What Goes Around (Part Two)

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‘Granda! Ye awright? Talk tae me Granda!’ ah sais, loosenin his tie an undain the tap button ay his shirt

‘He’s deid! Fuck sake man! First ma Granny, noo yer Granda. Whit the fuck’s happenin, man?’ Pearcey sais, disconsolately, puttin his heid in his hauns.

‘He’s no fuckin deid! He’s breathin. It’s aw just been too much fur him, poor auld cunt.’

He starts tae open his eyes an looks at me strangely, shieldin the glare fae the sun oot his eyes an runnin his other haun alang the tap ay the waw we’ve goat him sittin oan like he’s tryin tae figure oot where he is.

We’d been at the coarner, oan the far end ay the street, the close visible, but far enough away fur us no tae be seen, staunin watchin fur any comins an gauns in deep discussion aboot the best waiy tae go aboot things when ma Granda appeared. Ah cannae really explain whit happened next other than ma emotions goat the better ay me. Ah’d been that busy gaun oer it aw, consumed by whit Joe telt me an how ah wis gonae redress it, that ah hudnae stoapped tae think aboot how it wid affect him. Fuckin information overload, nae danger, man.

 Ah’d done ma grievin back nearly ten year ago when he died; again mare recently when ah found oot he’d done himsel in (as ah’d believed). When ah seen ma Granda, ah just grabbed a haud ay him an unloaded everythin; whit Joe telt us. Aw that pent up grief ah’d been tellin masel hud been dealt wae, it aw just came pourin oot. Ah think McDade an Pearcey seen me greetin but ah’m past carin noo. They know the score.

A wee wummin fae the hoose we’ve goat him sittin ootside’s came oot tae see whit aw the commotion wis, an efter bein assured that he’s no goat any underlyin health issues an hus just hud a wee turn, is away back in tae make him some tea.

Ye’d mibbe think that this development may huv saftened ma stance, but if anythin, seein ma Granda like this only strengthens ma resolve fur vengeance – fur aw ay us.

He warns me aff it, ‘You bloody well staiy oot ay it, dae ye hear me?’ he sais, afore the roar ay an engine an squeal ay tyres skiddin roon the coarner focusses oor attention elsewhere. A big long-wheel base jeep, it is, wae chrome bull bars an spotlights acroass the front. It mounts the pavement acroass the road fae us as the driver tries tae wrestle back control ay the cunt, racin doon the street, afore abruptly swervin intae the kerb between two parked motors ootside McNulty’s close. Five cunts pile oot an charge in the door lookin like they’ve goat a grievance ay their ain tae resolve.

Ma Granda’s gettin agitated so we get him tae his feet an take him doon the road, makin sure he’s settled afore headin back. The last thing he sais tae me afore ah leave is tae repeat his warnin again, ‘You staiy away fae that swine, dae ye hear me? Ah’ve awready loast ma son, ah’m no losin you as well.’

Heavy fuckin guilt trip, nae danger, but the auld yin’s no daft. If he’s honest wae himsel, he knows fine ah need tae dae this.

 

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‘Did ye see that, man? Whit wis that aw aboot? They cunts looked like they meant business.’ McDade sais, breathlessly, as we run back up the street.

‘Fuck knows, but we better get back there tae see whit’s happenin.’

‘Is any cunt else startin tae think this is a bad idea?’ Pearcey sais, trailin alang at the back.

Undeniably, ah um, but ah’m no tellin them that. The decision’s been made. We stick tae the plan. We just need tae find oot whit the fuck’s gaun oan, then when they wan ay them comes oot, stick tae them. Like fuckin glue. This is guerilla warfare. Ye dae whitever it takes tae stack the odds in your favour; draw them oot, chainge the fuckin playin field. See how fuckin gemme they ur then.

Ah’m first tae reach the coarner, so ah stoap just short ay it an edge ma waiy alang the hedgerow, stickin ma heid roon so’s ah kin see whit’s happenin.

There’s a boay runnin taewards us, heid doon, sannyin it full pelt up the middle ay the road. He looks up an his face looks vaguely familiar, ah cannae place it until it hits me. Stevie McShane.

He comes hurtlin by me in a blur, airms cuttin through the air like the blades ay a fan. ‘Stevie!’ ah sais, an he turns tae look, waeoot breakin stride.

‘Nae time tae talk wee man.’ he sais, afore vaultin oer a gate intae somebody’s drive an scramblin oer the fence tae the back gairden.

‘Here, wis that –’ McDade sais.

‘Stevie McShane, aye.’

‘Here, lads. Look.’ Pearcey sais an alang the street three guys come oot McNulty’s close, two haudin another wan up who looks in a bad waiy, his face an claes saturated in a sodden veil ay blood. They horse the cunt intae the motor an head back intae the close. Folk hing oot ay windaes like voyeuristic pariahs, sippin mugs ay tea an smokin fags, the show oan diplay mare captivatin than whitever turgid shite their tellie’s goat oan offer.

They burl back oot the close, laden wae sports bags, flingin them intae the boot afore gettin in, tyres smokin as they wheel spin away fae the kerb. The big Shogun wae its high centre ay gravity fishtails doon the street, clatterin the wing mirror aff a parked Transit van afore swingin roon the coarner an disappearin in a cloud ay sooty smoke.

‘Did yous notice that?’ ah sais.

‘Notice whit, the jeep tearin away like The Sweeney or Stevie McShane dain the high jump oer that cunt’s six fit high fence?’

‘No that! The fact five ay them went in, an only four came oot.’

‘Danny, look! Comin oot that close. There!’ Pearcey sais.

Ah turn tae see, an oan the same street we’ve been watchin fae afar, McNulty comes oot ay a close door, limpin but dain his level best tae get away.

