Loss (8 page)

I turned to face her. ‘You are?’

She came round the edge of the counter, crouched before me. ‘I know you’re hurting.’ She took my hands in hers. I didn’t want her, or anybody’s, sympathy. My pain was my problem. I removed my gaze. She said, ‘I just don’t want you going back on the drink. You said you’d stay clean.’

‘I am clean . . . more or less.’ I pushed my luck: ‘I think you’re making a bit of a fuss over nothing.’

She sparked at that. ‘Well, I don’t!’

I got up, went to the other side of the room. We’d drawn our battle lines; I didn’t like where this conversation was going. When she shouted and threw things, I could handle it. When she locked me out, no trouble. But the close control freaked me out. My father had tried to control me with beatings and harsh words and it never worked. I didn’t do control.

I picked up my tabs.

‘Where are you going?’

‘For a smoke.’

Outside on the stair I fired up, got about a third of the way down the smoke when a gadgie with a mop and bucket showed. He wore a black and red Adidas coat like the footy managers have. ‘All right, mate.’

I gave a non-committal nod.

He had a beanie on and it stretched the corners of his eyes. I saw some tats on the back of his neck when he lowered the bucket. ‘There’s, eh, cash due for the stair cleaning.’

I drew on my smoke. ‘What’s this?’

‘Been a stair meeting and that . . . Three pounds, chief.’

‘Three pounds . . . this weather. I don’t think so.’

He started to get twitchy, kept rubbing the tip of his nose. ‘It’s three pounds.’

I knocked the tip off my tab, crushed the embers under my boot-heel. ‘You’re getting bugger all out me.’

He looked scoobied, not sure what had happened.

Inside the flat I watched him through the spyhole as he tapped up the auld wifey at number three. She handed over the cash without complaint. I shook my head.

Debs had prepared for my return. She put her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. She’d been at the lip gloss in my absence, said, ‘Look, Gus, I know you’re not equipped to cope with, y’know, the news about Michael.’

There was a whole other row waiting to go up once she heard of my moves to root out his killer. Swearing off the drink was only one of her ultimatums that I’d signed up to. Not looking for trouble was another; and of the two I’d say the latter was the one she placed most store by. If I wanted to keep hold of Debs this time, I had to play by her rules. Only, since Michael’s death, I just didn’t know how that was going to be possible.

‘He was my brother, Debs.’

‘I know.’

‘I can’t just forget he existed.’

‘I’m not asking you to.’

My neck tensed. ‘What
are
you asking for?’

Debs took her hands out of her pockets, came towards me. ‘I know it can’t be easy, and I know you’ve done really well up until now, but I’m frightened.’

I knew what she was frightened of. She thought I was slipping back to my old ways. She didn’t want to be around me when I was arrested, beaten up, or worse. I didn’t want to confirm her fears, said, ‘Oh, yeah.’

‘Gus, you need help to get over this.’

I saw where this was going, felt my breathing stall. ‘Uh-huh . . .’

She had a card in her hand. She held it out.

‘A psychiatrist . . .’

Debs nodded.

‘You want me to see a psychiatrist?’

She handed me the card.

‘I don’t know, Debs.’

Her brows shot up. I saw I wasn’t getting a choice. She put her hands back in her pockets and left me holding the card.

IAN KERR’S ADDRESS WAS DANGEROUSLY close to Muirhouse.

‘Fuckin’ Apache country round here, man,’ said Mac.

We turned off Ferry Road, headed east. I said, ‘Yeah well, keep those windows shut. Don’t want any stray arrows coming in.’

He grinned. ‘All they fire round here’s fucking needles.’

I took the corner into the street that was listed on Kerr’s wage slip. Two skanky-arsed kids ran alongside the car, sliding about on the icy path and shouting abuse. One of them, a rough wee ginge, carried a butterfly knife and spun it through his fingers with a fair bit of skill – must’ve been playing with it since he put down his rattle. I booted it away from the neds and they hauled up on the kerb, giving us the Vs and dropping trackies to flash arse cheeks.

‘Ah, the youth of today,’ said Mac, ‘another beautiful crop of schemie fodder in bloom . . . Fair gladdens the heart.’

