The Storm Without (11 page)

At the edge of Cathcart Street I sheltered in the lee of a building I once knew but now only confused me. I looked up and down: it seemed to have been converted into flats. The last time I'd seen it, the place was a tea room; a pleasant enough place called The Apple Tree. They sold scones and jam there; Glasgow Fair punters came doon the water for their fish tea. It reeked of tradition, but there didn
'
t seem to be any place in the town for tradition anymore.

I turned my face towards the Sandgate as a host of shrieks assailed the airwaves. Young girls, their party dresses pitched higher than their voices. I shook my head as I watched them go; the sight of their bare legs made me feel colder; I knew I was getting old. I felt parental, even though I had no children of my own. Something deep inside me said the group shouldn
'
t be out on their own like that. Was it the case again? Was it the thought of Kirsty Donald
'
s real killer being on the loose? Or was it a wider protective sense I felt towards the town of my birth? I wondered about many things.

Ayr had changed beyond any possibility I would have entertained only a short time ago; I wanted the old place back, the familiar, the secure. I didn
'
t like what I
'
d learned about the Auld Toun since my return. I dug into my pocket and removed a packet of Marlboro. I had started smoking the red-tops again, abandoned my usual brand because the local version couldn
'
t be relied upon with all the bootlegging in the town. I found I quite liked the taste of the Marlboro once more. It was at the force
'
s training academy in Tulliallan that I had last smoked the red-tops; my sergeant didn
'
t like the smell, called them
'
funny fags
'
and so I grew away from them. I smiled at the memory: it was all conditioning; that
'
s what the force had really been about. I
'
d been taught that my own opinions, my own instincts and assumptions, my tastes, were worthless. There was a bigger picture, a wider understanding that I had no right to question.

I drew on the Marlboro, blew a thin trail of smoke into the darkness of the night sky. I knew Mason was encountering resistance in the force; the high heid yins didn
'
t like having their authority tested. There was a course called the path of least resistance and smart coppers knew to stick to it. I knew that had been my problem — I never fitted the mould of a smart copper. That type, they rose in the ranks and ascended the K-ladder. They made friends and they kept them. In time, their friends kept them. It was a tried and tested formula; even had their own wee club with its own wee traditions to play up to.

I allowed myself a smile at the thought. I knew I stuck out from the boys in the Craft.

'
Daft laddie.
'
I heard myself say the words. They weren
'
t mine, well, not originally. They
'
d been those of a DC I
'
d been buddied with at the outset of my career.

'
You
'
re nothing but a daft laddie, Doug,
'
Billy Morrison had said when I told him I was taking the RUC job.
'
You could have been set up for life here
…
all you had to do was keep your head down.
'

I was never any good at that. The memory was as clear as Technicolor to me now. I
'
d well and truly strayed from the path of least resistance.

I took another draw on the filter tip and headed off Cathcart Street, back towards the old school. At Dansarena I dowped my cigarette on the wall and pulled up my collar. The road back to the guest house was dark, the night cold, and my thoughts edging into ratiocination. I needed to relax, unwind and let my aching head find some form of distraction. Football. Car-crash television. It didn
'
t matter to me.

On Citadel Place I started to become dimly aware of footsteps behind me; heavy footsteps. I turned, looked back up the road I
'
d travelled but the footsteps stopped and in the darkness it was hard to trace more than the outline of car-roofs beneath the direct sheen of the street-lamps. I halted, wondered if I
'
d imagined the noise and returned to the path — but with a hurried gait. It
'
d managed a dozen or so steps when I heard the footfalls again, this time they were running. As I turned, I suddenly grasped for breath: I doubled over with a fist in my gut. I lunged, felt another fist in my kidney and then I fell to the ground in a hail of sharp, fast punches. The fists moved quickly, were joined by dark, heavy boots that connected soundly with my ribs and my stomach and my chest.

I felt blood rise in my mouth. I spat out a mouthful. Tried to make a sound but was unable. I was outnumbered and, I suspected, outclassed. The pair were not even drawing heavy breath when they halted.

I was rolled onto my back. I raised my hands to shield my face in a defensive movement.

'
Get his arms.
'
The voice was loud, certain. It carried the authority of someone who was used to giving orders.

I managed a low blow, kicked out and caught the smaller of the two in the groin.

'
The arms, get his arms behind his back,
' came again.

I recognised the manoeuvre: they were preparing for a cuffing. Probably on instinct.

As my arms were locked the larger of the two assailants came into view, his face obscured by a balaclava. He grabbed my cheeks in his hand. I noticed the gold ring on his finger as he spoke.
'
Right, Michie, you
'
ll only get this warning once, so you better take it or the next step for you is off the brig.
'
He squeezed tighter. I could see the jagged tips of his grey teeth.
'
Stay away from what doesn
'
t concern you ...
'

I found a line of ferocity.
'
And what would that be?
'

My arms were twisted tighter.
'
Want me to panel him?
'
said the voice behind me.

The balaclava spoke again; he seemed to be smiling.
'
Oh, you are that stupid, eh ... The Donald lassie isn
'
t your concern, Michie. Stay away, stay well away.
'

As he leaned back he raised his boot off the ground. His heavy sole was the last thing I saw before it connected with my forehead and the night went from darkness to blackness.

