Legend Tripping

Image
  1. Most of the children of Carlin High School were engaged in the usual playground activities, girl gossiped rapidly sounding like a thousand busy typewriters; youthful first years laughed and chas ed each other around the yard, burning off energy; older kids from the rough end of town hid behi nd the toilets, smoking weed. Steven was sitting alone, perched on the fence like a hawk, watching all the normal mayhem when he spotted Simon Anderson take a nosedive onto the concrete. The boy just went white and dropped, and even though the other kids were making a godawful din, Steven definitely heard Simon’s skull crack like a heavy egg as it smashed onto the ground. The noise was a sickening, hollow sound that made his heart jump in his chest. He immediately jumped off the fence and rushed to see if the older boy was alright. In the seconds it took him to move to where Simon was, there was a large crowd around Simon, some girls were screaming, an older boy was shouting, “Get a tea
Post a Comment

Crossing The Border

It was Driffield who made the call. The kid couldn't have been older than fifteen but he was already making a name for himself. How the hell he ended up knowing Waterhouse was something I never asked. Still, he did, and Waterhouse had been quite the rising star since the twins and their firm got banged up, two years earlier.

“Waterhouse would like a word, at the Acorns, soon as you like.” is all he said. It was the last thing I needed but I'd been around the block often enough to know saying no to violent narcissists was never a good idea. I was also curious. I'd been out of the game since before Rachman gave Ronnie and Reggie Esmarelda's to look after. Why would someone like that be looking for someone like me? The answer was simple. So it seemed.

“Those fakkin' Jocks need put in their place.” Waterhouse had said as he stood outside the Acorns, a Rothman's wobbling up and down between his lips as he spoke. He was a big bloke, too old for the hippy look he was attempting. He thought he looked like Oliver Tobias, I could tell; same hair, same studied stance. To be fair to him, for a cunt from Tooting he was doing not bad in pulling it off. He was agitated, that much was for certain.

“Maybe Watty,” I said, “But surely you've got better men than me?”

I just wanted it over and done with, to get back to my pad, back to the books and that new record by Comus. I wasn't interested in the revenge plots of an angry crime-lord.

He tried to butter me up. “Who's better than you Charlie, eh?”

“Sam Symons for one,” I replied, I didn't even have to think.

“I sent Symons up there six months ago, no fakker's 'eard a peep from him since.”

“What about Tony Richards then? He's still for hire, last I heard,” I tried.

Waterhouse nodded rapidly with a grin, an angry grin. “Last you 'eard eh? Come inside, I've got somethin' to show you, Charlie.”

He pushed open the door of the pub and gestured me to step inside. I did. The room was dimly lit but not dark enough that I couldn't make out what was lying front and centre of the bar. A head, a human head, the eyes and mouth had been stitched up but there was no mistaking that face, those thick black eyebrows or that great aquiline hooter of his. Tony Richards. They called him Slayer, no one would be calling him that again. I began to see why Waterhouse was so agitated.

“Who does that?” He asked, to no one in particular.

He kept wittering on but I wasn't paying much attention to him. The stitches though, those interested me, There were little lines of dried blood at each puncture hole which suggested Richards had still been alive when they'd done that. What was left of his neck and throat wasn't edged with a clean cut either, they'd used something rough, I suspected a hacksaw.

“What makes you think this was the jocks?” I asked.

“Turn around.” was his answer. I did. On the wall next to the fogged glass windows and red velvet curtains someone had written. “Greetings from Glasgow. Come ahead. (Get it?)”

Right there and then I knew I was taking the job. “I think you better fill me in, Watty.”

It started a couple of years previously, according to Waterhouse, with some dispute over drugs. It seemed that the a few Glasgow gangs had refused to pay for a batch of bennys and dexys that Waterhouse had shipped up there. They never returned the goods and when Waterhouse threatened them with reprisals he was told in no uncertain terms to “fuck off”.

Obviously, a man with such pride as Waterhouse had no option other than to deal with this insubordination before it got out and spread. He'd sent a team up to sort out some of the ring-leaders and indeed, started a little territory war by taking out a few bosses of districts. He'd been satisfied with that, at least until all the gangs stopped their orders from Waterhouse. There had been rumors that someone else was getting their drugs for them, someone local, someone who wasn't paying their dues.

Waterhouse had been, for a long time, one of the major importers and distributors throughout the mainland, he didn't fuck with the Provos, he wasn't suicidal. I suggested that maybe they were taking over the trade up north but he assured me even the Micks were having trouble with the Glaswegians, which was a surprise, given how the town was always teetering on the edge of Sectarian violence.

He said it as plain as he could. “I'm not 'aving any issues in Edinburgh or Dundee or anywhere else, just Glasgow. So I sent up Symons to find out who was running the cunts behind my back.”

This was a delusion of grandeur, at best he got some cash for shipping up drugs. The crews up there, like in most of the country, owed him little else; were mostly autonomous. He was just pissed off that times were changing. I wasn't really interested in his little revenge plot, but I was interested in just who it was had the balls to decapitate Richards, stitch up his eyes and mouth and leave it as a present on Waterhouse's doorstep.

“So you want me to do the same then? Find out who's running the show up there and take them out, right?”

“Yeah. I don't want to risk my own lads,” Waterhouse said. I understood that, they were amateurs. I'd been taking hits since '42. Didn't matter to me whether it was Nazis, the communist resistance or Scottish gangsters. I got the job done. I was good at it, I was just getting old. I made a small pretence at protest, just to see how keen he was. Turned out he was keen enough to offer me a hundred grand. I wasn't going to turn it down, even though my curiosity was so peaked that I'd have done it for a pack of smokes.

“I've set it all up for you, you and some others meet this weekend...”

I interrupted him. “Hang on, I work alone.”

“Yeah? So did Symons. You want to ask Richards here about how working alone went for him. It's my money, I'm saying it's a team effort, right?”

I didn't argue. He was right, if he wanted to throw his cash around, I was happy to snatch it, even if it meant working with others. I could always ditch them if things got ugly.

We met at Euston on the following Saturday. I knew them all by reputation. Toby Cox from Devon, an ex-merchant navy bloke who'd spent the last decade gun-running, mostly to anti-communist militias in the southern Americas. Harry “the bender” Briggs, a poof from Dorking who was a hard bastard by all accounts. Briggs was, supposedly, responsible for shooting three cops in broad daylight. Rumour had it he'd spent a few years in the Foreign Legion and had spent some time in Vietnam and the Congo. Last but not least was Peter Coretti. Coretti must have been slumming it, everyone knew he took hits for the Government. A mouthy Marxist professor here, some women's libber there. He didn't give two shits. A real professional though, made them all look like accidents. I'd heard that he'd even been in Dallas back in November 63, but then again, from the number of stories I heard there were more shooters in and around Dealy Plaza that day than people coming out to cheer the President. All of them were at least ten years younger than me. Briggs couldn't have been out his twenties.

Because of my age and, I suppose, my own reputation they automatically assumed I was leading the whole thing. I was happy with that. Cox looked exactly like you'd think, strawberry blond hair, beard, tattoos, the whole bit. It was him that first asked me what the plan was. At that point, I had no idea.

“We get on a train,” was my answer.

Coretti, who looked about as Italian as Cox was having none of it. “Bravo, fuckin' Einstein. I need more than that.”

He had a blond crew cut, was muscle-bound and had a frown mark in between his brow so deep you could have hidden a shilling in it. I wasn't in the mood to start squabbling before we'd even left London, so I made it up. “I've got a few names, some contacts up there, we check them out, see where that leads.”

Briggs said nothing, just sat there watching, chain-smoking and filling his coffee cup up from his hip-flask every time he took a sip. Of the three he was the one who disturbed me. The other two looked like hard men, professionals. Briggs looked like he was a kid acting the part, his bugged out eyes suggested he was popping pills. Right then I wondered if I'd need to take him out, I couldn't be dealing with any erratic nutjobs.

We got on the train and spent just over seven hours, drinking, smoking and playing cards. We talked a lot of shit, mostly but, as we got a bit further from London and drunker, the conversation got darker. It was Coretti who started it, he asked what the most difficult job we'd ever undertaken. I knew why he was asking, he had a story to tell. It was the only reason he asked, people like me and him aren't really interested in others.

Briggs’ story, like Cox's, was simple enough, their first kill. I'd heard that a lot in my time, how they'd crossed a line, the shakes, the shock, the feeling of power and triumph. I could barely even remember mine and tuned out trying to walk my way back through the corpses I'd made until I settled on the German soldier, hidden in a French barn, with his radio equipment, I slit his throat before the rest of our squad moved into the village, before he could warn his command. I couldn't even recall what he looked like. And unlike Briggs or Cox, I had no hard time directly after dispatching him.

The main show was always going to be Coretti's and what a show it was. He took his time, laying out the scene, Franco's Spain, a fascist bully boy by the name of Leo Hasserin. The job, he told us, went without a hitch, sniper fire from a belltower in Madrid and pop, no more Hasserin. He paused at that for a moment, while Cox and Briggs looked puzzled, but I knew there was a punchline coming. Coretti then explained that two years later, the Yanks hired him to take out a Russian spy, known only as Oglov, who'd been bouncing back and forth between Florida and Cuba. He took the job, followed the spy's movements, eventually sneaking into his sweat-stained hotel room and garotting the bloke. But, said Coretti, the bloke he killed was Leo Hasserin, again for the second time. He knew he had not made a mistake about this, yet had watched Hasserin's head pop back in Madrid. How could it be the same man? Then came the clincher. Three years ago, he'd been hired to kill the leader of a mercenary group who was terrorising Tanzania. To cut a long story short, once again he was face to face with Hasserin. Once again he killed him.

“Some people, it seems, just don't want to fuckin' stay dead,” he said.

Briggs and Cox were incredulous, as you might imagine, but Coretti insisted it was true. Then they turned to me. “So, Charlie,” Cox asked, “What's the most difficult job you've done?”

I shrugged, looking out of the window, I had no stories to tell, nothing interesting, no revelations about humanity, I killed people because it was easy to do and paid well. “I was an apprentice in a smelting yard before the war, that was hard work.”

If nothing else, it gave them a laugh.

We arrived in Glasgow just after six in the evening. The sun was already going down and the street-lights provided little warmth and what weak light they emitted seemed to be swallowed up by the soot-black buildings. The rain was, as ever, pouring down, it was a dismal place, which is why I rarely travelled up north, it was all like that. We had a quick dinner in a place near Central Station and booked into our hotel. A place on Union Street, pretty much in the heart of the city. It looked a bit shabby from the outside but the rooms were clean enough. I lay on the bed for a while looking through a book of contacts I'd made in Glasgow over the years. It was a thin list to start with but made thinner by the names crossed off. The dead are not much in the way of answering telephones.

