How To Kill Friends And Implicate People (28 page)

NINETY-THREE

SAM

12:15

I was on the filter lane that directed traffic down from the motorway. I skidded to the left to avoid being hit by a red Ford that wouldn’t slow down, then cycled out into the box junction and turned left onto Argyle Street.

‘I’m checking the train times,’ Phil said in my ear.

I got down close to the frame of my bike, as close to flat as I could make it, then started pumping hard on the pedals.

I overtook one car, then another.

Horns blared.

I blocked the sound out. I was going to be doing a lot of that with the number of traffic laws I was about to break. I drifted into the lane to my right, which gave me a clear run for a few blocks.

‘Train’s due at Bridgeton at twelve twenty-three,’ Phil said.

‘What time is it now?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

A car pulled out from the left and drove straight across into my lane, aiming for the spot straight ahead of me. If I slowed down I would lose momentum. I veered into the left lane, missing the car by inches as we went in opposite directions.

I could check the time myself, but that would take my eyes off the road.

‘Phil, time.’

‘You’ve got six-and-a-half minutes, Sam. You need to be doing two-minute miles. You’ve never managed that.’

‘Never tell me the odds,’ I said. I knew he’d like that.

NINETY-FOUR

FERGUS

12:15

What next?

Aye, I know it’s bollocks to think I could be saved by a woman. Sam isn’t the reason I’ve given up the job.

But still, I’d hoped she could be a part of whatever happened next.

Or at the very least, that we’d have a little while longer to find out that we hated each other.

But now?

Blown it.

I lean back on my seat and close my eyes.

The train is quiet, it could quite easily rock me to sleep.

I tried to picture my next move.

How is it possible to have five million in cash, and still feel like I just lost the best thing that ever happened to me?

NINETY-FIVE

SAM

12:16

I ran a red light at the bottom of Douglas Street. The cars turning onto Argyle Street on the green swerved to avoid me.

No time to wave an apology.

I pushed on.

There was another junction at the bottom of West Campbell Street. That was a real test, as traffic was moving across the road in front of me. I skidded to the right to cut across between two cars, then veered left to avoid landing on the bonnet of another.

Behind me I heard the
whoop-whoop
of a police car, followed by the siren.

Things just got interesting.

Up ahead was one of the worst junctions in the city centre. The corner of Hope and Argyle. On one side of Hope Street sat a row of bars and restaurants, on the other side was Central Station. Every bus into the city from the Southside drove up Hope Street.

As I approached the junction, I didn’t even look to my right to see what the dangers were.

Anything I saw would slow me down. I relied on my peripheral vision to tell me of anything bearing down on me, and went for it.

Horns blared. Tyres squealed. I heard shouting. Swearing. One person screamed.

I pedalled on. Under Central Station. The siren stopped briefly, and I wondered what kind of gridlock I’d caused behind me.

I couldn’t turn back to look though, because next up was the only junction worse than the one I’d just crossed. After passing under Central Station, you come out to where Argyle Street meets Union Street and Jamaica Street. You come out blind, with no view of the traffic coming down toward you on Union Street. On the right is a McDonald’s, and the street outside in summer is always swarming with teenagers. Sometimes they’ll throw things at cyclists, try and knock them off balance.

All I could see, as I approached the junction, was the traffic directly ahead of me, and the lights, which were red.

Cars, buses and taxis would be coming at me from the left in a matter of seconds.

The only saving grace was the siren, which had started up again behind me. If my luck held, that would stop the traffic, with nobody able to see round the blind corner to spot which direction the polis car was heading.

‘You just did a two-minute mile,’ Phil said in my ear.

I closed my eyes again and cycled out across the junction.

NINETY-SIX

FERGUS

12:17

The train pulls in at Central Station.

I watch the people getting on and off. I can read what kind of jobs they do, what kind of days they’re having.

I can see the men checking out the women.

The women avoiding the eyes of the men.

I’d been starting to like the idea of being a detective. I’ve got the skills for it. But maybe not in Glasgow. I could head back to New York. Be a millionaire consulting detective, like in those TV shows. Or just go to New York and be a millionaire, do nothing but drink and watch the city turn over.

