Stuart MacBride - Twelve Days of Winter - Crime at Christmas

All he had to do was-

A woman in her early twenties with a mascara-streaked face and torn tights pawed at his sleeve. ‘You got any more?’ Her jacket was dirty up one side, hanging open to reveal a pale stomach, short skirt and low-cut top. She’d been pretty once, but it was a while ago. ‘C’mon, I’m dying here. Maggie says you’ve got!’

Brian gave her a smile. ‘It’s your lucky day.’ He held up the wrapper. ‘Last one.’

She licked her lips, fingers stroking her dead-fish belly, eyes shining. ‘How much?’

Brian told her and she swore.

‘You’re kidding – that’s twice what Dillon charges! It’s-’

‘Take it or leave it.’

‘But it’s been a shite night. . . I’m good for it!’ Wringing her hands, staring at the sparkling tinfoil. ‘I’ll pay you back.’

‘Sorry, love, it’s the rules. The guy I work for. . .’

She opened her coat wide and pulled up her top, showing off her naked breasts.

‘He . . . er. . .’ Brian blinked. Coughed.

‘Come on, you know how it works.’ She fumbled with his flies, groping her way into his underpants with cold fingers.

‘It. . . But. . . Oh!’ All available blood was diverted south.

She smiled at him, showing off a mouth full of fillings. ‘Oh yeah, you like that, don’t you?’ Stroking. ‘You give me the stuff and I’ll see you right. Fine upstanding boy like you. I’ll be gentle. . .’ She sank down to her knees.

Brian grinned all the way home.

A dark-blue BMW was parked outside his house: alloy wheels, spoiler, tinted glass. Nice motor, even with the long scrape down the passenger side. The driver’s door opened and Big Johnny stepped out. ‘Well, if it isn’t my little captain of industry.’

‘Mr Simpson!’ The smile died on Brian’s lips.

‘How’d you get on tonight?’

‘Oh, you know. . .’

‘Got my money?’

‘I . . . erm. . .’ He unbuckled the bum-bag and handed it over. ‘All there, Mr Simpson. Like you said.’

‘Uh-huh. . .’ Big Johnny opened the zip and counted the money inside. ‘You got any gear left?’ He held out his hand.

Oh Christ: he knew about the missing wrapper.

Brian’s mouth went dry. How? How did he know?

Don’t just stand there, gob hanging open like a mong, tell him something. Lie .

The blow – give him the skimmed blow!

‘I got some hash left!’ Brian handed it over. ‘Everything else is sold.’

‘I see.’ Johnny examined the small lump of dark brown resin. Probably weighing it up against the amount of cash in the bag. Trying to tell if Brian was screwing with him. Planning another trip to the Calderwell Bridge.

‘I . . . I also found out who Leslie’s been seeing.’

‘Oh yeah?’ The voice was low, dangerous. Like a Rottweiler. ‘Who?’

‘Erm. . .’ BLAME SOMEONE: ANYONE! ‘Cammy!’ Yeah, Cammy would do – smart thinking. The guy was a total dick anyway, he deserved a visit from Big Johnny Simpson.

‘Cammy?’

‘Cameron Williams – he’s a fourth year at Kingsmeath Secondary.’

Johnny nodded. Stuck the lump of cannabis in the bum-bag. ‘Get in the car.’

Back under the Calderwell Bridge: half past one in the morning.

Snow fell from the dark-orange sky, disappearing as it hit the swirling black water.

Don’t. Look. Down.

Brian grabbed the rust-flecked support girder with cold trembling hands. The sound of muffled sobbing came from the lump on the footpath below – Cammy, hands tied behind his back, gag in his mouth, a bag over his head, jeans soaked through where he’d pissed himself.

Big Johnny glanced up at Brian. ‘Loop the rope over the lumpy bit.’

Brian did what he was told, chucked the other end onto the concrete path, then shinned back to safety. Well . . . you know, not counting the homicidal madman.

