The religious angst has abated somewhat. It's a funny thing that surfaces occasionally and then leaves almost as quickly as it arrived. It's probably going to be that way forever - one of life's biggest questions that can't be answered in a way that is pleasing or satisfactory and therefore just serves to pester and nag.
Anyway, I've been turning my attention back to a story that I've been redesigning, re-writing and trying to birth for the last couple of years. This is my intellectual property so no, you can't steal it!!! :)
Angels Burn Cold
Marie held the telephone in her hand, the number already entered. Her finger hovered above the call key. She wanted to not call and to not nag and to just not worry. She only wanted for dad to arrive because he wanted to.
She called. Direct to answer phone.
"Dad…I know your on you way." She paused. Answer machine messages always sounded so false. Everything you didn't mean slipped out and rang hollow. "Just to say, mum's behaving, so you don't need to worry…if that's why." She swallowed. This was pointless. "And you don't need to get me anything. It'll be ace to see you."
She keyed the red button and threw herself down on her bed and let out a deep growling scream. Birthdays were no longer about her. Even the big 'two one' was not about her. She blew out her air in a long steady stream, pursing her lips and 'parping' – her mum's word. The oversized and over pink helium balloons her mum insisted on seemed to be gathering defensively in the corner of her ceiling. Her mobile alarmed beeped the reminder she'd set that morning. She knew she'd just disobeyed it But she'd rather he arrived than have to suffer the evening with just her mum and her mum's friends – her own she'd meet under the cover of darkness and neon later.
***
Sam Clark lay in Kay's bed, studying her long bleached tresses. He knew her revenge was complete and that he'd played an all too willing part. Now he wanted a cigarette. He risked a slow turn towards his watch. How long till she got bored? How long was enough? She stirred despite his efforts.
"Mmmm, that did the trick." She curled a leg around his.
"I'll bet it did."
"You're here and you're not him."
"True."
"The nuclear family," she sighed as she released her leg. "Me, Him, and now you. Go; you've been good tonight Clarky boy."
He wasted no time, pulling on his trousers and work shirt, sliding his arms through and leaving the top button undone. He could smell her perfume all over these clothes.
"Sam… She won't even know. And it's not like you're not getting divorced anyway." Kay said.
Clark ignored her and hauled on his winter coat and with a casual: "Night," to the room, he left.
***
The air was colder than before and lacked the allure and rouge. Clark took a deep drag on his cigarette. He reached to palm another, tapped it out the packet, bit the filter off and sparked his chrome lighter. One spark sputtered into a weak flame that he cupped his hands around to protect it from the biting cold. It then joined the other, side by side. He rolled them from one side of his mouth to the other.
No one else at the taxi rank. He had the pleasure all to himself. Time. His time. Time that he'd craved for as long as he could remember. Time that was about to be wrenched from him by Sam. He soon would be in a haze of presents, screaming - and Victoria. Not quite what he had in mind. Better than the business that he had to attend to first.
He took another drag. The goddamned taxi was taking its time. Seven at night was hardly rush hour. What people would be out on a freeze like this, he thought. The water was turning glassy in the gutter and he could see the wafting smoke in the pavement vents. Pretty in a wholly bleak way. The backcloth of the city draped around his shelter and threatened to engulf it. The streetlight was his thinking light. He felt in the pocket of his overcoat, checking his spare magazines were ready and could be slipped into his berretta if the moment came. He expected not to need them, tonight was about pressure and he could do that with spraying bullets.
A vibration in his pocket; the telltale sign of a text. He slid his mobile out and looked at the screen. It read 'Lynn Mob'. He pressed the view button:
'Daddy, wot time u comin 2nite? Miss u! Come soon! Lxxxx'
He didn't reply. He was never any good at textspeak – it always came out false and ironic. He would see her soon. It was not that he didn't miss her, want to hold her, throw her in the air. He did. He just couldn't. He remembered coming home to the look and the open envelope and the cash and the note and the look. The look that understood the violence and the look that feared it. Hard. Deservedly hard, but hard nonetheless. If she knew what he had to do tonight, she might not even want to see him.
The taxi announced its arrival with a hiss of pneumatics as it lowered itself. He got in and peered hard at the face behind the bars. He could never be too careful. A haggard grey beard and sunken eyes stared back.
"Drop us off at Ibrox underground.. I'll walk from there." Thanks was not a word he used. He would see Lynn and he'd play nice, he reassured himself. She was the only bond between him and Kay now. She was the constant reminder of good times, intimacy he'd not felt since. Victoria would get no such promises.
