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- Herausgeber: McNidder and Grace
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
The Lock-In is the first new collection of short fiction by critically acclaimed author Tony Black in a decade. This thrilling anthology of crime fiction stories by the eight-times Crime Writers' Association (CWA) Dagger nominated author of the Gus Dury series includes a brand-new outing for the infamous protagonist, 'Dead On'. Also included is 'The Ringer', which was performed on stage by Outlander star Bryan Larkin; 'The Holy Father', a hilarious retelling of the nativity, set on a Scottish housing scheme; and 'Stone Ginger', a fast-paced London noir heist.
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Seitenzahl: 318
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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Reviews for Tony Black
‘Tony Black is one of those excellent perpetrators of Scottish noir ... a compelling and convincing portrayer of raw emotions in a vicious milieu.’
The Times
‘If you’re a fan of Ian Rankin, Denise Mina and Irvine Welsh this is most certainly one for you.’
The Scotsman
‘Black renders his nicotine-stained domain in a hardboiled slang that fizzles with vicious verisimilitude.’
The Guardian
‘Ripping, gutsy prose and a witty wreck of a protagonist makes this another exceptionally compelling, bright and even original thriller.’
The Mirror
‘This up-and-coming crime writer isn’t portraying the Edinburgh in the Visit Scotland tourism ads.’
The Sun
‘Comparisons with Rebus will be obvious. But that would be too easy ... Black has put his defiant, kick-ass stamp on his leading man, creating a character that deftly carries the story through every razor-sharp twist and harrowing turn.’
Daily Record
‘An authentic yet unique voice, Tony Black shows why he is leading the pack in British crime fiction today. Atmospherically driven, the taut and sparse prose is as near to the bone you are ever likely to encounter in crime noir. Powerful.’
New York Journal of Books
‘As washed-up private detectives go, Gus Dury is compelling – he’s as hard as any criminal and twice as self-destructive.’
Evening Standard
‘Taut, with a heart-wrenchingly honest protagonist and impressive literary style, it is among the best of the new Tartan Noir.’
The Daily Mail
‘Irvine Welsh adores him, Ken Bruen can’t praise him highly enough – Tony Black is the new Scottish noir king you need on your bookshelf.’
Shortlist Magazine
‘An accomplished and impressive piece of tartan noir.’
The List
‘Black’s visceral prose makes this a superior offering in a crowded market.’
Big Issue
‘Terrific. Gus Dury is the freshest and most engaging protagonist to appear in crime fiction for years. Near musically foul-mouthed, and with the painful honesty of Philip Marlowe, Gus also has a view of the Scottish political and social landscape that strikes more chords with readers from south of the border than he could possibly imagine. A high-class read from a first-class author whose place at the top table of British crime fiction is already most firmly assured.’
Paul Sayer, Whitbread-winning author of The Comforts of Madness
For my sister, Kim
Introduction
Real life, real love
When people talk about the work of Tony Black, they tend to effervesce. I am one of those people, which can be embarrassing, because Black is a friend as well as one of my favourite authors and artists (he is both a writer and a painter). But I was a fan for years before we knew each other.
When I recommend his books to people who have not read them, they often, of course, ask what he writes about, and I find the question difficult to answer.
He has been called a crime writer, and his books certainly have plenty of crime in them – except for the books that do not. But, even in his most vivid tales of Scottish noir, crime is not what he writes about.
When I describe the novel His Father’s Son, people often assume it is a heartwarming, Nick Hornby-esque family tale. It is not, except for when it is.
Is he a modern Scottish novelist? Yes, except for when a book is set in Australia, or in the early 20th century.
This is not to say he does not have a specific subject matter or theme. He certainly does, and it is to be found in something I have heard various readers, who did not know one another, say about why they read his Gus Dury novels: ‘I just want Gus to be happy.’
Whether the narrative is a grim urban gothic, or the story of a displaced child and a tiger, or a father and son finding their way through an unravelling family, Tony Black’s subject is love and its wounds. His is not a romantic vision of love; it is devoid of sentimentality, because it is kind and true. Like George Douglas Brown a century before him, he ignores the literary conventions of his time – the romantic ones and the nihilistic ones – and writes tales of furious compassion that deliver the news of how we live now, and who we are.