The brightness of the hospital ward struck me like another assault. I opened my eyes only briefly, but long enough to take in the full glare of industrial lighting and white walls beyond white bed sheets. I scrunched my 'brows, tightened my eyelids. Nothing seemed to block out the glare. Then the pain kicked in. Shooting pain, around my eye-sockets and clean across the top of my head. I felt like a bandsaw was being operated on my skull. On instinct, I tried to lift a hand to my face; at once, I knew my arm was too heavy. I ventured another squint into the room to confirm my suspicions. I was right, my arm was in plaster.

I let out an elongated sigh. My head swam as I leaned back into the pile of pillows behind me; it was enough to alert the nurse.

'
Mr Michie,
'
she said.
'
I wouldn
'
t be making too many drastic movements.
'

I tried to speak; my mouth had dried out. The words failed me.

'
Here, take a sip of water,
'
said the nurse. Her voice was harsh, fully Ayrshire. A west-coast battler in a white apron. If I was hoping for bedside manner, I was going to be disappointed.

'
What the hell happened?
'
I said.

'
I was hoping you could tell me.
'
I still had my eyes held tightly shut, but I could hear the scorn in her voice. There was a time when this sort of thing might have bothered me, but another line of Rabbie
'
s had sunk in by now:
let them cant about decorum. I knew s
he thought I was another rowdy — someone who settled his problems with his fists. As I felt the stookie on my arm I knew that wasn
'
t going to be an option for some time.

'
I mean, how did I get here?
'

She started to fiddle with the chart on the end of the bed, shuffled a few papers on the clipboard as she answered me.
'
A member of the public brought you in
…
well, called the ambulance to be more precise.
'
The clipboard rattled on the end of the bed.
'
Look, don
'
t be concerning yourself with that right now. You need to rest.
'

I
'
d managed to adjust my eyes to the glare of the lights. I was still smarting but able to take her in. She had a face just how I imagined it: like a burst couch.
'
You make that sound like an order, sister.
'
I put some sting in her title.

She placed her hands on her hips; they were broad hips. 'You better believe it. Sit tight, the doctor will be around to see you in a wee bit.' She strutted for the door.

When she was gone I raised myself in the bed, surveyed the damage that had been done from my thoroughly professional kicking. I felt bashed up inside: but it would take more than a bit of a street-mugging to put me off my stride. My main concern was the broken hand; that was personal. It was a reminder that the Devil found work for idle hands. That I was messing with the big boys.

I was holding up my plaster cast, trying to wriggle my bruised fingers when I spotted a broad figure blocking the doorway to the ward. It was Mason. I nodded towards him, and he started to make his way towards my bedside with his slow, slouching gait.

'Quite the picture, Doug,' he said. His expression held firm. His gaze looked guilty though; he couldn't meet my eyes.

I huffed. 'Is this an official police visit?'

He drew closer to the bed, unbuttoned his jacket and removed a chair. 'No, I heard you'd had an accident —'

'Accident. Are you joking? I was properly worked over and you know that.'

'Look, Doug …'

I raised my stookie. 'You see this? This is a personal message and I know who it's from, so don't be dancing round the houses with me, pal.'

The word pal seemed to unsettle him. 'I know. I know … I'm sorry.'

'If I thought you had anything to apologise for, Mason, you wouldn't be wearing a sorry expression … you'd be wearing your backside as a hat!'

He looked away. We both knew what the score was. There was no place for words here. We let the silence come between us, calm our nerves.

'I brought you something.' Mason reached into his coat.

'It better not be grapes.'

He placed a bottle of Talisker on the bedside table. I smiled. 'You better put that in the drawer. The sister runs a tight ship.'

He nodded, picked up the bottle and squirreled it away. 'How you feeling anyway?'

'Like I've been done in and had my hand broken.' Mason looked away, took in the sleeping patient in the next bed. I wondered if he was sussing out whether he could speak but the moment seemed to pass. I prompted, 'They were police, you know.'

'
What
?'

'Oh, come off it …'

'Doug, I didn't know anything about this. I swear it.'

I tried to scratch beneath my plaster cast; my hand had started to itch. 'One of them had a very interesting gold ring. I got a good look at it, close enough to see the wee square and compasses … they were from the Craft.'

Mason leaned back, raised palms. 'Now c'mon, doesn't mean they were polis!'

'One of them was for cuffing my arms behind my back … do you think I'm stupid, Mason?'

He looked to the left, leaned forward on his seat and lowered his voice. 'Well, I swear to you … if I'd known, Doug.'

He knew now. I replayed his warning to me in
Belleisle: he didn
'
t want to get involved. Was he scared? I doubted it. Mason was a rock. He took threats in the same way as me: like incitement. If he was wary it was because he had more information to tell me and he knew what I
'
d do with it. Mason liked to keep a low profile; he
'
d stayed home in Ayr, tried to play the game. But that didn
'
t mean he liked the rules anymore than I did.

I went for broke. 'You've reached the end of the road, mate.'

His eyes widened. 'What do you mean?'

'How long have I known you?'

'Oh, Jesus, the old-pals act again, eh?'

'No. What I'm saying is, I know you. And I've never seen you this rattled.'

He lowered his head, shook it from left to right as he stared at the floor tiles. 'It's all a mess.'

I reached out my broken hand, placed it on his shoulder. 'Well, let's clean it up.'