Remembrance.

It was one of those afternoons where the sun beat down from the cloudless sky, yet in a mocking way, since even the slightest breeze seemed like you were being slashed with an ice-cold Stanley knife. I was sitting at the bus-stop on Bridge Street, just in front of the Underground Station waiting for a 38 to take me to Shawlands to meet the fence, Ally Barratt. He owed me money for some quality jewellery that my mate McGregor had lifted from patients at the QE hospital. McGregor was an auxiliary there and had cut a deal with me weeks before. I was the middle man, twenty percent of the proceeds, it wasn't bad, enough for me to score a few lines at the weekend without dipping into my own wages.

Usually there's a 38 like every forty seconds or so, but for some reason the Council had decided to do roadworks on the one main roads out of town, in the middle of the week, which meant I was stuck there for ages. I was in the mind to hail a cab but as cold as it was, at least it was dry. I decided to make the most of the few hours of rare sunlight. As I sat there bored and flicking through my phone I noticed this bloke come out from behind the bus-stop lean against the glass at the side and stick a cigarette in his mouth. The guy was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie, all of which didn't seem to fit him very well. He had a serious frown on the go and I noticed his eyes were blotchy and red, like he'd been crying. I guessed the poor sod had been at a funeral. He padded his hands up and down the baggy suit before muttering to himself in exasperation and poking his head round the glass.

“You got a light pal?” He asked.

“Aye, here.” I said offering him the cheap blue plastic lighter I had in my jacket pocket.

“Cheers, son.” he said, lighting up his cigarette. He was an old bloke, perhaps forty or so, hair greying and thinning already. His face looked like a withered orange, like he'd put on way too much fake tan. He handed me back my lighter and sat down and exhaled. The smoke and his breath billowed out like a cloud.

“Hell of a day.” He sighed.

Normally I'd be like “aye awright whitever” but I saw he was genuinely having a hard time. I might be a bit of a prick but I'm not heartless, so I says. “Are you alright, pal?”

He looked up at me with this weak smile and said. “Naw, son, no really, I jist buried my boy.”

I could see he was holding back tears, I felt like I might join him if he burst out crying so I said. “Aw mate, that sucks, I'm sorry tae hear that. Whit age wis he?”

“Seventeen.” Her replied, his voice trembling.

Seventeen. I've lost pals at that age so I felt really bad for him. “Jesus.”

“Aye.” He said. He stood up and looked at me. “Och jist ignore me mate, it's no your problem.”

That was true. Nine times out of ten I'd have left it at that but there was still no sign of the fucking bus and I was freezing my balls off. I decided to do the good samaritan bit, see if I could burn of some of the bad karma I was no doubt building up flogging the jewellery of hospital patients.

“Naw, yer right,” I says, “but… look the Laurieston's oor there, c'mon I'll buy ye a pint, you look like you need somewan tae talk tae.”

He looked right into my eyes then and a weak smile crossed his lips. “That's awfy kind of ye but I don't want tae impose.”

“Pish, you're in a bad way, whit kind of cunt would I be if I jist let ye staun' here grievin'. Let's go.”

“You sure?” He asked.

“Aye, ma treat pal. Plus it's fuckin' freezin' oot here.”

“You're a good lad.” He said. “Thanks.”

As we walked across the road to the pub he introduced himself as Davy Wallace, I told him my name and we shook hands. We walked through the door of the place and heat belted us in the face. The pub was quiet except for an old couple who seemed to have just came in to get out of the cold. I told Davy to go find a table, asked him what he wanted and then ordered our drinks at the bar.

He sat over in the corner, tucked right underneath the mirror that hung there. I brought him his pint and he thanked me then said. “I'm sorry tae be such a hassle.”

“Think nothin' of it, I wisnae doin' anythin' important anyway.” I answered and sat down on a stool across the table from him. “so, tell us about your lad.”

Davy took a deep breath and then sighed, a tremble in his exhalation. He shook his head. “Och, I dunno. Whit d'ye dae, eh?”

“Whit kin ye dae? Whit wis his name?” I asked.

His face screwed up as he tried to stifle the tears again. “Gary.” he croaked. He took a sip of his pint, apologised again and then asked. “You ever lose anyone close to you?”

“Aye ma big brur, Paul, got stabbed a few years back.”

“Ah I'm sorry tae hear that.” he answered. “It's hard eh?”

“Aye.” I answered. “I mean he was a right troublemaker, hid it comin' really, but aye it was still ma big brur, I loved the daft prick, y'know?”

