' I picked up the pints,
offered one to the big fella.

'I don
'
t touch alcohol.'

I knew at first sight of him that he
was probably pumping his arse with steroids, so should have sussed he wasn
'
t gonna touch the cold stuff.

The barman was appalled. 'That
'
s a fucking good beer you
'
re turning up, boy!'

'No worries, won
'
t go to waste,' I told him.

The pug disagreed, said, 'Oh, I think
it might.'

He picked up the pint glass, snatched
mine with his other hand, then smashed them both together, right in front of my
face. Shards and beer splashed over the floor. 

The place fell silent.

Then, 'Get your fucking arse out to the
car, Gilmour.'

****

The call had come at 2.20 a.m.

I took the details and climbed out of
bed. I had an old Golf GTi, never failed me, purred into action first turn of
the key.

The streets were quiet heading out
through Liberton. I'd rented a bungalow in Corstorphine to keep everything as
low key as possible. Was ready to cut and run after a of couple days but stuck
it out to get the job done. Right down to the 9-5 appearance, suit from
Markies, the lot.

The call dropped me the details of a
Midlothian gaff, out near Straiton. I needed to push the Golf to make the time,
but I
'
d been cruising the
suburbs so long, figured the burn would do it good.

When I pulled in there was a set of
pimped-up 4X4s in the road outside, Toyotas with the full chrome roll-bar kits.
My instructions were simple, take the crate from the local boyos, the one
marked Edinburgh Airport, and bring it back to Culann.

In and out.

Pass GO and collect two grand.

If only it was so simple.

'So, that
'
s the crate?' I asked the homeboy, Nike cap on backwards, barely a
tooth in his gob.

'Yeah, mate ... that
'
s Culann
'
s beast.'

'Y'what?'

'In there. The dog!' He seemed
confused, a look that said he
'
d
just been anally-probed. Something told me he preferred doing the probing
himself.

'You're shitting me, yeah? No one said
a thing about a dog.'        'Mate, why do you think there
'
s so much interest ... it
'
s a fucking champion in the pit.'

I put a torch on the crate. Sure enough
there was a livestock stamp and clearance papers attached.

'Well, bugger me ...'

The two shit-heads laughed, started to
slap each other on the back, then, 'Mate ... this hound
'
s a fucking killer.'

I pulled the top layer of the paper
covering the crate and steadied the torch. There was a little movement inside.
Then two yellow eyes flashed for a second and the dog threw itself at me,
snarling and barking. The fucker went ape.

'You sure about this?'

'Bloody right!' said the mouthy one. He
took off his cap and scratched his head, then, 'Look, I got the word on this
coming through from America ... I work the airport, greased its arse you might
say.'

'But it
'
s a fighting dog.' Culann had pulled some shit, but bringing in
beasts like this was a new low, even for him.

'Mate, Culann's putting on the fucking
fight of the century!'

'So why haven
'
t I heard about it?'

'
'
Cos if you had, maybe some mad bastard would get the idea of
stealing the fucker.'

The pair of them laughed themselves
stupid. It didn
'
t take long. I
couldn
'
t watch. The two grand
seemed like small potatoes when weighed against the fact I'd be reading about
this beast tearing some toddler's arm off sooner or later. Then there was the
bigger picture and the opportunity it presented me.

'Boys ... you have a point.'

The laughter stopped flat. 'What?'

The pair looked like I
'
d just torched the 4X4s sitting behind us.
I guessed there
'
d be plenty
more opportunities for them to make a killing cherry-picking the cargo bays,
but this deal, I decided, wasn
'
t
paying them.

'On the road.'

'Y
'
what?'

I took the shooter from my belt. 'There
'
s been a change of plan ...'

****

'So, how do I know you
'
re who you say you are?'

The pug didn
'
t even blink, in a flash he had me pressed against the driver
'
s door of the Golf, an armlock so tight you
could jack-up the car with it.

'I didn
'
t come here to be fucked over ... there
'
s a time factor and not to mention the limits of my patience.'

I
'
d been hardballed before. 'There
'
s also the fact that I
'
m the one with all the cards here ... now get your fucking mitts off
me or there
'
s gonna be one
thirsty, hungry dog gnawing at the confines of a crate till it keels.'

