Corner Boy

Rab ran his thumb down the fresh scar on his cheek and jaw. The stitches had been taken out days before but it still hurt a bit. It felt deeper than it looked and it looked sore, a thin, deep, pink groove. He'd not come off the worst during the melee that had caused it, not by a mile. Fat Eddie Lang's face looked like a bloody mosaic that night, the poor bastard nearly lost an eye. Lang ducked out of the game after that, which was exactly what Martin Willis had wanted. He wanted the corner. Rab was not about to let him have it. If he couldn't keep a corner, how was he going to make it big?

Two hours after he'd be stitched up and discharged, he was back out looking for Willis. The fucker was a loud-mouth and a stupid one at that. Rather than lay low after the fight he was down at Sparkles acting the wideo with his mates. Rab had waited 'til he'd split from his crew, followed him down Wedderlea Drive and when the coast was clear, pounced. He'd meant to ram the screwdriver up Willis' arse but instead drove it through the fucker's ball-sack, probably punctured one of his nuts from the yell he'd let out. Willis dropped like a stone and got his face stamped on half a dozen times, Rab smiled as he remembered the explosive crunch of Willis' nose. Rab had knocked his front teeth out too. He'd been pleased with that, thinking a little facial reconstruction wouldn't do any harm to the ugly bastard. When he'd left him lying there, Willis was still alive, wasn't Rab's fault the fuck had drowned in his own blood. He felt emboldened, powerful, like he was going places now. When it got out he'd have some credibility. He could go somewhere, get in with a real gang, if he was lucky.

The filth had come down on him like a ton of bricks, he and Eddie were the obvious suspects but they couldn't prove anything and Eddie had remained tight lipped. Had no option on that, the poor sod, most of his mouth having been stitched up. Rab had been smart, ditched what he was wearing into one of the drains outside his house. Walked back through the door with nothing but his boxer shorts on. His maw and da didn't even look up from the telly as he went upstairs. They told the police he'd came home around ten, daft old bastards were oblivious. So, the police had nothing on him and Willis' crew were nothing without their leader, Rab had no worries about any reprisals from that lot. The corner was his, his territory, his domain. For now, he didn't plan to remain a corner boy forever. Rab wanted more, wanted to run the show and knew he was more than capable.

He'd bought a nine-bar of slate off Malky Simmons got a good deal on it too. After cutting it up into quarter ounces he reckoned he could make four hundred quid on the deal once he'd sold it all. He'd been on the corner less than three hours and already shifted three and a half ounces, most of to his usual customers. There'd been a couple of faces he'd known from school who'd got wind of his business, student fannies with stupid beards and hairdos. The kind of kids he used to knock fuck out of for a laugh when he was still at school. He took their money though and shelled out the goods. No hard feelings when it came to business.

Just before ten the rain came on and he decided to give it up for the night. He was counting his money wondering whether to get a sausage supper or splash out on a Chinese, when a long black car pulled up to the kerb. An Audi, a nice one, he thought. Too nice for this end of Hillington. The window rolled down and a head popped out. A chubby bloke with long red curls. “Haw, you Rab Dawson?”

Rab didn't recognise the face and so was immediately cautious. “Who's askin'?”

The man laughed. “I am, ya wee dick.”

Rab scowled, he wasn't about to be intimidated by some fat ginger. “D' I know you?”

“Cut the shite. You're Rab Dawson right?”

“Whit if I um?” Rab answered defiantly, glad he had taken another screwdriver from his da's toolbox and tucked in his belt.

“Big Skinny wants a word wae you.” The ginger bloke said.

Rab could have shit himself. Big Skinny, better known as Gordon Skinner, was bad news. He was a real gangster, not some mid-level wannabe who drove around in a shitty Vauxhall thinking he was Tony Montana. Skinner was proper trouble. “Aboot whit?”

“Get in the fuckin' car, kid.” The ginger man insisted.

Rab rapidly exhaled air through his mouth, shrugged and walked towards the car. You didn't say no to someone like Big Skinny, not if you didn't want to end up in the Clyde or found in bits along the hard shoulder of the M8. Which was the route they took at the ring-road at Berryknowes Road.

Big Skinny wasn't affiliated with the other gang bosses as far as Rab knew, but Mental Dunkie, the Welshes and even old Thompson left him alone. Rab had heard a rumour that Skinner had helped Thompson's family out back in the late seventies. Something about a cousin who'd gone daft after dropping too much acid. There was more of a story to it, but Rab couldn't remember. The gist of it was that Skinner was some kind of spooky fucker, into black magic and all that shite. It sounded to Rab like little more than good P.R.

