Afterwards James Gilmore’s blood had still clung to the bat, with particles of flesh and hair. Rab had touched the bat, brought it to his face, closed his eyes and inhaled again. He had smelled blood, sweat and definitely fucking tears. He’d been told that Gilmore had grovelled for his life. It hadn’t been worth saving.

Rab opened his eyes and leaned into a dusty box he’d salvaged from a skip, rummaging around until he found it. He brought out the gold chain and medal. Looked at the motif, a man with a child on his shoulders and a staff for walking. Rab heard his stomach growl. He turned the chain around in his hands, flicked the medal over and over. Rab made up his mind. He needed to eat. He would sell it. Weirdo or Sonny at the Smuggler’s would take it on – he’d offload it to one of them. Then he’d fucking take Alec and they’d go for a pizza and lager. And sit in, not just a takeaway to eat outside in a piss-soaked bus shelter. Rab tucked the gold medal and chain into his anorak pocket. He made sure the bat was still hidden in the corner before locking the hut and double-checking the padlock.

When he got home the house was empty. There must be a party on somewhere and the two of them had fucked off. Rab crept into the kitchen, took the last slice of bread from its greaseproof package and spread margarine on it, looked about for crisps. There were none. He reached up and took down a bag of granulated sugar and sprinkled some of it over the margarine. He folded the bread over and wolfed the sandwich down. He checked the cupboards and the fridge to see if there was anything else. Nothing except a four-pack of cheap lager; he grabbed one. He’d get battered for it but he was past caring. Rab closed the door behind him and slipped back out into the cold night. He’d go to see Alec and explain his plan. Maybe they’d go to see Sonny together; maybe Rab would go on his own. He’d need to pick the right time – the Smuggler’s could be dangerous. As Rab walked he wondered about the wee bird, the racing pigeon. He hoped it had managed to get back home. Remembered that that was the night Smithy had chased them. Rab had told Manky, who’d told Weirdo. He knew that he’d relay the message to Mr Doyle. Rab walked on through the freezing night. Hoped that Doyle would sort Smithy out.

Chapter 50

If you were to place an equilateral triangle on a map of Glasgow, the Royal Infirmary would be in one angle, Wheeler’s flat in the second and, in the third, Buchanan Street bus station. The station replaced the old one at Anderson and was built in keeping with Glasgow’s modern image. At this time of the night Buchanan Street was floodlit, illuminating the buildings in a cool blue light. At the top of Buchanan Street stood the Buchanan Galleries, John Lewis dominating the smaller shop units. Outside in the freezing cold night the bronze statue of Donald Dewar dripped rain while the wind screeched around it.

Inside, the bus station was brightly lit. When the overnight coach to London pulled into the stance, a sleepy group of passengers stood stretching and yawning and made their way in an orderly queue towards it. Some had plastic bags with sandwiches for the journey, bottles of Irn-Bru or Coke tucked into pockets with crisps and chocolate. Others had spent a few hours drinking and would sleep for most of the overnight journey, awakening to a new day at London Victoria cramped and sore and mildly hung over. One passenger stood at the end of the line, clutching a new holdall containing a pile of shop-bought sandwiches, a packet of crisps and a bottle of sparkling water. In the pocket of his anorak there was a new leather wallet containing ten twenty-pound notes and the phone number of a man he’d never met. Weirdo had made sure George Grey had everything placed in the holdall before he handed him the ticket to London. It was one-way. Weirdo had shaken his hand and left him at the bus station.

The four-by-four waited a short distance from the station. Doyle watched the last of the passengers climb onto the coach. Watched until the driver had loaded the luggage and settled himself behind the wheel, closed the doors and reversed out of the stance. Doyle watched the coach pull out of the station. As it passed the four-by-four, George Grey lifted a hand in recognition, smiled quickly at Doyle before turning away from the window and closing his eyes. Leaving Glasgow had been Doyle’s idea; George Grey had listened, followed instructions and felt that for the first time in his life he could trust someone. The coach pulled into a lane and George opened his eyes and stared out of the window, watching as Glasgow passed him by, understanding that he wouldn’t see the city again or at least not for a long time. Thought of his mother, wished that she were dead. Wished again that he had never had a mother. It might have been better, he decided, if he had never been born in the first place. The coach was warm; he closed his eyes again and scrunched down in the seat. A few minutes later he was sleeping, dreaming the now-familiar dreams. His finger, the one with the scar cutting across the fingertip, twitched throughout the long journey.

Chapter 51

Not long after the coach had pulled out of Buchanan Street bus station Weirdo was standing in the piss-soaked living room of George Grey’s house. Weirdo smiled and cracked his knuckles more flamboyantly than was absolutely necessary, seeing as he already had William MacIntyre’s full attention.

‘See Wullie, we find it awfully fucking difficult to understand, so mibbe you could explain it to us?’

‘Us?’

‘Me and Mr Doyle. He wanted a word but seeing as how this fucking place needs fumigated, he sent me on tae have a wee chat.’

MacIntyre’s already grey pallor faded to white. ‘Doyle’s coming here?’

Weirdo shook his head. ‘You can appreciate why he wouldn’t want to come here in person, seeing as it’s a fucking cesspit, and you’ll also twig as to why he’s reluctant to invite you to his place, what with you smelling like the arsehole you are, can’t you, Wullie?’

MacIntyre shifted uncomfortably on his chair. Reached for a half-empty packet of cigarettes, took one, watched his hands shake as he tried to light it. Felt the sweat running down his back, pooling at the base of his spine and turning cold. He shivered. Tossed the packet of cigarettes onto the floor.

Weirdo paced across the sitting-room floor. ‘You listening to me Wullie?’

MacIntyre coughed, drawing phlegm from deep in his throat and spitting it into a discarded coffee cup. The dark globules landed on the green mould clinging to the cup and mixed with the dregs of cold, black coffee. He rubbed the three stumps on his hand into his back, trying to knead the pain from his kidneys. He failed. He failed also to keep the fear from his voice. ‘You gonnae tell me why Andy Doyle’s so interested in me?’

Weirdo’s phone rang. ‘Yeah? Right Mr Doyle, sure thing, no problem, I’ll tell him.’ He paused, listened, then responded, ‘Yes, he’s here. He’s playing the innocent. I’ll explain the terms of your offer.’ Weirdo paused, listened again, then spoke, ‘Oh aye, Mr Doyle, I’ll make sure it’s made very clear to him. There’ll be no room for any misunderstanding.’ Weirdo finished the call, turned to face MacIntyre. ‘Let’s begin.’ He held up the forefinger of his right hand. ‘First off, wee George Grey.’

‘That wee shite’s no here.’

‘Correct.’

MacIntyre shrugged. ‘Fuck knows where he is. Could be anywhere.’

Weirdo nodded, muttered under his breath, too low for MacIntyre to hear, ‘Best that you know nothing.’

‘Whit?’ MacIntyre screwed up his eyes, peered at Weirdo. ‘Whit did ye say?’