Ian Rankin: Black Book

‘I’ve killed a lot of men,’ he said, directing his eyes at me but his voice at the Robertsons; ‘But not one of those killings wasn’t justified. People who owed me, people who’d done me wrong, people who’d cheated. The way I look at it, everybody knows what he’s getting into. Doesn’t he?’

For want of any other answer, I agreed.

‘And once you’re into something, there are consequences to be faced, aren’t there?’ I nodded again. ‘Black Aengus,’ he said, ‘have you ever thought about killing someone?’

‘Many a time.’

This was true, though I wish now I’d held my tongue. I’d wanted to kill men wealthier than me, more handsome than me, men possessing beautiful women, and women who rejected my advances. I’d wanted to kill people who refused me service when drunk, people who didn’t smile back when I smiled at them, people who were paged in hotels and made movies in Hollywood and owned ranches and castles and their own private armies. So my answer was accurate.

‘Many a time.’

Cafferty was nodding. He’d almost finished the whisky. I thought something must be about to happen, some act of violence, and I was prepared for it-or thought I was. The Robertsons looked ready either to explode or implode. Tam had his hands on the edge of the table, ready to jump to his feet. And then the door opened. It was someone from the kitchens, bringing us up the sandwiches we’d ordered earlier. Smoked salmon and roast beef. The man waited to be paid.

‘Go on, Tam,’ said Cafferty quietly, ‘you’re the one with the luck tonight. Pay the man.’

Grudgingly, Tam counted out some notes and handed them over.

‘And a tip,’ said Cafferty. Another note was handed over. The waiter left the room. ‘A very nice gesture,’ said Cafferty. It was his turn to deal. ‘How much are you down now, Black Aengus?’

‘I’m not bad,’ I said.

‘I asked how much.’

‘About forty.’ I’d been a hundred down at one stage, but two decent hands had repaired some of the damage. Plus-there could be no doubt about it-the best card players around the table, by which I mean the Robertson brothers, were finding it hard to concentrate. The room was not warm, but there was sweat trickling down from Eck’s sideburns. He kept rubbing the sweat away.

‘You’re letting them cheat you out of forty?’ Cafferty said conversationally.

Tam Robertson leapt to his feet, his chair tipping over behind him. ‘I’ve heard just about enough!’

But Eck righted the chair and pulled him down into it. Cafferty had finished dealing and was studying his cards, as though oblivious to the whole scene. The butcher got up suddenly, announcing that he was going to be sick. He walked quickly out of the room.

‘He won’t be back,’ Cafferty announced.

I said something lame to the effect that I was thinking of an early night myself. When Cafferty turned to me, he looked and sounded unlike any of his many personalities, the many I’d encountered so far.

‘You wouldn’t know an early night if it kicked you in the cunt.’ He had started to gather up the cards for a redeal. I could feel blood tingling in my cheeks. He’d spoken with something close to revulsion. I told myself that he’d just drunk too much. People often said thing…etc. Look at me, I was one to be upset about the nasty things drunks could say!

He dealt the hand again. When it came time for him to make his initial bet, he threw a note into the pot, then laid his cards face down on the table. He reached into the waistband of his trousers. He’d worn a suit throughout; he always looks smart. He says the police are warier of picking up people wearing good clothes, and certainly more wary about punching or kicking them.

‘They don’t like to see good material ruined,’ he told me. ‘Canny Scots, you see.’

Now, when he withdrew his hand from the waistband, it was holding a pistol of some kind. The Robertsons started to object, while I just stared at the gun. I’d seen guns before, but never this close and in this kind of situation. Suddenly, the vodka, which had been having little or no effect all night, swam through me like waste through a sewer-pipe. I thought I was going to be sick, but swallowed it down. I even thought I might pass out. And all the time Cafferty was talking calm as you like about how Tam had been cheating him and where was the money.

‘And you’ve been cheating Black Aengus too,’ he said. I wanted to protest that this wasn’t true, but still thought I might be sick if I opened my mouth, so I just shook my head, after which I felt even dizzier. You can’t know the pain and frustration I’m feeling as I try to write this down candidly and exactly. Fourteen weeks have passed since that night, but every night it comes back to me, waking and sleeping. They’re giving me drugs here, and strictly no alcohol. During the day I can walk in the grounds. There are ‘encounter groups’ where I’m supposed to talk my way out of my problem. Christ, if it were only that easy! The first thing my father did was get me out of the way. I am tempted to say his way. His answer was to send me on holiday. Mother chaperoned me around New England, where an aunt has a house in Bar Harbor. I tried talking to mother, but didn’t seem to make much sense. She had that stupid sympathetic smile pasted onto her face.

I digress, not that it matters. Back to the poker game. You’ve perhaps guessed what happened next. I felt Cafferty’s hand on mine, only this time he lifted my hand up in his. Then he placed the gun in my hand. I can feel it now, cold and hard. Half of me thought the gun was fake and he was just going to scare the Robertsons. The other half knew the gun was real, but didn’t think he would use it.

Then I felt his fingers pushing mine until my index finger was around the trigger. His hand now fully enclosed mine, and aimed the gun. He squeezed his finger against mine, and there was an explosion in the room, and wisps of acrid powder. Blood freckled us all. It was warm for a moment, then cold against my skin. Eck was leaning over his brother, speaking to him. The gun clattered onto the table. Though I didn’t take it in at the time, Cafferty proceeded to wrap the gun in a polythene bag. I know that any prints on it must be mine.

I flew up from the table, panicking, hysterical. Cafferty was seated still, and looking pacified. His calm had the opposite effect on me. I threw the vodka bottle against the wall, where it smashed, dousing wallpaper and curtains in alcohol. Seeing an idea, I grabbed a lighter from the table and ignited the vodka. Only now did Cafferty get up. He was swearing at me, and tried to douse the flames, but they were licking up the curtains out of our reach, scudding across the fabric wallcovering on the ceiling. He saw the fire was moving quicker than we could. I think Eck had already forsaken his brother and fled before I ran out of the room. I took the stairs three at a time and burst into the kitchens, demanding that all the gas be turned on. If the Central was going to burn, let it take the evidence with it.

I must have looked crazy enough, for the chef followed my instructions. I think he was the same person who served us the sandwiches, only he’d changed jackets. It was late, and he was alone in the kitchen, writing something down in a book. I told him to get out. He left by the back way, and I followed, keeping my head low as I jogged back to Blair Street.

I think that’s everything. It doesn’t feel any better for the writing down. There’s no exorcism or catharsis. Maybe there never will be. You see, they’ve found the body. More than that, they know the man was shot. I don’t see how the devil they can know, but they do. Maybe someone told them. Eck Robertson would have reason to. He’s the only one who could tell. It’s all my fault. I know that Cafferty started swearing at me because I’d mucked things up by setting fire to the room. If I hadn’t, he would have seen to it that Tam Robertson’s body disappeared in the usual way. No one would have known. We would have gotten away with murder.