Gutted (30 page)

‘Oh . . .’

‘Yes,
oh
. . . Hod, I know you and Mac and maybe one or two others are scheming to get me off the sauce, sorted, into, I dunno, the poor man’s Priory. Hear me now: it’ll never happen.’

Hod put on the indicator, pulled off the bypass at the Loanhead roundabout.

Just before the village was a row of abandoned terrace cottages, old-style red-brick jobs. All boarded up. Like a post-apocalyptic Coronation Street. How, in the city’s mad state of overdevelopment, these had not been snapped up was beyond me. A few flat-pack kitchens, plasterboard walls, we were talking a quarter mil for one of them.

‘You’re not scoping new property, are you?’ I said.

‘Fuck no – Loanheid!’

‘Well, why you slowing down?’

‘This is the first part of the trip, my son.’

‘You what?’

A skinny lad in a blue Lonsdale hoodie came scurrying out of the backyard of the nearest boarded-up terrace. He looked down the street, left to right, then seemed to take a note of the number plate and check it against a list.

‘Here we go. Let me do the talking, Gus.’

‘Go yerself.’

The lad lolled up to Hod’s window, leaned over. He spoke, ‘You know the big man, eh?’

‘Yeah, I know the big man . . . he likes his fishing.’

‘That’ll be
fly
fishing?’

‘He’s a
fly
man.’

The lad unzipped his Lonsdale top, tucked a hand in and brought out a bit of paper, handed it over to Hod. ‘That’s yer map there. Have a good night, eh, mate.’

‘Oh, I think we will . . . I think we will.’

THE MAP TOOK
us beyond the city boundaries, deep into the countryside.

‘We’re gonna be in fucking Glasgow soon, Hod.’

‘I’m following the map.’

‘You sure about that?’

He thrust the piece of paper at me, said, ‘Check if you like.’

I didn’t bother.

I had a quarter of vodka in my inside pocket, cracked it open, tipped back a few mouthfuls. Then a few more.

Seemed to settle the thrashing in my stomach.

‘You’re not gonna lash that, are you?’ said Hod.

I held up the bottle; seemed pathetically small, said, ‘Could I? Is it possible?’

‘You could have half a dozen of them stashed about you, I wouldn’t know . . . I mean, what’s with the coat? It’s hardly the weather for it.’

I let that slide, tucked away the bottle.

We took the M8 for about six miles before hitting the side roads. Lots of brown-backed signposts appeared declaring we were on a ‘Tourist Route’. Official: this entire country is not for those who live in it.

After a mile or so, Hod chucked a hairpin right, hit dirt track.
Heard
David Byrne wail, ‘We’re on a road to nowhere’ . . . except maybe the dark heart of the forest. Light overhead became thinner and thinner, until it was time to flick the headlamps on.

‘This is spooky shit,’ said Hod.

‘Man, not the time to be bottling on me.’

‘Bottling? Me?’

‘You just said you were spooked.’

‘I was scene-setting.’

‘Oh yeah.’

Through the forest and out the other side we hit a clearing, another dirt track. In the open I could see it had been churned up quite a bit. Deep puddles and a mush of black earth indicating some heavy traffic had passed this way recently.

‘Looks like we’re getting close.’

‘According to this,’ Hod waved the map, ‘we should be just about there.’

‘Hold up . . . what’s this?’

A big biffer in a black leather jacket, shaved head, unshaven face, approached. He had a moustache that would put Harley handles in the shade. As he got closer I saw he looked like the late Ollie Reed, matched him for size and sheer shit-stopping radgeness.

A hand went up. Hod braked, wound down the window. ‘All right, mate.’

Not a flicker; cold eyes. ‘What you up tae?’

‘We’re, eh . . . friends of the big man.’

‘Aye, spare me that shite . . . You got Hosie’s map?’

‘Hosie . . . oh, right, the wee hoodie.’ Hod held up the map.