He twisted harder, said, 'Anything
happens to Culann
'
s dog ...'

'You
'
ll what, break my arm?' I let him get the taste of that for a while,
then, 'What do you think it is today, about four-below? ... Fucking cold out
for sure. Beast
'
ll be lucky to
survive the night.'

'Okay, what d
o
you
want?' said Culann
'
s lump.

'Just what we agreed.'

He loosened off his hold. Stepped back.
I could tell he thought I was making a mistake. That I
'
d be lucky to see the week out. But my conscience was clear. I was
doing the right thing; Marie would agree. I
'
d already queered the deal for Culann, put my arse in a sling, there
was no going back now ... I needed reassurances.

The pug pulled down on his collar,
looked out to the horizon. 'Culann
'
s losing patience.'

'You know what I want.'

'Gilmour. You
'
re out. No bastard will work with you now ... Just don
'
t get any ideas about a challenge, that
would be fatal. He dropped his chin and laughed. 'I
'
d be going far, far away ... I hear Tasmania
'
s nice.'

'And the cash?'

He pulled a Jiffy-bag from inside his
leather, 'You
'
re paid up.'

I ripped open the seal. All sound.

It was getting colder. I shielded my
eyes from the wind, brushed a layer of muck from the top of the Golf.

'Come here,' I said.

He followed me round to the front of
the car. I wet a finger on my tongue, started to draw a map in the bonnet
'
s grime. 'The dog
'
s tucked up in an old barn about three miles from here ...'

He left so quickly, looked so
gladdened, I never had time to utter the words, 'Sorry I broke the cunt
'
s neck ... But, fair play, it had gone for
me.'

Last Orders

(a Gus Dury
story)

There was something about this prick
that got me thinking.

I took a deck at his shoes, brogues.
His type have a name for the colour, ox-blood. I wear Docs, same colour, I call
them cherry. Go figure.

He strolled over, 'Mr Dury, I have
something to say and I will not ...'

He stopped flat.

I put the bead on him. My hand went up,
slowly.

'Yes ...' It was a question, really,
the pause told me. Like I needed the nod, too, that I clocked as affectation.

'Call me Gus, I hear the mister in
there, I think you're after money, or worse, mistaking me for my old man.' The
bold Cannis Dury was not a man you'd like to be confused with. Trust me on
that.

He looked to the ceiling. Huffed. Was
that a tut? I let it slide.

I stood.

He said: 'A-hem, are you?'

'Leaving? Oh yes.'

'But we have business.'

'You think?'

That was when I noticed the tweed cap
in his hands. He twisted it like he was wringing the neck of a pheasant on his
country estate. It boiled my piss. I'm working class, c'mon, it's in the
contract.

I reached the street in a heartbeat, as
they say Stateside, tugging the zipper on my denim jacket. I know, sacrilege:
buttons are the thing for denim — go tell Mr Wrangler. These days, fashion, the
whole world, don't get me started.

The hand on my shoulder told me I'd
been followed out. That, I did not like. Too close to keeping tabs. Or worse,
control.

'I have a daughter and she is no longer
contactable through the proper channels,' he said, a pause, then, 'Gus.'

The proper channels? He spoke of his
daughter like he was some ponytailed ad-man at a PowerPoint presentation.

I eyeballed him, 'And this is my
problem, why?'

I sensed his distaste at the way I
talked, not my accent, though that was bad enough — heavy on the Leith — what
got him was what riled teachers in school, made them say, 'The temerity!'

He looked skyward. Wanted to bolt, turn
on his heels, throw up his hands. In the days of Empire, I'd be flogged where I
stood.

He checked himself, two yellow
tombstones bit down on his lower lip. His pallor was grey as concrete. He
spoke, slowly, 'I believe you are a man of some ... reputation.'

I allowed myself a blink. Only the one,
mind you.

He went on, 'You have, I understand,
some background.'

'Background?'

'I took the liberty of, oh what's the
demotic? Checking you out.'

The hand again. I blocked his words.
Funny how, you're in a situation, you act out old habits.

'And how did you manage that?' I said.

There was a spit of rain in the air,
threatened more of the same. In Edinburgh it could be coming down in stair rods
inside a minute. He sussed this too. 'Mr Dury, can we return indoors?'

