14

Charlie Montgomery loved the morning. He loved to rise early and work while the world roused around him. He loved the thought of his opponents stirring from their warm, soft beds, sleep-addled and slow, groping for coffee, while he was already in top gear, ticking along with the precision of a fine watch, already well on the way to beating them.

The thought made him smile as he finished his morning ritual of press-ups and coffee, the first sunlight paling the darkness outside to a deep burgundy that made it look as if the sky was a huge stage curtain draped in front of his windows.

Home was a penthouse flat in Leith, tucked behind the Ocean Terminal shopping centre. It had been overpriced when he bought it seven years ago, and the crash a few years back had done nothing to help its value, but it was worth it. Charlie loved the open-plan design, the space and the balcony that, on a good day, gave him clear views across the Forth to Fife and beyond.

It was a long, long way from the council house he had grown up in with his parents and brother in Bonnybridge. He had a picture on the partition wall between the kitchen and the living area of him and his brother aged about twelve standing in their garden, the house a pebble-dashed monstrosity sitting squat and ugly and grey behind them. He hated the picture, hated his brother even more, but he kept it there as a reminder.

And a warning. You came from this. Don’t go back, the picture screamed.

By the time he had showered and dressed, the sun had rolled back the stage curtain. The sky was cool and clear, heavy with the promise of another day of fine weather that put Charlie’s teeth on edge. Sun in Edinburgh at this time of year meant only one thing. Tourists. And with the High Court sitting across the road from St Giles’ Cathedral on the Mile, that meant he’d have to dodge clumps of the camera-wielding, chattering idiots on his way. He sighed. A small price to pay.

He left the flat and started to walk into town. It would take him about an hour and it was uphill all the way, but Charlie enjoyed the time, and the chance to put his thoughts in order. By the time he reached the court, he would be warmed up and ready for action.

He headed up North Junction Street, passing a pub that was already open for business. Caught a whiff of stale beer and old cigarette smoke cut with the harsh tang of cheap whisky and thought, as he always did, of his dad. Slumped in his chair in the living room, beer belly spilling over his trousers after it was released from the prison of his starched uniform shirt, jacket and hat discarded on the dining table at the back of the room. PC Edward Montgomery. Local bobby and pillar of the community. Lousy father, insipid adulterer and alcoholic. He had died three years ago, a massive stroke taking him out of the confused misery of dementia he had lived in for the last fifteen years. Charlie wished he had lived a little longer. He hadn’t suffered enough.

Reaching the top of Leith Walk, Charlie kept climbing, passing St James Centre on his right and then turning along Princes Street, which was, as ever, choked with buses, taxis and cars. He turned left at Princes Street Gardens, just as a tram slid by, already busy with commuters. Charlie watched it for a moment. He had fought against the trams, taken the council to court over them, commented in the stories that decried them as “Edinburgh’s shame” and “Capital’s billion-pound folly”. And yet, now that they were running, they were an accepted, even grudgingly loved, part of life in Edinburgh. They were busy every day, and there was even talk now of finishing what had been started and extending the line all the way down to Leith. Charlie smiled. Let them. It would clear the streets for him in the morning and, who knows, there might be a few cases in it for him as well.

He walked down to Market Street then turned up as if his destination was the Mound, heading for the News Steps that cut up the hill and led to the back of the court. He was heading for the small café that sat on the side street beside the court. It was a rarity in Edinburgh for two reasons – it wasn’t a high street chain and it served food that was actually fresh and not vacuum-packed. Charlie took the stairs two at a time, mentally putting the finishing touches to Kevin Malcolm’s defence. He smiled slightly, pleased by his plan to use “psychological trauma” and the stupid little shit’s drug problems as justifications for his actions. It wouldn’t get him off, but it would hopefully cut time served. Which Charlie would take as a victory.

So what if a violent little ned with anger management issues was back on the streets early? He would win the case. And that was all that mattered.