The biffer stuck a hand through the open window. Four sovereign rings played for attention with some nasty spider’s-web tats. One inky near the wrist read
CUT HERE
. He grabbed the map, tucked it in his pocket then pointed out to the left: ‘Take the motor over there, by that wee clump ay trees. You can park in front ay the barn. Pit’s on the inside.’

Hod put the car in gear, raised a little wave in gratitude, then drove for the barn. ‘You see his face?’ he said.

‘The scar . . . fucking deadly.’

‘Never seen a Mars bar like that before.’

I knew what he meant: it wasn’t a clean cut, it was jagged. ‘What do you think, a bottle fight?’

‘Maybe a dog attack . . . or maybe someone just wanted him to look carved up good and proper.’

I didn’t like to think about it. I touched the barrel of the Mossberg for reassurance.

As Hod parked the car I got out, hit myself up with another blast of vodka. The bottle near emptied on me. I held it in my hand, staring at it until Hod appeared at my side and said, ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing.’ I raised the bottle again, finished the dregs.

‘Got you in some shit that stuff, hasn’t it.’

It was a low blow, but could I fault him? It was perfectly pitched.

I threw the bottle, watched it smash on a tree, said, ‘C’mon, let’s do this.’

I put my collar up as we strode towards the barn doors. There were angry pit bulls chained to car axles that had been staked into the ground. Every one of the dogs strained to break free and attack its nearest neighbour. An Irishman stood pointing to one of them, highlighting each of its scars and regaling a slope-shouldered yoof in trackies with tales of the fights it had won.

Inside the place was hoachin. Like a cattle auction. Men stood three, four deep around the centre of the barn. Light was poor, save at the midpoint, where some old storm lanterns were suspended from the roof beams.

We edged our way closer. Suddenly the crowd seemed to disperse.

‘Are we too late?’ I asked Hod.

An old gadgie, baseball cap turned round, answered for him: ‘Utter fucking shite pagger that was. Where they got that useless wee cunt in there I’ve no idea.’

Hod smiled. ‘A mismatch?’

‘Mismatch? Fucking bloodbath – look at it.’

I got to the front of the crowd to see what he was on about. A ring, maybe fifteen feet wide, had been set up. Inside was a forty-pound
snarling
pit bull shaking the virtually lifeless body of what looked like the same breed. The near-dead animal had remarkably similar markings to Usual. I felt my heart pound.

I turned away. My hand raised automatically to my mouth.

From nowhere, I felt my arm knocked down. ‘Don’t make that face, Gus,’ said Hod.

The stench of blood was everywhere. I felt my guts heave. ‘Hod, this is foul.’

‘Keep your voice down.’

They separated the two dogs and the victor was raring to go again. The loser merely lay down. Exhausted and unable to move, it stared at its handler. The ground was a blanket of blood. The handler – a hardy neckless type – picked the animal up by the scruff and hauled it to a barrel in the corner of the barn.

‘What’s he gonna do with it?’ I asked Hod.

Under breath: ‘Shut up, Gus.’

I watched the guy lift the dog into the barrel and hold it down in there for a few minutes. It was only when the dog was removed, dripping with water, that I realised its reward for fighting to near-death for its handler was to be drowned.

The crowd started shouting for more, baying for blood.

‘I don’t think I can watch this,’ I said.

Hod started to get rattled. He placed his hand on my elbow. ‘You don’t think what?’

I saw another vicious pit bull – this one must have weighed fifty pounds – being led from the front of the barn. He struggled and clawed to get to the ring. His handler, a teeny lightweight in head-to-toe Adidas, struggled to hold on to him. He jerked the choke chain, yelled at him. The dog ignored all of it. He was ready to kill. Primed.

In the ring another pit was already waiting, similar size, raring to go. All around us grown men were roaring.

A loud call went up: ‘Release the dogs.’

In a second the two beasts were unleashed; they collided like the bottle I’d just smashed on a tree. The noise of their skulls
connecting
hurt my ears. They were both thrown in the air, a shower of teeth spraying the crowd.

