Tony Black - Loss

Mac nudged me, whispered, ‘Wouldn’t mind going a few rounds wi’ that!’

I shoved him away, went for warmth: ‘Hello there, can you tell your boss I’d like a word, please?’

‘That would be Mr Prentice. Do you have an appointment?’

‘No. I’ve no appointment… I think he’ll see me, though. I’m Michael Dury’s brother. We just, er, spoke.’

‘One moment.’

She picked up the phone — one of the old BT jobs, must have been a few years old. I didn’t think I’d see one of those again; this place was in a time warp.

‘Yes, if you follow the red tape.’

‘Follow the what?’

‘The tape, Gus,’ said Mac. He pointed to the floor. Where the carpet ended there was a lino-covered floor, two thick strips of tape running side by side along the edge, one yellow, one red. ‘You never worked in a factory? It’s how they get about.’

I looked over. ‘It’s like The Wizard of Oz.’

‘Come on, we’re still a long way from Kansas.’

The tape led us through the shop floor. It wasn’t what you’d call heavy industry. Couple of assembly lines, lots of people in starched white dustcoats packing boxes. Occasional forklift. Radio playing ‘Eye of the Tiger’.

Mac tapped my arm. ‘You remember this?… Rocky, innit?’

‘Got that right.’

He curled his lower lip. ‘Ain’t gonna be no rematch.’

As we walked I caught sight of a familiar face: it was Vilem, the one Jayne had described as ‘the lodger’. He was on the line, but didn’t look to be grafting. There was a group of dustcoats around him but Vilem was in full flow, barking orders. He caught me staring and stopped, mid-blast, then crept away with that limp of his. I saw him remove a mobi from his pocket and press it to his ear.

‘Watch out,’ said Mac. A forklift forced us into the wall. We got pelters in a foreign tongue from the driver, who pointed to the floor.

Mac was none too pleased, looked set to lamp him. This time I hosed him down: ‘Think he wants us to stay behind the line,’ I said.

‘He should have fucking said that then.’

‘He did… in Russian or something.’ As I spoke I saw Vilem disappear from the line; I turned head.

‘There any Scottish folk in here?’

‘Oh, aye,’ I nodded up the corridor, ‘here’s one now.’

Davie stood outside his office, waiting for us. For a man in his mid-to-late forties, he wasn’t wearing well. Pot belly, ruddy lardass complexion and the classic sloping shoulders of the desk-jockey. He did himself no favours in the style stakes either: an unruly side-sweep like Bobby De Niro in The King of Comedy and thick square-framed glasses that I hadn’t seen since Frank Carson was last on the telly. He wore a striped shirt, frayed at the collar, and a too-wide-to-be-trendy tie that looked as if it had been cut from the tablecloth in a greasy-spoon caff.

‘Yes, gentlemen, what can I do for you?’ he said, smiling — fucking optimistically, I thought.

I walked past him through the doorway.

Mac said, ‘Get inside.’

Davie stepped back into his office, Mac shut the door behind him. A large window faced out onto the shop floor. Venetian blinds were tied up: Mac lowered them, blocking out the view.

‘Is that really necessary?’ said Davie. He smiled, tried to appear relaxed. He was convincing, I’ll give him that.

Mac said nothing, stood with his hands behind his back, played pug.

I answered for him: ‘Now, you tell me, Davie, is it necessary? Suppose that depends on whether you have something to hide.’

He creased his nose and I noticed something about fat Davie I hadn’t until now: he had a tache. It was a completely different colour from his barnet, much lighter, and it sat above his mouth like an anaemic slug. I’d never seen a mouth more inviting of a punch. He said, ‘I’ve nothing to hide, why would I have anything to hide?’

I took out my Marlboros, sparked up. A chair sat beside the wall. I nodded to Mac and he dragged it into the middle of the floor, manhandled fat Davie into it. ‘Is there any need for this?’ he barked.

‘Need for what, Davie?’

‘This… this rough stuff.’

Mac laughed, shot him a sideways glance.

‘Rough stuff, Davie? We haven’t even got started yet.’

‘Look, I’m not about to stand for this.’

‘You’re sitting, Davie. We gave you a seat, remember.’

He started to get up. Mac pushed his shoulders, forced him back down. Now Davie sat quiet. I expected him to finger his collar, take out a handkerchief and dab at his brow but he was ice. Fair shook me.

‘Okay, Davie, let’s take it from the beginning… When did you last see my brother?’

Now he flared up: ‘You surely don’t think I have anything to do with that.’

Mac crossed the floor again. ‘Answer the fucking question.’

Davie didn’t know who to address. He started to speak to Mac: ‘I don’t know anything about that…’

Mac put a mitt on Davie’s jaw, spun his face towards me, said, ‘Tell him, you prick.’ He bared his bottom row of teeth, looked tempted to panel Davie into his soft slip-on shoes.

‘I–I, come on, you can’t seriously…’

‘Davie, this is a simple enough situation we have here. Now, you’re an intelligent man, are you not?’

Silence.

Mac kicked the back of his chair. ‘Answer him.’

Rapid-style: ‘Yes. Yes.’

‘Good. That’s very good, Davie. Now, as an intelligent man you must know I’m not playing with you here… You know that, don’t you?’

He turned around swiftly to watch Mac. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

‘Excellent. Then, purely in the interests of clarity, let me confirm: you will answer every fucking question I ask of you, fully, truthfully and without hesitation, Davie, or Mac there is going to punch you a new hole. Got it?’

Head in spasm: ‘Yes. I understand. Yes. Yes.’

I took a drag on my tab, said, ‘When did you last see my brother?’

‘Erm… it was, er, last, er, yesterday afternoon.’

‘Where?’

‘Here… it was here in the office. Erm, in his office. Next door.’

‘What time exactly?’

‘It was lunchtime.’

‘What fucking time exactly?’

‘One… it was one-ish… one-thirty.’

‘Who else was there?’

‘No one. We were going over the returns for the accountant. They have to be in by the new year and…’

‘And what?’

‘Nothing… That’s it. Look, it was just another day at the factory. I never thought-’

I leaned into his face, blew out smoke. ‘You never thought he was going to get plugged out on the Meadows?’

Davie turned away, wiped at his soft moustache. ‘No, I never… You don’t think he was murdered? The police, I mean, they don’t think he was…’

I walked around the chair where he sat. I flicked ash from my tab as I went. ‘Maybe the police don’t have all the facts, Davie.’

‘What… what do you mean?’

I nodded to Mac. He tipped back Davie’s chair — his slip-ons went in the air. ‘I mean, do the police know how things are here? About the lay-offs? Sounds like cost-cutting — you must be feeling it.’

Mac let Davie’s chair go. He fell backwards onto the floor. His glasses came off, he flapped about like a recently landed cod. When he found his specs he jumped up and ran to his desk, picked up the phone.

Mac was on him: ‘You fucking cheeky wee cunt.’ He grabbed the line and yanked it out of the wall. The thin cable snaked up and whipped a polystyrene ceiling tile, showered a little dust. Davie put his hands to his head like the sky was coming down.

I said, ‘You never answered the question, Davie.’

‘What question?’

I moved over to face him, sat on the edge of his desk and brushed the white dust from his shoulder. ‘Do the police know about your financial troubles?’