I kept coming back to one name. Laurie Esslemont. Laurie had helped me out of the town the last time when things got ugly after Maxwell-Fyfe's boys at MI5 had me knock off some Soviet prick who was smuggling explosives to the Provos. Esslemont was a staunch unionist, up to his neck in it with the micks. Owned a pub or two in the Southside. He was my best bet. I picked up the phone and rang the number.

It had been five or so years since he'd heard from me so he took reminding. He wondered why I was back in town, obviously hoping I was there again to stick it to the IRA, I didn't disabuse him of that. I asked if we could meet to discuss business. He told me to come right down. Seemed right excited by the meeting to tell you the truth. I don't think he expected the others.

It was a Saturday night and his pub was jam-packed with fat, red-faced men of indiscernible age and intellect. They were all singing loyalist songs. It's a thing they do up there, they were just as much a bunch of backward pricks as the other side, but at least they considered themselves British, whatever the fuck that meant. The four of us walked up to the bar. Esslemont looked much the same, except somewhere along the line a thick scar had been added to his face, descending from his right cheek to his chin, narrowly missing his mouth. He spied me as I walked up and yelled over the noise “Charlie! Ya big southern bastard, how the fuck ur ye?”

I flashed him an appreciative smile and said “I'm alright, you Jock poofter. A pint for me and my lads if you'd be so kind.”

He chuckled and poked at one of his barmaids to get it done. She was about eighteen, her face thick with makeup, blue eyeshadow that looked as if it was spray painted on. The place was far too noisy for us to talk. It made me feel uncomfortable, all those stupid drunks singing their idiotic songs about killing Fenians.

I took the pint and watched Coretti and Briggs as they stared around the place in amazement. Cox seemed at home, he was a working-class lad but the others were like fresh water fish flapping about in the sea. I leaned over the bar. “Anywhere quiet we can talk, Laurie?”

As soon as he realised we were down for “official business” his manner changed to one of absolute seriousness. With a nod and a gesture of his head, all four of us were led around the back of the bar and into a small room, which he locked behind him.

“Sorry about that Charlie, Rangers won today, gets a bit fuckin' hectic oot ther' when that happens.” Esslemont said.

“Not a problem.” I answered.

“So whit brings you four lads this far o'or the border? The Provos again?”

I opened a pack of Stuyvesant and offered them around before answering. I lit up, inhaled and breathed out. “That's the thing, we're not sure. Our client has been wondering if they're messing with the drug trade.”

“Drugs? Ah'm no' intae that shite. I'm aw aboot defendin' the croon.”

“The what?” Coretti asked.

“The crown, shut up,” I answered.

Coretti shrugged and did as he was told.

“Thing is, Laurie we need to know if those who are, have changed loyalties from London to Dublin. A lot of unhappy people in the capital moaning they've either not been paid or the traffic's dried up completely. You heard anything?” I asked.

I could see in his face he had heard something. It was as plain as fucking day, but there was something else plain as day, he was scared. “Naw, no' heard anythin' like that, but as I say, I'm no' intae that shite.”

“Bollocks!” Briggs said with a sardonic laugh.

“Shut your mouth son,” I warned.

“The fucker's lyin' to you,” Briggs protested.

Cox interjected. “You heard Charlie, shut the fuck up.”

“But...”

“Zip it,” Cox warned.

I could see this was making Esslemont nervous but luckily Briggs did indeed zip it.

“Sorry about that Laurie, Briggs here, he's a suspicious little cunt. I know you're not lying to me, you're not that stupid, right?”

Esslemont took a long drag. “Aye, that's right Charlie, we're oan the same side here.”

“Exactly. See Briggs, we're on the same side. I owe this big fucker my life.” I said, mockingly chastising Briggs, I turned so Esslemont couldn't see me giving the lad a wink.

“Sorry.” Briggs said, in a rather camp voice, which I could see made Coretti bristle.

“Nae bother mate,” Esslemont answered.

“Now,” I began. “I know you're not into drugs, but you're a man in the know, is there anything you can tell us, any new faces been hanging around, any stories, anything?”

He shook his head right away, without thinking, obviously hiding something. “Naw, I… Well there wis wan thing. Couple of weeks back. You heard o' Madeleine Peach?”

The name rang a vague bell, but I could not remember where from. “Remind me.”

“She's a whoor in the East End, runs a brothel just aff Duke Street?”

That was her. She'd been a looker once, back in the fifties, big tits, raven hair. Made sense she'd be a Madam. “I know her, what about her?”

“Well ther' wis a big stramash o'or there, couple of weeks back, as I said. Wan of the McFarlane gang ended up wae his throat slit, couple of her security lads in hospital. McFarlane supplied her wae coke an' that sort of shit. Maybe...”

He stopped just as the screaming and roaring started from the pub. He gave an apologetic look which lasted a second before rushing out. We followed. The place was mayhem. I caught a glimpse of some guy in the white and green hoops getting a pint glass in the face, even as he swung a sword at another. Two more Celtic fans had tipped over a table and were batting away bottles and glasses being used as projectiles, the angry shouting was unintelligible. Another Celtic fan had a straight razor but was more concerned about making out the door. Several of the punters were bleeding from the face. A couple of them lay on the floor, one had been run through the gut and was squealing.

Cox, from behind me, roared “Yeeeeees!” and flung himself into the fray. He charged through the crowd like a bull and managed to pull the table away from the two who were defending themselves. He rammed his forehead into one whose nose exploded and his lights went out. The other, quit, put his hands up in surrender.

“No surrender!!!” came a cry from dozens of people and Cox, still smiling grabbed the kid by the throat. Choked the little bastard out. His savagery was impressive, if utterly unprofessional, but I watched, thinking that it might provide Esslemont with a bit more trust in us.

I pulled a pint. The guy with the sword, had blood running into his eyes, but he was not about to give up. He kept swinging the blade as the others approached, keeping them at a distance, unaware his mate with the razor was out the door and being chased with a few angry bastards.

The sword wielder now addressed only as a dirty Fenian bastard by all and sundry did not think to look behind him. Cox emerged, holding the table above him, swung it down on the Celtic fan's head with all the strength he could muster. The bloke with the sword crumpled and was swarmed. Cox walked back to the bar, being patted on the back and shaking hands all the way. He had a big shit-eating grin on his face.

“Bread and fuckin' butter to me, that.” he cackled. I handed him a pint but gave him a stern look. You're drawing attention to us, it said. His face gave a dismissive reply.

The shouting became an excited gibbering hubbub. I noticed Esslemont replace a shotgun into the freezer he had behind the bar. The morons had gotten off lucky. Eventually, the crowd gave up beating up the Celtic fans, they were still alive, barely. Both of them were picked up and thrown out onto the street, just as the blue flashing lights started flickering through the nicotine stained windows. It was time for us to leave. I looked at Esslemont and the big man nodded and escorted us around the back of his pub. As we made our way out into the area where he kept the empty barrels he grabbed me by my shoulder. “I wisnae entirely honest earlier. There's some bad shite gaun doon at the moment. Dae yersel' an' yer pals a favour, go back doon south.”

“What sort of bad shite?” I asked.

Esslemont shrugged. “As I said, no really ma field o' expertise. Jist be careful Charlie.”

I shook his hand with thanks and said I'd see him soon and then we used the barrels to climb over a wall into the backcourt of a block of tenements. The place was a mess, a wild overgrown mess filled with rubbish everywhere as if abandoned by civilisation. The close we walked through to get out onto the main street wasn't much better, reeking of vomit, which puddled in the ground floor corridor along with several pools of cooling lager scented piss. We moved quickly, looking for a black cab to take us back to the hotel. Another fight spilled out onto the street from another pub, across the road from where we were. Those Protestants and Catholics really hated each other. Coretti was appalled by it all and when we finally got into a taxi complained bitterly about it.

“Fuck the Pope they kept saying. The Pope! Can you believe the balls of these people?”

“Drop it. It's nothing to do with us.” I answered.

“No, then why did this big bastard get involved? You hate us Catholics too, Cox?”

“Heat of the moment, nothing more. I love a good brawl.” Cox answered. He seemed content, relaxed as if bathing in the afterglow of violence.

“I don't like this Charlie, let me tell you, I don't like this one bit.” Coretti continued.

“It's fine. We go back to the hotel, let this all die down. They'll all be suffering hangovers tomorrow. We picked a bad night, that's all.” I answered. That seemed to settle Coretti's agitation. The journey back into the centre was pretty short, even for that time on a Saturday night. Most people didn't have cars, and walked everywhere, or caught one of the rattling double deckers. The streets were busy with young folk coming out of the pubs and aiming for the clubs. Briggs decided he was going to sample the nightlife, but I went to bed, it had been a long day.

The next morning I opened one of the miniatures of vodka and had it with a cup of coffee before heading downstairs for breakfast. The hotel was pretty full, a lot of out of towners, probably here for the match the day before. A couple of them were sporting black eyes and bruised faces. Cox was already noshing away by the time I arrived and I sat across from him. His plate was filled with bacon, eggs, sausages, the works.

“You should try this black pudding Charlie, and these things, totty scones they call them, fucking gorgeous,” Cox said, with his mouth half full.

I nodded. “I'm famished.”

The waiter came over and took my order. He was older than most of the waiters back in London, practically the same age as me. As I waited I decided to talk to Cox about his behaviour the previous night. “You were lucky last night.”

“Yeah, how so?”

“This your first time up here?”

“It is.” He answered.

I took a bit of toast from the rack and buttered it. “Well, these people can turn on a tuppence, especially when drunk, especially against the English.”

“Never thought of that,” Cox said, nodding. “Good advice. Bigoted bunch of cunts, eh?”

“Yep,” I replied and bit into the toast.

Coretti came to the table, looking stressed. “My back is killing me, that bed is too fuckin' soft.”

“Good morning to you too,” Cox replied.

Coretti just scowled and grabbed a slice of toast. The room was as silent as a church, hardly any conversation, just the clinking of plates and cutlery. Everyone had partied too hard and were suffering from it. Which reminded me. “Anyone heard from Briggs this morning?”

“He probably got hammered and is still sleeping it off. You know what those poofs are like once they get started.” Cox said.

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Coretti said, mockingly.

“I'm surprised you don't. From what I hear you spent a lot of time with Boothy, Driberg not to mention old Ronnie, eh?”

“What are you sayin'?” Coretti asked, immediately taking offence.

“Simmer down,” Cox answered in a threatening manner. “I'm just saying you spent a lot of time around poofs.”

