Black Book

32

Rebus sat at his desk reading. Nobody bothered him, despite the fact that he was supposed to be suspended. The day grew sunless, and the office emptied slowly. He might as well have been in solitary confinement for all the notice he took. His phone was off its hook and his head, bowed over the journal, was hidden by his hands; a clear sign that he did not want to be disturbed.

He read the journal quickly first time through. After all, only some of the pages were germane. The early entries were full of wild parties, illicit coitus in country mansions with married women who were still ‘names’ even today, and more often with the daughters of those women. Arguments with father and mother, usually over money. Money. There was a lot of money in these early entries, money spent on travel, cars, champagne, clothes. However, the journal itself opened quite strangely:

Sometimes, mostly when I’m alone, but occasionally in company, I catch a glimpse of someone from the corner of my eye. Or think I do. When I look properly, there’s nobody there. There may be some shape there, some interesting, unconscious arrangement of the edge of an open door and the window frame beyond it, or whatever, which gives the hint of a human shape. I mention the door and the window frame because it is the most recent example.

I am becoming convinced, however, that I really am seeing things. And what I am seeing-being shown, to be more accurate-is myself. That other part of me. I went to church when I was a child, and believed in ghosts. I still believe in ghosts …

Rebus skipped to the start of the next entry:

I can write this journal safe in the knowledge that whoever is reading it-yes you, dear reader-does so after my death. Nobody knows it is here, and since I have no friends, no confidants or confidantes, it is unlikely that anyone will sneak a look at it. A burglar may carry it off, of course. If so, shame on you: it is the least valuable thing in this flat, though it may become more valuable the longer I write …

There were huge gaps in the chronology. A single year might garner half a dozen dated entries. Black Aengus, it seemed, was no more regular in keeping a diary than he was in anything else. Five years ago, though, there had been a spate of entries. The accidental break-in at Mo Johnson’s flat; Aengus becoming friendly with Mo and being introduced by her to a certain Morris Cafferty. After a while, Cafferty became simply ‘Big Ger’ as Aengus and he met at parties and in pubs and clubs.

By far the longest entry, however, belonged to the one day Rebus was really interested in:

This isn’t a bad place really. The nursing staff are understanding and ready with jokes and stories. They carry me with all gentleness back to my room when I find I’ve wandered from it. The corridors are long and mazey. I thought I saw a tree once in one corridor, but it was a painting on the window. A nurse placed my hand on the cold glass so I could be sure in my mind.

Like the rest of them, she refused to smuggle in any vodka.

From my window I can see a squirrel-a red squirrel, I think-leaping between trees, and beyond that hills covered with stunted foliage, like a bad school haircut.

But I’m not really seeing this pastoral scene. I’m looking into a room, a room where I think I’ll be spending a great deal of my time, even after I’ve left this hospital.

Why did I ever try to talk my father into going to the poker game? I know the answer now. Because Cafferty wanted him there. And father was keen enough-there’s still a spark in him, a spark of the wildness that has been his legacy to me. But he couldn’t come. Had he been there, I wonder if things would have turned out differently.

I met Uncle Matthew in the bar. God, what a bore. He thinks that because he has dabbled with demons and the hobgoblins of nationalism he has some import in the world. I could have told him, men like Cafferty have import. They are the hidden movers and shakers, the deal-makers. Simply, they get things done. And God, what things!

Tam Robertson suggested that I join the poker game which was happening upstairs. The stake money required was not high, and I knew I could always nip over to Blair Street for more cash if needed. Of course, I knew Tam Robertson’s reputation. He dealt cards in a strange manner, elbow jutting out and up. Though I couldn’t fathom how, some people reckoned he was able to see the underside of the cards as he dealt. His brother, Eck, explained it away by saying Tam had broken his arm as a young man. Well, I’m no card sharp, and I expected to lose a few quid, but I was sure I’d know if anyone tried to cheat me.

But then the other two players arrived, and I knew I would not be cheated. One was Cafferty. He was with a man called Jimmy Bone, a butcher by trade. He looked like a butcher, too-puffy-faced, red-cheeked, with fingers as fat as link sausages. He had a just-scrubbed look too. You often get that with butchers, surgeons, workers in the slaughterhouse. They like to look cleaner than clean.

Now that I think of it, Cafferty looked like that too. And Eck. And Tam. Tam was always rubbing his hands, giving off an aroma of lemon soap. Or he would examine his fingernails and pick beneath them. To look at his clothes, you would never guess, but he was pathologically hygienic. I realise now-blessed hindsight! — that the Robertson brothers were not pleased to see Cafferty. Nor did the butcher look happy at having been cajoled into playing. He kept complaining that he owed too much as it was, but Cafferty wouldn’t hear of it.

