Gross Domestic Product:13

Chapter Thirteen.

Pete, who was sitting at a cheap plastic table was shocked when he saw Skinner walk in the room and Skinner, whose eyes were already bulbous, was also aghast. Both recognised each other instantly though both were children the last time they had met. Neither man said anything for a few moments, both were just staggered by the coincidence, which left Allerdyce feeling nervous. “I’ll uhh… jist leave you two to it,” he said before rapidly leaving and closing the door to the back shop behind him.

Skinner shook his head and sighed. “Daft Pete, is it?”

Pete shrugged. “Gordon fuckin’ Skinner. You got oot anaw, then?”

“I thought I was the only one, Peter. How did you manage?”

“Wisnae easy. The night efter they started torching the toon an’ killin’ aw the adults, they started draggin’ aw the weans like me tae see that thing they called Mammy. Ma brother knocked fuck oot me when I refused, so I ran the moment I could. Cunts chased me aw the way tae Wraithlin.”

“They took Ian as well? I’m sorry to hear that, Peter,” Skinner said, softening his voice.

“Aye, well wisnae your fault.” Pete said. He looked down, the memory had always been painful, had never healed.

That was true, but Skinner knew he’d done nothing, just fled the moment he realised what was actually happening in his home town. “No, it wasn’t. What age were you, seven, eight?”

“Eight aye. A long time ago noo, eh?”

“It was, nothing’s better there from all accounts.” Skinner replied.

“How d’you know that? You been back?”

“Hah! Fuck no, but I hear things.” Skinner answered. “Couple of years back, they started hijackin’ cargo trucks. Police got involved, sent in a team. Three made it out, one died in hospital, one was carted off to a loony bin. Nothing else was done after that.”

“Hmm,” Pete responded. “They should jist drap a nuke on it or somethin’.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Skinner responded, for the first time since he’d entered he finally looked at the ornate lamp sitting on the table. “Anyway, neither of us are here to talk about Dunnoch. This’ll be the exotic lamp?”

Pete’s manner changed, he became more alert, now they were getting down to business. “Aye. That base is pure gold, we hid some antiques dealer value it fur us, he said...”

Skinner had been examining the lamp thoroughly. He could tell there was something odd about it, just from the way the crystals shone, as he got closer they changed colour from white to a light pastel green. This was like one of those things the O.A. sold. He was sure it was worth a lot of money but was also sure the thing itself was trouble. He cut Pete off. “Peter? Where the hell did you get this?”

Peter was done lying, done making up stories, he just wanted the money, he needed to get out of Glasgow, before the city killed him. “A long story.”

“Indulge me.” Skinner ordered

So Pete told Skinner everything, from Brian’s break-in to Baird’s butchered body. Skinner listened attentively, didn’t interrupt but occasionally nodded along. Once Pete was finished Skinner rubbed his chin and said, “Where did you say this house Brian broke into was? Craigton?”

“Aye.” Pete nodded. Skinner already suspected he knew which house, had been in it, briefly the previous day when he’d been pushed through the glass panel by the little girl.

“Whereabouts?” Skinner asked, he just needed confirmation.

“It’s backed oan tae the cemetery.” Pete answered.

And there it was. He had no doubt that was the house he’d visited to find Olivia. Three dead, so Pete had claimed. At least he knew what had happened to Figgis’ thugs. Two dead at the old guy’s house in Milngavie. The bodies were piling up. Skinner knew there’d been something odd about the house and Olivia but this was on a different scale. Something big was brewing in secret. He had to get on top of it before the others, Morton’s crew or The Sisters, got wind of it. “How much you want for the lamp then?” he asked.

“Five grand.” Pete said.

“That’s a lot of money Peter, you’re not going to just shoot it all into your veins are you?”

“Nane of yer business’ is it?” Pete responded.

“I suppose not.” Skinner said, looking at the lamp again. It was fascinating. “I just...”

Pete felt guilty about been such a smart-arse. “It’s awright, man. Look, I need the cash to get the fuck out of here. This place, it’s no much better than hame, I mean Dunnoch. Sure there’s no some fuckin’ monsters rampagin’ through the streets,” He paused and thought about that. “Maybe there is, maybe jist in a place this size, the weird shit is jist mer spread oot. Disnae matter, fact is I need tae get oot of here before the place kills me, ye know?”

Seventeen years, that’s how long ago it had been since they’d fled the mayhem of town being burned by children who had not been themselves, who had been changed. It had been a long time ago and Skinner wondered just how long Pete had been wandering the streets, ripping off people and getting obliterated on junk. Skinner had came away from it fearless. He’d seen the strangeness hit Dunnoch like a slow moving wave, but it had hit Pete like a Tsunami. He nodded. “I do Peter, I do.”

“Portugal, I think. I fancy Portugal.” Pete said, as he recall his dreaming from the previous night.

