Tony Black - Gutted

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t fucking know.’

Mac tightened his grip on Sid, said, ‘Let me string the cunt up. I can’t be doing with this.’

Sid hollered, ‘The other night at the jolly house.’

I turned to Mac. He explained, ‘The pit fight.’

I faced Sid again, squeezed his hollow cheeks in my hand. ‘I saw you there with Jonny Johnstone… Very fucking cosy with the filth you are, Sid.’

He stuttered, ‘I’m not, I’m not.’ He started to fluster, whimper. ‘He was just after a bit ay sport.’

Mac lost it: ‘I’m not being fucked about any longer.’ He dragged Sid into the burn. The gimp was crying now, what we call greetin’ like a wee lassie in Scotland. I let Mac get the noose around Sid’s neck then start to tighten it.

‘You better talk fast, Sid… Mac the Knife’s not happy.’

I saw the name tip more fear into Sid’s eyes. He spluttered, gripped at the noose with his fingernails and yelled, ‘Pay-off! He was there for his pay-off!’

‘What pay-off?’

Sid’s fingernails were all that was keeping the rope from strangling him. ‘Rab feeds Jonny a wedge to turn a blindy to the dog fights.’

It made perfect sense to me. ‘How long’s this been going on?’

‘I don’t know, I promise I don’t. Moosey used to pay him… It was my first time.’ Sid kicked out at Mac, tried to push him away. ‘Call him off! Call him off, for fucksake!’

I nodded to Mac. He let down the rope.

Sid collapsed in the burn, panting.

‘Speak,’ said Mac. ‘I can easy fucking string you up again.’

Sid tried to get up. The stones underfoot were slippy and he fell again and again. I walked into the burn, placed my hands on his neck and belt loop — threw him onto the bank.

I followed him out and placed my foot on his shoulder as he tried to get up. I pushed him down again. Mac joined me. We towered over Sid, put the heavy threat on him as I said, ‘Speak.’

‘I don’t fucking know any more, I promise I don’t. That’s it, man

… Jonny Boy’s Rab’s fixer with the polis.’

‘Who else?’

‘What do ye mean?’

‘Who else in the filth is Rab paying off?’

‘I–I don’t know. I swear, I only do the books on the dogs.’

I looked at Mac. His face was non-committal. I turned back to Sid. ‘Who’s the little fucker in the white Corrado?’

‘What?’

‘The little bastard that ran over Tupac.’

Sid was gathering his senses, his breath returning to normal. ‘It’s Gibby — top man with the young crew… He’s a wee fucking Jack the Lad.’

I could tell he knew more. ‘You know who told him to kill Tupac, so don’t make me knock it out of you.’

Sid looked at Mac. ‘It was Jonny… But that’s all I know, I swear. I don’t know why but he told him to fucking do it. Gibby told me himself — he’s a boasting wee cunt.’

‘Is this Gibby pally with the Crawford kid?’

Sid nodded. ‘I’ve seen them going about together.’

I got Gibby’s address out of Sid and then Mac picked him up by the ponytail, dragged him screaming to the edge of the burn and kicked his arse back into the water.

As we got in the van, I rolled down the window, yelled to Sid as he schlepped out of the water, ‘That rope’s staying up there… and if one word of what you’ve told us is bullshit, by Christ, you’ll fucking swing.’

As we pulled out, I could hear Sid yelling, ‘Hey, you can’t leave me here! I don’t know where the fuck I am!’

Thought: Welcome to my world.

My mind was buzzing with thoughts; hacked up a line from Aristophanes: ‘A man may learn wisdom even from a foe.’

Mac was a bit too primed. Any day of the week, Mac was a bit too primed. I couldn’t trust he wouldn’t go radge and carve up this Gibby kid. Like he hadn’t the form.

It was working against my better judgement to take Mac along, but it was either that or go alone and it seemed the lesser of two evils. Desperation had a hold of me now.

‘You ready for this?’ said Mac.

‘Look, just cool the beans, okay.’

Mac floored it, spun through the lights. An old giffer with a walking stick raised it above his head. Mac was holding the wheel at ten to two, gripping tight. Add the black leather gloves and he did a fair impression of a post-raid wheelman.

‘Mac, I have to tell you right off, this isn’t your fight.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘Do you?’

He turned to me, smiled. ‘Look, I’m Mr Frosty here, okay?’

‘You better be. I don’t want you being put away again on my conscience.’

‘Sure.’

He settled some. Relaxed back in his seat, put a hand on top of the dash, cruised. Sighthill was its normal burnt-out self. I could hear the tyres going over broken glass every fifty yards.

‘Fucksake,’ said Mac.

‘You’re worried about punctures? What makes you think you’ll still have tyres when we get back to the motor?’

The address we had was for a high-rise. Mac didn’t flinch, even though we were going right into the heart of the war zone. I pointed the way through the winding streets littered with deros, trash and more than a few needles.

‘The state of this place,’ said Mac.

‘Not exactly primo real estate.’

‘You can say that again.’

We found our block. Outside a mattress had been set alight. Two kids in trackies chucked branches on the flames. I’d love to have known where they got them — didn’t look like any vegetation for miles around.

Mac parked; we stepped out.

The kids left the fire, turned to the new addition to the landscape. ‘Hoy, mister… want us tae mind yer motor?’

I looked at Mac. He smiled at me. ‘What you think?’

‘I’d say make them an offer they can’t refuse.’

‘And that would be?’

I called the pair over. ‘You the local heavies?’

In chorus: ‘Aye. Aye.’

‘What do you pay for a heavy round here these days?’

Laughter: ‘Fifty quid an hour, man.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘All right, twenty.’

‘Tell you what.’ I took out a skydiver, handed it over. ‘This van’s still in one piece when we come back, I’ll give you another five.’

They took the five-spot and ran off laughing.

‘Wee bastards.’

Mac patted me on the back. ‘What did you expect — a receipt?’

We took the stairs. The flat was only two flights up, but as I knocked on the door, nothing.

‘Empty?’

‘I’d say so.’

I peered in the window where Mark Crawford’s young crew partner in crime stayed. Place was definitely habited: Chinese takeaway boxes on the window ledge and a couple of plates on the table. ‘Looks like they were at dinner not so long ago.’

Mac was peering out over the balcony. Thought he was checking the van. ‘Is it still in one piece?’

He mumbled, ‘I’m not looking at the van.’

‘What, then?’

He pointed. ‘Take a deck at that.’

Down below, in full view of every flat in the street, a pagger was in progress. Two burly roided-up types with pit bulls straining at the leash had a lanky streak of a lad pinned to a wall. He cowered, hands out; took off his Burberry jacket to whip back the dogs.

‘Does that look like our boy Gibby?’ said Mac.

‘That’s the little wanker from the pit fight. Our Corrado man, for deffo… Saw him on the hill with the Crawford kid the night Moosey was killed.’

‘Then this’ll be his payback for fucking up.’ Mac crossed his arms on the rail, settled into spectator mode.

‘You just gonna watch?’

Mac laughed. ‘Think we could do anything?’

The big lads didn’t take too kindly to the jacket being aimed at the dogs: grabbed it off the wee yob and watched the pits pull it apart. The jacket soon turned to threads and the dogs kicked off, snarling, went for each other. Took all their handlers’ strength to keep them apart.