Craig Robertson - Random

I sat at home with the television on. Not watching, not hearing a word. She sat to my left, not talking. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

My mind was on a lock-up garage in Springburn. Keith Imrie would be arriving there now. He’d be excited, maybe a bit scared. He’d be seeing his scoop, his reporter of the year award. He’d be reaching inside the box in the corner and fumbling for the brown envelope. It would be there, just as I’d promised him.

Later I wasn’t sure how much of it I’d imagined or how much of it was the stuff I’d read in the papers or heard from the people who knew people. It was the talk of the steamie obviously.

Looking back it’s as if it was all playing out in front of me in high-definition 34-inch plasma grotesque. I stared at that television and watched my play unfold, seeing it, remembering it, imagining it, feeling it.

Imrie arrived bang on cue at quarter past eight, just as the light was beginning to go on that cloudy May night. He had parked up a street away and walked over to the lock-up, furtively looking around him in case he was being watched. Oh he knew the game all right, he could keep his sources sweet and discreet.

He pulled up the sliding door and slipped inside with just one backward glance at the falling gloom. Every step to the back of the garage took him a step nearer London, the metaphorical Fleet Street and a job on one of the national dailies.

He’d worked for this. It was his due. From council minutes and court reports in the early days, through tip-offs and lifts from local papers to crime tidbits and page leads, from hard days’ nights drinking with arseholes and villains, keeping people sweet and keeping the whole thing discreet. He’d played the fucking game and it was his time now. He was the best there was in this wee pond and this was going to be his chance to show the big boys what he could do.

The game was the same wherever you played it. You just had to know when to kick arse and when to kiss it. When to slap someone on the back and when to stab them there. When to write the truth and when to write what suited you. Simple as. He knew the game inside out.

The Cutter stuff hadn’t fallen into his lap as some of them said. Things didn’t work like that. You make your own luck even if those jealous fucking idiots couldn’t understand it. The Cutter could have picked any journalist in the city but he hadn’t. He picked Keith Imrie because he was the best that weegieland had to offer. He’d worked for it and he’d earned it. Nothing at all to do with luck.

He made for the back right corner of the lock-up, just as instructed. The information had never been wrong before and nor would it have been. The muffled voice on the phone had never identified itself, the letters were always unsigned but he knew, of course he knew. It was straight from the horse’s mouth. Everyone was desperate for a line on The Cutter and he had the best contact of them all. Of course he did.

The battered cardboard box was half-covered by an old carpet, as inconspicuous as it was insecure, the safety of its contents all but guaranteed by its unguarded shabbiness. Inside was his passport to Fleet Street. Sure, the big papers had moved out to Docklands and Broxbourne via Wapping but it would always be Fleet Street to him.

He reached under the carpet, keen not to actually touch the thing, and groped in the half-light for the envelope. Sure enough his fingers settled on it and with a satisfied smile he eased out the prize. A plain brown envelope, thinly bulging with hidden promises. All his.

Smug? So what. Show him a good loser and he’d show you a loser. Same goes for good winners. If the rest of the Glasgow meedja was looking on he’d give them a big Get It Right Up Ye to the lot of them. Come on down, the prize is right.

He carefully tipped the contents of the envelope onto the carpet draped over the box and eagerly examined his haul.

There was a glossy white business card. Jonathan Carr. Salter, Fyfe and Bryce Solicitors. 1024 Bath Street.

There was a newspaper cutting. Brian Sinclair’s wedding announcement. Bingo.

There was a man’s chunky gold necklace. Blingo.

There was a betting slip marked Hutchison’s Independent Bookmakers, a till receipt from Tesco and a credit card in the name of Wallace R. Ogilvie.

House!

Fucking hell, it was even better than he’d hoped. His editor could kiss his golden arse. Never mind the series of front-page exclusives that this would serve up, it would get him so much pussy it was beyond belief.

Grisly Treasure Hoard From The Cutter’s Lair. Open Says Me, Record Reporter Uncovers Killer’s Cave. He could only think in headlines, could only see his name up in lights and in glorious 20-point byline.

He slipped the envelope and its prize papers into his inside jacket pocket, all except the chunky piece of manbling which he put snugly into his trousers, enjoying the feeling of it rubbing against his golden balls. Fuck, he was the man.

He eased up the door to the lock-up and, with barely a glance to the waiting night, he left as he came, striding like a prince among papers back to the Saab convertible that would take him to London. He had gone all of five feet when he heard the footsteps behind him that sent his spider sense into overdrive and his sphincter shutting like a clam.

Despite every instinct telling him just to run, he spun to see what was behind him. As he took in the two very large men moving towards him, he heard more footsteps, this time from the direction he had been heading. He wanted to speak, to bluff it out, to talk his way out of it but no words would come. A boot from the guy nearest him crushed his golden balls and put him squealing onto his knees. He hadn’t even begun to recover from that when something, a fist, a boot, a baseball bat, crashed into the side of his skull and he could taste his own blood as he sank onto the waiting concrete. His head rang, he’d bit his own tongue and his brains rattled against the side of his head.

Voices came at him as if someone was phoning him from inside a bathroom or underwater. Feet crashed against his knees and ankles, encouraging him to listen or stand. When he failed to do either he was hauled to his feet and his vision settled enough for him to recognize the face directly in front of his. Alec Kirkwood. Fuck.

Hands were rifling through his pockets, maybe Kirkwood’s maybe not, finding and removing the envelope and then the necklace. Spud’s necklace, he heard someone say. That revelation was followed by a punch to the stomach that blew away whatever little breath he had left. He was being held up like a rag doll.

We need to talk, wee man man man man. I’ve been waiting a while for this this this this. Kirkwood’s words reverberated round his bruised skull.

It wasn’t his show any longer. It was Alec Kirkwood’s show. He didn’t know how and he didn’t know why but he knew his time had come and gone. His exclusive had gone. His reporter of the year award had gone. Fleet Street had gone.

Kirkwood held something up. The betting slip. He’d barely taken in what it was when a fist pummelled into his face, just under his right eye, almost certainly breaking his cheekbone. The pain was excruciating. He screamed.

When he dared look up he saw the lawyer’s business card only inches from his eyes. It suddenly disappeared from his radar and was immediately replaced by Kirkwood’s fist hammering into his left cheek. That hand had a ring on it, he could feel it rip into his skin and on into the bone. He wanted to pass out, throw up and die. Only the hands that were under his armpits allowed him to stay on his feet.

Did you kill Spud Tierney Tierney Tierney? Did you kill Spud you little bastard bastard? Did you kill them all?