Life for Evelyn, Mick and their five-year-old son Jamie is relatively trouble free - until Evelyn's brother Shug comes to stay. Shug is a typical Buckfast-drinking, living-for-the-moment Glasgow guy whose chosen professions are car theft and robbery. The only person Shug genuinely cares about is his nephew Jamie. So when he suspects the local lollipop man of child abuse he takes the law into his own hands. Soon both the police and the local hard-men are on Shug's trail. But, with his chameleon ways and lucky streak he narrowly manages to avoid ending up either in prison or at the bottom of the river Clyde wearing concrete shoes.
Release date:
January 30, 2014
Publisher:
Sceptre
Print pages:
256
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It had been a nice night. Things looked like they were back to normal.
Sex had often been the cause of arguments between them, mainly instigated by Mick. He usually complained he didn’t get it as often as he used to. Evelyn’s argument was she never used to: have to go to work, keep a house, cook meals and raise a son like in the ‘good old days’ Mick was always on about.
Last night was different. Three times, thought Mick. Fuckin marathon.
It was good to be married. There was something righteous about making love with the missus. Comfortable. Safe. You didn’t have to pretend. Of course being married had its problems, so does everything, but at least he didn’t have to play the ‘Game’ . . . out there in the clubs; all that shite.
AIDS: fuck that.
He looked down at her, her head resting on his chest.
She looked up at him. ‘Ah’v bin dreamin aboot this.’
‘Oh aye, so ah’m that good, am ah?’
‘No, no that.’ She nudged him. ‘Us, bein back thegether like this.’
‘Ah know, so huv ah.’
She leaned over the edge of the bed and picked up the shredded baby-doll nightie. ‘Pity aboot mah prezzie though, eh? It didnae last five minutes oan. Yir supposed tae tek it aff wi yir hons, gently – no tear it aff wi yir teeth.’
‘Aye, sorry aboot that – goat a wee bit carried away. It wus worth every penny though, eh?’
They laughed.
‘Oh, that reminds me.’ He got out of bed.
‘Where ye goin?’
‘Tae git yir other prezzie.’
‘Oh, bring yours in as well, it’s under the tree. An’ don’t mek any noise, ah don’t want um wekin up jist yet.’
He went into the living-room and came back moments later with two presents. He jumped into bed and handed Evelyn a small gift-wrapped box. He shook his own present, wrapped in red and silver paper with a tag that said: To Mick. Happy Christmas, Love Evelyn and Jamie. He listened as the aftershave glugged about inside it, pretending not to know what the hell it was.
‘Is this wan mine?’ he asked her theatrically.
She smiled back at him sarcastically. He did the same routine every year.
‘The one shaped like a boatil ay aftershave?’ he said, his mouth opening in mock surprise, ‘Ah wunner whit it is?’ He opened it, his jaw dropping wide open as though he’d just won the lottery.
‘It is a boatil ay aftershave, smartarse,’ she said, carefully picking open the expensive-looking paper wrapped around her present. ‘Ah couldnae think whit tae git ye. Ah couldnae git ye claithes, cos ah’v hardly seen ye, an ah know ye like tae buy yir aen . . .’
He splashed some of the aftershave on. ‘Hey, ah like it.’ He leaned towards her. ‘It’s crackin – smell.’
‘Are ye sure? Ah kin tek it back an git somehun else that ye like if ye don’t like that wan.’ She threw the wrapping paper on the bed, and looked puzzled at the small, black velvet-covered box. She slowly opened it.
‘Ah luv it.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Thanks.’
‘Omigod.’ Her mouth dropped open as she took the gold locket and chain from its box. ‘Whit’s this? Mick? How much did this cost? It’s too much!’
He took it from her and carefully opened the catch. He put it around her neck and fastened it, gently kissing the back of her neck. ‘An before ye ask – aye, it’s paid fir, wi mah overtime. Go ahead, open it up.’
‘Is thur a photie in it?’
‘Open it an see.’
