The Storm Without
Authors: Tony Black
Tony Black
Published by Blasted Heath, 2012
copyright © 2012 Tony Black
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.
Tony Black has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by JT Lindroos
Photo by Jamie Wylie
Visit Tony Black at:
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-908688-23-1
Version 2-1-3
R.I.P ROBBIE SILVA
Jed Collins, fresh from jail, is struggling to go straight when he hooks up with wild child Gail. Before long Jed's back to blagging with Gail in tow. But Jed has a past, and Gail has a secret about her gangster father she wants to keep under wraps. In R.I.P ROBBIE SILVA, one week in the Scottish capital for Jed and Gail turns into a bloody rollercoaster ride that leads straight to Hell.
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For Cheryl
"The storm without might rare and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle."
—
Tam O'Shanter
by Robert Burns
I knew the place — or should that be
had
known. Auld Ayr Toun had changed. But hadn
'
t we all? I couldn
'
t say I
'
d weathered any better — though I
'
d likely seen as many storms in the two turbulent decades since I
'
d left the town where I grew up, and perhaps knew better than anywhere else in the world.
I watched the wind batter the once-familiar coast, charge the brae as Ailsa Craig sat granite-firm, blanketed in the sea
'
s blackness. I put up the car window and engaged the clutch. The engine purred, spluttered a little on the gear change. I still hadn
'
t adjusted to the TT
'
s biting point. The Audi, likely, had too much poke for me; I was more used to the hammered Mondeos we used in the force.
I shouldn
'
t say
'
we
'
— I wasn
'
t part of the constabulary anymore. Had I moved on, or simply been moved out? I hadn
'
t found an answer to that yet, but I knew Belfast and the RUC was behind me now.
I planted the foot, took a wind of road close in to the gable of a dry-stone dyke. My mind raced into reverse as the twisting coast and glimpses of white sands stretched out before me. I was heading home, to Ayr. To names and places I knew. To Wallace Tower. To Burns Statue Square. To Cromwell
'
s Citadel. The town had a history, much farther reaching than my own, but there was some of it we shared. Those years of my boyhood, my schooling, and the few early years of adulthood when I decided there was more to see beyond the limitations and bournes I
'
d grown so used to.
So, I
'
d moved away. But had I moved on?
Someone once said,
experience is the name a man gives to his mistakes
. I knew I had more than my fair share of experience. And much of it had been mistakes. The wife. The drink. The job. Always the job.
I could still see the day I left home for the force
'
s training at Tulliallan; I
'
d been cocky, full of the arrogance of youth. Ayr was too small for me; it was for people like my parents. The place had nothing to offer me, or so I thought, then.
I had rated my parents as idiots for spending their lives in the same, small place; but now I wondered if I wasn
'
t the idiot. The question had haunted me lately, along with many others: I was questioning everything. Was it my time of life? I didn
'
t know. That was the problem. I didn
'
t know much; my life had become a blank page to me. I was going to have to go back to my roots to make any sense of the mess I
'
d made of everything since I lost the last thing I had: my profession.
'
The Troubles are over, Doug,
'
the Chief Super had told me.
'
At least, they are for you anyway.
'
'
What
'
s that supposed to mean?
'
He
'
d smiled. A wry one.
'
I don
'
t think you need to ask.
'
He was right. It had been an instinctual remark; months of living on my nerves, and Irish coffee, had dulled my senses and sharpened my tongue.
'
Isn
'
t there supposed to be a ceremonial handing over of a cardboard box
…
an invitation to clear my desk?
'
He rose, turned his back on me as he stared out of the large window that overlooked the station car park and the back of the canteen where kitchen staff sat smoking and gossiping in the sharp Belfast air.
'
You don
'
t have a desk ... Not here, not anymore.
'
I felt my blood surge, and a strong urge to rabbit-punch the back of his head. I wanted to smash his smarmy grin into the window, but I found a line of cool, looking back, from God knows where.
'
Well, that doesn
'
t bother me so much,
'
I said.
'
You see, there are some of us that are a little too attached to our desks, but I
'
m not one of them, Chief.
'
He turned, bit.
'
Wisecracks to the end, Doug, eh?
'
His eyes flared. I
'
d got to him. He couldn
'
t hide it. His type never could.
'
Will you ever learn?
'
I let a second or two of stilled silence stretch between us, then,
'
Maybe
…
maybe.
'
I pressed out a grin.
'
I
'
ll have some time to catch the odd Open University slot now, so you never know.
