Eh pilled ehsel tae ehs climbin frame n yanked ehsel up. Tried tae come at ays! It wis ridic! Ah booted it oot fae under him and watched him crash tae the flair. — Beat it, ya fuckin auld muppet, ah laughed at um. For some reason ah mind ay gaun tae Methuen’s chippy in Junction Street eftir, for a mince-pie supper.
A couple ay weeks later eh was deid. Ah went tae the funeral. Never planned tae go, cause ah ended up in the cells eftir a pagger up the toon the night before. By the time ah got back hame, ah jist wanted tae get some proper kip in. But the auld man and muh ma, n even Joe, they aw sterted tae make a fuss, so ah went along. Nae Lozy present, hardly any other cunt thaire. A waste ay fuckin time. The thing is, he was fuckin well hated aw along.
33. THE HOWF
As he takes Anton’s green jacket from the bonnet of the van, and hangs it on the handle of the howf door, Franco can hear Larry’s screams tearing out, caterwauling inside his brick prison. Anton is silent, but his blade is certainly doing the talking. Franco is tempted to open the heavy wooden door, to better appreciate the younger man’s style. However, Larry’s wails mean Anton can’t hear Frank Begbie getting into the van and reversing it up against the door, leaving a gap of about five inches.
Immersed in his barbaric duties, Anton only registers something untoward happening when he hears a splashing sound on the concrete floor. He turns to see the nozzle of a petrol can poking through the gap, spilling its contents into the howf. It is soaking his trainers and has got as far as the jeans of the wretched, blood-saturated figure slumped in the corner, only vaguely recognisable as Lawrence Thomas Wylie.
— What the fuck — Frank Begbie hears Anton suddenly shout from inside the howf, as he slams the door repeatedly against the back of the van. — FRANCO! WHAT THE FUCK! So you. . you’re gaunny call the polis, catch ays here — Anton gasps, almost hopefully. In his panic he pushes an arm and part of his face through the gap in the door, which only gives Franco the opportunity to douse him with petrol. He steps back into the howf, spitting and pleading, — WHAT?! WHAT’S AW THIS ABOOT?!
— Dae ah look like a cunt that calls the polis? Frank Begbie says, grimacing at a memory, as he opens the front door of the van, reaching in the back, sticking the empty petrol can there and picking up a full one. He hears the heavy door banging against the vehicle in a rhythm that reminds him of sex. Climbing out, he states, — Now yuv went n hurt ma feelins, as he splashes more petrol inside the howf.
Anton, now again at the door space, doesn’t even move back, he just lets the petrol soak him. — What is this. .? Ah thoat we wir. . ah thoat we. . ah telt ye ah nivir touched Sean!
— N ah awready telt ye, ah ken that ye hud nowt tae dae wi Sean’s death, Franco says. He can hear soft mutterings and gasps, coming from inside. Some kind of penitent recitation; it has to be Larry. — And ah do appreciate ye hurtin that cunt, so thanks for that.
— This isnae thanks, Anton chokes. — But how? What fir? he pleads, trying to bolt down the panic in his voice.
— Well, ye mentioned the death ay the missus n the bairns, Franco takes a step back from the door, — tae whom I’ve become a wee bitty attached. That was an awfay daft thing tae say. Ah wis disappointed; thought ye would have picked up by now that ye dinnae threaten some people, it’s just counterproductive. That wis the first reason –
Anton’s face crushes forward into the space at the slightly ajar door. — AH DIDNAE MEAN IT!!!
— C’mon, mate. Franco sounds mildly dismayed. — Keep the dignity.
— Listen, Anton Miller’s features contort in a sneer, — ma boys’ll hunt ye doon, you and your family! They ken ah wis meetin you!
— No massively impressed by these fellies, mate; a cut above Power’s mugs, but ah dinnae think they could cross the road withoot you. Ah’ll take ma chances there. He waves Anton’s mobile phone in his face.
— Look –
— The second reason, Franco looks at the calls list on Anton’s mobile, — is they aw think that you did Sean. Ye kin see how bad that looks for me. He shrugs at the soaked, miserable face in the gap. — So littin you live jist isnae a fuckin option, ay-no. Worked hard for this rep, mate. It’s a poisoned chalice, but it’s cost ays a lot, Franco explains in almost gloomy resignation, hearing Larry’s high groans whistling from the howf.
— AH NIVIR. . AH NIVIR. . FRANCO. . Anton looks like a young boy now, his hair plastered to his scalp by the petrol. Fear has stripped the knowingness from his face.
— N thaire’s another reason, which, fair enough, is a pretty pathetic yin, but here goes: it’s barry fuckin sport, he grins, feeling Anton’s phone purring inside his pocket. The henchmen might be here soon. — Never burned nae cunt tae death before. You pit ays in mind ay it yirsel when ye said that thing aboot settin the world on fire, Franco explains, getting back to work, splashing more petrol in.
Anton steps away, then springs forward into the aperture again, pressing his face out. His breathing ragged. — AH’VE GOAT MONEY!! AH’LL SEE YE AWRIGHT!! AH SWEAR TAE GOD!!
Frank Begbie cocks his fist and pivots a straight right cross into the framed, squealing, petrol-soaked face.
Anton’s head snaps back into the howf. It briefly reappears, nose bloodied, as he screams again: — ANYTHING! WHAT DAE YE WANT?!
— I’ve goat what ah want right here, mate. For you tae burn, Franco reveals, deadpan, lighting a book of matches and tossing it inside. Almost instantly, he can hear a whoosh, the spreading fire sucking out the air in the cramped howf, and then there’s a big flash and a sheet of flame blazes out the gap of the door, forcing him to hastily jump back. Franco imagines he can still hear Larry’s soft whimpers, but if that’s so, they are soon drowned out by Anton’s urgent shrieks. With a heavy heart, he pushes the young gangster’s green leather bomber jacket in through the gap. It was a nice garment and might have fitted him.
Franco looks at Anton’s mobile. A couple of missed calls and texts, the most prominent being RYAN. He assesses this to be the stockier, more assertive associate. He examines the texts, at which Anton is quite prolific, trying to decipher the minimal, coded instructions they are full of. He struggles with the keys and fonts, the fading screams of the young man in his head, but manages to type to Ryan: All good. See you back at mine in 30 mins.
Then he drives the van forward and gets out, opening the door of the howf. To his astonishment, the flaming figure of Anton comes charging out, a burning ball, running straight at him. Franco wagers that, by this time, the young man can sense nothing, and this suspicion is confirmed as he simply steps aside to let the blazing figure stagger towards the edge of the dry dock and fall in.
Realising that dusk is coming, Franco looks down, and watches the black, twisted shape of Anton. It is not moving but still burning. Suddenly thinking of the Warner Brothers’ Road Runner — Coyote cartoons, he feels a shivering mirth snake through him. Then he heads back to the howf, opening the wooden door which is charred on the inside. The smell is almost unbearable; thick, congealed grease hangs in the air, a porcine odour, with a whiff of sulphur. The brick outbuilding’s internal walls are sooted, its contents reduced to ruins and ash. The fire has sucked all the oxygen through the air bricks, facilitating an explosion. Then he sees the remains of Larry, his face lacerated and bloody, though otherwise strangely intact, resting on what seems to be a pile of blackened clothing. He looks at his old friend’s vacant eyes, staring out at nothing, though those redone teeth still gleam white, and he mouths, fuckin wanker, heading outside, grateful for the air.