That night of the school dance… It was true he'd been drunk – elated. He'd felt he could do anything, be anything. Because he'd come to a decision that day – he wouldn't join the army, he'd stay in Bowhill with Janis, apply for a job at the dockyard. His dad had told him not to be so stupid – 'short-sighted' was the word he'd used. But what did parents know about their children's desires? So he'd drunk some beer and headed off to the dance, his thoughts only of Janis. Tonight he'd tell her. And Mitch, of course. He'd have to tell Mitch, tell him he'd be heading into the army alone. But Mitch wouldn't mind, he'd understand, as best friends had to.
But while Rebus had been outside with Janis, his friend Mitch was being cornered by four teenagers who considered themselves his enemies. This was their last chance for revenge, and they'd gone in hard, kicking and punching. Four against one… until Barney had waded in, shrugging off blows, and dragged Mitch to safety. But one kick had done the damage, dislodging a retina. Mitch's vision stayed fuzzy in that eye for a few days, then disappeared. And where had Rebus been? Out cold on the concrete by the bike sheds.
And why had he never thanked Barney Mee?
He blinked now and sniffed, wondering if he was coming down with a cold. He'd had this idea when he came back to Bowhill that the place would seem beyond redemption, that he'd be able to tell himself it had lost its sense of community, become just another town for him to pass through. Maybe he'd wanted to put it behind him. Well, it hadn't worked. He got out of the car and looked around. The street was dead. He reached up and hauled himself over the iron railings and walked a circuit of the cemetery for an hour or so, and felt strangely at peace.
NINE
'So what's the panic, Matty?'
After a home draw with Rangers, Stevie was ready for a night on the town. One-one, and of course he'd scored his team's only goal. The reporters would be busy filing their copy, saying for the umpteenth time that he was his side's hero, that without him they were a very ordinary team indeed. Rangers had known that: Stevie's marker had been out for blood, sliding studs-first into tackles which Stevie had done his damnedest to avoid. He'd come out of the game with a couple of fresh bruises and grazes, a nick on one knee but, to his manager's all too palpable relief, fit to play again midweek.
'I said what's the panic?'
Matty had worried himself sleepless. He knew he had several options. Speak to Stevie, that was one of them. Another was not to speak to him, but tell Mandelson he had. Then it would be down to whether or not Mandelson believed him. Option three: do a runner; only Mandelson was right about that – he was running out of places to hide. With two casino bosses out for his blood, how could he ever pick up another croupier's job?
If he spoke with Stevie, he'd lose a new-found friend. But to stay silent… well, there was very little percentage in it. So here he was in Stevie's flat, having demanded to see him. In the corner, a TV was replaying a tape of the afternoon's match. There was no commentary, just the sounds of the terraces and the dug-outs.
'No panic,' he said now, playing for time.
Stevie stared at him. 'You all right? Want a drink or something?'
'Maybe a vodka.'
'Anything in it?'
'I'll take it as it comes.'
Stevie poured him a drink. Matty had been here half an hour now, and they still hadn't talked. The telephone had hardly stopped: reporters' questions, family and friends offering congratulations. Stevie had shrugged off the superlatives.
Matty took the drink, swallowed it, wondering if he could still walk away. Then he remembered Malibu, and saw shadows falling.
'Thing is, Stevie,' he said. 'You know my boss at the Morvena, Mr Mandelson?'
'I owe him money, of course I know him.'
'He says we could do something about that.'
'What? My tab?' Stevie was checking himself in the mirror, having changed into his on-the-town clothes. 'I don't get it,' he said.
Well, Stevie, Matty thought, it was nice knowing you, pal. 'All you have to do is ease off next Saturday.'
Stevie frowned and turned from the mirror. 'Away to Raith?' He came and sat down opposite Matty. 'He told you to tell me?' He waited till Matty nodded. 'That bastard. What's in it for him?'
Matty wriggled on the leather sofa. 'I've been thinking about it. Raith are going through a bad patch, but you know yourself that if you're taken out of the equation…'
'Then they'd be up against not very much. My boss has told everybody to get the ball to me. If they spend the whole game doing that and I don't do anything with it…'
Matty nodded. 'What I think is, the odds will be on you scoring. Nobody'll be expecting Raith to put one in the net.'
'So Mandelson's cash will be on a goalless draw?'
'And he'll get odds, spread a lot of small bets around…'
'Bastard,' Stevie said again. 'How did he get you into this, Matty?'
Matty shifted again. 'Something I did in London.'
'Secrets, eh? Hard things to keep.' Stevie got up, went to the mirror again, and just stood there, hands by his sides, staring into it. There was no emotion in his voice when he spoke.
'Tell him he can fuck himself.'
Matty had to choke out the words. 'You sure that's the message?'
'Cheerio, Matty.'
Matty rose shakily to his feet. 'What am I going to do?'
'Cheerio, Matty.'
Stevie was as still as a statue as Matty walked to the door and let himself out.
Mandelson sat at his desk, playing with a Cartier pen he'd taken from a punter that day. The man was overdue on a payment. The pen was by way of a gift.
'So?' he asked Matty.
Matty sat on the chair and licked his lips. There was no offer of a drink today; this was just business. Malibu stood by the door. Matty took a deep breath -the last act of a drowning man.
'It's on,' he said.
Mandelson looked up at him. 'Stevie went for it?'
'Eventually,' Matty said.
'You're sure?'
'As sure as I can be.'
'Well, that better be watertight, or you might find yourself going for a swim with heavy legs. Know what I mean?'
Matty held the dark gaze and nodded.
Mandelson glanced towards Malibu, both of them were smiling. Then he picked up the telephone. 'You know, Matty,' he said, pushing numbers. 'I'm doing you a favour. You're doing yourself a favour.' He listened to the receiver. 'Mr Hamilton, please.' Then, to Matty, 'See, what you're doing here is saving your job. I overstretched myself, Matty. I wouldn't like that to get around, but I'm trusting you. If this comes off -and it better – then you've earned that trust.' He tapped the receiver. 'It wasn't all my own money either. But this will keep the Morvena alive and kicking.' He motioned for Matty to leave. Malibu tapped his shoulder as an incentive.
'Topper?' Mandelson was saying as Matty left the room. 'It's locked up. How much are you in for?'
Matty bided his time and waited till his shift was over. He walked out of the smart New Town building like a latterday Lazarus, and found the nearest pay-phone, then had to fumble through all the rubbish in his pockets, stuff that must have meant something once upon a time, until he found the card.