When George Douglas Brown published The House With the Green Shutters in 1901, devotees of the kailyard genre were affronted, and it was condemned for being ‘melodramatic’. In Tony Black’s novel Gutted, published in 2010, Gus Dury stumbles wetly into a gutted corpse on Edinburgh’s Corstorphine Hill. Three years later, in ‘real life’, Edinburgh police found human remains … on Corstorphine Hill.
Some of Black’s largest, most resonant tales are his shortest in length, so the publication of The Lock-In, containing classics like ‘The Ringer’ (which was also adapted for the stage) and ‘The Holy Father’, is an event. Rereading them, I realise that not only is the author a friend of mine – his stories are too.
Barry Graham airson Lusan Leònte/Wounded Plant Sanctuary Glasgow Spring, Year of the Rabbit
The Lock-In
an anthology of short fiction
Dead On
a Gus Dury story
Something didn’t sit right.
You might call it a malaise, one of those words I picked up in my past life as a hack, but anyway, I was stuck in my own inactivity, and had a piss-boiling temper on the back burner.
‘Christ on a cross.’ I was out my seat, banging on the wall like a mentaller. ‘Shut that the fuck up!’
The stoner next door had been playing Night Caller on repeat, if I heard about ‘The look your sister gives me’ one more time I was going to have to go through there and punch him a new hole.
The post dropped on the mat, took my attention.
‘The fuck’s this?’
A package.
Little white box with some heavy-duty gorilla tape on the outside, seemed like overkill for the size of the thing.
Gave it a rattle, dull thuds inside.
I didn’t have a single nail fit for the job of digging into the thing – I’d been chewing them down to the wood for days now, don’t know why, I’d never been a nail-biter. It struck me as something only those of a nervous disposition did, but like I said, something was seriously up with me. Maybe, as the bold Bowie said, it was time to turn and face the change.
The Ikea knife from my kitchen drawer did the trick, found a box of matches in there too, so sparked up a red-top, stuck it in my grid.
‘Right, let’s see what we have here …’
I was through the thick tape, prising open the cardboard lid when my mobi started ringing.
‘Yeah.’ Caller ID said it was Hod.
‘Gus, the fuck’s it all about?’
I searched for a reply, didn’t think he’d started reading Kierkegaard, so it had to be something beneath the meaning of life.
Said, ‘What’s what about?’
Hod started panting, sounded like he’d been sprinting. ‘Never mind … open up!’
Bangs on the door.
Loud ones.
I put my little delivery down on the kitchen counter, went through to let Hod in. He near bowled me over as soon as I released the latch.
‘Some fucker’s taking the piss, Gus.’ Hod’s face was crimson, he’d lain off the squats for too long to be bolting up two flights of stairs.
‘Y’ wha—’ I was scoobied, genuinely curious, until:
‘Did you get one of these?’
Autopilot kicked in and I glanced back to the kitchen door.
Felt myself nodding. ‘Is that the same as mine?’
Hod was holding up a little white cardboard box, the gorilla tape had been mauled to bits, hanging down the sides like punk braces. ‘You tell me, mate.’ He flung the box at me. I lunged and caught it mid-air, dropping cig-ash down my front.
Looked inside: ‘Oh, dear Lord.’
‘It’s fucked up, isn’t it?’
I was squinting, the revulsion forcing me to look away, but something forced me to tip the contents into my hand. Said, ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘If you think it’s the bloody stump of a swan’s head, then you’re dead on, Dury!’
As we walked through to the kitchen, Night Crawler started up again through the wall; the noise prompted Hod into a jig.
‘Ah, tune …’
He got into the lyrics before I pressed the heel of my hand on his mouth. ‘Fucking stop that!’
‘But it’s a banging tune, Gus.’
‘Banging fucking tune, don’t be going hood on me, I’ll bang your head off the wall, see how you like that. Let me tell you, it might be a great track, but after five days on repeat the attraction starts to wane a little, y’get me?’
