Maybe its 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, youre jumpy! West coast accent, soft and lyrical: female.
He peers out between his fingers as Kayleigh slips onto the stool next to his. Shes changed into a pair of leather trousers, high-heeled boots, a white crop top, and a frock coat in red satin. Up close, shes 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 names Twitch,
Yeah? she looks at him over the top of her glass, but doesnt take his hand. That fits. Im Kay-
Kayleigh Jacobs. I know. Im. . . Dont sound like a dick, dont sound like a dick. Im a great fan of your work.
She laughs, tossing her head back. Her long blonde hair swishes up and over her shoulder. Well, arent you a smooth bastard?
He grins. Thanks. This is exactly how its meant to happen, Twitch McKay: suave, sophisticated, and funny. Shell see theres more to him than the tatty clothes and the skittering drugs. Hes 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. Its OK. I like you. Itll 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 rooms not much bigger than Twitchs 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. Thats very, very important. Kayliegh slips off her blood-red coat. You can look, and I can touch, but you cant. 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 theres nothing left but red lace.
Her skins perfect, her bodys perfect, shes perfect. Oh God. . .
Just one touch. Shed understand, right?
She likes him.
Theres a sound down the alleyway, like someone being sick, and then theyre 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 Twitchs face. His voice is like a shallow grave. You want to try that again?
Im sorry. . . He stays where he is and gets a kick in the ribs as a reward.
Youre sorry? Pause. Oh, thats all right then, isnt it? Youre sorry and everythings 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 dont 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 Twitchs nose again. Fresh blood steams in the cold alley. Did I give you permission to speak?
Twitch just whimpers.
Right, heres how this works: I promised to write off your debt if you stole that painting for me. Nice and easy. Only you didnt, did you? You didnt get my painting, you fucked up! A hard right hook snaps Twitchs 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 weeks interest. Lets call it fourteen thousand all in. Where is it?
Twitch whimpers again.
You can answer that one, Stupid.
I . . . I dont. . .
Ooh, bad luck. Dillon grabs Twitchs arm, pulling it straight out then twisting it over, so its elbow up. Then he drops all his weight on the joint. CRACK!
Theres 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. Dont know what youre blubbing for: youve still got two legs to go, havent 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 Im going soft. Next thing you know Im getting no respect. Cant have that, can we?
Please!
Rules are rules, Twitch. If I let you away with it, every bugger will think Im going soft. Next thing you know Im getting no respect. Cant 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 Twitchs feet up on it, straight out in front of him.
Oh, God, please dont. . . Please! Ive got a computer, a laptop, you can have it! I stole it from that guys house. Its yours!
Dillon looks down at him. OK. Thanks, I appreciate the gesture. Then he grabs a length of steel pipe and smashes it into Twitchs legs, hammering again and again. Pulverising the bone. The screaming only lasts for a few minutes, then everything . . . goes . . . black.
Kayleigh stands in the shadows, leaning heavily against the wall, as Dillon turns the skanky wee bastards legs into mush. The left side of her face is tender and swollen, her ribs ache: and so do her breasts and legs. But thats nothing compared to how it stings and burns inside.
Dillon finally steps away from the mess. Panting.
She sniffs. Is he dead?
Nope. Dillon smiles at her. This wee shites going to spread the word about what happens if you fuck with me.
She limps forward and kicks the motionless body in the head.
Dillon laughs. You want him dead?
Fucker raped me! She kicks him again. Then stomps on his chest. Going on and on about how much he loves me and how great it is Im dancing only for him . . . and all the time. . . Another kick.
Dillon picks up the laptop bag and slings it over his shoulder. You sure you want him dead?
HE FUCKING RAPED ME!
Fair enough. Dillon hands her the metal pipe. You did me a favour: Ill do you one. Hes all yours.
She stops, dead. What?
Cave his head in.
I. . .
Go on no one will ever know it was you.
She drops the metal pipe. It clangs on the alley floor. I . . . I cant.
No? Dillon looks at her, head on one side, like a cat. You sure?
Her voice is barely a whisper, trembling as the tears start. He raped me. You said to keep him busy and he raped me.
I meant buy him a drink, you silly cow. Did I say anything about getting him all sexed up?
She turns away, staring at the ground. No, Mr Black.
Dillon sighs. Oh, for goodness sake. . . He grabs one of the black plastic bin-bags and empties it on the alley floor. Tins and bottles clatter on the concrete. Tell you what: Ill make it easy for you. He takes a handful of Twitchs mullet and drags him backwards until hes sitting slumped against the wall then sticks the bag over his head.
Kayleigh stares at him, mouth open as Dillon wraps the ends of the bag around Twitchs throat and ties them in a tight little knot, just under the chin. The bag puffs up slightly as the raping bastard breathes out. Then constricts as he tries to breathe in.
Dillon takes off his gloves and sticks them in his pocket. If you want the wee shite dead: just leave him. You want him to live: pop a hole in the bag before he suffocates. Your choice. Im off for a beer.
He disappears back into the club.
The sound of singing filters in from the street, then a bus rumbling past, then someone shouts the odds at their boyfriend. Then a taxi. . .
Kayleigh watches as the bag inflates and deflates over Andy Twitch McKays head.
Out. . . In. . . Out. . . In. . .
His right hand trembles.
Out. . . In. . . In. . . In. . .
She bites her bottom lip and tries not to cry.
In. . . In. . . In. . . In . . .
A siren, high and thin, flashing past on the main road.
Out. . .
Still.
Kayleigh starts to sob.
10: Lords a Leaping
There was something calming about the view from the castles ruined battlements at night: down the steep, dark hill to Kings Park; across the swollen black river to Castle View and the Wynd. Streetlights made sparkling ribbons in the darkness, like a spiders web flecked with dew.
He raised the bottle to his lips as the first flakes of snow began to fall, drifting down through the cold night air. A 1896 Chateau Laubade Armagnac over a thousand pounds a bottle and he was swigging it like a wino. It smoothed its way into his chest with gentle, warming fingers. Keeping him safe against the chill. Blocking the pain from his broken finger.
Making him brave enough to do what had to be done.
Another swig then he gazes into the blackness before him. The cliffs are steepest here: the perfect spot for jumping. Just as soon as hes finished his Armagnac it would be a shame to let something so perfect go to waste. When hes finished then hell go. . .
. . . but most of all Id like to thank our honoured guest for taking time out of his busy schedule to come open our new offices today. The fat man steps back and leads the applause.
Its a featureless industrial unit, identical to all the other featureless industrial units in the Shortstaine business park. If it werent for the blue plastic sign above the door: SCOTIABRAND TASTY CHICKENS LTD. THEYRE FAN-CHICKEN-TASTIC! you wouldnt even notice it. But tomorrow therell be a big feature in the local rag banging on about job creation and local economic growth featuring everyones favourite white-haired, avuncular MSP: Lord Peter Forsyth-Leven.