Coretti didn't know how to respond, so instead lit a cigarette and fidgeted. “So what's the plan for today?”

“What's the rush?” I asked.

“I hate this place. The sooner we're done, the better,” he answered.

“Well, it's Sunday so everything's going to be shut. So I thought we'd go down to see that whore before it gets dark. If you want to wake up Briggs and we'll go after breakfast since you're in such a hurry.” I answered.

Coretti nodded and got back up, toast in one hand, cigarette between his lips. He walked out of the room with an angry strut. Cox shook his head. “That cocky little fucker's a liability.”

“Maybe,” I answered, as my breakfast was put in front of me. The smell of it made me even more ravenous and so I ploughed into it. Cox seemed to have his eye on it so I pulled it towards me and gave him a glowering look as if to say “hands off”. He got the message and craned his neck looking for the waiter, probably for seconds. It took a few seconds before he caught the waiter's eye. “Any chance of another plate of this delicious breakfast?”

The old waiter smiled as if it was a personal compliment. “Let me see what I can do.”

Cox chuckled. “I could sit here all day eating this stuff.”

“Your wife not feed you at home, Toby?”

“Glynis died last year, Charlie,” Cox replied, his voice subdued, the pain still there.

“I heard. I forgot.” I answered.

“Yeah.” He answered. That ended the conversation. I went back to my breakfast. Cox sat silently, waiting on his seconds. Coretti reappeared. “Briggs isn't answering his door.”

“Probably sleeping off a hard night,” Cox said, shrugging.

Coretti sighed. “It's fucking unprofessional.”

“Let him have his beauty sleep, what difference does it make?” Cox asked.

“He's getting paid, same as we are. He should be more responsible.” Coretti replied.

“Give it a rest, Peter. You don't give a shit about Waterhouse any more than we do.” I added.

“Not the point.” Coretti huffed.

I finished my breakfast. “What is the point, Peter?”

“I don't like this, any of this. Usually, I know who I'm sent out for, not just some vague notion that there might be someone, add that to the fact Symons and Richards just vanished. It's a bad situation.”

“Richards didn't vanish,” I added, draining the cup of tea I'd been letting cool.

“What do you mean?” Cox asked for both him and Coretti.

“He turned up. Well his head did. Someone placed it right on the bar at the Acorns.”

“Waterhouse told you this?” Coretti asked, frowning.

“No, I saw it for myself, both the mouth and eyes were stitched closed,” I added.

“Stegoneria!” Coretti hissed.

“No one knows what that means, you dumb wop.” Cox chortled.

“Witchcraft. That's what they do, stitch up the eyes and mouth.” Coretti answered.

“I never took you for the superstitious type,” I said.

“I'm not.” Coretti protested. “That doesn't mean those that believe don't exist.”

“Hang on...” Cox said with a wry grin. “What if this guy we're looking for is that Hasserin guy you keep bumping off?”

“You think that was a joke?” Coretti said, barely managing to stay seated.

“Relax, for fuck sake,” Cox said. “I believe you.”

He was trying to calm the situation, mostly because the waiter was approaching with another plate. He placed it down in front of Cox. “There you go, enjoy. Can I get you gents anything?”

“No thanks,” Coretti said, curtly.

“I'm fine, thanks,” I replied.

Cox rubbed his hands in delight and got stuck in again. “Help yourselves,” he said.

Coretti immediately pilfered a sausage. “So what do you think about all this, Charlie?”

“Who fucking knows?” I replied.

Cox hammered into the food, with even more gusto than before. Probably because he suspected Coretti might start bitching again. It took less than five minutes before he'd finished. He pushed the plate away, pushed his chair back, clapped his hands and said: “Right, let's go.”

So we did. We left Briggs in his room or out getting his jollies from some kilted drunk, or whatever he was doing and after some advice from reception got the bus over to the East End. It took about ten minutes, driving through the city centre and Barrowlands, a place which had been in the news a year or two previously because some religious nutter had apparently strangled a few birds with their tights. It was, during the day, a flea market and there were plenty of people milling around the place. We passed it and carried on until the conductor helpfully let us know that we were at the stop.

It was a short walk down the street past a few closed shops with soot black tenements above them to the corner and there we were. A street filled with post-war concrete pebble-dashed semis; two up two down by the looks of it. At the end of that street was number 21 and 23, which were where Madeleine Peach had her knocking shop. There was a silver Aston Martin outside, which stuck out like a sore thumb. It was probably worth more than the houses.

I opened a little green wooden gate and walked up the gravel pathway with Cox and Coretti close behind. The front door was painted red, with a brass letterbox and above it was pinned an old-fashioned door ornament. The thing was a convoluted Celtic knot filigree, circular, about five inches in diameter and with some kind of dried gorse woven through it. Coretti caught a glimpse of it and said, “fuck this, I'm out of here.”

“What now?” Cox groaned.

“I was right, that shit right there.” He said, with his finger pointing at the ornament, “witchcraft.”

“Oh, come on,” Cox said.

“No, you come on. You're from Cornwall, I can't believe that you've never seen...”

Cox cut him off. “I have, mate. I just am not stupid enough to buy into it.”

“Good for you,” Coretti said. He raised his hand sharply and walked away. “I'll see you back at the hotel.”

Cox was about to protest but I raised a hand. “Let him go. What difference does it make, wasn't that what you said?”

Cox laughed. “Have at it then, Charlie.”

I pressed the button for the doorbell. It took several more rings before it was answered. A middle-aged woman in a black silk nightgown, with a fag hanging from her mouth opened the door and said “Whit?”

“Hello, Madeleine,” I said. She looked older, rougher without her slap on, but she still had the cheekbones even if her eyes looked like they'd sunk, with large dark bags under her bottom lids.

“Dae I know you?” She asked.

“It's been a while,” I answered

“We're no open tae ten the night.” She answered

“That's fine, we only wanted to ask you a couple of questions,” I said.

“You the polis?”

“Do we fucking look like the fuzz?” Cox replied angrily.

Peach went to shut the door but I was too quick and pushed it back, with a bit of weight and strode in. Her protest was unintelligibly Glaswegian. A hoot of hard vowels and consonants so soft as to be almost inaudible, somewhere nearer a cattish yowl than a dog's bark. I shut her up with the back of my hand, slapping her across the face hard enough that the cigarette arced across the hallway and she was silent. We steamed in.

In the hallway I smelled something, a hint of a memory tickled around in my mind, a deep hint, one needed unraveled. The hallway was covered in flock wallpaper, a red and ivory repeating pattern of the fleur-de-lis, about five years out of date. With my hand around her throat, Madeleine seemed a lot more compliant. “We're not here to hurt you, sweetheart. Just a few questions.”

She looked like she wanted to shove her long nails into my eyes. “What do you want?”

“Heard you had trouble a couple of weeks back, who are you working for now?”

She raised her hands in surrender. “Aye, awright. I get it. This is aboot MacFarlane, eh?”

“Clever girl,” I answered. Taking my hand from her throat. That smell was bothering me, it roamed around my skull like the stray bar of music evading recognition. “Tell me who's running you the drugs?”

She looked nervous and not because of us. “You'd better come inside.”

Madeleine pushed the front door closed and led us into a room which was tarted up to look like an office. It had a table, phone, even a till and one of those credit card imprinter machines. The smell was stronger in there. She gestured to the couch pressed against the wall next to another door, painted with magnolia gloss. “D'ye want a drink?”

“No thanks. Just tell us what we need to know and we'll be on our way.”

She nodded. “So whit's aw this got tae dae wae you two anyway?”

Cox answered. “Couple of our lads came up here, just to make sure everything was running smoothly, neither's been heard of since.”

“Ah. Waterhoose, eh? Pissed aff he's no gettin' his cut.” She stated. She wasn't as ignorant as she might pretend.

“Something like that. What's going on, is it the Provos again?” I asked.

She laughed. “The Provos. Oh, Christ, you two are right oot yer depth.”

“If it's not the micks then who?” Cox asked.

She frowned and gave a glance at the door next to us. “Monsters. I mean I knew the Sisters wur bad, but this last year...”

She trailed off, the nervous look in her eyes again. I was beginning to lose patience. “Enough of the shit. Who's fucking with the traffic?”

Madeleine went over to the desk and pulled out a bottle of Vodka, poured a large measure into a finger-stained glass and gulped it down. “As I said, monsters. This shite his been gaun oan fur years, the drugs are nothin' there's...”

There was a noise that stopped her in her tracks and caused both Cox and I to turn to the door we were sitting next to, a noise like a scream stifled rapidly and deeply, replaced with a short gurgle.

“What's going on down there?” Cox asked, getting up to take a look.

Madeleine ran in front of the door. “Stoap! Look I'll tell ye whit ye want, jist, ye don't want tae go doon there.”

“Out the way,” Cox said, moving her aside and opening the door. The smell came rushing out and hit me, blasting my mind with its sickening familiarity.

There was a church in Menen, on the border of France and Germany, near Ypres. In late 1941 we were sent in to liberate the place. We were told the Nazis had been using it as a stronghold, that most of the civilians had been moved out or shot. There was heavy bombardment, to soften the Huns up before we made our move. We got into town early in the morning, to find a lot of destroyed homes, streets littered with rubble, a few dead gerries but mostly it was quiet. The Church had been hit, it's roof was gone, it's belfry destroyed, but the rest of it was intact. Our C.O. decided we were to use it as our base of operations and me and three others went to claim it. There was a smell coming from it. A foul smell like meat left to rot for weeks, covered with a sickly sweet over-ripe sherbert. We opened the church doors to find dozens of bodies in there. Men women and children had all been forced inside and then slaughtered. At first we assumed it was the bombing but there were so many shell cases lying around that we knew the Gerries had just killed them all when they'd abandoned that place. You could never forget that smell, no matter how you might try.

And there, in a shitty semi detached brothel in Glasgow, thirty years later I smelled it again and it all came flooding back. Cox coughed. “Fuckin' hell.”

“Toby, don't,” I said but he wasn't listening and marched down the stairs into a basement room. I glanced at Madeleine and saw the guilt on her face, not shame though, it was more like she was annoyed at being caught. I shook my head and sighed and followed Cox down.

From the stairs I could see a dresser covered in empty pill bottles, there were a few syringes, plenty of pooled candle wax. A set of hand-cuffs glinting in the light from above, their inner edges stained with dried blood. Cox marched down and caught the horror of it all before I did, but by the time he said “aw fucking Christ.” I'd taken it in too.

The bare brick walls were smeared with painted circles with symbols inside. There was something wrong, very wrong with all of this.

