When Cynthia and Preston arrived at Glasgow Airport, the rain moaned at them, as Cynthia recalled it had always done in this city – See you, the rain seemed to say, I wet you weakly with my constant dribble.
‘You have one hour and fifty minutes,’ she said to Preston. ‘You’re going to give me money for a room at the Marriott – I’ll check in as Cynthia Jones. Get a move on! You now have one hour and forty-nine minutes.’
Preston had always managed the goals he set himself. He had never bought heroin, but it couldn’t be hard in Glasgow, could it? He asked the taxi driver to drop him off on the edge of the Gorbals, donned a baseball cap and left Cynthia to continue on to her city-centre hotel.
Hmm, he thought, wandering past the new-build shops and eyeing each person he saw: single mother, car thief maybe, prostitute, social worker, social worker, social worker, kids dodging school … where were all the drug dealers? Perhaps this was the rejuvenated part – indeed, a high-rise apartment block had recently been blown to smithereens across the way, and privately owned flats lined several streets in the vicinity of the shopping area. He continued on. Drugs, surely, must still be readily available in the Gorbals, the famous, dangerous, dirty, poverty-stricken Gorbals.
He made his way past the health centre, the housing office, the social-work office, and then into a two-block by two-block wasteland where most of the buildings had been demolished. Ha, he thought, spotting a group of young neds hovering in front of one of the remaining buildings. He smiled and made his way over to do some shopping.
All five boys were around eighteen years old. The pack uniform was hooded cagoules and jeans. They spoke loudly to each other in rough accents Preston found difficult to understand. As he got nearer, he managed to recognise two words – gay and fucker.
‘Hello,’ Preston said, ‘and how are you all?’
Another word this time: cunt.
‘I’m just wondering if you have any gear.’ Preston felt proud of himself. He was proving himself to be exceedingly street.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Preston MacMillan,’ he answered, without thinking twice about the fact that he’d given his real name. These boys would never talk to the police. They were on the same side.
‘Whatchawanin?’ The tallest of the five asked.
‘Two bags of heroin, please,’ he answered.
The boy gestured for Preston to follow him. As he did so, he realised they had all been standing at the front of the police station. Maybe they figured it was safer there. Or maybe they preferred not to have to walk too far once arrested.
Preston and the tall boy walked past a beautiful old chapel, over more wasteland and into the foyer of a high-rise building. There were CCTV cameras in the foyer. He kept his head down, cap obscuring his face, but wasn’t too worried, really. Even if his face was visible, how would he ever be traced? The police had never photographed him or taken his fingerprints.
The boy pressed a button, waited for the lift and they got inside.
‘So, have you lived here long?’ Preston asked as the elevator elevated at snail’s pace.
‘Aye,’ said the boy.
‘It’s nice to see they’re doing the place up,’ Preston said, now all out of chit-chat. He stared at the elevator buttons for several minutes before it finally crunched to a halt at the sixteenth floor. Maybe, Preston thought to himself, they made the lifts especially slow to help the unemployed fill their time. Or maybe it kept them off the streets longer.
The boy had a flat to the left. It had amazing views and was surprisingly well furnished. He’s poor, Preston thought to himself, but his television is enormous. Maybe he stole it. Or maybe he’s rich from selling gear.
‘Here,’ the boy said, returning from the bedroom with two bags of heroin. ‘It’s pure uncut shit, best there is, so be careful. A hunnert an’ fifty quid.’
‘Excellent,’ Preston said, not realising that the street value of these bags was actually twenty pounds. Preston’s ignorance made the boy’s eyes twinkle. They twinkled tenfold as Preston took out his wallet, counted out £150 and handed it to him, another £500 and several credit cards visible inside the wallet.
It was pretty quick, what happened next. When Preston deconstructed it later, it reminded him of a scene from Reservoir Dogs:
Boy asks Preston to hand him the fuckin’ wallet.
Preston enquires as to why.
Boy says Just fuckin’ gees it.
Preston says No.
Boy takes knife from back pocket and points it at Preston’s neck.
Preston tries to run away.
Boy grabs Preston’s arm before he gets to the door and twists it behind his back.
Preston says Ow!
Boy presses knife against Preston’s neck.
Preston, feeling the point of the knife pierce his skin, uses all his strength to turn around, kick boy in the nuts and grab the knife.
Boy lunges towards Preston’s neck with strangler’s hands and vicious snarl.
Preston realises the knife he is holding is now halfway inside boy’s chest.
Preston says Sorry, oh God, sorry, it was an accident.
Boy falls to the ground.
Preston no longer holds knife. Knife is now poking out of chest of boy who is lying on floor making choking sounds.
Then no sounds.
Preston checks if boy is breathing, says Shit, turns and runs down sixteen flights of stairs.
With two bags of heroin in his freshly murderous little hand.
Maybe he’s not dead, Preston thought, head down.
Or maybe he is.
If he is, he thought, they would never suspect a seventeen-year-old boy genius from the trendy West End. And they had nothing on him, anyway. Some CCTV of his baseball cap perhaps, face obscured. Plus, he told himself, this was a disorganised crime, a gangland crime. He simply did not fit the profile. Walking determinedly towards the main road, Preston threw his cap in a bin and hailed a taxi.