His alarm goes off at half past seven. He always gets up at half past seven on a weekday, eight at weekends. It occurs to him now that he could ignore it. It occurs that he should have been ignoring it all his adult life. Never had a proper job. A job making something, contributing something. He’s only ever been a destroyer. Destroyers don’t need to get out of bed early. But he will. He’s spent so long forming the habit, it’s become impossible to break. When you live an unpredictable life, you need to form some sort of routine. It’s comforting to Frank. You don’t control your work. Your work controls the kind of life you’re able to live. So you build routines, and you stick to them.
He’s out of bed, into the shower, dressed, downstairs for breakfast. Now he’s thinking about his situation. Where does he stand? All alone, it seems. He can’t think of another organization he would want to go and work for. Plenty that would take him, there’s no doubt. He could find work if he needed it. And protection, which he does need. People would give it, but they would want so much in return. He would have to deliver them Jamieson, and all his people. They would only take Frank because of what he knows. They would dismiss his skills as those of an old man, as Jamieson has. It wouldn’t be progress. He doesn’t want to give them Jamieson.
He’s making a second cup of coffee. A little less milk in it this time. Looking round his house. Looking at his lifetime’s accumulations. Nothing. At least, nothing that he couldn’t live without. No family at all. No friends that he couldn’t leave behind. A lifetime of gaining nothing. It didn’t feel like that at the time, obviously, but you can see it on reflection. All that time, all that work. In the end you have nothing.
He’s going to the shop. It’s an excuse to get out of the house, nothing more. Buy a few things that he probably doesn’t need. A loaf of bread that’ll go green and be thrown out. A carton of milk that he’ll use half of. He’ll buy a newspaper and read maybe three pages of it. He has his coat on, and he’s out into the street. A casual look around–nobody there he doesn’t recognize. After a job he’s usually very careful to check. You’re on the lookout for reprisals, no matter who the target was. If it was someone in an organization, then there could be a professional after you. Harder to spot a pro, but they’re less likely to come after you anyway. Organizations don’t go after gunmen; they go after the person who hired them. Different when it’s a smaller target. Some guy trying to get rich on his own, steps on toes. Not connected to an organization, just trying to make money for him and his family. You can never predict the reaction of a family to a hit. People get emotional, pledge vengeance.
He doesn’t think of the Scott job as a job at all. It wasn’t his kill, in the end. Calum was the guy who did the job, not Frank. They’re Calum’s victims, another two notches for him. Hard to know how to feel about it. It’s strange that he’s still thinking about them. Scott and McClure. He’s usually stopped thinking about a target this long after a job. You think about nothing else in the build-up, and then you do the job. The second it’s finished and you’re clear of the location, your life goes back to the old routine. You think and do the things that you usually do, and the victim is no more than a name in the newspaper. It sounds cold, he realizes, but you have to have that detachment. Can’t spend your life thinking about all the jobs you’ve done, it’s not a sensible way to live. As he’s walking along the street, heading for the corner shop, he’s thinking about Scott and McClure again. Two people he didn’t kill. Should have. Didn’t. They could be his last ever targets.
He’s in the shop. Loading a few things into a basket, hardly even looking at them. He has to do something. He suddenly knows that he has to do something. He can’t live this life. He can be the sad old man when he has work to keep him thrilled, but not without it. Without it, he really is just a wreck, waiting for the end. He’s placing his basket on the counter; the woman behind the counter is adding it up. He sees her three or four times a week, but he has no idea what her name is. She must be in her mid-thirties, maybe a bit older. She looks a little worn, but she’s not wearing a wedding ring. Twenty-something years his junior, but he’s always thought of himself as a young man. In the past he would never have thought of asking her out. Too close to home. If he’s not working any more, then why not? Because he’s built the image of the sad old man–that’s why not. This is the cost of the life you’ve led.
A single bag of shopping; walking back along the street. He knows what he’s going to do. A mildly attractive woman in a shop, and he knows. If he’s ever going to have the freedom to have that life, to be able to ask, then it needs to be away from here. It needs to be a life outside the business. Only one organization can make that happen. He has to call Fisher. It feels like a betrayal, but why should it? Jamieson pushed him out, not the other way round. Peter Jamieson threw him overboard, and now he has to find any life raft he can. He keeps telling himself that it’s not a betrayal. He hasn’t convinced himself yet, but he’ll keep saying it. Into the house; the few items of shopping put away. Over to the phone. Going through the menu, finding the last number that called. Fisher’s office number. Everyone in the business knows Fisher. They know he specializes in anti-organized crime. Tough. Respectable. A man they hate because they fear him.
Pressing Dial and listening to it ring. He might not be there. Will Frank have the guts to call him a second time? Unlikely. He knows how hard this is.
‘Hello.’ Enthusiastic, expectant. Sounds like Fisher was sitting by the phone, waiting for the call. Nice to feel important, even if it is the police.
‘Mr Fisher. It’s Frank MacLeod. I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday.’
‘Good,’ Fisher’s saying. Now he’s waiting for the follow-up, but nothing’s coming.
Frank can’t quite bring himself to say it. He’s already made the decision, but until he says it, he isn’t a traitor. Isn’t the worst of the worst. He’s told himself that a lot of other people have done it, but that doesn’t help. Just means there’s a lot of other traitors. Forty years of being told that it’s the worst thing you can do is hard to overcome.
‘I think we should meet,’ he’s saying at last. It sounds like he’s forcing the words out, as if he wants rid of them. ‘Soon, I think,’ he’s adding. It’s hard to hide the nerves.
‘I think soon would be best,’ Fisher’s saying. Good to get the agreement in, make it seem like they’re on the same wavelength. ‘Do you have any preference for where?’
Frank’s thinking. Where the hell do you do this sort of thing? Where would be safe? Nowhere is totally safe, that’s the truth of it. The location matters less than the cop probably realizes. If you’re being watched, then anywhere is deadly. If you’re not, then most places are safe enough.
‘There’s a house we can use,’ Fisher’s saying, impatient at the delay. ‘Or I can come round to you, if that would make you feel safer. The choice is yours.’
He certainly won’t have the cop round to his house. That’s a dumb suggestion, Fisher should realize that. Meeting in public would be fine if he could be sure they wouldn’t be spotted. ‘I think this house of yours would be the best option. What’s the address?’
It’s not too late to back out. Go to Jamieson; tell him you’ve been contacted by Fisher. Tell him you have the address of Fisher’s meeting house for contacts. Jamieson can have it watched; see what he learns from that. It might just prove that Frank’s not useless, that he can still contribute to the organization. Nah, that’s not how they would see it. They’ve got it into their heads that he’s a decrepit old fart, with nothing to offer. If he went and told them about this call, they would view it with suspicion. They now see Frank as a suspicious character. He’s seen it happening to others, he knows it’s happening to him. Still not too late to walk away from this.
They set the meeting for tomorrow. Mid-morning. Quite possible to stay away. He’s not truly committed until he turns up. Not a traitor until he goes through the door. All this because of Tommy-bloody-Scott. What a laugh! Scott’s finally important, but only because he’s dead.