Hod stared at me, venting like a derro on a Meadows meth-sesh, the tab in my grid riding the heated vibes up and down. ‘Jesus, cool the beans, son.’
And there it was, that ache in the pit of my gut again, that warning bell that sounds every so often. ‘Please don’t ever call me that.’
Shrugs. ‘Okay.’ He pulled out a kitchen stool, sat. ‘Everything all right there?’
I snatched the little box off the counter, peered in. ‘Apart from being sent a bloody swan’s head in the post, y’mean?’
‘It’s just I’ve seen that look on you before and, well, to be honest, it usually means you’re going back on the sauce.’
I raised my hands in mock indignation, put that look on, one that says ‘the fucking cheek of you to even suggest such a thing!’ I was going OTT, reined it in. ‘Hod, definitely not, I’m as dry as a pie. The look you mention, well, that’s recognisable I give you that, and maybe it comes from the same place, but it’s … different.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’ He didn’t follow.
‘There’s an Irish writer called Ken Bruen, a fine writer, he once asked “How come your family can always push your buttons?” And do you know what his answer was? “Because they installed them!”’
Head shakes. Hod got the message, but he wasn’t on the same level; unless you’ve been through what I’ve been through no one ever was.
‘Gus, your old man’s in the ground now, has been for years … he can’t reach you where you are.’
I knew what he said was true, and understood he was only trying to help, but the fact was, it was the spirit of the bastard that was being slow-roasted in hell; the memory of the man was still roaming these streets.
‘Do you remember what happened to me the last time I felt this ache in my gut, mate?’
Shrugs.
‘My sister’s little bastards had moved into my mother’s place, they’d turned it into the set of a Cheech and Chong movie whilst she ran herself white-knuckled dusting up after them and scouting munchies day and night, she was buying Pot Noodles fucking wholesale for Chrissake.’
Hod slapped his thigh and started to guffaw, deep, drawn-out belly laughter. ‘Ah, that’s right, I remember now … you turfed them out the door on the end of a Mossberg pump!’
‘It was a sawn-off actually, but yeah, your memory’s on point about the rest … should have given the cunts both barrels, they’ve robbed her blind, strip-mined her house, them and my fucking sister.’
Hod rose, squared his shoulders and balled fists. He was ready to rumble. ‘Come on then, let’s get round to your mam’s and get wired in to the little fuckers, I bags the ginger one!’ He reached inside his jacket and produced a set of brass knuckles. ‘He’ll be uglier yet when I’m done with him.’
‘There’s no point, Hod, it’s what my mam wants … Christ alone knows she never wanted me, my sister’s criminal little bastards fulfil something in her I never could.’
‘So, wha—? We just leave them to it, let them rob her blind?’
‘What else can you do? I tried once before and got nowhere, you can’t save someone from themselves.’
‘I know all that shite, Gus, you can’t lead a horse to water, but it’s … wrong.’
‘It is wrong, plain wrong. But I’m not able to make it right. I know, I’ve tried and I have the scars to prove it.’ I wanted to believe I’d be able to stick to the facts, cold and as hard as they were, but my conscience said different; my gut turned a harsh right. Night Caller started up again. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’
‘Well, if not to your mam’s, where then?’
I grabbed my Crombie off the back of the kitchen door. ‘We’re going to see Mo.’
‘Is it that time already?’ said Hod. He walked out after me, scratching the back of his neck like he was easing out fatigue.
‘I’m afraid so, mate.’
‘If you say so … Mo’s it is.’
Easter Road was battling the sunshine. Everywhere else in the city played well with the burnishing, but on this street it only enhanced the manky flaws. It was a grim mix of Edinburgh saunas – or knock-shops – flea-market outlets and pound stores. The punters skulked about furtively, carrying their porn stash under arm in brown paper bags, but now they looked startled by the full glare of God; maybe he’d strike them down at any moment. They were wrong, of course, God had given up on this place long ago, we were on our own here.