The butcher was a dreadful poker player. He mimed dejection whenever he had a bad hand, and fidgeted, shuffling his feet, when he had a good one. As the game wore on, it was obvious there was an undercurrent between Cafferty and the Robertsons. Cafferty kept complaining about business. It was slow, money wasn’t what it was. Then he turned to me abruptly and slapped his palm against the back of my hand.

‘How many dead men have you seen?’

In Cafferty’s company, I affected more bravado even than usual, an effect achieved in most part by seeming preternaturally relaxed.

‘Not many,’ I said (or something offhand like that).

‘Any at all?’ he persisted. He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’ve seen dozens. Yes, dozens. What’s more, Black Aengus, I’ve killed my fair share of them.’

He lifted his hand away, sat back and said nothing. The next hand was dealt in silence. I wished Mo were around. She had a way of calming him down. He was drinking whisky from the bottle, sloshing it around in his mouth before swallowing noisily. Sober, he is unpredictable; drunk, he is dangerous. That’s why I like him. I even admire him, in a strange sort of way. He gets what he wants by any means necessary. There is something magnetic about that singularity of mind. And of course, in his company I am someone to be respected, respected by people who would normally call me a stuck-up snob and, as one person did, ‘a pissed-up piece of shite’. Cafferty took exception when I told him I’d been called this. He paid the man responsible a visit.

What makes him want to spend time with me? Before that night, I’d thought maybe we saw fire in one another’s eyes. But now I know differently. He spent time with me because I was going to be another means to an end. A final, bitter end.

I was drinking vodka, at first with orange, later neat-but always from a glass and always with ice. The Robertsons drank beer. They had a crate of bottles on the floor between them. The butcher drank whisky, whenever Cafferty deigned to pour him some, which wasn’t often enough for the poor butcher. I was twenty quid down within a matter of minutes, and sixty quid down after a quarter of an hour. Cafferty placed his hand on mine again.

‘If I’d not strayed along,’ he said, ‘they’d have had the shirt off your back and the breeks off your arse.’

‘I never cheat,’ said Tam Robertson. I got the feeling Cafferty had been wanting him to say something all along. Robertson acknowledged this by biting his lip.

Cafferty asked him if he was sure he didn’t cheat. Robertson said nothing. His brother tried to calm things down, putting our minds back onto the game. But Cafferty grinned at Tam Robertson as he picked up his cards. Later, he started again.

‘I’ve killed a lot of men,’ he said, directing his eyes at me but his voice at the Robertsons; ‘But not one of those killings wasn’t justified. People who owed me, people who’d done me wrong, people who’d cheated. The way I look at it, everybody knows what he’s getting into. Doesn’t he?’

For want of any other answer, I agreed.

‘And once you’re into something, there are consequences to be faced, aren’t there?’ I nodded again. ‘Black Aengus,’ he said, ‘have you ever thought about killing someone?’

‘Many a time.’

This was true, though I wish now I’d held my tongue. I’d wanted to kill men wealthier than me, more handsome than me, men possessing beautiful women, and women who rejected my advances. I’d wanted to kill people who refused me service when drunk, people who didn’t smile back when I smiled at them, people who were paged in hotels and made movies in Hollywood and owned ranches and castles and their own private armies. So my answer was accurate.

‘Many a time.’

Cafferty was nodding. He’d almost finished the whisky. I thought something must be about to happen, some act of violence, and I was prepared for it-or thought I was. The Robertsons looked ready either to explode or implode. Tam had his hands on the edge of the table, ready to jump to his feet. And then the door opened. It was someone from the kitchens, bringing us up the sandwiches we’d ordered earlier. Smoked salmon and roast beef. The man waited to be paid.

‘Go on, Tam,’ said Cafferty quietly, ‘you’re the one with the luck tonight. Pay the man.’

Grudgingly, Tam counted out some notes and handed them over.

‘And a tip,’ said Cafferty. Another note was handed over. The waiter left the room. ‘A very nice gesture,’ said Cafferty. It was his turn to deal. ‘How much are you down now, Black Aengus?’

‘I’m not bad,’ I said.

‘I asked how much.’

‘About forty.’ I’d been a hundred down at one stage, but two decent hands had repaired some of the damage. Plus-there could be no doubt about it-the best card players around the table, by which I mean the Robertson brothers, were finding it hard to concentrate. The room was not warm, but there was sweat trickling down from Eck’s sideburns. He kept rubbing the sweat away.