The car stopped on Aberdour street, which Rab thought was a right shithole. The driver and red headed guy got out and told him to follow, which Rab did without a word. They went up a couple of flights of stairs and into a flat, guarded outside by two bruisers. They looked at Rab like he was a worm until the ginger bloke said “Skinner wants him for something.” One of the big guards rapped on the door three times and it opened. The place was reeking of weed.

The guy who had called on Rab from the car put his hand on his shoulder and said “follow me, nae shit or ye'll regret it.”

They walked into the flat, it had wood-chip wallpaper on the hall walls which had been painted magnolia, other than that there was no decoration. The ginger man pushed Rab forward down the narrow hall towards the end passing three doors until the last was opened and they were in a small kitchen. In the middle of it was a small Formica table with three plastic seats, on one of which sat Big Skinny, Rab presumed. He looked uglier than the descriptions Rab had heard, bulbous eyes, fat wet lips and lots of rings peircing his ears. He was heavily tattooed on his bare arms. Still he was big, tall and muscular, not remotely skinny, powerful would have been the word Rab would have used to describe his physique and demeanour.

“Rab Dawson.” Skinner acknowledged. “Sit down lad.”

Rab sat on one of the chairs with a nod that served as a thank you.

Skinner stared at him, like the cops would, examining him, looking for signs of weakness or arrogance. “So Rab,” he finally said. “I hear you killed Marty Willis.”

“Who telt ye that?” Rab said, defensively, a bit too quickly.

Skinner gave Rab a look like he should have known the answer. He looked up at his comrades giving a smile as if to say, “can you believe this guy” and then stared at Rab for a few seconds more without answering. Rab felt nervous then, uncomfortable. Skinner lit a cigarette, slid the pack across the table to Rab in offering and said “Marty Willis told me, who'd ye think?”

Rab took one and laughed. “Aye good yin. Seriously who...”

Rab stopped mid-sentence because the look on Skinner's face was not one of a man on a wind-up. In fact he looked pissed off that Rab was laughing. “Do I look like I'm joking, son?”

There was a large fat worm of disease squirming around in Rab's stomach. “I-I didnae mean any offence, Mr Skinner.”

“Mr Skinner, eh? So you do know who I am. Did you just doubt what you'd heard?”

“Well to be fair I-I- I don't really put that much stock on bullshit rumours, y'know?” Rab explained, nervously stammering.

Skinner cocked his head to the side while nodding. “Usually wise. So back to my question, you murdered Marty Willis, right?”

“Well it was an accident.” Rab protested. “I only meant to sort him oot.”

“Hah, well ye certainly did that Rab, a knife to the balls eh?”

“A screwdriver actually.”

“Fuuuuck. That's brutal.” came a voice from behind him. Rab turned to see the ginger guy actually wincing, teeth bared.

Skinner stared at the guy. “Settle down Gordon.” His gaze returned to Rab, he had a leer upon his face. “A screwdriver to the balls, innovative. So how was that an accident?”

“The polis said he'd drowned oan his ain blood. I wisnae gaun fur that. Cunt jist needed taught a lesson. Y'know?”

Skinner began to laugh, clapped his hands in delight. He stood up took a deep draw on his cigarette, crushed it out and said. “Rab, I could fucking kiss you.”

“Whit?” Rab said, surprised by this. He'd expected, well he wasn't sure, something grim perhaps.

Skinner turned and opened a cupboard affixed to the wall. From what Rab could see it was filled with dishes. “Hillington, Penilee, Cardonald, Mosspark, those districts you cart about in are divvied up by Henderson and Sim, you know them?”

Rab shook his head. “Naw. They anything tae dae with the Robertsons?”

Skinner turned his head with a grin. “The Robertson Brothers are long gone, son. Henderson and Sim took over, kept people thinking the Robertsons were still in control.”

“Whit's this got tae dae wae Willis?” Rab asked. He wasn't interested in the heirarchy of gangland politics, just his own skin but he was listening, this was all need to know information.

“He wis James Sim's nephew.” Skinner laughed.

Rab didn't see the funny side of that, not at all. If this Sim was running the district then Rab's days were numbered. “Aw fuck.”

“It's alright Rab. Y'see those two bastards are all bark and no bite. They've got protection from higher up, but there's rules. I couldn't fuck with them directly, not unless they broke those rules, like coming after someone who wasn't...” Skinner paused, trying to find the right word while he rummaged through clanking crockery. “Affiliated. Ahah there's the fucker.”

He turned back towards the table with a small, highly lacquered wooden box, twice the size of a ring box. He placed it on the table and gestured towards it. Rab stared at it. “You're no fillin' me wae much confidence Mr Skinner.”