She kneeled on the edge of the bed, looking in the mirrored wardrobe as she opened the locket. Inside was a happy family photo of her, Mick and Jamie. She grinned at him and gave him a big bear hug. ‘It’s beautiful. The best present ah’v ever hud.’
‘It’s tae remind ye’ – he corrected himself – ‘it’s tae remind us, aboot whit’s important.’ He took the locket and looked at the picture. ‘Ye remember that day when we took the Wee Man tae Blackpool laist year? That wis a briwyint day that wis, we were really happy . . . then, a couple ay days later, it aw turned tae shite.’
‘Mick, don’t, please. It’ll no happen again . . . mah brar’ll niver come between us again, ah mean it this time.’
He shrugged, then smiled as he looked at the photo. ‘Ah know. Dae us a favour, when ye look at that photie, ah want ye tae remember . . . that’s aw that’s important. You, me, an the Wee Man . . . Fuck everywan else!’
What a romantic.
‘Mick, yiv goat such a lovely way wi words.’ She heard a rattle coming from the bedroom door. She looked up. The door handle was being slowly turned. She shoved Mick under the covers.
Jamie came in, smiling. He ran and dived on to the bed, landing on Mick, who sat bolt upright with the shock.
‘Aaahh! Ya wee . . .’
‘Da!’ shouted Jamie, genuinely surprised to see him.
‘Da!’ Mick imitated him. ‘Aye it’s yir da. Who did ye think it wis, Santa?’
He wrestled Jamie on the bed, tickling him. Jamie squealed with delight.
It was the usual Donnelly Christmas. In the morning they’d phoned round all the relatives, and Jamie thanked everyone for his presents. Mick had tried calling Archie’s number to check that the old boy was all right and there had been no further attacks, but he just kept getting a ‘disconnected’ tone. When he reported it the operator said there was a fault on the line and it had been reported to the engineers, so Mick made a mental note to go and visit him in a day or two. The remainder of the morning he’d spent reading and rereading the instructions for the video game, and trying to tune it into a spare channel on the TV. By the time he got it Jamie had lost interest. Within an hour Mick was hooked and couldn’t put it down. Jamie went into a huff because he couldn’t get a shot. Evelyn sorted it out by coming in from the kitchen, taking the game controller off Mick, handing it to Jamie and giving Mick a plastic basin full of potatoes to peel instead.
Later on, Jamie helped to set the table while Mick sat with a can of beer, watching football. Evelyn came in again, picked up the remote and changed over the channel to the Christmas film.
After dinner, the three of them curled up on the couch watching a Christmas repeat of Only Fools and Horses. Evelyn put on her new Father Ted video and Mick nodded off and snored for an hour. After his traditional kip and a few more drinks, he put on a CD and pulled Evelyn up to dance. Jamie sat with a cheesy grin watching them: they were back together again. He couldn’t stop laughing when Evelyn found an old 70s CD, and dragged him up and taught him how to do the Bump.
Shug wiped the cold rain from his face and pulled up his collar. He looked up at the flat. He could see Mick dancing about, giving Jamie a piggyback. He turned and booted the door of a parked car before walking away up the street.
Day Fifteen: New Year’s Day
Big Hugh stood at the front door in his dressing-gown, holding the purple tin in his hand. ‘Ah widnae tell yous cunts even if ah knew.’ He scratched his sparse dome and contemplated the piece of flaky scalp underneath his dirty fingernail.
A middle-aged policeman, with a Mexican looking moustache eyed him with disdain: what a way to spend the New Year – taking shit from this fat, baldy, asthmatic cunt, with a big purple face to match the tin in his hand, and a nose that made Karl Malden look like Leonardo DiCaprio. ‘Look, if we could jist come in fir a minute.’ He raised an eyebrow at his stony-faced colleague who’d been staring at Hugh since they arrived, willing him to say something, anything that would incriminate himself.
‘Away an raffle – ah’m no huvin the polis first-footin me. Whit kind ay luck would that bring me, eh?’