"You got a busy night, bud?" the cabbie said from his Glasgow-cancer throat.
"Yeah."
"Me too. Busy as anythin' around here," The cabbie continued. "Been some 'Gers punchup earlier. Had a right drunk guy in the cab wi' a slashed up face so I had. Right slashed and bleedin. Made the poor bastard pay double as he bled in the cab." Seeing Clark shift slightly in his seat, he said: "Aw no mate. I scrubbed it since like! Just mean you watch yourself tonight mate, eh?"
"Good."
The cab held a steady pace down the boulevards of the South Side, their streetlights fighting off the shadows with their warm orange; not like the infra-red of the town, keeping the junkies from finding their veins. The houses on each side were either semis or fully detached with well maintained hedges that buttressed the houses, a barrier for peace of mind. Clark knew that it in reality the types of people who would break into one of these castles actually liked the seclusion that masked them from the street and gave them time to plan their entry, execution and exit.
"Makes you wonder who lives here, eh?" the cabbie said.
"Rich bastards."
"Heh, you're no joking. People I have in this cab comin here, some of them you see on the telly."
Through the steamed condensation of the cab window, the arteries of the South Side quickly congealed into thickly packed tenements, their windows boarded and tagged by the local 'bhoys'. Clark smiled at all the different 'Young Team' logos as if the gangs were all part of some sophisticated sporting club and not knife-in-the-dark junkies.
"Right, mate. Have a good one, yeah?" the cabbie finally said as he pulled the cab up next to the familiar red U sign of the underground train station.
"Cheers," he said, sliding through the exact change into the fare slot and stepped out.
The night time air swept a chill through his clothes. The wide street held a dozen parked cars, all windows intact, surprisingly. The high rise flats kept a solemn watch over the street and it's stadium. He was glad his work wasn't taking him into one of their throats. He pulled up the collar on his coat and pulled on his business grimace.
The tenement he was looking for was back off the main street. Once inside, Clark found the familiar damp patches and cracked staircase windows strangely comforting. The sense of too real life etched in the walls and reflected in the gathering pools of water that leaked from an ancient hole. The lowlife in the third floor studio would be just the same easy to crack addict cum dealer as he had dealt with countless times.
He stood before the door marked 'J. McElroy' and removed his berretta and chambered a round and removed the safety.
He clamped his teeth together and knocked the door, lightly holding the door handle. He could make out the muffled chatter from a television set inside and felt the door handle begin to twist through his fingers. With the telltale click of the bolt slipping back into the doorframe, Clark gripped the handle and shouldered the door, which gave inward with a crunch of wood on bone and a pained grunt. Clark followed through and slammed the door fully, trapping whatever was behind it and then quickly pulling it back before slamming it again. When he pulled the door finally shut and he saw the extent of his damage, the crumpled form of a man, clutching his face, blood pulsing wetly between fingers.
"Who the fu-" the man gurgled.
"Ssshhh," Clark hissed. "You don't want to be using that language."
"Man, you really don't know-"
"I told you to be quiet." Clark said matter of factly as he stamped on the cowering figure, grinding his boot into skin and shaking his head bemusedly at the empty threat. "Now mate, I ask the questions." He bent to grab the man's arm, just under the elbow and wrenched him to his feet and threw him onto a nearby sofa. "Are you James McElroy?"
"Don't know who you're-"
"Messing with. Yeah I know. Now I take it then that you are James McElroy, former dealer of class A drugs to the poor boys and girls of Ibrox. Well what I have to say next should be learned off by heart and never mentioned in polite company again." He paused to let the words sink in. "Your previous employer wishes to terminate your contract due to too much product being sold for too little profit. This termination is permanent and with immediate effect. If you choose to sell for any other rival companies then you will have your license to breathe revoked."
"Fuck you and fuck Reid. He's the one who'd been fucking this up. And you're his fucking little lapdog who doesnae have a scoobie what he's got himself into." McElroy managed, pulling his stained t-shirt up to his broken face as the effort brought forth another flow of blood, dripping into his mouth.