“I suppose not. They'll no doubt come after you. Still here's the thing, I can offer you some protection.”

“Will that no make me, whit wis it? Affiliated?” Rab asked, somewhat relieved. He was wondering if he could get in with Skinner. The guy knew his shit, would do Rab good to learn the ropes.

“Only if I was doing the protecting. I'm not going to do that.” Skinner answered.

“I don't get it.” Rab replied.

“How much money have you got on you Rab?”

“Why?”

“To buy the box.”

“Whit's in the box?”

“A nightmare. How much do you have?”

“A whit?”

“Trust me son, I know what I'm talking about. How much have you got on you?”

“Couple o' hunner?”

“I'll sell you it for twenty quid.”

“Twinty?” He said sounding incredulous.

“Look if you don't believe me, open the box. Go on.”

Rab reached over and opened the small box. Inside was a large round gleaming pebble, slightly smaller than an egg. After a closer look he realised that it wasn't a pebble, but a preserved and varnished eyeball. He instinctively pushed the box away in disgust. “That's boggin'”

“Yes it's not particularly pretty.” Skinner chuckled.

“How's that meant tae help.”

“It's original owner traded it for power. Poor bastard didn't understand the deal it was making. Needless to say it is bound to protect whoever has hold of it's eye.”

“Is this a wind up?”

“I'm losing patience with your scepticism, Rab.”

“Well come on, you're tryin' tae sell me a magic eyeball that'll protect me from getting' killed? I wisnae born yesterday.”

Skinner hissed a sigh through his nose. “Gordon, you packing?”

“Always boss, always.”

Rab felt the world plummet beneath his feet. He'd been too bold, not respectful enough, something, and now, now he was going to pay.

“Give the lad your piece.” Skinner said.

Ginger Gordon nodded and from somewhere around his back pulled out a gun and offered it to Rab. Rab reached forward uncertainly, still fearing this was all some kind of elaborate set up.

“Take it.” Gordon said.

Rab took the gun. It was much heavier than the air-pistols he'd fucked with as a kid.

“Now, you might think 'aye this is jist filt wae blanks' so shoot the wall over there.” Skinner said pointing to the wall on his left.

Rab did as he was told. The trigger was hard to squeeze but he managed it. The kick was strong and the bang almost deafened him and everyone in the room. A large hole punctured the wall, surrounded by a rough circle of broken plaster and dust. It took him a few seconds to regain his wits.

His ears were ringing but Skinner saying “Now shoot at me” was unmistakable. Rab didn't even want to aim the gun in his direction let alone shoot. He was still terrified this was all a set up, some convoluted ruse to fuck with him and fuck him over. He shook his head and placed the gun on the table.

Skinner's frown was one of disappointment. With his head and eyes he gestured to Gordon, who took the gun from the table, aimed it directly at his boss and fired, without hesitation. Before the bang had even reached his ears Rab noticed something thin and black, with no discernible shape, emerge from nowhere, whiz between him and Skinner and then vanish. It was like someone had quickly slashed the air with a black marker pen, which left a quickly fading ink-mark. He didn't hear the clatter of the slug on the table because of the explosive noise, but he saw it alright, his eyes could not have been any wider. Nor could Skinner's unreadable grin. “Twenty quid and it's yours, Rab.”

More than anything, Rab just wanted to be out of this whole situation. He rummaged around in the pocket of his black track-suit bottoms and pulled out two tenners which he offered to Skinner. Skinner took them closed the box and took the cash. “Pleasure doin' business with you, Rab. When this is all over, I'll see you right.”

Rab took the box with the eye in it and was escorted out of the premises. He walked out of Aberdour street as quickly as he could with out running, caught a fast black on London Road and the taxi took him straight home. The rain outside poured as he went to his bedroom and looked at the ugly talisman he'd bought. He lay in his bed holding it between thumb and forefinger, the sheen glinting reflections of a forty watt bulb. He noticed that it still had remnants of the optic nerve on the back and pondered about to whom it had once belonged. Skinner had said someone who wanted power. Rab could not imagine someone willingly giving their eye for something so intangible, though he vaguely recollected that there was a god Thor or Odin, who'd done exactly that. It was all bullshit, he was sure but then he'd watched the gun fire, saw the slug rattle on the table, witnessed that inexplicable dark swish. He knew one thing for certain, he wanted a part of that game even as he realised he was already a pawn. He sighed, placed the thing back in it's box and dozed off wondering about his next move, as the cars outside swished through soaking streets like the sounds of waves hissing against a shoreline.

