‘And you’ve been cheating Black Aengus too,’ he said. I wanted to protest that this wasn’t true, but still thought I might be sick if I opened my mouth, so I just shook my head, after which I felt even dizzier. You can’t know the pain and frustration I’m feeling as I try to write this down candidly and exactly. Fourteen weeks have passed since that night, but every night it comes back to me, waking and sleeping. They’re giving me drugs here, and strictly no alcohol. During the day I can walk in the grounds. There are ‘encounter groups’ where I’m supposed to talk my way out of my problem. Christ, if it were only that easy! The first thing my father did was get me out of the way. I am tempted to say his way. His answer was to send me on holiday. Mother chaperoned me around New England, where an aunt has a house in Bar Harbor. I tried talking to mother, but didn’t seem to make much sense. She had that stupid sympathetic smile pasted onto her face.
I digress, not that it matters. Back to the poker game. You’ve perhaps guessed what happened next. I felt Cafferty’s hand on mine, only this time he lifted my hand up in his. Then he placed the gun in my hand. I can feel it now, cold and hard. Half of me thought the gun was fake and he was just going to scare the Robertsons. The other half knew the gun was real, but didn’t think he would use it.
Then I felt his fingers pushing mine until my index finger was around the trigger. His hand now fully enclosed mine, and aimed the gun. He squeezed his finger against mine, and there was an explosion in the room, and wisps of acrid powder. Blood freckled us all. It was warm for a moment, then cold against my skin. Eck was leaning over his brother, speaking to him. The gun clattered onto the table. Though I didn’t take it in at the time, Cafferty proceeded to wrap the gun in a polythene bag. I know that any prints on it must be mine.
I flew up from the table, panicking, hysterical. Cafferty was seated still, and looking pacified. His calm had the opposite effect on me. I threw the vodka bottle against the wall, where it smashed, dousing wallpaper and curtains in alcohol. Seeing an idea, I grabbed a lighter from the table and ignited the vodka. Only now did Cafferty get up. He was swearing at me, and tried to douse the flames, but they were licking up the curtains out of our reach, scudding across the fabric wallcovering on the ceiling. He saw the fire was moving quicker than we could. I think Eck had already forsaken his brother and fled before I ran out of the room. I took the stairs three at a time and burst into the kitchens, demanding that all the gas be turned on. If the Central was going to burn, let it take the evidence with it.
I must have looked crazy enough, for the chef followed my instructions. I think he was the same person who served us the sandwiches, only he’d changed jackets. It was late, and he was alone in the kitchen, writing something down in a book. I told him to get out. He left by the back way, and I followed, keeping my head low as I jogged back to Blair Street.
I think that’s everything. It doesn’t feel any better for the writing down. There’s no exorcism or catharsis. Maybe there never will be. You see, they’ve found the body. More than that, they know the man was shot. I don’t see how the devil they can know, but they do. Maybe someone told them. Eck Robertson would have reason to. He’s the only one who could tell. It’s all my fault. I know that Cafferty started swearing at me because I’d mucked things up by setting fire to the room. If I hadn’t, he would have seen to it that Tam Robertson’s body disappeared in the usual way. No one would have known. We would have gotten away with murder.
But ‘getting away with it’ isn’t always getting away with it. The corpse haunts me. Last night I dreamt it came back to me, charred, smouldering. Pointing a finger towards me and squeezing the trigger. Oh Christ, this is agony. And they think I’m here for alcoholism. I still haven’t told father all of it, not yet. He knows, though. He knows I was there. But he’s not saying anything. Sometimes I wish he’d hit me more as a child and not let me misbehave. He liked me to misbehave! ‘We’ll make a man of you,’ he used to say. Father, I am made.
That was that. Rebus sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Eddie Ringan knew a little more than he’d been telling. He’d been a witness at the card game and could place Cafferty there. No wonder he’d been running scared. Cafferty probably hadn’t known him back then, hadn’t paid attention to a waiter who was moonlighting anyway and not one of the regular staff.
Rebus rubbed his eyes and returned to the journal. There was a bit about a holiday, then about the hospital again. And then a few months later:
I saw Cafferty today (Sunday). Not my idea. He must have been following me. He caught up on Blackford Hill. I’d come through the Hermitage, climbing the steep face of the hill. He must have thought I was trying to get away from him. He pulled on my arm, swinging me around. I think I nearly jumped out of my skin.
He told me I had to keep my nose clean from now on. He said it was a good idea, going into that hospital. I think he was trying to let me know that he knew everything I’d been up to. I think I know what he’s doing. He’s biding his time. Watching me as I take instructions in the business. Waiting for the day when I take over from my father. I think he wants it all, body and soul.
Yes, body and soul.
There was a lot more, the style and substance of the entries changing as Aengus too tried to change. He’d found it hard work. The public face, the charity face, masked a yearning for some of that wild past. Rebus flipped to the final entry, undated:
You know, dear friend or foe, I liked the feel of that gun in my hand. And when Cafferty put my finger on the trigge…he did squeeze it. I’m certain of that. But supposing he hadn’t? Would I still have fired, with his strong unfailing hand on mine? After all these years, all the bad dreams, the cold sweats and sudden surges, something has happened. The case is being reopened. I’ve spoken with Cafferty who tells me not to worry. He says I should concentrate my energies on the brewery. He seems to know more about our finances than I do. Father is talking of retiring next year. The business will be all mine, and all Cafferty’s. I’ve seen him at charity functions, accompanied by Mo, and at various public occasions. We’ve talked, but never since that night have we enjoyed one another’s company. I lost my usefulness that night. Perhaps I just showed my weakness by smashing the bottle. Or perhaps that had been the plan all along. He always gives me a wink when he sees me. But then he winks at just about everyone. But when he winks at me, when he closes his eye for that second, it’s as if he’s taking aim, setting me in his sights. Christ, is there no end in sight? If I weren’t so scared, I’d be praying the police would find me. But Cafferty won’t let them. He never will let them, never.
Rebus closed the journal. His heart was beating fast, hands trembling. You poor bugger, Aengus. When you read we’d got the gun, you thought we’d fingerprint it and then we’d come looking for you.
But instead, Cafferty had blown his trump trying to incriminate Rebus, just to keep him out of the picture for a while. And the irony of it all was, with the prints messed up, Black Aengus was in the clear-in the clear for a murder he didn’t really commit.
Again, though, it was all uncorroborated. Rebus imagined the field day the defence would have if he walked into the Royal Mile courts with nothing more than the journal of a recovering dipsomaniac. The Edinburgh law courts were notoriously tough at the best of times. With the sort of advocate Cafferty could afford, it was a definite loser from the word go.