— No, I’m going to take a wee walk down by the docks. All that new stuff down there; Ocean Terminal, the casino. .
— Aye, John Dick nods, — it’s certainly all change in that neck of the woods.
15. THE DELIVERY BOY 3
The fresh fruit and veg were never that fresh, as the orders were usually made up a day in advance. I grabbed a box that said: Forth Ports Authority, Leith Docks, Jock Begbie. The ticket on it looked like 3 November, but for some reason it was a smudged mess, and I wasn’t big on reading anyway. It was actually for 4 November, but I mistakenly loaded it onto the delivery bike.
When I got down to the docks, it was 4.20 p.m. on the cheapo digital watch I’d bought from the garage, but dark, drizzly and shite, the way Scotland often is at that time of the year. The orange sodium lamps were already on and splashing their reflections across the wet pavements and streets. The first weird thing was that the security bam, John, wasn’t on the gate. I cycled right through, over that jarring strip of cobblestone, then across the iron rails of the cattle grid. I pedalled in the near-dark, heading for that imposing brick bothy. The old dry dock was barely lit by the overhead lamps. As I drew closer I heard voices; urgent, threatening sounds, carrying in the still night. I stopped and carefully climbed off the bike, and pushed it slowly and silently forward, resting it against the back of the bothy. At first it seemed as if the voices were coming from inside, but then I worked out that their source was the front of the howf.
I crept round the building and I could see them, standing over by the edge of the wharf. Handsome Johnnie was a bit away from Grandad Jock and the other two, Carmie and Lozy. An overhead lamplight was bathing them in a meagre glow, their breath dragon-like in the cold air as their shadows spilled over the cobblestones. I could tell Johnnie was scared. His palms were extended in appeal. — C’mon, boys. . Jock. . it’s me. .
— If ye jump, and go feet first, you’ll brek yir legs, my grandad said, looking down into the dock. — But you’ve got a chance ay surviving. Well worth a punt!
Carmie had a length of rope in his hands, and moved towards Johnnie. — That wey or oor wey, Johnnie boy!
I crouched down against the side of the bothy. I was shiteing myself. I mind that the left side of my face went into a twitching spasm.
— Wir giein ye that chance, Grandad Jock sneered, his head cocked to one side. — Wi owe ye that, and he turned to Carmie and Lozy. — Ah’d be right in sayin that we owe Johnnie that, ay, boys?
— Ah reckon so, Jock, Lozy said.
— Carmie’s no sae sure, but, ay-no, Carmie? my grandad smiled.
Carmie’s big heid looked distorted under the bleary light. — Ah’d say that a pilferin, double-crossin grass is entitled tae nowt. A grass whae betrays his ain mates.
— Auld lang syne, but, Carmie, auld lang syne, Jock said sagely. — So what’s it tae be, Johnnie?
— But ah cannae. . boys. . it’s me. . Johnnie pleaded.
— Aw, we ken it’s you awright! We ken that! Carmie chuckled darkly, like Johnnie was a kid who had been rumbled stealing sweeties from the local confectioner’s.
— If we tie ye n then fling ye in yir done, Johnnie. Or hing ye ower thaire fae yon crane like Carmie wants. See sense, Grandad Jock implored. — What’s it tae be? Thoat ye were a gambling man. Thoat that wis how this mess aw sterted. The gambler’s instinct deserted ye? Shame. .
Johnnie stepped slowly to the edge and looked down. I took a hunkered step back further into the shadows, and felt my heart thrashing in my chest. I still half believed, wanted to believe, that he would be okay, that they were just ‘putting the frighteners’ on him (a favourite phrase of Jock’s) and that they’d all soon be in the Marksman pub, laughing and joking, Johnnie suffering from nothing more than soiled keks. But there was something strange about them; it was their scary stillness.
— If ah wis you ah’d just dae it. Just turn n jump, my grandad Jock said, and he pulled out a long blade. I could see its silvery glint under the overhead light.
Then Johnnie closed his eyes and he just vanished into the darkness. Maybe I shut mine too. It’s freakish, the way your memory deceives you, because I know I saw his face with only his lids exposed, but I never witnessed, or had no recollection of, him actually jumping. And there was no sound of his screaming or hitting the bottom. But then I couldnae see him with them any more, on the edge of that dry dock, and there was nowhere else he could have gone. My grandad nodded at Carmie and Lozy and they went to the wharf’s edge and looked down. — It’s done. Better jildy, he said.
— Is eh away? Lozy asked.
— Eh’s potted heid awright. Jildy, Grandad Jock repeated, then turned and walked towards the bothy. If they’d gone to the right, they would have seen me, but they went left, and it gave me time to wheel my bike round to the other side of the brick building.
I heard them laughing in the dark as they walked away. It was like they were finishing a shift or walking home fae the pub or the football.
I went over to the edge of the dry dock and looked down. The light from the lamp above dissipated over the lip of the berth and nothing at the bottom was visible through the pitch black. I could hear no noises from below.
So I climbed down the iron rungs into the dock. I could hear my heart thrashing in my chest. I was shiteing it though at the same time I mind of feeling excited and alive. But I was concerned because it was so dark. I couldn’t see the bottom till I felt it under the sole of my trainers. I looked up; I’d come a long way and had a longer way to go back. Then behind me I heard those soft moans, and the sound of somebody whispering words that made no sense.
I saw a dark, crumpled heap, with thin weak breaths coming from it. It looked like a wounded beast waiting to expire. The bizarre monologue continued. Perhaps, I minded thinking, Johnnie was asking all the women he’d wronged to forgive him, to help him, but he was beyond assistance. When I got closer his glazed eyes looked up at me as he repeated, — Please. . Frank. . please. .
The rear of his head was smashed in, and thick blood was oozing from him. I stepped away to avoid getting it on my trainers. His eyes were wild, but fogging over. I knew that he was dying.
And I quickly understood what he wanted me to do.
So I did it, then I backed slowly over to the wall of the dock. I looked up at the rungs leading to the top. I was shaking and I was exhausted. I knew that there was no way I could manage that climb, get out of the dock, and that it would be dangerous to even try.
But I couldnae stay where I was.
16. THE PATRON OF THE ARTS
The limousine purrs slowly along the kerbside, stopping just in front of him. It seems incongruous on Leith Walk at this time; too early to be a wedding or hen party, no hearse in convoy. Franco tries to look in, but the tinted windows reveal nothing. Then the passenger-side one winds down, and a chunky, gold-ring-encrusted hand appears, followed by a big shorn head. — Get in.
Frank Begbie obliges, instantly beset with the impression that Davie ‘Tyrone’ Power hasn’t changed much. He’d always kept his head shaven, so there has been no visibly dramatic balding and greying effect over the years. And still a fat cunt, Begbie thinks, as he lets the comfortable upholstery suck him into its guts. Argent’s ‘God Gave Rock and Roll to You’ plays at low volume on the car radio.