'
He shook his head, made his meaty neck quiver, then crossed the carpet towards his desk. The room around us felt electrified with tension. This was new territory for both of us, and neither of us wanted a return to the old.
'
You can live well on an officer
'
s pension, Doug. Just make sure you live quietly.
'
'
Or
?
'
He let his top lip curl down the side of his face, spoke softly.
'
Or you won
'
t live at all.
'
A full smile erupted.
'
Jesus, Doug, you don
'
t need me to tell you how this town works
…'
Belfast wasn
'
t home anymore.
But Ayr hadn
'
t been my home for a long time either. It had been, once. I remembered: my school days reciting Robert Burns at Ayr Academy, my late teenage years partying at the Bobby Jones; but the race to adulthood and the desire to spread my wings had taken me far from those days.
As I neared the Auld Toun I felt a tightness in my chest. I had been back before, back to see my ailing mother; but they were short stops, passing through. Never more than a week. This was different. This was a
sort of
homecoming; the thought gored me.
I dropped the revs on the Audi, eased past the first few houses that had stretched into what I still knew to be Doonfoot. I
'
d gone north from the airport to collect the car; it had been an impulse buy, a shiny, almost new sports coupe that promised to drive me far away from my troubled past.
I wanted a fresh start, but I was too old for that. I needed familiarity too; and my mother needed me. As I reached the tip of Alloway, the edge of Belleisle, I felt a strange constricting in my guts. Not quite panic, not unease exactly either, but an almost supernatural feeling that I was driving towards old demons, to past hurts, and to more grief. I
'
d no idea where this came from; there was no reason for it. But I couldn
'
t deny it either. I was still a cop inside, and I lived on those instincts; my life had depended on them, more than once.
The tensed stock of energy in my arms made my wrists ache. I loosened my grip on the wheel, took the window down a few inches and
manoeuvred
my face towards the cool breeze. My eyes smarted as the air whipped through the narrow gap in piercing jets, but immediately focus returned, my jaw clamped tight in a vice of shock.
'
Holy
…'
I knew the face; it hadn
'
t changed in nearly twenty years.
I let my foot rise from the accelerator, pressed in the brake. The TT slowed to a near stop as I edged closer to the bus shelter. She was weighed down. As I drew nearer, I saw her 'brows sat furrowed above tired eyes. Something played behind the eyes though, a sharp intelligence tempered with a cruel anxiety. I
'
d seen the look a million times before. It was the look worried mothers brought with them to the station after calls in the wee hours about wayward sons and damaged daughters.
I flicked on the blinkers as I brought the car to a stop. Some rain evacuated from a divot in the tarred road surface beneath the car. I sat staring for a second, toyed with my opener — somehow, it didn
'
t seem right to shout through the window. I eased out the door and stepped onto the road. As I walked towards the bus shelter I watched the solitary figure standing there playing with the strap of her shoulder bag. For a moment, time seemed to alter slightly; the air became thick, muggy. She turned, her already large brown eyes widening as she took me in. A narrow aperture appeared in her lips in an attempt to speak, but no words came from her.
I crossed the few steps from road to kerb; my heartbeat ramped as I reached the woman. My steps felt heavy on the damp pavement; my knees loosened a little. A mash of old memories flooded in, some good, some bad. Past times, when we were both different people.
I watched her turn a stray tendril of dark hair behind her ear as she stared at me.
'
Lyn
…'
The woman before me looked back, seemed to let a pause enter her thoughts, then turned away. I guess it was what you
'
d call a
moment
. The last time I had seen Lyn she was another world away. A lifetime ago. I
'
d met her at Ayr Academy, how or when I couldn
'
t place. She was one of the myriad faces that sat in science class. A girl in a blazer. Long legs on the hockey pitch. A smoker from round the corner at Dansarena. I allowed myself an inward laugh; we were snoutcasts before the smoking ban even existed.
The wind bit, blew a gale down Racecourse Road. I pinched the lapels of my jacket together, felt a shudder pass through me from the wet ground below. My steps fell slowly, soft splashes underfoot. I had a strange feeling turning inside me, a self-consciousness; I was wary in the open. This was Ayr, my old home town: who else was going to appear? Did I want to be
recognised
? Did I want to reconnect? As I eyed Lyn, hunched on the ledge that passed for a seat in the bus shelter, I knew at least I wanted to reconnect with her. I say
want
, the feeling was more of a compulsion than anything else — I was drawn to her.
