TWENTY-TWO

McCoy was looking at the papers laid out on the big round John Menzies kiosks when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and Stevie Cooper was standing there.

‘Did you no see me waving at you?’

‘Nope.’

No wonder he hadn’t, he could hardly bloody recognise him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him without his red Harrington jacket and jeans, even the blond quiff was gone. His hair looked darker, fact that it had been plastered down with Brylcreem no doubt helping. Umbro duffel bag over his shoulder.

McCoy stepped back and looked at him properly. ‘I didn’t even know you had a suit.’

‘I’ve plenty,’ said Cooper. ‘Never wear them.’

‘Hate to say it but you look quite good in it, sort of grown-up.’

‘Fuck off!’ said Cooper. ‘I look like every other bugger, which is the main idea.’

He stepped out the way as the tannoy announced the five fifteen to Greenock and the crowd surged towards the platform.

‘You fit?’ he asked.

McCoy nodded. ‘As I’ll ever be.’

They turned and made their way through the crowded station, down past the clacking departure boards, out by the taxis and onto Hope Street. The rain was back on, a light drizzle blurring the streetlights.

McCoy stopped for a second, lit up. ‘How the fuck are we going to do this without being caught? Place is gonnae be full of coppers, most of who I probably know.’

‘No, it’s not,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s full of families staying there and businessmen and people who’ve come to see the fight. No fucker’s going to notice us.’ He looked at McCoy. ‘You sure you want to do this? If you’re worried, I can do it myself, keep you out of it.’

‘No fucking way,’ said McCoy, sounding more emphatic than he felt. ‘I’m in.’

The foyer of the Albany was a large double-height room, pale carpet stretching as far as the eye could see. Sets of armchairs and wee tables dotted round, potted plants against the light blue walls. There were people bustling around the front desk, checking in. Could see a couple of guys erecting the boxing ring through the half-open door to the ballroom. McCoy kept his head down, made for the house phone, while Cooper stared at a copy of Atlantic Crossing framed on the wall, picture of Rod Stewart with his arm round the hotel manager beneath it.

McCoy picked up the phone and a woman answered.

‘The Albany Hotel. Moira speaking. How can I help you?’

‘Could you put me through to Mr Burgess? I think he’s in room . . . God, I just spoke to him, my mind’s like a sieve.’

‘Three-three-four?’

‘That’s it. Thanks.’

‘Putting you through now.’

A click and then the noise of a phone ringing. He let it ring twenty or so times in case he was in the shower. No reply. McCoy put the phone back in its cradle. Swore under his breath.

‘What do we do now?’ asked McCoy, joining Cooper under the picture.

‘We could check the bar, but what if someone sees you?’ said Cooper.

‘Murray said he’s a Holy Roller. He’ll no be in the bar. Fuck . . .’ He stood there for a second trying to think. Realised he could smell something. Chlorine.

‘Smell that? Now where would you be right now if you were good old Uncle Kenny?’

Cooper sniffed, smiled. Looked round, saw a sign for the swimming pool. ‘This way.’

Down a corridor, through some doors, and there it was. They stood at the big window overlooking the pool, didn’t take long to see him. He was sitting on the edge of the pool, podgy body in tight blue swimming trunks. He looked a lot older, black hair greyish now. His burly frame had gone slack, run to fat. But it was him all right.

McCoy could suddenly remember the way he smelled, sweat barely covered by talcum powder. He went to get his fags, realised his hand was shaking, put it in his pocket before Cooper could see.

Wasn’t hard to see why he was there. Two women in robes were sitting on the loungers at the side of the pool chatting. Three wee boys in their trunks splashing and laughing in the shallow end in front of them as Uncle Kenny looked on.

McCoy backed away from the glass. Managed to take his eyes off Uncle Kenny, looked at Cooper. He had that look on his face that meant danger: eyes far away, mouth set. Right hand tightened into a fist.

‘Stevie?’ Nothing. He tried again. ‘Stevie? You okay?’

Cooper turned away from the window. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait for him in the room.’

*

They took the stairs to the third floor, less chance of seeing someone they knew than the lift. McCoy had a sick feeling in his stomach, wasn’t sure if it was from seeing Uncle Kenny after all these years or because of what he was about to do. Cooper wasn’t talking, just looked angry. McCoy’d seen what he could do when he was in a mood like that before, wouldn’t want to be Uncle Kenny for all the money in the world.

The bedroom lock didn’t put up much resistance. Was easy enough to open with the set of wee picks Cooper had in his bag. A quick jiggle in the keyhole and they were in. The room was large, big window with a white net curtain over it, two double beds, one with an open holdall sitting on it. White shirt and dress uniform hanging on the handle of the wardrobe, Alistair MacLean paperback open on the bedside table. Mothercare catalogue. Took McCoy a moment to realise why that was there.

Cooper held his bag open and McCoy took out one of the balaclavas and put it on. Why they were there abruptly became real. McCoy had no doubts about what they were going to do, Joe Brady and his own memories made sure of that, but he felt odd, like he was suddenly on the wrong side.

He sat down on the bed, could see himself and Cooper in the mirror. Looked kind of scary and kind of stupid with their balaclavas on in all this chintzy niceness. The point, really. Cooper reached into the bag again. Pulled out a wool sock with two billiard balls in it, handed it to McCoy.

They waited. Didn’t take long. Sound of someone whistling ‘Little Baby Bunting’, then the noise of a key in the lock and Uncle Kenny opened the door. Stopped. Looked at McCoy on the bed, trying to work out what was happening, and in that couple of seconds Cooper grabbed him round the neck, pulled him into the room and wrestled him to the floor.

