Michael Fowler: Cold Death

Glasgow’s East End, Scotland; November 1971

Winding down his window, and switching off the headlights of the black Mercedes, Iain Campbell swung the car into Fielden Street and straddled along the centre white lines for a few yards until his eyes adapted to the dimness. Then following the direction of the pointing finger of his front seat passenger he switched off its three litre, throaty, engine and coasted quietly towards the nearside kerb.

For a few seconds the three occupants of the Mercedes sat motionless, watching, and listening.

Deathly silence.

* * * * *

Staring out through the windscreen Billy Wallace’s slate grey eyes darted from side to side scanning the high tenement buildings each side of the street. Billy knew the area well. He used to live here as a child; that was until his family went up in the world.

He couldn’t help but notice how the area had deteriorated over the last few years. It had the stigma of being one of the hardest, poorest places in Britain. Most of the people he had grown up with here had moved out, leaving behind the unfortunates who had fallen to the hands of the drug dealers and money lenders.

This was his turf.

Easing open the passenger door and gripping the frame, he used it as a springboard to launch himself upright onto the pavement, rocking for a second on the balls of his feet. Arching his back and pulling at the lapels of his signature black Crombie overcoat he uncoiled his six foot, four inch, muscular frame. Looking around he noticed that the old overhead street lights still hadn’t been replaced and their dim glow resulted in more of the street being obscured than illuminated.

He knew that a lot of people had a fear of the dark, but he loved the dark, and this was perfect cover for what he had to do.

Raking a comb of fingers through his crown of chestnut colour collar length hair Billy surveyed the street again, searching for activity, narrowing his eyes to search within the shadows.

A light wind brushed around dead leaves cluttering the gutter. Other than that there was no other sound or movement along the road.

Good, he thought, he had a score to settle and he needed the element of surprise on his side.

He beckoned the back seat passenger to join him. Rab Geddes was his most trusted henchman, chosen for his pertinacity and penchant towards violence.

Billy stuck his head back into the warmth of the car’s interior.

“Just keep the engine running Iain, we shouldn’t be long,” he whispered to the driver in his gravelly tones.

Using their hips Billy and Rab nudged closed the car’s doors.

Somewhere nearby a dog started barking; its sudden bawl fracturing the stillness of the surroundings.

Setting off at a jog they dodged into one of the stairwell passages leading to the rear of the tenement blocks.

Billy screwed up his nose as he was greeted by the strong whiff of bleach and disinfectant, which was doing its best to disguise the stench of stale urine and animal faeces which had stained the bare cement floor.

Not stopping, he mounted the concrete steps two at a time with Rab matching his pace, and despite the rubber soles of their shoes, Billy couldn’t help but notice that every footfall echoed in the stairwell.

At the first floor they slackened their pace and slunk back against the wall. Their dark overcoats helped them melt like phantoms into the shadows. They slipped onto the walkway. For a few seconds Billy checked his bearings, then he nudged Rab and they moved on. At number thirty-four Billy paused, signalling to Rab. Satisfying himself that he had the correct address he placed an ear to the panelling. He listened. Straightening, he looked around to ensure that there were no witnesses before stepping back two paces and launching himself. The flimsy lock was no match for Billy’s fourteen stone of muscle and the door flew inwards smashing and bouncing against the interior wall.

The pair sprinted towards the well-lit room at the end of the corridor and were only a few yards from the doorway when a slim dark shape appeared as a silhouette in the opening.

Its scream of protest was silenced when Billy snapped out a fist and smacked the unknown individual square on the nose. There was a sickening crunch of bone and gristle as the slender form sank to the ground.

Morag McCredie lay motionless for several seconds.

Billy could see that she was straining to focus her vision through the film of tears that covered her eyes. He listened to her moaning and watched her closing her eyes for a split-second, squeezing her eyelids to force out the teardrops, before snapping them open again.

He took pleasure in seeing the colour drain from her face, smiling, guessing from her reaction that she recognised him. He edged forward, leaning over her, pushing his face within inches of hers.

“Where’s Davie, Morag” Billy growled.

“He’s,” she broke off, her voice trembling as she suppressed a sob.

“Nobody fucking rips me or my family off Morag. Davie knows what’s coming to him.” Billy moved within an inch of her face giving her his hardest stare then slowly delivered in his harshest tone “now — where — is — he?”

She craned her head away from his.

“He’s not here,” she managed to spit out, and cupped a hand over her nose that had already swollen to twice its size. She pulled it away slowly staring at the bright red globules of blood dripping through her fingers.

“You’ve broken my fucking nose.” She groaned in her broad Glaswegian accent.

“That’s not all I’m going to break if you don’t tell me where fucking Davie is,” Billy menacingly snapped back. He reached down and grabbed a handful of her bottle blonde dyed hair and yanked hard, hoisting her upwards.

She swung up an arm to protect herself and a handful of hair ripped from her scalp. She yelped and bit her lip: Tears welled up again.

Billy fixed her with a penetrating, hate-filled stare. “I’m going to ask you one more time Morag. Where’s Davie?”

She started to quiver and grabbed hold of a nearby armchair for support.

Billy snared his hands around her chin and jaw, seizing her in a vice-like grip. He dug his fingers into her skin until he was squeezing bone.

Morag let out a piercing scream and Billy raised a hand to silence her. In that instant, in a defensive act, she shot out her hand and grabbed the handle of one of her kitchen knives lying on the nearby coffee table. In one swift movement she had snatched up the blade and lashed out. It slashed across Billy’s cheek, opening up his flesh to the bone.

He released her immediately, stumbling backwards, slapping both hands over the gash. Blood was pouring from the wound, seeping through the gaps in his gloved hands and onto the front of his coat. Rab Geddes had spotted Morag’s actions too late to stop the damage to Billy’s face, but he reacted to prevent a second attempt, smashing his clenched fist into the side of her head. She reeled back against the armchair and flipped over it backwards.

Billy stared at the amount of blood staining his gloves. His face contorted taking on a demonic appearance. The pupils of his eyes became so dilated that they appeared almost black.

“You fucking bitch.” He snarled. Kicking aside the armchair he towered above Morag, who was scrambling around in her puddle of blood, a badly swelling face disguising once pretty features. She was groggy, trying to raise herself.

Billy reached into his Crombie, pulling the handgun from the waistband of his trousers. It became an extension of his hand as he aimed down at her.

Morag tried to swallow, her Adam’s apple cavorting stubbornly. Her eyes pleaded, and instinctively she again swung up an arm to protect herself.