Читать книгу A Song for the Dying - Stuart MacBride - Страница 18

Shifty dragged a hand down his face, pulling it out of shape. ‘Alec wouldn’t sell it to me, said it’d be bad karma.’

I opened the envelope. It was stuffed with creased tenners and twenties. Had to be at least three, maybe four hundred quid. Not bad at all. Shifty’s shoulder wobbled when I patted it. ‘That’s a lot of walking around money. You’re—’

‘Don’t be a divot. It’s for the gun. Alec won’t sell it to me, but he’ll sell it to you. He’s got bloody weird since he came down with Buddhism.’ One podgy hand went back in Shifty’s jacket and came out with a yellow Post-it note. He stuck it to my chest. A mobile phone number in scratchy red biro. ‘But it’s going to have to be tomorrow. Now are we having that drink or not?’

‘Tomorrow? I wanted—’

‘I know. It’s not that easy finding someone who’ll sell a gun to a cop, OK? Alec’s a pain, but he’s discreet.’ Shifty pulled his shoulders up to his ears. Let them fall again. ‘We’ll do her tomorrow. I promise.’

Well, after two years was one more night really going to make that much difference? So she got another twenty-four hours, so what? She’d still end up dead.

Fair enough.

I nodded back towards the flat. ‘Tea?’

‘You’re kidding, right? Tea? When you’ve just got out of the nick?’ A wink. Then he dipped into one of the carrier-bags at his feet and came out with two bottles. ‘Champagne!’

He followed me into the flat, standing in the hallway while I snibbed all the locks again then showed him into the living room.

Alice was out of her chair, standing like a fencepost, all pulled in and straight. She smiled. ‘David, how nice to see you again. Is Andrew well?’

‘I know we said tomorrow, but I couldn’t wait.’ He loomed over her, leaned in, and gave her a peck on the cheek. Then plonked one of the champagne bottles down beside the laptop and started picking the foil cap off the other. ‘You don’t have any decent glasses, do you?’

‘Ah, yes, right, I’ll see what I can dig up, sure there’s something lurking in the cupboards …’ She pointed at the kitchen, then disappeared through the door.

Shifty worked the wire cage off the cork, pacing as he did it. Never standing still. The floorboards creaking and groaning away beneath his feet.

Silence.

He stared at the laptop screen, where Laura Strachan was frozen halfway down a flight of stone steps, the pause icon overlapping her feet. ‘I … went round to see Michelle.’

‘Did you now?’ Two years, and not a single visit from her. Not so much as a letter.

‘She came to the door and she was all …’ He wiggled one hand beside his head. ‘You know? Hair all over the place, really pale and thin, bags under her eyes. Been drinking.’

I sank back into my camp chair. Folded my arms. ‘So?’

‘She’s got the house up for sale. Big sign in the front garden. Moving down south to be with her sister.’

Yeah. Well … she was a grown woman. Not as if we were married any more, was it? Could do what she liked. Didn’t have to tell me. ‘There a point to this?’

‘Just thought you’d … I don’t know.’ He stared down at the bottle in his hands. ‘Andrew threw me out. Apparently it’s not him, it’s me. Says I’m suffocating him.’ Those fat fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle, squeezing until their joints were pale as bone. ‘I’ll bloody suffocate him …’

Alice appeared in the kitchen doorway, carrying three generic wine glasses. ‘Who’s getting suffocated?’

‘Shifty’s boyfriend’s chucked him out.’

His bottom lip popped out an inch, then he shook his head.

‘Oh, David, I’m so sorry.’ She patted one of the camping chairs. ‘Here, you have a sit down and tell me all about it.’

Oh God, here we go.

‘Maybe later.’ He twisted the cork in one meaty paw, pulled and – it poomed out from the bottle bringing a coil of pale gas with it. He filled two of the glasses, then dipped back into his plastic bag and handed me a can of Irn-Bru.

Fair enough. I clicked off the tab and filled my glass with fluorescent-orange fizzy juice.

Shifty raised his. ‘A toast – to Ash, to friends, and to freedom.’

To revenge …

We clinked glasses.

He knocked back a mouthful. Sucked in air through his teeth. Gave a little shudder. Then sank into the chair. Slumped. ‘Sodding Andrew. Two years. Two sodding years. I came out for him.’

‘No … No, this’ll … this’ll be ffff … be fine.’ Shifty blinked one eye at a time, then wobbled down into a squat, falling forward so he was on his hands and knees. Arse up. Wearing nothing but a pair of black Calvin Klein pants. He wobbled a bit more, then half lowered himself, half collapsed onto his side. It was just a sheet laid out on top of the new rug, but it was going to have to do. At least he had a pillow. Throw in a couple of bath sheets for blankets, and …

Well, it wasn’t great, but after all the booze the pair of them had put away, he wasn’t likely to notice.

The sound of retching echoed out of the bathroom, amplified by the toilet bowl.

Shifty twitched a couple of times, then let out a long, low groan. Followed by a pause. A snuffle.

I draped another towel over him then picked up the two empty champagne bottles and what was left of the supermarket whisky. Took them through to the kitchen and ditched them next to the kettle. Grabbed the washing-up bowl from the sink.

By the time I got back to the living room he was flat on his back, snoring hard enough to make the air vibrate. His towel-blankets were all rucked up on one side, exposing a hairy expanse of pale belly. The rumbling drone stopped for a couple of beats … Then he grunted something that sounded like a name, and went back to snoring again.

‘Silly sod.’ I tugged the towels into place. ‘Try not to choke on your own vomit in the middle of the night, OK?’ I turned out the light. Closed the door. Left him to it.

The toilet flushed. Then gargling. Spitting. And finally Alice lurched out into the hall.

She’d done her tartan pyjamas up wrong, the left side one button out of synch with the right. Hair sticking out in a tangled mess. ‘Urgh …’

‘Come on: bed.’

She clasped a hand to one side of her face. ‘Don’t feel so good …’

‘Well, whose fault is that?’

Her bedroom door opened on a small room with a single bed, a flat-packed wardrobe, and a small bedside table. A Monet poster dominated the room, all greens and blues and purples.

She clambered into bed, hauled the duvet up around her chin. ‘Urrgh …’

‘Did you drink a pint of water?’ I put the washing-up bowl on the floor by her head. With any luck there wouldn’t be sick all over the floor in the morning.

‘Ash …’ She smacked her mouth a couple of times, like she was tasting something bitter. ‘Tell me a story.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘I want a story.’

‘You’re a grown woman, I am not reading—’

‘Pleeeeeease?’

Seriously?

She blinked up at me, grey bags under her bloodshot eyes.

Sigh. ‘Fine.’ I settled onto the edge of the bed, taking the weight off my right foot. ‘Once upon a time, there was a serial killer called the Inside Man, and he liked to stitch dolls into nurses’ stomachs. But what he didn’t know was that a brave policeman was after him.’

She smiled. ‘Was the policeman’s name, Ash? It was, wasn’t it?’

‘Who’s telling this story, you or me?’