Ill Game.

1.

“Remember me?” he says, just like that, and you know for a second or two, I didn't. He'd aged badly in the sixty years since he'd tormented me. He'd more than doubled in weight, lost his hair, had a whisky nose which looked like he'd stuffed a golf-ball under the ruddy and broken flesh. His teeth were in shards; gone was the handsome, sporting bully of my youth. He looked fucking terrible, but then we all did, we were all fast approaching the grave, some of us sooner than others, which was why we were all here. “Wullie Allerdyce.” He says. “We went tae school thegither”

I had expected him to be there, when big McArdle dropped down dead the whole community felt it, especially those who'd been in school with him and had called him friend. Still Allerdyce's presence felt like an insult, given how much they both had hated each other as kids. “Aye, I remember ye, long time no see Wullie.” I says, sticking out my hand to shake his.

He takes it and I half expect him to crush it or twist it but he doesn't he gives it a weak shake and says “sad day eh?”

“Aye. Seventy two, tragic. You know his faither's still alive? Ninety eight he is.” I say making small-talk as the two of us wait to be served at the bar. The wake is grey and subdued, held in the restricted confines of Netherton Bowling club. McArdle's popularity seems to have been a surprise to the family who clearly did not expect so many people to turn up. The queue for a drink is endless.

“Auld McArdle, seriously? Christ he wis an auld bastard when we were weans eh?” Allerdyce laughs.

“Aye.” I agree and chuckle along with him. We finally get served and then he comes and sits with me at the table. “So what you been up to all these long years Wullie?” I ask.

None of what he says is a surprise, his history is a mere whine, a litany of failures from which he learned nothing, not even the common denominator of all his problems. Failed marriage, a string of jobs, even a stint in prison. As he tells me of his miserable life I make sympathetic noises where appropriate but inside I dine on each of his woes, each is more delicious than last. Eventually he has nothing else to complain about and out of what seems politenesses sake turns to me and asks “And you? Did I no hear you were a gangster for a while?”

That made me laugh, which is not the done thing at an occasion as sombre as this particular wake. His was a common misconception, we were never just a “gang”. We're more than that, much more. We'd been called a cult a few times, which itself wasn't really fair. Tthe judge at our trial called us a “nefarious coven” which is an old word but probably more accurate. We thought we were guerilla psychologists, we even referred to ourselves as such when we were young and full of shite. “Naw, that wis aw nonsense. The papers got haud o' the story but haud o' the wrang end o' the stick.”

“But ye wur runnin' wae the Morton Crew aye?” He asks.

“Fur a while aye, but we were legit, maistly, no like that mad bastard.”

“Aye, so ye say, but ye hear stories.” Allerdyce says somewhat suspiciously.

“Ye hear stories aboot fuckin' anythin' and everythin' we wur aw foun no' guilty. I'm tellin' ye, it wis a just a load a trumped up pish, like that Orkney Satanic abuse thing a decade later.” I say, lying.

The truth was far different. The truth was, everything is far different from the consensual narratives. We started off as a bunch of smart arse con-men duping people into thinking we could speak to their dead relatives a hobby that became so lucrative that it became a career. We kept thinking we'd get caught, get into trouble but the truth was that when it came to “the spiritual” no one gives a fuck.

To protect ourselves we began to pretend we were a group of Scottish Mystics, the last of an ancient line of the Drwn. We read all the books on magic, on folklore and Celtic mythology and knocked up a bunch of plausible sounding pamphlets and drained the wallets of the gullible and vulnerable up and down Scotland. Somewhere along the line, in 1961 I think, one of the lads, Rory Williams, got in with a crowd of students and before long he's interviewed on BBC Scotland as an expert in Mysticism and Scottish Folklore. Not bad for a chancer who made up a lot of pish from books he borrowed from Temple Library. It wasn't long before Rory went mad, he'd delved too far, much too far. After that after Rory became Raving Rory, we split the scene, took years to disappear.

“Still, ye did well fur yerself.” He says, a stab of spite and jealously disguised as a compliment.

“Aye, well I canny complain.” is my answer. I'm smiling as I say it.

Two drams in and he becomes even more morose, which is delightful. It is then that Gary McArdle comes over to our table. He's a tall lad, takes after his father. He's nervous as he walks towards me. “Uh Mr Peterson, thanks for coming.”

