Loss (12 page)

McMilne turned slowly around. He had the movements of a man much older than he was, or perhaps a heavily medicated one. He wore a double-breasted grey jacket, a black T-shirt underneath with a heavy gold chain sitting below the neck. It wasn’t a good look, like a jakey trying to dress as Tony Bennett. His lips looked blue; little flecks of spittle dislodged as he spoke. ‘I’ll no’ ask you again, laddie.’

I saw a break in the traffic. I got edgy now, creeped out by him to tell the truth, said, ‘Glad to hear it.’

I didn’t give him any time to reply, floored it.

The pug slapped the roof of the Daimler as I gunned the engine. I left the Undertaker, and whatever the fuck he wanted with me, behind. Vowed I’d worry about him another day.

I’D NEVER MET RONNIE MCMILNE before. But I’d heard all about him. You live in Edinburgh, you move in my circles, it’s impossible not to have heard of the Undertaker. It was a name that got put up when there was some serious threat called for. The story of how he landed the tag has been a city legend for the best part of two decades, and still the source of fevered pub talk. For years the rumour merchants had claimed McMilne had put a business rival in a coffin, buried him alive. The bloke had been dug up long after the worms got to him and McMilne was in the frame. A lot of hacks were chasing the story and at the time, I was one of them. We were all guilty of building up the Undertaker’s rep in the papers. The filth were furious but they couldn’t do him for the murder.

Every so often someone gets worked over in the city and the Undertaker’s mentioned. His name was linked to grievous like the Colonel was linked to fried chicken. He’d built up a nice little empire on the back of knuckle-breaking too – few bawdy hooses, more than a few nightclubs, and he ran the lumps for every door in Edinburgh. I’d also heard that lately he’d become the go-to man on any kind of knock-off merchandise in the town. Touched just about every racket, except skag. That was a different game entirely.

As I got in the tenement I rested my back on the door, sighed.

Usual raced away up the stairs before me. I heard him scratch at the door. Debs let him in, made a fuss over him.

‘Gus, that you?’ she yelled.

‘Yeah. Yeah . . . just coming.’ I got moving. The stairs reeked again; another bastard had taken a slash while I’d been out. I covered my nose with my coat sleeve on the way up. I raged inside. Tried to make sense of the Undertaker’s appearance and what he might be after. I didn’t want him to show up at the flat, but I figured it was a long shot that he’d know where I lived. He’d obviously been asking about, heard I had the Wall once and chanced his luck. Still, the idea of being measured for one of his coffins didn’t exactly thrill me. This turn of events spelled bad shit, in block letters. How it connected to Michael’s murder, though, that was the question I wanted answered the most.

As I reached the landing Debs spoke: ‘We’re going to Jayne’s.’

‘What?
Why
?’

She frowned. ‘God, do you need to ask?’

I needed a hit of speed, played for a diversion. ‘Well, you better feed Usual first.’

Debs turned away, got back to fussing over the dog as I slipped the speed out of my coat pocket and headed to the cludgie. I shotgunned a couple of wraps, rapid style. I inflated the bag, then retied it. It held watertight as I opened up the cistern and sat it next to the ballcock.

Debs was standing in the hall when I came out. ‘You set?’

The car’s engine was still warm, it started first time. Debs fired into me about the therapist as we drove. I held schtum. Thought I might start prattling on with the speed coursing through me and I didn’t want to give her any more ammo. She got the message. By the time we hit the Grange, she’d more to think about.

A huge Christmas tree lit up the front room in my brother’s house. It shone through the window. Looked to be such a happy home. Thought: How could anyone doubt it?

‘Beautiful tree,’ said Debs.

‘Yeah, she must have just got it in, wasn’t there before.’

‘How can she do it? God, that’s so brave.’

I parked, two wheels up on the kerb. ‘It’ll be for Alice – she always loved this time of year.’

Debs leaned over, touched my arm. ‘Remember we used to take her sledging when she was really wee?’

I smiled. ‘Yeah, I remember.’ Poor Alice, this time of year would never be the same for her. The thought of what this had done to her wounded me more than anything. It was another life damaged, in my battered family. Debs put her arms round me, held tight as we walked to the door. Somehow it didn’t seem right, me being so happy to have Debs back in my life and my brother’s family destroyed.