He awoke the next day hoping it had all just been a bad dream, which for seconds gave him some relief, until he spied the box on his chest of drawers. At that point he decided he'd need to find out as much as he could about Skinner, about Henderson and Sim and about what happened to the Robertson brothers. This wouldn't be easy. He was a corner boy, not some gangster, he sold hash and grass to locals in his neighbourhood, he wasn't moving kilos of coke throughout the city with an entourage of hardened criminals. The only person he knew like that, his uncle Donald, was in Barlinnie and he didn't particularly fancy asking him. Donald was doing twenty for rape, attempted murder and several serious assaults with an offensive weapon. This sounded bad, but what made it worse was that Donald had buggered then slit the throat of one of his gangland rivals, a guy known as Billy Lang. It had been revenge for a deal gone awry and Donald, not being shy nor having the ability to give a fuck, had committed his crime in full view of nearly 100 people at Lang's sister's wedding reception. Brutal. Still Donny knew the score, if Rab could find no one else, he was always the last resort. He bummed around the house, smoked a few joints and watched his video of 100 greatest Rangers goals trying to think of someone who could give him some information. In the end he gave up and just went down to the pub to meet up with a couple of his mates. Though before that he made sure he pocketed the eyeball, just in case.

The billions of citizens of Earth might not have everything going for them but for the vast majority, they are lucky in one respect, they never spent any time in The Kingston. The pub wasn't even in Kingston, which had ceased to exist long ago when the council had tore it down and turned the district into a motorway and flyover. This name of was the least of its problems. Nevertheless it was Rab's local and like most of the regulars he was immune to the smell, to the peeling wallpaper and the shitty 30 year old music from the jukebox programmed to play the choices of the bar staff and nothing else, no matter how much money someone shelled out. His pals, Freddie “Bean” Barr and David “Squaredo” Davidson were already at a table when he entered. Bean was a fat lad with long greasy black hair and the fading remains of a bad bout of acne. He spotted Rab as he entered and gestured him over with some urgency. Squaredo, who was possibly the last remaining racist skinhead in the West of Scotland replete with ox-blood Doc Martins and turned up jeans, shook his head as Rab walked towards them. He hadn't got that close when Squaredo said “some cunt wis in here lookin' fur you aboot hauf an 'oor ago.”

This set Rab on edge immediately. “Who?”

“Dunno.” Squaredo shrugged before taking a drink from his pint.

“Tall fucker, short black hair, aboot twinty five, ring any bells?” Bean asked.

Rab shook his head. “Naw, did he say whit he wanted?”

“Naw man, jist came in an' asks 'd youse know Rab Dawson?' course we said never heard of ye. Dodgy lookin' fucker, man.” Squaredo explained.

“Fuck.” Rab said and sat down.

As he did so Bean got up, “Y'want a pint?”

“Aye. Cheers, Bean.”

Bean walked over to the bar, which was as usual empty of customers. The clientele having learned long ago that they would find no cameraderie from the barmaid, the ferocious Bonnie Banks. Bonnie had never forgiven her parents for her name and this had festered into an active misanthropy which she gleefully took out on her customers. At the Kingston you got your drinks and found a table, if you didn't want to be roasted alive by her scathing, vicious sarcasm. From all accounts Ms Banks was handy with a machete too, which sat proudly next to the old fashioned till stuck in between the optics. Bean was smart enough not to test the rumours.

As Bean nervously ordered drinks Rab decided to ask Squaredo if he'd heard of Big Skinny. Immediately, upon hearing the name, Squaredo nodded. “Gordon Skinner, fish-faced cunt fae Dunnoch?”

“Dunno where he's fae but that sounds like him. Where's Dunnoch?”

“Wan o' they shithole toons in the Pentlands, near Loch Goyr. I thought that cunt wis deid. Whit you bringin' his name up fur?” Squaredo asked, his suspicion obvious.

Rab squirmed in his seat a bit. “Jist heard some rumours, is aw.”

“Aye well that's Skinner fur ye. Creepy bastard wis intae black magic, so I heard.”

Bean had returned from the bar. “Who's intae black magic noo, man?”

“Big Skinny.”

“Whit fae Dunnoch?” Bean asked

“Aye. Rab here's aw curious aboot him.” Squaredo nodded.

“Ye know whit they say man, curiosity killed the cat. Big Skinny makes normal dodgy fuckers look like saints, Y'know? Probably killed mair than a few cats anaw that yin.” Bean warned with a nervous laugh.

“Whit d'ye mean?” Rab pried, hoping to get more of a measure of the man he'd made the deal with.

Bean looked around the room as if about to tell a secret. “Well, he's fae Dunnoch.”

“So?” Rab sneered.