I’d read recently that the cost of a home round here was less than one-tenth of what it was in the New Town. Of all the property-obsessed ramblings I’d read since our real estate tanked, this one caused me the most surprise: I was completely stunned that property round here was worth fuck all.

I parked on the street. Usual jumped into Mac’s lap. ‘Chrissake, beast . . . Trying to end me there?’ The dog planted a wet nose on Mac’s face, followed by a wet tongue. I laughed it up.

‘Better take him in, don’t want to give the local young crew any ideas about snafflin’ him for a pit.’

Mac let out a growl. The dog pinned down his ears: he got them ruffled. ‘Och, I’m only messing with you,’ said Mac.

As we got out the cold bit. I buttoned my coat and made for the front door of the weather-beaten concrete block. Who would call this a home? The windows were rotting away on the ground floor and yellowed net curtains, blackening with damp at their corners, flapped behind cracked panes. There was a light burning inside but apart from that there was no sign of life.

Mac picked a torn bin liner from the lawn. The empty Cally Special tins inside were frozen solid – never made it to the tip. He dropped the lot on a beat-up old fridge that sat by the house, shook his head. ‘Joint’s more than a wee bit neglected, eh.’

I scanned the street. ‘Take a look about – not exactly fucking Peyton Place.’

‘Aye, but this one’s the pick o’ the lot.’ He kicked the fridge door shut.

A bloke from the next garden, face wrapped in a Rangers scarf, leaned over the fence. His donkey jacket was about three sizes too big for him; he looked like he was fighting it for survival. ‘You after Big Ian?’ As he spoke he tugged his scarf down, revealed a mouth twisted to one side, a nose spewing grey hair.

I turned. ‘Yeah . . . seen him about?’

A tut, splutter. ‘You from the bookies or the buroo?’ I didn’t answer; gave him the once-over look his type are used to. He went on: ‘Nah, haven’t seen him the day. He was makin’ a fair clatter last night but haven’t seen hide nor hair all day.’

Mac cut in: ‘Clatter?’

The old gadgie tugged back his sleeve, brought a scrawny wrist out, scratched his hairline with a dirty fingernail. ‘Probably had a bucket in him. Came in rattling about after a night at the howf . . . He’s lost it since he got punted from the work.’

We’d seen that for ourselves at the factory. I scanned the house; there was no movement now. ‘What happened? I mean, do you know why he lost his job?’

The bloke’s eyes lit. He ran a manky mitt over his mouth: thought he might get a few sheets for his trouble. ‘He was on the wagons, had a big rig out there every night,’ he pointed to the street, ‘used to wash it and polish it when he wasn’t on a run . . . Fair buggered up his heid when that got taken off him.’

He was at it – nothing to offer. ‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ I said.

Mac was growing impatient. He edged towards the building, pointed at the door. I gave the neighbour a wide berth as I went. He called out, ‘Eh, got a smoke there, pal?’

I dug in my pocket and gave him a Marlboro.

He looked at it with derision. ‘That all you got?’

‘Do I look like a fucking mobile tobacconist?’

He took the tab, sparked up. He coughed away, hacked a gob of phlegm in the garden. I thought, Was I expecting too much looking for a thank-you?

At the door Mac leaned over and knocked hard. The crumbling paintwork lost a few flakes – like it mattered. There was no answer. Mac knocked again, a rusting bell by the door got a hit, then he looked through the letter box. He seemed to dwell there, breathed deep a few times then stood back.

‘Anything?’ I said.

His face looked pained. He pointed. ‘Take a look for yourself.’

The place was a shambles, arse over tit. A picture on the wall – looked like the classic Green Lady – was squint. A folding table, couple of chairs, had also been upended. One of the table legs had been snapped. The phone had been pulled out the wall and what looked like a collection of souvenir tat – cheap figurines and plastic snow-domes – had been spilled on the floor. I couldn’t see any further than the living room door because a coat stand had been rammed into the plasterboard wall – a blue anorak and a bust brolly were blocking my view.

‘Duly turned over, I’d say.’

Mac agreed, tugged the dog’s lead and headed round the back. The driveway skirting the edge of the property was blackened with oil and heavy tracks. A rainbow of spills covered the path and burst, worn tyres sat against the gable end of the house. On the back wall, patches of pebbledash had fallen out, exposing brickwork beneath. One of the gutters hung loose, rattling in the wind and threatening to fall.

