The Stone Gallows (37 page)

His was the only checkout open, and he was busy serving a little old lady who leaned on the handle of a tartan shopping trolley. She had taken full advantage of the promotional offers on frozen meals, stacking at least two dozen cardboard boxes onto the conveyor belt.

Behind her was a man with a trolley that seemed to contain about fifty tins of dog food. He took one look at my packet of cheese and onion.

‘You can go in front of me if you want.'

I shook my head. ‘I'm in no rush.'

‘Suit yourself.'

We waited, shuffling our feet as Shabsy ponderously prodded at the buttons of the till as if they were electrified. Eventually he arrived at a total. ‘Eighteen pounds sixty-five.'

‘Are you sure?' The old lady said in a querulous voice.

‘Yeah.'

‘I think you made a mistake. It's buy-one-get-one-free, you know.'

Sean nervously touched the keypad. The till beeped at him in an accusing tone. ‘I'm sorry, but the total's correct.'

‘I won't be able to afford a taxi home.'

‘You could always put some back.'

‘Let me see what I have with me.'

It took her nearly a full minute to extract her purse from the very bottom the shopping trolley. When it finally creaked open, it appeared to be filled with coppers. After an eternity of fumbling, she waved a handful of change. ‘Eighteen pounds twenty-three pence.'

‘I need the whole amount. It's the rules.'

The old bat looked hopefully at Dog Food Man, who waved his credit card at her. Her gaze transferred to me. I studied the ventilation ducts. When it became apparent that no knight in shining armour was available, she huffed and turned her attention back to her purse, fiddling away before withdrawing a secret twenty pound note that she had for some reason folded into tiny squares and handing it over to Sean. He laboriously unfolded it and held it up to the light. I wondered if he knew what he was looking for. Dog Food man sighed, shook his head, and muttered something that ended in the word ‘sake'.

James Morrison faded out and James Blunt faded in. Another singer whose relentless optimism made my teeth itch. Eventually, Sean decided that the twenty pound note was real enough, putting it into the till and counting change with the speed of a plumber who revelled in the fact that getting paid by the hour was the greatest thing since sliced bread. The old woman watched him place the coins on the palm of her gloved hand, her eyes black specks in her wrinkled face.

As soon as she was on her way, Sean turned his attention to the man in front of me. He eyed the cans of Winalot and Pedigree Chum.

‘Have you got a dog?'

The man sighed. ‘No, son. I've got a restaurant.'

11.17.

Four minutes and thirty-five pounds later, it was my turn. Shabsy passed my packet of crisps over the magic eye of the scanner and said,

‘Forty-eight pence.'

‘How have you been, Shabsy?'

He looked up at the sound of my voice, his eyes widening as he recognised me. For a second I though he was going to run; his hands grabbed the edge of the checkout and his backside slid off the edge of the stool. I held my hands up. ‘I'm not going to hurt you.'

‘You're not?'

‘If I had wanted to, I'd have waited until the end of your shift and followed you home, wouldn't I?'

He nodded slowly, his hand hovering in mid-air, my packet of crisps held between thumb and forefinger. ‘What do you want?'

‘How's your little buddy?'

‘I haven't seen him for a few days.'

‘I didn't know you worked nights.'

‘I just started here.'

That explained the hesitancy while using the till. Then again, maybe it didn't; I had a sneaking suspicion that Shabsy would forever be slightly intimidated by anything that had more buttons than the hand-control to his games console. I reached out and took my crisps.

‘You and I need to talk.'

‘What about?'

‘Many things. Shoes and ships and sealing wax and whether pigs have wings.'

‘What?'

I'd forgotten; Shabsy had probably never heard of Lewis Carroll. ‘I want to know how you knew my name.'

‘I don't know.'

I glanced around. The place was almost deserted. Down one aisle a heavily pregnant woman was trying to build a pyramid of disposable nappies. I reached out and grabbed Shabsy by the neck of his polo shirt. ‘Your friend. I want to know how he knew my fucking name.'

