Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas (short stories) Page 7

  Looked like Big Johnny was right – it was a piece of piss after all.

  Brian made his way down the street, stopping to chat with the prozzies, blushing when they flirted with him, taking their money.

  By quarter to twelve he was down to his last wrapper. Get a shift on and he could just make the Corner Emporium before it shut. Cider, fags, and a packet of rolling papers – been skimming the blow all night, selling people quarter-ounces of hash that weren’t quite up to size. Keeping enough for himself to get nice and high. Not stealing from Big Johnny Simpson, stealing from the customers. Not the same thing.

  All he had to do was—

  A woman in her early twenties with a mascara-streaked face and torn tights pawed at his sleeve. ‘You got any more?’ Her jacket was dirty up one side, hanging open to reveal a pale stomach, short skirt and low-cut top. She’d been pretty once, but it was a while ago. ‘C’mon, I’m dying here. Maggie says you’ve got!’

  Brian gave her a smile. ‘It’s your lucky day.’ He held up the wrapper. ‘Last one.’

  She licked her lips, fingers stroking her dead-fish belly, eyes shining. ‘How much?’

  Brian told her and she swore.

  ‘You’re kidding – that’s twice what Dillon charges! It’s—’

  ‘Take it or leave it.’

  ‘But it’s been a shite night. . . I’m good for it!’ Wringing her hands, staring at the sparkling tinfoil. ‘I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘Sorry, love, it’s the rules. The guy I work for. . .’

  She opened her coat wide and pulled up her top, showing off her naked breasts.

  ‘He . . . er. . .’ Brian blinked. Coughed.

  ‘Come on, you know how it works.’ She fumbled with his flies, groping her way into his underpants with cold fingers.

  ‘It. . . But. . . Oh!’ All available blood was diverted south.

  She smiled at him, showing off a mouth full of fillings. ‘Oh yeah, you like that, don’t you?’ Stroking. ‘You give me the stuff and I’ll see you right. Fine upstanding boy like you. I’ll be gentle. . .’ She sank down to her knees.

  Brian grinned all the way home.

  A dark-blue BMW was parked outside his house: alloy wheels, spoiler, tinted glass. Nice motor, even with the long scrape down the passenger side. The driver’s door opened and Big Johnny stepped out. ‘Well, if it isn’t my little captain of industry.’

  ‘Mr Simpson!’ The smile died on Brian’s lips.

  ‘How’d you get on tonight?’

  ‘Oh, you know. . .’

  ‘Got my money?’

  ‘I . . . erm. . .’ He unbuckled the bum-bag and handed it over. ‘All there, Mr Simpson. Like you said.’

  ‘Uh-huh. . .’ Big Johnny opened the zip and counted the money inside. ‘You got any gear left?’ He held out his hand.

  Oh Christ: he knew about the missing wrapper.

  Brian’s mouth went dry. How? How did he know?

  Don’t just stand there, gob hanging open like a mong, tell him something. Lie.

  The blow – give him the skimmed blow!

  ‘I got some hash left!’ Brian handed it over. ‘Everything else is sold.’

  ‘I see.’ Johnny examined the small lump of dark brown resin. Probably weighing it up against the amount of cash in the bag. Trying to tell if Brian was screwing with him. Planning another trip to the Calderwell Bridge.

  ‘I . . . I also found out who Leslie’s been seeing.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ The voice was low, dangerous. Like a Rottweiler. ‘Who?’

  ‘Erm. . .’ BLAME SOMEONE: ANYONE! ‘Cammy!’ Yeah, Cammy would do – smart thinking. The guy was a total dick anyway, he deserved a visit from Big Johnny Simpson.

  ‘Cammy?’

  ‘Cameron Williams – he’s a fourth year at Kingsmeath Secondary.’

  Johnny nodded. Stuck the lump of cannabis in the bum-bag. ‘Get in the car.’

  Back under the Calderwell Bridge: half past one in the morning.

  Snow fell from the dark-orange sky, disappearing as it hit the swirling black water.

  Don’t. Look. Down.

  Brian grabbed the rust-flecked support girder with cold trembling hands. The sound of muffled sobbing came from the lump on the footpath below – Cammy, hands tied behind his back, gag in his mouth, a bag over his head, jeans soaked through where he’d pissed himself.

  Big Johnny glanced up at Brian. ‘Loop the rope over the lumpy bit.’