Bean shook his head in exasperation. “Come aff it, ye've never heard aboot Dunnoch?”

“Should I huv?” Rab said, slightly miffed that he'd been left out of this particular loop.

“Place is a nightmare, man. Rumour is that some cult took oor it in the late sixties. There were tons of murders wan weekend an' then the place went dark.”

“Went dark?” Rab scoffed, “whit ye talkin' aboot?”

“Nae cunt goes there. The polis that were sent tae investigate the rumours disappeared. They sent a task force back in 75 or 76, hauf of them were killed or injured, the rest driven mental. Accordin' tae rumours the polis said that they started attackin' each other, that there wis somethin', I dunno whit, but somethin' seriously spooky gaun oan there.”

“Buuuullshit.” Rab laughed looking at Squaredo to back him up, but the skinhead just cocked his head and stuck his lip out a gesture which Rab knew meant “I dunno, man.”

“So Skinner split fae there a while before that, turned up in Glesga early in 72. Fur the last ten years or so he's been tryin' tae make a name fur himself. Did ye know he wis the wan that caused Barry McCausland tae jump aff the tap of the Red Road flats?”

“Did he?” Rab asked, sceptically. Barry McCausland was a notorious hard-man, a rival of Jimmy Boyle's. While Boyle used jail to brag about his notoriety and to go legit, McCausland became a terror around the East End. No one fucked with him, even though he had no gang, or affiliations.

“He did, aye.” Squaredo added. “Apparently he cursed the fucker, nailed a pigeon tae McCausland's door, wae all sorts of weird black magic shit painted aroon' it in blood.”

Rab hadn't expected this from Squaredo. He might be a stupid racist bastard but he wasn't a liar, or one for spreading gossip. Rab suddenly felt queasy. “Fuckin' Hell.”

“Whit ye so curious aboot him fur anyway?” Bean asked.

Rab didn't feel like keeping secrets from his two closest friends especially since he might need them to watch his back if Big Skinny's claims about Henderson and Sim were true. He pushed his left hand into his pocket and pulled out the hard orb, placing it on the table as he said “Cos he selt me this.”

Bean and Squaredo both bent over the table to peer at the object.

“Whit the fuck?” Bean gasped. “Is that a fuckin' eyeball?”

He reached forward with a finger, tentatively, before poking it gently. “Jesus Rab, it's fuckin' solid. Like a snooker baw.”

“I know. Bowfin' innit?”

“Whit the fuck ye dain' wae it?”

Rab explained, told them about what happened the previous night, right down to the part with the gun and the weird black scribbling thing. He could hardly believe the anecdote as he was telling it, but when he was finished neither Bean nor Squaredo took the piss. Both were quite pale, quite shocked and quite silent. He wanted a reaction from them, anything would do. “Well?”

“Henderson an' Sim?” Squaredo said. “That's quite a claim.”

“Is it?” Rab asked.

“Aye, I mean nae cunt's seen the Robertson's fur years, their boys said they went intae hiding back in 73 cos the pigs had some organised crime unit investigatin' them. Their gang had tried tae keep a brave face on it, but there were rumours it wis aw a sham. Still Henderson and Sim? I dunno, Jimmy Sim's certainly bein' doin' well fur himself. Skinner wis right aboot Willis bein' his nephew though.” Squaredo explained.

“Seems legit tae me.” Bean added. “But this 'hing? I'd get rid of it an' take ma chances.”

“Aye but whit if he's right, whit if it actually works?” Rab asked. He'd seen the gun, the black swirling weirdness. If it worked, if it actually worked, Rab would be unstoppable.

Neither Squaredo or Bean had an answer for that which Rab thought unsatisfactory. He wondered if they were of the opinion that the whole thing was a tall tale, that Rab had somehow exaggerated what had happen, if not downright lied. He couldn't let that stand. “Tell ye whit, let's test the fuckin' thing oot eh?”

His two friends looked at each other with looks of dread on their faces. It was Bean who spoke first. “Whit ye gaunny dae, jump in front of a bus?”

Rab smiled, he had no idea how to prove it, but Bean's joke seemed like the perfect opportunity to shut both of them up. “Good idea. C'mon.”

He picked the eyeball back up put it in his pocket and marched out onto the main street with a cocky smile on his face. Bean and Squaredo followed, both of them with worried looks on their faces. On the pavement, Rab stood with his arms folded and said. “The 16 should be alang in a few minutes, then we'll see whit's whit, eh?”

Bean shook his head. “Naw man, this is mental. Whit if it disnae work, did ye thi-” His sentence was cut short by a passer-by who swung an irn-bru bottle at Bean's head. The bottom of the bottle cracked against his skull before both burst into blood, shards of glass and fizzy drink.

