The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime, Volume 8

An Arm and a Leg Nigel Bird

Cold air poured in when they opened the doors. It would soon be over. All Carlo had to do was accept his punishment and they could wake up in the morning and start over.

The ride had been at high speed and in a straight line, so they’d either gone south down the A1 or round the Edinburgh bypass. It wasn’t easy to tell in the dark, but he figured south was the more likely when he factored in the roundabouts.

Rolling round inside the back of the van, he’d been reminded of driving his wife and first-born home from the maternity ward at Little France in the restaurant’s Berlingo. Maria had been bumped around as sleeping-policemen and pot-holes took turns to attack the suspension; even with her newly stitched episiotomy, she didn’t utter a noise the whole way. Nor had Chris, the poor child, head bobbing in the seat they’d spent an age working out how to secure.

That was ten years earlier. Since then Maria had given birth to a second child and, when her patience finally wore through, filed for divorce and sent him packing from the family home and business.

If he’d kept away from the booze, he might still have been in line for taking over one of the most successful eateries in the city. He could have been sitting back counting cash and sipping orange juice while his shoulders were rubbed and he watched the Hoops put one past the Jambos or the ’Gers. Instead he was in some God-forsaken place wondering how they were going to take their revenge.

It wasn’t long before they dropped him to the ground, his head hitting something hard and sharp.

The icy wind from the Forth cut through his jacket and the smell of the salt filled his nostrils. He guessed they were at the cement works — that’s where he’d be doing it if the steel toe-caps were on the other foot.

The men standing over him took a moment to spark up cigarettes. Carlo rested his cheek upon the smooth metal rail, so chilled that his tongue might have stuck to it if he’d given it a lick. His fingers identified wooden sleepers with pebbles scattered in between and his legs found the parallel rail exactly where he knew it would be. The bleating of a goat was the last piece he needed to complete his picture. They weren’t at the cement works but the East Lothian Family Park, built to entertain the kiddies.

Sure, what he’d done wouldn’t be winning him an MBE, but using trains as weapons should have died out with silent movies.

These guys were animals. Perhaps the farm was the best place for this to end after all.

Tranent needed another chip shop like it needed another teenage pregnancy. When Carlo Salvino impregnated Kylie on the same night that he opened “The Golden Fry”, he really managed to hit the bull’s eye.

Belters they were called, the people from the town. Some said it was on account of the tanneries in the area way back when, others that it was because of the way the miners had worn their lamps. As far as Carlo could make out it made more sense that it was because they were likely to settle a disagreement with punches rather than words and that they could hit as hard as anyone he’d ever come across.

If he’d had the money he’d have set up in the city, moved over to Glasgow even, but at least he was within ten miles of his kids, the rates on the High Street were cheap as his chips and with four pubs on the doorstep success seemed a sure thing.

“The Golden Fry” opened on Valentine’s Day. Carlo fixed up ribbons and fairy lights, ordered in cases of cheap sparkling wine and sprinkled heart-shaped chocolates along the window seat for the kids.

At six the place was buzzing. By half past, the cava and chocolates gone, the only person left was a girl who’d been giving him the eye since walking in.

They chatted about something, the weather or football or the price of fish. Whatever it was, Carlo couldn’t remember. Nor could he fully recall sharing a quick one against the wall in the Wynd when he walked her home. He had a vague recollection of some fumblings, but they weren’t enough for him to even daydream about while he stood around waiting for customers.

Kylie came in the next day for a poke of onion rings wearing her school sweatshirt. She may have looked at least eighteen and he knew nothing illegal had taken place, but if he could have run a mile without needing to stop for a rest, he might well have done.

Hers was the only sale that day and the next. The competition had put out word and the Belters were sticking together against the new blow-in on the block with his one-eighth Italian blood and fading good looks.

It was Kylie who gave him the idea. If he could lure in the kids from the High School, he’d be quids in.

He took on two extra staff, a couple of older ladies who’d never travelled further than Prestonpans, hand wrote signs and offered food at half the price of anyone else. “Credit Crunch Lunch” he called it and it took off like it was supersonic.

There were still queues of black sweatshirts at the bakeries and the other chippies, but he had the lion’s share, the line of youngsters stretching back to where he and Kylie had had their fun. Hot plates full of fried pizza (Maria’s father would have had a heart attack), burgers, puddings, pies and fish were emptied daily within half an hour, as if a plague of locusts had descended and licked them clean.

They were getting through two hundred polystyrene trays at a sitting, twice that on a Friday when the primary school kids piled in to kick-off their weekend with a healthy fry-up.