Hod’s Defender shone in the sunlight. British racing green didn’t look like his thing, or hadn’t once, but neither did the Barbour Beaufort and the rope-backed driving gloves. Bedsitland-by-the Sea was back, baby, even if he couldn’t understand a word the new customers said. Like they were paying him anyway; our sham democracy was footing the bill, they’d get their money back when every country on Earth was classed as Third World, just a slim wedge of puppet masters on top.
‘Couldn’t you have got something that wasn’t such a fucking caravan-puller, Hod?’
‘Oh, please, mate … Do you see many Range Rover drivers frequenting caravan parks?’
I gave him the look, one that said climb back out of your own arse. ‘Frequenting … we’re frequenting now, are we? Enjoy the last burst of middle class, mate, because by my calculations this AI caper is going to clean the fucking lot of you out soon enough.’
Hod brushed a spray of pollen from the front rim. ‘Caravan puller … You’re forgetting our sometime first minister was the proud owner of a caravan.’
‘Knickers!’
‘Yeah, her.’
‘No, what I mean is, it wasn’t a caravan, it was a motorhome and I think it was her husband who owned it.’
‘But parked it at his mam’s place to avoid the embarrassment of his own neighbours seeing it.’
‘I think he had other reasons for that, Gus.’
‘Now come on, surely you’re not suggesting one of our top-tier politicians might be mixed up in something hooky?’
Hod smirked. ‘Not at all. And I’m confident all that missing cash will turn up in no time at all.’
‘Of course, and truth be told, I don’t even know if you’re allowed to have such a thought under the current junta … you might get locked up for that sorta thing.’
Scotland had changed beyond all recognition to me. Our country had always been a total shithole, had always been populated by chippy serfs who didn’t like their station playing second-fiddle to England, but for fucksake, who would have ever thought this was where we’d end up? Our fallen first minister was never fit to mop up in her local Spar, never mind run a country, and now we were exposed on the world stage as Scotland the Shit Show. How Donald Trump, a man who knew something about shithole countries, could continue running a fucking golf course here was beyond me.
Hod pulled up outside Mo’s place.
‘Looks closed,’ he said.
‘Of course it’s closed, it’s only just gone midday … come on, he’ll be round the back.’
We eased past the wheelie bins and through the close that skirted the back of Mo’s. A ginger tom was lying in an oblong of sunlight on the path and gave us a one-eyed glance, but thought better of actually getting out of our way. I stepped over the cat and rapped on Mo’s back door.
Footsteps.
A rattle of locks.
The bolt slid.
Mo’s dark eyes peered round the jamb, detected no threat, and opened up.
‘Gus, man, what are you doing here?’
‘Open up, Mo-bro, we’ve got some things to discuss.’
‘Have you found him?’ Mo’s voice rose an octave.
‘Eh, no, not exactly.’ I hated to crush his optimism, but it was the order of the day.
‘What do you mean?’
Hod got impatient, crammed himself between us and stepped inside. ‘You could say, Mo my old mate, that he’s found us.’
The back room smelled of freshly cut coriander and curry powder. There were boxes of onions sitting on the table that added another tang to the close confinement, but the lot evaporated when I sparked up a red-top.
‘Any pakora on the go, Mo?’ said Hod.
‘No. Fucksake, I’m just out my kip.’
‘Suppose a bhaji’s out the question, then?’
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea, you can shove some of these down your gob in the meantime y’greedy bastard.’ Mo thumped down a packet of Hobnobs; Hod crammed one in his grid, still managed a smile.
‘I can eat a whole pack of these, they’re really moreish.’
Mo set down a tray with the drinks. It looked like he was coming out of deep thought, though still processing. ‘So, let me get this straight, Gus … you got a swan’s head in the post this morning.’
‘Yep, same as Hod.’
Mo touched the side of his nose. “But, why?’
I picked up a mug with a picture of Yoda on the side; his face had been left in the dishwasher many moons ago. ‘If I knew that, Mo, I wouldn’t be here and you wouldn’t have a bucket full of swans’ heads that had been pushed through your door in the last fortnight or so.’
‘I just don’t get it, what does he want?’
Hod spoke through crumbs. ‘Is there nothing, no one you can think of that wants to put a threat on you, Mo?’
