The blindfold came off. I blinked. The world forced itself into focus. Purple and grey spots bounced around like blobs of wax in a lava lamp. Shapes slowly formed an odd coherence.
I blinked again.
The room was small. Dull walls. Unvarnished floorboards. You wouldn’t walk around barefoot. A bare bulb in the ceiling, its wiring exposed at the root, cast a harsh light. I had been placed in a plastic bucket chair. Made me think of school; long, hot afternoons in a class that never ended. I didn’t want to think about what lessons they might want to teach me here.
A man stood before me, arms crossed. Trying to look like he meant business. Except his forehead was gently sweating and you could see his fingers twitching. This was not a natural hardman. This was a wannabe. He was about twenty-five or twenty-six years old, dressed in blue jeans and a black T-shirt with the white Nike swoop on the left side.
‘Awright, Slick.’
I said, ‘Craig Nairn?’
He nodded. ‘Mr McNee.’
‘Showing respect,’ I said. ‘Good move. Pity you didn’t think of that earlier.’
He shook his head. ‘You’re a pain in the arse, you know that?’
‘It’s been said. By better than you.’
‘Funny man, too. Great. Been a while since I’ve talked to a funny man.’ He leaned forward. ‘Know what I do to funny men?’
‘Write them a cheque and send them on their way?’
He turned away from me. I tried to look round the room again, get a better sense of where I was. Might have once been an office. Maybe we were in an old garage or office block on an industrial estate. Or just a back room somewhere. Hard to say. The details were too anonymous. The room too enclosed. As though nothing existed beyond its four walls.
All I could say for certain was that there was no way I was going to get a punch in with Mr Nairn. Not with the two bruisers from Gemma Fairstead’s kitchen standing on either side of me.
We’d arrived by car. Leather seats. Quiet engine. Good driver, too. The turns had been smooth, barely noticeable. Out of the car, they walked me up steps. We had gone inside. I could tell by the echoes of noise around me that we were in an enclosed space. Gave up counting around thirty-two steps. The steps had been uneven. My guide had practically dragged me up them. Part of the reason I lost count. What all this told me was simple: this building was old. Out of the way. Empty. Maybe not even within the city limits.
Nairn said, ‘You’re in over your head, Slick. But you did your best to save the life of my … friends … That cunt Gaske was the one who killed them. So I’m offering you the chance to walk away. Now. With your life. This has nothing to do with you. No need to worry about whatever it is the old bastard’s holding over your head.’ He leaned in. ‘Because no one works for him willingly. Am I right?’
‘Care to tell me why?’
‘Why I’d let you live?’
‘I’m not as smart as I look.’
‘Don’t piss me about, McNee. That kind of shite might work with the old man, but I’m all about business. Keep It Simple, Stupid.’ He seemed to have a bit of trouble remembering the acronym. Like someone else had taught it to him. His speech had the air of having been written by someone else. The words sounded unnatural coming out of his mouth, like an accented computer reciting words learned by rote. The sounds were there, but the intention was missing.
‘Meaning?’
‘The goal is the thing. You get there by any means necessary.’
‘Including killing innocents?’
‘Robert Burns wasn’t innocent.’
‘He wasn’t part of your war with the old man.’
‘He was the old man’s blood. Killing him got the fucking message over, aye?’
I’m not sure Nairn knew the kind of message he’d really sent.
‘And Gemma Fairstead?’
‘She … came highly recommended …’ He hesitated. Wouldn’t turn to look at me. But something in his stance gave away his nerves. He was talking the talk, but didn’t seem like he could walk the walk. Didn’t have the spine for it.
Made me wonder if he really was as deadly as the old man thought. Or if this was all an act. He didn’t seem like a criminal mastermind on paper. In real life the effect was dulled even further. I had the feeling that the two hard men on either side of me would eat Nairn for their breakfast.
What was his secret?
‘But …?’ I needed him to open up. He was questioning me, but I knew I could turn it round, get some answers of my own.
For all the good it would do me.
The chances of me walking out of this room alive were slim. Even if I did agree to Nairn’s terms. Whoever was pulling his strings probably didn’t want a loose end out there to be tugged on. And I would be a very loose string indeed.
‘But …’ Nairn hesitated. Either forgetting what he was going to say or going for dramatic effect. He turned, gave me the full on evil-bastard look. But it was a child playing at evil. The squinty-eyes. The attitude-adjust in the shoulders. But I’d met enough evil bastards in my time to know when someone was play-acting. In his own way, Nairn was like Robert – don’t call me Rabbie – Burns. A wee boy playing in the big lad’s playground.
He said, ‘She knew too much. Sooner or later Burns would make the connection. He’s got the nous.’
‘He’s got me. It wasn’t tough finding her.’
He wasn’t about to let me get in the way of his little game. He had something to say. Something he’d been told to say. And he was going to say it. No deviations. No improvisations. ‘And before he killed her, he’d make sure she gave him my name.’
No, this didn’t make sense at all. Craig Nairn was saying all the right things. Just not in the right tone of voice.
Who was he? Really?
‘And what about me?’ I asked.
‘You’re going to deliver a message to David Burns.’
‘Aye? And what’s that?’
‘No one is safe, Mr McNee. No one. The old man’s days are done. He’s faded. Past it. Clapped out. Fucked.’
‘You’re the new king of the world?’
‘That’s the one.’
The bruiser on my left moved behind the chair. He pinned my arms. Held me down. The other one moved in front of me. Grinned.
I knew what was coming.
Tried to relax. The more you tense yourself, the worse it hurts.