After a month of success, Carlo felt that he had finally earned the slice of the luck he’d always deserved.

Things started to change when two lads came in after the rush hour, all swagger and spiky hair with the familiar white line down the middle that always made him think of wobbly skunks.

When they spoke, he just listened until they’d finished and watched them leave without ordering a thing, their mullets bobbing against their designer gear.

Turning to Mrs Edgar, who was wiping grease from the wall tiles, he asked for an interpretation.

They wanted him to put the prices up, she told him, and they wouldn’t be asking so nicely the next time. And, if he didn’t mind her putting in her two shillings worth, the Ramsay boys were nasty pieces of work and it might be worth listening to what they’d said.

Listening? He’d tried that and hadn’t understood a single word.

The wee shites. Who did they think they were telling him how to run his business? They’d have been plankton in Leith if they ever ventured from their tiny pond into those shark-infested waters.

That same afternoon, Kylie told him about the baby. She wasn’t ready to tell her dad and her mum would beat her enough to make sure the kid never saw out the first trimester.

She wanted to keep it, leave school and live with Carlo. She could serve at the counter for six months and after that she’d be a stay at home mum, make a nest they could share, a cosy place that would be a cut above the council scheme she was used to.

Carlo didn’t say anything. Instead, a hug of reassurance, a pat on the behind and a poke of chips “on the house” did their job and she left with a half smile on her lips.

Turning the open sign to closed, he hooked up his apron, left the ladies to get on with things and headed for the Cross Keys. Having a glass in his hand always made life easier to understand.

The landlord, Billy, knew all about the Ramsays. They’d graduated from the Tranent Young Team and had a brief spell with the Hibs Casuals.

Local folklore had it that they used the derelict farm up near the cemetery as their base. There were tales of broken bones, cuttings and even a crucifixion. He’d seen clips of them on YouTube working away on some bloke with a pair of pliers. Their faces were hidden, but everyone in town knew who they were watching.

They were involved in drugs, loan-sharking and a bit of dogfighting every now and then.

Their mother was known to everyone as Nan. Nan was where Carlo and just about everyone else went to get cheap fags. She sold them singly to those that were really hard up or too young to know better, with special deals for the under nines. The Ramsays were likely to be allied to “The Happy Haddock” given that the older one of them was sleeping with Nan’s half-sister, whose brother owned the joint.

As Billy pulled Carlo another pint, he started on about Kylie’s dad. Bert was put away for tying a man to a car and dragging him around the Heugh for slapping his sister, that and for driving underage and without a licence. Family life had cooled the fire in his belly, though Billy saw him as a dormant volcano.

The stories that followed were hardly better news.

Opposite Carlo’s place was the “Quick N Eazy”, run by Ray and Jim McMerry. They worked like a tag team when it came to a scrap, the kind that would have had grannies screaming at their sets when wrestling was still taken seriously.

Then there was Kwok or Kwang or whatever his name was at “Peking Cuisine”. He was bound to be Bruce Lee or a Triad or both.

No, it wasn’t looking good for Carlo Salvino, not until his fifth whisky gave him inspiration. There was nothing to be scared of.

Who, he asked himself, who outside of the area had ever heard of the town? They didn’t even have a football team. It was a blackhead on the face of a giant and it was about time someone gave it a squeeze.

First he went for the McMerrys. The “Quick N Eazy” had slashed its prices to keep up with him and the Ramsay boys were likely to have paid a visit to them too.

As far as he could see, outside of a good fight and making a few quid, there was only one thing that Ray and Jim cared about. Their cat was pure Russian Blue and worth a few bob. An elegant thing, Carlo imagined she was the sort of creature a pharaoh might have wanted to have with him in his tomb.

Beautiful she may have been, but loyal she was not. It took nothing more than chocolate drops and catnip to get her to go with him.

Making sure she was safely secured in his laundry basket, Carlo went on to complete the next part of the plan.

Sitting with Kylie’s dad, he could see why she wanted to move. The furniture stank, the carpet was hardly worth the name and the swirls on the wallpaper were making him dizzy. Outside the dirty brown render on the houses made it look like God had puked over every single one of them and the line of satellite dishes made it look like everyone on the street was trying to contact alien beings to get them the hell out of there.

Bert hadn’t switched off the TV as Carlo talked, but at least he turned the sound down. He listened carefully, his expression remaining unchanged from beginning to end, a cold stare fixed upon Carlo as he talked of love and babies, apologies and marriage.