He was so engrossed that he almost didn’t see the figure on the landing about halfway up the staircase, where it twisted around to follow the contour of the hill. Swaddled in a dirty blanket and backed into the corner with head down to their knees, he had almost thought it was a pile of rubbish in front of him. He moved to the other side of the stairs to avoid any pleas for change and bounded to the landing, reached out to put his hand on the rail to steady himself before launching himself onto the last flight of stairs and…

The agony was sudden and complete, flashing through him as though the handrail had been electrified. He looked down, eyes bulging with incomprehension at the knife that had been plunged into the top of his hand. He staggered back as he reflexively tried to pull his hand away, felt blackness rush in as a fresh wave of cold agony lanced up his arm as the blade ground against bone. A hot, clammy hand clamped around his throat and squeezed, throttling his scream and making his eyes bulge in air-starved terror as steely fingers dug into his windpipe.

“Hi Charlie,” a shrill voice whispered in his ear, hot with hatred and breathless with effort and excitement. “Nice to see you again after all this time. Got a wee message for you.”

The fingers dug into Charlie’s windpipe more forcefully as the knife was wrenched free from his hand in a rocking, twisting motion, the sound of bones splintering echoing in his ears.

A sharp kick to the back of the knees buckled his legs, and he felt crushing weight as his attacker bore down on him and forced him to the ground. A sudden moment of freedom as the figure backed off. Charlie hugged his ruined hand close to him, hot blood plastering his shirt to his chest, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Wha…?” he croaked through his ruined throat, the effort excruciating. “Wha…?”

The kick whipped his head back, dark stars exploding in front of his eyes as blood flew from his nose in a spattering arc. He fell backwards, crying out as he hit the cold stone stairs. Soft laughter in front of him. Taunting.

Pain exploded in his midsection, white and flaring, as a boot was driven into his stomach. He gasped, choking and gagging, eyes bulging in terror as blood roared in his ears and he tried to breathe with lungs that felt like deflated balloons. The next kick was harder, his attacker grunting with effort. He screamed through blood-stained teeth as he felt a rib snap like a brittle twig.

“Wh…” he gasped, tongue jabbing against jagged stumps of broken teeth as he tried to speak, his breathing a ragged hiss. “Wh… why are…?”

A face suddenly filled his blurring, dimming vision. A nightmare leering at him from the past, carrying rational thought away with it on a crushing tide of terror and panic.

“Here’s the message,” the nightmare whispered, holding up a glinting object and rolling it in the weak morning light. “Hope you like it.”

Something cold was jammed into Charlie’s mouth, blunt needles of pain gouging into his gums as it clattered off his ruined teeth. More punches now, driving the last air from his chest as the darkness rushed in and wrapped itself around him like a warm blanket. Charlie dove for it, feeling the pain ebb, replaced by cool numbness as he drifted…

…drifted…

Pain screamed from his scalp as his head was wrenched back by the hair and he was dragged back to his knees. A bolt of scalding ice lanced across his throat and he clawed for it instinctively. Blood erupted from the wound in a torrent, spattering the walls and the dirty concrete. The world began to list and sway, almost as if he was on a boat at high tide. He was looking back down the stairs he had just come up, the stairs that led all the way down to Market Street.

And suddenly he was flying. Tumbling head over heels, bones snapping and disintegrating as he hit the stairs and bounced. On the landing above, the nightmare watched with cold amusement.

He came to rest about three quarters of the way down, legs and arms jutting out at unnatural angles, blood from the stab wounds to his chest starting to glisten as it seeped into the dark material of his perfectly tailored suit.

The nightmare bounded down to him, checked briefly for a pulse. Found a weak one thrumming in his ruined neck.

“Fra… Frankie…” Charlie coughed around the object in his mouth, blood spilling from what was left of his lips.

“Yes, Charlie, that’s right. Frankie,” the nightmare whispered.

The knife was driven into Charlie’s brain just at the temple, a quick, sudden stab, the sound of a dozen eggs being cracked at once. He made a grunting snort then collapsed forward – air driven from his lungs in a wheeze as his body hit the concrete and bounced slightly. He twitched once, weakly, then was still, the smell of shit rising into the air as his bowels gave way, mingling with the sound of soft, contented laughter.