death of Charles Jackson. Not only was he an excellent football player, he was a fine young man and our thoughts are with his family at this time.” Two men were injured in Belfast today as a bomb they were—’
McCoy leant forward and switched off the radio, sat back in his seat, started digging in his pockets for his fags. He pushed the cigarette lighter in. Waited.
‘You ever see him play? Jackson?’ he asked as they slowed down to let a funeral procession pass.
Wattie nodded. ‘Not bad.’
McCoy snorted. ‘Not bad? You’re joking, aren’t you?’ Lighter popped out, McCoy held the hot element up to his cigarette. ‘Best left foot for years and you know it. You Rangers boys just can’t see past the strip, can you?’
Car was getting stuffy with the smoke and the heater blasting out hot stale air. McCoy rolled the window down, felt the rain on his face.
‘Murray wasn’t even sure if you were coming back,’ said Wattie. ‘Said you were rattled by what happened with the Dunlop boy, the whole thing. He was worried, you know.’
‘That right?’ said McCoy flatly.
Last thing he wanted to hear about was Wattie and Murray having cosy wee chats about his state of mind. That’s what happened if you got signed off. Suddenly everyone thinks you’re fair game. Everyone passing judgement on your mental state. And every bugger thinks the same thing. ‘He’s no the same any more.’ Far as he was concerned they could all fuck off, Murray and Wattie included.
Wattie pulled up at the lights. ‘He was just worried. Didn’t want to lose you, that’s all. You’re still the golden boy no matter what happens.’
McCoy pointed to Stronsay Street. ‘Aye well, I’m back, so he can rest easy. Left here.’
End of conversation.
*
Stronsay Street was in a scheme sitting on a hill at the back of Royston. Rows of identical council houses with neat wee gardens in front. Huge towers of the Red Road flats in the background. Wattie was peering through the windscreen counting.
‘Twenty-two, twenty-four, twenty-six.’
‘Twenty-eight,’ said McCoy, pointing up ahead.
Connolly’s flat was the top left of a four-in-a-block. They parked behind a Beetle up on four bricks and got out. The garden in front of the flat below seemed to be some sort of gathering ground for gnomes and little statues of fish and birds. There was a wishing well in the middle of the lawn, plaster Scottie dog and plastic cat beside it. Path was lined with plastic flowers and foil windmills. Even had a sign planted in the lawn.
ENJOY THE GARDEN BUT LOOK DON’T TOUCH!
‘That sign’s enough to make you want to kick one of those gnomes to fuck,’ said McCoy.
Wattie looked up at the windows. White net curtains just like the rest of the flats. ‘What if he’s in there?’
‘He’s not. Half of bloody Glasgow’s looking for him. Last place he’s gonnae be is at home.’
They headed up the path. Eyes of the gnomes upon them.
McCoy was right. Connolly wasn’t there but Scobie’s boys definitely had been. If the broken lock didn’t give you a clue then the floor covered in upturned furniture, ripped clothes and smashed crockery would. They stepped between the debris, made their way down the hall and into the living room.
McCoy righted a slashed armchair and sat down while Wattie wandered around, picking things up at random.
‘I’ll check the bedroom,’ he said.
McCoy nodded, let him go. He sniffed. Was a smell of bleach, looked like a couple of bottles had been emptied over the carpet, stamped through. Pale patches in the brown swirls. Connolly’s scattered belongings seemed mostly to consist of war novels and porn mags. Floor was strewn with them. Nazis and naked women on fur rugs. A message had been left just in case Connolly was stupid enough ever to come back. Red spray paint across the living-room wall.
YOU ARE DED YOU CUNT
‘Don’t suppose being able to spell is a qualification for being one of Scobie’s goons,’ said McCoy.
‘Probably not,’ said Wattie, walking back into the room. He picked up a painting of Ben Nevis and put it back on its nail.
McCoy looked round the living room. ‘Any point in us being here?’
‘Nope,’ said Wattie, stepping back to see if the picture was straight. ‘Apart from shutting Murray up. Don’t think there was ever much here in the first place. Not sure he even stayed here. No food in the fridge, no TV, no post. There’s a few clothes in the drawers in the bedroom but that’s about it. They’ve slashed up the mattress and his bedclothes. Doesn’t look like they found anything either.’
He sat down on a wobbly coffee table, picked up a copy of a book called Assignment Gestapo, started flicking through it.
‘Could interview the neighbours, I suppose. See if they saw anything?’ he said.
‘Do you really want to talk to the bastard with the gnomes?’ asked McCoy.
‘Not if I can help it.’
McCoy stood up. ‘Me neither. Right, we’ve seen his flat. Duty done. Let’s go.’
He walked back towards the door and stood on something that made a sharp crack under his shoe. He lifted a torn copy of Men Only up and there was a splintered cassette box under it, yellow BASF cassette in it. He picked it up, looked around. ‘See anything to play this on?’
‘Hang on,’ said Wattie. He pulled the sofa right side up. ‘Bingo’. A wee cassette player was lying there, cover smashed. ‘Let’s see if it works.’
It did.
They watched as the spindles turned and a voice came out the speaker. As if watching it was going to help them understand.
‘August thirteenth, sixteen stone fourteen pounds. August fourteenth, sixteen stone fourteen pounds. August fifteenth, sixteen stone fourteen pounds. August sixteenth, sixteen stone thirteen pounds. August seventeenth, sixteen stone fourteen pounds. August eighteenth, sixteen stone fourteen pou—’
McCoy leant over and pressed the fast forward button, held it down for a minute or so, let it go.
‘September twelfth, sixteen stone fourteen pounds. September thirteenth, sixteen stone fourteen pounds. September fourteenth, sixteen stone fifteen pounds . . .’
Didn’t take long to go through the whole tape. The same thing over and over again, two sides of a C30 cassette. Ended on January 11th.
McCoy leant forward and switched it off.
‘What is that about?’ asked Wattie.
‘Fuck knows,’ said McCoy, reaching for his cigarettes. ‘Maybe he’s in Weight Watchers.’
He