‘No. I’ve told you,’ Mo was adamant, ‘I live a clean life, all I do is slave away in here, I have four kids to raise, I don’t have the time or the energy for anything else.’
I put down my cup, Yoda was so faded it looked like the time he joined Ben Kenobi in the stars. ‘Mo, whoever is doing this is trying to rattle you and now that you’ve brought Hod and I in, they’re trying to rattle us as well.’
Mo gritted his teeth, his eyes opened a little wider, he wasn’t handling this well. ‘I fucking am rattled … y’know what the Department of Health pricks will do to me if they find that bucket of swans’ heads? They’ll shut me down in a millisecond.’
I flagged him to calm it, tried to change tack. ‘Okay, mate, did you put that camera up like I said?’
Mo nodded. ‘I did, aye.’
‘And?’
He shrugged, scanned our faces. ‘Was I supposed to do something else?’
Hod grumbled, went through to retrieve the Neos camera we’d supplied Mo with; when he returned he plugged the camera in to the desktop PC in the corner of the room. A bit of clicking and scrolling and he’d soon found the night’s grab pics.
‘Pissheads,’ said Hod. The screen showed a drunk stumbling into the gutter.
‘More pissheads.’ The second image was of a girl holding her heels in her hand as she squatted out a streamie.
‘Disgusting,’ said Mo, ‘has she no self-respect?’
‘The things you see when you don’t have a gun,’ said Hod.
I bit, said, ‘There is a cure for that … always carry a gun.’
They both glowered at me, then clocked each other directly to see if there was any new understanding afoot. There wasn’t.
‘Look, this is pointless … it’s nothing but the local street derros and feral foxes,’ said Hod.
I was about to agree when the screen changed again. A short, stocky figure in black, a scarf over the lower part of the face, started to bend down, pushing something into the shutters.’
‘Hod, freeze that!’
‘Done.’
The picture was blurry, but distinct.
‘That’s your blackmailer,’ I said.
‘Oh, there’s been no blackmail, Gus,’ said Mo.
‘I know that, mate, but it’s coming in the post, or to be more specific, by a very personal hand-delivery.’
‘What do you mean?’
I looked through the door and down the hall. ‘Have you checked behind the shutters today?’
‘No, not yet, I don’t usually open up at this hour.’
‘Get on it. We need a closer look at last night’s delivery.’
KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT AND YOUR BACKWARD OPINIONS TO YOURSELF. OR ELSE.
I handed the envelope back to Mo. ‘Any ideas?’
‘No, mate, I’ve not got a clue.’
Hod snatched the paper, furrowed his brow as he looked at the message. I could hear the cogs turning, gerbils spinning on big wheels. I snatched it back and handed it to Mo.
He said, ‘Aren’t you going to check for fingerprints?’
‘Aye, sure, let me just run that down to forensics right away.’
‘He’s got gloves on in the footage,’ said Hod, ‘he knows what he’s doing. And that’s why it’s so bloody vague.’
‘I thought it was too vague,’ I said, ‘like he actually doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.’
‘What do you mean, Gus?’
‘I mean, if you’re a top boy in this town, a hard man, you know exactly what you want and you know exactly how to put a threat on someone without resorting to fucking nuance.’
‘He’s right,’ said Hod. ‘It reeks of amateur hour … so what now? We going to kip here and do a night snatch when he shows up again?’
I shook my head. ‘He won’t be back here tonight. He’s upped the ante, and will expect us to be rattled. He’ll sit back and see what we do next.’
Mo blustered, ‘So what now, Gus?’
‘You keep doing your do, don’t change your routine in any way. What’s your plans?’
‘Eh, work, work and more work … oh, there’s a school thing on tonight, parents’ group, that sorta shite.’
‘Okay, you go along to that, keep the arrangement, and in the meantime Hod and I have a few buckets to kick.’
‘Y-wha?’
‘Figure of speech, Mo.’
Outside, at the car, Hod shoved his hands in his driving gloves, slapped them loudly together. ‘What are we doing, mate?’
I peered over his shoulder; the edge of Arthur’s Seat was peaking above the row of tenements that skirted Holyrood Park. Abbeyhill baked in the unforgiving sun. ‘We’re going straight to the horse’s mouth, or should that be the swan’s?’
