Prelude

You should have seen his face when he opened the envelope. The perpetual frown was replaced with raised eyebrows of curiosity. Then he opened the little white card with silver writing and Alec’s face lit up. It wasn’t often you’d see him smile, mostly he’d just grin that vindictive grin of his when someone who’d stepped out of line got what was coming to them but that day Morton gave the most authentic and delighted smile I’d seen from him since we were kids.

“Look at that Willie, is that no’ just lovely?” He said handing me the card. I already knew what it said. Sammy Wilson’s eldest Terry was getting married and Sammy had invited the whole crew. He’d been a good earner for us had Sammy, mostly legit. He ran a couple of places with fruit machines and pool tables, with a side order of loan sharking, but discreetly, and without any need for violence. In many ways, he was like the Provie, but without the exorbitant interest rates and state backing. He kept a clean house, so to speak. Anyway, I knew what it was but I feigned surprise for Alec’s sake.

“Aye, can you believe wee Terry is auld enough to be married?” I responded.

“Fucking shockin’. Where does time go, eh?” Alec said.

I shrugged.

“Tell you whit Willie, that kind of respect deserves rewardin’. Get O’Hara to chuck the lad twenty grand, open bar, the works. If he’s good enough to invite us, we’ll be good enough tae gie his boy a weddin’ tae remember.”

It was a wedding to remember alright. They hired the Sherbrooke Castle in the end, the whole place. A bit of luxury at the end of a shitty decade. Thatcher had just taken power so we were chuffed to bits, being early adopters of that unrestrained entrepreneurial spirit she was all for. That day in June was gorgeous, warm and sunny and both Terry and his wee bird Marie looked the part. I remember Alec giving the groom a sack of ten and fifty pence pieces for the scramble outside the church and when they left for the reception I swear there was as much silver coin being chucked about as confetti.

That was the first time I’d seen Sammy’s youngest, Dennis, in about ten years. A surly but strong fifteen-year-old, who had the punk hairdo, flattened, and a face like a well-skelped arse. He was uncomfortable in the suit, that was for sure. Still I never suspected he’d end up like us, well, worse. He got into magick is what I’m saying but we never murdered tramps for kicks, nor did any of us get caught or spend 30 years inside. It’s beside the point.

The wedding was going well. The reception was a pretty classy affair. We had a table to ourselves, Alec brought some thirty-year-old lass he’d banged a few times, Aileen something or other. Neil brought his missus, God rest her soul, but me Jimmy and Donny, never bothered with our partners, Jimmy was going through a messy divorce and Donny, well his lady Karen ended up in Leverndale the year before. He told us she’d dropped a bad acid and went round the bend but there were suspicions among the rest of us that he’d done something to her. He was always the keenest to fuck with the paranormal. He himself had been a bit odd since she’d gone away, but then Donny always was a bit weird. I guess that’s why he spent a lot of that night with Dennis Wilson, two peas in a pod. I’d split from Alison back in ‘77, when I did eighteen months for assaulting a police officer. I’d been lucky not to be charged with attempted murder but that was the end for us anyway. I wasn’t sour about it but sitting there brought back some memories, y’know?

The drink was flowing along with the banter and the band had everyone up on their feet as soon as the dinner was finished. Terry’s best man, some bloke called Steve, gave a rather tasteful speech about Terry and then the lad himself stood up and gave his own, which I can’t recall. See, about that time was when I noticed some young shady looking bugger come into the room with the psycho Gordon Harper. He was an ugly lad, bulging eyes and big fishy lips, a tall streak of piss in a rented Moss Bros suit. I’d never seen him before but right away I clocked who he was. Gordon Skinner, “Big Skinny” they called him. The name fit alright. At that point in time, he was little more than a wide-boy. He’d tried to make a name for himself a few years previously, but the story went he’d pissed off The Sisters somehow and they’d fucked him over. At that time Harper was working with Mental Dunkie, so it seemed to me odd that the two of them were there together. Right away I thought there might be some trouble.

Skinner produced a gift and handed it to Terry, at which point I realised they knew each other. Terry seemed quite friendly towards him and so I relaxed slightly, but I was on edge. Alec never bothered, he was too busy lording it up with all the people coming over to pay their respects like the cunt was Vito fucking Corleone. Skinner and Harper propped up the bar, flirted with some of the women but kept themselves to themselves.

My glass was empty so I went to the bar and bumped into Sammy, who was playing the proud father. We chatted for a bit when I noticed his eyes widen and turned to see what was bothering him. Alec was walking towards us not paying attention and bumped into Skinner, which caused him to spill the lad’s pint.

“Fuck sake, watch what you’re doing you old arsehole.” Skinner said.