Time seemed to slow down then. Rab looked at the assailant, a tall bloke in his mid-twenties with short black hair. He was grinning as Bean plummeted to the ground. Rab moved out the way as the bloke lunged forward with the sharp remnants of the bottle. As his arm whizzed past Rab's ear, Squaredo grabbed it and pulled it down at the same time as he swung up his left knee to meet it with some force. There was a crack as the arm snapped at an agonising angle. Both Squaredo and Rab were focussed on this assailant and so didn't notice another coming up behind Rab, not until Squaredo turned and shouted “Behind ye!”

Rab turned but the guy's arm was already round his neck. Rab fought to try and free himself as Squaredo moved towards him to help. At that moment Squaredo gasped as he saw the guy struggling with Rab had, in his free hand, a butcher's knife which was speeding towards Rab's back. He gritted his teeth as he waited for the yelp from Rab, but it never came. At least, it didn't come from Rab. Squaredo was not sure what he was seeing, it seemed like a scribbled shape just appeared in the air and somehow reflected the blade until it ended up deep in the stomach of the guy who'd attacked Rab. The guy screamed, staggered back onto the road and with some sense of dark cosmic irony, right into the path of the Number 16 bus, which applied the brakes just too late. His dying yell was drowned out by the screeching of the brakes as he went under the wheels.

Rab winced as he saw the bloody arm of the man under the bus, flapping like a dying fish but he had other things on his mind. Squaredo seemed to be acting in tandem as they both picked up Bean. “C'mon Bean, we need to get the fuck oot of here right noo.”

Bean was conscious, dazed and muttering a litany of angry expletives but he got moving with the help of his pals. Before long they were off the street, up a side road and looking at the gash in Bean's head. “You'll live. Let's get a taxi doon tae the Southern.” Squaredo said.

Casualty was, as always, busy. Though at this time on a Thursday afternoon it seemed to be filled with schoolkids and men who'd had industrial accidents, rather than the drunks, would-be hard-men and overdoses that had frequented the place at the weekends, which was when Rab usually had a reason to visit. Bean had been taken through the doors while Rab and Squaredo sat in the waiting room.

Squaredo had sat silently for a while, trying to find a way to address what happened

but just ended up just rambling. “That guy, the wan that went under the bus, he wis aboot tae stab you in the back then somethin' happened, I saw somethin' weird, like a black scribble jist appear an' then, like he stabbed himsel' somehow. Fuckin' creepy, that's fur sure.”

Rab nodded slowly. “So, you think I wis tellin' the truth then?”

“I dunno, man.” Squaredo said, still putting up a pretence of scepticism. “If ye are, then you're messin' wae somethin' that's really bad news.”

“Whit ye sayin'?” Rab asked, aggressively, but clearly desperate for Squaredo's advice.

Squaredo shook his head. “I need a fag.”

He stood up and walked out of the waiting room through the rattling automatic doors. Rab followed. Squaredo offered him a cigarette and then lit his own then Rab's. “This sort of shit is way beyond me Rab. We're right oot of oor depth. If it wis me, I'd bolt. Take whitever money I had and find somewhere quiet and oot the way tae hide fur a few year.”

“I hear ye, but this thing is… well if nae fucker can hurt me, there's no much stoppin' me is there?” Rab said, puzzling out his future for himself.

Squaredo shrugged. “Maybe. I know fuck all about this black magic shite, don't believe it, but say fur the sake of argument you're right. You ever heard a success story aboot someone who fucks wae aw this hocus pocus stuff?”

Rab had to admit that he never had, in fact it usually ended in disaster. “Aye but those are jist stories right? Aw those Jesus freaks puttin' a bad endin' oan them so people wid go tae church an' stuff.”

Squaredo shook his head in despair. “Man, you don't want a reason tae chuck it, you jist want me tae tell you it's fine. It's no fuckin' fine Rab, no' wan bit.”

Rab took a drag on his cigarette. Squaredo was right, Rab was looking for a reason to push on, to use the opportunity to his advantage. He thought it the best move, he didn't want to be stuck on that corner forever, not when he could be raking in the cash. He noticed a police car driving up the hospital road towards the casualty department. He nodded towards the car. “Aye, aye. We'd better boost.”

“Fuck, I knew those vultures would turn up soon enough. C'mon, let's go.” Squaredo hissed. He flung his cigarette onto the ground and crushed it underfoot. Rab nodded and the two of them set off. They knew Bean was in safe hands so they shifted through the car-park, trying to avoid the police as they turned into the entrance to the casualty department.