“Not at all son, your father meant a lot to many of us here Netherton.” I say, fondly.

“Well, it's about that.” He says and stops, I fear I know what's coming next, not because of any psychic abilities but because it happens almost every time I go to a funeral. He's going to ask me to contact his father. He begins, “Mrs Roberts said that you used to do spiritualist stuff, is that right?”

“A long time ago now.” I reply. I watch Allerdyce's face out the corner of my eye. He's wading through his muddy memories trying to remember all he can about his old schoolmate.

“But she says you can talk to the dead, you can't can you? She's not serious.”

“She doesn't know whit she's talking about son. Yer dad's gone son, nothing's gonny change that.” I say. I add a touch of ominousness to the words, I want him to turn and go, I don't want him to ask three times. That was always our rule back in the old days, make them ask three times before you take their money from them.

Thankfully he takes the hint and nods, backing off. “Okay, I'm sorry to have bothered you.”

“It's fine son, I'm genuinely sorry for your loss.”

“Aye me tae!” adds Allerdyce. This gets a last, hasty nod from the young man as he goes back to his family.

There is silence for a few seconds before Allerdyce pipes up. I know what he's going to ask. “So… umm, is it aw bullshit then?”

“Is whit aw bullshit?”

“Aw that stuff aboot you bein' able tae contact the deid?” He asks, practically stammering the question.

“Whit do you think?”

“I dunno, I'm askin' you.” He says. I recognise the persistence and wonder what his issue is and how I can exploit the fucker.

“No' here.” I answer conspiratorially, dangling the mystical carrot in front of his degenerating face.

He bites. “Fine, want tae go fur a nip in the Eagle? Ma treat. Ye can tell me the truth.”

I'm a seventy four year old Glaswegian, I'm not turning down some free drinks, especially if there's a chance I can screw over the prick. “Fair enough, if yer that desperate tae know, I suppose.”

The Eagle, like many locals in Glasgow, has an air of vanquished dreams and a décor so anachronistic it may as well be a Cretaceous insect trapped in amber, which was, coincidentally the colour scheme. A century of nicotine seeping through the brick work and wallpaper which seems to suit the depressed middle aged men who haunt the place reliving past glories and defeats over and over like some characters in a bleak existentialist drama, like Sartre's No Exit but with less jokes. Allerdyce seems perfectly at home in a place like this, which is fitting.

We sit at one of several wobbly tables and Allerdyce gets in the pint and dram for me. As he's at the bar I'm already working out how to fuck him over, wondering if anyone will miss him, if he has any savings hidden, or property. He comes back and sits with a familiar groaning noise, a sign of old age, which even I won't hold against him. He looks across at me and says “So...”

“So.” I reply.

He looks at me with impatience. “Don't fuck aboot, can you dae aw the stuff they say ye dae?”

“Maist of whit wis said wis pish or totally exaggerated and we used it tae boost oor reputation but...” I leave the sentence unfinished, a lure, waiting to hook him in.

“But no aw of it eh?” He says taking the bait.

“Aye, no aw of it.” I falsely admit.

“So kin ye talk tae the deid?”

I stay silent for a moment, staring at him, it's an effect, a little drama I'd learned over the decades. “Sometimes.”

He shakes his head. “Fuuuuck. I knew it. I fuckin' knew it.”

“Aye, keep it doon.” I warn him.

“Sorry, it's jist… well I need somebody tae contact someone fur me, kin ye dae it?”

“You serious? It's been years an'...” I protest, hoping he'll put his money where his mouth is, he doesn't disappoint.

“Ah kin pay, I've got cash.” He pleads.

I sigh, look disappointed, annoyed. “It's no that, it's that it takes a lot oot ye.”

“I'll make it worth yer while. How dis five grand sound?”

It sounds desperate and I nearly laugh but keep it professional, I've been conning idiots like this for over fifty years and Allerdyce has no idea who he's dealing with. “Jesus, that's a lot of money but naw, I canny. Sorry.”

“Ten.” He says, no haggling, no bartering, straight to ten grand, seems like he really is desperate.

“Ten grand? Christ Wullie, are you sure, I mean I kin try, nae promises.”

“Jist try” he says. “Deal?”

“Deal.” I say. We shake hands on it. After that it's just a matter of arrangements.

2.