‘Hod, this is sick.’

‘Dury, get a grip.’

I turned away. At the other end of the barn I saw a flash of white. I thought I’d seen a ghost. Then I saw it again. The shape was more visible this time. I recognised it as a dog. But not a pit bull, or anything like it. It was a white poodle. Somehow the dog had evaded its handlers. My guess, it sensed its fate.

I knew this dog was the intermission – some very light entertainment between bouts. I followed its attempts, running frantically the length and breadth of the barn, looking for an escape; it couldn’t find one. Suddenly it was grabbed by the scruff. Jostled about a bit, yelled at. It turned its little snout away from the lad doing the yelling. I clocked him at once: it was our Corrado driver.

‘I’m sorry, Hod.’

‘What do you mean you’re sorry . . . sorry for what?’

I opened up my Crombie. Felt for the handle of the Mossberg. ‘I’m sorry for this.’ In a second I raised the shooter.

The sound of the gun’s discharge made everyone in the room duck in unison. A few turned skywards as they crouched, expecting to see the roof come down. I cut a path through the crowd, pushed people aside left and right. No one seemed too bothered to stop me.

A voice yelled out, ‘Police, stay where you are!’ It was Hod. Self-preservation or initiative, I didn’t care which – it did the trick. The place emptied with a stampede.

In a few seconds I was on the yob with the poodle. He saw me heading his way and dropped the dog, scampered.

‘Fuck . . . Hod, get that fucking dog!’

I watched Hod lower his arms, call to the dog, but it was all over the place.

‘Get fucking after it!’

The barn emptied in a hurry, people running for the hills. This shit you don’t want to get hoyed in for.

I set off after the yob. He was dressed all in white, trackies and top to match. It made my job easier. ‘I’ll blow yer fucking head off!’ I yelled.

He was fast, through the back of the barn and the path skirting the trees to the clearing. I tried to catch him but my lung capacity had been seriously reduced by years and years of full-on tab usage.

‘Stop, you little prick!’

At the clearing where the cars were parked, I caught sight of him sliding across the front of a bonnet,
Dukes of Hazzard
style. I raised up the shooter, but he was gone behind another car, ducking and weaving for dear life. ‘Shit, this fucker’s fast.’

Everywhere cars pulled out, screeched tyres. Engines revved all around, was like the starters’ line-up at the Indy 500.

As I got to the first row of cars I heard an engine roar, then coming straight for me, right down the middle of the road: it was the Corrado.

I raised the gun.

I shouted, ‘I’ll fucking use this!’

My warning didn’t register. Driver went straight for me.

I’d no choice, dived out of the way. As the car screamed past, I got to my feet, fired off a round. It put out the back window. Glass exploded all over the dirt track, settled for a second, then was mashed in by the flood of fast-moving cars.

As I stood up I caught sight of a brand-new Audi being driven like it was a Knockhill wrecker. Behind the wheel was a face I recognised, but the one sitting next to it told a whole other story.

THERE WAS NO
sign of the resident plod lurking outside so we washed up back at the Holy Wall. Mac had a pint of Guinness ready and waiting for me on the bar. I knocked the head off it quick smart. Soothed like an old friendship. Felt like medicine.

The white poodle played on the floor with Usual. Hod laughed. ‘Christ, it’s a hard dog that you’ve got, lads – mates with a poodle.’

Mac went off, ‘Get that dog down to the fucking pound. It’s someone’s pet – they’ll be looking for it!’ He pointed Hod to the door, puffed his chest. ‘And get a fucking shave, ye gypo!’

Not biting, Hod moved off. ‘I was only joking. I’m going. I’m gone already.’

Mac walked behind the bar, picked up a bag of KP nuts, raised another bag for me. I declined. As he munched away he let his thoughts escape. ‘Well, that sounded like it was all a complete fucking farce.’