I check my phone. No signal, but it keeps trying.

Like that matters now.

I’d got in the habit of checking it constantly, looking for messages. I can stop that.

Right, Fergie, stop being a miserable wee shite. You’re getting the train home to five million quid.

You can do whatever the fuck you want from here.

The train pulls out from Central.

NINETY-SEVEN

SAM

12:17

There’s a pedestrian crossing where Buchanan Street intersects Argyle Street.

Buchanan is pedestrianised, and in the summer it’s full of people. The light was green for them, red for me. The road ahead of me was full of people.

I didn’t stop.

I shouted warnings and apologies as I threaded through and around the crowd. ‘Sorry.’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘Head’s up.’

What I got in return was, ‘Fuck you.’ ‘Off it.’ ‘Jeezo.’

People scattered quicker once they heard the siren behind me.

After the crossing, Argyle Street changes. The traffic turns off, heading north up Queen Street, and the way straight ahead is paved for pedestrians. I rode up onto the pavement and started threading through.

I heard the siren turn north behind me. They could have followed me, but with so many people out on foot, it would be a risk. They could head around the traffic diversion and try to cut me off, if they thought a cyclist was worth chasing.

I felt the rumble as the train pulled into Argyle Street station beneath me.

Next stop, Bridgeton.

NINETY-EIGHT

FERGUS

12:18

At Argyle Street, a drunk tries to get on but slips, and falls back onto the platform.

I get up to help him, and step down off the train.

The doors almost shut behind me, but I shout out to the conductor, and he overrides the signal.

‘’Hanks, Big’yin,’ the drunk says as we step back up onto the train. ‘I’d affer ye a drink, but I’ve ainly got six tinnies.’

I smile and say, ‘No worries, pal.’

The drunk makes me think of Cal and his
Babycham
. I can’t help but laugh. For all that has happened, for all the death and stupidity of the last few days, our way out of the situation has really boiled down to a variation on Cal’s big plan.

We tricked a guy into a confession, and sold him out to a bigger fish.

Cal’s
Babycham
has been the right idea all along.

What are the odds?

The doors shut.

The train pulls away.

Next stop, Bridgeton, and home.

For however long I decide to stay.

NINETY-NINE

SAM

12:19

I weaved between two competing buskers and a fruit market stall. As I passed Virginia Street I sent up prayers for Paula. Cal. Hanya.

And anyone else who’d died in the name of this stupid game.

At the end of the pedestrianised section, I cycled out across another traffic junction and onto Trongate. There was less traffic at this end of town, but the roads were only one lane in each direction, so it still got congested.

I hadn’t felt the rumble of the train. That was good. At this point, we would be in a straight race. The train ran beneath the road on the route I was taking. If it passed me now, I would never catch it.

Every second that I made now would be precious.

I undertook two slow moving cars, then swerved back in front of them to avoid a bus that had pulled in to pick up passengers.

The road ahead opened up to three lanes as I approached the clock tower.

The lights went the right way for once, giving me a green at the five-way junction. I breezed to the right in a large arc, enjoying the best bit of luck I’d had so far.

The fun wasn’t going to last, though.

This was where it was going to get interesting. Because in order to stay on the same route as the train tunnel, and to stand any chance of beating it, I was going to ride the wrong way up a one-way street.

Into
oncoming traffic.

ONE HUNDRED

FERGUS

12:19

As we pass beneath the junction at the Trongate, I look out the window.

While I was living in New York, I started reading up on its history and old neighbourhoods. When I came back home to Glasgow, I started doing the same thing for this old city.

There used to be a train station at the Trongate. It was called Glasgow Cross. The station is long gone, and the platforms have been dismantled. But if you look carefully, you can still see the old pillars and, if enough sun is filtering down, you’ll get a sense of the large space around you.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m no trainspotter. Couldn’t care less about them. But once you find out there are hidden spaces beneath your feet, old caves, tunnels or train tracks, it’s hard not to want to explore them.

My phone buzzes.

