The Stone Gallows (30 page)

Never mind. They do say that the best form of defence is offence.

If Jason had opened the door, I planned to go in hard and fast, striking first with no intention of asking questions later.

Even as I stood there with my ear pressed against the cold metal, I heard nothing. No music, no running water, not even the settling noises old houses like to make at the end of the day. After thirty seconds I was pretty sure that nobody was home.

But that didn't mean there was nothing to learn. The vestibule was small, really nothing more than an alcove for visitors to shelter from the rain while they waited for the front door to be answered. I was standing on a dusty mat that might have once been a deep vibrant red, but over the seasons had faded to a wan shade of pink. Tucked in the corner was an empty umbrella stand, and because I was bending down, my back cricked and my ear against the cold metal of the letterbox, I could see directly behind it, which is something a less inquisitive person would not have been able to do.

Tucked behind the umbrella stand was an envelope. Quickly, I fished it out and opened it. Jason's handwriting was small and almost impossible to read, the ink frequently blotching then fading. It was as if a dozen spiders had run across the page, and for the first time in my life I wondered if there was something in the theory that penmanship was indicative of character.

Betty

I'm writing this now because I'll probably be too bladdered to
remember to write it when I get home – I'm going to watch the game in
the Anchor. Please would you spend your time in the kitchen, dining
room and living room, and don't use the Hoover or washing machine
because I need my rest! Here's your monthly ‘bonus', and as always, I
appreciate your discretion.

Jason.

Clipped to the note were five twenty pound notes, which I slipped into my wallet, figuring the bastard owed me for what he had done to my flat. ‘Betty' was obviously some kind of cleaning woman, and I wondered how much discretion she needed to display to earn such a substantial monthly bonus.

I hesitated on the doorstep, planning my next move. It would be easy enough to break into the house and wait for Jason to come home.

I could spend my time sniffing through his underwear drawer. Not tempting, but if he owned a secret stash of kiddie porn, underneath his stained boxers was an obvious hiding place. I also wondered what I would learn if I was to mess about with the computer that I would almost certainly find; no doubt it would be the kind of thing the police would be interested in. Guys like Jason never change their spots, developing instead more and more ways to camouflage their activities. Even if I didn't find anything, I could always hook up to the Internet and spend a while downloading the kind of images that would send Jason straight back to Barlinnie. Go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not stop to admire your collection of dirty pictures.

In the end, though, I decided against it. Jason might not be alone when he returned from the pub. Just because I wanted to have a little chat didn't mean that I wanted to involve any third party in our little quarrel. Plus I knew where he was; the Anchor was less than three hundred yards away. I made my way quickly back to the car, suddenly deciding that I deserved a pint. It had, after all, been a rough day.

10.6.

The Anchor was on the corner of Jordanhill Road and McTeague Street, and was a fairly typical Glasgow pub. Its full name was John's Anchor, and although the bar had been there since the late thirties, it had absolutely no connection with Glasgow's shipbuilding history.

Instead, local legend claimed that it had originally been named Kinniver's, after the first landlord, John Kinniver. All his life John had wanted to emigrate to America, but his wife Florence persuaded him to remain in Scotland and open a pub. She got her way in the end, selfishly dying of influenza just after John had ploughed their entire nest-egg into the bar. He always planned to sell up when the place showed a profit, but the depression and the war put paid to that. He tried to find a buyer, but nobody was interested. In the late fifties, he gave up on his dreams of a new life abroad and changed the name of his bar to John's Anchor, in reference to his late wife – as in, ‘The fucking bitch hung an anchor around my neck.'

Of course, now it was owned by one of these chains that strive to make their pubs all things to all people, and in doing so manage to suck dry any charm and individuality a place once had. A chalk-board on the wall inside the door advertised the different theme nights. Ladies Night. Karaoke Night. Seventies Night. And let's not forget the Family Afternoon, where if you bought a main course you could have a child's course absolutely FREE!

