Stuart MacBride - Twelve Days of Winter - Crime at Christmas

The number finishes and Twitch launches into thunderous applause, wolf whistling as Kayleigh takes her bow. She turns and struts offstage into the wings. A brunette comes on next, the music swells, the new girl bumps and grinds, and Twitch goes back to his pint. Watching the door in the mirror behind the bar.

His reflection’s looking better: the black eyes have faded. And yeah, his nose looks like a wonky doorknob, and makes this squeaky whistling noise when he breathes. Prominent cheekbones, sunken eyes, stubble. Hair long at the back and short on top: it’s a 1980s classic. Fuck anyone who says different. Camouflage hoodie top and drainpipe trousers. Strung out, fucked up, and no good.

Christ knows why they let him into the Silver Lady. Must be desperate to make the numbers up tonight.

He takes a sip of beer and scans the punters in the mirror. Not many people in yet: a half dozen guys out on a stag night; a pair of suits, drinking champagne and whooping at the girl on stage; and a couple of sad pervs, sitting on their own.

None of them want to buy a laptop.

There’s a flurry of activity just after nine – a dozen pissheads, all done up in Santa hats. They order whisky and vodka, then hoot and cheer as Kayleigh comes back on for her third set of the evening. Animals. How can’t they see she’s only got eyes for Twitch?

She’s spectacular. Lithe – almost rubbery – making him moan.

After she’s done – sashaying off the stage to a standing ovation, her pert buttocks oiled up and glistening – he tries the laptop on the drunken Santa hats, but they ignore him, not taking him on, not wanting anything to do with a scheemie wee junkie like him. Scared in case they catch something. He leaves them alone before somebody calls security.

No one’s ever going to buy this bloody computer. Might as well give up. Finish his shitey pint and go home.

Twitch slouches back to the bar and stares at the last inch of beer in his glass.

Maybe it’s time to get out of town? Give Oldcastle the heave ho and bugger off somewhere warmer and safer. Like Dundee, or Perth, or Hell. Even Aberdeen would be better than hanging about here, waiting for Dillon to find him.

Yeah, it was definitely time to get-

A hand on his shoulder. Twitch flinches, squeals, wraps his arms around his head.‘Jesus, you’re jumpy!’ West coast accent, soft and lyrical: female.

He peers out between his fingers as Kayleigh slips onto the stool next to his. She’s changed into a pair of leather trousers, high-heeled boots, a white crop top, and a frock coat in red satin. Up close, she’s even more of a stunner. Like one of them Greek goddesses.

She waves to the barman. ‘Steve, give us a V-and-T, and another pint for Mr Jumpy here. Least I can do for scaring the shite out of him.’ She smiles and he melts, except for one part which gets very, very hard.

‘Wow . . . thanks.’ This time the Export tastes of angels in baby oil.

Kayleigh takes a sip of her drink and leans on the bar.

Twitch coughs, crosses his legs to hide the stiffie. ‘Er. . . Hi.’ He sticks his hand out. It looks reasonably clean. ‘The name’s Twitch,’

‘Yeah?’ she looks at him over the top of her glass, but doesn’t take his hand. ‘That fits. I’m Kay-’

‘Kayleigh Jacobs. I know. I’m. . .’ Don’t sound like a dick, don’t sound like a dick. ‘I’m a great fan of your work.’

She laughs, tossing her head back. Her long blonde hair swishes up and over her shoulder. ‘Well, aren’t you a smooth bastard?’

He grins. ‘Thanks.’ This is exactly how it’s meant to happen, Twitch McKay: suave, sophisticated, and funny. She’ll see there’s more to him than the tatty clothes and the skittering drugs. He’s a man .

Kayleigh disappears off to the toilets, and when she comes back she runs a perfect fingernail down his arm. ‘You fancy a private dance?’

Shite. . . ‘Sorry, I kinda came out without my wallet.’

She smiles. ‘It’s OK. I like you. It’ll be my little treat.’ She bites her bottom lip and takes his hand, leading him away from the bar and through a little door on the far side of the club.

The private dance room’s not much bigger than Twitch’s bedroom at home: six foot by eight foot, with a large vinyl sofa and a small coffee table. She points at the sofa. ‘Sit down and keep your hands to yourself. That’s very, very important.’ Kayliegh slips off her blood-red coat. ‘You can look, and I can touch, but you can’t. If you do, someone will come in and hurt you. Do you understand?’

Twitch nods.

Play it cool.

Oh shit this is GREAT!

‘Good.’ She opens a wee unit and flicks a switch. Music fills the room as Kayleigh goes into her routine. Stripping for him, peeling off her high-heeled boots, trousers, top, till there’s nothing left but red lace.

Her skin’s perfect, her body’s perfect, she’s perfect. Oh God. . .

Just one touch. She’d understand, right?

She likes him.

There’s a sound down the alleyway, like someone being sick, and then they’re gone. Leaving Twitch alone in the darkness with his pain. He tries to clamber to his feet, but something explodes inside his head and he slumps back against the wall.

The man howches, then spits in Twitch’s face. His voice is like a shallow grave. ‘You want to try that again?’

‘I’m sorry. . .’ He stays where he is and gets a kick in the ribs as a reward.

‘You’re sorry?’ Pause. ‘Oh, that’s all right then, isn’t it? You’re sorry and everything’s forgiven, aye?’ The man squats down in front of him, grabs his hair and hauls his head up. Bangs it off the brick wall.

‘Dillon, I-’

‘No, you don’t dare “Dillon” me, Andy McKay. We ceased to be on first fucking name terms when you screwed up that B-and-E. You call me Mister Black.’

‘Mister Black, I-’

Dillon backhands him, the leather glove breaking Twitch’s nose again. Fresh blood steams in the cold alley. ‘Did I give you permission to speak?’

Twitch just whimpers.

‘Right, here’s how this works: I promised to write off your debt if you stole that painting for me. Nice and easy. Only you didn’t, did you? You didn’t get my painting, you fucked up!’ A hard right hook snaps Twitch’s head back into the wall again, making the world scream. ‘No painting means you have to give me back the thirteen thousand you owe me, plus another week’s interest. Let’s call it fourteen thousand all in. Where is it?’

Twitch whimpers again.

‘You can answer that one, Stupid.’

‘I . . . I don’t. . .’

‘Ooh, bad luck.’ Dillon grabs Twitch’s arm, pulling it straight out then twisting it over, so it’s elbow up. Then he drops all his weight on the joint. CRACK!

There’s a small pause, then the pain hits – like a million rusty needles ripping through his veins.

Twitch opens his mouth to scream, but Dillon smashes a fist into it, cutting him off.

Dillon lets go and the arm flops to the tarmac. Eyes watering, nose streaming with blood, Twitch picks it up with his right hand and cradles it against his chest. Crying like a baby.

Dillon grins at him. ‘Don’t know what you’re blubbing for: you’ve still got two legs to go, haven’t you?’

‘Please!’ Oh fucking Christ it hurts!

‘Please what?’

‘Please, Mister Black. . .’ He stares up at the man towering over him. ‘Please, God, no. . .’

‘Rules are rules, Twitch. If I let you away with it, every bugger will think I’m going soft. Next thing you know I’m getting no respect. Can’t have that, can we?’

‘Please!’

Dillon picks up one of the beer crates stacked at the back door of the club, whistling while he works. He clunks it down on the concrete and props Twitch’s feet up on it, straight out in front of him.