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  The question seemed ridiculously formal. ‘What does that matter?’

  She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really, I only ask to find out a little bit about you.’

  She’d laid a guilt trip on me. This line of questioning had me rattled. I didn’t want to talk about my brother. I didn’t want to talk about our childhood, didn’t she get it? ‘I was the eldest . . . Michael was the youngest.’

  She fidgeted in her seat, then pressed on. ‘Was there a big age difference between you?’

  ‘Eight years,’ I snapped.

  A lengthy silence drew out between us; she caught me checking my watch. She knew she’d unsettled me, made me feel uncomfortable with her questions. I wasn’t ready to talk about my brother. I stood up. ‘Can I smoke?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. We can take a quick break if you like.’

  I nodded, took my tabs out my coat pocket and went to the door.

  I walked straight out of the building in a white rage. I didn’t know where it had come from. Temperamental. That was one of her words; yes, I was temperamental. I sparked up and took the smoke deep into my lungs. A ferocious chill filled the air; I’d left my Crombie inside and the shock of leaving the centrally heated rooms near knocked me out. I felt my shoulders start to tremble. Debs, what the fuck have you signed me up to? God, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for that woman but this was edging close to the limit. I felt like I’d just stepped out of a Far Side cartoon. The therapist was nice enough, but her professional sangfroid set my nerves jangling. Get a grip, Gus, I told myself. I knew I needed to open my mind to new experiences; like Mac said, I had been too closed-minded for too long. Christ, this might even help me. And I needed all the help I could get.

  I dowped the tab, crushed it under my boot and went back inside. The waft of warmth gave me a smack. I felt myself automatically rub at the outside of my arms.

  ‘Chilly out there,’ I said.

  Dr Naughton smiled. ‘Yes, it is. You feel it when you leave these overheated buildings.’

  I sat down, had grown more relaxed; she had a way of setting you at ease. Did they teach them that?

  ‘Would you like to take off where we left?’ she said.

  ‘Where were we?’

  ‘You were telling me about your brother . . . but if it’s too painful to talk about him so soon after . . .’

  I wanted to say ‘he was murdered’ but went with, ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘What kind of upbringing did you have?’

  I crossed my legs, fiddled with the seam of my jeans. ‘Not your average.’

  ‘Oh, no? In what way?’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to say, what’s average?’

  She stayed silent, waited for me to continue.

  ‘My father was a sportsman, a footballer . . . He had aggressive tendencies and, well, a violent streak.’

  ‘Was your father violent towards you?’

  ‘Shit yeah!’ I uncrossed my legs, leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry . . . I mean, yes . . . He was a drinker.’

  She looked concerned – they taught her that, surely. ‘Did his violence extend to other members of the family?’

  I nodded.

  ‘To Michael?’

  I nodded again.

  I felt the middle part of my chest hardening, a stiffness spreading up my neck and into my jaw. My throat grew paralysed.

  The doctor spoke: ‘Perhaps that’s enough for one day.’

  I felt enormous relief. ‘You sure?’

  She stood up, extended her hand. ‘Quite sure. You’ve been very strong. Thank you for that, Gus.’

  It seemed a strange thing to be thanking me for. I felt utterly confused by this whole experience. Didn’t know where to file it away in my head. I took my coat down from the stand. ‘Do I make another appointment?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll see you again in a couple of days.’

  I was surprised. ‘So soon.’

  ‘Yes, is that all right?’

  I put on my coat. ‘Fine.’

  I walked to the door. Neither of us said goodbye. I turned, ‘A couple of days – I must be a special case . . . or a nutcase.’

  She said nothing.

  Chapter 11

  FELT RELIEVED TO BE AWAY from the doctor’s questions. As I walked back to the car I rolled the quarter-bottle of Grouse in my hand. My heart was pumping hard. I didn’t know whether I felt exhilarated to have got the session over with, or relieved it hadn’t ended with my being carted away by the men in white coats.

  In the car Usual was sitting in the front seat. I moved him aside – wanted to check the glovebox to see if Debs had missed any wraps. No joy; it was empty. I always kept a Shakin’ Stevens ‘Best of’ on the dash – to deter thieves. It had found its way in here so I put it back. Debs had dropped off a couple of new CDs too. I picked them up, turned them over. ‘Leona fucking Lewis . . . Holy crap, Debs, sure it’s not you that needs to see a shrink!’ The other CD looked more promising, an eighties compilation: ‘Town Called Malice’, ‘Ghost Town’, ‘Golden Brown’. I knew she’d bought this for me. And what had I done? Ruined her surprise.