In the centre of the room was a child's inflatable paddling pool, filled with a dark thick soup of liquids and a grotesquely overweight naked man who was so large he seemed to be spilling over the sides with the sewage he bathed in. He wore a full leather face mask, which seemed to cover a misshapen head.

“No, no no no no.” Cox declared angrily. “No fucking way, no!”

He didn't even pause, from the back of his trousers he pulled a pistol, aimed it at the guy's head and fired. The leather exploded out from the front, a rain of blood and matter. I didn't know why at first. Not until I saw the child. Crimson spattered, grey skin with dark sunken eyes staring past reality, bearing witness only to the infinite, endless night.

“What the fuck is this?” Cox growled. As he spun back to look at Madeleine, he knocked over the camera tripod that had been filming the whole thing.
She shrugged. “Ah telt ye. Monsters.”

The rage that came across his face would have terrified God himself if there was such a thing. He pointed the pistol at her like it was an extension of his index finger. “You better start fucking talking.”

“Whit d'ye want me tae say? A bunch of sick cunts are takin' oor the toon. I don't know who the fuck they ur. They sent evil bastards like that efter me an' ma girls made us dae things... promise things. MacFarlane wis meant tae protect me, but they murdered him an' the Sisters didnae gie a shite. Ye think I wanted this? I jis wanted tae stay alive.”

“You must have some idea who they are,” I said.

“That fucker ye just killed, he wis wan of the bastards they sent tae watch oor me. He knew, I don't.”

Cox pushed the pistol against her right eye. “Well, you better start fucking remembering you fucking tart.”

“I don't. Please don't kill me. Naebody knows.”

“Too bad for you,” Cox said.

I heard the gun click back, he was about to shoot when she screamed. “Wait, dear God. The Spinners. Oan the phone earlier. He mentioned something aboot meetin' at the Spinners.”

Cox removed the gun from her eye. “What's the Spinners?”

“I don't know, it might be the pub, he never said.”

“Where is this pub?” I asked.

“In Priesthill. God, please don't shoot me.” She begged.

Cox tucked the gun back in his trousers and she gave a sigh of relief just before he rammed his fist into her face. I heard cracking, teeth, maybe her nose too. She buckled.

He looked back at the scene, took in the strange drawings on the walls, the candles and shook his head slowly, “what is all this shit?”

“No, idea. Nothing good, I imagine.” I answered.

He stared at me. “Let's get the fuck out of here.”

“Good idea.” I agreed. Which I found surprising. We headed back to the hotel in silence. I could see he was barely holding it together. I wondered exactly what the police might think of all this when it was discovered and knew we had to work fast.

Back at the hotel, Coretti was waiting for us in the foyer. Seeing us, he stubbed his cigarette out in the little aluminium ashtray on the table, stood up and said “Well?”

“It was worse than you thought,” Cox said and kept going.

Coretti looked at me. “What was all that about?”

“Not here. In my room.” He nodded and we went upstairs.

“You heard from Briggs yet?” I asked as we walked the corridor.

“Not a peep,” Coretti answered. He lit another cigarette, I could tell he was worried, what I was going to say would make it worse. Nothing I could do about that.

After I had given him the rundown he just looked horrified. “Jesus, Charlie. Jesus. This is some dark satanic shit, I'm telling you.”

“I don't believe in God or Satan,” I replied.

“That doesn't fucking matter, they do.”

“Who's they?” I asked.

“Oh come on, the bastards’ pulling the strings here. You can't tell me this is normal business.”

“Probably not, no,” I admitted.

“Then let's get out of here. We've been here less than 24 hours and already Cox has went off the deep-end and Briggs is missing. You want to end up like Richards?”

“That's not going to happen,” I stated.

Coretti shook his head. “I don't like quitting a job but...”

“Quit or don't. I'm going to find out who's behind all this.”

“Christ Charlie, you've got some balls on you.” Coretti sighed. I watched him analyse my look, checking my eyes, looking for any sign of doubt. He knew me better than that.

He crushed the cigarette out and lit another. “Alright, I'm in.”

“You certain?” I asked. I had expected him to go.

He planted his arse on my bed. “Not really, but it's like a disease, you know? If we let it go on it will spread.”

“You really think it's some kind of black magic cult?”

“Yes. The whole thing stinks of it. I've seen it before.” He answered, deadly seriously.

I nodded. Lit up and sat on the chair next to the dresser. Coretti left and I went over to the bed and sat wondering about our next move. By the time we got to the Spinners, they'd know their friend was dead. We had to be careful. Whatever he had been up to down there, wasn't something I wanted to find out. He was just some child murdering freak. That was the company the fucker we were after was comfortable with keeping. I dozed off for an hour before being woken by a thumping on my door.

I opened the door and there he was, still stinking of booze and fags, his pupils like pinpricks. He staggered into the room. “Alright?”

“Where the fuck have you been?” I asked.

“Got invited to a party, lost track of time,” Briggs answered. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing much,” I answered.

“Right.” Briggs said. “For a moment I thought I'd missed all the fun.”

“Get yourself sorted out, Harry, we've got a job to do.” I said, firmly. I looked at my watch, it was ten past one. “Get some sleep and be downstairs for six o'clock. Now get the fuck out of my room.”

Briggs gave a small laugh through his nose and turned. “You got it, Charlie.”

It didn't take me long to doze off again and I woke up with my stomach rumbling, so
I went down for dinner about four o'clock. Briggs, Cox and Coretti joined me shortly after. Briggs was badly hungover and Coretti was pissed off about something or other, so it was a quiet meal.

At about quarter past five, I went to reception and asked him to book me a taxi for six to take us to “The Spinners”. The young man nodded, a broad smile came across his lips.

“Ah, I thought so.” He said nodding. “Say no more Sir, I will have your taxi waiting.”

I thought it odd but brushed it off, there were other things needed attention. I went back to the table and sat down and leant over. “Listen, taxi's booked. So, we have no idea what the score is here. We're not just barging in and hoping for the best. This is a bad situation, the people we're looking for might be up to more than just organised crime, agreed?”

Coretti nodded. “If this morning is anything to go by, yes, we be careful.”

“What happened this morning?” Briggs asked, swiping up the last of the cakes.

Cox sighed at that. I saw him look down. He was having trouble with it.

“I'll tell you later, for now, take my word for it, whoever it is we're looking for, they're that kind of fucked up dangerous it's best to avoid if possible.”

Briggs nodded. “Okay. We be careful, got it.”

Cox spoke. “He's not fooling around Briggs. Sharpen up lad, this is as dark as it gets.”

That seemed to hammer the message home. Briggs looked wide-eyed. “Yeah, Toby. Sure, whatever you guys say. I'm good, honest.”

I don't think that put either Coretti or Cox's minds at rest. If their faces were anything to go by, but they never said anything else.

We finished our meal, went back to our rooms and got ready. I checked the gun, to make sure it was loaded. Just in case. I was half filled with trepidation and the other half was full of anticipation. Who was he, the man in charge? I had to find out.

“Monsters” Madeleine had said. The fat guy in the bathtub certainly counted as that, in every sense of the word. I wondered what he had looked like, under that mask, before Cox had blown his brain out. Had that mask been tight and ill-fitting warping a bloated head? I hoped so.

“Monsters” she had said.

I realised my imagination was getting the better of me. I stopped it going any further. I had a job to do. I put on my coat checked myself in the mirror and went downstairs. Briggs and Cox were already downstairs and by the looks on Briggs’ face, Cox had filled him in. Coretti came down moments behind me. He had that stern look on his face, we all did; business mode.

We climbed into the taxi. I was about to confirm our destination when the Taxi driver started off and said. “The Spinners is popular tonight.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Third call we've had in the last hour. Any of you lads takin' part?”

“We're thinking about it,” Coretti said and gave me a look that said, don't attract any attention.

“Aye, the big fella there, he looks like he could do well. Whit's yer name son?”

“Toby,” Cox replied.

I could see Coretti roll his eyes. We were already gaining penalty points by his estimation. The driver continued. “Aye, you ever done any fightin' in the past?”

“Not much, school fights, not boxing or anything like that.”

“Ah… right.” The driver said. That was enough chit-chat from him it seemed.

The sun went down with the rain as we passed through the town. It was quiet outside, even for a Sunday evening. So it seemed, but then perhaps I was more used to London living, where there was always something going on. Or perhaps Glasgow was like that village Coretti had been on about. I half-expected to see a dead dog withering on a pavement. We continued, out past the black tenements with their tiny windows, out onto a long straight road with nothing on either side. At the end of that, we turned into an area with industrial units. A long red brick wall ended at a set of heavy iron gates where dozens of men milled about talking as others walked through a smaller door set into the large metal sheets. Above the door, painted across a black arch was a sign. “Spinner's Metals.”

“There ye go lads. Have a great night.” The Taxi driver said.

I was about to correct him, saying we were looking for the pub but Coretti jumped in first. “Perfect, now, how much was that?”

I got out of the Taxi, let him pay. Looking at the crowd I knew this was the right place. Not some pub, there was other business afoot here. With the others out I made for the doorway, past the chatting and laughing crowd. No one seemed to notice us or take any interest in us, which was good. I walked up to the small door and when no one stopped me, stepped through.

Inside about ten feet to the left and front of me was a table with a couple of hard looking blokes with a till. People were handing them money and one looked at me and said “Two quid.”

That was it, we were in. Two quid seemed quite steep but we had no idea what we were buying with it. The place was busy, it reminded me of waiting to go into a football match, that sort of buzz. The place had five buildings, four smaller ones that were placed near each corner of a single larger factory unit. It was there everyone was heading, we followed.

Inside, the factory floor had been emptied and there were perhaps eighty or ninety men standing around the area. Along the walls of the factory were the great machines they used that couldn't easily be removed from the premises. I could see the funnel and chute that molten metal would run down, but it was off, black and cool.
None of the machines looked as if they had been used in a while. The various shades of bloodstains suggested the floor was still in use. I concluded this was an illegal fight night, probably with bare knuckles.

As it turned out, I was more or less accurate, heads, knees, elbows and feet were also used often. I'd seen such things before and wasn't convinced we'd find much here. It was well organised but it seemed tame. Money was money but somehow I didn't think it was being run by the people we were looking for. I said so to Coretti, but he'd been chatting to others.

“Most of the people I've spoken to are in the life, Charlie; runners, muscle, dealers. Seems this is a regular thing, gangs meet up here, talk, do business, settle scores. They'll be here.”