By the time he’d got down, Big Johnny was hauling on the rope, dangling Cammy out over the water – within arm’s reach.

They’d picked him up on Patterson Street – staggering home on his own, out of his face on supermarket vodka. It hadn’t been hard to bundle him into the back of the car. Tie him up. Stuff an old rag in his mouth. Keep him from screaming.

Brian shifted from foot to foot, stomach lurching, heart thumping, blood fizzing in his ears.

It’d be OK. Nothing to worry about. Right?

Big Johnny was just going to scare Cammy: like he’d scared Brian. That was all this was, just a bit of terror to teach the bastard a lesson.

Even if it wasn’t his lesson to learn.

‘ Clunk ,’ and Big Johnny was back at the car boot. He pulled out a plastic bag from that big DIY superstore on the south side of the city and tossed it over to Brian. There was a set of decorators’ coveralls inside, the kind the police wore on the telly when they dug up some serial killer’s basement.

Johnny dug out another pair of coveralls and clambered into them. ‘Put it on.’

Was harder than it looked, but he managed. Then it was blue plastic bags over their shoes. And a pair of latex gloves.

That’s when Big Johnny produced the knife.

Cammy just hung there and cried.

Johnny grabbed him and sliced through the fourteen-year-old’s clothes, cutting them away – even the piss-soaked trousers and pants. He dumped the rags in a bin-bag, leaving Cammy stark-bollock naked, shivering, covered with goose pimples. Sobbing behind the gag.

Big Johnny made one last trip to the boot of his car and came back with a baseball bat. ‘You know what a pinata is, you piece of shit? No?’ Pause. ‘How about you, Brian?’

Brian knew, but the words wouldn’t come out – just this weird squeaking noise.

Big Johnny was scaring Cammy, that’s all: just scaring him.

‘No?’ Johnny sighed. ‘What the hell they teachin’ you lot in school? A pinata is something you hit and hit and hit until the insides come out. Like this. . .’

It took fifteen minutes.

And Brian stood there, mouth open, trying not to be sick.

Say something: tell Johnny that it was all a lie. Cammy didn’t touch his daughter. It was all just a wee white lie to stop him asking about the missing wrapper of heroin.

But he didn’t say a word.

Because he had a pretty good idea what Big Johnny would do if he found out Brian had lied to him. And stolen from him.

And he’d rather feel guilty than dead.

Andy ‘Twitch’ McKay sits at the bar with a pint of Export, a broken nose, and the tail-end of a bad amphetamine buzz.

The Silver Lady is your swankier kind of titty bar – a long, low room with mirrors all along the back of the stage, so you can see the girls dancing from all angles. Leather seats, dark carpet, mirror ball sending bright chips of light sweeping across the small crowd. Not Twitch’s kind of place at all. Nah, he’s more of a ‘Monk and Casket’ kind of guy. Somewhere intimate, where he can get a beer with his mates, and maybe smoke a joint in the toilets. Where everybody knows his name.

Which is why he’s steering clear of the place. Keeping under the radar. Playing it coooool. And watching Kayleigh Jacobs work.

Hard dance music pulses from the speakers, trying to make a quiet Wednesday sound like a busy Saturday, giving Kayleigh something to dance to. She’s gorgeous: long legs, tight stomach, firm breasts, all done up in lacy underwear, sliding up and down her shiny pole like she’s shagging the arse off it.

Oh yeah. . . Twitch could be that pole. If he had the cash for a lap dance. And maybe a bottle of vodka. And a few lines of something choice. Something to take the edge off.

But he’s skint. The thieving bastards running the place cleaned him out with the cover charge and one drink. Now all he’s got is the fluff in his pockets, the shivering cold sweats, and the laptop sitting at his feet – the only thing left from a wee spot of breaking and entering last week. Easily flog a wee computermabob like that, though. Especially somewhere like this. Might even get a couple hundred quid for it. Enough to keep him in booze and drugs for a couple of days. With a bit left over so Kayleigh can make him feel special.