Speech over, Bert stood and, for a moment, it appeared that he was weighing up the penalty for the dragging of another human being against the satisfaction it would give him to take the bastard outside and tie him to the bumper. Instead, he left the room momentarily and returned with two glasses of vodka.

Without exchanging words, they clinked glasses and downed their drinks simultaneously. There was no ice and it hadn’t been kept in the fridge, but what could one expect at ten in the morning.

Carlo received a slap on the back that would have knocked anyone under twelve stone flying. They shared vodka after vodka until, by mid afternoon, they were practically old friends.

Job done. With Kylie’s dad on side, the odds had tilted in his favour.

“The Golden Fry” didn’t open that day as Carlo toured the bars. Staggering home, he was pleased to see the sign, a colour photo with “Lost, Minky. Reward. Ray and Jim @ Quick N Eazy” written above it.

He considered collecting the cash, but decided to stick to the plan instead.

Three days he waited, watching the McMerrys stew and savouring every moment of their anxiety.

On Tuesday night, Kylie stood with him frying fish, a small diamond ring telling of their engagement. It had only cost a few quid down at the pawnbrokers, but he promised her that they’d get a proper one when they got the chance.

At the end of the evening, Carlo sent Kylie home early then set about his work before the oil cooled. Flicking the fryer back on, he turned out the lights and headed upstairs.

They say that animals can sense when things aren’t right, that they have a sixth sense about imminent danger. It was a load of tosh as far as Carlo could see, the way Minky burrowed cosily into his armpit as if he were the earth mother herself.

He carried her downstairs, put her on the floor and threw her a few fish scraps. She hadn’t chosen it exactly, but as a last meal it seemed to be up to the job.

The batter was in a bucket he’d prepared that afternoon and, before she knew it, so was Minky. She couldn’t get a grip on the smooth plastic walls, scratched at them to get a grip, bit at the hand that held her down, but all to no avail.

Carlo’s rubber gloves protected him well. Grabbing her tail and her scruff he threw her into the fat in one smooth movement. Minky opened her eyes as she sank, the beautiful blue spheres peering out from the white paste that covered her. A few strokes of doggy paddle and it was all over.

To her credit, she went down without a word of complaint and Carlo thought again of Maria in the van.

He fished Minky out, shook off the excess oil and spooned her into a box looking like a cartoon character who’d been in a road accident.

It took hours for the streets to empty and when they did, Carlo crossed the road to deliver his package.

Returning to his shop, he picked up a sledgehammer and gave it a baseball slugger’s swing. Thousands of lines appeared in the window and it bulged out over the pavement.

Something gave in his back as he swung, so he decided that breaking through completely wasn’t necessary. When the McMerrys found their cat and saw “The Golden Fry”, they’d put two and two together and the Ramsays wouldn’t have any legs left to stand on.

Unfortunately for Carlo, Ray and Jim had never been much good at arithmetic. It was the way the window looked that gave it away, the fact that it bulged out instead of in. He’d avoided the CCTV cameras, but not fooled the McMerrys; they’d put enough folk through glass to know it was an inside job.

The diesel engine coughed into action.

Carlo had ridden behind it six times one summer’s day when his dad was still alive. Chris and Jack had loved it, the circular tour of the farm, throwing badly aimed nuggets of food at sheep, donkeys and llamas. Nursery rhymes cheered the passengers, taking their minds off the fumes.

That visit was expensive. This one was going to cost him an arm and a leg. His left wrist and ankle had been cuffed to one of the rails. As he felt the train approach, the vibrations tickling his flesh and rattling his bones, he stretched out the rest of his body like a starfish and turned his face away.

He pictured the time they were there last, the four of them standing by the ostriches, his dad holding out a scoop full of seed. The things had stretched their necks out so far and with such zeal that they’d practically taken his hand off. How they’d laughed, him and the boys, at the way his dad had dropped the whole lot and jumped back three paces at a speed that might be expected of one thirty years younger.

The drivers of the train felt the bump under the wheels and gave a quick toot in celebration. The whistle and the scream were heard by the night staff at the brewery and the insomniacs of Dunbar alike.

Before leaving, Ray and Jim broke into the small animal shed and shone their torch from one enclosure to the next.

“We’ll try one of these this time, eh?” Ray said, stepping over the board and getting in amongst the rabbits.

“Aye. Let’s have the black and white yen,” Jim said.

Ray picked it out by the ears, handed him over to his brother and the two men set off for home, talking gently to their new pet every step of the way.