His face changed shape. I'd seen the
look before, what the Scots call, thrawn. I thought, fuck the ox-blood brogues,
if he's buying then why not?

Truth told, it was close to last orders
anyway.

****

There were one or two old soaks
propping up the bar, bluenoses with tractor tracks cut in their brows. Rough's
the word. I knew I'd be there soon enough myself, but was there a point in
hastening it? I ordered up a Guinness anyway — and a double whisky chaser.

'A malt?' said ox-bloods.

'Is there another kind?' Like I was
settling for a blend on his time and dime.

We collected our drinks and headed for
the snug. I felt like sparking up, had a pack of Rothmans raring to go, but the
smoking ban had me beat to the punch.

The pint of dark settled a craving,
tasted like old memories. I was heading for the wee goldie when himself removed
his scarf, revealing a dog collar. 

'You're Church?'

'I am, yes, Church of Scotland ... does
that makes a difference?'

The short answer was, 'Yes', the easy
one was, 'Should it?'

'That would be an ecumenical matter.'

I picked up my pint again, supped,
said, 'I believe you're right ... can we skip it, get down to business?'

'Indeed.'

His name was Urquhart. A Church of
Scotland minister from the North; the trip to Edinburgh had left him, he said, 'Unsettled'.

'How come?'

'I have what you might call, no good
reason to be here.'

Hadn't we all. 'Should I get my coat?'

'No. No. Please, if you'll indulge me,
Mr Dury.'

'Gus.'

'Of course ... Gus.'

He played with the lid on his mineral
water, Highland Spring,
still
. Sparkling just too exciting an option no
doubt. 'My daughter ...'

'Yeah, you mentioned her.'

'I'm afraid, she has, erm, well ... it's
rather embarrassing, gone missing.'

Embarrassing? Somehow, that didn't seem
the right word. A daughter gone from home was a cause for sleepless nights, not
a cause for losing face. I eyed him cautiously over my pint, gave him some more
rope.

'She got herself mixed up with the
wrong crowd some time ago, my parish is a very poor community, we once had
mines but they are long gone and I'm afraid in their wake came some rather
extreme views.'

I knew pit communities had it tough
after Thatcher, they lost their livelihood so the old bitch could prove a
point. Some got paid off, a few grand to piss up the wall; they called them
six-month millionaires.

'Extreme?'

'Well, yes ... anarchists, Mr Dury.'

'Go, on ...'

He poured out the rest of his mineral
water, drank deep, he had quite a thirst on him. I knew the territory. 'My
daughter, Caroline, she was a very wilful child and ...'

'Whoa, back up ... was? What makes you
think we're talking past-tense here, Minister?'

He bridled, removed a handkerchief and
wiped his palms, 'A figure of speech, I have no reason to believe ... I mean, I
have nothing to go on, Gus, that is why I have come to you.'

I'd say one thing for him, he had my
attention. These days, my situation, wedded to a bottle of scoosh and forty,
scrub
that
, sixty, smokes a day, that was no mean feat. I pressed him for some
details, jotted them down.

'I'll need five-hundred in advance and
another five when I conclude.'

'Conclude?'

'That's right ... I don't have a
crystal ball, Minister. I go digging, what I find is what I find. What I get is
a grand for my trouble. We understand each other?'

He nodded and took out a cheque book.

'Cash.'

'I'll have to go to a bank.'

'Then, let's.'

I drained my pint.

On the way out the door, Urquhart
placed a hand on my elbow, spoke softly, 'One more thing, I neglected to
mention ...'

'Yeah?'

'My daughter, I believe, is ... with
child.'

****

The papers had been full of scare
stories coming out of the hospitals. We had a dose of superbugs rampaging
through them. Resistant to treatment, the red-tops said it was the new plague.
I'd watched a documentary about the issue, doctors were in the clear, so were
nurses, the blame was being planted firmly at the feet of immigrant workers. I'd
been a hack and knew a beat-up story when I heard one. Everyone needs a
scapegoat: welcome to Scotland, scapegoats a speciality, we've a history
littered with them.