‘Hugh McNab – yir boay – he stays here, right?’
‘You tell me. Yir the one wi the computer.’
‘Look, Mr McNab. Yir daughter’s reported her son, Jamie, missing. We’ve reason tae believe he may have bin abducted by yir son, Hugh. Did he come hame laist night?’
‘No,’ answered Hugh, as though they were keeping him from an important engagement. He swigged from the can and stared them down.
The Mexican’s stony-faced colleague cut in, trying the Cracker approach. ‘Ye didn’t seem at all surprised, jist now . . . when we told ye yir grandson had bin abducted?’
‘Nuthin tae dae wi me; mah daughter niver brings hum roon tae see us. It’s bin that long since ah’v seen hum ah couldnae even tell ye whit he looked like.’
The Mexican was starting to get pissed off. He held up a school picture of Jamie. ‘He looks like this.’
Big Hugh glanced at it and nodded, uninterested. ‘Oh, aye. That’s a good photie.’
‘Is Mrs McNab in?’ he asked, putting away the photo.
‘She’s stayin wi friends ower Christmas an New Year.’ Big Hugh grinned and waved the can at him.
‘Oh, oot ma fuckin road!’ he said, pushing past Hugh. He walked into the house.
Stony-face followed him into the hall, shaking his head. ‘Ye try an be nice tae people an look whit happens.’
‘Aye, on yis go – come in, why don’t yis?’ Hugh followed them into the house.
Shug and Jamie had spent the afternoon at the pictures and McDonald’s. This was the business, thought Shug. He could get quite used to this. Jamie hadn’t even asked for his ma or da once all afternoon.
They arrived back at Big Hugh’s, pulling up in a taxi. Shug scanned the street as he paid the driver. He didn’t want his stupid sister or that dickheid Donnelly turning up, ranting and raving. He looked about again and opened the taxi door, happy they were nowhere to be seen. They probably didn’t even give a fuck about the Wee Man.
Hugh came through from the kitchen, clutching the purple tin like it was a permanent appendage. Shug took Jamie’s coat and hat off him.
‘Polis were here,’ said Hugh.
‘Whit happened?’ asked Shug.
‘Fuck all. Hud a look about then took aff. Ah don’t think they’ll be back.’ Hugh smiled at Jamie and coughed a rattling phlegm-ridden belter that only the forty-a-day man can. ‘Mere, wee feller.’ He held out his arms as he sat down. ‘Moan an sit oan yir granda’s knee.’
Jamie turned to Shug with a look that said it all: who was this strange man, and what was he doing in Grannie’s house?
Evelyn sat and stared at the floor of the interview room. Mick gazed at the walls, trying to figure out what was going on. He looked over at her; he could see she was doing the same as him: running it over and over in her head.
Jamie wouldn’t just get up and leave the house in the middle of the night. But the things that had been happening lately – the arguing, Mick walking out without saying goodbye to him, and Shug beating up Jaqui, were enough to make a wee boy act out of character. Mick cursed himself for telling the Wee Man about Archie lying half-dead in hospital. Evelyn cursed herself too: she knew she should have taken that key off Shug.
The policewoman reappeared, carrying two teas. The Mexican and Stony-face, who’d just returned from Big Hugh’s, came in behind her. ‘Mrs Donnelly?’
Evelyn jumped up; excited; frightened. ‘Huv ye found hum – wis he there?’
The Mexican shook his head. He sat down and took out his notebook. ‘Your father says he hasn’t seen hum fir years.’
Mick looked over at Evelyn. ‘Whit – Shug?’
‘No, yir son,’ said Stony-face.
‘Ah widnae say years, mebbe aboot six – eight months. He drinks; ah don’t like Jamie goin there when mah ma’s no in. Ah don’t trust hum. Wis ma ma in?’
‘He said she wis stayin wi friends,’ said Stony-face.
Evelyn looked crestfallen. ‘Friends? She’s no allowed tae huv any. It’s the match. It hus tae be the match.’
