Brannigan

‘On yer bikes,’ the barmaid stood, feet apart, a clutch of dirty beer glasses in both hands. She jerked her head towards the exit.

‘Aw, come oan,’ the larger of the two men, a squat figure in a combat jacket, protested. ‘Jist gie us five meenits.’

‘Come on yer face.’ The barmaid jutted her chin. ‘I’ve asked you once already.’

‘But…’ he began.

The man’s companion – slight, weasel-faced – laid a hand on his arm. ‘Dinna make waves, Shuggie. Mind what ah said aboot me keepin a low profile.’

‘But, Bobby,’ his friend wailed, ‘ah’m no feenished ma pint.’

‘Ah ken.’ Bobby Brannigan laid a consoling hand on his arm. ‘But better that than…’ His head swam with nightmarish images. He’s kept it down since the night he’d been abducted by Wilma Harcus and her two big loons, frog-marched down the nick.

‘You should have thought of that,’ the barmaid took a decisive step forward, ‘when I asked you the first time.’

‘For Christ’s sake.’ Shuggie drained his glass. ‘Can a man no have a pint in peace?’

‘I’ll give you peace,’ the barmaid plonked the empty glasses down on the next table. She brandished a well-used dishcloth. ‘Time to call it a day, Rambo. No arguing.’

‘We’re goin’.’ Brannigan tugged at his companion’s sleeve. ‘Is that no right, Shuggie?’

‘Aye.’ Shuggie rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘Thanks to Miss World here.’ He contemplated the barmaid with bloodshot eyes. ‘Talk about fuckin hospitality.’

She grinned. ‘Gentlemen.’ She flourished a hand. ‘Let me show you the door.’

*

Eyes downcast, Bobby Brannigan weaved an uncertain path along the pavement. One outcome of consecutive years of Council cutbacks had been a rash of potholes and uneven paving slabs. Those, together with the hulking plastic refuse bins that sat abandoned at all angles and the black bin bags whose contents had been forensically dissected by marauding seagulls, made for slow progress.

Every few steps, he darted a nervous glance behind. Bobby had been on the point of asking Shuggie to chum him home, on the pretence of offering his pal a bevy. Thought better of it. Shuggie lived in the opposite direction. And, besides, it wouldn’t do much for Bobby’s reputation as a hard man. His bladder strained uncomfortably. He’d been caught short, was pissing in a shop doorway when the big private eye had nabbed him. He clenched his arse. Wouldn’t make that mistake twice.

A haar had drifted in off the North Sea. It hung, heavy with moisture, blurring the outlines of the buildings, the kerb and the shop doorways. It smelled dank, raw, filling Bobby’s nostrils and working its way under his shirt collar. Cursing, he hiked his jacket higher on his shoulders. Pinching his nostrils with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, he howked a gob of phlegm into the cupped palm of the other and wiped it on his trouser leg.

‘Fucksake!’ He tripped over a bag of takeaway cartons. Momentarily off-balance, he thrust out a hand to steady himself, hoping to find the wall. Instead, his fingers found something soft. Cloth, maybe. No, wool. Rough wool, like a…a…

‘That yourself, Bobby?’ A disembodied voice came out of the gloom.

‘Wh-wha is it?’ Bobby stuttered. His heart pounded. His mind ran like a steam train. He’d lain doggo since thon drugs trial. Seen no one. Said nothing to nobody. Well, no one except for thon fat cow with her dodgy recording gadget. And, he reassured himself, that was months ago.

‘Never you mind.’ The man in the balaclava took up position behind him. His words sounded ghostly, as if fragmented by the mist.

‘Wh-what do you want?’ Bobby stood stock still, literally petrified by fear.

‘You, Bobby.’ An arm locked around his throat. Before the blackness overwhelmed him, he glimpsed a flash of steel.