‘You’re letting them cheat you out of forty?’ Cafferty said conversationally.

Tam Robertson leapt to his feet, his chair tipping over behind him. ‘I’ve heard just about enough!’

But Eck righted the chair and pulled him down into it. Cafferty had finished dealing and was studying his cards, as though oblivious to the whole scene. The butcher got up suddenly, announcing that he was going to be sick. He walked quickly out of the room.

‘He won’t be back,’ Cafferty announced.

I said something lame to the effect that I was thinking of an early night myself. When Cafferty turned to me, he looked and sounded unlike any of his many personalities, the many I’d encountered so far.

‘You wouldn’t know an early night if it kicked you in the cunt.’ He had started to gather up the cards for a redeal. I could feel blood tingling in my cheeks. He’d spoken with something close to revulsion. I told myself that he’d just drunk too much. People often said thing…etc. Look at me, I was one to be upset about the nasty things drunks could say!

He dealt the hand again. When it came time for him to make his initial bet, he threw a note into the pot, then laid his cards face down on the table. He reached into the waistband of his trousers. He’d worn a suit throughout; he always looks smart. He says the police are warier of picking up people wearing good clothes, and certainly more wary about punching or kicking them.

‘They don’t like to see good material ruined,’ he told me. ‘Canny Scots, you see.’

Now, when he withdrew his hand from the waistband, it was holding a pistol of some kind. The Robertsons started to object, while I just stared at the gun. I’d seen guns before, but never this close and in this kind of situation. Suddenly, the vodka, which had been having little or no effect all night, swam through me like waste through a sewer-pipe. I thought I was going to be sick, but swallowed it down. I even thought I might pass out. And all the time Cafferty was talking calm as you like about how Tam had been cheating him and where was the money.

‘And you’ve been cheating Black Aengus too,’ he said. I wanted to protest that this wasn’t true, but still thought I might be sick if I opened my mouth, so I just shook my head, after which I felt even dizzier. You can’t know the pain and frustration I’m feeling as I try to write this down candidly and exactly. Fourteen weeks have passed since that night, but every night it comes back to me, waking and sleeping. They’re giving me drugs here, and strictly no alcohol. During the day I can walk in the grounds. There are ‘encounter groups’ where I’m supposed to talk my way out of my problem. Christ, if it were only that easy! The first thing my father did was get me out of the way. I am tempted to say his way. His answer was to send me on holiday. Mother chaperoned me around New England, where an aunt has a house in Bar Harbor. I tried talking to mother, but didn’t seem to make much sense. She had that stupid sympathetic smile pasted onto her face.

I digress, not that it matters. Back to the poker game. You’ve perhaps guessed what happened next. I felt Cafferty’s hand on mine, only this time he lifted my hand up in his. Then he placed the gun in my hand. I can feel it now, cold and hard. Half of me thought the gun was fake and he was just going to scare the Robertsons. The other half knew the gun was real, but didn’t think he would use it.

Then I felt his fingers pushing mine until my index finger was around the trigger. His hand now fully enclosed mine, and aimed the gun. He squeezed his finger against mine, and there was an explosion in the room, and wisps of acrid powder. Blood freckled us all. It was warm for a moment, then cold against my skin. Eck was leaning over his brother, speaking to him. The gun clattered onto the table. Though I didn’t take it in at the time, Cafferty proceeded to wrap the gun in a polythene bag. I know that any prints on it must be mine.

I flew up from the table, panicking, hysterical. Cafferty was seated still, and looking pacified. His calm had the opposite effect on me. I threw the vodka bottle against the wall, where it smashed, dousing wallpaper and curtains in alcohol. Seeing an idea, I grabbed a lighter from the table and ignited the vodka. Only now did Cafferty get up. He was swearing at me, and tried to douse the flames, but they were licking up the curtains out of our reach, scudding across the fabric wallcovering on the ceiling. He saw the fire was moving quicker than we could. I think Eck had already forsaken his brother and fled before I ran out of the room. I took the stairs three at a time and burst into the kitchens, demanding that all the gas be turned on. If the Central was going to burn, let it take the evidence with it.

I must have looked crazy enough, for the chef followed my instructions. I think he was the same person who served us the sandwiches, only he’d changed jackets. It was late, and he was alone in the kitchen, writing something down in a book. I told him to get out. He left by the back way, and I followed, keeping my head low as I jogged back to Blair Street.