Somewhere at the old station, a signal has got through. I have a message to say I’ve got voicemail, and half a dozen missed calls from Phil.

I try to listen to the recording, but the signal has gone again.

ONE HUNDRED
AND
ONE

SAM

12:21

‘You lost time on that second mile,’ Phil said to me.

‘Traffic.’ I needed to keep my words short. I needed to focus on breathing. ‘People.’

My chest felt tight.

My legs burned. Except for my hamstring
 
– one of the recurring injuries that had made me give up running
 
– which felt like elastic at the end of its give.

‘Sam, it’s already twelve twenty-one. You’re going to need to do
better
than a two-minute mile to get there.’

I didn’t answer. No point. I needed to empty out thoughts, words, emotions.

It wasn’t a case of aiming for some zen-like plateau, or any other kind of rubbish. No. This was just about needing to think of only one thing.

Pedal.

Three lanes of traffic sped toward me. I got onto one of the white dotted lines that separated the lanes, and stayed on it, riding in a straight line between two rows of angry cars.

At the next junction, traffic opened up to two directions again, but I wasn’t staying on London Road. It took a slight detour away from the train’s route, and that could cost me too many seconds.

I turned onto Monteith Row, which was deserted, and had a chance to build up a little more speed without worrying about cars.

I could hear my breathing, in and out, sounding panicked.

The whirr of the drivechain.

An intermittent clicking sound that would be freaking me out at any other time.

Nothing else. The world was dropping away. Unimportant. Life was just about the pedals, the ground beneath me and the route ahead.

Until I heard the rumbling sound of the train.

ONE HUNDRED
AND
TWO

FERGUS

12:22

The train comes out of the tunnel as we pull into Bridgeton.

This is the first station open to the air since I got on the train, and it’ll be a chance to find out why Phil’s been trying to call me.

I stand up to get off, but there are a lot of other people on the train, so I let them all file out first. It gives my phone time to find the signal and connect with the message service.

I join the back of the queue and walk forward, heading toward the open door.

As I step down onto the platform, Phil’s voice barks into my ear.

‘It’s a trap, man. Dasho’s waiting to kill you at Bridgeton.’

I look up, and Dasho is stood right there.

He has a gun pointed at my chest.

I hear a commotion farther down the platform, yelling and pushing. Running. But my world closes in around the barrel of the gun.

He pulls the trigger.

ONE HUNDRED
AND
THREE

SAM

12:22

The train was behind me. I still had the fragile lead that I’d built up, but I couldn’t compete for speed. The rumbling gained on me.

I turned back onto London Road, got my head down again, and just
moved.

Push.

Push.

Push.

The train tunnel turned back onto the road at the same point, so once again we were in a straight race. Across another junction. A car horn screamed continuously at me as it got near, then scraped by behind me, close enough for me to feel the wind on my back.

Push.

Push.

Push.

For just a few seconds, a few crazy seconds, I pulled away, outracing a train.

Then my lungs popped, and something flashed white in my vision. Pain barrier. Fine. I’d been there before, and beaten it. I could do it again. I kept going.

The rumble overtook me within sight of the train station. I mounted the kerb at Bridgeton Cross and rode through the bandstand, then down onto the road again. I bunny-hopped back up, and cycled straight into the station.

There were no barriers in this station. Nothing to stop me. I stayed on the bike and made for the steps to the outbound platform. The train had pulled in, and the steps were now full of passengers. I jumped off the bike. It hit the wall with a thud. I hoped it would forgive me.

I pushed down the stairs, through the crowd. No time for apologies or niceties, I just kept shouting, ‘Move, move, move, move, move.’

I reached the platform and saw Dasho. He took a step toward the train and raised his hand, showing a gun. People were just standing, watching. Why?
Move.
My legs were turning to rubber. I didn’t have anything left in the tank after the ride.

I saw Fergus step off the train.

He noticed the gun.

Dasho raised it higher, looking ready to shoot.

I got to within a few feet of them, but Fergus didn’t hear me call his name. Dasho noticed me, however.

His hand started to tighten around the handle. The trigger.

I threw myself between them.