The Storm Without (14 page)

'Drink up,' he said.

I ventured a sip, then a couple more. The pressure behind my eyes began to ease. Mason seemed to be pleased but looked like he had something on his mind.

'What's up?' I said.

'What do you mean?'

'I've known you long enough to know when you've got a bug up your backside … you used to wear that face when we were on the night beat together.'

He smiled. 'Can't kid a kidder, eh.'

'That's what they say.' I took another sip of coffee and waited for him to get down to brass-tacks.

'Remember I told you I did some checking on you?'

I did. He'd asked questions about my release from the RUC; I still wasn't happy about that. 'You could have just asked me, mate.'

He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table. He dropped his voice as he spoke. 'Well, I'm asking now.'

I didn't know where to begin. Rabbie's words:
dare to be honest and fear no labour
seemed a good place to start. But, what had happened in Ulster? I was still searching for the answer to that one myself. All I did know was that I'd messed up. I'd refused to toe the line and it cost me everything I'd ever worked for. 'You know I was … embedded.'

'Yeah, I got that much … a loyalist mob.'

I huffed; there was no loyalty amongst criminals. 'They were a rabble. Just a gang with a lot of unsavoury activities going on … the idea was for me to get to know them, get accepted.'

'And did you?'

I shook my head at the memory. 'Like a brother …'

I could tell I had Mason rapt; his attention was almost laser-guided. 'So, tell me how it went wrong.'

'I made a discovery that didn't sit well with me, a discovery about the top man …'

'The ganglord?'

'So to speak …'

'What do you mean?'

I felt my jaw tightening at the recollection of the night I'd discovered Riley's core business wasn't the drug dealing we thought — or the gun running, or the prostitution. 'He supplied girls.'

'He was a pimp, you mean?'

I looked away, stared into the grey pool of coffee that sat in the bottom of the cup. 'No, I mean he supplied girls.' I looked up from my cup, stared into Mason's eyes. 'Young girls. Eight. Nine. Ten years old.'

'Jesus …'

I saw Riley's face again, clear as rain in my mind. He was a monster, a beast. 'I told my boss, but he didn't want to do anything. So I told his boss and I was given the order to back off.' I tapped my spoon off the edge of the cup; the noise seemed to settle me. 'I was told,
ordered
, to sit tight and think of the bigger picture.'

Mason ran his large hand through his hair. 'I take it you didn't.'

'How the hell could I?' I threw down the spoon.

'Well, I know how this story ends … so what did you do?'

'If you know how it ends, you'll know Riley was shot.'

'By you?'

'No! God, no.'

'But you know who did it?'

I stood up. The legs of the chair scraped noisily along the floor as I pushed away from the table. 'Mason, you've no right to ask me that …'

He rose, fronted up to me. 'Why? Because the answer makes you a criminal too?'

I felt the muscles of my neck tighten as I gripped my jaw tight. 'Because there are some things in our line of work that you can never reveal. No matter what. You know that.'

He backed off. 'An eye for an eye, is that it, Doug?'

I forced a sarcastic laugh. 'You're kidding. Even I know that an eye for an eye leaves half the world blind.'

Something my time in the RUC taught me was how to sober up in a hurry; your life could depend on it. I didn
'
t know what was holding me back now. The dark thoughts? The sight of Mason looming over me? Or the fear of sobering up and realising my situation was every bit as bad as I feared? But I wanted to remain out of it.

I tapped my plaster cast off the table and swept aside the near-empty cup of coffee. 'I'm through.'

'I see that.' Mason raised an eyebrow as he spoke.

'I mean with the coffee.'

'Just get it down you, Doug.'

I looked up; he was frowning now. It was an expression I remembered from my school days back at Ayr Academy when teachers tired of asking nicely. The next step was going up a notch on the consequence scale. I raised the cup and downed the last of the grey liquid; the taste of cold coffee made me wince.

'Happy now?' I said.

Mason bit. 'I wouldn't go that far.' He rose from the table, started to fasten his jacket. 'Right, let's get you home.'

'Don't you want to … discuss things some more?'

Headshakes. 'Not tonight. You're in no fit shape. Besides, I think we've done enough talking.'

I stood to face him, made sure I was at my full height — somewhat shy of Mason's. 'You mean the time's come for action?'

'Maybe it has, but if that's the case, the next move's mine.'

I felt my gaze shifting, my eyes narrowing to discern the hint of a change in expression. I knew what he meant, but I had no idea what he was planning. Somehow, the thought of Mason taking matters into his own hands buoyed my excitement level. I was a child at heart. I envisaged him running amok in the station, smacking heads, like an elephant in a state of musth.

'And what about this Councillor Crawford?' I said.

'What about him?'

'Who's going to take care of him?'

Mason turned for the door, but managed a few words in my direction. 'The Craft take care of their own.'

I knew what he was saying: Crawford had brought far too much heat down on himself. Drugs busts were one thing; murder was a whole other level. The Craft didn't survive this long without some hint of self-preservation. They'd hang Crawford out to dry before they let anyone bring opprobrium to their doorstep.

We headed out to the car park. A soft rain fell, gathering in shallow pools on the tarmac. Passing vehicles created a momentary floodlight effect on our path to the car, showing up a silver motor that looked familiar.

'Hang about,' I said.

Mason stopped in his tracks. 'What is it?'

I remove a Marlboro and lit up. 'That's a Lexus over there.'

Mason shrugged. 'So?'

'You know who drives one of them?'

Another shrug.

'Gilmour.'

The mention of Jonny Gilmour changed the expression on his face. Mason strode out into the car park in the direction of the car. I put away my cigarette, jogged to catch him. As we started to run, the car's engine bit, the headlamps went on.