I traipsed through the main doors of
the Royal Infirmary and looked for the maternity ward. Figured a young girl —
Urquhart had said she was barely sixteen — wouldn't be too hard to find. Women
were having kids later and later, right? Wrong. They had a ward full of them.
Gym-slip mums they called them in my day. Christ knows what they called them
now ... Britney had kids, last I looked, it was probably the fashion. 

I grabbed a nurse as she passed me in
the corridor, 'Hello, there ...'

I was eyed with suspicion, got, 'Yes.'

'I was wondering if you might be able
to help me.'

Now I got the full head-to-toe eyeball,
'Visiting hours are four till six.'

'No, sorry, I'm not visiting. I'm just
looking for someone.'

'Looking for someone?'

'Yes, a girl ... name of Urquhart,
about sixteen.' I knew the chances of her using her own name were slim to none
but chanced it.

'Are you a relative?'

The boat was out, so I pushed it
further, 'Yes. I'm her brother.'

I knew at once she wasn't buying it. I
was only in my thirties, but the sauce had added a few years to the dial of
late.

'Do you have any identification?'

I stalled, 'Can I show you a picture of
her?' Urquhart had supplied a photo, a few years old I'd say. Caroline was
still in school uniform, one of those dreadful posed, say-cheese numbers that
everyone has tucked away in a sideboard at their parents
'
home. Not me, though. What I have tucked
away at my parents' home is skeletons.

The nurse took the photograph from me,
looked at it, said, 'This girl has red hair.'

'Yeah?'

'And blue eyes.'

'You caught that.'

'If you and her are related then I'm a
monkey's uncle.'

I snatched back the picture, 'Are you
in charge here.'

'I'm the ward sister.'

'Well look, sister, this young lass is
missing, her father is very concerned and if I don't find her soon who's to say
what might happen to her.'

I got hands on hips from her. 'I'm
calling the police.'

'Y'what?'

'If you're not off this ward, and out
of this hospital, in the next thirty seconds, I'm calling the police.'

I pocketed the photograph. Turned and
fired out, 'Nice bedside manner you have there.'

A finger was pointed to the door.

'Out!'

'Don't worry, I'm gone.'

I felt a torrent of abuse at my back
and caught the words, 'come in here stinking of drink'. I knew I'd reached the
end of one line of inquiry.

****

Before I got my jotters from the
paper, I had a helper. Not quite an assistant, more a Girl Friday. Amy was work
experience, had a thing for old movies with journalists cracking big stories.
Had a thing for old journalists too, but that's another story. I caught up with
her in Deacon Brodie's pub on The Mile. 

On any given day of the week, Amy, you
can bet your hat, is dressed to impress. She sauntered in, white mules, white
jeans (skin-tight) and a pillar-box red crop top that showed a stomach so flat
you could eat your dinner off it. The diamanté stud in her navel, you could
argue was over the top, but who'd listen.

'Gus boy, how do?'

'Mair to fiddling.' That's a Scots
spoonerism for you; does it have a meaning? Does anything?

Amy settled herself at the bar, ran her
fingers through long black hair. She was a show stopper, men's eyes lit up like
Chinese lanterns about the place. 

'I need your help?'

She ordered a rum and coke; got the
fastest service I'd ever seen, 'Yeah, help with what?'

'A case.'

A smile. Wide, a from the heart job, 'Great!'

'Calm down, I wouldn't get too excited about
this one.'

'Work's work ... beats staying home
watching
Antiques Roadshow
.'

'Maybe not this one ... I warn you, I
don't see much scope for excitement.'

'I'm an excitable girl! Try me.'

I gave her the details. My main concern
was just what was behind Urquhart's tale.

'You think he's hiding something?' said
Amy.

'Dunno.'

'He's a minister, though.'

'There's no sin but ignorance.'

'Is that a quote?'

'Sure is.'

****

I stood in the car park of the Royal
Infirmary. I couldn't believe I was about to do this, had to call and double
check.

'Fitzsimmons, please?'

'Inspector Fitzsimmons, connecting you
now.'

Fitz the Crime and I went way back. In
my time on the paper I'd kept a couple of his indiscretions out of the
headlines. Plod tends to turn a blind eye to its own lot's peccadilloes, but
seeing them in print is a whole other matter.

'Hello.'

'Fitz, I wanted to check ...'

'Dury, by the feckin' cringe, what in
the name of Christ are ye doing calling me here?'