The Storm Without (19 page)

Crawford kept mocking me as I shook my head and tried to block it all out.

‘
Lyn lied to you, Michie,
’
he laughed.
‘
She lied to you because she knew you were a loser and would take it in.
’

I turned away, my thoughts and emotions aflame.

‘
And you thought you
’
d found your dream woman,
’
Crawford laughed again.
‘
And all along it turns out she
’
s just some cheap slut who led you on.
’

I spun to face him. I knew at once he sensed the hurt in my eyes and the anger behind it; he seemed to enjoy the thrill even more.
‘
There
’
ll be no future for you and that slut Lyn now
…’
He was still laughing.
‘
I mean, who
’
d want a cheap slag who
’
s had Jonny Gilmour between her legs
…
a cheap lying slut who led you on and made a mad fool of you
…’

I raised the gun, levelled it towards him.

Crawford was oblivious of me, still grinning and gesticulating, still full of himself and his power. I didn
’
t hear his words as I tightened my fist round the gun and pulled the trigger.

I braced myself for the gun's loud report, the flashing muzzle and the resulting smoke — but nothing came. The hammer fell, made a resounding thud that was strong enough to shake the barrel, but no bullet appeared. I turned the weapon over, played with the mechanism; the time I took to do this was only a few seconds but they were vital seconds. As I looked up, Crawford had bolted for the front door. A breeze from the street sent a small pile of mail fluttering from the hallway table. I watched the brown and white envelopes — including Kirsty's complaints — float their way to the floor like Autumn leaves. I was still caught up in the unreality of the situation. I had aimed to shoot a man but somehow the rashness of the moment had been taken out of my hands. I needed only a few seconds more to react to the change in circumstance.

'Crawford!' I yelled out, ran through the door.

The bracing cold of the night chilled my rushing blood as I darted into the driveway. It was dark, my eyes not fully adjusted as I raised my arms to fend off an incoming blow I'd spotted too late.

I went over, fell flat on my back. It wasn't an easy fall. I wracked my spine and was shot with pain from head to toe. I clenched teeth, tried to roll onto my front to ease the pressure on my spine, and felt a second blow to my side. It was a boot this time. The air evacuated from my lungs as I flung back my head, catching the hard flags. My vision blurred. I couldn't see the figure hanging over me and grabbing my coat front, but I recognised the voice.

'You're finished now, Michie.' It was Gilmour.

Councillor Crawford was beside him, ranting. 'I told you this is what we'd get!' He paced around at my legs, his voice flitting between high drama and flat-out panic. 'You had to balls it all up, didn't you? Wouldn't listen to me, would you?'

My eyesight started to return. I saw Gilmour's face clearly now. He scrunched his features up as he pointed towards his chest with his index finger outstretched. 'Me? You're blaming me,' he changed the direction he pointed, aimed his finger at me, '… for this idiot!'

Crawford took a handful of his own hair. 'You're the one who …' he seemed to gather himself some, jutted his jaw as he spoke, 'you're the one who
caused
this whole situation.'

'How am I? All I did was what
you
told me.'

'I never told you to kill the girl!'

Gilmour pushed me aside, stepped over me. He didn't seem to realise that I was still holding the gun. 'I didn't do that, don't be putting that on me. I'm warning you, mate, don't even be thinking about that.'

They fronted up to each other. Gilmour pumped out his chest; I saw the Councillor start to retreat, following his earlier, enthusiastic steps in reverse. 'Well, if I don't blame you, tell me … who do I blame?'

I'd heard as much as I wanted. I knew if I didn't seize the moment, I was finished and Kirsty's killer would go free. I lifted the gun, took aim at Gilmour's back as he spoke. 'We're all in this together. You told me to take care of it and I did … How was I to know she had a problem with fits? All I did was noise the girl up a little, put a bit of a fright on her … Shut her up, that's what you said!'