Tonight was Football Night, and the place was packed. Two men for every girl, and the girls could be subdivided into actual fans and ones that had tagged along with their boyfriends. Every table and barstool was occupied, and those that couldn't find a seat had to stand. As well as the projector screen, there were numerous plasma televisions scattered throughout the bar, meaning that wherever you looked you could enjoy the antics of twenty-two overpaid little upstarts who would earn more in a week than I probably would in my life. Every touch of the ball and run for position was criticised and commented upon by the audience. Opinions were freely offered and rejected. I had no idea who was playing who, and cared even less. I took my time as I shouldered my way through the crowd, keeping an eye out for my quarry. If he spotted me and panicked, that was fine. If he remained oblivious to my presence, even better.

In the end, I nearly tripped over him. It was nearly three deep at the bar, but suddenly the crowd did an unpredictable little shuffle, leaving me standing less than two feet from his back. I tried to keep my distance, but as people ebbed and flowed around me, I was forced behind him. If he looked round, he would see my face six inches from his own. Although a confrontation at this point was not part of my plans, it would be entertaining to see how he would react.

His head was tilted to the right, fixated on the nearest television screen. His hair was secured in a tight little pony-tail that made him look like a photographer that specialised in porn-masquerading-as-art. In his right hand was a half empty bottle of beer. A friend once told me that the reason beer manufacturers placed labels on the necks of their bottles was so that their brand name wouldn't be obscured by the hands of the consumer as they held the bottle. I wondered how the advertising people at Budweiser would feel if they discovered that Bud Ice was the beer of choice for the discerning paedophile arsonist.

Probably not very happy.

I sidled round to Jason's left, managing to place a buffer between us without losing my place at the bar. Catching the bartender's eye, I ordered a pint of Guinness, trying to pitch my voice low enough to avoid attracting Jason's attention and loud enough not to force the bartender to ask me to repeat myself. Sixty seconds later, a drink was placed in front of me.

Guinness is important. Every man likes to receive a bit of head from time to time, but there is such a thing as too much. This was one of those times. The bartender – a speccy, spotty student who looked like he might be studying social sciences en route to a deeply productive career as a social worker – had poured at least two inches of foam on the top of my pint. Had I not been acutely conscious of causing a scene and attracting unwanted attention, I would have said something. He banged the till and handed me my change, ignoring my dirty look, already concentrating on the next order. Defeated, I made my way over to the quietest corner of the place I could find that still had a view of Jason, and sipped my pint.

The damn thing tasted like it had been watered down.

10.7.

An hour later, the football was over. Somebody won. Somebody else lost. I didn't care; most of my attention had been focused on Jason. It was gratifying to observe that in a bar full of friendly faces, he seemed completely alone. Nobody talked to him, nobody looked at him, and nobody clapped him on the shoulder or commiserated with him when one of the players scored the winning goal. I wondered if people subconsciously
knew
he was an unpleasant person; if he somehow exuded a fundamental sense of wrong that kept him separate him from the rest of the world, the same way that a pack of dogs can sense when one of their own has turned rabid.

Nobody spoke to me either. Perhaps Jason wasn't the only person who seemed out of place.

Five minutes after the final whistle, Jason was on the move. He finished his drink and left the pub. Thirty seconds later, I followed, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. It had started to drizzle, and my jacket – one I had purchased from a nearby supermarket that very afternoon – turned out to be as waterproof as toilet paper. Before long I was soaked to the skin, and the chill of the night quickly set in. If Jason was out for any length of time, I was probably going to catch pneumonia. Liz would get the afternoon playmate she claimed to want.

I had thought that Jason would head straight home, but I was wrong. Instead of turning right when he stepped out of the pub, he turned left and started to head further up Jordanhill Road. The streets were quiet but not deserted – a few late night voyagers wandered the streets, and the occasional taxi splashed through the shallow puddles at the edge of the road. I kept my distance, making no particular effort to be quiet and somehow managing to be quiet anyway.

I was going to hurt him. I
needed
to hurt him.