  I felt low.

  Put on the CD, tried to listen.

  The first track was Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’. I remembered I hadn’t liked it at first, seemed too slick for the Thin White Duke. By the time it had gone to number one, though, I had the thing playing in the house all day long. As I listened to it now I saw the old video of the child finding the red shoes in the desert and dancing. I was taken to a different place:

  There’s a baby crying. I’m only eight or so, and I’ve never experienced a child in my home; my new brother cries constantly. I have to turn up Bowie just to drown him out. ‘Let’s Dance’ gets louder. The neighbours bang on the wall. My father shouts. The baby screams on and on. My mother walks the floor patting his back. And then my father, roaring angry, rises and puts his foot through my record player.

  I ejected the CD.

  I couldn’t listen to it. Dredged up too many memories. Wondered: Is this what a trip to a shrink does for you?

  I pointed Usual into the back, pulled on my seatbelt. As I drove to Newhaven I tuned in the radio. The newsreader said there were riots in France at the government’s handling of the country’s economic collapse. I figured we were a ways off riots here: if the Scots had put up with being governed from England for three hundred years, it might take more than a shove.

  The dog sniffed on the back seat, tried to lick up some leftover Bonio crumbs. I had forgotten to feed him. I’d been a bit remiss on the walking front too, but he would have to put up with that. I had more pressing matters to attend to.

  At the gates of the factory I kept shoatie for Davie Prentice but he didn’t show himself. The place looked to be in full swing, a few snoutcasts out front hanging off tabs but they didn’t stick about like the ones outside pubs. It was a quick drag, then back to work. I saw no sign of Andy the foreman either – he’d need shaking down later. Maybe Ian Kerr’s death would give me some leverage, get him talking. He knew what the set-up in there was, and that was something I was going to have to take a closer look at.

  I parked up, told the dog to sit. He watched me as I locked the car door. The sky threatened more snow, but the wind carried only the stench of onions from the burger van. I took a deck at the van. It said ‘Chuck Truck’ on the side in big yellow letters. Thought: More like make-you-fucking-chuck truck.

  As I crossed, my Docs slipped on the icy road; wasn’t about to land on my arse, so I calmed it. Steam rose from an aluminium chute at the side of the burger van. As I got closer the bloke inside leaned forward.

  ‘All right, mate,’ I yelled.

  He seemed glad to see me, wide smile and a wave. His jet-black hair looked beyond Brylcreemed, it sat so flat on his head it could have been ironed. ‘Hello, hello,’ he said.

  ‘Christ, this is some weather.’

  The bloke had his sleeves rolled up; a thistle tat on his forearm moved
as he rubbed his hands together. ‘Worst winter in twenty years, they say!’

  ‘I bet they’re right.’ Cupped my hands, blew into them. ‘You gimme a coffee?’ He looked pissed off at that; I figured it was going to take a bigger parting with the readies. I scanned the menu for anything other than a heart attack. ‘What’s that there . . . Wurst?’

  ‘Aye . . . sausage. Got it for the Czechs in there.’ He motioned to the factory. ‘They won’t bloody touch it though.’

  ‘They won’t?’

  ‘Nah, bloody bags of them I’ve got. Bought them off a Polish bloke, told me the Czechs would be gantin’ for them.’

  ‘But no takers, eh? . . . Sounds like your wurst nightmare.’

  He laughed at that. ‘Aye, very good. Very good.’ He dropped off my coffee and I ordered a wurst, just to seal the deal.

  ‘So, what’s the go with the Czechs?’

  He scooped out the long, grey sausage, put it in a styrofoam box, said, ‘You want sauce on that?’ I shook my head. He returned to leaning on the counter, continued, ‘They’re all Czechs in there now . . . punted the rest.’

  ‘That sounds rough.’

  He mock-laughed. ‘That’s about right – rough.’

  I removed the lid from my coffee; a rainbow of oil sat on the surface. ‘I saw a pair of them the other day, looked hardy lads.’