  Brian did what he was told, chucked the other end onto the concrete path, then shinned back to safety. Well . . . you know, not counting the homicidal madman.

  By the time he’d got down, Big Johnny was hauling on the rope, dangling Cammy out over the water – within arm’s reach.

  They’d picked him up on Patterson Street – staggering home on his own, out of his face on supermarket vodka. It hadn’t been hard to bundle him into the back of the car. Tie him up. Stuff an old rag in his mouth. Keep him from screaming.

  Brian shifted from foot to foot, stomach lurching, heart thumping, blood fizzing in his ears.

  It’d be OK. Nothing to worry about. Right?

  Big Johnny was just going to scare Cammy: like he’d scared Brian. That was all this was, just a bit of terror to teach the bastard a lesson.

  Even if it wasn’t his lesson to learn.

  ‘Clunk,’ and Big Johnny was back at the car boot. He pulled out a plastic bag from that big DIY superstore on the south side of the city and tossed it over to Brian. There was a set of decorators’ coveralls inside, the kind the police wore on the telly when they dug up some serial killer’s basement.

  Johnny dug out another pair of coveralls and clambered into them. ‘Put it on.’

  Was harder than it looked, but he managed. Then it was blue plastic bags over their shoes. And a pair of latex gloves.

  That’s when Big Johnny produced the knife.

  Cammy just hung there and cried.

  Johnny grabbed him and sliced through the fourteen-year-old’s clothes, cutting them away – even the piss-soaked trousers and pants. He dumped the rags in a bin-bag, leaving Cammy stark-bollock naked, shivering, covered with goose pimples. Sobbing behind the gag.

  Big Johnny made one last trip to the boot of his car and came back with a baseball bat. ‘You know what a piñata is, you piece of shit? No?’ Pause. ‘How about you, Brian?’

  Brian knew, but the words wouldn’t come out – just this weird squeaking noise.

  Big Johnny was scaring Cammy, that’s all: just scaring him.

  ‘No?’ Johnny sighed. ‘What the hell they teachin’ you lot in school? A piñata is something you hit and hit and hit until the insides come out. Like this. . .’

  It took fifteen minutes.

  And Brian stood there, mouth open, trying not to be sick.

  Say something: tell Johnny that it was all a lie. Cammy didn’t touch his daughter. It was all just a wee white lie to stop him asking about the missing wrapper of heroin.

  But he didn’t say a word.

  Because he had a pretty good idea what Big Johnny would do if he found out Brian had lied to him. And stolen from him.

  And he’d rather feel guilty than dead.

  9: Ladies Dancing

  Andy ‘Twitch’ McKay sits at the bar with a pint of Export, a broken nose, and the tail-end of a bad amphetamine buzz.

  The Silver Lady is your swankier kind of titty bar – a long, low room with mirrors all along the back of the stage, so you can see the girls dancing from all angles. Leather seats, dark carpet, mirror ball sending bright chips of light sweeping across the small crowd. Not Twitch’s kind of place at all. Nah, he’s more of a ‘Monk and Casket’ kind of guy. Somewhere intimate, where he can get a beer with his mates, and maybe smoke a joint in the toilets. Where everybody knows his name.

  Which is why he’s steering clear of the place. Keeping under the radar. Playing it coooool. And watching Kayleigh Jacobs work.

  Hard dance music pulses from the speakers, trying to ma
ke a quiet Wednesday sound like a busy Saturday, giving Kayleigh something to dance to. She’s gorgeous: long legs, tight stomach, firm breasts, all done up in lacy underwear, sliding up and down her shiny pole like she’s shagging the arse off it.

  Oh yeah. . . Twitch could be that pole. If he had the cash for a lap dance. And maybe a bottle of vodka. And a few lines of something choice. Something to take the edge off.

  But he’s skint. The thieving bastards running the place cleaned him out with the cover charge and one drink. Now all he’s got is the fluff in his pockets, the shivering cold sweats, and the laptop sitting at his feet – the only thing left from a wee spot of breaking and entering last week. Easily flog a wee computermabob like that, though. Especially somewhere like this. Might even get a couple hundred quid for it. Enough to keep him in booze and drugs for a couple of days. With a bit left over so Kayleigh can make him feel special.

