I was very conscious of my outfit; a tweed suit would stand out like a tart in a convent in this neck of the woods. But its soft shape and hidden pocket disguised the line of the revolver. I had topped the ensemble with her dad’s flat cap, having removed the beautifully constructed fly from its brim. I was a gamekeeper hunting poachers in their own back yard. If the Slattery clan was behind all this, then I should just walk in and shoot them like rats. Six bullets; six bad guys the world would never miss. I turned down my anger to a simmer, pulled the cap over my eyes, shoved the door open and entered the warm fug.
Instantly I felt eyes on me. Conversation paused and mates nudged each other at tables filled with glasses. I walked stiffly straight towards the bar. The barman looked me up and down, his mouth twisted in a grin.
‘Ah think you’ve got your dates wrong, pal. The fancy dress do’s the morn’s night.’
It brought a gale of laughter from the lads at the bar.
I laughed myself. ‘Ah well, seeing I’m here, I’ll have a half and a half.’
I felt the conversation pick up the normal rhythms again, and supped at my beer as I recce’d the room. I was standing at the apex of the horseshoe bar. To my right were tables with men playing cards and talking their heads off. Fringe men, not inner core, just voyeurs of the lowlife. I’d give them something to watch.
To my left was the real action. There were two tables with men huddled over them, one with three at it, the other four. From under the brim of my cap I studied the four-man table: Fergie and his sailor pal made two, and his backstabbing buddy, whose throat I staved in, made three. The fourth man was new to me but of the same stamp. Three of them were tucking into pints of ale. The one with the throat problem was sucking at his through a straw. The centre of the table was filled with empty bottles and a smouldering ashtray.
At the other table were three men, two of them clearly older than their entourage at the other. These three had marked out their territory with pints of black stout. The oldest was a man in his mid fifties I’d say, thin grey hair and the bland, sandy features resulting from the generations of intercourse between the West of Scotland and Northern Ireland. Like mixing children’s coloured clay; after a while it just went grey. Dermot Slattery, I presumed.
A younger version sat beside him, unmistakably of the same stock but with a little more hair and a ginger ’tache that he kept stroking. As if it were alive. Gerrit Slattery. Though it was too far to confirm the hare lip, the description fitted the man who’d been seen going into Hugh’s old house by his new neighbour. Doubtless on a tidy-up operation, making sure there was no evidence. The third man had his back to me but wore his dark hair long and curly. By the width of his neck and the set of his shoulders he wasn’t a man to tangle with in a fair fight.
I sunk my large Scotch and felt the fire eat all the way down my throat. I slipped my hand into the inside jacket pocket. The butt of the gun felt reassuringly cool and hard. I clicked the safety off.
I motioned to the barman. ‘Have you got Jameson’s?’ He nodded at the bottle behind the bar. I placed two half crowns on the top. ‘Two doubles, and send them over to the Slattery table. Keep the change.’
He involuntarily looked over to the table with three men at it. ‘Who will I say?’
‘Just say the ferryman.’
He looked doubtful, but took the money and filled the glasses. He lifted the bar up at the side and walked over. He placed the two glasses in front of the two brothers and indicated where they’d come from. As their heads came up to inspect me, I was already walking round to them, smiling, with my hands in my trouser pockets. As casual as you like.
‘Evening, boys, mind if I join you?’ I stood above the table next to the curly-haired bruiser and faced the bog Irishmen. Curly, the bruiser, was quick to his feet, but ginger moustache signalled him to sit. He did so reluctantly. His face showed disappointment through the old scars and broken bones of the lifetime bodyguard. Ginger lifted his glass, sniffed it and sunk it in a oner. I now noticed that the moustache was trying to cover the harelip.
‘Cheers, and who the fuck are you?’ he said.
The older Slattery said nothing, did nothing, took one look at the whiskey and then gazed at me through hard eyes. He waited. The other table had gone quiet and their heads had turned. Comprehension slid across Fergie’s face like a slow car crash. He shot to his feet, spilling his beer. He stuck his finger out at me.
‘Jesus fuck! It’s Brodie! You’re fucking drowned, ya’ bastard!’
This set off Curly again and he was back on his feet, with fists clenched. He wasn’t sure what was happening but he thought he was going to enjoy it. The rest of the pub had gone quiet and expectant. The old man spoke quietly out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Tell them to sit down and shut up, Gerrit.’ His voice still carried the thick nasal tones of his youth.
Gerrit Slattery gave a signal. Curly moved back to the bar and leaned against it within jumping distance of me. Fergie and his pals at the other table lowered themselves into their seats. Fergie kept wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, wondering how I’d been reincarnated as a ghillie. Dermot Slattery looked me up and down.
‘Sit down, Brodie.’
I pulled a chair slightly back from the table so that I had free movement of legs and gun hand. I sat.
‘You’re quite the swimmer then, Brodie,’ said Dermot, his bitter little eyes carrying a glint of hard humour.
‘And how would you know about my swimming talents, Slattery?’
‘Cut through the shite, Brodie. What do you want?’
‘Fergie’s balls on a plate.’
Dermot Slattery sized me up and down. Without turning his head, ‘Ye hear that, Fergie? Should I let him have a go?’
I half expected Fergie to beat his chest or pound the sawdust with his hoof. Near enough. He was back out of his chair and poking his finger at me again.
‘Just let him try, Dermot! Any time!’ To prove how tough he was he stuck his hand inside his jacket and pulled out his sharpened chain. ‘I’ll mark the other side of his heid and see how he goes without his fockin’ ears!’
‘I’ve told you about your language,’ Dermot said softly. Fergie sat back and glowered at me, playing with his chain and waiting to be slipped from his leash.
Slattery turned back to me. ‘If you can take him, you can have him. Now what do you really want, Brodie?’
I gazed at him and his brother who was fingering his ginger lip. ‘Mrs Reid and her weans. And don’t insult my intelligence by asking: Who?’
He cocked his head to one side. ‘You’ve a rare nerve, Brodie, I’ll give you that. And say we knew who this lassie was, and indeed where she was, why would we hand her over to you?’
‘Does the car registration SD 319 mean anything to you? On a black Austin 10? It should. You own it. And I have witnesses that will testify that two of your muscle-brains here abducted her and took to Arran four months ago. Last Sunday they came for her again. Turn her and her kids over to me or I turn the details over to the police.’
Dermot Slattery studied me for a bit, then he looked at his brother. Then he turned back to me and began to laugh, a slow cackling laugh that cut through the pub noise. It started them all off. They hadn’t heard anything as funny since Chamberlain’s ‘peace in our time’ speech. Curly at the bar was doubled up with mirth.
I got to my feet, pulled out the gun, cocked it and shot Curly in the foot.
TWENTY-NINE
For a long second, the only noise seemed to be the echoing crash of the gun. It was a relief to find the ten-year-old shells still worked. Then Curly began screaming.
‘He shot me! He fucking shot me!’ he advised us all, superfluously.
He fell over clutching his foot, squealing like a kid. At the two tables, every man jack of them was on his feet. Chairs crashed to the ground, pint mugs went flying, and the whole pack reared back a couple of feet from this madman in tweed. Before any of them decided to play the hero and rush me, I aimed my gun directly at Dermot Slattery’s head.