Mac kicked at a couple of fallen tiles on the path. ‘I’m thinking this geezer’s no’ been keeping up appearances that well.’

‘You think?’

The back door had a large frosted-glass window that had been put in. The nicotine-stained blinds on the inside crashed against the frame with every belt of cold wind that came along. The door frame had been booted; wood splinters littered the step. Mac and I looked at each other, but said nothing. I pushed the door and stepped through. As I walked in, the broken glass crunched under the soles of my Docs. I turned to Mac. ‘Pick up the dog or he’ll cut his paws.’

We walked in slowly, cautiously. It was freezing inside; the wind and rain and snow had got in through the smashed window and soaked the linoleum, made it slippy underfoot. The first room we came to was the kitchen. A newish-looking fridge door hung on one hinge and two large shelves had been pulled off the wall. A stack of pots and plates, obviously once resident on the shelves, had been thrown on the ground. A mop handle had been snapped off; I couldn’t see the missing portion but wondered about that.

It was all eerily quiet. Far too quiet. Was beginning to wonder what we’d come to. ‘I don’t like the look of this,’ I said.

As I spoke, Mac returned fire: ‘And I don’t like the look of
this . . .’
He pointed to the hallway leading from the kitchen: along the magnolia woodchip was a streak of blood. It ran almost the full length of the hallway and sat three inches thick at its widest point.

‘Fucking hell. Lead on.’

As we walked into the hall Usual started to sniff at the air, he struggled in Mac’s arms. ‘Settle, boy.’

The door to the living room sat open about half a foot but as I tried to push it something was blocking it on the other side. ‘It’s stuck,’ I said. I could see into the room: the television screen had been smashed and lay in shards on the carpet. Time-warped teak chipboard units had been pulled over, their contents scattered everywhere. A carriage clock had been bounced off the wall, its face smashed. What caught my attention the most, though, was the splatter marks. They covered everything. Red to black. I knew at once it was more blood. Lots more.

‘Give it a push,’ said Mac.

‘I
am
fucking pushing it . . . Something’s blocking it on the other side.’

Mac weighed in, between us we heaved enough of a gap to get through. Behind the door was an armchair. Sat in it, his back to us, was a man. Stood behind him, we could only see the top of his head – black hair, some male-pattern baldness, a streak of blood. He wasn’t moving.

‘Oh, fuck,’ said Mac, ‘what have we got ourselves into?’

We looked further into the room, copped an eyeful. It was clear what had went on: there had been a serious working-over in here. The dirty-beige carpet was thick with blood; the castors on the armchair squelched in it as we pressed our way past.

As we walked into the middle of the room, the dog struggled in Mac’s arms again. He held him tight. Patted him quiet. Usual was anxious, unsettled. He wasn’t alone.

As we turned to face the bloke in the chair my guts turned. It was Ian Kerr – could make that out, but only just. He’d been beaten, and badly marked with some kind of chib. I’d say there’d been an attempt at gouging at his eyes as well. His lids were black and torn and his cheeks distended. If there was a tooth left in his head, I couldn’t see it. A flap of skin had been torn clear of his forehead, so severely that the white of his skull showed beneath. For a second I hoped his throat had been cut, that they’d shown some mercy, but they were savages.

I felt my breath faltering; my mind raced. This was a man I’d seen only a short time ago, in rude health. Kerr had been kicking off, but nothing to deserve this. The pit of my stomach cramped; I couldn’t take it all in. My eyes adjusted to the scene, but my mental processes stalled. It seemed unreal.

‘Do you see this?’ said Mac. He pointed to Kerr’s hands: not a mark on them, save two matching bruised and bloodied holes in the centre of each, just below the knuckle where he gripped the arms of the chair.

‘Holy fuck.’

He’d been nailed through the hands.

‘Didn’t want him running away . . . Probably used a nail gun for that.’

‘This is fucking medieval,’ I said. My thoughts raced, darted on to Michael and how he’d met his end. I wondered who and what the hell we were dealing with here. Kerr’s sound-off at the factory played before me again.

‘It doesn’t make sense . . .’ I said.

Mac had a tight hold of the dog as he spoke: ‘Some folk get off on this shit, get a taste for blood . . . Maybe they got carried away.’