  The number finishes and Twitch launches into thunderous applause, wolf whistling as Kayleigh takes her bow. She turns and struts offstage into the wings. A brunette comes on next, the music swells, the new girl bumps and grinds, and Twitch goes back to his pint. Watching the door in the mirror behind the bar.

  His reflection’s looking better: the black eyes have faded. And yeah, his nose looks like a wonky doorknob, and makes this squeaky whistling noise when he breathes. Prominent cheekbones, sunken eyes, stubble. Hair long at the back and short on top: it’s a 1980s classic. Fuck anyone who says different. Camouflage hoodie top and drainpipe trousers. Strung out, fucked up, and no good.

  Christ knows why they let him into the Silver Lady. Must be desperate to make the numbers up tonight.

  He takes a sip of beer and scans the punters in the mirror. Not many people in yet: a half dozen guys out on a stag night; a pair of suits, drinking champagne and whooping at the girl on stage; and a couple of sad pervs, sitting on their own.

  None of them want to buy a laptop.

  There’s a flurry of activity just after nine – a dozen pissheads, all done up in Santa hats. They order whisky and vodka, then hoot and cheer as Kayleigh comes back on for her third set of the evening. Animals. How can’t they see she’s only got eyes for Twitch?

  She’s spectacular. Lithe – almost rubbery – making him moan.

  After she’s done – sashaying off the stage to a standing ovation, her pert buttocks oiled up and glistening – he tries the laptop on the drunken Santa hats, but they ignore him, not taking him on, not wanting anything to do with a scheemie wee junkie like him. Scared in case they catch something. He leaves them alone before somebody calls security.

  No one’s ever going to buy this bloody computer. Might as well give up. Finish his shitey pint and go home.

  Twitch slouches back to the bar and stares at the last inch of beer in his glass.

  Maybe it’s time to get out of town? Give Oldcastle the heave ho and bugger off somewhere warmer and safer. Like Dundee, or Perth, or Hell. Even Aberdeen would be better than hanging about here, waiting for Dillon to find him.

  Yeah, it was definitely time to get—

  A hand on his shoulder. Twitch flinches, squeals, wraps his arms around his head.‘Jesus, you’re jumpy!’ West coast accent, soft and lyrical: female.

  He peers out between his fingers as Kayleigh slips onto the stool next to his. She’s changed into a pair of leather trousers, high-heeled boots, a white crop top, and a frock coat in red satin. Up close, she’s even more of a stunner. Like one of them Greek goddesses.

  She waves to the barman. ‘Steve, give us a V-and-T, and another pint for Mr Jumpy here. Least I can do for scaring the shite out of him.’ She smiles and he melts, except for one part which gets very, very hard.

  ‘Wow . . . thanks.’ This time the Export tastes of angels in baby oil.

  Kayleigh takes a sip of her drink and leans on the bar.

  Twitch coughs, crosses his legs to hide the stiffie. ‘Er. . . Hi.’ He sticks his hand out. It looks reasonably clean. ‘The name’s Twitch,’

  ‘Yeah?’ she looks at him over the top of her glass, but doesn’t take his hand. ‘That fits. I’m Kay—’

  ‘Kayleigh Jacobs. I know. I’m. . .’ Don’t sound like a dick, don’t sound like a dick. ‘I’m a great fan of your work.’

  She laughs, tossing her head back. Her long blonde hair swishes up and over her shoulder. ‘Well, aren’t you a smooth bastard?’

  He grins. ‘Thanks.’ This is exactly how it’s meant to happen, Twitch McKay: suave, sophisticated, and funny. She’ll see there’s more to him than the tatty clothes and the skittering drugs. He’s a man.

  Kayleigh disappears off to the toilets, and when she comes back she runs a perfect fingernail down his arm. ‘You fancy a private dance?’

  Shite. . . ‘Sorry, I kinda came out without my wallet.’

  She smiles. ‘It’s OK. I like you. It’ll be my little treat.’ She bites her bottom lip and takes his hand, leading him away from the bar and through a little door on the far side of the club.

  The private dance room’s not much bigger than Twitch’s bedroom at home: six foot by eight foot, with a large vinyl sofa and a small coffee table. She points at the sofa. ‘Sit down and keep your hands to yourself. That’s very, very important.’ Kayliegh slips off her blood-red coat. ‘You can look, and I can touch, but you can’t. If you do, someone will come in and hurt you. Do you understand?’

  Twitch nods.

  Play it cool.

  Oh shit this is GREAT!