‘EXCUSE ME SON! HOW IS YER GRANDFAITHER? IS HE AWRIGHT? AH CAME OOT WAE HIS TEA BUT YIES WERE AWAY.’ the auld wummin fae earlier shouts acroass the road at us.

Ah try an mime tae her tae shut the fuck up but it’s too late as McNulty rotates his fat fuckin carcass an sees us. He turns an continues oan his waiy though — evidently wae mare immediate problems tae contend wae — hobblin away, draggin his leg behind him.

‘Mone, get efter him. Fae a safe distance though. Don’t let him oot yer sight.’

We foallie, clandestinely fur a while, hidin behind parked vehicles, waws – anythin we kin, but he’s rattled, the cunt. Whitever happened wae his visitors hus goat his back up as he keeps stoappin, lookin aboot as though he’s expectin company.

Tailin him through a wee estate ay shoeboax sized semis, crisscroassed wae inter-linkin paths, we come oot the other side, close enough tae make oor move, at a quiet stretch ay road ootside the imposin red-brick structure ay the auld public baths.

‘Gies that cosh, McDade. Quick, it’s noo or never.’ ah sais, epinephrine drivin the pulse rallyin roon ma form, thumpin in ma ears like a deep, throbbin, fuckin drum.

The thing is though, ma emotional investment pales intae insignificance.  McDade’s drum bangs louder. Just the waiy it is.

He takes the still inconspicuous lookin baton oot ay the bag, haunin the rucksack tae me like ah’m an annoyance tae him; a necessary component tae the hunt.

He runs oot efter him, the echo fae his feet poundin alang the street, bouncin back aff the derelict shell ay the auld brick fabric ay the bathhoose.

‘Here, big yin, remember me?’ he sais, as me an Pearcey break cover an start oot taewards them.

He stoaps in his tracks, turnin roon, ‘You? Get tae fuck wee man, ah’m in nae mood the day.’ He stares him doon, the kind ay stare ye kin tell he’s used tae huvin the desired effect oan maist ay its recipients. McDade just edges closer though.

‘Ah sais, dae ye remember me?’

McNulty looks aboot again, like he’s searchin fur the audience he’s become accustomed tae; cunts that’ll gie him validation; cunts that’ll back him up tae the hilt, but there’s nae cunt there, only the man staunin in front ay him.

 ‘Remember ye? Turn roon an ah’ll mind ye better. The last thing ah seen wis the back ay yer heid, runnin oot the fuckin door when Monty pult that chopper oot –’ he looks oer his shooder, then back, tae me an Pearcey bearin doon oan him behind McDade, ‘ . . . whit dae you wee pricks think yer gonae dae, eh? Dae ye know who ah’m ur? Dae ye know who yer dealin wae here? EH? DAE YE? YOUS URNAE EVEN IN THE SAME FUCKIN DIVISION!’ he sais, backin away.

Fur every hauf-step he takes back though, McDade takes another wan taewards him.

‘Whit you gonae dae then, ya wee prick? Hink yer a fuckin gangster?’ he spits, contemptuously.   

The spring-cosh slides oot tae its full length wae a satisfyin click as McDade pulls his airm back behind him, bringin it doon oan the side ay his heid wae a crack that reverberates aff the buildin, amplifyin the blow.

Again an again he dis it, beltin him aboot the heid an boady. McNulty just absorbs it though, his heid skelpin aboot like a pool baw, but every time, he seems tae inhale it, invitin mare.

‘Dae ye remember me noo, ya fuckin bam?’ McDade sais, thrashin the cosh doon oan him again, until, in a swift an seamless inversion, McNulty clamps his haun roon the baton, wrenchin it oot ay his haun, crackin him aboot wae it in kind, repayin each blow received, wae virulent an decisive answers. McDade draps; a vicious blow tae his heid fellin him, effortlessly, his heid clatterin aff the grun in a noisome slap.

Time seems tae slow when he faws, the time between him tumblin backwards tae the crack ay his heid oan the pavement, curdlin the bile in ma stomach.

Propellin masel forward, ah stick the blade intae him, hearin him breathe in sharply, watchin the pupil ay his eye dilate as it thumps intae the fat fuckin cunt’s frame.

He looks intae ma eyes; just that wan vortex ay an eye, hammerin intae me, an he laughs, ‘John Coyle? Is that whit this is aboot? Fuckin junkie bastart –’.

The bolt pierces intae his chist, just as he’s aboot tae try an justify whit he did; right oan the very cusp ay it. He backs intae the wrought-iron railins an slides doon them oan tae his arse, silent. Silenced.

Polis sirens puncture the air as ah look at him; the man that murdered ma faither; the man that orphaned me; the cunt that sent ma Granny tae an early grave; ensured her last days here were polluted by torment an guilt, an hopeless, inefficacious yearnin, an inertia until her last breath.

‘DANNY! MONE, MAN, THAT’S THE SCREWS COMIN!’ Pearcey shouts, stugglin tae lift McDade tae his feet.

He’s goat a wee miniature crossbow in his haun, like a pistol, only there’s a bow croassin oer the barrel.

McDade’s secret weapon.

The sirens haunt the air, very probably mare pronounced wae the mad acoustics the brick waw ay the auld swimmin baths belt back oot at us.

We walk away, slowly, Pearcey an me proppin McDade up as we go, through the open gate, an intae Tollcross Park.

Ah turn roon tae see McNulty, clamberin tae his feet, ‘Think this is it? Think that’s it done an dusted? You’re gettin it ya cunt, same as yer junkie Da! Aw ay yies. Ah’ll find yies.’ he wheezes afore slumpin back doon oan his arse.