They walked for a while, turning onto the long straight of Shieldhall Road just in time for the rain to start spitting down on them. They both quickened their pace and soon were jogging as the rain got heavier. They were pretty much soaked through when a green Jaguar slowed and drove on the road beside them. The car honked its horn to attract their attention. Both Rab and Squaredo looked in the window, to see the big inhuman grin of Skinner. The window slid down and Skinner said, “Get in both of you, before you catch your death.”

He said it in a way that sounded like a threat rather than an invitation but the back door opened and Rab entered the car, Squaredo looked suspicious but the rain was becoming so heavy he decided if Rab was confident so was he. The interior was plush and both sank into the soft leather seats. From the front passenger seat, Skinner had turned, was leaning on the back. “Good job Rab.”

“Thanks, and thanks for the ride Mr Skinner.” Rab said, mostly to establish whose car they were in, for Squareo's sake.

“Not a problem son. I heard that you had some dealings with Henderson's enforcer Jerry Healy earlier. Under a bus eh? Well that certainly counts as novel. Either way, the shit has now hit the fan and I'm going to take full opportunity of it, would you like to watch?”

Rab had not expected the question. “Whit d'ye mean?”

“I'm meeting Sim and Henderson in about 20 minutes. I'm going to take everything from them.” Skinner said, with some excitement in his voice.

Rab looked at Squaredo, as if he would have some answer but he just looked worried. Rab calculated that it wasn't much of an offer, that Skinner was taking him whether he liked it or not. “Intae the lion's den eh? Why not?”

“That's the spirit.” Skinner laughed.

Rab suspected that he would come out of this better off. Skinner had already shown him he knew a thing or two which gave him the edge over the other underworld players. If he sold Rab the eye in his pocket for twenty quid, it stood to reason he had more up his sleeve. The car turned up onto Berryknowes Road and soon cut across Paisley Road West heading to Mosspark. The car parked up at a grey semi-detached raised a few feet from the pavement by a small slope. Skinner got out, along with his ginger bodyguard Harper.

“C'mon lads, let's make some fucking history.” Skinner said gleefully.

Rab did not feel gleeful, he felt like he might shit himself and cautiously he and Squaredo exited the vehicle. Skinner and Harper marched up to the door with the other two quaking behind them. Skinner rang the bell and started whistling. Rab recognised the tune as “I'll Do Anything.” from “Oliver”.

The door was opened perhaps two inches and half a face peeked from behind it. A young man, scrawny and hard looking started out. “Aye?”

“Skinner to see Henderson and Sim.” Skinner said, impatiently. Rab though he looked rather insulted by the way he was greeted.

The man closed the door for a few seconds before there was a rattling of chain and the door open wide. There were three people in the hallway, all young men. Henchmen, Rab realised. The young man who answered the door gestured them to come in with a flick of his hand. Skinner marched inside with Harper scowling at the lads as he passed them. The hall was narrow but the four walked down towards an open door where a tall bloke with a huge beer gut was standing smoking a cigarette.

“Gordon Skinner. What ever can I do for you?” He said.

“Well Henderson, you can get out of town, you and your pal in there.” Skinner replied, almost jovially.

“Oh, is that right?”

“It is indeed. See, if you don't we'll have no option but to kill both of you and take everything you own.”

“Whit? Haud oan we're protected, you canny just...”

“Were protected. You broke the rules. You went after young Rab here, he asked me for help after you did and so, now, you two fuckers are mine.”

Henderson, if that who he was stifled a smirk. “You'd better come in then, eh?”

Skinner walked through the door into the living room with the others immediately behind him. He stopped and gasped. Rab wondered at what for a second or two until he realised the man sitting on the sofa was something more, or less, than a man and gasped too.

It looked dead, like a zombie almost, grey skin, dull, bruise coloured lips, empty eye sockets and a pale toothy rictus with dark red rat-tails of hair slicked against the side of it's ghastly head. The creature was smoking a cigarette.

“Long time, Skinny.” it croaked.

Henderson walked over to the sofa where the ghoul sat, he had the look of a confident man. On the other side of the corpse thing another man stood, a stocky man of medium height that Rab guessed was Sim.

Skinner growled. “Donny Robertson. I saw you die years ago, what are you doing back?”

An eyeless, lidless gaze set upon Skinner. “They wurnae done wae me.”

Rab looked at Squaredo who gestured his head towards the front door. He wanted nothing more than to run, to get out of this, he wasn't just in over his head, he was in serious danger of drowning. Part of him over-rode his sense and he shook his head. “No.”

Skinner stood his ground, Harper was right beside him. “So,” Skinner started, “this is a problem, Donny.”

