Poisoned Cherries (33 page)

“So how are you getting on checking the lists you took from Torrent?”

He swung the car round, past Bristo Square, into George Street, and stopped on a yellow line.
 
“I’ve been through them all; wee Anna was efficient.
 
Everyone who came into that building printed and signed their name.”

He chuckled.
 
“All the well-known ones signed her own wee book, too ...
 
even you, flash bastard that you are.
 
Must have been a great job for an autograph hunter; they came to her.
 
Every signature in there matched a signature on the list, bar one.”

“Whose was that?”

“Haven’t a fucking clue.
 
The thing was completely illegible; just a straight line with squiggles in it, that’s all.”

“I know the one.
 
Like an ECG chart?”

“That’s it.
 
It’s nowhere on the Health and Safety lists.
 
Some pop star probably; she’ll have taken it with her to a concert.”

“So where does it take us?”

He threw me a gloomy look.
 
“Nowhere, pal.
 
If you were making a western here I’d say I could hear the sound of the sheriff’s posse closing in on me.
 
As it is, I can almost feel Mr.
 
Skinner’s hand on my collar.”

I could see that his earlier panic was still pretty close to the surface.
 
I’d never imagined him like this before, never thought it possible that he, super-cop, super-Mason, super-connected, could lose it.
 
If he was scared surely I should be too, I told myself.
 
And then, as if in answer, a strange feeling of certainty swept over me; it told me, beyond doubt, that everything would be all right.

I smiled at him.
 
“You’re forgetting one thing, Ricky.”

“What’s that?”
 
he grunted.

“You’re sat next to the luckiest bastard on the planet.”
 
I held up my right hand.
 
“Grab that, and some of it will rub off on you.”

He looked at me as if I was a lunatic.
 
Maybe he’s right; maybe I am. I only have my own word that I’m not.
 
But then, he took his white-knuckled fist off the steering wheel and grasped mine.
 
“At this moment,” he said, “I’ll try anything.”

Forty-Nine.

The set-up in the McEwan Hall was still not complete when I walked in.
 
Everything else was ready though, including the production trucks, which were lined up on the Bristo Square car park.
 
The cafeteria van was nearest the hall, with the others in ranks behind it.
 
My dressing room was out of sight, but that was fine; that was the way I liked it.

I had told Miles as we were leaving the Caley the night before that I wanted the minders pulled off me altogether.
 
Mandy should stay with Susie, but I was to be left alone.
 
He hadn’t been too keen on the idea, but I had insisted.
 
I knew that something else was going to happen; I wasn’t certain what it would be, but I didn’t want anyone around when it did.

I picked up my Andy Martin costume from the wardrobe department and headed along to the truck to change.
 
When I was in my screen clothes, I locked my watch, wallet and wedding ring in the safe, which was set in the floor, and went to make-up.
 
I didn’t even bother to lock the door as I left.

Liam was on set as I walked into the hall, big grin, teeth sparkling, looking like Mario McGuire to the life.
 
He had his jacket slung over his shoulder; I couldn’t see any of the wiring associated with a blood capsule, so I guessed from that alone that we weren’t going for a take that day.

I said as much to Miles and he nodded.
 
“We’re barely ready in the hall yet.
 
We’ve had to make modifications to the seating and the carpenters still have a couple of things to do.
 
So I’ve sent all the non-essential extras home for the day.
 
The key players can run through the scene though; the crucial part, with Bill and the video camera, that’s got to work for real, and I want to see that it does.”

“You could fake it, though.
 
It wouldn’t show’

“Yeah, but I’d know it.
 
Besides, faking it costs.”

That’s typical Miles.
 
The dinner in the Caley the night before must have cost the earth, but in terms of his personal cash it was small change.
 
But the production budget is the investors’ money, and it’s a matter of personal pride with him never to waste that.

“The guns are here, though,” he added.
 
“They’re paid for anyway.”
 
He had cut a deal with the army; they were providing all the necessary firearms, plus an armourer, for a flat fee.

There were men in black uniforms and balaclavas too, extras cast as SAS soldiers.
 
I’ve seen a couple of these people in real life, and our version looked pretty authentic to me.
 
I asked Miles whether he’d hired the uniforms from the military as well.
 
He put a finger to his lips and went, “Sshhh.”

We spent the afternoon doing rehearsals of all the scenes in the hall, up to and including the big gunfight at the end.
 
Miles concentrated on Liam, who was a bit like a schoolboy when the action began and tended to overplay his hand.
 
Acting was not new to him; all wrestlers play parts these days, assuming characters good and evil, some of them quite complex, all of them far-fetched.
 
Some of the performers, for example Everett Davis, the main man of the GWA, are pretty good on microphone.
 
Some, like my other friend Jerry Gradi, the Behemoth, aren’t good at all, so they’re given very little to say.
 
Most of them, though, have a little of the ham about them.

Liam is one of the best, but even he has a tendency to overact, and it showed as soon as we got under way.
 
In the final scene, which involved us ... the good guys .. . confronting an assassin armed with an Uzi.. .
 
the bad guy..
 
. his character..
 
. Mario .. . was meant to take two in the chest as he leapt heroically between the gunman and his target. The script had Ewan... Skinner... leaning over him, giving him a few encouraging words before they carted him off toER in the Royal Infirmary.

He didn’t have a word to say; all the script called for him to do was look up at Ewan with a plea for reassurance in his eyes.
 
His problem was that, while he was fine on his feet, acting horizontally was a new experience for him.
 
He couldn’t get the hang of doing everything with his eyes.
 
Eventually Miles broke into the third rehearsal, laughing in spite of himself.
 