  A snort: ‘Fucking crooks.’

  ‘You wha’?’

  He looked down the road, called me closer. ‘I hear they’re all living down in Leith, in the one big hoose . . . forty or fifty of them, fucking crammed in like rats.’

  I played up: ‘Get away.’

  ‘I shit you not. There’s a bloke runs squads of them about in a big Pajero’ – he raised his thumb to the roof – ‘kind of thing I could use to tow this . . . No’ cheap. Nice black one it is too, all chromed up and that.’

  ‘So what’s his game?’ I sipped the coffee; it was shithouse.

  ‘You tell me, pal. He doesn’t do a day’s work in there, though, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

  This all sounded dodge to me. ‘This bloke, where’s his house?’ The burger man started to clam up, thought I’d went a question too far. Had to distract him again. ‘Chuck us over a Mars as well, eh.’

  He turned to the rack. I counted out the cash.

  ‘Somewhere in Leith’s all I’ve heard,’ he said.

  He thinned his eyes, waited for my reaction. I didn’t want to press him. I might need to tap him again and I had the black Pajero to go on anyway. I took the Mars and the wurst, said, ‘Grand coffee, chief. I’ll catch you anon.’

  He nodded and grumbled, slunk back in the van and picked up a copy of the Star.

  In the car I opened up the box with the wurst; the smell of it made my eyes smart. I pushed it over the back for Usual. He sniffed at it and went to the other side of the seat. ‘What? Not good enough for you?’

  He put eyes on me, curled up and pretended to go to sleep.

  ‘Stick, then.’

  Mac stood outside the Wall: he was doing the door. This surprised me. He’d been manager when I had the place.

  ‘Hod’s got you at the coalface?’

  He motioned me in. ‘Aye well, it’s a living and work’s tight.’

  I shrugged, said, ‘You got that right.’ I hadn’t seen him since the filth had lifted us at Ian Kerr’s gaff. ‘You get any grief down the nick?’

  Mac laughed it up: ‘Fucksake, my record . . . what you think? Nothing I couldn’t handle, though.’ He led the way indoors. As we went, I felt my Docs sink in the heavy carpet – Hod had gone for the expensive stuff. It didn’t seem to fit with the old Holy Wall I remembered. Our mate Col had run this pub for years: we’d added the ‘Holy’ prefix as a nod to him being deep in his religion. I hoped his beliefs served him where he was now.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ said Mac.

  I tried to hold back, but couldn’t: ‘It’s a fucking eyesore . . . like Pimp My Pub.’

  Where my picture of dogs playing snooker had once hung, mirror tiles and a matte-black handrail-cum-shelf had went up. New uplighters in the floor gave off – that worst of things – mood lighting. The entire place was bathed in an unnatural glow. There was a time when the only glow in here came from the tip of a Woodbine. I felt ready to chuck.

  ‘Come on, man, it’s Manhattan-style. Move with the times.’

  I couldn’t believe this was Mac talking. ‘Aye right . . . it’s tits. And you know it.’

  Hod spied us, made his way over. He wore a tight white shirt, open at the collar, and there was a new bandido-style tache above his lip. The whole lot seemed to have been dyed, several shades darker than his natural colour. He looked like a man galloping towards a midlife crisis. Experimentation with facial hair – never a good idea for our age group.

  ‘Fuck me, it’s Quigley! What’s it like Down Under, mate?’ I said.

  He dipped his head, patted his crotch. ‘I got no complaints!’

  Mac shuffled off to the bar. Hod grabbed me by the shoulders, put a bear hug on me. ‘Come here, buddy.’ He slapped my back, let me go, then stared in my eyes. ‘Sorry about Michael.’

  I had no words for him. We turned for the bar, watched Mac pour out a pint of Guinness. He took his time. I stared at the creamy head as it settled and felt every fibre of me twitch at the memory of that taste of dark.

  ‘Still on the dry bus?’ he said.

  ‘Big time,’ I snapped back to reality, ‘. . . gimme a Coke.’

  Mac supped the head off his pint as Hod ducked under the bar and grabbed a bottle of Stella Artois. We moved towards the windows. They’d been widened, but the view outside still sucked. People bent double into the wind, clutching at Aldi carriers.