He pulled away, bumping his arse off the stool and overturning it, sending it to the ground with a clatter. The pregnant girl looked up briefly before returning to her building blocks. Shabsy smoothed his collar. ‘Look, I don't want any trouble. I just got this job. I don't want to lose it in the first week.'

‘I wouldn't have thought you were so career minded.'

‘Look, I got a fright the other night, alright? Dave really meant to cut you. I don't want the jail.'

‘So you're trying to go straight. How admirable.'

‘Look, I'm sorry about what we did, pal. I really am. It was a stupid, dumb thing to do, and it went way too far. Come on, it's not like you didn't get your licks in. You broke Dave's thumb.'

‘Dave? Is that his name? How can I find him?'

‘I don't know.'

I considered grabbing him again, but before I could, a couple stepped around the corner of the opposite aisle and started making their way to the checkout. I held up a finger. ‘You really want to keep this job?'

Shabsy nodded.

‘When's your next break?'

‘Twenty minutes.'

‘I'll wait for you at the front door. If you're not there in half an hour then not only will you lose this job, but I'll use a few contacts to find out where you're staying. You ever been kneecapped?'

He shook his head.

‘It's not very nice.'

I started to turn away. Shabsy said, ‘Wait!'

I turned back. He pointed at the crisps in my left hand. ‘That's forty-eight pence, please.'

I waved the packet at him. ‘Think of them as compensation.'

11.18.

The car park was nearly empty. I'd shifted the Golf to a deserted little corner, close enough that I could keep an eye on the doors, far enough away to avoid undue attention.

Shabsy showed up twenty-eight minutes later. By then, I had eaten the crisps, tossed the packet and checked my telephone messages half a dozen times. They didn't take long to check, because there weren't any. I was listening to the end of the news on the radio when I saw him step out of the main door of the supermarket, zipping up his fleece and turning the collar up despite the warmth of the night. I honked the horn and flashed the headlights at him. He started to trudge over with the enthusiasm of a member of the French aristocracy asked to test the reliability of the guillotine.

I got out to greet him. ‘I was beginning to think you weren't going to show up.'

He stuck a cigarette into his mouth. ‘It crossed my mind.'

I walked round and opened the passenger door of the Golf. ‘Don't bother lighting it.'

He tucked the cigarette behind his ear. ‘Where are we going? I've only got fifteen minutes.'

‘We're not going anywhere. We're just going to talk.'

He looked up at the sky, from which a light drizzle had began to fall. ‘How do I know that you're not going to hurt me?'

‘You don't. But I can guarantee two things. One, I can run faster than you. Two, better this than to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder.'

He took a deep breath and got in.

I slipped round to the driver's side and slid behind the wheel. He flinched when I reached across to turn the radio off. The two of us sat there in silence for a slow count of thirty. I wanted him to feel the need to break it.

He did. ‘I don't know where Dave is. You hurt him bad, man. I had to take him to casualty. I think you even cracked a couple of ribs.'

I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together. ‘You know what this is?'

‘What?'

‘It's the world's smallest. . . forget it. How did he know my name?'

‘I don't know.'

I nodded at the cigarette tucked behind his ear. ‘Maybe if I let you smoke that then your memory will improve.'

He reached around and removed it. ‘Thanks, man. Got a light?'

‘Sure.'

I pressed the button for the cigarette lighter.

11.19.

Ten seconds later, the lighter clicked to let me know it was ready.

Ever the polite host, I used it light Shabsy's cigarette before sliding it home. He inhaled with enthusiasm. ‘Cheers. Listen, it wasn't my idea to give you a kicking. I was just along for the ride.'

‘So what happened? The two of you saw me walking home and just decided to chance your luck?'

He unwound the window and blew smoke outside. ‘ I don't really remember.'

‘Try.'

‘I'd dropped a wee bit of acid. Everything was kind of blurry.'

‘I didn't think people still did acid.'

Shabsy shrugged, apparently unaware of the rapidly-approaching boundaries of my patience. I watched the car park, trying to figure out my next move. Trying to interview the monkey rather than the organ-grinder was a high-risk strategy at best. It would be simple enough to turn the kid upside down and shake him until something of value fell out, but I was getting tired of violence being a solution.