A heavy frost was beginning to settle as Debs pointed to the house, said, ‘Who’s that?’

On the path round the side, next to the wheelie bins, stood Vilem. He was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette and staring straight at me.

‘That’s the lodger,’ I said.

‘The what?’ Debs edged forward, squinted.

‘Apparently Michael took in a lodger a little while back. He works . . . worked for him.’

Vilem realised he was being talked about, dowped his tab, a shower of orange sparks hitting the ground as he stamped it out.

‘Look, go on ahead without me, I want a word with him.’

Debs looked unsure. ‘Gus, we came together . . .’

‘Yeah, I’ll only be a minute. On you go.’

I jogged away from her, left her to go inside by herself. As Vilem clocked me coming for him, he turned down the path.

‘Hey, not so fast,’ I yelled.

He kept on. His limp had eased a bit now, but the shifty demeanour was still in place. He picked up his pace a little, tried to pair it with a casual air, but it wasn’t working. I hooked my fingers in his collar, yanked good and hard. He stopped dead. As I spun him I made sure Debs was out of sight – she’d gone indoors.

‘Bit jumpy aren’t we, Vilem?’

‘Get your hands off me.’

I showed him my palms. ‘Not touching you . . .’

He bristled, flared his nostrils. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘Och, c’mon . . . I think, by this stage, you know fucking well what I want, boyo.’

He spat. I watched the corners of his eyes contract as he tried to assess me. Like I was playing. I spun him towards the wall, put my forearm under his chin. He went up on his toes – his eyes widened now. ‘Have I got your attention, fuckhead? . . . I mean your full attention?’

He tried to nod, realised it was gonna choke him, gibbered, ‘Yes. Yes.’

‘Good, then listen . . . real carefully.’ I leaned in close, made sure my breath was hitting him. ‘I’ve got your little game sussed, well and truly . . . Now, I don’t know who’s pulling your strings yet, but soon as I find out, someone’s going to pay for my brother’s death. You can pass that on. And while you’re at it, let them know I won’t be as easy to shut up as Ian Kerr.’

The name hit home. I could see the flash of recognition in his face. I thought for a moment he was about to speak, that I’d done a job on him, but there was a shriek from the back yard. It was Alice.

She stood plugged in to her iPod, obviously shocked. She seemed to tremble. Her eyes looked red, like she’d already been crying. She pulled the sleeves of her baggy striped top over her hands, wiped her nose on her sleeve.

I let Vilem down, said, ‘Alice . . .’

She looked at me, then bolted.

Vilem got a shot of bravery, pushed me away as he ran for the house. For a second I was torn, but knew I had to go after her.

‘Alice . . . Alice!’ I shouted.

She was off running, bombing it down the path and onto the street.

As I got into the car she was already out of sight. The roads were treacherous. A bloke in a Honda Civic flashed me at the lights; he had right of way but was wary of tackling the icy road with me sitting so far out of the junction. A slight loss of traction and his rear end was likely to go crashing into my grille. I waved him as I passed and got a nod back.

I drove around a few streets but she’d lost me. Must have spent an hour looking; knew, by now, Debs would have blown a fuse.

Banged the dash. ‘
Shitballs
.’

I pulled in at the late-night Spar to get some tabs. A crowd of teenagers were hanging about on the steps. Skinny jeans and T4 haircuts all round. Arse-cracks showing above their belts. I thought they must be insane in this weather to go about exposing themselves. They looked a right bunch of twats; even the blokes had kohl round their eyes, and one of them was making his way straight for me.

‘Got a ciggie, my squire?’ He was three sheets, grinning at me from beneath a Wookie-barnet, waving a palm in a circular motion. It was the most effete bit of begging I’d ever seen.

Said, ‘Get fucked.’

His friends woop-wooped. I had him pegged as a student, regretfully one of our home-grown lot – around here they breed these invertebrates as effectively as the ones the English ship into the New Town every year.

I looked him up and down, waited for a put-up, got none.

He slunk off to his wooping buddies, showing me some red scants sitting above his kecks. They high-fived and handed him a tin of Scrumpy Jack for the performance.

