TWENTY-SEVEN

McCoy could feel Connolly’s breath against his check, smell it. Smelt like something rotten, dead. He couldn’t move, forehead scraping against a cracked tile on the wall. Felt a punch in his side, another, and Connolly pressed his head harder into the tiles. McCoy tried to kick out backwards, make contact with something, a leg, anything. Was hitting air.

Connolly hissed in his ear. ‘Think yourself lucky you only got spat in the face or you’d be getting worse than this.’

Smell of him was revolting. McCoy tried to struggle. Sickeningly he could feel that Connolly had a hard-on, could feel it pressing into his back. Then he was in his ear again.

‘You dirty little fucker, you’re going to get what’s coming.’

McCoy managed to move his head slightly, get his face off the wall. ‘Get off, you cunt!’

Connolly laughed, punched him again. ‘It’s the ones like you I enjoy. Ones that start off like big men and end up peeing their drawers and crying for their mammy. And believe me, McCoy, you’re going to cry.’

Another punch and McCoy tried to cry out. His whole side felt like it was on fire. He could hear the jukebox outside in the pub, someone laughing. All seemed very far away. Tile was cutting into his skin, could feel blood running into his eye. Knew he was in trouble, visions of Charlie Jackson on the roof.

Then the noise of the door opening behind him and a surprised-sounding voice. ‘What the fuck’s going on here?’

Felt a sharp pain down his side and the hand grabbed his neck, pulled it back and smashed his face off the wall again. He fell down, half in, half out the trough, turned in time to catch a glimpse of the back of a bald head and a razor being lifted then brought down on the face of the old man standing at the toilet door.

The man’s face opened, a sheet of blood appearing.

Connolly turned back to him, grinned, drew his finger across his neck. ‘I’ll see you later, McCoy. I’m nowhere near finished with you yet.’ Stepped over the old man and the growing puddle of blood and disappeared out the door.

McCoy tried to stand up, didn’t feel good, put his hand on the tiled floor to try and steady himself and it slid in the warm blood covering the floor. The old man was on the ground, hands up at his face. The door closed and McCoy was left lying there in his own piss and blood. He scrambled to his feet and wobbled into the wall, looked down. Blood soaking through his shirt.

The door half opened. A woman’s voice. ‘Willie? You okay in there?’

‘Help us,’ said McCoy. ‘Help.’

*

Susan was sitting at the kitchen table when he got in, notepads and books spread all over it. He leant over and kissed the back of her neck. Put the four cans of Export down on the table.

‘Someone smells like they’ve been to the pub already,’ she said and looked up.

‘Jesus, Harry! What happened?’

He had stitches in his eyebrow, a burst lip and a pyjama top from A&E on under his coat. He sat down on the couch, winced in pain. ‘I’m okay, honest.’

But he wasn’t, not by a long shot. Tried to look better than he felt. Smiled.

Susan was beside him, staring at his face. ‘Okay? Then why are you sitting funny? Why have you got bloody pyjamas on? Harry? Harry?’

He held his hand up. ‘Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.’

He eased his coat off. ‘Gonnae help me get these pyjamas off?’

She moved in, unbuttoned them and gingerly eased the top over his arms. ‘Oh, Harry.’ She looked like she was about to cry.

‘It looks worse than it is. Honest,’ he said, lying.

He’d a bandage wrapped round his torso, specks of blood showing through it already. Twelve stitches underneath them. A razor slash across his ribs. Would have been a heck of a lot worse if he hadn’t been wearing a jumper under his jacket. They weren’t sure what the ‘punches’ he’d felt were but they weren’t punches, more like hits from a cosh, something heavy. Two cracked ribs and black and blue bruises around his body.

Susan peered at the bandage. ‘What happened?’

He was too sore and too tired to explain it tonight. ‘Got hit by a car coming out of Macintosh’s. My fault. Wasn’t looking where I was going. Was just a bump. I’ll be fine in the morning.’

‘Christ, Harry, you’re a bloody idiot. You had me worried.’ She stood up. ‘All that and you went to the off sales on the way home?’

He tried a smile. ‘Knew we’d finished the Red Leb. Needed some kind of anaesthetic.’

She shook her head. ‘Bed. Now.’

He was about to protest then realised how tired he was. Bed suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Took a bit of manoeuvring and a lot of moans and groans to get him in there. Eventually he was in and propped up on the pillows. Susan reappeared with two aspirins, some sleeping pill she’d found and a couple of cans of the beer.

‘Here,’ she said. ‘These might help you sleep.’ Got in beside him.

He tried not to groan as she snuggled in to his side. He opened the can, covered the top with his mouth as it foamed up and took a drink, swallowed over the pills. ‘You go and see Cooper?’

‘Oh yes, had quite the afternoon.’

‘How come? He tell you stuff?’

‘Told me stuff and had a smile on his face when he did it.’ She looked up him. ‘Do you know what he does?’

He nodded.

‘And you’re still friendly with him?’

McCoy sighed. Had a feeling this was going to happen.

‘I’ve known him for twenty years. He’s like a brother—’

‘A brother who ruins women’s lives.’

McCoy reached for his fags on the bedside table. ‘You asked me to speak to someone in the vice game. All info for the dissertation. What did you think he was going to be like?’

‘I didn’t think he would be so unrepentant. So fucking proud of himself.’

‘You’re a good-looking girl, he’s just showing off.’

He lit up, could feel the sleeping pill and the beer starting to work. Didn’t let on they’d already dosed him at the hospital.

‘You’re not taking this seriously,’ she said. ‘He’s a monster.’

He shrugged. This wasn’t an argument he wanted to have. Especially not tonight.

‘You don’t even care, do you?’ she asked.

He tried to sound even, take the sting out of things. ‘I thought I was doing you a favour. Among other things, Cooper is a pimp, no better or no worse than the rest of them. Unless the entire vice trade disappears tomorrow there will always be people like him—’

‘Men like him.’

‘Men like him who’ll run prostitutes. I can’t stop that.’

‘Or even try. All boys together, aren’t you?’

He’d tried, but now he was getting angry. ‘Fuck sake, Susan, give me a break. I’m not the bloody enemy here.’

‘You sure about that?’

There was silence for a minute. He lay back on the pillows. ‘Look, I’m going to go to sleep. I’m tired, and I’m in pain. I think if we keep going we’ll both say things we don’t really mean. But if you really think I’m the enemy then you’re wrong.’

He woke up a couple of hours later. Side was too sore to really sleep. Rain battering against the window. He turned over in the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position, and Susan was looking at him.

‘You’re awake,’ he said.

She nodded.

‘You okay?’

‘You’re not the enemy, Harry. I’m sorry.’

She cuddled into him and laid her head on his chest. He closed his eyes. Pretended to go back to sleep.