Besides, even if I was able to get a location for ‘Dave', it was unlikely he would be any smarter than his friend.

‘Shabsy, how do things work between you and Dave? Are you equals? Thelma and Louise? Jay and Silent Bob? Or do you just stand there and look pretty while he does the real work?'

‘I just hang around with Dave. Or at least, I did.'

‘So you wouldn't necessarily know what his business plan was?'

He didn't answer. To be fair, it was a pretty stupid question. Based on observation, it seemed unlikely Shabsy knew what day it was, let alone be privy to the inner workings of what was obviously a highly complex criminal mind. ‘Shabsy. . . what you and Dave did to me. . .what you tried to do to me. . . was it just something random? Did the pair of you just see me and decide I looked like an easy target?'

‘It was Dave's idea to give you a doing.'

‘He said something about it being ‘Easy Money'. What did he mean by that?'

Shabsy shrugged.

‘Did he mean my money? Or somebody else's?'

‘Whassat?'

‘Did somebody pay the two of you to hurt me?'

‘It was all his idea.'

‘It was Dave's idea to try and mug me?'

‘Aye. He told me that you deserved a kicking.'

‘Did he say why?'

No reply.

‘So the pair of you were just hanging around outside. . . you see me walking down the street. . . Dave suddenly comes up with an idea about giving me a battering. . . and you thought, what the hell, it might be a bit of a giggle?' I fought the impulse to punch the side of his head. ‘What are you, a sheep?'

‘Hey, man, all I know is that the whole thing was Dave's idea. The two of us saw you, like we did almost every night, and he goes,

“I heard that cunt killed a wee lassie, let's give him a doing.” So we followed you into the close, and that's when. . .' He shrugged, as if to say, you know the rest.

‘Didn't quite work out the way you planned it, did it?'

Shabsy gave me a sideways glance. ‘Is it true? Did you kill a wee babby?'

I glared at him until he looked away. ‘You just followed along like a good little foot soldier.'

‘That's how it happened. It wasn't my idea to jump you.'

‘Alright, Shabsy, I'm going to make it as simple as I can for you. I'm Chris Tarrant, you're you, all your lifelines are gone and this is the million pound question. Do you think Dave came up with that idea of jumping me all by himself?'

Shabsy looked at me for a long time in the half light of the car.

‘Dunno.'

The prick.

I'd been to easy on him, gentle to the point where he thought he could get away with being insolent.

Insolent. . . little. . . wanker.

I reached over and wrapped my left arm around the back of his neck, jerking his head forward, my free hand clicking the cigarette lighter back in. He struggled, but I had been fast, too fast for him, his right arm trapped against the seat by my body, his left flailing in-effectually somewhere near my mid-section. In seconds, the lighter clicked to let me know that it was ready for use. I grabbed it from its socket and moved it to his left eye. ‘Shabsy, stop struggling or I'll blind you. I fucking swear it.'

He did as he was told, his head locked underneath my arm. I could see inside the lighter: a corona of red-hot steel glowing in the dim light. I moved it forward until it was less than an inch from his pupil. ‘Shabsy, did somebody pay you and your friend to beat me up?'

‘I don't know. . . maybe. . . I was just along for the ride!'

‘Who do you think it was?'

‘I don't know! I don't know. Please! I didn't mean it!'

‘Who do you think it was?'

I felt his body tense, as if preparing to renew the struggles. If that happened, I was going to jam the lighter straight into his right eye, into the soft jelly, hearing the hiss of the fluid even over the screams of pain. ‘Shabsy, this is your last chance. Tell me something I want to hear.'

‘I don't. . .'

I moved the lighter in. He closed the eye in defence; the filament brushed the surface of his lid, giving off a tiny sizzle. He screamed, tried to whip his head to the left. He got lucky; instead of hitting the eye socket, the cigarette lighter bounced off his cheekbone like a rubber stamp. There was a louder sizzle, followed by a wisp of smoke and the smell of burning. I tightened my grasp. ‘Hold still.'