'He's clocked us,' I said.

Mason didn't reply, lunged for the door handle and pulled it open. 'Hello, Jonny …'

Gilmour sneered from behind the steering wheel, tipped his head forward and looked over the car park towards the traffic. 'What are you doing?' he said.

I squeezed past Mason, grabbed Gilmour by the collar. 'When did you get bold enough to ask the questions, mate?'

He eyeballed me. 'I'm not your mate. And you're not police, so get your hands off me.'

I felt a hand on my shoulder, gentle at first, then firmer. I was pulled out of the way by Mason. 'No he's not,' he said. 'But I sure as hell am!'

Mason reached into the Lexus and grabbed hold of Gilmour. There was a momentary flailing of arms as he was jerked from the driver's seat and deposited on the tarmac. He put out his hands, but his arms buckled at the elbows. He fell face first onto the ground, landing on his nose and chin. For a second or two he perched on his knees, in mock genuflection, then he raised his head and exposed the bloodied nose.

He put a hand to his face as he spoke. 'You're going to pay for this.'

I answered him. 'I doubt that,
mate
.'

'You've no idea who you're dealing with … no idea.'

I felt an urge to laugh, stifled it. I smiled. 'Have you?' I closed the two steps before us, grabbed Gilmour by the collar again. 'Do you think we don't know what's gone on here? Do you think you're dealing with Haud-it 'n' Dod-it? We have your number, Gilmour … we know you of old and don't think because you've made a few new friends that they're going to look after you. Because you'd be mistaken.'

He swiped at my hand, jumped to his feet. I could sense the red mist descending. He was ready to blow, but something held him back as he wiped blood from beneath his nose with the back of his hand.

I heard Mason move behind me. 'He's right, Gilmour. New friendships are fragile things. Slightest little misdemeanour and they're over.'

Gilmour kept his stare on me. 'What's he on about?'

There was little more than a gap of inches between us. I closed it further as I spoke through gritted teeth. 'He's on about the murder of Kirsty Donald.'

The whites of his eyes flashed as his focus shifted from my face to Mason's. 'You can't pin that on me.'

I reached out my hand, grabbed Gilmour's face in it. 'You've no idea what we can and can't do.'

He knocked me away, wiped the blood from beneath his nose again and stepped back. He started to point, first at me then at Mason. 'I'll have the pair of you.' He stepped back, made the shape of a gun with his fingers and levelled it towards us as he headed towards his car. 'I'll have the pair of you.'

Mason and I watched him slam the door of his car; he engaged the clutch and took first gear, wheels spinning. We followed the red tail-lights until they left the car park and faded out of sight.

'Do you think he's serious?' said Mason.

I turned to face him; the noiseless rain had covered his shoulders in damp little pinpricks. 'I hope so.'

'What?' He reached over and grabbed my plaster cast. 'Have you forgotten how you got this?'

I let the stookie fall from his hand. 'Ah, but this time … we'll be waiting.'

I
'
d once read something about Man being a genius strapped to a dying animal. I didn
'
t feel much like a genius this morning but the dying animal part was painfully accurate.
I rolled on my side and exhaled a slow, stilted breath. Somewhere inside my chest there was a heart beating. But it was struggling. My lungs didn't want to obey either: merely reaching for air took energy levels I didn't possess. My back and sides ached like I'd been worked over with a cricket bat, furiously; and my legs felt as immoveable as two ton-weights.

I somehow mustered a residue of strength to rub a cold palm over the side of my face and the gesture was enough to rob me of what little force I'd conserved from my night on the sauce. A thought came flooding in: I was too old for this caper. Far too old. At close to forty, it was time to surrender the foibles of youth. There had been a time when the first drink was like welcoming an old friend. He dropped by — usually at night — and the troubles of the day were soon forgotten. But those times were gone, past. The relief my old pal had once brought me had been supplanted with a nagging harpie who sat at my shoulder for days afterwards, telling me how stupid I was.

The curtains started to blow into the cold room. What had once been little more than a draft was now replaced by a pernicious gale that brought a rattle to the window panes and tested the latch. I shivered as I watched the curtains rise, then subside. I could hear the suck and wash of the sea outside on the shore front and wondered how far I was from the elements. It felt as though only a thin layer of brick, on top of a thinner layer of plaster, separated us. The cold penetrated the duvet and blankets and set up lodgings in my bones. I couldn't bear it any longer; I knew it would take all my strength, all my resolve, to move from the bed. But I had to. There was another reminder of my stupidity forcing its way from the back of my mind to the front: the car park confrontation with Jonny Gilmour.

Mrs Kerr kept a fire burning downstairs; it was a ruse, of course, designed to tempt potential guests into staying. As I descended the final step of the broad staircase I saw her tending bar at the other end of the room. She still wore the tabard she had on day and night, and her hair was scraped back from her brow in the usual fashion; but there was something different about her. It was hard to spot, almost imperceptible to the unaccustomed, but to a drinker it was as good as a neon sign. Mrs Kerr wore her old-world disdain with a pride that her generation had failed to pass on to mine. She was a sherry-at-Christmas sort; maybe a small glass of bubbly to wet a baby's head. The idea of imbibing enough of the hard stuff to knock you out was anathema to her. She would never say it to me; but then, with those eyes burning it into me, she would never need to.

'Hello, Mrs Kerr,' I said.

She turned towards the clock on the wall. 'You've missed breakfast.'

I knew I had missed breakfast — and she knew that I knew — but that wasn't why she mentioned it. The time of my first appearance of the day was the issue she was subtly trying to draw attention to. 'I'm not very hungry.'