Allerdyce lives in a shitty one bedroom apartment near the Southern, the sewage works and the Clyde Tunnel. The place therefore smells of rot and ruin underneath the stench of internal dampness that floats around the building like a wraith. It's been a while since I've been in Govan but it's not really changed much, it always seemed to border on total societal collapse, even when the shipyards were alive.

The place is a tip, empty whisky bottles lined up on the mantelpiece, on tables and the old C.R.T T.V. Cheap shit too, rows of Grants and Bells, White Horse, zero quality. Clearly his dreadful existence was being drowned out -and likely caused by- his alcoholism. It makes me feel even better, I was about to pull the rug from under the fucker, revenge might take time but sixty odd years gives it time to mature to perfection. I remember him setting fire to my schoolbooks, remember him sticking my head down the toilet, remember him smacking we across the head with an Irn-Bru bottle. I'm ready to savour this. After his apologies we get to business.

“So how d'ye go aboot this?” Allerdyce asks.

I explain there are no set rules, no magic symbols or chants, no candles, nothing but me entering a meditative state until I can contact the world of the dead. “However,” I tell him “I need to know who the person is, what they mean to you and how they died.”

He gnaws on his thumb, concern in his eyes, he's thinking. I can see reticence, worry, guilt. His next words are a surprise. “Deirdrie McAllister, she wisnae anything tae me, jist some wee bird I picked up at the dancing back in the late sixties. She died because, well…” He stops, sighs and closes his eyes. “Well cos I battered her heid in with a hammer.”

“Whit?” I always knew he was a vicious bastard, a cruel malevolent wee shit but I had no idea he was a murderer.

“Aye, there ye huv it, ye gonny turn me in noo, efter aw these years?”

I should, I really should but that would lead to questions about me, about my intentions, I'm not about to confess to the police I'm a conman and I've dealt with worse than him in my time. “Naw, as ye say it wis a long time ago. It's fine, jist unexpected, ye know?”

“Aye. I'm sorry tae pull ye intae this. I jist need tae talk tae her tae tell her something.” He says, not particularly sounding repentant.

I shrug, then I think of something, something that might add a little frisson to this whole affair. “Ye sure aboot this, the angry deid are no' somethin' tae be trifled with. This could huv… repercussions.”

Again it's bullshit but the dumb fuck is buying it which is all I care about. He stares at me with confused worry. “Whit d'ye mean by repercussions?”

“Hauntings, poltergeist activity. It usually is an attempt to drive people mad.” I explain.

Allerdyce walks over to his television and picks up one of the bottles, there's perhaps a half inch of pale amber liquid swishing about the bottom. He screws open the top and gulps down the dregs. “Aw shit. Here's the thing, she wisnae the only wan, jist the first.”

The hair at the back of my neck prickles, I don't particularly want to hear this confession, in fact I'm sensing a trap. Wondering if he's brought me here to finish the job he started when we were twelve but curiosity, as well as confidence in my own wiles gets the better of me. “There's mer? How many women did you fuckin' kill?”

“Ah loast count donks ago, but it wisnae jist wimmin. I killed weans, men, tramps, even strangled a polis wan night.”

I notice that my feet are slowly walking backwards towards the door. I don't need his money that badly. I tell myself that I'm best just leaving as quickly as possible. Allerdyce wasn't the first serial killer I'd met and I knew you couldn't trust them, they were like wild dogs, insane, unpredictable. Yet I find myself saying “Aye? So whit's the game here Wullie?”

He stares at me with a look I cannot even begin to comprehend. He has a crooked smile and says. “I thought wance ye were deid that wis it, game oor. You're here tellin' me that's no the case, so I want the fuckers tae know, we're no' done, deid or no' I'll find a way tae make their afterlives a fuckin' misery.”

Fear hits me now, a deep terror squirming around in my gut, I have to hold my piss and shit in, he's not just insane, he's totally fucking evil. I suspect I'm never going to see the ten grand, I suspect his intent is to kill me. That's not going to happen. “I'm out. That's jist no...”

“You're no oot sunshine. You're gonny sit there an' contact each of them wan efter another, you hear me? They need tae know I'm coming for them.” He growls threatening me with the bottle in his hands. He's a monster, but a dumb one, I remain confident that I can trick him, that I can get the better of him, intellectually, if not physically.

