you’re making a bit of a fuss over nothing.’
She sparked at that. ‘Well, I don’t!’
I got up, went to the other side of the room. We’d drawn our battle lines; I didn’t like where this conversation was going. When she shouted and threw things, I could handle it. When she locked me out, no trouble. But the close control freaked me out. My father had tried to control me with beatings and harsh words and it never worked. I didn’t do control.
I picked up my tabs.
‘Where are you going?’
‘For a smoke.’
Outside on the stair I fired up, got about a third of the way down the smoke when a gadgie with a mop and bucket showed. He wore a black and red Adidas coat like the footy managers have. ‘All right, mate.’
I gave a non-committal nod.
He had a beanie on and it stretched the corners of his eyes. I saw some tats on the back of his neck when he lowered the bucket. ‘There’s, eh, cash due for the stair cleaning.’
I drew on my smoke. ‘What’s this?’
‘Been a stair meeting and that . . . Three pounds, chief.’
‘Three pounds . . . this weather. I don’t think so.’
He started to get twitchy, kept rubbing the tip of his nose. ‘It’s three pounds.’
I knocked the tip off my tab, crushed the embers under my boot-heel. ‘You’re getting bugger all out me.’
He looked scoobied, not sure what had happened.
Inside the flat I watched him through the spyhole as he tapped up the auld wifey at number three. She handed over the cash without complaint. I shook my head.
Debs had prepared for my return. She put her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. She’d been at the lip gloss in my absence, said, ‘Look, Gus, I know you’re not equipped to cope with, y’know, the news about Michael.’
There was a whole other row waiting to go up once she heard of my moves to root out his killer. Swearing off the drink was only one of her ultimatums that I’d signed up to. Not looking for trouble was another; and of the two I’d say the latter was the one she placed most store by. If I wanted to keep hold of Debs this time, I had to play by her rules. Only, since Michael’s death, I just didn’t know how that was going to be possible.
‘He was my brother, Debs.’
‘I know.’
‘I can’t just forget he existed.’
‘I’m not asking you to.’
My neck tensed. ‘What are you asking for?’
Debs took her hands out of her pockets, came towards me. ‘I know it can’t be easy, and I know you’ve done really well up until now, but I’m frightened.’
I knew what she was frightened of. She thought I was slipping back to my old ways. She didn’t want to be around me when I was arrested, beaten up, or worse. I didn’t want to confirm her fears, said, ‘Oh, yeah.’
‘Gus, you need help to get over this.’
I saw where this was going, felt my breathing stall. ‘Uh-huh . . .’
She had a card in her hand. She held it out.
‘A psychiatrist . . .’
Debs nodded.
‘You want me to see a psychiatrist?’
She handed me the card.
‘I don’t know, Debs.’
Her brows shot up. I saw I wasn’t getting a choice. She put her hands back in her pockets and left me holding the card.
Chapter 8
IAN KERR’S ADDRESS WAS DANGEROUSLY close to Muirhouse.
‘Fuckin’ Apache country round here, man,’ said Mac.
We turned off Ferry Road, headed east. I said, ‘Yeah well, keep those windows shut. Don’t want any stray arrows coming in.’
He grinned. ‘All they fire round here’s fucking needles.’
I took the corner into the street that was listed on Kerr’s wage slip. Two skanky-arsed kids ran alongside the car, sliding about on the icy path and shouting abuse. One of them, a rough wee ginge, carried a butterfly knife and spun it through his fingers with a fair bit of skill – must’ve been playing with it since he put down his rattle. I booted it away from the neds and they hauled up on the kerb, giving us the Vs and dropping trackies to flash arse cheeks.
‘Ah,
She sparked at that. ‘Well, I don’t!’
I got up, went to the other side of the room. We’d drawn our battle lines; I didn’t like where this conversation was going. When she shouted and threw things, I could handle it. When she locked me out, no trouble. But the close control freaked me out. My father had tried to control me with beatings and harsh words and it never worked. I didn’t do control.
I picked up my tabs.
‘Where are you going?’
‘For a smoke.’
Outside on the stair I fired up, got about a third of the way down the smoke when a gadgie with a mop and bucket showed. He wore a black and red Adidas coat like the footy managers have. ‘All right, mate.’
I gave a non-committal nod.
He had a beanie on and it stretched the corners of his eyes. I saw some tats on the back of his neck when he lowered the bucket. ‘There’s, eh, cash due for the stair cleaning.’
I drew on my smoke. ‘What’s this?’
‘Been a stair meeting and that . . . Three pounds, chief.’
‘Three pounds . . . this weather. I don’t think so.’
He started to get twitchy, kept rubbing the tip of his nose. ‘It’s three pounds.’
I knocked the tip off my tab, crushed the embers under my boot-heel. ‘You’re getting bugger all out me.’
He looked scoobied, not sure what had happened.
Inside the flat I watched him through the spyhole as he tapped up the auld wifey at number three. She handed over the cash without complaint. I shook my head.
Debs had prepared for my return. She put her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. She’d been at the lip gloss in my absence, said, ‘Look, Gus, I know you’re not equipped to cope with, y’know, the news about Michael.’
There was a whole other row waiting to go up once she heard of my moves to root out his killer. Swearing off the drink was only one of her ultimatums that I’d signed up to. Not looking for trouble was another; and of the two I’d say the latter was the one she placed most store by. If I wanted to keep hold of Debs this time, I had to play by her rules. Only, since Michael’s death, I just didn’t know how that was going to be possible.
‘He was my brother, Debs.’
‘I know.’
‘I can’t just forget he existed.’
‘I’m not asking you to.’
My neck tensed. ‘What are you asking for?’
Debs took her hands out of her pockets, came towards me. ‘I know it can’t be easy, and I know you’ve done really well up until now, but I’m frightened.’
I knew what she was frightened of. She thought I was slipping back to my old ways. She didn’t want to be around me when I was arrested, beaten up, or worse. I didn’t want to confirm her fears, said, ‘Oh, yeah.’
‘Gus, you need help to get over this.’
I saw where this was going, felt my breathing stall. ‘Uh-huh . . .’
She had a card in her hand. She held it out.
‘A psychiatrist . . .’
Debs nodded.
‘You want me to see a psychiatrist?’
She handed me the card.
‘I don’t know, Debs.’
Her brows shot up. I saw I wasn’t getting a choice. She put her hands back in her pockets and left me holding the card.
Chapter 8
IAN KERR’S ADDRESS WAS DANGEROUSLY close to Muirhouse.
‘Fuckin’ Apache country round here, man,’ said Mac.
We turned off Ferry Road, headed east. I said, ‘Yeah well, keep those windows shut. Don’t want any stray arrows coming in.’
He grinned. ‘All they fire round here’s fucking needles.’
I took the corner into the street that was listed on Kerr’s wage slip. Two skanky-arsed kids ran alongside the car, sliding about on the icy path and shouting abuse. One of them, a rough wee ginge, carried a butterfly knife and spun it through his fingers with a fair bit of skill – must’ve been playing with it since he put down his rattle. I booted it away from the neds and they hauled up on the kerb, giving us the Vs and dropping trackies to flash arse cheeks.
‘Ah,
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