‘The fuck?’
‘Never mind … I have to see a man about a dog, I’ll call you later, Hod.’
‘Horses … swans … dogs … you’ve gone animal crackers, Dury!’
‘When was I never?’
I waited for Hod’s Defender to pass me on London Road, ducked in to The Artisan. The pain in my gut wasn’t getting any better and I knew there was only one source of relief.
The barman clocked me with that seen-it-all-before stare and stooped over me like a threat. He was broad-shouldered, gruff and not at all talkative.
Said, ‘Gimme a goldie, mate, make it a double.’
He returned with a glass but wouldn’t let it out of his giant mitt until I’d paid. Put down twenty and said, ‘Get me another.’
I swallowed hard, felt the cut and burn of it. I knew I’d crossed a line. It wasn’t any line; this one was strewn with barbed wire and land mines, was entering trench warfare again and I knew it.
The second goldie started a buzz in my head; a fire had been lit somewhere behind my ear, it started on a slow fizz, a slight intonation of happy rapture to come, but then a boot stamped it out, drummed me into the dirt …
‘You’ve had enough!’ It was him again, the big lad.
“Y-wha?’
‘You heard.’
‘But I gave you a twenty …’
He turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘Are you for real? You gave me that twenty about twenty drinks ago … Bloody alkies, and you wonder why you’re the state you’re in? Out! Now!’
Felt in no condition to argue, and truth told, trusted his judgement over mine. I slid off the stool. My knees started trembling, then buckled a bit, I reached out to the bar to steady myself and caught the barman glowering at me.
‘Out!’ In one clean sweep of his sturdy arm he reached over and grabbed my Crombie off the stool, threw it at me.
I took the hint; Christ, I had no option.
The paving flags felt like an ice rink beneath my bouncing soles. For a moment I wondered where I was; fuck it, I wondered what I was.
The legs functioned, if not fully, at least autonomically. I gazed at the sky; it was the same one that had always been there, only I didn’t remember the clouds swaying quite so much.
The ache in my gut remained, but now had some guilt for company. It occurred to me that I’d managed to keep this going for half a century. There was no hope of change, can any of us really change? My father had never been able, he remained a brutal bastard until the end. Lately my mind had flitted back to my early days – when I was four he had got some enjoyment out of pinning me down on the floor. He used to put his giant fists round my thin arms and twist them upwards until the pain was unbearable. Then he’d pin the backs of my calves with his huge feet; I was trapped on the floor, unable to move, like a Roman crucifixion, only what was my crime? Being born, it seemed. He’d squeeze my wrists, the flesh would burn, my face squirmed in the floor, my eyes full of tears, my mouth full of snot as I screamed and struggled to get free. I never got free. I cried more, harder, louder, struggled and struggled, but the only change I ever noticed was his laughter growing more hysterical.
That bastard, my father, took the most sadistic pleasure in seeing his own son suffer. I always knew this, I never needed to ask him. The evidence was always there, but what I did need to ask was why my mother let him do this. Why did she just watch? Why did she let this become my normal? I knew the pair of them always hated me, always wanted to harm me and find new ways, both physically and mentally, to torture me and show their hate. They couldn’t stop themselves, but my mother could switch masks every so often. He had one mask he wore outside and in, but she could play dumb when she wanted to confuse me, she could play sweet when she wanted to manipulate me and she could play true to form when she wanted to show me the evil that dwelled within. They hated me, both of them, and I realised now I had never returned the compliment.
The sound of my family home’s doorbell made a familiar chime that started a wrecking ball rolling towards my gut. It hit like a death blow. I knew I wasn’t able for this, was in no state for it, but I had to get it off my chest if I was to ever move forward.
‘Angus … what are you doing here?’ My mother looked shocked to see me, and so she fucking should, after all she’d done to me – man and boy – it was nothing short of a miracle that I was still able to look at her.
‘Hello, Mother.’ I dipped my head; was it shame? If it was it was deep rooted and planted by her.
‘Is everything okay, son?’