He could see the joke; the big cameras weren’t running, only video, so it wasn’t chewing into the production budget.

“Mr.
 
Matthews,” he said.
 
“We are not doing the death of Nelson here.
 
The way you’re approaching this, I’m up here expecting you to ask Ewan to kiss you.
 
If you’re like this when you have your bedroom scene with the lady sergeant, we’re all in trouble.”

“I’m sorry, Miles,” the wrestler replied, propping himself up on an elbow.
 
“I guess it’s because all my stuff’s fake, and we have to give the audience a hint that it is.”

“I understand.
 
So let’s start from the ground up.
 
Don’t show any emotion; just lie there and think of Ireland.”

“Sure, and if I do that I’ll start to cry.”

We might have had a problem there, if I hadn’t saved the day.
 
“Hey, Liam,” I called out, cutting across Miles’s response.
 
“Remember that time down in Newcastle when a prop broke and you got a metal shaft through your side?”

He grimaced.
 
“Remember it?
 
Will I ever forget it?”

“Okay, put yourself back there, and just act exactly as you reacted then.”

He had no trouble after that, none at all; when that incident had happened he had been hurt just as badly as his character was meant to be.

When we wrapped up for the day, we were all happy with the way things had gone.
 
I was even whistling a wee tune as I walked back to my dressing room to change out of my gear, and to retrieve my watch, wallet and keys from the safe.

I wasn’t surprised when I saw the parcel on the table.
 
I felt this sense of unreality, sure, but I wasn’t surprised.
 
I let it lie there while I changed into my own clothes, replaced my Andy outfit on its hangers and took it back to the wardrobe caravan.

I thought about it as I wandered into the cafeteria truck to grab a coffee and chew the fat with Liam, Bill Massey and some of the crew.
 
But I was in no hurry to open it.
 
Somehow I felt that I was in control of the game now.
 
As everyone began to drift away, Liam said that he fancied a Chinese that evening.
 
I told him that was fine by me, but that I had a couple of things to do first, so I gave him the keys to the apartment and headed back to the dressing-room truck.

The parcel was still there, wrapped in bright blue fancy paper, with wee white horses on it.
 
I looked at it, and smiled; it could wait a bit longer.
 
I took out my cellphone and called Susie, just to say hello.

“How’s your sorting out going?”
 
she asked me.

“It was interrupted.”
 
I told her about James Torrent; I was surprised she hadn’t heard about it already.

“Jeez,” she hissed.
 
“I’ve been working all day; I haven’t had the

radio or the telly on.
 
There’ll be a long list of candidates for that

one,

from business rivals, to pissed-off suppliers, to unhappy customers with a big-money grievance.
 
Have the police got any specific leads?”

“They’ve got one that’s going to take them straight to Alison Goodchild.”

“I thought you told me that Ricky Ross was looking after her.”

“He is; the trouble is, he’s on that long list you were talking about.”

“Oh dear.
 
Let me try to summon up some sympathy for them both.”

I didn’t tell her that I might need some as well.
 
Instead, I said hello to Janet over the phone, listened to her gurgle, then said goodnight to them both.

Finally, I was ready for the parcel.
 
I guessed that whatever was in it had been wrapped in the shop where it was bought.
 
It didn’t occur to me for a moment that it might be something sinister.
 
There was a nice silver bow on top, and letter-bombs generally don’t come in fancy wrappers.

I opened it, carefully, again not because I was worried, but because I felt it merited the same care with which it had been put together.
 
(Plus, I’m a Fifer; you never know when you’re going to need a sheet of wrapping paper.)

The tape adhesive wasn’t exactly super glue it came away easily and the paper lifted clear in a piece, without tearing.
 
Nice one, Oz.

Inside was a large packet of Pampers, two Babygros, age six to nine months, one pink, one yellow, and a teething ring.
 
I picked them up, one by one, looking for a card, but I didn’t expect to find one.
 
I sat there for a while, smiling to myself, looking at my daughter’s presents and wondering what to make of them.

I wasn’t thinking about what I should do next... I knew that already...

I was just thinking.

Eventually I stood up, slipped on my red Lacoste windcheater, and stepped out of the truck.
 
This time, I locked the door behind me.

At a leisurely pace, I walked across the car park, crossed the road at the lights and made my way down past the mosque, to the Pear Tree.
 
We were just short of the start of the university year, otherwise the old pub would have been heaving with students, adding to their loan debts.
 
(Ask yourself, as I do, often; what sort of country is it that doesn’t invest in its brightest and best young people?) It wasn’t quiet, but there was space at the bar for me to order a pint of Eighty..
 
. (How do British publicans get away with their attitudes to their customers?
 
Virtually everywhere else in the world, you pay for what you’ve had when you leave.
 
In Britain they’re not far short of seeing your money before you see their watery overpriced product.)..
 
. and a spare table in the beer garden for me to sit.

I sipped my beer and looked around me; some of the production team were gathered around a table in the corner of the garden.
 
I waved to them but didn’t join them; instead I popped open my packet of crisps .. .
 
salt and vinegar, I can’t stand any other kind .. . and gazed back across the square, taking time to admire the late Victorian grandeur of Atkinson’s McEwan Hall.
 
Parts of Edinburgh are an architectural dream, others, like the St.
 
James Shopping Centre and office block, are a nightmare.

I sat and I wondered and I waited.
 
Eventually I found myself pondering upon the wisdom of two pints of Eighty before a Chinese.
 
It was an easy decision to make; I was on the point of rising to go back to the bar, when, as if by magic, another was placed on the table beside me.