Mick stood up and looked as though he was going to punch the wall. ‘Fuckin alkies, ah’m sick ay the bastas: selfish fuckin stupit glaykit cunts – all of em!’ He turned to the policemen. ‘Dis he no realise how serious this is?’
Stony-face shrugged as if to say, ‘Probably not.’ He dealt with cunts like Big Hugh every day. ‘How de ye mean “the match”, Mrs Donnelly?’ he asked.
‘Rangers–Celtic, th’ morra. He was talkin aboot tekin Jamie the match, bit ah wisnae fir huvin it.’
‘Can ye no jist barge in the hoose, see if he’s there? Ah’ll come wi ye – ah’ll dae it if ye want?’ said Mick.
‘It’s no as simple as that, Mr Donnelly,’ said the Mexican. ‘We cannae jist keep walking in an oot ay his hoose whenever we feel like it. That’s harassment.’
‘Oh, an we don’t want tae upset hum noo, dae we!’ said Mick.
‘Mick, sit doon,’ said Evelyn.
‘Sit doon? Fuck sakes!’ He paced about the room, waving his arms. ‘Mah boay’s gone missin, bin teken by yir loony brar, who’s jist fuckin nearly kilt an auld man an a wee lassie. We’ve aw given these cunts statements.’ He pointed to the police. ‘They know he’s no safe! So whit are we aw waitin fir? An you want me tae sit doon, huv a cup ay tea?’ He swept the cups off the table.
Evelyn started to sob. The Mexican cut in. ‘Mr Donnelly, I realise this is hard fir ye. We will git him, bit it’s like a game – it’s difficult . . .’
‘It’s no that difficult,’ said Mick. He pulled the door open and stormed out.
Shug lay in bed stroking Jamie’s hair. The Wee Man was fast asleep. Shug still hadn’t heard anything from his ma. He hoped she was all right. Hugh had told Shug she was away visiting his Auntie Jean, but Shug knew better. That old bastard had been giving her a hard time again, probably a black eye too, that’s why she was staying away. His family was completely fucked, the whole lot of them: mental with a capital M.
He’d managed to pack some of Jamie’s things when he took him out of bed last night. Not a lot of stuff, but just enough to tide him over till they got where they were going. Where to, that was the question? London, maybe? He’d enough money from the Tamazepam deal and what he’d squirrelled away from knocking a few motors for Harry over the past months. They’d get by until he sorted himself out with some work. He knew Jamie would probably cry for his ma and da but Shug was good at pacifying him. He knew the right things to say. In time Jamie would forget all about them. They didn’t deserve him, the complete fuck-ups that they were.
Shug and Jamie could disappear in London, no problem. Wouldn’t draw any attention to themselves either: a father and son making a new start, that’s all they’d be. But first on the agenda was the gemme. After all, he’d promised the wee feller. After that they could get a taxi to Central Station and catch the train to London.
The door handle rattled slowly. Big Hugh was trying to get in. Fuck him, the dirty old cunt; he’d kill him before he’d let him in here.
‘Whit is it?’ Shug asked.
‘It’s me, son, ah wis jist checkin tae see if the wee feller wis asleep yet.’
‘Aye, he is.’
‘Gonnae let us in?’
‘Away tae yir bed, Da, he’s awright.’
‘Whit’s the door loacked fir?’
‘Force ay habit. Ah’m away tae sleep – night.’
There was a pause as Big Hugh contemplated his options. ‘Aye, gidnight then.’
Shug listened as Hugh shuffled off up the landing and shut his bedroom door. Shug knew he had to stay awake, keep a watch over the Wee Man. There was no way he was taking a chance with him. He sat up in bed and reached for his fags. He’d stay awake for days if he had to; anything for the Wee Man, anything at all. If it came down to it and someone said Shug had to eat a piece of dog shit or cut off his balls to save the Wee Man’s life: no problem – pass the knife.