There was a main event. One of the Robertson Brothers, from Mosspark, wherever that was, had laid down a grand to settle a score with two guys from another gang, Mickey Harrison and Gerry Quinn from Renfrew, another place of which I had never heard. From overheard chatter, the two of them had been running their mouths off and this Robertson guy was going to close them. It was something to do with his wife being a slag, or him being called a poof, or several other things apparently. It was low rent stuff. As the three of them started at it, it was clear Roberston was going to win, he was nearly a foot taller than either of his challengers, was younger, and kept in shape. Cox watched with delight, but I was looking about, so was Coretti. I spotted Briggs in a conversation with a short man with a moustache, Briggs was nodding intently. Faces, faces, faces, then there was a glimpse of recognition, that long face, the drooping moustache, the curly hair, our eyes locked on each other at the same time, disengaged, gone. He'd stepped out of sight among the crowd.

“Shit.” I hissed. I marched over to Coretti. “I just clocked Symons.”

“What? You sure?” He asked quietly below the din. It was just about audible.

“Certain. Over the other side of us, he's there.”

I saw Briggs looking over at us, a concerned look on his face. I gestured him to move, with my head. He nodded in return. Coretti gave Cox a punch on the shoulder and all four of us were moving and then with a loud echoing thump, all the factory lights flickered and flared and came on. This caused a baffled commotion. Robertson and the others stopped to see what was going on when from the edges of the factory emerged two dozen men, all armed with shotguns. This turned the confusion into a cocktail of fear and anger. I kept moving until we were round the other side, but I could see no sign of Symons.

“I'm afraid, gentlemen, the fight is postponed for the present.” A cheery voice shouted above the crowd.

Eyes and heads began to turn in the direction of the speaker and I could see a tallish man roughly about the same age as me but better kept. He had light brown hair in a slightly out of date mop top. The same name whispered and shouted

“Morton.”

“Fuckin' Morton.”

“Morton, whit ye dain' ya prick?”

Morton. That was him, his name. Morton, he was the one.

Ignoring all the shouted angry question and giving a wry smile. “We have other entertainments in mind.”

He produced a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his coat and said. “Shuggy O'Hara, step forward please.”

The crowd began muttering nervously then someone exclaimed, emphatically, “Fuck you!”

This raised a laugh. The man called Morton seemed unaffected. “Shuggy O'Hara, are you there?”

“Who wants tae know?” another voice asked.

“Why, I do. Your audience does, come out Shuggy, let the crowd see you.” the man said in such a charming manner I almost forgot he was backed up with twenty odd shotguns.

No one was forthcoming. “Very well... perhaps the crowd will help us locate you. Stevie?!”

At this two of the men fired their shotguns into the crowd. The result was not pretty. There were bodies on the ground, people groaning with their faces or bodies peppered with buckshot.

The man in charge just chuckled. “I am always doing that. I meant Stevie D, not Stevie F. Now, presuming he's not among the deceased, let's have Shuggy up front, eh?”

Not far from me I could see a struggle break out as some people tried to pull one bloke forwards, while some of his friends attempted to defend him. It didn't go well or last long, and Shuggy O'Hara was pushed in front of the crowd. Morton winked pointed to a spot on the ground and said. “Wait there, Shuggy.”

Shuggy was already standing in front of him but the man did not move. He kept pointing to the same spot on the floor, tapping the air for emphasis and staring at Shuggy until he took the two steps to where the man had been pointing. It was a power display.

“Great,” Morton said as he started again. “Now we can continue. Willie “Ferret” Ferguson, could you join us please?”

The protest this time was nominal, even by his friends. As he stepped forward I heard the sound of more power coming on, somewhere. A deep electrical hum reverberated through the plant, I could feel through the soles of my shoes.

“Harvey McAllister.” The man said, and so it went. There were eleven in all and they stood there in their assigned spots while everyone waited for an explanation. Except for the dead, they didn't need one.

Once he had finished, the man folded the paper back in his pocket. I could feel a heat in the place, then one of the machines warming up. He looked across the room and said, his voice now free of the enforced joviality from before. “Now! Here's the thing. I thought I made it quite simple but you lot widnae listen. So, let me state it again, this time with emphasis. This side of the toon, is ma territory. Aw of it, any of it. This isnae your turf anymair. You lot are just wee gangsters, tryin' yer best tae screw every penny an' fuck each other o'er. That's fine, you aw get tae dae that, we said that, the only difference is, that noo ye aw work for me. Or… like these pricks, you chose not to bother.”

“Now never be let it said that I wisnae kind enough tae show ye what happens when ye don't work wae me. Boys, shift these fuckers intae the oven.”

That's what where the heat was coming from. They'd turned on one of the massive ovens. A few of the men with shotguns stepped forward and for a second there was some kind of spontaneous energy rippled through us all as if the entire crowd thought to rush them and then thought better of it. I looked to the others. Briggs looked unconcerned, Cox seemed to be burning the image of Morton into his retina. Coretti, Coretti was gone.

“Huv you no' already made yer point?” An exasperated voice cried out.

Morton ignored it and watched as, at gunpoint, each of the men stepped inside a huge metal box, brown iron. It wasn't that warm, not at that point. When they were all in Morton looked up and nodded once and with a heavy mechanical whirr, a large pneumatically suspended door began to slowly slide down. The men inside began to scramble, a natural panicked reaction. The first one got two feet before he and the man slightly to the left of him got a stomach full of buckshot and flew back into the oven. Another ran, he made it further but then the top of his head splattered into pieces as another shot fired out. This stopped the other eight from moving as they disappeared behind the door.

“It's only about thirty degrees in there,” Morton said. “Let's wait and see what happens when it goes all the way up. Should only take an hour or so.”

Those inside were already banging on the door. Those thumps became more urgent, more rapid, more panicked as the minutes ticked on. Muffled shouts, pleadings and then long screams followed. It took over twenty minutes before there was silence from inside. Though it has to be said there was not much noise coming from outside either.

Morton checked his watch at the half-hour mark. He looked up gave another nod. The humming began to die down. Flashing lights came on at the oven. Morton looked over the crowd and said “Wan mere thing. Ye might have heard aboot whit happened tae Freddie Weir this mornin' at Madeleine Peach’s.”

“I heard someone shot the fat fuck in the back of the head. I heard that she confessed tae the police he was a perv, murderin' weans. Good pal of yours wis he Morton?” a voice from the crowd asked. The man stepped forward. It was the young Robertson guy who'd been fighting earlier.

Morton smirked. “Ah it's you is it? I was wondering where you wur, Roberston.”

“I'm staunin' right here, auld man.” Robertson replied.

“You here tae goad me, son? Oan behalf o' the Sisters nae doubt. That's who you work fur. You don't get tae take any sort of moral high-road, I've heard aboot you an yer brother's shindigs. An they'll only protect you to a point, ask MacFarlane, oh wait… he's deid.”

“Fuck you, Morton. Let me out of here.” Roberston protested, angry that Morton had put him in his place. He just hoped no one asked what it was he really did for the Sisters.

“Aye, fuck off. Take yer boys too. Quick, before I change my mind and feed the lot of ye tae my dugs.”

Robertson and three other men scurried out past the cordon of shotguns.

“As I wis sayin' I know it wis somebody killed him. An’ see the longer I take tae find ye, the longer you take tae die, when I dae find ye.”

He stood up straight and put on the posh ringmaster voice once more. “Thank you for your time, this evening.”

He clicked his fingers and the lights went out. It only took those scant moments for him and the rest of his crew to disappear into the dark. When it became apparent they'd gone, I decided not to wait for the aftermath. I didn't want to smell what came out of that oven.

Cox sidled over to me. Briggs joined him his eyebrows raised as if to say “what the fuck is this?”

“Morton,” Cox said.

I nodded. “Seems so, eh? Anyone see where Coretti went?”

“He disappeared after the shooting started. He's not, you know, dead?” Cox asked

The bodies of the dead were all already being claimed by their friends, Coretti was not among them. “He must have found something, taken off to investigate as it all kicked off. We go back to the hotel.”

“We leave him?”

“No Briggs. He chose to leave us, he knows what he's doing.” I replied.

We got moving. All three of us were silent, drinking in the conversations for snippets we could all use to try and piece together something about tonight's bloodthirsty gatecrasher.

There was no doubt in my mind Morton was the man we were looking for. He didn't care about being caught or having the other gangs join together against him. He would just kill a few of them from time to time, keep the others in fear until they submitted or were dead. I could not tell if this was arrogance or the result of him having some form of deal with the Police. They wouldn't stand for his antics, just in case they were made public, even with a deal. Who was this guy, bold or suicidal? I had come to no conclusion by the time we made it back out into the street.

The three of us stood outside for a moment, wondering which way to go to get back into the city, if we could get a bus somewhere or were doomed to hope for a passing cab. It was over a mile before we had any luck. The orange glow of a taxi sign coming out of the dark was a relief.

The Hotel bar was still open so I suggested we sit, have a drink, and talk. Briggs still felt as if he was missing some vital information about the whole thing so we tried our best to fill him in, again. I mentioned Coretti's theory about them being some kind of occultists, the strange symbols in the child murderer's basement, the symbol on Peach's door. How I was working on the assumption that Coretti could be right. Briggs nodded a lot and finally said. “Yeah, could be.”

Cox was less concerned with their intents than he was getting rid of Morton. “We know who he is now. All we need to do is make sure we find out where he lives. We do that, we can get the bastard.”

“Maybe,” I replied. “I think I'll pay Esslemont a visit tomorrow. Cox, you can come with me, he likes you.”

And me?” Briggs asked. It seemed he didn't like being left out.

“If Coretti returns, I want you and him to go and find out what you can about these Sisters I keep hearing mentioned, just in case we're barking up the wrong tree.”

“Gotchya,” Briggs replied, satisfied.

“Monsters,” Cox said. “We should put down the lot of them.”

“We cut off the head,” I answered. “That'll do.”

“Where the fuck is he?” Briggs said, wondering about Coretti.

It was getting late and my head was filled with thoughts and questions I was too tired to deal with. I felt weak inside and out. “I'm going to bed. I'll see you later.”

I don't know how long I slept for. I awoke on top of my bed, still clothed. Someone was whispering. “Come on Charlie, wake up.”

I turned to find Coretti squatting at the edge of my bed, looking directly at me. “Wake up you stupid sod.”

“Coretti?! What?” I grumbled.

He pushed his forefinger against his lips. “Shh.”

I stayed quiet and pushed myself up into a sitting position. He took the time to scribble something onto a pad of paper. “We need to go out the window, now. They're in the Hotel, looking for us.”

I didn't need to know who. It didn't matter if it was the police, Morton or someone else. I was up and over to the window in seconds, pulling it up as quietly as I could. The rain lashing the building poured in. We were on the second floor but the place conveniently had an iron fire escape. I climbed out.