I needed him to understand just how angry I was, to look into my face and know fear. I wanted him to look into my eyes and know how it was to be seconds from death.

I wanted him to suffer.

It wouldn't be enough, of course. In those desperate minutes before escaping the flat I had been frightened not just for myself but for Liz as well. Jason had nobody, so he had nobody to lose. And even if he did, I had no intention of putting them in harm's way, the way Jason had with Liz. I might be a petty, vindictive bastard, but I'm not completely without a conscience. Whatever happened between Jason and I was strictly between the two of us.

I had no idea what I was going to do.

We made our way through the sleeping streets, past the silent houses and late night travellers. Jason walked at a reasonable pace, but he seemed aimless, zigzagging up one sidestreet and down the other, his attention focused on his mobile phone as he tap-tap-tapped a text message. After twenty minutes, I estimated that we had covered just over half a mile as the crow flew, heading in the general direction of the city centre. I half-expected him to flag down one of the many passing taxis, in which case everything would be over. He didn't. He just kept cruising the streets, a man with no particular place to go and all the time in the world to get there.

After another five minutes, he turned onto Dumbarton Road.

Kelvingrove Park was on his left. His pace slowed even further, and I could see his head bobbing as he glanced around. I was about fifty yards back, so I crossed the road and ducked behind a parked car. Not a moment too soon, either. I barely got myself under cover when he did a complete three-sixty, taking his time about it. For a second I thought he saw me anyway. I dipped my head out of sight, convinced that he would panic and run. After a slow count of ten, I popped my head back up. I was just in time to see him climb over the wall that surrounded the park and disappear into the shadows.

In seconds, I was up and across the road. The wall was high, about six feet, but there was a small energy substation that served as an ideal starter platform for the would-be intruder. I climbed on top, managing to hook my arms over the top of the wall, scrabbling with my feet to find purchase. It was easier than I had expected.

Some of the stones themselves had eroded, creating small footholds, and it took only a few seconds for me to scramble over.

I stood where I had landed, in complete darkness, feeling the earth beneath my shoes, smelling the soil and the air. It was different, somehow. Cleaner. I like to think that parks are separate from the rest of the city, somehow existing in their own place and time. The traffic and the noise and the kebab shops were behind me, and I was alone with nature.

And Jason, of course. I didn't intend to forget about him.

10.8.

I listened intently. The undergrowth was heavy, and if I didn't get a fix on my target I would lose him. After a few seconds I was able to tune out the ambient noise of the traffic and focus on other things. . .

the soft hoot of an owl, the skittering of some small animal running for cover. . . and footsteps, in front and slightly to the right, fading into the distance. I moved quickly, the wet earth quickly soaking through my cheap trainers as I bulldozed my way through the shrubs and the trees and the long grass. Before I had gone twenty yards I burst onto a small path. The going was easier now, and I broke into a jog, my trainers squishing softly as the first few paces forced the worst of the moisture out of the soles. Before long, I was able to make out Jason, a darker silhouette flitting among the shadows. My hip was starting to ache, and I slowed my pace slightly.

There were no lights, but I didn't need them. As my eyes adjusted to the dark I was able to see more and more. The path curved in a shallow loop as it climbed a slight incline. The trees were thinning out, and as we got higher, more and more of the city became visible.

In the middle ground, I could see the river Clyde as it picked its way across the landscape winding through the warzone that was Craghill.

The redundant shipyards with their idle cranes were a reminder of better days. Further upstream I could make out the Merchant city, expensive flats for rich people who would piss and moan about having the destitution and dereliction of the defunct industrial belt on their doorstep, unaware that the very things that made them rich also gave birth to such poverty. For them, Craghill was just a shortcut to pass through in their Audi's and BMW's; a convenient route to somewhere else where they could dispose of their disposable incomes; cappuccino bars and frapaccino lounges and retail outlet stores where they could buy cut-price designer handbags for fifty times the amount a child in the third-world earned making the damn things in the first place.