  ‘How’s trade?’ I said.

  He laughed, pointed to a couple of young lads in the corner drinking cans of Lech. ‘If it wasn’t for the Poles we’d be shut already. Fucking hope they don’t nash back home anytime soon.’ I got the impression business wasn’t Hod’s favourite subject at the moment. I knew he’d shut up his building firm a few weeks back. He was probably living off savings. ‘Anyway, what’s the Hampden Roar with your brother’s joint? Mac told me about the Kerr bloke . . . Fucking rough.’

  ‘You’re not kidding. I was back round today.’

  ‘And?’

  I slugged on the Coke. The ice made my teeth twinge as I told them what the gadgie with the burger van had said.

  ‘Labour scam,’ said Hod. ‘Saw it a few times in the building game.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  He took a pull on the Stella, put down the bottle and started to chop the tabletop with his hands. ‘It’s like this: those fuckers round them up in some poor shithole abroad, take a wad off them for transport and papers, accommodation and the like. Most of them don’t have the knackers so they get into debt, before they even get over here.’

  ‘So, what, some boss man shifts them, puts them up . . . Then what?’

  ‘Gets them set up with the social . . . all totally above board so far. They get them signing on, then they get hold of their books.’

  ‘The Nat King Cole?’ said Mac.

  ‘Aye, aye. Take their dole books and their giros. The poor bastards can’t go anywhere because the gang boss – and that’s what they are, gangsters – has their passports and their papers, the lot.’

  Mac piped in, ‘Probably putting a threat on them back home too: you do this for us or such-and-such happens to yer maw or yer kids.’

  It added up. I just didn’t see where my brother’s business came into all of this. It wasn’t something Michael would entertain as a bad joke. ‘Hang about. If they’re signing on, how can they be working for Davie Prentice?’

  Hod and Mac laughed together. Mac raised his bevvy to his mouth.

  Hod said, ‘They’re crooks, Gus . . . heavyweight fucking crim-jobs. Think they’re giving an Aylesbury duck for the law? They’ve got this house, probably several houses, full of totally desperate
migrants and, what, they just let them sit about all day waiting for their giros?’

  Mac put down his pint. ‘Dream on.’

  ‘They had them on the sites,’ said Hod. ‘All cash in hand, mind. Some bloke in a fancy motor would turn up at the end of the week and take the wages for twenty or thirty workers. And nobody, but nobody, batted an eyelid. These guys are hard core, this is a big racket and there’s big money in it.’

  I picked up a beer mat, folded it down the middle, sat it on the table. ‘It’s slavery,’ I said.

  Hod agreed, ‘Aye, it is that.’

  ‘One thing I don’t get is, what I mean is, I can’t see Michael having been involved in anything like that. He wouldn’t have stood for it.’

  Mac butted in: ‘I can see that fat Davie cunt going for it. Man’s a parasite – fucking reeks out of him.’

  I agreed. ‘Yeah, I can see him being in, if the numbers added up . . . but not under Michael’s nose, and this set-up’s been on the go long enough for my brother to have rumbled it.’

  Hod lowered his voice, leaned back and tucked a thumb in a belt loop. ‘Maybe he didn’t like it, Gus. But maybe he did know.’

  I knew what he was trying to say, and why he didn’t say it. I spoke for him: ‘You think my brother got offed because he was making a fuss about some Czech labour scam?’

  Hod shrugged. ‘Bears thinking about.’ He stood up, looked out the window, confirmed the snow was back on. ‘You want to go pay another visit to this fat Davie?’

  I rose; Mac did too. I faced the pair of them, said, ‘Let’s leave him for now.’

  Mac was ready to bust heads, ready to let swing with that hammer. ‘Oh, come on, man, he’s clearly up to his nuts in it!’

  I took his point, but there was nothing to be gained from giving Davie another belt; yet, anyway. I started to fasten my Crombie. ‘You’ll get your chance with him soon enough. I can’t risk putting the big frightener on him too soon.’

  Hod spoke, ‘He’s right: if the guy’s as piss-weak as you say he is, Mac, he’ll only bolt.’

  I said cheers for the drink, that I’d be in touch, headed for the door.

  Hod slurped the dregs of his Stella, turned for the bar. ‘Look, seriously, Gus, if there’s anything I can do.’