Robert Burns.
Aye, who said the old man’s family didn’t have culture running through their veins? Or a sense of humour?
Call him Rabbie, though, and all you’d get was a cold stare and the feeling he’d like to rip out your spine and smack you across the face with it.
He was in his late twenties, ran a limo hire company in Edinburgh. Traded a little on the notoriety of his family name, although his father famously had as little to do with his brother as possible, and his sister refused to have the old man’s name even mentioned in the family home.
Remembering that David Burns called himself a ‘family man’.
Whatever, that notorious uncle probably fascinated young Robert when he was growing up. In our hearts, we’re all fascinated by rogues. It’s why we keep perpetuating those myths about girls loving bad boys or men secretly desiring to be trouble-makers and lawbreakers.
He climbed in the back of the car and we made eye contact in the rear-view. He pushed his glasses up his nose. I hadn’t expected the glasses. Made him look less like a would-be gangster and more a trainee accountant. ‘You look as though you’ve at least read a few books.’
‘One or two. They had pictures, though.’
‘Can’t stand books myself,’ he said. ‘Novels … what the fuck’s the point reading about something that never happened?’
I didn’t say anything.
‘Hey, man, lighten the fuck up!’ He rubbed his fingers along the bridge between his upper lip and his nose. As though checking for something there. He was just getting over a bad cold, or he’d just dumped his face into a mountain of flour, still hadn’t quite got it all off his face. I figured even money.
He was an unassuming man, round about the belly, and with the kind of face that would start to sag in middle age. He’d probably end up looking a little like David Cameron or the lead from Midsomer Murders. In his head, he probably figured himself for Robert De Niro’s double. De Niro in his box-office ruling hey-day, naturally.
Something about this assignment felt like a punishment. Maybe Burns had started to cotton on to something approaching the truth, was trying to keep me out the way until he could ascertain the truth of his own suspicions.
What I had done to Findo was a mistake. I knew that. No matter if Findo talked or not, Burns would know he couldn’t trust me when push came to shove. Maybe he’d always suspected that. Everyone has lines they won’t cross.
I can live with the deaths of those who deserve it.
But there are limits.
Robert gave me an address in the city centre. I set off, doing the whole limo driver bit, not making conversation unless he started it, ensuring I kept my tone disinterested at best. Burns didn’t want me to be his nephew’s best friend. He just needed to ensure that no one messed with the lad. Robert Burns believed himself to be a hard man. His uncle wasn’t so sure.
As I drove, Robert checked his phone in the back seat. Texting. Glasses reflecting the glow of the tiny screen, obscuring his features.
When we arrived, I waited in the car. The address was residential. New build apartments. I offered to check the lay of the land. He laughed it off. ‘Anyone who wants my uncle won’t come through me. Not here. Who gives a fuck about me here?’
Maybe. Maybe not. But from the little I knew about Robert Burns, he’d made a few efforts to follow in his uncle’s footsteps over in Lothian. The limo business was good, but intelligence pointed towards drivers dealing en route and a few less than legal fares being taken without question.
When he came back, he had a girl with him. Couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Dark hair, red dress, good legs. Dressed in the kind of heels that meant she had to lean on Robert for support. The way they walked, I figured they knew each other. Or at least had got intimate over the last few minutes. All power to him working so fast and looking so ordinary.
From the back of the car, Robert introduced the girl to me. Her name was Eileen. She laughed, and I could hear from the birdlike chirp that she was already a little tipsy. ‘You don’t have a first name?’
‘Not that I like to use, no.’
She laughed at that. ‘Like Mulder.’
I started the engine.
She said it again. ‘Like Mulder. Fox Mulder. X-Files. Didn’t like his first name, either.’
I said, ‘I can understand.’
In the rear-view, Robert had this look I recognized, wondering why the girl was talking to me and not him. Probably best, then, that I stayed quiet.
As I drove, I got more of a feel for this man. Robert Burns liked to think he worked and played hard. He liked girls in red dresses who smelled of cheap perfume. His idea of a night out was meeting old friends at the club that used to be known as the Mardi Gras.
More commonly called, the Manky Bra.
The club had been a real meat market. I’d been in once or twice during my last few years of school, when it was still cool to sneak into the clubs. Then later, when I was working the late beat as a copper. It hadn’t seemed much different either way. The unholy trinity of too loud, too crowded, too hot. People getting pissed and aggressive.
The more things change, the more they … aye, well, we all know how that one goes. The place hadn’t changed too much in the years since I’d last dared go inside. Despite the brand new name and the interior redesign.
On the floor, the music had a physical presence. It thrummed through your bones, set your teeth chattering. So loud, it bent the room. Distorted the world around you.
Made me sick to my stomach.
Before we went in, Robert asked if maybe I could hang back a bit. He didn’t want anyone asking questions. He was just some guy out with friends for the night. Kicking back, listening to some tunes, downing a few drinks. Like anyone else. He told me that he didn’t want anyone to give a fuck that he was David Burns’s nephew. Assured me that no one even knew. Probably.
Part of me was inclined to agree. I’d been given this gig to sideline me for a while. Keep me out of the old man’s hair. Such as he had left. Burns wasn’t sure he could trust me. He wanted me where I could do the least damage.
Watching his nephew playing at being a gangster for the night was the very definition of busywork.
And the lad really was playing at gangster. Coming out to places like this, dancing with girls in red dresses who were pissed before they even got out their own front door. Swanning into clubs like he owned the place. And every time he went to the bathroom, I knew it wasn’t just for a piss. But my job wasn’t to monitor his drug intake. I had to make sure that he was safe.
I hung around the edges of the dancefloor. Sipped at never ending water bottles and ignored anyone who tried to talk to me. My eyes always on Robert Burns and his ever-growing crowd.
There were four of them at first, with more gathering round their orbit as the evening went on. They grabbed a bunch of sofas and lounged out.
No one seemed to bother them.
No one bothered me.
Maybe I looked like a bouncer.
Maybe I just looked boring.
‘Home, James!’
‘Whose home?’
‘Mine.’
‘Right.’
‘You can’t come up.’
I was already pulling out. ‘Sure.’
‘He’s got to wait outside?’
‘It’s my job.’
‘Like you have a butler!’ That laugh again. Guess good legs and a red dress made up for a lot in the world of Robert Burns.
I kept my eyes on the road. They shut up in the back seat. I considered telling them to put their seatbelts on, but what did I care. I caught flashes of their activity in the rear view, easily resisted the urge to perv. There are some people you just don’t want to see getting off, and Robert Burns was one of them. His companion might have been able to pull off attractive when half sober, but sloshed and uncoordinated she just looked plain daft.
Then again, most people lose their dignity in the throes of passion. Throw drink into the mix, and you’re laughing.
As she unlocked the door to her place, Robert came back, leaned in against the driver’s side window. ‘So, like, what are you going to do?’
‘I’ve got plans.’
‘Aye?’
‘Oh, aye.’
He gave me a wink, trotted off after the girl in the red dress.
I waited until they were inside, switched on the stereo, sat back and let loose a long sigh. Then, I pulled the battered paperback from the glove compartment. The Killing of the Tinkers.
Jim White drawled from the speakers. I lost myself in the book, amid the dirt and sleaze of a noir-tinged Galway.
Forgot about my life.
For a little while.