Coretti followed and on the fire-escape said. “It's bad, Charlie, real bad.”

I closed the window and climbed halfway down the stairs, between floors. “What's happening?” I demanded.

“I spotted Symons, went to follow him, just as everything began getting bloody. I heard him talking to some guy called Neil Bailey, one of Morton's generals. I heard him mention our names. The fucker spotted us all and grassed us in. Symons is with them now. They know about us, about Waterhouse. Somehow they even knew we were here. We need to move.”

“What about Briggs and Cox?”

“They were still down drinking when I got back, come on Charlie, move, we've got a car waiting.” Coretti insisted.

I nodded and headed down the rest of the slippery iron stairs as quickly as I could. At the bottom of the fire escape, there was a heavy door which Coretti had unlocked which took us through shop premises. I could see the street out in front of us, a car across the road, a new Cortina. Cox sat in the back, he was trying to duck down so as not to be seen but was too big.

“The front door's unlocked. Keep moving.” Coretti said.

I kept moving, out through the door and across the road, into the vehicle. Briggs sighed. “Charlie! Thank fuck.”

Coretti got in and started the engine. He'd stolen the car from somewhere, I wasn't in the mood to ask. “Go then, find us somewhere safe.”

Coretti was already on it. We were speeding through the empty city, heading North. It didn't take long before we were parked in the dark hills, looking down below at the orange street-lights twinkling like cheap stars. Safe, for that moment at least.

“So,” Coretti began. “We, gentlemen, have turned up, in the middle of a war.”

“Pretty one-sided by the looks of it,” I answered.

“It may seem that way, I don't know. What I do know is that Morton is trying to claim territory from a group called The Sisters. Who, so I overheard, were absent rulers.”

“What do you mean absent?” Briggs asked.

“That they were so certain of their own rule that they handed over most of their responsibilities to their generals. They've been taken unaware by Morton's actions. It doesn't really matter. What matters is this, Symons copped us, we're known quantities now. If we're to take Morton down we need to do it as soon as possible.”

“Agreed,” Cox said.

“How? We need to find out where he lives, where he visits, his routines.” I added.

“We need to find it quickly,” Coretti said, looking directly at me.

He was right. I decided to move my visit to Esslemont forward. “Back in the car. I know exactly where to go.”

Esslemont's flat was easy enough to enter. One of those locks a kid with a screwdriver could get by. He never heard us come in, not even to his room. His wife didn't even wake up when Briggs stuck the needle in her arm.

“She'll be out for a few hours” He'd explained on the drive over. We'd took his word for that. Coretti then gently tapped Esslemonts forehead several times, like he was knocking on a door.

“Wake up!” He said.

Esslemont's eyes flickered open and he gasped in fright, a deep inhalation that was more akin to a roar than panic. There was no such ambivalence on his face, a wide-eyed look of terror. Coretti raised his fingers, palm forward. “It's okay, it's okay.”

“What the fuck… Charlie, whit the fuck is this?” Esslemont said, recognising me through his confusion.

“It's alright. Look sorry to spring this on you, but we need to ask you some questions.”

“Now?” Esslemont said, still confused.

“Right now.” I insisted.

We helped him out of bed, Coretti held the man's nightrobe open to let him walk in. We were being as courteous as possible given the circumstances. He seemed to appreciate it and calm down, still protesting. “This is a right bloody liberty.”

“I know, I wouldn't do this if it wasn't serious. I'll make it up to you. Now, what do you know about Morton?”

 “Morton? Which Morton would that be?”

“The one who's gang turn up at the Spinners and shove a dozen men into an oven?”

Esslemont seemed almost hurt by that. He closed his eyes, his fingers pinching the top of his nose. “Jesus… That Morton.”

“That Morton,” I said.

Esslemont sighed. “I wis hoping that it windae involve that bastard. Should've known. That's who I wis tryin' tae warn you aboot.”

“Would've saved us a lot of trouble if you had.” Cox said.

Esslemont's nod confirmed it. “Aye, but well, it's no a name ye bandy aboot, if you know whit I mean. Kinda like the auld phrase “Speak o' the devil”, y'know?”

“I do. So who is he?”

“An East End wide-boy. Well he wis in the fifties. Him an' his crew, took oor a few businesses but they were nothin' special. There are stories...”

“When is there not?” Briggs smirked.

“There are stories,” Esslemont repeated. “Stories that their reach exceeded their grasp, that they pissed off The Sisters and the Sisters taught them a lesson.”

“Who are these Sisters?” Coretti asked.

Legend has it that there's always three woman in charge, so they get called the Sisters.”

Coretti nodded. “Got you, please, go on.”

“The Morton crew went back, licked their wounds and disappeared. Again there were rumours that they were doin' business wae the Soviets. Apparently, the Reds were smuggling in all sorts of shit for them, fur trade wid ye believe. Beatles albums and denims and books, loads of that stuff. That wisnae aw though. Apparently there were some spy types, Russian intelligence, that Morton wis known tae deal with. Fur a few years that wis the state of things then couple of years back Big Andy Patrick, goes fuckin' mad in his hoose wan night.”

“Who?” I asked. Esslemont stared at Coretti for a few seconds, as if pondering whether or not to tell him, as if explaining it would be hazardous. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly and said. “Just another mob really. Supposedly they go back a way.

“I'm getting' tae that, fuck sake.” Esslemont sighed. “Gies a fag.”

Coretti offered him one of his, lit it for him and then joined him. It seemed like a good idea, so I lit up as well. Esslemont blew a storm of smoke out his swollen whisky nose. “Patrick ran wan of the bigger teams in Govan. He wis a Tim, but he kept away fae the Provos so he wis awright in ma book. Anyway… Patrick's a young lad, cocky as fuck, but nothin' gets in and oot of Govan without his say so. Apparently he catches some of Morton's pals usin' wan of the shipyard docks to smuggle stuff up and doon the Clyde. Patrick's no happy about that, demands a cut. Morton tells him to fuck off. Patrick shuts it doon, a couple of bodies end up floatin' doon river. Morton didnae have the chops to go after Patrick so that wis that. Until Patrick starts seein' things, hearin' voices, that sort of shite. At first people thought, aye maybe he's just gaun daft, but there were others who swear they'd occasionally see and hear things in his presence. The night he finally decided to attack his own lads with a sword, three of them apparently heard this voice just whispering “kill… kill… kill.” O'er and o'er again. He had to be subdued. They locked him in his room and then the poor bastard hanged himself.”

“This is all very interesting but pointless,” Cox said. He had a point.

“Jist lissen.” Esslemont insisted.

“Patrick wisnae the only wan. There's reports up and doon the Southside that gangsters are seein' aw sorts of weird shite. Haunted hooses, photographs that start speakin'. That sort of stuff. People are gettin' right spooked an' durin' aw this Morton steps back intae the limelight an' dis somethin' people will be talkin' aboot in the next century. Aboot this time last year he turns up at The Spinners an' says that he's noo everybody's boss. This didnae go doon well. No' until he brings oot Freddie Weir.”

I found myself looking at Cox, who was glaring back at me with a look of utmost concern. Weir, the child murderer he had killed. Suddenly the symbols on the wall took on a new meaning. Coretti was right. This was insane. I felt a shudder of excitement.

Esslemont took a long drag then almost spat out the smoke. “Freddie Weir… everyone knew he liked abusin' kids, that's why Andy Patrick had him thrown into the concrete in the foundations o' the Kingston Bridge but that was back in '69. From whit I hear the bastard's heid wis a state but everyone still said it wis him. Freddie Weir, back fae the deid. That took the wind oot of quite a few sails. Obviously, no everyone believed it at first, but that didnae matter. Soon Morton had the biggest crew and has been runnin' the place like a tyrant since, bumpin' aff aw an' sundry. But there's mer tae it than that. Him and his boys are up to some dark shite. Black magic an' that.”

We could all imagine what he meant, and he didn't care to elaborate. Esslemont seemed annoyed. “There's others, I don't know who they ur, but they work with Morton, I dunno if it's the Reds or who it is, but he's got allies.”

“What about these Sisters you mentioned?” Coretti said.

“I doubt they'll be much help, even if you could find them. Could jist be a rumour, or some kind of umbrella term.” Esslemont said. “Christ, I wis hopin' this widnae concern you, the city's oan a knife edge, last thing we need is a grab fur the croon. Still I suppose he needs dealt wae.”

“Where will we find him, do you know where he lives?”

“Naw. Widnae be that hard tae find. He's fae Grimry.”

“Where's that?” Coretti asked.

“A district in the East End. Ye'll probably find him in a pub called The Red Feathers. Actually, it's the White Feathers. People jist call it The Red Feathers. That's his base of operations. Always his been.”

“The White Feathers. Got it. And that's in this Grimry?” Coretti said.

“Aye right next to the train station.” Esslemont answered.

That was enough. I dropped Esslemont a grand, apologised again and thanked him. We left as quickly as we could and got back in the Cortina. We drove on with Briggs and Cox in the back, trying to find our location on the map. Once that was done we drove to the place. A grubby little dive, one of the windows boarded up. The back end of the place faced the railway tracks and behind them a steep hill, atop which was most of Grimry.

We sat looking at it for several minutes but there was no sign of life. It was early morning, likely the place shut hours ago. I noticed a phone box and a thought came into my head just as Briggs said it out loud. “You think he might be dumb enough to have his name and address listed in the phone book?”

He grinned and was out the car in seconds. As he reached the phone box, two vans drove by and pulled up at the pub, mere yards from where Briggs was. The vans opened and men spilled out the back, Morton got out the front of the left van and some other guys joined him, separate from the goons holding guns. There was a tinkle of keys. I looked back over to check on Briggs. He was still in the phone box. He knew what was going on. He gave me a thumbs up. I nodded and looked back to see Morton and his crew enter. The thugs stayed outside; eight that I could see. We had to get out of there. I looked across at Briggs again just as he left the phone-box. He was running across the road. Cox opened the back door. Briggs was moving fast, there was shouting, gunfire. A second past, silent, then he dived through the open doorway. Coretti hit the pedal and we went screeching out of there. There was another shot. Pellets chunked into the back of the car somewhere but we were around the corner and away, safe.

“Fuck.” gasped Briggs, his left hand soaked with blood. “God, fucking dammit.”

He'd been hit. Bad. There was a patch on the back of his jacket, just below the right shoulder that had as many holes as a shower nozzle, all trickling blood which was soaked up by the surrounding cotton. From the way he was wheezing one of his lungs was punctured, filling up. He would drown in his own blood.

