Gutted

Chapter 39

Hod burned rubber down Lothian Road, spun at the lights and snaked round the castle. Pedestrians flagged us to go slow. I thought they had a point.

‘Hod, there’s no benefit dumping plod to get done for sixty in a thirty zone.’

He settled. ‘Right, where we going?’

‘What do you mean we?’

He lifted hands off the wheel, slapped them back down. Gripped tight. ‘Gus, c’mon, we’re a team, right?’

‘Uh-uh, buddy. Teams I don’t do.’

‘But I thought-’

‘Hod, whoa-whoa!.. Let me do the thinking, eh?’

He drove on, occasional scratch at his thickening beard, and soon we were on South Clerk Street, heading for North Bridge. At Hunter Square there used to be a heavy-duty drinking school. Had attracted protests from the retailers. The police had promised a clean-up. At the high point, upwards of fifty jakeys were seen in the square at any one time, pished up and ready to rumble. Not a pretty sight. Not good for the tourists. And that would never do.

I said, ‘Where’s the jakey brigade?’

‘On the square? Gone.’

Last I looked, they were still in full attendance, said, ‘How did they manage that?’

‘Simple, really.’

He was playing coy. I said, ‘Nothing in this city is simple. C’mon, spill it.’

‘Well, y’know they tried just about everything — locking them up, arrests, bans, warrants… even a twenty-four-hour police presence, just about.’

‘Yeah, and none of it worked.’

‘Until some bright spark had a brainwave.’

‘Which was?’

‘Why don’t we start pouring their drink away in front of them?’

I looked out at the square: not a jakey in sight. ‘Worked like a charm, Hod.’

‘Well, you think about it — what’s the one thing that’s gonna put the frighteners on a jakey?’

I got the point.

‘By the way, you didn’t-’

‘Glovebox.’

I opened the panel in front of me. A half-bottle of Grouse stared back. Said, ‘Thanks, Hod.’ Added, ‘Yer all right, yer all wrong.’ Real Scottish wisdom; defies explanation.

We crossed the bridge. Hod took the lights, headed round to George Street. Place was heaving — lot of French Connection bags, some Prada. Hard Rock Cafe doing a bustling trade; doorman putting up the stanchions with the red ropes already. Man, it was boom time in Edinburgh.

‘So where to?’ asked Hod. A set of shades and he could have been Teen Wolf.

‘From the sublime to the ridiculous.’

‘Come again?’

‘Sighthill.’

‘You’re shitting me.’

I turned, pointed to my chops. ‘Does this face lie?’

He drove on.

I changed the station on the radio, got some shock jock ranting about Polish plumbers. Apparently there were two busloads of Poles turning up in St Andrew Square every week. The homeless hostels all had to have a full-time Polish speaker on every shift now. Not all Edinburgh’s streets were paved with gold.

‘Bring ’em on, bring ’em on…’ went the shock jock. ‘My brother’s a plumber, and he’s never had it so good, cleaning up after the mess these unlicensed, unregulated, untrained, unreal Polish plumbers are making in our homes…’

Hod laughed. ‘It’s true… they’re all shite!’

Couldn’t all be bad, said, ‘Well, why do they hire them?’

‘Same old, same old… they’re cheap!’

Made sense, of a sort.

I flicked. Found Thin Lizzy doing ‘Jailbreak’. Would do for me.

I changed tack, ‘So, dog fights… what’s the rundown?’

‘I have a pick-up.’

‘You what?’

‘A point of contact — we go there on the night, we get given the location and follow on.’

‘Right, like a convoy.’

Hod raised a thumb, made to pull an imaginary truck horn. ‘Bang on.’

‘Bit organised for yobbos.’

‘Gus, none of these boys are lightweights. Your little schemie skanks are likely up to their nuts in some dirty business. Whoever’s stamping their meal ticket ain’t gonna be a pushover. The whole pit-fight scene is serious, serious hardcore shit.’

I got the picture. I saw it had changed a little, but only a little. The fact remained: I wasn’t getting answers from the young crew without some persuasion.

Took out my mobile. ‘Turn down the radio, Hod.’

‘Who you calling?’

‘A contact.’

I dialled Fitz’s number. Got right to the point: ‘Fitz, it’s Gus.’

‘Dury, by the holy, that was some stint ye-’

‘Fitz, later, later… I need to know about that stuff I asked you about the Corrado.’

‘Dury, ’tis not news ye’ll like.’

‘Try me.’

‘Well, hold on…’ I heard rustling; he moved some papers on his desk, opened a drawer, closed it again. ‘Right, here we are.’

‘I’m waiting.’

‘Well, there’s twenty, no, twenty-plus, in the immediate vicinity.’

‘You shit me?’

‘Popular car.’

‘Fucking hell. They’ve stopped making them — how popular can it be?’

‘Ah, now, ’tis what ye might call popular with a certain section of the community.’

‘Fucking boy racers.’

‘Ye wouldn’t be far wide of the mark there, Dury.’

I rested my head on my hand. I didn’t have the time to check twenty addresses for these little pricks. ‘Fitz, any listed in Sighthill, or Wester Hailes?’

I heard pages turning, then, ‘Not a one.’

‘Tell me you jest.’

‘Would I ever?’

I didn’t answer.

On a hunch I wondered if Mark Crawford was connected, said, ‘What about Ann Street?’

‘You kidding? Fuck no, there’s none in Ann Street.’ He changed tone, seemed almost smug. ‘By the way, I hear that was a fine performance ye pulled off earlier.’

‘Which one?’

‘Would be the whole thing.’ A laugh. ‘Haven’t ye McAvoy running about with a face like a Halloween cake!’

‘That would be bad, right?’

Laughter. Uproarious. ‘Oh, feck yes, Dury… Did ye ever, when ye were a chiseller, catch a wasp in a bottle? Well, isn’t that the spit of his like this afternoon, man. I’d say ye had him rattled! Rattled indeed, no mistake.’

I thanked Fitz for the 3D image, even though it was well and truly the last thing I wanted to hear right now.

‘Well, Dury, I will tell ye this: McAvoy is no man to cross…’

‘You said that already.’

‘From what I’m hearing about him now, I didn’t know the half of it.’

‘Go on.’

‘No danger… not on the line. We’ll talk soon.’

He hung up.

We were pulling off the last road from civilisation, into the badlands.

‘Where to?’ asked Hod.

I pointed to a shop. Outside there was a girl, must have been no more than fifteen. She wore a bright pink boob tube and a black leather mini. Her face was aflame with acne, still visible through layer upon layer of slap.

‘You sure?’

‘Oh, yeah. You better take off too.’

‘You what?’

‘I mean it, fuck off home. I want peace from you. Prepare yourself for the pit fight. Conserve your energy.’

He shook his head. ‘Right, okay.’

Hod revved the engine, clocked the girl walking over.

I joked, ‘Your luck’s in, you might have company.’

He wound down the window, hollered, ‘Fuck off, you! Now. Back the way you came.’

The girl raised a single digit, fired it at Hod.

I had to smile as I saw him furiously wind up the window, mutter, ‘Dirty hoor.’