I pulled the trigger for a second time. The hammer fell as before, but the thud now produced a blue flash accompanied by a loud bang. I felt the gun drop from my shaking hand as the recoil kicked. I waited for Gilmour to fall, to drop to his knees, wail perhaps. He stood still, unmoving for a second until Crawford pushed past him and quickly recovered the shooter from his driveway.

'Jesus, you left the gun in his hand!' he said.

Now Gilmour turned round; he snatched the Webley from the Councillor. 'He tried to shoot me.'

I watched Gilmour wave the gun around. He pushed it into Crawford's chest, then his stomach. 'He had this pointed at me.'

I felt my stomach press against my aching backbone; my legs stiffened. I tried to shove myself away, find the energy to make an attempt at escape but I was lacking coordination. My brain was still reeling from the earlier blow; my back and sides screamed in dual agonies of muscular spasm as I tried to move.

Crawford shouted, 'Get him off my drive.' He swept away the gun in Gilmour's hand. 'And get that out of here … Christ Almighty, a gun just went off in my driveway!' He raised himself on his toes, looked agitated. 'My neighbours are probably calling the police already.'

'Calm down,' said Gilmour. 'That's a busy road there. They'll think it was a car backfiring.'

Crawford wasn't buying it. 'Get him out of here! Get him off my property, now!'

Gilmour smiled as he looked at me, squirming on the ground. 'And what do you want me to do with him?'

'I don't care.' Crawford's voice was pitched higher than falsetto. His performance, accompanied by flailing arms, was operatic. 'Get him away from here. Get him out of my sight!' He grabbed Gilmour's hand, the one with the gun. 'And take that with you.'

I felt a familiar taste. At some stage in the proceedings I'd bit my cheek. Blood lined the insides of my mouth. I twisted my head enough to spit on the ground. 'You won't get away with it,' I muttered as Gilmour approached. I knew my voice sounded weak, pathetic. At once I wished I'd saved my spit to send in his direction instead.

He leaned over, grabbed my lapels. 'I already have, Michie. Don't you get that?' He drew back the gun, his face firmed as he swung hard. I felt the iron connect with my head and then everything swam.

I didn't know where I was but it was dark and dank-smelling. I could hear water, perhaps the river, or the sea; it was a substantial body of water. My mouth was bleeding and in greater volume than before. I'd lost some teeth, could feel the gaps with my tongue. One seemed to have snapped off at the root. The pain was intense. The only thing that mitigated it were the agonies of my skull which felt like it had been cleaved open with a claymore. I'd had doings in the past — proper goings over, some of them recently — but this felt serious: like I'd been dropped from an aircraft.

I made an effort to move my hands and that's when I felt the shackles. I was too disorientated to understand quite how I'd been tied but then a match was struck and a storm lantern brought a dim glow to the proceedings.

'I was wondering when you'd come round.'

Gilmour.

My eyes were still smarting, still struggling with the light, but the voice was unmistakeable.

I spat some blood on the ground, rattled the chains that held me to the wall. 'What are you playing at?'

He walked towards me, holding out the lantern. I saw he had a cigarette burning in his fingers; my lungs screamed for nicotine. 'You're in no position to be asking questions, mate.'

'You're right … and you needed to tie me up to even the odds, I suppose.'

'Nice try, Michie.' He drew deep on the cig, knuckles bruised and bloodied. He watched me follow the action and must have sensed my craving as he leaned over and clamped the filter in my mouth. 'Here, I think it's tradition or something … the condemned man and all that.'

I drew deep on the cigarette. One of the fake Regals. 'This your brand, is it?'

Gilmour refused to bite, his face unmoving. 'Seen the price of fags these days? Utter robbery, so it is.'

I tutted. 'You seriously think you're providing a service, a legitimate alternative. What about the boatloads of drugs, or the girls you shipped over to work as sex slaves … that all grist for the mill, is it, Gilmour?'

His lip curled a little; his eyes lit. 'Don't be playing the high and mighty with me, Michie … see those lumps on your head? They were payback for more than a few you dealt me in my day.'