He lit up a fag and listened as Hugh mumbled away to himself in the next room. Probably annoyed that he couldn’t get near Jamie, thought Shug. He reached under the mattress, pulled out a kitchen knife and placed it on the bedside table. Just let him try and come in here tonight. He’d cut his fucking hands off.
He put his hand into the pocket of his jeans and took out a wrap of speed. He opened it and poured the lot on to his tongue, wincing as he swallowed it. He’d stay awake all night and get the Wee Man out of the house first thing. They could get breakfast at McDonald’s then go to the transport museum or something until it was time for the kick-off.
The sooner he got Jamie away from this place the better.
Korea: the Battle of the Hook. Snipers taking pot shots at his napper. Eighteen years old, running down a road with mortar bombs exploding either side of him. That was the closest Archie had came to death. Merchant Navy, that had its moments and all. Aye, he’d led a charmed life, right enough. Nothing had prepared him for this, though.
He could hear his heart beating and the noise of the monitor in his right ear. Beep__/\_Beep____/\_Beep______/\_ He was sure it was starting to get slower. Someone was sitting on the edge of the bed.
‘Jean?’ he mumbled. ‘Whit are you dein here?’
‘Hiya, darlin. Ah’v missed ye.’ She smiled warmly at him and stood up. ‘Come on,’ she said as she slowly walked across the grass.
Grass? He looked about – he was in the park again. He pulled back the covers and turned to sit on the edge of the bed. All his pain was gone. He slid off the bed and stood on the soft warm grass. This was a good dream. He’d dreamed of Jean a lot over the past couple of years, but this was the best ever. He looked across the park to see where she’d gone. She was sitting on the park bench, waving at him.
He walked over and sat down next to her, watching the pigeon feed from her hand. He looked up at the sky – not a cloud. It was warm and sunny today. Bright, as though the sun was reflecting off a big aluminium plate at the end of the park.
Jean turned and smiled at him. He’d missed that beautiful smile – it could light up a room. Maybe it was her smile that was lighting up the park? It was like she’d never been away. He just knew they wouldn’t be apart again; it had been too long.
She slowly stood up. The pigeon flew away. Jean turned and smiled at him and held out her hand. Archie stood up and took hold of it. She led him off towards the light.
Hugh woke up, feeling like he’d slept with his head in a vice. He sat up in bed and reached for his fags, He lit one, staring at the fag burns on the stained duvet, trying to figure out what he had to do today. It was New Year’s Day . . . or was that yesterday? Was there enough drink to see him through? Then he remembered Shug and the Wee Man were staying. He’d better get up and make them something to eat. There was some bacon in the fridge, maybe a couple of eggs. He’d been to Asda and bought a few messages the other day. He had to – that bitch would rather he starved. Fucking gallivanting off with her pals. He’d have words with her when she eventually decided to show her face.
He pulled himself up, sat on the edge of the bed and looked across at a half-full glass of whisky on the bedside table. No sense in wasting that, he thought, reaching over for the glass. His hand shook as he picked it up. He immediately put it back down again before the lot spilled. He leaned over so his mouth was closer to the glass, and shakily raised it to his lips, inhaling some spilled ash off the bedside unit. The whisky burned his throat as it went down. He felt it curl around his empty stomach and burn inside him like acid. He must have an ulcer, surely to fuck? Whisky never used to burn his guts like that before?
He opened the door and walked barefoot along the sparse landing carpet. The door to Shug’s room was open. He peered inside and saw it was empty. He went downstairs, expecting them to be sitting watching TV but the living-room was empty too. His eyes focused on the empty whisky bottle next to his seat and the ashtray that overflowed on to the floor. An overturned bowl of soup sat glued to the rug in front of the fire and the TV hissed away loudly in the corner. The screen was like a small snowstorm with an aggravating noise that made him wince. He located the remote control down the side of the couch. He switched off the TV, went through to the kitchen and looked in the fridge. There was an egg and a can of lager. He looked in the bread bin and saw there was on. . .
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