The ghoul scowled. “Whit d'ye mean problem? This is none of your business, gies the boy an' leave an' we'll say nothing more about this.”

“I don't think you understand,” Skinner sneered. “I'm taking over this area. You're done.”

The ghoul stood up. It didn't seem natural to Rab, the way it moved. It wasn't as if it rose using the normal human method of balance and muscle, but rather as if it was being tugged by strings, like a puppet. “Boys, time tae put this pain in the arse back in his place.”

As Robertson said this he pulled a vicious looking knife from behind him, it was over a foot long and pointed at the end, like a tiny sword. Henderson pulled out a gun. Rab saw it plain as day and made to run but the door swung shut behind them. Somehow it stopped being a door, becoming just a slab of plain white wood fused into the wall. Skinner wheeled and smacked Rab, hard, in the face. While he was still wondering what was happening.

Rab had not expected that and felt his legs buckle. As he stumbled Harper caught him. He felt a hand rummaging in his tracksuit pocket. The eye, Skinner had taken the eye. Immediately he was standing again and Skinner was holding the eye in front of him. “Careful now Donny, don't do something you'll regret.”

“Gies peace, you don't have half the power you think you do.” The ghoul laughed and swung the knife directly at Skinner. Skinner put his big hand round the eyeball and squeezed and cracked it open, like an egg.

There was a sound, like a rumble of thunder, a scream of some vast animal, the roar of a furious sea. The room seemed to dim, light fading and flickering and Rab felt a pressure ringing in his ears. Skinner was saying something, shouting something, but he couldn't make it out. Then the blackness came. Whipping flurries of line swiped and slashed through the room. It crackled and hissed, like the dark opposite of lightning, tearing through body and sofa and ornaments and T.V. These thousands of thrashing lashes shredded curtain and wallpaper and carpet until Skinner, Harper, Rab and Squaredo where in the epicentre of a whirling cloud of pinkish grey debris. The raging, wailing sound was making it difficult to hear and the constant swirling movement made it hard to balance but Rab managed not to fall into the path of the crazed torrent.

Skinner was writing something on a pad, Rab noticed before Skinner showed him. The note said. “Say 'I release you MacIntyre. Your debt is paid in full.'”

Rab said the words. Instantly the chaos stopped and the four of them were standing in a devastated living room wherein there was nothing but dust, most of it, tumbling towards the floor in clouds. There was no discernable shape amongst the dust, no furniture, no curtains, no gangland thugs, no ghoul.

Squaredo, who had stood through the whole thing with shock-wide eyes and wider mouth, decided to stay with that look now it had ended.

“You owe me a fiver, Boss.” Harper snorted.

“Fuckin' Donny. I was sure it was going to be George, he was always the smarter of the two.” Skinner laughed, patting Rab on the back and winking.

Rab laughed nervously, barely comprehending what the fuck was going on. “Whit… whit the fuck was aw that aboot?”

“About two years back I had a hunch one of the Robertsons was not as dead as he should have been. I was looking for an opportunity to get close. The three are not going to be happy about this but there's nothing they can do. They know if word got round about them bringing Robertson back they'd be dealing with trouble on many fronts. So, this district goes to me.”

“Whit? Naw man, whit's the fuckin' zombie an' the whirlin' black shit aw aboot?” Squaredo managed to gasp.

“Ah that? Magic shit. An old ghost who owed me a favour. You two have just been initiated into a world you never knew existed. You did well, you get rewarded for that.” Skinner said with a smile.

Rab didn't know what to say. He just wanted to get out of there, to go home, watch Tom and Jerry cartoons and forget the past few days had ever happened. He stood staring at Squaredo as if looking for reassurance. He didn't want this, all this spooky stuff was too much, he just wanted to sell hash on the corner, any thought he had of being something more had vanished.

“What would you like Rab?” Skinner asked.

“Nothin'. I jist want ta run my corner, safe like.” Rab said, more dazed than anything else.

Skinner offered Rab his hand and said “done.”

Rab shook his hand and that was that. Skinner gave Squaredo five grand which shut him up. Soon Skinners boys moved in to take over the areas from Pollock to Govan. Rab had decided he'd chosen wisely. The following months were rough as territory shifted control to Skinner. A dozen hospitalised, three dead, but no one bothered Rab on his corner. Night after night he punted hash to his regulars, without any fuss and without any unnatural occurrences. He was happy with that, though sometimes, late at night, when he would be going home he would sense something there, something following him, watching over him. Sometimes he'd catch, out the corner of his eyes, twitching black lines disappearing from view. Whatever it was, he knew he'd released it, and yet it had come back for him, to protect him. Rab knew this was his corner, his territory. He was happy with that.