He nodded. “I do indeed, only too well in fact. I've been a bit of a wide cunt myself for too long. Spent too much time in jile. I keep wonderin' if it was my fault. I mean, I wisnae really there fur him a lot when he wis growin' up. Thought I was some kinda fuckin' mafia enforcer pretended I wis runnin' the show an' that every cunt wis afraid of me, but… ach, well I wis jist feedin' masel a pile a shite, watched too many fuckin' Scorcese movies. I mean look at me, forty four years of fuckin' age, I even hid tae borrow this fuckin' suit I'm so skint.”

“That'll get ye naewhere Davy, I'm sure it's no your fault.”

“No directly naw, but...” He said then stopped. “The wee bastard wis jist like me, thought he wis feart of nothin'. I filled his heid wae the same shite I filled mine wae. Aw they tall tales about the “gangster life” wis it any wonder he fell in wae a bad crowd?”

I scratched my head, took a drink and said, “well if nothin' else, at least he admired ye, eh? That's somethin' at least.”

“I think he did it mere tae piss off that vindictive bitch of a mother of his, I swear...” He stopped again looked round the room and then lowered his voice. “I've done bad things, I've paid for them and wish I could take it aw back, but I swear I'd have done aw the time I spent in prison for those murders and robberies quite fuckin' happily if I could have rang that cunt's neck.”

“Shag in haste, repent at leisure.” I replied with a laugh.

“Aye, exactly.” Davy answered cheering up for the moment. He took another drink.

“Ye know the worst of it is? He wis a smart wee bastard, much smarter than I ever wis. He jist wisnae street-wise. He didnae huv that sense, I mean that fucker Skinner, wan look at that cunt and ye'd run a mile.”

“Skinner?” I asked.

“His boss, I suppose. A real gangster that wan, and worse besides. Runs maist of the East End and Southside, no' that any cunt knows that, no' really. He's wan of those cunts that lets everyone else think they're a big-shot, but he's the money man, and he sets them aw up. There's a few who know who really runs the show but they keep tight lipped aboot it.”

“An' yer boy worked for him?” I asked, sounding impressed.

“Aye, no bad fur a seventeen year auld I guess, but Gary never knew whit he wis lettin' himself in fur.”

“How so?” I asked.

“That Skinner cunt. He's up tae his bloated eyeballs in the occult, wid ye believe?”

“The whit? Like black magic an' shit?”

“Aye. I mean ye hear things in jile but cons talk a load of shite maist o' the time, y'know? But naw, Skinner is right intae aw that. I mean don't get me wrang, I never believed a word o' it. Tae tell ye the truth I never even believed he existed. I thought he wis wan of those, whitdyecallit… urban legends.”

“How d'ye mean?”

“Well as I said, people talk shite, and on the rare occasion his name would pop up it would be wae such a tale that anywan in their right mind wid be like “aye right, good wan” but noo? Well, noo I think maybe they were aw tellin' the truth.”

“Aboot the black magic?”

“Aye.”

“You believe aw that pish?” I said, surprised. He seemed like such a down to earth guy.

Davy shrugged. “I never used tae. A couple of weeks ago, Gary comes roon' tae mine. He's as white as a fuckin' sheet. Course, I ask him whit the matter is an' he says, get this, “I jist saw Skinner talk tae a severed heid and the fuckin' heid talked back”. I burst oot laughin', tellin' him he'd been taken for a ride but he wis insistent. Tells me he's done wae Skinner an' that wance he gets some cash together he's out, says he's gaun tae Spain tae start a new life. He wis really upset. I thought he wis high or somethin', so I laughed it aff.”

“A severed heid?” I asked incredulously.

“I know, right? He wis serious though.” Davy finished his pint put down the glass and said “I'll get the next wans in.”

“Keep yer haun in yer pocket. I said it wis ma treat.” I insisted.

“Cheers.” He said.

I took our empty glasses back and ordered another. As I stood at the bar he asked for my lighter again and went outside for a smoke. I said I'd join him and asked the barman to keep them for us. Outside the sun was low in the west but still bright, the sky a darkening pink and orange. As we stood smoking he changed the subject, asked me a bit about myself but there's not much to tell, so I filled him in the best I could. We enjoyed the smoke and went back inside, the sun setting left the night air so cold it was painful to stay outside.

Back in the pub I picked up the pints from the bar and went back to the table. Davy was still looking a bit shell-shocked, tearful and beat. He took the glass from me and said “Cheers Pal.”

Davy sat silently for a few moments then looked up at me with those pink, watery eyes and said. “It wis that fuckin' book.”

I said nothing just gave a look of curiosity which he noticed. With a weak smile he said. “He knocked it fae Skinner, said it wis worth mere money than hauf o' Glesga.”

