Laidlaw

48

Matt Mason took his drink with him when the phone rang. It had been a good meal. He was feeling pleasant. He didn’t recognise the voice that said, ‘Mr Mason?’

‘Who is this speaking?’

‘It’s Minty: Minty McGregor.’

‘Yes?’

Mason was wary. He could hardly believe that Minty would have the cheek to put the squeeze on, but the thought occurred to him.

‘Ah want tae thank ye for contributin’ tae ma pension fund.’

‘What?’

‘Ah feel that after a life o’ crime it’s only right that the business should gi’e me somethin’ back.’

‘What’s this supposed to mean?’

‘It means they arrested that boy Bryson half-an-hour ago. An’ you’re sole owner of a paira knickers outa C amp;A. Handy wee shop that. If ye want the use o’ them, Ah can recommend a good detergent. Takes oot hen’s blood without a trace.’

There was a pause while Mason let his apoplexy gather.

‘You bastard!’ he hissed. Then he nodded and smiled as his guest made his way to the toilet. ‘You’re dead.’

‘No’ quite. Ye’re a week or two early.’

‘Time enough to get you.’

‘What are ye goin’ to do, Mr Mason? Give ma cancer cancer?’

Mason experienced powerlessness. It was a strange feeling. The voice coming through the phone seemed already to be speaking out of a grave. It expressed nothing — not fear, not satisfaction — just a chilly deadness that frosted his ear.

‘You’ve got a family,’ Mason managed.

‘Aye. Ah’ve also got a friend. He’s straight as a die. Great bloke, this. Ye couldny imagine whit he’s like. An’ he’s got a tape o’ that wee recordin’ session we did in the pub. Names and numbers. An’ he’s got a statement fae me. He’s wean daft an’ a’. If ma wee lassie as much as cuts ’er leg, he gets all annoyed. But he’ll never use them, of coorse. Sure he’ll no’?’

Mason was busy learning how to breathe again.

‘All a best furra future.’

Mason stood holding the phone while it purred like a cat.

Sweating southwards, as if the compartment was a Turkish bath, Lennie didn’t yet know that he had made another mistake.