Iain walked along the street, keeping close to the back wall of the houses, his face down. His chest felt heavy. He was breathing as if he had stones in there. He could almost hear his ribs straining apart to inflate his lungs. A car drove past him slowly, a 4x4, black, old and boxy. He scratched his forehead, covering his face. Mark didn’t like them coming to the house but Iain had no option.
He saw Mark’s gate up ahead. High steel gates with a door cut in one. Iain knew he was being watched. Two bulbous cameras were placed high on the garden walls, each giving a 180-degree view of the street. He’d been inside a couple of times and Mark made a deal of showing how impenetrable the house was. Iain thought Mark probably showed the camera room and security sensors to everyone so they’d tell each other and word would get about.
As he approached the gates, the inset door sagged on its hinges. He pushed it open and stepped through.
A bricked forecourt with a triple garage to the left, small outbuildings to the right. One of the buildings was full of weight-lifting equipment. Mark didn’t lift weights. Maybe he had meant to when he had the room designed and built, Iain didn’t know, but he liked to show the guys the room and the en suite sauna. It was a big sauna, for eight people. Mark had it built but he never seemed to have used it. The bench still looked a bit skelfy.
Wee Paul stepped out of the far-away outhouse. ‘What you doing here?’ His voice was comically high but no one laughed about it because he was a good guy and reportedly quite handy. Iain had never seen him hit anyone but that was his rep.
Iain walked over and glanced at Paul’s ‘Yes’ wristband. ‘What you doing wearing that?’
Paul shrugged and smiled. ‘Not here, is he?’
They went back in. It was a small room, freshly plastered and floored, but bare. The only things in it were a chair and a table with a large computer monitor on it, showing feeds from all the cameras around the property. A separate monitor showed the sensor net as an abstract of red lines, all unbroken.
It was very cold. The walls on these old building could be a foot thick. Cold seeped in through the plasterboard and varnished black floor tiles.
Paul shut the door firmly and turned to looked at Iain. He nodded at Iain’s chest, asking if he had a microphone on him.
Reluctant and annoyed, Iain took his jumper and T-shirt off, dropped them on the table and undid his belt and zip, letting his jeans slide to his ankles. He held his hands up so Paul could give him a good look-over.
‘Mobile?’
‘Left it at home.’
Paul looked at him, sceptical. There was something a bit gay about standing there in his Ys while Paul examined him. Maybe it was because the room was small and they were quite close together. Maybe it was that Wee Paul only came to Iain’s nipples, or that they were alone, but it felt a bit gay and they were both glad when it was over. Paul gave him the nod and Iain pulled his trousers up. He picked his T-shirt and jumper up and put them back on, enjoying the residual warmth clinging to his clothes.
‘So?’ said Paul.
Iain pinched his nose. ‘Sorted that thing out.’
‘We know,’ said Paul. ‘You don’t need to come here and tell me that.’
‘Listen,’ said Iain, ‘I sorted that thing out.’ He thumbed to the house. ‘Said Murray Ray’s clear if I did. And I did.’
Paul, assuming they were being taped by someone, somewhere, held his hands out and shrugged, humming a prompt at him to continue.
‘Murray met a friend of ours yesterday. He’s concerned. But it’s clear.’
Paul nodded at the floor. He nodded at the screen. He looked at Iain. ‘We’ll sort this out… ’ and he thumbed at the house, meaning when Mark gets back.
‘Sort it out’ meant Mark would have to intervene. ‘Sort it out’ meant it wasn’t yet decided whether Murray was in the clear.
‘T.’ Iain looked paranoically around the room. He shouldn’t have said that and Paul eyed him a warning. Iain nodded. He knew he’d broken a rule. He held his hands out in front of him, as if measuring a yard of Tommy. ‘Was outside the Sailors’.’
Paul pretended not to understand the significance of that. ‘It’s a wee town. People go places.’
‘Deliberate.’ Iain was getting desperate.
Paul shrugged. ‘Well… ’ He wasn’t going to discuss it any more. Iain knew he could see how desperate he was, how tired and fucked up he was. Paul nearly smiled and that sealed it.
In defiance of the unseen audience Iain grabbed the neck of Paul’s hoodie, twisting it into a knot to get traction, and pulled him onto his tiptoes so that his ear was touching Iain’s lips. ‘I cleared it. I did it and cleared it.’ And then he let go, slowly lowering Wee Paul back to his feet.
Now, Wee Paul relished being a hard man. In truth he had nothing else going for him. He didn’t have Iain’s looks or Tommy’s brains or Mark’s skills in upholstery. He was small and his voice was high and he wasn’t even good at football or snooker. He had nothing to give him status but his status so the slight of being picked up by a big scary man stung in a way it wouldn’t have hurt a bigger man and this made him reckless.
He raised himself to his tiptoes, aware of the diminishing nature of the stance, and whispered in Iain’s ear: ‘T’s saying he done the thing.’
He stood back down and watched Iain for a reaction. Iain shook his head. ‘No.’
Paul raised his arms and tipped his head to the side. It was out of his hands. They’d just have to wait until Mark got back and sorted it all out.
‘No,’ insisted Iain.
Paul shrugged again, hands out, asking Iain what he expected him to do about it? One man’s word against the other. Who the fuck knew?
Iain pointed to an empty bit of floor, indicating a third party.
‘Lying.’ He touched his chest. ‘’S clear.’ He made a fist and showed the flat knuckles on the outside to Wee Paul. ‘Anything happens before… ’
Wee Paul looked at the wall of knuckles and Iain could see he was scared. Paul looked at Iain and nodded.
‘Sort it out.’
Paul thumbed the house. They’d sort it out when Mark got back. ‘Day after tomorrow.’
‘Seven fifteen?’
‘Course. Only one flight a day. Still going tonight?’
‘Going where?’
‘Dinner dance. Vicky halls.’
Mark had ordered them to go. Paul was asking Iain if he was in or out of Mark’s team. ‘I’m going. Of course I’m going.’
‘Ye better go home and wash. Starts in a couple of hours.’
‘Aye.’ Iain was breathing heavily again. He should say something back. ‘You getting?’
‘Aye,’ said Wee Paul. ‘I’m getting to go. I’ll see ye there.’
‘Paul, bud, I’d lose the wristband.’
Paul glanced down. ‘Everyone knows I am anyway.’
‘Except Mark.’
Paul shrugged and waved him out.
Iain stepped out of the small door in the gate and walked back along the way he had come. Tommy must have met Paul, maybe in the street, more likely at the Snooker Q. He must have met him and told him straight to his face that he, Tommy, did the thing. Or else he’d done it more subtly. Implied it. Let it be implied. Either way it was a fucking outrage.
Iain had suspected that Tommy might be a bit of a prick but he didn’t honestly think he would take credit for another man’s work. It was contemptible. He’d chin him about it at the dance, in front of Wee Paul, and then everyone would know. Arsehole.