Skinner dug into his pockets and pulled out a thick rolls of notes surrounded by large green elastic bands. They were red, Pete noticed and watched as Skinner quickly counted them with his thumb. Once he had a bundle collected he undid the elastic, plucked the bundle out and said “Five thousand, count it.”

Pete counted it as Skinner picked up a bookies pen and a sheet of paper from a photocopier and began scribbling something on it. “If you’re going to Portugal, go to Lisbon, I’ll phone this guy to let him know your coming. His names Miguel, he’s legit. He’ll find you a place to stay as long as you get off the smack. Clean up, he might even give you a job. He owns a few top quality clubs and bars over there.”

Pete was satisfied with the amount he had and stuffed it into his pocket immediately. He was uncertain about Skinner’s offer. Appreciative, certainly but uncomfortable with the generosity. “You don’t need tae dae that, Gordon.”

“No I don’t, but you’ve been through enough. Take the money, split, go and have a nice life.” Skinner replied. He pushed the slip of paper across to Pete with his index finger. Pete stared at it for a second picked it up and said “Cheers, big man.”

Skinner picked up the lamp. Looked at it closely again, almost imagining he could hear a ringing sound vibrating along the edge of the crystals where they were set against the golden frame. “You’re welcome, Peter. It was a surprise to see you, that was for sure.”

“Aye. You anaw.” Peter agreed. “Well I’m aff. Got tae pack ma bags, eh?”

Skinner turned to look at Pete again. “Take care of yourself Peter.”

With that and with five grand more, Pete walked out with a smile on his face. Skinner hoped the lad wouldn’t just blow it all on heroin, would get his head on straight. If Pete did, if he contacted Miguel and was doing alright, Skinner would send him a bung from time to time. Tell Miguel to tell him it’s a bonus. If he was going to sort things out in Dunnoch one day, Pete might be a useful asset. He looked back at the lamp. “What the fuck are you?” he whispered to it.

Allerdyce popped his head round the door. “You done?”

Skinner nodded. “Yeah. You got a bag I can put this into? I walk down the road with this in my hands, I’ll be in a cell by lunchtime.” That wasn’t his main fear. His main fear was someone would spot it, know what it was and his little secret was public knowledge. He didn’t want it getting out.

“Aye, I’ve got some bags oot front.” Allerdyce said, nodding his head to gesture Skinner to follow.

Skinner walked out with the lamp in his hands, it was much heavier than it looked. As he walked towards the counter Allerdyce unfolded a large plastic back and said “Oh did ye hear?”

“About what, Giddy?”

“Some bad shit went down at Prince’s bookies in Cardonald efter the big win” Allerdyce replied.

“What? What big win, are you talking about Tommy’s place?”

“Aye. Did ye no’ hear? Some wee goth lassie took him for nearly two million quid on an accumulator. Somethin’ happened. Noo Docherty is deid an’ some auld guy foun’ wan of the staff members an’ the wee lassie aw hacked tae bits.” Allerdyce explained.

“When was this?” Skinner said hardly able to believe what he was hearing. He’d been up too long, was too tired for this. Still his brain refused to stop. Was the ‘wee goth lassie’ Olivia? If it was, the secret that had been brewing had just exploded. There was no way he could keep it quiet now.

“Dunno, a couple of ‘oors ago.” Allerdyce said, shrugging.

Skinner was already predicting outcomes and sighed. “So, five hundred quid.”

“Eh?” Allerdyce said.

“Your cut, five hundred quid.” He said, handing over a bunch of notes to Allerdyce.

“Cheers Skinny.” Allerdyce smiled.

“Do me a favour, call me a cab would you?” Skinner asked. He was still pondering whether to go home to bed, but knew he was going down to check out the goings on at Bryce’s. He’d been in Bryce’s good books for a while which had stopped Morton sending some of his other goons after him. He wasn’t sure.

“Where you goin’?” Allerdyce asked.

“Looks like I’m headed to Cardonald, doesn’t it? Skinner sighed.

Twenty minutes and five quid later, he was there. The bookies was just off the main road on it’s own little walled drive which also housed a small cafe and a cobblers. The places all had corrugated metal roofs, had been slung up in the late seventies but looked a lot older since they’d not been built well and were in need of major repairs. He couldn’t get near. The police had cordoned off the scene of the crime with tape and a few bored looking officers who were stood there talking to nosey passers-by. He decided it would be for the best if he joined it. It was time to put on the “chancer” persona.

He walked up to one of the officer’s, a solid wall of serge blue and facial hair. He looked like a shaved ape. “Scuse me officur, whit’s goin’ oan here? I wis gonny pit a line oan.” Skinner said, faking his best lower weegie nasal whine, sounding a bit like Peter, now that he thought of it.

The police officer stared at him with disgust. “Move along sir, this is an ongoin’ matter.”

“Aye, Ah know that...sake, man. Did the bookies get done?”

“I’m no’ at liberty to discuss it.” The officer said, folding his arms as punctuation.