I hated to hear the word son at the best of times, but from her it was like an added form of mockery that she revelled in. She never treated me like a son, and she was no mother to me.
I walked through to the lounge, my lame legs betraying me, making me lean on the furniture. It was all new gear, all gaudy TK Maxx stuff that the young ones go for nowadays. She’d sold all my father’s trophies and medals a while back and went on what she called a skiing holiday (Spending the Kids’ Inheritance). Apparently this was so common among selfish boomers, who’d sold us all down the river, that there was a trite acronym for it. It made me sick; she made me sick.
I sat down. She actually had pictures on the wall of my sister’s two jailbird brats; I wanted to laugh. Did she take pride in pretending to the neighbours that they were upright citizens and not a pair of little bastards who’d robbed her blind? What had they achieved, a write-up in the Record the time one of them vandalised the national monument and got jailed? I remembered my first article appearing in The Scotsman, the long road of graft to see the words ‘by Gus Dury’ at the top of the page. When my father saw it he refused to read it, he threw it at me and said to my mother, ‘Where the hell did that come from?’ She took the accusation personally, like he was inferring something, and she went into a fit screaming that I didn’t get it from her either. The fucking state of the pair of those bastards.
‘Will I take your coat, Angus?’
‘I’ll keep it on.’
My mam looked around her; she seemed not to know what to do with her uninvited guest. It had been quite a while since we spoke, and none of our conversations had ever been what you’d call chatty. The small-chat, the shite-talk, was for my sister, she could summon up that sort of stuff like a Parkinson or a Wogan, she’d inherited my mother’s ability to change masks to get what she wanted; my moral compass was pointing in the other direction.
‘It’s been lovely weather,’ she said.
I looked up; was she for fucking real? ‘The weather; is that what you think I’m here to talk about?’
She straightened the sides of her skirt, brushed the arm of the couch. ‘Was there something you wanted to talk about, Angus?’ Her voice crackled, sounded as fragile as the crepe hats that we put on our heads at Christmas, when we pretended to play happy families.
‘Ha!’ I spat the remark. The timbre of my voice shocked me; it came right from my gut. I reached in the pocket of my Crombie for a little manila envelope that had been delivered a couple of days earlier. I flung it at her. ‘Want to explain this?’
She glanced towards the envelope on the chair beside her, then turned sharply away. She stayed quiet.
‘I take it that’s a no, then?’
‘Oh, Angus, it’s always the same with you …’ She stopped herself from going further, placed an arthritic finger to her mouth. She was adjusting the mask again.
‘Yes, that it is, dear Mother … it’s always the same with me. I can’t keep my big mouth shut. It would have been better – what was it you once told me? – if I’d never been born.’
The look came for me, the sniper eye. God, I hated this woman.
‘You have to keep going back to the past, don’t you?’
‘The past, the present, it’s all one open weeping sore to me.’ I leaned in, balanced my elbows on my knees, I wanted to see any change in her up close. ‘But it’s funny you mention the past, because I was just thinking about it there … do you remember The Cage?’
She turned away, stared at the wallpaper.
‘Yes, The Cage, that’s what he called it, wasn’t it? My own father …’
She didn’t move, was lifeless.
‘That’s what he used to do, put me in The Cage. The pin-down on the carpet, under his great fucking feet, he’d twist the flesh off me in his giant hands, and I’d scream blue murder. And, mother, remind me what it is that you did? Oh, that’s right, you did fuck all! You watched and laughed along, you sick fuck!’
She didn’t move. Some sunlight flooded the room and painted the shadow of her profile on the wall behind her.
‘I never asked you why you did it.’ My voice dropped, the anger had been released, I was over the worst.
My mother breathed deeply and wet her lips with a flash of grey tongue. She didn’t answer me, but I didn’t care.
‘I looked it up, y’know, the pinning down; depriving kids of movement is as hardcore sadistic as it gets. Takes a serious psycho to even witness that and do nothing. But that you did, didn’t you? You let it all go on, and after he was gone, you kept it up. In your own way, I think, you were the chief torturer, Mam.’
