William McIlvanney - The Papers of Tony Veitch

He pleaded there with me,

‘Don’t make me go to bed, papa,

And I’ll be good.’

Mickey Ballater was lamenting through the music his lack of a son, nobody to take over what he had achieved. Music was for him a way of disposing of the feelings the terms of his life had no use for, like an emotional colostomy. He accepted the relief with gratitude. He was sorry they didn’t have any Hank Williams’ records.

Hank Williams was the man. He just pulled his heart out his chest and laid it on the table and let it pump the blood all over the carpet. You were wading out the room when he was finished. He was a brave singer.

Still, Hank Snow was penicillin on a record, doing the diminishing pain in Mickey’s side no harm and leaving his head clear to work out where he was. At least the police had got a good job done on the wound. But the best ointment for it was remembering how much worse Hook Hawkins must be feeling, if he was feeling anything. Mickey hoped not. He only regretted that he hadn’t found the time to attend to the young brother. That Laidlaw had complicated things.

But Mickey had made it to Eddie Simpson’s on the South Side. It was a safe house. Eddie remembered the old days. They were all he had since he took ill. The doctors hadn’t decided what it was yet, Eddie said, but Mickey had. If Eddie didn’t have cancer, it was coming up in the lift. There would be no remission for good behaviour this time. That was why Mickey had told him to stay away from the house as much as possible while Mickey was there. The last thing Eddie needed was any other kind of trouble.

Anyway, Eddie had put together a scratch team for him. They weren’t much, so busy looking for trouble that if the real stuff found them they would probably come in their drawers. The only one Mickey thought might give him a run for his money was Sandra. He fancied that. When the others were there, she was always giving him secret looks, like envelopes not to be opened till later. He might arrange a later for her.

Eddie’s son Simpsy was a measure of the others, a plastic imitation of his old man, not the same class. He might as well have ‘Made in Hong Kong’ stamped on his bum. They didn’t breed them like before but they still bred them all right. He smiled at the thought of those who believed in improving things. No matter what progress they made in the future, one thing he was sure of was there would still be supersonic robberies, a black market in laser beams.

But he had to get to Birmingham before that. If he had to back up here for trial, he would have his own team with him. Then they would see.

Well, it broke my heart to hear him saying

Just before he died,

‘Don’t make me go to bed, papa,

And I’ll be good.’

‘Thank Christ, he’s finished.’ Malkie was listening to the silence. ‘Maybe the record’s worn out.’

They all waited a moment longer.

‘Sandra,’ Tich said. ‘Go and tell him we better make a move.’

She looked to Simpsy, who had come off the phone. He nodded. She went out into the hall and knocked at the door of the room, opened it and went in. Mickey Ballater was still sitting in the armchair. He smiled at her. She crossed self-consciously towards him, aware of the movement of her own body.

‘Mickey,’ she said. ‘The boys think you should go now.’

He put his hand up her skirt and she gasped. He left it there, gripping her. She didn’t move.

‘Ah think up there’s still a kennel for you, Sandra. Ah know a couple of ways tae let the animal out. You phone that number Ah gave you. When Ah get down.’

She nodded. He released her.

‘Tell Simpsy to bring the car to Skirving Street. The rest of us are walkin’ round tae Dow’s.’

As she went back out, he stood up and flexed, testing his side. It would do. He felt for the knife they’d got him, practised taking it out. He replaced it and smiled to think that the only other thing beside it in his pocket was his banker’s card, like a repeating egg being endlessly hatched out into money by its mother. He went through and told Malkie to carry his case.

It had stopped raining. The dark wetness of the street was like a whetstone for his memory, sharpening his sense of himself. Out of such moments of windy bleakness his hardness had been honed, a defiant sense of style that gave fear a dramatic form. He felt now he had been right not to settle for a hired car out of here. He didn’t drive, and being chauffeured away would have been too much of a come-down, as if he couldn’t look after himself. He could. He would leave here as he had lived here, on his own terms.

Samuel Dow’s reinforced his mood, bringing back the feeling he had had so often as a boy learning to drink in Glasgow pubs, of taking part in your own western. The big bar was busy. Mickey enjoyed standing there knowing he was the man, buying drinks for awe-struck attendants and unafraid of anybody. But he was checking it just the same.

It didn’t take him long to notice a face he knew. He was sure the man had seen him because the impression that he hadn’t was being given off too strongly. The lifting of a pint didn’t need so much concentration. He was reading the beer as he drank it. It was Macey. With him was the one who had got the beer shampoo from Panda Paterson. Mickey sent Tich to tell Macey he wanted to see him.

Macey came across reluctantly.

‘Mickey,’ he said, nodding. ‘How’s it goin’?’

‘What time is it?’ Mickey asked.

Puzzled, Macey looked at his wrist and told him. Mickey consulted his own watch.

‘Some of his information’s accurate anyway,’ Mickey said to the others.

They were laughing.

‘Look, Mickey. Ah told you as soon as Ah knew. Ah canny help it if he’s topped himself. Ye know?’

‘What you doing here?’

‘Ah have a drink here about once a week. Wi’ ma wee mate. Sammy.’

‘Oh aye. Sammy. That’s the one that wears the McEwan’s brylcreem.’

He described the incident in the Crib briefly to the others. They all looked across at Sammy, whipping him with their laughter. Sammy nailed his eyes to the bar in front of him, his hand too shaky to risk lifting his drink. Macey was fidgeting as if he wanted to get away, but he made no move.

‘What about yer train, Mickey?’ Simpsy asked.

‘It’s a five-minute job in the car tae get there, isn’t it?’ Mickey said.

‘Ah’ll go across an’ get it started,’ Simpsy said. ‘It sometimes takes the huff.’

He went out.

‘Mickey.’ Macey seemed poised between the desire to ingratiate himself and the fear of offending. ‘You gettin’ a train at Central?’

‘Why?’

‘Mickey. Don’t tell them Ah told ye. But they’re after you. They’re out lookin’.’

‘Who are?’

‘Baith Cam Colvin an’ John Rhodes.’

A taxi-driver had come into the bar. He was shouting that there was a taxi for Mr Olliphant. He crushed past them to consult with one of the barmen.

‘Ah thought they might be,’ Mickey said.

‘Ah know there’s some o’ them at Central an’ some at the airport.’

Mickey was thoughtful.

‘Jesus, Mickey,’ Malkie said.

‘This is a bloody liberty,’ the taxi-driver was saying. ‘He definitely said Sammy Dow’s.’

‘This isny the only Sammy Dow’s,’ the barman said. ‘Maybe the one at Queen Street Station.’

‘Two minutes from a taxi-rank?’ the driver said. ‘Why would they phone a taxi from there? Give us a break.’

‘But they’re not everywhere,’ Mickey said and went across to the taxi-driver.

The others watched him in discussion with the driver. The driver didn’t seem keen. But he accepted some notes and was pacified. He came over and picked up Mickey’s case.