“We get him to a hospital.” Coretti said, Cox, look at the map, direct me.”

He was driving like a wild man, I don't think he cared where he was going just as long as he was getting away from Grimry. Cox found the nearest hospital. We drove there, lifted Briggs out and through into Casualty until he was taken onto a bed. As soon as we knew he was in their hands we split. He wouldn't say anything, he wasn't that stupid. Brave, though. He never made a peep the entire journey.

We were somewhere else after that. Another lonely hillside overlooking the grey morning. Cox was covered in Briggs' blood, sitting on a stone, staring out over the rooftops. The first chimneys were being lit up below, spouting dark coiling wisps that wafted lazily upwards. He seemed to be thinking about something. I left him to it.

“They'll probably find him in hospital, you know that? He was a dead man either way but I couldn't do nothing.” Coretti said apologetically. He'd been saying similar things since we'd left the hospital.

“He'll be fine.” I said, not believing it for one second.

“What if he squeals?” Coretti said.

“Peter, you're not thinking straight, they already know who we are, remember? That's why we're on this hillside rather than our hotel beds.” I explained.

Coretti nodded. “Of course, of course. I just can't think straight. I need to get some sleep.”

“We all do. Let's get out of town for a day or two. Find a place to get things back on track, get some clothes for Cox here.” I said.

“No, Charlie.” Cox replied.

“No?” I asked, surprised he'd finally piped up.

“No. We keep going. He'll expect us to be running scared. I'd imagine he'd probably send all his goons out looking for us. He's less likely to be protected. We can take him. I have an idea.” he replied.

Indeed he did. Cox was not a deep thinker by any stretch of the imagination, but he'd obviously experienced bad situations before and turned them to his advantage. We'd finally arrived at the environment he was comfortable in. The plan was straightforward, he had to go in and out of the pub at some point. We took different hidden positions with long-range rifles, and just waited until we had the target.

Coretti liked this idea too. It was more his style. I agreed but wondered how we were going to get our hands on weaponry. That little task was going to prove more difficult. None of us had any real connections up north, which meant we were going to have to get out of town and find someone who could help us. Toby suggested Carlisle, he knew a few people down there in semi-retirement. Neither Coretti or I had any better suggestions so we drove out of Glasgow, southwards. We were all dog tired. Cox said he could get us what we need and we could be back in the city by mid-afternoon if we were quick.

My body felt like lead. I let Coretti drive and he and Cox sat in the front so I could catch a couple of hours sleep. I intended to return the favour on the way back up the road. As such I awoke with the door slamming, we were in a small car-park, parked up next to the wall of a pub on one side and a small church on the other. Cox was still caked in Brigs' blood, though it had dried and was flaking off his face. “Coretti's gone to get me another top. Once I can change into that, I'll get in touch with my friends.”

I rubbed my eyes and sat up which caused my stomach to rumble. I needed something to eat. I spotted a Bakers across the road and asked Cox if he wanted something, which he did. I came back with a bag of sausage rolls and some cheese sandwiches which we devoured rapidly. Coretti arrived just as we finished and immediately complained we never bought anything for him. I gave him one of the cheese sandwiches to shut him up and he handed over a heavy dark grey jumper to Cox. Cox changed out of his bloodstained top and into the jumper which was a size too big. He grunted in approval and told us to stay put and then got out the car, to go and meet his “friends.”

Coretti had bought more smokes, so was in a better mood, at least he wasn't as irritable, he remained very quiet. It suited me. We sat listening to the radio but mostly staring out the window. We were there quite a while, long enough that the two of us started to become concerned. By the time it had gotten dark and the lights were on, both of us were wondering whether we should look for Cox, or leave. Just as I was about to verbalise it, Cox came jogging around the corner holding what looked three fishing rods, at least at first glance. He threw them in the back with me and then climbed in the front.

“Where the Hell have you been?” Coretti asked.

“I told you, I had to see some friends, it would have been rude if I just run in and out.” Cox protested. “I got the guns, so let's go.”

Let's get some dinner first.” I said.

“We'll get something further up the road,” Coretti answered. “We've been here too long.”

He was right, so we left, headed back up the road to Glasgow. The rain never stopped the whole way. I took the wheel and let the other two get some sleep. Coretti, who was smaller than Cox, sat in the passenger's seat but had no trouble conking out. Cox was snoring before we were over the border. This was good, I wanted them sharp when we got back and to be frank I was sick of listening to both of them. The M74 was quiet except for a few cargo trucks. It gave me an idea and so when I got to Abingdon Services I parked up, woke up the others and suggested we get a bite to eat at the Little Chef. Neither of them were happy but as Cox said “Fuck it, if we can survive that, we'll have no problem with Morton.”

My plan wasn't to eat much but rather find a lorry driver who I could overpay for some uppers. This ended up with me in the stark fluorescent-lit toilets redolent with the scent of urine buying some wraps of amphetamines from a paper thin Geordie who looked as if he'd been driving up and down the road since the time of Shakespeare. He wanted twenty quid, I gave him double, told him he'd never seen me, and the transaction never took place. He caught my drift.

I joined the other two back at the plastic table. They were sat there with tired miserable faces stabbing that their food. Cox had a pork pie that looked as if mold might sprout from it any second and Coretti had some kind of sausage mash and gravy swill which he'd taken two bites of and decided to replace with another cigarette. I declined anything to eat. The last thing I wanted was to end up with the squirting shits before we got the job done. It took them both about ten minutes to abandon the food, then it was back into the car.

We made it back into the city at the back of eight. Cox suggested going back to the hotel, but we both dismissed that idea until after the job was done, so we ditched the car, stole another and drove directly to Grimry. The rain did not cease as we sat in the car, looking for points around the area where we could triangulate our positions, all of us aiming directly at the doors of the White Feathers pub. After a while we were satisfied of our positioning. Coretti was nervous, which surprised me, so I gave him and Cox the amphetamines.

“This will keep you sharp,” I said.

Coretti nodded and took the wrap. “Sure.” He paused, looked at me and then grinned. “This is one fucked-up shitshow, Charlie.”

“Yeah.” I agreed and watched as he stretched his hand out.

“Good luck big man.” He said.

I shook his hand. “We're smart, we can do this.”

Cox joined in. “In case we don't, I'll like to just say, fuck both of you for pulling me into this bloody shambles.”

He was joking, it seemed like the right thing to laugh. Coretti patted him on the back and that was that, we split up. Cox took the Grimry hill that curved round the railway track to the east, Coretti took a roof of a newsagent to the west, I was front and centre, 100 yards away, sitting in some bushes on a hill near a rusting swing park. I snorted the speed and waited. I was soaked through within about 10 minutes but it didn't matter, I'd been in worse situations. I sat there for hours looking through the scope from time to time, the pub was open that was certain, I could see shadows moving through the glass.

If we'd been more organised we'd have had walkie-talkies, someone in there to make sure the target was about, to signal us if he was about to leave. What ifs were useless, we had what we had and it had to be enough.

Hours passed. A few people staggered out, none of them I recognised, probably Morton's low-level hoods or stray punters. I waited. You can't do these jobs without a great deal of patience and a mind that can focus on the one thing for a long time. That was why the speed was useful. I was getting old, out of practice. The rain still poured down. I wiped my face, looked out through the scope and then there he was. Morton, with his cronies. He was standing in the rain, I swear he was looking right up at me, through the scope, grinning His face was right inside the cross-hairs. I felt something press against the back of my head, just as a shot ran out, then another. I squeezed the trigger a fraction of a second after the guy behind me squeezed his. My rifle fired, his gun clicked. Morton grinned right at me, then winked.

I rolled, swung the rifle up like a club, smacking the dark figure across the face. A boot came down on me. He wasn't alone. I made out three of them.

“Right, ya fanny. Don't fuckin' move a muscle,” one of them said. I saw three pistols pointing at me. Given what Morton had done in the factory, I decided a bullet was probably the better option, so I declined their suggestion and tried to roll again. There were no shots forthcoming. I received a boot to the head which was followed by a shot, I screamed as my left kneecap exploded. The pain was so enormous that it seemed to take over me and I blacked out.

I came to sometime later in so much pain it was as if someone had wrapped me in chicken wire and attached it to the mains. In fact, I'd been suspended by tied wrists on a large hook in what seemed to be an abattoir or meat packing factory. It was dark but I could make out glints of machines and dark shapes of slaughtered animals around me. There were several people slightly below me, two of whom were engaged in placing Coretti on another hook.

A light flashed on and there he was, with his lads, Morton. He was wearing a silver/grey sharkskin suit, spattered with blood. He had a smirk on his face. Close up he seemed younger than he did in the smelting yard. “So,” he started. “the gang's all here.”

He paced over towards Coretti who was stirring from his bloody slumber. “Wake up Peter.”

That got Coretti's attention. His eyes opened wide and upon seeing his situation he snarled. “I'll kill you, you cocksucker.”

Morton laughed at that. “Good luck with that you greasy fucking wop.”

He shook his head and looked over to the right of me where Cox was also hung on a hook. “Toby Cox. You alright there Toby? You're a lucky man, sure, a bullet in the spine might no seem that way, but Willie here's a crack shot, he could have taken yer heid aff if he'd wanted to.”

Cox was not in the mood for chatting. He was so pale he barely looked like he'd last the hour, he just stared at Morton.

“Nothing to say Toby? No threats, no quips?” Morton asked, there was no response and so he turned to me. “Charlie… Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. I must say it's quite a fuckin' honour to have you come after me. Symons told me that Waterhouse would probably send you. Still you're getting old, eh? Wasn't sure if you still had the balls but here you are.”

“Here I am.” I replied.

“Now, there was a fourth, wasn't there. The poofter… what was his name Willie?” Morton asked the man standing next to him. The guy had sharp eyes, and a sharper nose, giving me the impression of some bird of prey. “Briggs”

“Aye… Harry Briggs, that was it. Well, he's buggered noo, eh? Sadly he'll no' be joinin' us lads. Died in the hospital this mornin'. Tell ye whit though, that's some loyalty ye aw hid fur a queer.”

“You have our attention Morton, so get on with it,” I stated.

“So be it. Neil, would you bring in the surprise?” Morton asked. Another man, smaller than the other two, weaker looking but with a face that registered no emotion at all, nodded and scurried into the darkness, leaving some of the meat swinging as he did. As he left Morton looked at me and with a cocky smile, gave me a wink. “You'll like this.”

“ 'moan ya fucker.” An angry voice shouted as the meat began swinging violently and “Neil” came back though tugging on a rope. As he emerged so did the thing attached at the other end. A man, naked and split open from dick to throat, his ribcage exposed. The man should not have been, could not have been alive, yet he staggered and gibbered his way forward into the light. It was Waterhouse.