‘What are you—’

Was all he got out before McCoy stuffed a facecloth he’d got from the bathroom into Uncle Kenny’s mouth. Cooper swung the sock above his head and brought it down into his face. Uncle Kenny’s nose burst in a cloud of blood. He looked surprised, like he still didn’t know what was going on, then the pain hit and his face screwed up as he tried to scream through the balled-up facecloth.

McCoy wasn’t sure he was going to be able to hit him, seemed too clinical, until he saw the signet ring on his finger. Remembered it on Uncle Kenny’s hand as he reached round the back of his head, pushed it down. ‘On you go, son, don’t be scared.’

And then he was up off the bed and kicking at Uncle Kenny’s body. And then he was punching and then he was swinging the billiard balls in the sock and Cooper was shouting at him to stop and he kept swinging the sock and kicking and hitting and hitting and hitting . . .

He could feel Cooper trying to pull him away, hear him screaming at him. He shrugged him off, brought the sock and the heavy balls down on Uncle Kenny’s left hand, heard the snap of fingers. Raised it above his head to bring it down again and Cooper pulled him harder, spun him round. Said one word: ‘Enough.’

McCoy looked down at Uncle Kenny, at the mess he was, at the blood and the broken fingers and his elbow joint the size of a grapefruit. Didn’t really know how it happened, how long it had taken. All he could really remember was seeing the signet ring and then it was black.

Cooper pulled him up. Let himself be led towards the door. Took one look back. Wave of nausea at the pool of bright red sticky blood surrounding Uncle Kenny. His towelling robe was open, soft white belly black and blue, trunks stained with blood. Cooper pushed him into the bathroom, made him wash the blood off his hands, took the balaclava off his head. Looked him in the eye.

‘What the fuck? You almost killed him!’ he hissed.

‘Sorry,’ said McCoy, but he wasn’t. Was anything but. Watched the bloody water flow down the drain in the sink. Uncle Kenny’s blood. Thought of Joe and Stevie and all the other wee boys who had been lined up in that fucking basement. Thought of himself.

Cooper looked him over, smoothed his hair down, wiped a spray of blood off his neck like a mum getting her wee boy ready to go out.

‘Don’t walk fast. Don’t draw attention to us. Just two guys who’ve had a drink heading home. Okay?’

McCoy nodded.

Cooper pulled the door open and they walked down the corridor towards the lift. Just two guys heading home.

*

They ended up in the Victoria in Partick. The two of them sat there drinking pints, not saying much. Too many memories, too much to think about. Cooper had taken his jacket and tie off, unfastened the top buttons of his shirt. Still looked uncomfortable. McCoy watched him light up, noticed he had dried blood under his nails.

He swallowed back the whisky Cooper had ordered him, wondered what his life would have been like if they’d never met. If Cooper’d never helped him survive when he was a boy. Maybe he’d be as lost as Joe Brady, living on the streets, trying to drink everything away until you couldn’t any longer.

Cooper picked up his pint, drained it. Noticed McCoy was staring at him. ‘What’s up with you?’

McCoy shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Wanker,’ said Cooper, standing up. ‘I’ll get us another pint.’

He couldn’t remember much about beating Uncle Kenny. Remembered him coming in the room, remembered Cooper getting him down on the floor, remembered seeing that fucking signet ring again, and then nothing until Cooper pulled him off, got him into the bathroom and he saw his face in the mirror. White. Saw all the blood on his hands, the spray of it on his cheek.

‘Here.’ Cooper put another couple of pints on the table, sat down. ‘Listen to me. We got in and out. Did it. No one saw us. The cunt deserved it. End of story. Don’t you sit there getting all fucking bent out of shape about it. You hear me?’

McCoy nodded.

‘Now get that pint down you.’

McCoy took a sip of his pint. Did what Stevie told him. Same as always.

He left Cooper in the pub waiting for Jumbo to turn up. Told him he was going to go and get something to eat, a fish supper. Cooper told him to pull himself together and just forget today. What was done was done. McCoy nodded, said he would.

He didn’t go to the chippie. Didn’t want anything to eat. He went to the Haddows at the bottom of his street and bought six cans and a half-bottle of whisky. Got home, took them out the bag and lined them up on the kitchen table. Got the Mandies he’d bought from the Wizard, shook three out the bottle and lined them up on the kitchen table too.

The panic was starting to rise again, the fear. What the fuck had he done? Thought he was going be sick, could see the blood on the carpet, Uncle Kenny’s broken fingers, the smell of chlorine coming off him, the bruises on his belly, the look on his face when Stevie grabbed him.

He swallowed the pills with the first can. Drank another. And another. All he wanted was to black out for a while, to not be here, to not be thinking about Uncle Kenny or the basement or the fucking signet ring. All he wanted was oblivion.

He opened the bottle of whisky, drank. Sat back on the couch. Could feel the Mandies kicking in, could feel the warmth spreading through his body, could feel the past receding like waves on a beach. He’d missed this, those druggy weekends with Angela. Feeling of letting go, letting the drugs take over. Swallowed another Mandie with the whisky.

Goodbye, Uncle Kenny. Goodbye, St Andrew’s. Goodbye to all the fucking homes he’d been left in. His eyes were closing. He could feel the whisky bottle fall out of his hand, onto the floor. Goodbye to the smell of sweat and talcum. Goodbye to . . .