I’d never wanted to drink alcohol less. I’d be hoarding this memory, bringing it back in widescreen the next time I felt tempted by the bevvy.

In the store I got my order in. ‘Can you give me forty Marlboro?’ Bloke on the till went for the yellow pack, the lights. ‘Eh, no . . . the red ones,’ I said.

He put them back. ‘The heavy hitters!’

Smiled, went, ‘Aye.’

‘It’s usually the others they go for round here . . . Saturday smokers, y’see.’

He grinned; a line of stained teeth showed me he was a big-time tobacco fan. He dropped his smile quickly as he caught sight of a ruckus in the back of the shop, shouted, ‘Hey, you gonna pay for that?’

I turned to see two of the yoofs from out the front and a young girl. They shoved a bottle of weapons-grade cider up her baggy striped jumper. I knew at once who it was. ‘Alice!’ I yelled.

She dropped the bottle and it bounced off the floor, then it burst, spraying out an arc of frothy liquid. The bloke behind the counter started shouting. The yoofs and Alice ran for the door. I went after them.

On the pavement I caught sight of their skinny arses chanking it up a close. They had their hoods up, laughing their guts out, slipping on the icy streets as they went. I made a sprint of a few steps but felt a stitch as I reached the corner, watched them disappear into darkness.

The bloke from the Spar came up behind me, panting, his cheeks going like bellows. ‘Did you see them?’

‘Gone,’ I said.

He toppled over, put his hands on his knees. ‘I’ll need to get your details for the police.’

‘Police . . . they never got away with anything.’

He stood up, still panting. ‘I need to tell them. We lost stock, that’s a bottle we could have sold.’

I passed him a fiver, said, ‘Write it off.’

He shook his head. ‘No, can’t do that. Who was that girl?’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘You knew her name, though.’

I walked away. ‘I was mistaken.’

‘You called her Alice.’

I kept walking. ‘Alice . . . Alice . . . Who the
fuck
is Alice?’

LOUD THUMPING ON THE DOOR of the flat woke me. Usual kicked off, barking his best. I dragged myself from my pit; Debs had left for work hours ago, without a word. Figured I’d have to get used to that for the foreseeable.

I opened the door. Was the guy with the mop and bucket again. He said, ‘Stair money.’

My eyes weren’t fully open, my mind barely sparking. ‘
You wha’
?’

The bloke scratched his head through the beanie. ‘I just cleaned the stairs there.’

I found my voice, some marbles worth throwing about. ‘Didn’t I speak to you about this just the other day?’

He stopped scratching. ‘Aye, well . . . stairs were needing cleaned.’

He wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t giving this schemie daytripper a button. ‘So what?’

He held out his hand. ‘Three pounds, chief.’

I closed the door on him. I got two steps towards my bed when I heard him knock on the auld wifey at number three’s door. I returned to the spyhole. She was parting with her poppy again. I wasn’t sure I was happy about this, made a note to check it out later.

I showered. We were out of soap, had to use Debs’s Clean & Clear facial wash all over. Left me feeling clean, if not clear of anything. I’d finally found some music I could listen to: Jeff Wayne’s
War of the Worlds
. There was something about Richie Burton’s whisky-soaked tones that touched the void in me. The only trouble was the recording drove Usual mental. Every time the turning of the cylinder sounded, the dog went off his scone – barked and snarled like we actually had the Martians in our gaff.

I was wondering what my next move should be when my mobi rang.

Voice said, ‘Dury . . .’ It was Fitz, a croak in his throat as he spoke. ‘I thought I better give you a call.’

He had my attention. ‘You did?’

‘I, eh, there’s no easy way to tell you this, Gus, so I’m just going to come right out with it.’

He’d went back to using my Christian name again; it still unnerved me.

‘I want to let you know that your brother’s death is no longer being treated as a mugging gone wrong.’

This meant little to me; official or otherwise, it had been fucking suss to me from the get-go. ‘That’s what you’ve decided, is it?’

Fitz chose his words carefully, muttered a bit, shuffled the phone about. ‘’Tis all I can say.’

I wanted to know what had changed his mind. But he played coy. Fitz knew there was no way I’d let him call me up like this and leave it at that. I pressed him: ‘So what’s changed your mind?’