“A book?”

“Aye, you should've seen the fuckin' thing. Ugly big thing. About the size of the Beano albums I used to get as a kid but aboot six inch thick. He tells me that it's wan o' a kind, and there's aw sorts of weird pish in it. We argued aboot it but he was certain he could find a buyer. Mentioned some cunt named Morton, if I remember. I jist gave up. He said it wis a book full of magic stuff.” Davy explained. He looked annoyed, disgusted perhaps.

“So whit wis the problem wae the book?” I asked.

“The problem wis the daft wee bastard starts fuckin' aboot wae it.”

I began to feel cold, even inside the pub. This was heading somewhere, somewhere I didn't want to be dragged along to. Davy was staring right into my eyes, begging me to believe him. I said nothing.

“Christ.” He began. “I should've burnt the fuckin' thing but he kept sayin' if he sold it we'd be set fur life. Daft cunt that I am, I believed him.”

He sighed, shook his head and continued. “How wis I tae know? I thought it wis aw a pile of shite.”

“So what happened?” I asked, despite every instinct now telling me to bring this to an end, to get out of the pub and leave. Forget it, forget all of it.

“Well, couple of night ago I comes home, and Gary's staunin' there, in the living room, stark bollock naked wae this big smile on his face, jist starin' at the fuckin' mirror.”

Right then I should have left, should've just called him on his bullshit and walked out but… oh christ… there was no way he was lying, he was nearly in tears. Besides, my curiosity got the better of me.

“So I says. Whit the fuck's the matter wae ye? An' he jist looks at me, like I wis a fuckin' insect or somethin' an' starts laughin'. That pissed me off, so I went tae grab him. He jist stood there, so I grabs his arm an' fuck, it wis caulder than the night oot there. Soon as I do that, this fuckin' voice comes oot of him, jist this evil fuckin' growl an' he jumps me. I try tae subdue him but he's way too strong. Next thing I know I'm on the grun an he's on tap of me. I try tae escape but he says, in that creepy fuckin' voice, “I'm gonny rape your soul until it bleeds”. That wisnae my Gary, I could see it in his eyes. My boy wis gone.”

“Jesus.” I gasped.

“Aye.” Davy replied. “Aye.”

He took another drink, a big gulp. “Somehow I managed tae free mysel' an' I bolted but the fucker attacked me again. Jist leapt across the fuckin' room like a gazelle or somethin'. I panicked. I picked up the TV an', well I rammed it intae his heid.”

“You killed him?” I said, wanting to run, staying put, wanting to hear all of this.

“I wish. Naw, I mean his heid wis stoved in, he should've been deid but naw, he kept gaun. Pulls the fuckin' thing aff like a baseball cap. Blood pishin' doon his naked body, hauf his face wis jist a mess, the tap of his skull gone an' the cunt's still laughin'. Ye've goat tae understaun', I wis it my wits end. I mean I think a went a bit mad, right?”

“Fuck, aye.” I agree with a nervous giggle.

“So then… aw Jesus… then he jist pounces, but he canny see properly the nick he's in, an' dives straight past intae the door frame, draps like a stone. I run intae the kitchen an' gets a bread-knife an' by the time I'm back, there's blood everywhere an' this laughin'. Christ knows where it wis comin' fae. He runs towards me again, as if he kin still get me, right intae the knife. That stopped him. Draps like a stone.”

“Oh fuck. Davy...” I said. I didn't know what else to say. What else could you say?

“Then I lose the rag, I mean totally lose it. I'm hackin' away at him, screamin' like a fuckin' wummin, stabbin' stabbin', stabbin'. At wan point I look doon an' wan of his hauns is oan the fler. It's still movin' crawlin' like a fuckin' spider. I hacked him tae bits and the fucker widnae die.”

I was feeling sick then, dizzy, confused. “But… you said...”

“I said I buried him this mornin', an' that's the truth. I never said he wis deid. In pieces, aye, but no deid.”

I don't remember getting up, nor leaving the Laurieston. I don't remember running back over the bridge nor wandering through the town, though I must have. I only remember coming to on the number 16 bus, half way home. I was, apparently sobbing, according to the young couple who asked me if I was okay.

I wasn't. I'm still not and I wonder if I ever will be again. I thought over and over about it. I thought he must have been a liar or a conman, but I saw his face that night. I've witnessed a lot of grieving in my time, but I've never seen a face, so haunted, so horrified and so desperate to share as I saw on Davy's. I would've probably been able to cope with that, if it were not for one terrible awful fact. Skinner was, is real. The fence, Ally Barratt has been working with and for him for years.

God help us all.