"Now, that's just not polite." There was something that he found empowering about these kind of conversations, perhaps it was the tone that seemed to creep into his voice or the sneer that found its way onto his lips. He knew somewhere that this was what made him good at his job. He also knew McElroy had a point. He was the 'help', the 'muscle'. He didn't care. He wondered if he ever cared. They were all the same these lowlifes. Each of them with their petty ring of allegiances, the interwoven webs of spiders and flies, taking their turn at both sometimes separately sometimes both spider and fly. With dealers getting arrested one every six hours, according to the media, Clark suspected that his boss, Reid, had wanted McElroy out to put in someone of a different standard of meanness and corruption altogether - one who'd not get arrested. The streets were getting more rabid, so Reid wanted a bigger dog. Understandable in his world. Clark could care less. "You sell in Ibrox, we will know and we will come for you." He didn't bother with the customary spit or punch, but turned his back on McElroy and left into the freezing winter air.
***
Charles Reid's office was in his office, in the loft, in his house, in the leafy suburb of Pollokshields. He was standing looking out of the window at his children playing on their swings in his garden. He thought of them as children, but his eldest, Lara, was at the 'adult' age of twenty. Yet she and his younger daughter, Eve, were shrieking and giggling together quite happily. It made him reluctant to turn away from the window and back to the bloody business in piles on his desk. He took his seat behind his desk and sighed. What was he going to do? He picked up the phone.
"Hullo."
"Is the attendant in place?"
"Yes."
"Is he ready to serve?"
"Yes."
"Then advise the delivery boy to return for another package."
The phone clicked and the dialling tone sounded. Reid hated these daft-sounding code words and found himself forgetting them frequently and having to make his own up. It really was becoming quite tiresome, particularly when all he really wanted to do was send more drugs to his new found drug dealer. Simple really. He studied the phone for other ways to procrastinate. He dialled Clark's number.
"Clark? Reid."
"Job's done, Mr Reid, if that's what you wanted to hear."
"Yes, yes. Good man. Not what I was phoning for. Do you think I could see you tonight? A bit like old times, I find myself in need of your advice." He bit his lip in a twisted smile. "Something has. Come up. For want of a better expression. Something, I think you might be qualified to handle."
A pause.
"Well? I can send a cab?"
"Sure. Send it to the stadium, fans' entrance."
"Thanks."
The phone went dead again. Reid surmised that his workers didn't often have much to thank him for. And all were hardly the conversational types.
***
The taxi left him at the foot of Reid's driveway. The wind carried the sound of scraping metal as it passed through the cul de sac. Each of the detached houses were unlit except by the orange glow from the street lights on the main road. Despite this, Clark felt the heat of eyes watching. He suspected Reid's neighbours knew something about the business almost as well as his Marie. Screw them, he thought as he steadied himself for whatever confrontation there might be inside.
He caught the swinging gate on the rebound and clicked the latch shut behind him. Along the path, the sweetshop balloons proclaimed Lara's new age in their gaudy lettering – "20 Today!" and "Birthday Girl" were the most common. He sighed as he remembered the text waiting for an answer in his mobile phone. A passing car on the main road briefly illuminated his stealthy approach. He paused at the door, half unsure about ringing the door bell or using his key, and decided on the latter.
The short shrill ring of the bell broke the silence.
No answer.
He pressed the round brass button to the back of its mount.
Still no answer.
***
Finally, she picked up.
“Dad?” Marie’s voice came through, but he didn’t allow himself to relax just yet.
“Marie, listen. Who else is there?
“You don’t have to worry dad. Just a few friends. Mum’s got one or two people. But you don’t need to talk to her. Please-”
“That’s good, but listen to me…”
“Is something wrong?”
“Look. I want you to put some clothes in a bag. If anyone asks, say you’re just tidying or something. I can’t explain more just now.”
“Dad, you’re ok?”
“I’ll be there soon. Don’t tell mum. Yet.”
He hung up. Maybe they’d not go after him. Maybe it was just business and now their competitor was dealt with, they’d have a path of no resistance? What if it was personal? Clark thought he’d much rather it was personal. He was looking at the business written in the spaces between the red gristle that clung to the walls like fungus. He’d been here many times and he felt he was in a different house. Someone had redesigned the place with one simple and brutal theme in mind. Every piece of furniture that could have a square inch of concealed space was gutted, it’s innards spilled.
Reid’s desk in his attic study had received the most attention. Papers carpeted the floorboards, drawers had their linings shredded, the desktop having been prised up and off now lay discarded in the centre of the destruction. The body of Clark himself showed least sign of personal vendetta. The body was not discarded in the same way, but seemed almost posed, lifelike with hands resting on knees and head tilted forward in a weary, dreamy kind of way. The white cotton shirt had entirely escaped being sullied and its only stain was a recent one of ink from a pen Reid often wore in his pocket. The only visible mark was the neat little hole in the upper region of his forehead, covered almost by the hair from his badly maintained comb-over.
