Sometimes he can see it, he thinks, in the half-light, in the gloom of a darkened bedroom, the beam of a torchlight shining in someone’s terrified eyes. What he is. The dried and flaking blood on his hands and clothes. The skull shining through the skin. But when he blinks it goes. What he is.
He can see himself sitting here with her. Her showing him something she’s bought downstairs, him smiling and saying it looks nice. He forces his finger down onto the hard plastic corner of the Polaroid in his pocket, pushes harder until he feels it burst through the skin. Blood on blood.
He stood up, needed to get to Jessops before it closed. Wanted to buy three more packets of film. After all, he was going to need it . . .
SEVEN
McCoy trudged up the steps to Susan’s flat. Could feel his socks squelching inside his shoes. Wondered why everyone he knew lived on the bloody top floor. The wee boy who lived downstairs was sitting on a step wrapped up in an Arran jumper and a balaclava, surrounded by Matchbox cars, McCoy stepped over him, patted his head.
‘You all right, Bobby?’ he asked.
Bobby nodded. Wasn’t one to talk much.
He reached the top landing, pressed the bell. Even though he was spending most nights there now, they were still at the stage where he didn’t have a key. Heard footsteps then the door was pulled back quickly and Susan stepped out the flat, closing the door behind her. Didn’t look happy.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
She’d a pair of faded jeans on, T-shirt with a picture of Che Guevara on it, long cardigan, hair tied up in a scarf. Even when she wasn’t trying she still looked great. She pushed some strands of hair behind her ear.
‘Who exactly is Stevie bloody Cooper?’ she said.
He wasn’t expecting that. ‘What?’
‘Him, whoever he is, and some giant thug have been in the bloody flat for half an hour. Sarah was round for a cup of tea, was so awkward she left. The two of them rang the doorbell looking for you. When I said you weren’t here they said they’d wait. Bloody barged in before I could stop them! Who the fuck is he, Harry?’
‘Stevie? He’s the guy that was with me in the house. With Teddy Dunlop. I told you!’
She looked amazed. ‘Him? That’s the guy who got cut with the sword?’
McCoy nodded. ‘Stevie. He’s a friend of mine—’
‘A friend? Are you joking? He looks like he’s going to stab someone any minute. I was scared, Harry! I didn’t know who he was—’
‘Stevie’s fine. You don’t need to worry about him.’ McCoy tried to calm her down, gave her a hug. Could feel she was shaking. Not good. ‘I’ll take care of it. Okay? He’s a pal. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ He let her go, looked into her eyes. ‘Okay?’
Susan couldn’t have looked less happy if she tried. ‘Just get him out of here. Please?’
Harry nodded.
‘And you’re remembering what tonight is? Need to get ready.’
McCoy nodded. Hadn’t. Did now.
‘Course I do. I’ll sort it.’
McCoy walked into the living room of the flat, Susan following behind. Stevie Cooper was sitting in the armchair by the bay window, mug of tea in his hand, flicking through a copy of Spare Rib, of all things. Cooper wasn’t even the most surprising sight. That was Jumbo. All six foot three of him sitting on the settee munching his way through a plate of biscuits.
Cooper sat back in his chair, put the magazine down. ‘No at your flat, no at the station, not even at the fucking pub.’ He put his mug down next to the coaster on the coffee table. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d say you’ve been avoiding me, Harry.’
McCoy shook his head. ‘Come on, Stevie, I wouldn’t do that.’ ‘I should fucking hope not,’ Cooper said. ‘Not after what I’ve been through. But you know what, Harry? You’re making me wonder. Two fucking visits. Three weeks I was in that hospital, on my back, forty-two stitches, all because of you, and two fucking times you came to see me. Two times. Not good.’ He shook his head. ‘Not good at all, eh, Jumbo?’
Jumbo shook his big stupid head, replied through a mouthful of shortbread crumbs. ‘Not good, Mr Cooper.’
‘C’mon, Cooper,’ said McCoy. ‘I wasn’t avoiding you. I had things on, had to go and see the psychologist, all sorts of shite.’
Cooper sat back and lit up a cigarette. He was dressed as he always was: blue jeans, short-sleeved shirt, red Harrington jacket. His blond hair was neatly parted and swept over in a Jimmy Dean quiff, smell of Bay Rum coming off him. Jumbo didn’t quite match his boss’s sartorial elegance. A brick shithouse squashed into old jeans, plimsolls and a red woolly jumper.
Cooper looked McCoy up and down, at the worn suit and the soaking shoes and the tweed coat with a cigarette burn in the arm. ‘So how’s your wee world been getting on, Harry?’
‘Good. Back at work. I think that—’
‘That right? Well, I think too. And what I think is you and I need to have a wee chat.’
‘All right,’ said McCoy. ‘How’s about tomorrow? I can—’
Cooper looked at him, smiled and shook his head. ‘Not tomorrow,’ he said, standing up. ‘Now.’
*
‘Hotspur Street’ was all Cooper said when McCoy asked him where they were going. No more information forthcoming so McCoy gave up trying.
The three of them walked up Byres Road. It was busy, as a road full of pubs would be. Crossed Great Western Road and kept going up Queen Margaret Drive. McCoy tried to see if Cooper was walking funny, if the sword damage had affected his legs, but he seemed fine, usual rolling stride like a sailor on deck. They crossed the bridge over the Kelvin and Jumbo stopped to throw a penny into the running water below.
‘If you cross a river you should throw a penny into it,’ he said. ‘Protects you from bad luck.’
‘That right?’ said McCoy.
Besides granting luck to the penny throwers, the river also acted as the great divide in this part of Glasgow. The area they’d come from, the leafy West End, was full of students, smartly dressed women, academic-looking blokes. Lecturers at the university, workers at the BBC Studios.
Once they’d crossed the river it was a different story. Now they were in Woodside, Maryhill. Dark streets full of flats where the people who worked in the wee factories and workshops around the canal lived. More Cooper’s scene.
Hotspur Street was up on the left, a road of tenements overlooking a swing park. Cooper stopped outside the second close. ‘Up here,’ he said.
They climbed the stairs to the top floor and Cooper knocked the door. A few steps then the door was pulled back, revealing the last person McCoy had expected or wanted