“Aye okay, take it easy, Christ.”

“Get fuckin' to it. Noo!” He orders.

I sigh, sit down on the floor, cross my legs, it's not easy at my age. “Shut the curtains an' turn that light aff.”

“Ye want mood music anaw?” Allerdyce sneers sarcastically.

I sigh again and shake my head. Already my back is loupin' but I close my eyes and try to think, to come up with some way to get out of this shambles. As I do this I hear the bottles tinkle and rattle and open my eyes once again, just to see if he's getting drunk. He just stands there, with the bottle in hand, staring at me. He looks impatient and I decide I better put the show on just to buy me some more time.

“Spirits of the under-world, hear me!” I declare. It's been years since I recited the words but they come to me as naturally as advertising jingles from my childhood. “Dark is Dark and Light is light, come to me on this night, while the bear moon shines so bright. Spirits of the under-world, hear me!”

I hear him scoff, a snorting dismissal. It's hard to ignore but I have to, have to keep going, have to get the old mind working. When I was younger it would race, it would sort out my predicament in seconds, find a solution and implement it. “Spirits of the under-world, I call you in the name of Arawn, come. In the name of Rigantona, come, from the depths of the Earth I call you forth.”

Sitting like this is becoming unbearable, I can feel the pins in needles in my legs and I'm beginning to get really cold. I glance up wondering if I can somehow lunge from this position, grab one of the empty bottles, clout Allerdyce hard and bolt before he knows what happens. It's not going to happen. He's closed the curtains, or the sun's started to set, either way the room is dim, and I wonder how to use this to my advantage. “Come spirits, bring forth...” I stop, trying to recall her name. It comes. “Bring forth Deirdre McAllister, let her come to this middle world for we have need of her.”

“Fucking liar.” I hear. It's not Allerdyce, it's a woman's voice and it's not in the room, but in my head. “Charlatan.” The voice accuses. My blood runs cold.

3.

Like a wave of ice cold water, it hits me, submerges me, an anger so powerful that I drown in it. I gasp but all I can hear is screaming inside my head. I feel sick, empty and when I open my eyes the world swims in front of me. Allerdyce seems utterly unaffected by this. The screaming subsides but not to anything that gives me any respite, now my brain is filled with voices, demands, threats, pleading. My head feels like an auditorium filled with chattering, demented people, it is insufferable. I try to think straight, to force out a word but I am utterly lost in this insane din.

I am up on my feet somehow, at least that is what it seems like at first. It is not until my vision clears that it becomes apparent my feet have left the ground. Allerdyce's face tells me this is no delirium, his eyes are wide, not in terror but horribly, in anticipation. There is a leer on his face, he knows something is coming. Bottles rattle on the shelves and tables and the T.V. The curtains billow as if blown by a gale and the wallpaper seems to run, as if the damp has seeped through and is leaking down the walls.

There is a burning in my stomach and it rises up and out, like projectile vomit but out of my mouth rises thick tendrils of whitish grey smoke. From this they emerge, first one, then two then dozens, pale humanoid forms, ghosts. These apparitions are not perfect images of people but gaunt, mutilated spectres, with empty hollow eyes and skeletal features. Allerdyce looks amazed. He laughs. It is the last thing he does.

The world becomes a whirlwind of shattered glass which tears at everything in its path, the curtains, the wallpaper, the television, Allerdyce, me. I move through the room, the skin of my wrinkled face riven with glass, my clothes and arms slashed by this unearthly storm. Allerdyce, is already in ribbons, a mess of blood and skin some of which is running down the walls. I run, I do not look back. I stand outside, the afternoon sun is setting in the west. Luckily I am near the hospital, not too far from the casualty department.

My explanation, that I fell into a hedge seems unconvincing to the staff but they do their best. After a couple of hours I'm released and I phone a taxi home. It is over a week before Allerdyce's death makes the papers. “Old man hacked to death in own home”

It's not a satisfactory conclusion, not for me anyway, I never got the money but what's worse is that I see them, the ghosts, not just the ones that slaughtered Allerdyce, I see them everywhere and with them is Allerdyce, a blood soaked, ghastly mess, he waves sometimes and sometimes he grins and taps his wrist, his ghostly watch. I know what he's saying, time is running out and he's waiting, once more, to torment me, this time forever.