Her silence had now stretched into several minutes. I knew there was no answer forthcoming from her, there never was and there never would be. There were no feelings inside her to be located, there wasn’t then and there wasn’t now. At least, there were none for me. If she had feelings for others, and they could be harvested to hurt me more, then all the better.
I rose, put my hands in my pockets. ‘Tell your solicitor he doesn’t need to send me any more letters … if you were my last relative on the planet, I wouldn’t want to be executor of your will.’
‘You don’t mind then?’ Her voice rose, became almost joyful.
I laughed. ‘Mind? Why would I mind?’
Her head jerked to face me, the old eyes bright and blue as she took me in. ‘So you won’t contest it? I mean, I’m leaving the house and everything else to the boys.’
‘Contest your will?’ I shook my head. ‘My God Almighty, you actually think that’s what I cared about?’
I turned my back on her and left my family home for the last time. I was walking away from the source of all my hurt and my only care was why I had never done this sooner. As I closed the garden gate behind me I knew I would never be back; my only regret was that I hadn’t been able to do it a half-century earlier. I felt an enormous awakening wash over me; I was more sober than I’d ever been. As I put distance between us I felt the spirit of a bruised and battered little boy behind me; he couldn’t come with me, not where I was going.
At the foot of Arthur’s Seat, I waited for Hod to show. I spotted his Defender on the roundabout and watched him park up. There was an ice cream van doing a roaring trade and Hod couldn’t pass up the chance of a quick sugar-rush.
I sparked up a red-top and waited for the queue to subside.
‘Did you want owt?’ He was wrestling the wrapper off an ice lolly.
‘No thanks.’
‘I love these, y’know why they’re called Magnums?’
I didn’t, shook my head.
‘Because it’s impossible to eat one without getting a ’tache like Tom Selleck!’
‘Brilliant.’ I braved a smile.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve perked up,’ said Hod.
‘Don’t think I’d go that far?’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Fuck no.’
‘That’s what I wanted to hear.’ He got stuck into the Magnum and we started to walk towards St Margaret’s Loch, right in the teeth of tourists and the now ever-present city speed walkers.
There was a green hut with a small door and a smaller window by the side of the water. A council van was parked outside on the gravel.
‘Is this what you had in mind?’ said Hod.
I nodded.
We took a wander around the side of the hut; at one end there was a pile of white feathers fluttering over the grass towards the hills. Hod’s hefty frame blocked the light in front of the hut and a figure appeared at the window. In a moment, the door opened.
‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ The man was in his bad-fifties, stooped, with a pot belly protruding beyond overalls that hadn’t closed at the buttons for many a day.
‘Well, he’s not our man,’ said Hod. ‘Legs are too gangly to match the video.’
I rolled my gaze upwards. ‘Did I ever say he was in the frame?’
The old giffer walked over and stood before us. I offered him a tab and exchanged pleasantries about the setting. ‘Looks like you’ve had a fox attack or something?’ I tipped my head towards the feathers.
‘Fox, my fucking arse … I’ll show you something.’ He guided us to the corner of the yard, across a cobbled pathway to a row of black and blue wheelie bins. He opened up the first bin and reached inside. ‘Look at that – foxes, by my left bollock.’
The man held up the corpse of a beheaded swan; the neck, sliced cleanly, was fresh. The blood was bright and red.
‘When did this happen?’ I said.
‘Last night … there’s two of them in there.’
Hod played along. ‘That’s a sin. I mean, I’m totally disgusted.’
The old boy dumped the dead swan back in the bin and scratched the side of his head. ‘This has been going on for a wee while now, I’ve counted eight or nine of them with their heads sliced off … you never heard a peep of this from me, mind.’
‘How come?’ I said.
‘There’s a big council investigation going on, they had to call the cops in … I can’t be caught talking out of turn.’
‘Well, I hope they get the bastard.’
‘Oh, they will, I’ve no doubt about that.’ He leaned closer, dropped his tone a little. ‘The police told me earlier on that they had an idea who it was …’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, aye, said they were following a serious line of enquiry!’ He looked confident, relieved almost, but that could have been merely the fact that he’d just unburdened himself of some gossip.