  ‘Good.’ She opens a wee unit and flicks a switch. Music fills the room as Kayleigh goes into her routine. Stripping for him, peeling off her high-heeled boots, trousers, top, till there’s nothing left but red lace.

  Her skin’s perfect, her body’s perfect, she’s perfect. Oh God. . .

  Just one touch. She’d understand, right?

  She likes him.

  There’s a sound down the alleyway, like someone being sick, and then they’re gone. Leaving Twitch alone in the darkness with his pain. He tries to clamber to his feet, but something explodes inside his head and he slumps back against the wall.

  The man howches, then spits in Twitch’s face. His voice is like a shallow grave. ‘You want to try that again?’

  ‘I’m sorry. . .’ He stays where he is and gets a kick in the ribs as a reward.

  ‘You’re sorry?’ Pause. ‘Oh, that’s all right then, isn’t it? You’re sorry and everything’s forgiven, aye?’ The man squats down in front of him, grabs his hair and hauls his head up. Bangs it off the brick wall.

  ‘Dillon, I—’

  ‘No, you don’t dare “Dillon” me, Andy McKay. We ceased to be on first fucking name terms when you screwed up that B-and-E. You call me Mister Black.’

  ‘Mister Black, I—’

  Dillon backhands him, the leather glove breaking Twitch’s nose again. Fresh blood steams in the cold alley. ‘Did I give you permission to speak?’

  Twitch just whimpers.

  ‘Right, here’s how this works: I promised to write off your debt if you stole that painting for me. Nice and easy. Only you didn’t, did you? You didn’t get my painting, you fucked up!’ A hard right hook snaps Twitch’s head back into the wall again, making the world scream. ‘No painting means you have to give me back the thirteen thousand you owe me, plus another week’s interest. Let’s call it fourteen thousand all in. Where is it?’

  Twitch whimpers again.

  ‘You can answer that one, Stupid.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t. . .’

  ‘Ooh, bad luck.’ Dillon grabs Twitch’s arm, pulling it straight out then twisting it over, so it’s elbow up. Then he drops all his weight on the joint. CRACK!

  There’s a small pause, then the pain hits – like a million rusty needles ripping through his veins.

  Twitch opens his mouth to scream, but Dillon smashes a fist into it, cutting him off.

  Dillon lets go and the arm flops to the tarmac. Eyes watering, nose streaming with blood, Twitch picks it up with his
right hand and cradles it against his chest. Crying like a baby.

  Dillon grins at him. ‘Don’t know what you’re blubbing for: you’ve still got two legs to go, haven’t you?’

  ‘Please!’ Oh fucking Christ it hurts!

  ‘Please what?’

  ‘Please, Mister Black. . .’ He stares up at the man towering over him. ‘Please, God, no. . .’

  ‘Rules are rules, Twitch. If I let you away with it, every bugger will think I’m going soft. Next thing you know I’m getting no respect. Can’t have that, can we?’

  ‘Please!’

  Dillon picks up one of the beer crates stacked at the back door of the club, whistling while he works. He clunks it down on the concrete and props Twitch’s feet up on it, straight out in front of him.

  ‘Oh, God, please don’t. . . Please! I’ve got a computer, a laptop, you can have it! I stole it from that guy’s house. It’s yours!’

  Dillon looks down at him. ‘OK. Thanks, I appreciate the gesture.’ Then he grabs a length of steel pipe and smashes it into Twitch’s legs, hammering again and again. Pulverising the bone. The screaming only lasts for a few minutes, then everything . . . goes . . . black.

  Kayleigh stands in the shadows, leaning heavily against the wall, as Dillon turns the skanky wee bastard’s legs into mush. The left side of her face is tender and swollen, her ribs ache: and so do her breasts and legs. But that’s nothing compared to how it stings and burns inside.

  Dillon finally steps away from the mess. Panting.

  She sniffs. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Nope.’ Dillon smiles at her. ‘This wee shite’s going to spread the word about what happens if you fuck with me.’

  She limps forward and kicks the motionless body in the head.

  Dillon laughs. ‘You want him dead?’

  ‘Fucker raped me!’ She kicks him again. Then stomps on his chest. ‘Going on and on about how much he loves me and how great it is I’m dancing only for him . . . and all the time. . .’ Another kick.

  Dillon picks up the laptop bag and slings it over his shoulder. ‘You sure you want him dead?’