I think that’s everything. It doesn’t feel any better for the writing down. There’s no exorcism or catharsis. Maybe there never will be. You see, they’ve found the body. More than that, they know the man was shot. I don’t see how the devil they can know, but they do. Maybe someone told them. Eck Robertson would have reason to. He’s the only one who could tell. It’s all my fault. I know that Cafferty started swearing at me because I’d mucked things up by setting fire to the room. If I hadn’t, he would have seen to it that Tam Robertson’s body disappeared in the usual way. No one would have known. We would have gotten away with murder.

But ‘getting away with it’ isn’t always getting away with it. The corpse haunts me. Last night I dreamt it came back to me, charred, smouldering. Pointing a finger towards me and squeezing the trigger. Oh Christ, this is agony. And they think I’m here for alcoholism. I still haven’t told father all of it, not yet. He knows, though. He knows I was there. But he’s not saying anything. Sometimes I wish he’d hit me more as a child and not let me misbehave. He liked me to misbehave! ‘We’ll make a man of you,’ he used to say. Father, I am made.

That was that. Rebus sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Eddie Ringan knew a little more than he’d been telling. He’d been a witness at the card game and could place Cafferty there. No wonder he’d been running scared. Cafferty probably hadn’t known him back then, hadn’t paid attention to a waiter who was moonlighting anyway and not one of the regular staff.

Rebus rubbed his eyes and returned to the journal. There was a bit about a holiday, then about the hospital again. And then a few months later:

I saw Cafferty today (Sunday). Not my idea. He must have been following me. He caught up on Blackford Hill. I’d come through the Hermitage, climbing the steep face of the hill. He must have thought I was trying to get away from him. He pulled on my arm, swinging me around. I think I nearly jumped out of my skin.

He told me I had to keep my nose clean from now on. He said it was a good idea, going into that hospital. I think he was trying to let me know that he knew everything I’d been up to. I think I know what he’s doing. He’s biding his time. Watching me as I take instructions in the business. Waiting for the day when I take over from my father. I think he wants it all, body and soul.

Yes, body and soul.

There was a lot more, the style and substance of the entries changing as Aengus too tried to change. He’d found it hard work. The public face, the charity face, masked a yearning for some of that wild past. Rebus flipped to the final entry, undated:

You know, dear friend or foe, I liked the feel of that gun in my hand. And when Cafferty put my finger on the trigge…he did squeeze it. I’m certain of that. But supposing he hadn’t? Would I still have fired, with his strong unfailing hand on mine? After all these years, all the bad dreams, the cold sweats and sudden surges, something has happened. The case is being reopened. I’ve spoken with Cafferty who tells me not to worry. He says I should concentrate my energies on the brewery. He seems to know more about our finances than I do. Father is talking of retiring next year. The business will be all mine, and all Cafferty’s. I’ve seen him at charity functions, accompanied by Mo, and at various public occasions. We’ve talked, but never since that night have we enjoyed one another’s company. I lost my usefulness that night. Perhaps I just showed my weakness by smashing the bottle. Or perhaps that had been the plan all along. He always gives me a wink when he sees me. But then he winks at just about everyone. But when he winks at me, when he closes his eye for that second, it’s as if he’s taking aim, setting me in his sights. Christ, is there no end in sight? If I weren’t so scared, I’d be praying the police would find me. But Cafferty won’t let them. He never will let them, never.

Rebus closed the journal. His heart was beating fast, hands trembling. You poor bugger, Aengus. When you read we’d got the gun, you thought we’d fingerprint it and then we’d come looking for you.

But instead, Cafferty had blown his trump trying to incriminate Rebus, just to keep him out of the picture for a while. And the irony of it all was, with the prints messed up, Black Aengus was in the clear-in the clear for a murder he didn’t really commit.

Again, though, it was all uncorroborated. Rebus imagined the field day the defence would have if he walked into the Royal Mile courts with nothing more than the journal of a recovering dipsomaniac. The Edinburgh law courts were notoriously tough at the best of times. With the sort of advocate Cafferty could afford, it was a definite loser from the word go.

Yet Rebus knew he had to do something about Cafferty. The man deserved punishment, a million punishments. Let the punishment fit the crime, he thought. But he shook the notion away. No more guns.

He didn’t go home, not right away. He walked out of the now-empty office and got into his car. And sat there, in the car park. The key was in the ignition, but he let it sit there. His hands rested lightly on the steering-wheel. After almost an hour, he started the engine, mostly because he was getting cold. He didn’t go anywhere, except inside his head, and slowly but surely, with backtracking and rerouting along the way, the idea came to him. Let the punishment fit the crime. Yes, but not Cafferty’s punishment. No, not Cafferty’s.

Andrew McPhail’s.