“Tah-dah!” Morton said as if revealing a magic trick which, in a way, I guess he was. “so, there you go boys. The game's a bogey, Waterhouse here lost. No payday for the assassins.”

Coretti snorted. “At this point I don't need paid to put you down you jock cunt.”

Morton frowned. “Oh Peter, you're old friend Hasserin told me you were a force to be reckoned with but do you know what? I canny be fucked wastin' my time. Willie.”

Willie, the hawk-faced guy walked forward and produced a large knife which shone under the lights. He smiled at Coretti, grabbed the back of his head and slit his throat. “Nothin' personal.”

Coretti croaked, in more ways than one. Hot blood arced across the room, spattering the concrete floor as he flapped and shuddered like a dying fish. Morton watched this with a kind of vicious delight, his eyes sliding over towards me occasionally, gauging my reaction. Eventually, he turned to Cox. “Now, Toby…”

Cox said nothing, from the look of his face, he'd lost all reason along with all the blood. His eyes just stared at the shambling remains of Waterhouse and he had a confused grin on his face. I'd seen that look before during the war, kids whose brains just popped when confronted with something out-with their preconceived vision of reality. Morton seemed to recognise it too and sighed. “Oh dear. I was hoping we could have some fun with you, Toby. Now I just feel bad for you. Neil, you and Jimmy take him down, dump him on a motorway somewhere. He's done.”

Neil, who was still holding the rope with the gutted remnants of Waterhouse looked a bit concerned. “You want me tae let this fucker go?”

Morton looked round. “Eh? Oh aye. Naw, Davie, you an' Jimmy get rid of the big lad.”

Davie, who was a ginger bloke with a similar build to Cox stepped forward with another dark haired chap who was smaller than the rest, stocky though, with a big scar on his cheek. They pulled Cox down from the hook and dragged him out of sight, his legs scraping the blood stained concrete. He didn't struggle, didn't say anything, he just let them take him.

Morton's eyes were now on me. “So, Charlie, what do you think of Waterhouse now, eh?”

“I don't give a fuck about Waterhouse.” I replied.

He nodded. “I thought that would be your answer. Symons said you were a heartless bastard.”

“Did he?” I replied.

“He did. Never thought he'd be the squeamish type though. All the effort I went to kidnap and kill Waterhouse and then bring him back and he just shat himself and ran, can you imagine?”

“What do you want?” I said with some scorn.

“Wow, you really are a bold one aren't you. You come up here, try to kill me and then hit me wae aw this hardman pish. I'm wondering whether I should just kill you and be done with this whole affair.”

“Go for it. There are worse things than death you know.”

He didn't agree with that, shook his head. “Naw, nothing's worse than death, mate. Even torture can end, you might be a bit worse fur wear but you'd still be alive.”

“You think Waterhouse agrees?” I asked.

“He's new tae aw this. It'll aw come back. He'll be as right as rain in a few weeks.” Morton shrugged.

He feared death, that was his weakness. One that was not easy to exploit in my situation. “You still haven't told me what you want. I'm alive for a reason, right?”

“Aye.” He said. “See, I've a wee problem, three bitches called the Sisters, Glasgow's traditionally their territory, what is it you English cunts call it, their manor?”

“I'd heard you were pushing it,” I replied.

“Aye. Thing is, they're no' gangsters, no even fuckin' human.”

“So what, monsters?” I said glibly, but remembered that fat fucker in the paddling pool in Peach’s basement. “Like your boy Freddie Weir?”

Morton frowned. “So it was you. Weir was a mistake. When we brought him back, somethin’ came with him. Frankly you did me a favour, but I wisnae gonny let those pricks oot there think it wis acceptable to mess wae my crew.

“What the fuck is this Morton?” I asked.

Morton smiled, and gave me a look that suggested he knew I knew full well what was going on. “Come on Charlie you’re no daft. We’re bringin’ back the auld ways tae oor business.”

I laughed. Wished I hadn’t, the pain surged through my body again as I did. “Black magic.”

“There ye go, black magic. If that’s whit you prefer to call it. I knew you’d get the picture. So, thing is, I’d rather not have to feed you to what remains of Waterhouse, I want you to work with me.”

“With or for?”

“Are you deef? With. See, me and the lads aren’t gonny be satisfied just pickin’ up the spare change fae the fannies in this toon, we’re thinkin’ big. We’re thinkin’ political influence. Sure money can buy a lot of support fae the crooks in Westminster, but there’s always some sanctimonious prick that can’t be bought. People like that might get in the way of our plans.”

“I get it,” I answered.

“Good. See at the moment we are likely to have our hand full, we’ve taken a lot of ground from the Sisters and, well, they're...” He stopped then, his eyes went wide and he turned.

“Here.” said a voice, that of a little girl.

I looked in the direction Morton had turned to face, to see one of the strangest sights I've ever seen. She was perhaps eight or nine, her hair the colour of straw and a blazing glow of light from her eyes that was almost blinding. She was also about three feet off the floor. The child frowned, waved her hand and Waterhouse just fell to pieces, dropped to the ground with a series of wet thumps.

“Ah. You'll be Brigdhe then.” Morton said as the child moved into the room.

“You'll be Alec Morton. From all accounts, a nuisance,” she said.

“Oh is that what you think?” Morton chuckled.

“What I think is neither here nor there Alec Morton. What is in discussion at this time is you and what it is you think you are doing.”

“Whit I'm dain'? I'm takin' oor, sweetheart.”

The child laughed. It was not a childish giggle but filled with contempt. “You have used the arts, which is slightly interesting, but your arrogance is tiresome.”

“Oh? You think you can stop me?”

“We are not interested in your games. What you have, we grant you. Your brutal games have impressed us, perhaps one day we might have use for you, until then, take what you have and be grateful.”

“Grateful?! Who the fuck d'ye...”

“Alec.” barked hawk-faced Willie. “Zip it fur fuck sake.”

Morton glared at him with such rage I thought he was going to attack him. Willie just raised his eyebrows, one of those gestures that said “don't even fuckin' try” and Morton backed down.

“This isnae o'er.” He said to the creepy floating girl.

“Nothing is ever over. It matters not, you do not want to test us Alec Morton, listen to your friend. Today is your day, enjoy it. You are but a human and to us inconsequential.”

She turned and disappeared into the darkness. I could not believe what I had seen. Madeleine Peach's voice rang in my head. “Monsters.”

“Whit the fuck Willie?” Morton shouted angrily.

“We're no' ready yit, she could've swatted us like flies, but she didnae. Take the win ya daft bugger.”

Morton didn't seem happy. He paced back and forth like a man who'd been handed an unwinnable dilemma to deal with. Neil and Willie stood silent, just watching him. I was still in a great deal of pain but thought it better to let him cool down. Somewhere in his internal ruminations, he remembered I was there and glanced up at me and grinned. “Charlie, whit d'you think aboot that?”

“I think you've bitten off more than you can chew.” I replied.

“Maybe so. Her turnin' up like that, though, did it no' bother ye?”

“No more than watching a fat child murderer in a paddling pool full of his own shit and piss getting his head blown off did, no.”

Morton nodded as if I had given him sage advice. “See that's exactly whit I thought. You're no like maist men, you're like me, like us, aye?”

“Well apart from all the black magic bullshit, I guess we're similar.” I answered.

“That's whit I thought.” He said. “Did I no' tell ye Willie?”

“Aye Alec, ye did.” Willie said, as if indulging a petulant teenager.

“Get the man doon aff that hook.” Morton said.

“We done then?” I asked.

“Aw naw, we're far fae done Charlie.” He said.

And then he said the words I'd been waiting to hear since the moment I saw Richard's head on the Acorns bar. “Do you want to work with me or not?”

It was then, for the first time in decades I felt something, excitement. This whole thing was out of my depth. I’d know that all along, but I was willing to swim, see where this tide of blood was going.

Of course, I wanted it, it was exactly what I wanted. It was why I crossed the border in the first place. Morton was right, we were alike. Besides, what else was I going to do after witnessing all this madness?

“Sure.” I said.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Ring Bang Skoosh

So what you do is get a 60a bus over to Duke Street from the City Centre. Keep going right along Duke Street until you get past the remaining houses and the industrial park. The bus will eventually take a second right at a large roundabout. You'll not be able to miss it. It's beside another industrial park. You'll want to get off the bus at the next stop and then wait for the 257A. They're not common, one every half an hour (if you're lucky) and only between 8 A.M. and 5.30 P.M. If you've missed it and have to wait you could do worse than Babs Café across the road. Go get something delicious to eat. Don't get me wrong her cuisine is part of the cultural dietary pandemic that's reduced life expectancy in the areas of the east end to that of cavemen, but her deep fried pizza slice on a roll with chips is well worth the fucking risk. Anyway, once you're on the 257A you'll head south east along an empty area for about three quarters of a mil
Read more

Gross Domestic Product: 8

Image
Chapter Eight. It took the taxi almost half an hour to get through the West-End and up through the north of the city out into Milngavie. Some roadworks at the switchback had left the entire end of the town in one long traffic jam, according to the driver anyway. Pete was not impressed, not one bit. By the time he stepped out he’d stumped up twelve quid and his skin felt like it needed massaged by a crazed acupuncturist. The cold hurt was becoming too real for him to bear but he knew he’d just have to tough it out. He’d con Baird, or failing that, rob the place, get that stupid lamp and then he could relax, shoot up and have a nice long gouch. After that he’d go to Allerdyce and before long have another five grand in his pocket. That would give him nearly ten grand, enough to solve his problems. Enough to propel him out of Glasgow’s moribund gravitational pull once and for all. He just needed to keep it together for another hour or two. The house he stood outside looked
Read more

The Scheme

Nineteen eighty nine, a number, another summer; sound of the funky drummer ubiquitous on the radio. Gordon Harper drummed his fingers against the wheel in time to the tune. It was a nervous staccato, no doubt about that. As he sat parked on Casgairt Road he wondered if he should just bolt. He'd a couple of grand left in his savings, and could be on the next flight to Chilé or Singapore, could be anywhere but here. He threw his cigarette butt out the window and immediately lit another. This was going to be a bad job, that became apparent as soon as Skinny's name was mentioned. When Dunkie mentioned that nutter he should have said “I'm out.” He didn't. No, he didn't want to look like a shitebag in front of the big boys. If he had any real stones he would have told Dunkie to take a fuck to himself. Instead he was sitting with a fucking shotgun under his seat waiting for that nutjob Willie Barr. Total... Fucking... Nightmare! Once more he sucked on th
Read more