The cigarette had burned to the filter. I spat it onto the wet floor. A low fizzing noise came as the burning tip was extinguished in the water. A shiver passed through my painful shoulders.

'You got what you deserved,' I said. 'Going by the way you turned out, I regret we never laid into you a bit harder.'

Gilmour drew back a fist. He had it aimed at my face but suddenly lowered his arm and grabbed my jaw instead. He leaned into my face as he spoke. 'I never killed that lassie … she just carked it on me. What was I supposed to do?'

I jerked my face from his hand. 'Even if that was true,
even if
…' I paused, made sure I had his full attention, 'how could you let your own son take the blame?'

Gilmour backed up; the lantern in his hand swayed slightly as he turned from me. He resented being called to book, but wanted the last word. 'I never knew he was my son …'

'Don't give me that. The girl, Kirsty Donald, she knew. She recognised you and that's where the problems started. You went round to put a scare on her, frighten her into shutting up and leaving you and your cronies alone. But she clocked you. She knew you were Glenn's father!'

Gilmour turned round. The lantern's flame jumped; shadows danced on the wet walls. 'Don't twist it,' he said. His voice rose. 'I'd only just found out he was my boy … Lyn never told me. She told him and that's how I found out. I never knew him like a son. He was just some lad that showed up one day.'

'And that makes it okay, does it?'

'Aye, it does to me!' Pools of water splashed beneath his boots as he paced. 'I mean, so what if he's blood? Life's hard. I don't remember anyone from my family helping me out, doing me any favours.'

I could see I wasn't going to get anywhere playing the moralistic card. Gilmour was an animal; he was out for himself and that was an end to it. He'd as good as killed Kirsty Donald and he didn't care who took the blame — even his own son — so long as it kept him off the hook. He was a criminal, had been his whole life. He'd progressed from shopliftings and slashings, and eventually wound up in a big house with connections in all the right places. He didn't care what he had to do to maintain that, to protect himself.

'You won't get away with it, Gilmour.'

He was lighting another cigarette from the lantern. 'Oh aye, that right, is it?'

I spat some more blood out. 'They're onto you. Kirsty made complaints, in writing … I got the files.'

He drew on the filter-tip. 'So what? I can deal with that.'

'You think Crawford, or your mates in the Craft can help you out?' I shook my head vehemently, 'Not a chance. Crawford's finished. He'll sell you out and you know it. And the Craft only look after their own when it suits them. They won't let this mess put a stain on their organisation, trust me.'

Gilmour looked at his watch. 'You finished?'

I shrugged. The movement sent a spike of pain through my shoulder blades.

'I hope you're finished, Michie, because I am. Well and truly finished.'

'Adding me to the list won't make an ounce of difference. You're the one who's finished. I know it, and you know it.'

His facial muscles relaxed as he walked towards me and took two sharp pulls on his cigarette. He thinned his gaze, took a long stare in my direction with the lantern raised and then passed the remains of his cig into my mouth. 'No more words, Michie. This really is the end.'

I
'
d never wanted a cigarette to last so long. As I scanned the confines of what was going to become my final resting place, my mind latched onto old preoccupations. I didn
'
t want to think of joining my mother, and my father, in any afterlife. What I was looking forward to was a release from all life. This one had been hard enough. The thought of no more struggles, of complete freedom, appealed to me. But, somewhere inside me, I had a desire to go on.

I thought of Lyn, of that day when I drove back to Auld Ayr Toun. She looked so lost, so confused. She was a woman bereft of any reason to go on. She'd lost the one thing that had kept her going through the blackness of her vertical fall. I'd vowed to help her, to help Glenn and I knew I had failed. This fact, perhaps more than any other, stayed with me now. It burned in me, a small fire, a dim glow but it was there. Lyn needed me, more than anyone had ever needed me. Was that my reason for going on? Was that why I had helped her? Had I sensed the need, and inwardly — unconsciously — seized it as a reason for me to keep putting on my shoes in the morning.