Skinner was too tired to try and read the cop, to try and grab hold of something that he could manipulate to find out more. Instead he just used something he’d learned called the Verona Technique. He scanned around the scene, seeing the other officer, a few nosey people milling around and noticed one was an old woman. She was perfect. Skinner nodded to the police officer and immediately walked away. As he did he formed an image of the old woman in his mind and then punched himself in the nose. Yards away the old woman yelped and collapsed as her nose exploded blood. Skinner turned on the ball of his foot as he watched the officers go over to help her and slipped by without being noticed. A quick jog and he was walking through the door, right into the front of the building and the three old men who stood inside, all of whom turned to look at him.

“Well fuck.” Skinner laughed as he looked at the three if them. Willie Boyle, with his hawk like nose and staring eyes, Jimmy O’Hara, the wee fat hard-man with his thinning Grecian 2000 coloured grey hair and of course Morton. Alec-fucking-Morton. All five-eight of him, white hair like one of those crackpot yank televangelists. “Whit the fuck are you dain’ here, ya freaky prick?” Morton demanded.

“Same as you I’d guess. No doubt one of the old hags will turn up soon to eh?” Skinner replied.

“Whit’s this got tae dae wae them, or you fur that matter?” Morton asked.

“Cool your jets, Alec,” Skinner began. “I’m no’ here tae cause you any trouble, quite the opposite.”

“Oh, you and I are pals noo’ is that it?” Morton scoffed, looking to Boyle and O’Hara for appreciation. Neither laughed.

“No Alec, I’m tryin’ to sort something out for Barry Figgis, you know Figgis?” Skinner asked.

“Years ago, how?” Morton asked.

“Asked me to do him a favour. His neice was...”

“Aye I heard about that. Wee smack-heid prossy, right?” O’Hara interrupted.

“That’s about the size of it, Jimmy. Aye. She’d shacked up with some wee prick down the road from here. Barry had sent a couple of lads down to sort it out last week but they vanished. So he asked me to check in on her. I did that yesterday afternoon. She was there, in a bad shape and still managed to push me through one of those plate glass doors. The whole house was toxic, something bad was dwelling in there, perhaps in her. So, then an hour ago I bumped into an old friend who sold me this.”

He pulled out the lamp, just to show them. There was no reaction, so he continued.

“So he tells me him and his junkie pal found this, in that house, and furthermore there were three dead bodies upstairs.”

“So?” Morton said.

“Alec, the good life is dulling your senses, mate. Let me give you a clue, the wee lassie was called Olivia Robertson.”

That got a reaction alright. “Shite!” Morton exclaimed.

“I always admired your scepticism Alec, but no, straight up.”

“She was wan of Bryce’s victims.” Willie Boyle admitted. “The state of her...”

Skinner was puzzled. He hadn’t expected that. “Wait, you’re saying Bryce was responsible?”

“Aye, fur fuck sake. Seems you don’t know everythin’ eh?” Morton said, pleased to have one up on Skinner.

“How do you know?” Skinner asked.

“It’s oan the cctv tapes.” Morton answered.

“Can I see them?”

“Kin ye fuck.” Morton answered.

“Alec, let the lad see them.” Willie Boyle said, it wasn’t a request.

“Whit?” Morton replied incredulously.

“He’s right, right? Somethin’ fuckin’ weird’s gaun oan here. Nae herm in gettin’ another pair of eyes oan it.” Willie explained.

Morton looked at Willie, shaking his head in disgust. “Do you remember whit this cunt did tae me?”

“Aye, he made ye shite yersel’ at Sammy Wilson’s weddin’. He tried tae have wee Malky Bishop bump ye aff an’ he attempted tae take the east end aff ye. I’m no’ sayin’ he’s a pal, but well, he is wan of us, if ye catch ma meanin’.”

Morton thought about it. “You’re lucky I just don’t huv you bumped aff, Skinner.”

“Ye tried that Alec, remember? How did that work oot fur ye?” Skinner retorted.

That was enough for Morton. “Get that cunt oot o’ here before I dae somethin’ I’ll regret.” He ordered.

Neither Willie or Jimmy moved. Morton stood looking at them in utter disbelief. “Oh is that how it is noo?”

“Alec,” Jimmy started, “I hate this bug eyed cunt as much as you do, mate, but ye’ve got tae admit, he’s doon oan the street workin’ this shit, if this is as bad as it looks...”

“It’s worse, I guarantee it.” Skinner interrupted.

Jimmy bared his teeth at Skinner. “Shut it. As I wis sayin’ if it’s as bad as it looks, it might be worth, y’know… a truce.”

“Aye. Seriously Alec, we can go back to bein’ pricks to each other once we figure this out. You don’t want the Sisters throwing their weight around, do you?” Skinner suggested.

Morton nodded at that. That much was obvious but it stuck right in his craw. “Fine. I’ll show you the tape, then Willie can go wae ye tae that hoose. But see if you’re up tae somethin’...” He warned.

“I know, you’ll have my guts for garters.” Skinner replied, rolling those bulbous wet eyes.