Picking up a car from his brother’s garage. William’s always happy to see him. Always looking out for his little brother, without going into unnecessary details. He knows enough about what Calum does to avoid awkward questions.
‘I might need it for a while. Could even be weeks.’
William’s nodding. ‘I’ve got something you can use. Not a punter’s car, one I bought. Got it cheap. Bit of a con job really, the guy was desperate to sell, so I sort of ripped him off.’
‘Sort of?’
‘He needed the cash quick,’ William’s shrugging. ‘It’s pretty manky. I’ll need to tart her up before I sell her on.’ He’s leading Calum into his office at the back of the garage. ‘I’ll make good money from her, though.’ Closing the door behind them. ‘What sort of job leaves you needing a car that long?’ he’s asking. The concerned brother. Genuine concern.
‘Nothing that’s actually illegal,’ Calum’s saying. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t get picked up.’
‘It’s not the car I’m worried about,’ William’s saying, handing over the keys.
He didn’t ask about the hands this time. Calum went a while without seeing his mother or brother after the Davidson incident. Letting the wounds heal. The dust settle. Then he went round to his mother’s for Sunday dinner. He spun her a yarn about helping a friend with some printing. Same yarn that served so poorly with Emma. Consistency is important. His mother bought it. Never one to ask questions she might not enjoy the answer to. William was there, too. He wasn’t taken in, not for a second. He didn’t ask how it happened, he knows better, but he checked on Calum a few times. William knows the business. He’s on the outer fringes, his business making a little extra money now and then by helping out connected people. Providing cars, respraying and tagging. William probably knows Shug, has a rough idea of what’s going on. He wants his little brother out of it, mostly for their mother’s sake. Too late for that. Calum’s in too deep. William wants his brother safe, but he can’t stop helping him. Giving him vehicles when he needs them, no matter the risk. Never charging a penny. Always the brother.
Sitting outside an old man’s house in a car that smells dubious. Spying on one of the few people you respect. The tedium of the watch. Sitting watching a front door that doesn’t open. Halfway along the street. Far enough not to stand out. Far enough that there’s minimal risk of Frank spotting Calum. He should know he’s being watched. An old hand like Frank, he should guess he has a tail. Obvious that a guy like Jamieson will take every precaution. Obvious that the world needs to know what Frank does next. Which, right now, doesn’t seem like much. Calum can only guess that he’s in there. What he knows of Frank’s routine says he’s in there. Might not come out all day. Certainly doesn’t need to go to the club any more. He should; he ought to make a point of going round regularly. Putting a little pressure back onto Jamieson. Make himself useful in any way. It might not be what Frank wants to do, but it’s a form of protection. You go round, you do the advisory job you’ve been offered. You rebuild trust.
Frank won’t do that. Not his mindset. Calum’s seen it in a few of the older ones. They consider themselves to be apart from the rest of the industry. The mindset of experience. You spend decades as a gunman, which few do, and you think of the world from a different angle. It’s all about secrecy and self-preservation. A lifetime of hiding the things you do. It changes you. It must have changed Frank, too. He’ll consider anything that draws him into the open to be counter-intuitive, threatening even. A friend’s offer to keep him earning past his sell-by date will be spurned. He’s a gunman, and that’s all he’ll ever be. You spend so long teaching yourself to be that, you simply can’t become any other kind of person. You become so tied to your work that it dominates your life. Destroys it.
How long does it take? Calum’s thinking. Hardly watching the house now. Nothing to watch. How long before he himself won’t be able to live any other kind of life? He’s been involved in the business for more than ten years now. Been a gunman and nothing else for eight or nine years. Started young and found he liked the life. Few jobs, decent money, peace and quiet. The quiet life of the freelancer. Now he’s been drawn into an organization. Working whenever he’s told to work. Unable to walk from things he doesn’t like. Won’t be long before he’s thinking like the old men. A gunman and nothing else. Any other offer of work an insult. Any other life unthinkable. Just the thought of being reduced to an adviser will sicken Frank. His role as a gunman should be respected. People should recognize that it’s a speciality, that the skills can’t be transferred elsewhere. People should recognize his value. Offering him a role that’s often used as a cover is humiliating to him. That’s why he’ll say no. That’s why this has to end badly. Calum can’t see any other way.
In the afternoon, the door opens. An old man, huddled up in a puffy-looking jacket, steps out. Pulls the door shut behind him. Locks it. Moves off down the front path to the gate. It’s Frank all right, but he looks so shrivelled. You see him at work and he seems different. Young for his age. Wrinkled, sure, but a man of obvious strength. Now he’s shuffling and small. There’s a slight limp from the hip replacement. Perhaps made worse from falling on the floor outside Scott’s flat. He looks to all the world like a little old man. Which is how he wants the rest of the world to see him. Weak and vulnerable. A kindly gent with a gleam in his eye, who would do no harm to anyone. Calum gets it. He gets that you create a different image for people outside the business. A gunman never has to look tough. You don’t have to look tough when you’re doing a job. The gun looks tough enough for both of you.
Thank God he isn’t coming this way. Frank’s gone in the other direction, as Calum assumed he would when he parked here. He’ll go to the pub. He’ll have a pint. He’ll come home. Does it every day, apparently. Every day on his own. Seems rather sad to Calum. He’d rather stay in the house. The only thing lonelier than being alone is being alone with lots of other people. Frank’s walking along the street. It’s raining and it’s cold, but he’s going through his routine. Calum’s watching him get out of sight. Let him get round the corner. Give him a couple of minutes. Starting the car now. Moving along the street to the corner, he can see Frank well ahead of him. Calum’s turning right, to go the long way round. He’ll still get to the pub first. Watch Frank go in, watch him come out. Get back to the house ahead of him. It’s boring. Much as he hates to admit it, it’s insulting too. If Jamieson thinks Calum’s so talented, why the hell is he doing a garbage job like this?
Sitting, watching Frank go in. Sitting, watching the sad sacks go in and out of the pub after Frank. Losers, every single one of them. Middle of a weekday and they’re in a dingy bar. They look like they’ve seen the end of the world. They’ll consider Frank to be one of them. If only they knew. Takes Frank more than half an hour to drink whatever he drinks. Then he’s out the front door. Heading back the way he came. Hood pulled up over his head. He looks so small. Calum never noticed that before.
Starting the car when there’s a safe distance. Going quickly back, the long way round. Back to the house. It must be a boring life for Frank. Probably only made bearable by the thrill of the job. The secret life now lost. Here he comes. Limping a little more than he was when he first left the house. He wasn’t ready to go back to work. Calum can see it now. Jamieson should have realized. A man still limping from an operation is no gunman.
Frank’s back in his house. It’s got quickly dark outside. His living-room light is on. There’s a skill to following someone. There’s also a skill to being followed. Frank may have guessed that he’s being tailed. Might even have spotted Calum. But he keeps playing the part. Doing all he can to prove what a good employee he is. All the time he could be in touch with another organization. If he knows he’s being followed, then he knows his phone records are being checked. He’s old, but he still knows the current tricks. He has to. All good pros do. He could be sitting in there plotting anything. Making a mug of Jamieson. Calum, too. Or he could be sitting in there, oblivious. That would be an indictment. A man of his experience, his knowledge, unaware of what’s happening around him. Unforgivable. It’s not a mistake he would have made in the past. Not when he was sharp. This isn’t the past. It’s dark now. Evening. Calum’s done his work for the day. He’s driving home.