Alec’s eyes filled with that anger I was so used to. “Whit the fuck did you call me boy?”

“I called you an arsehole.” Skinner replied.

Alec was taken aback, no one, absolutely no one spoke to him like that. “Do you know who I am son?”

“A daft prick, proving my point.” Skinner scoffed. “D’ye know who I am, give me a break.”

Harper grabbed Skinner by the shoulder, trying to pull him away. Alec shook his head and in a half whisper said “I could end you, you wee fanny.”

“Oh?” Skinner said, “and that would make you less of an arsehole, how?”

“Alec,” I said. “You bumped into the boy, just drop it.”

He thought about it for a second, looked around the room, seeing the nervousness on everyone’s faces. Even Harper was worried that it was going to kick off.

Alec nodded. “Yer right. Look son, my mistake, let me get you another.”

You could hear the collective sigh of relief. Skinner wasn’t having it though. “Don’t bother, I don’t drink with arseholes.”

At that, he turned away from Morton. Harper gave one of those apologetic “what can you do?” looks.

At that Morton looked at me and laughed. “The balls on this yin, eh?”

“Aye.” I said. “So anyway, whit you drinkin’?” I was trying to diffuse the situation. No one knows Alec like I do, I knew he wasn’t going to just drop it, so I was attempting to divert him.

“Hey Harper,” he said, ignoring me. “Does Dunkie no’ get jealous when you fuck wee boys?”

“Gie’s a break Morton, you were out of order, don’t turn this intae something else,” Harper said. I could see he was having a hard time not flying into a rage. That made two of them. Alec was barely holding it together.

Skinner turned and looked at Alec. “Morton? Alec Morton? This old cunt is the notorious Alec Morton?” He snorted derisively.

“Careful son,” I said. “You’re pushing your luck.”

“You’ll be Willie Boyle then, eh? You keeping him on a tight leash tonight?”

“Nae cunt keeps me on a leash. You got a problem, boy? Let’s go outside and sort it oot, I’ll no huv Terry’s day ruined.” Alec said.

Skinner looked at him with a disgusted sneer, dripping with contempt. “I’ve got nothing to prove. You, on the other hand, are still acting like a fucking arsehole.”

By this point, their bickering had silenced not only us at the bar, but people dancing and at tables were starting to notice. Alec went to say something, pointed his finger and then Skinner, before Alec could get a word out, said “Nice corsage.”

Alec was perplexed. “Whit?”

Skinner plucked it from Alec’s buttonhole. “That must have cost a pretty penny, eh? Suit as well, right?” He sniffed the flower and then plucked a petal off it.

“Whit the fuck are you doin’?” Alec asked.

Skinner handed him the corsage, which Alec grabbed at angrily. As he fumbled to put it back in his buttonhole the boy said “Teaching you a lesson, you old fucker.”

He displayed the petal between his forefinger and thumb, put it in a champagne flute he grabbed from the bar and then watched it start to dissolve in the fizzing white wine.

Alec looked at me as if I had an explanation, I didn’t, so shrugged. “Enough of this pish,” Alec remarked, dismissively.

Skinner drank the contents of the glass. The pink petal had turned the champagne a light rose colour. It couldn’t have tasted very pleasant. Alec just shook his head. “Fuckin’ nutters the baith o’ ye.”

Just then all the colour drained from him and he dropped like a stone. There were several exclamations of concern, including from me. I bent down to see if the big man was alright. As I did, Skinner said. “Boyle, ditch that cunt, he’ll screw you over one day.”

“Shut up,” I said, checking Alec’s pulse in his neck. It was there, weak but there.

“I’d move if I were you, he’s about to piss and shit himself,” Skinner said.

As if on cue Alec’s bladder and bowels seemed to burst, it was like projectile vomit, squirting out of him. Skinner cackled and said, “see you grand-dads later.”

He and Harper walked out. He’d done something, some magick, had cursed Alec somehow, I never figured out how. By the time Alec woke up he was equally mortified and psychotic. The kid had taught him a lesson alright, but it would be one that would be repaid in kind. That was what led to the feud between him and us.

Even then though, I knew he was smarter and more talented than we’d ever been. I wish I had listened to his advice to tell you the truth. Nearly forty years of attrition, truces and bloodshed. Alec still thinks he’s king of the fucking world. Worst of it? The poor bastard’s got cancer. Six months he says, maybe a year. When he drops dead this town’s going to explode. I don’t want to be around for that. I need an escape plan.

Turned out that day was the last decent day of the summer. The rest of the month was peppered with rain, wind and thunderstorms. An overture for the rest of our fucking lives, if the truth be told.