Стюарт Макбрайд - Now We Are Dead

Steel marched over to the lifts.

Baldy shook his head, jaw tight and clenched. ‘I mean, what did a wee dog ever do to anyone? I tell you, Marty, I’m seriously gonna end that scummer.’

Mullet nodded. ‘Bastard.’

Ping : the lift doors slid open and Steel stepped inside, a small pause, then the bailiffs joined her. Tufty squeaking in just as the doors started to shut.

Steel stared at Baldy and Mullet. Cracked her knuckles. ‘You’re getting one chance to answer this, then I’m kicking both your arses for you: who are you working for?’

‘Landlord.’ Mullet nodded his head at the lift doors. ‘Owns about half the flats in the block. The old lady’s not paid her rent in, like, four months.’

Baldy shrugged. ‘Sent her dozens of letters, hasn’t he? But these auld biddies?’ A grimace. ‘Wishful thinking, innit? You don’t open the post, it don’t count. Maybe the Denial Fairy makes all that back rent you owe disappear. Then me and Marty got to pay them a visit.’

She poked him in the chest. ‘Someone’s loansharking down here. I want to know who.’

Baldy growled. Bared his teeth. ‘He the one microwaved that poor dog? Cos if it is...’

Mullet folded his massive arms across his chest, like a big red-neck genie. ‘Can do you better than a name. I’ll show you where you can find him.’

‘Here youse go.’ Chuckle Brother Number One, AKA: Marty, opened the door, revealing the lounge bar in all its retro glory. Red vinyl on the seats, a sticky lino floor, dark wooden tables and bar. A line of optics for Bell’s and Grouse and own-brand vodka. The pub’s name spelled out in red-and-blue on the mirror behind the bar: ‘THE BROKEN SPIDER’.

Roberta stepped inside, Tufty tagging along like an idiot puppy.

Jimmy Shand’s accordion diddledy-twiddled out of the jukebox, competing against the bings, squeaks, and electronic sirens coming from the puggy machine at the end of the bar. A knot of wee loons were poking away at it in their mismatched tracksuit tops, bottoms, hoodies, and baseball caps — most of which were on the wrong way around. All ten of them looking as if they’d failed the audition for Crimewatch .

The remaining patrons were never going to see forty again. Drinking pints of Export, having a game of dominos, keeping an eye on the racing playing quietly on the telly.

Bailiff Rick closed the door and stood in front of it, blocking the exit.

Then Bailiff Marty raised a hand and pointed at a table in the corner, by the gents. ‘That’s him: Phil Innes.’

A bruiser sat there on his own, back to the wall, nursing a Guinness and a nip. Big bloke. Expensive-looking leather jacket, silk shirt, side parting in his blond hair. Designer stubble and a diamond earring.

‘Right, you wee shite.’ Roberta marched over and flashed her warrant card. ‘Philip Innes, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act, because I believe you to have committed a crime punishable by imprisonment.’

Innes took a sip of stout. Nodded at Rick and Marty. ‘Rosencrantz, Guildenstern.’

Oh, aren’t I so cool?

No’ this time.

Roberta hooked a thumb at the ceiling. ‘On your feet.’

He stayed where he was. ‘And what is it you think I’ve done?’

‘Constable,’ she snapped her fingers, ‘handcuff him.’

And nothing happened.

Typical Tufty: paying no attention to what was actually going on. Instead he was frowning at the troop of wee schemie neds playing the puggy machine. Useless sod.

She pulled out her own cuffs and dangled them in front of Innes. ‘You killed an old lady’s dog. You wrecked her flat. You beat the crap out of her. Now: on — your — feet!’

Innes had a sip at his nip. Pursed his lips. ‘She told you that, did she?’

Tufty inched closer to the tracksuit baboons. Could the boy no’ focus for two sodding minutes?

‘You’re a loanshark, Philly-boy. You prey on the weak.’

‘Let me get this straight — you’re saying some little old lady accused me of killing her dog? That right?’

Tufty turned back and grabbed at her sleeve. ‘Sarge?’

‘Get off me you idiot.’ She pulled herself free. ‘I said, on — your — feet.’

‘I never laid a finger on anyone’s dog. I like dogs. She must have been thinking of someone else.’

‘Sarge!’ The wee sod grabbed her again, pointing at the guy feeding pound coins into the puggy. ‘Kenny Milne!’

At the name, the guy looked up, and it was. Kenny Milne. Nasty kidnappy, child-abducting scumbag that he was.

Oh you wee dancer . They’d got themselves that most sexy of arrests: a twofer — Milne and Innes, both in custody in the one shout.

One by one Milne’s gang of underaged neds turned to stare. None of them looked a day over twelve, and each and every one of them held a tin of extra-strong cider.

That made it a threefer — the landlord was coming down the nick too.

Kenny Milne’s mouth snapped shut. Then, ‘Shite! Splinter!’

And that’s exactly what his troop did, baying like dogs as they ran for it.

Rick grinned at them, chest out, massive arms stretched wide. Get past me, if you can.

They leapt on him, dragging him to the ground, whooping.

Milne sprinted for the exit, only this time Tufty was faster. He launched himself into a rugby tackle, smashing into Milne’s waist and sending him staggering sideways.

The pair of them crashed into a table, sending pints and dominos flying.

An auld mannie in a tweed jacket shook his fist. ‘I wis winning!’

His mate threw his bunnet at him. ‘You wis cheating!’

‘You dirty wee...’ He lunged at his bunnetless mate. They grappled with each other, all false-teeth snarls and muttered swearing. There was a half-arsed attempt at a headlock and they lurched against someone else’s table. A pint of lager tipped over, flooding into its owner’s lap.

She reared upright, eyes glassy, face red. ‘HOY!’ Her fist swung wide, missed the old blokes, and clobbered the back of someone else’s head instead.

And that was it: instant bar brawl. Everyone throwing punches, kicking, biting.

Tufty and Milne rolled around on the sticky floor, grunting and grappling.

Someone thumped the drunk woman with a bar stool, only it didn’t break like they did in the movies. She did. Avalanching down on top of Tufty and Milne.

An auld mannie hurled a chair over the bar — shattering optics and The Broken Spider’s mirror.

Innes just stayed where he was, taking sips from his pint. He nodded at the wrestling match taking place on the floor between the tables. ‘You going to help your little friend?’

One of the neds went flying, following the chair. Cleared the taps and crashed into the till.

The auld mannie in the tweed jacket landed a solid right hook on his bunnetless opponent — walloping him backwards to bounce off the puggy machine — his knees wobbled then gave way, spilling him across the floor as the machine bleeped its tinny fanfare and paid out an avalanche of pound coins.

Roberta glared at the ceiling for a heartbeat. ‘Fudgemonkeys.’ She yanked her extendable baton free and whapped it out to full length.

Innes raised an eyebrow. ‘And I thought you were just pleased to see me.’

‘Stay there.’ She jabbed it in his general direction. ‘I’m no’ finished with you!’

Deep breath, then Roberta turned and waded into the fray.

‘Ow...’ Tufty wobbled on his bar stool, a tea towel full of ice clamped to his face. Poor wee sod. Blood smeared one side of his collar, turning the blue fabric a dirty reddish-purple.

Blue-and-white light flickered in through the pub’s front window, as if someone had set up a miserable disco right outside.