Franco bobs his head slowly. — You’re right about that. Problem is, though, it’s no really me ye need tae worry aboot. He looks to the howf.
The heavy wooden door swings open with a creaking sound, as Anton Miller steps out. — Hiya, Larry.
Larry rubbernecks to Franco in desperation. — Dinnae leave me wi him! He’ll kill the bairn!
— That’s already done and dusted, Anton says.
— Naw, you’re fuckin lying. . Larry gasps.
— The thing is, you’ll never ken for sure one way or the other. Anton pulls out a chef’s knife. His other hand is bolstered by a knuckleduster. He removes his green leather bomber jacket, slinging it over the bonnet of Larry’s white van. Then Anton stretches out, flexing his muscles, solid in a black T-shirt, as if he is getting ready for a workout. — Ah’m giein ye the heads-up n tellin ye here.
— Naw. . Larry gasps.
— Looks like a tool for carvin, rather than plungin, Franco observes, regarding the knife. — This might take some time.
— Count on it, Anton says, again to Franco’s eye, still breathing easily. — They are gaunny find this stirrin cunt in really, really small pieces. He glowers at Larry. — And I think Frances was just tryin tae make ye feel a wee bit better about yourself. But whoever’s got the bigger cock now, I guarantee it’ll be me by the time we’ve finished, and he brandishes the knife.
Larry pants, his wild eyes swivelling around, scanning for a way out or a potential weapon. Within two heartbeats, something dies in them, and he leans back against the brick wall of the howf, as if letting it support him. Anton puts the knife into his belt, then springs forward, unloading an impressive volley of punches and kicks at Larry’s defenceless figure. To Franco’s eye they are delivered with the velocity and precision of somebody who has trained as a fighter: perhaps he’d boxed at amateur level or taken several karate belts. Larry stumbles back, and slumps to the ground. Then, as Anton withdraws the knife and prepares to commence carving up the cowed figure, Franco steps forward and says, — As keen as ah am tae see ye in action against this clown, you’d best take him back in there. He points to the old brick howf. — Security still do the odd run through here.
— Good thinkin. . Anton seizes the broken, whimpering figure of Larry by the hair and yanks him to his feet, marching him into the howf. There is a cruel focus in the young man’s eyes, movements stiffly executed, but replete with an air of ceremony. Franco can see Anton ten years from now as a family man, living in a smart suburb, wearing the same expression, as he carves up the family Christmas turkey.
Franco shuts the big wooden door behind them, so that Larry’s screams might be muffled in the highly unlikely event of anybody coming by.
32. THE DELIVERY BOY 5
Things turned bad for my grandfaither and his mates, as the investigation into Johnnie’s death gained momentum. They were surprised at how relentless the cops were; it was as if they had inside information. It seemed tae take forever but eventually they all went to jail for Johnnie’s death. Under pressure, they blamed each other. A flare-up took place, no in the Marksman, but in the Bowler’s Rest pub, a quiet shop tucked away oot ay sight doon Mitchell Street. They probably went there to get their stories straight for the bizzies, but they argued and it got physical. Carmie battered Lozy quite badly that day, and I think Jock took advantage of their fallout, he and Lozy deciding the big man would take the rap for stoving in Johnnie’s heid with the rock.
Carmie and Lozy would sit at opposite ends of the Marksman Bar. After the dispute they reputedly never spoke another word to each other or Grandad Jock again, though that might be bullshit. People need myths; they desperately embrace them tae gie their empty lives significance. But what nae cunt could dispute was that the close friendship between them was over under the strain of the persistent polis hassle. The Marksman is a very small bar and there were plenty of other pubs a stone’s throw away that they could’ve drunk in. I suppose neither wanted tae back down.
Pride.
So when the charges were brought, only Carmie was to be done for Johnnie’s murder. I don’t remember the details of the case but they accused each other in court of accidentally pushing Johnnie into the dock after a drunken argument over cards money. Jock and Lozy were done for reckless behaviour and failing to report the crime or to assist Johnnie. The court proceedings were wild, dissolving into a shouting match. It was back in the time when the Scotsman Publications would cover working-class violence in the city with glee, through their court columns. Now they have a policy of ignoring it, in case it frightens suburbanites or tourists. But the trial was messy. They were all given prison sentences. Not long ones in the case of Jock and Lozy, but they were still very old men to go to the jail. In some ways this was worse for the two of them, as on release they were ostracised as scum: failing to report a friend dying, and probably grassing up another mate, those things could never be forgiven.
Old Jock suffered a stroke in jail, and he was set free early. But his younger second wife, a dirty big hoor we were asked to call ‘Aunt Maureen’ rather than ‘Gran’ or ‘Nan’, had left him for a younger guy. Lozy did his stretch, but Carmie, doing the real time, would eventually die in prison.
I went to see Jock a couple of times, in the sheltered housing complex at Gordon Court, where he lived his last years. His face was twisted in the same lopsided grin, which, thanks to the stroke, was now a permanent fixture — with spazziness and drooling thrown in for good measure. There were no friends left. It was as if now that he was vulnerable, people could openly acknowledge what a cunt he was. Lozy and him, despite, or possibly because of, their scheming treachery to Carmie, they never talked to each other.
The last time I visited him at Gordon Court, I knew he was on his way out. Notwithstanding the attentions of the care staff, the place was minging. He smelt of pish and disgusted me. It was then I decided to tell the cunt the whole story. — Mind when you heard that Johnnie had got his heid mashed in? You aw blamed it on each other; you, Carmie and Lozy. But youse always wondered, who was it that really finished him, that smashed his heid in?
There was a stunned reaction. Jock couldn’t speak but it seemed like he was on the verge of another massive stroke. His face flushed crimson as he wheezily struggled to suck in air.
— It was me, ah telt him, as ah stood ower him. Ah wis about eighteen then, and ah couldnae believe that I’d ever been scared ay that auld vegetable. — Aye, ah finished him off. Dropped a big boulder on his heid. Of course, that was a warning sign for the bizzies. They tagged it as a murder rather than the suicide ay another docker peyed off and pit on the scrapheap. So they investigated. Of course, ah called them masel, telt them it was youse, ah explained, as Grandad Jock went aw spazzy on me. The fear and hate in his cunty auld eyes! — Aye, it fair landed yis right in it! That wis when yis aw turned on each other; it wis barry tae watch, ah laughed in his wheezing puss. — So it wis me. Ah fucked yis up, ah goat yis aw pit away!
Why? I could see him ask with his eyes, with every fibre of his being.
— Johnnie asked ays, I telt him, — and I’d always really liked Johnnie. Aw that work ah did for youse, it wis Johnnie that ey saw ays awright, oan the QT like. Nae other cunt gied a fuck. That wis one reason. The other yin wis that it was a barry laugh!