The Sacrificial Doo

Ah wake suddenly wae a start, piecin the gither whit wee fragments ay memory ah kin fae the night afore; any wee vignettes ay whit happened. Ah mind staunin wae Scanlon an the boay, Danny Coyle. Scanlon’s cousin an aw, McDade. He wis aff his tits, that daft cunt. Should never huv goat they pills fur him aff wee Franny Mulhearn. Some cunts ur better aff stickin tae the Babysham.

His da but, Ronnie! Fuck! Ah mind that cunt takin a swing fur me. The fuck wis that aw aboot? Ah’ll need tae phone Scanlon an put the feelers oot. Try an smooth it oer.

The rattle ay the Venetian blinds in the kitchenette fae the opened windae cuts through the air, gaun right fuckin through me; an unremittin, raspin assault tae the ear, like a fuckin fly buzzin aboot in yer heid.

Boundin oer the coffee table in the front room, ah cut intae the kitchen an shut the windae oer, immediately silencin the source ay ma torment. Ah pull the blinds up an look tae the busy street below, bathed in sunlight, vibrant an alive wae the Saturday mornin bustle ay people.

Auld biddies amble intae the fruit an veg shoap an the Co-Op fur their messages; punters stride purposefully intae the bookies tae put oan fitba coupons, the projected winnings awready spent in their heids; an jakies hover aboot near pub doors, casually readin newspapers, their attempts at clandestine loiterin servin only tae emphasise their thirst.

Clickin the kettle oan, ah turn the phone oan fur the first time since afore ah went oot, an it beeps incessantly, last night’s text messages an missed calls landin. Four ay them ur fae that Zander prick, each wan mare tetchy than the last. Sais he told me no tae keep him waitin an that ah’d left him nae choice, he’d be talkin tae McNulty aboot it. Fuckin bam. They’ve goat me right by the baws, these cunts. How ah goat masel intae this situation, ah’ll never know.

Efter ah’ve stanked ma tea, ah stick oot a wee straightener oan the kitchen worktap, just tae take the edge aff the hangover. The phone rings an McNulty’s name flashes up oan the screen. Fuck off man. ‘Hullo.’

‘Where the fuck’ve ye been? Ah’ve hud cunts phonin me aw night lookin fur ye. Whit part ay this arrangement ur ye no gettin Stevie?’ he sais.

‘Ah couldnae work last night. Somethin came up.’ ah sais.

‘Somethin came up?’ he repeats, incredulously. ‘Whit, ye oan fuckin flexi-time? Friday night’s wan ay oor busiest nights. Ye don’t get tae cloack oot when it fuckin suits ye. You hearin whit ah’m sayin?’ he sais.

‘Look. . .’ ah sais.

‘Look, fuck all!’ he sais, ‘Get up here the noo. Ah want tae talk tae you.’ he sais, hingin up the phone.

Somethin came up? That’s a good wan in’t it? A fuckin poxy birthday party ah’d nae business bein at in the first place, full ay fuckin mad heids like Scanlon’s uncle. Just come, he sais, it’ll help ye keep yer mind aff things. Nae bother mate. Cheers.

Ah attract this shit man; a fuckin magnet fur aggro, ah um, know whit ah mean?

 

The bright mornin ah’d observed fae the windae is a memory noo, an April rain batters doon, bouncin aff the grun as ah step oot ay the close door oan tae the street. People huddle in doorways takin shelter fae it an the windaes ay the buses lined up at the traffic lights ur clouded, almost impenetrably, by condensation.

Ah get intae the motor an the windaes aw steam up remindin me ay that day in Fife wae Scanlon; the day the motor fucked, expeditin the doonward trajectory ah wis, an continue, tae descend.

Turnin the key in the ignition, the wee Corsa bursts intae life an ah head straight oer tae see McNulty. Just get it oot the waiy, know whit ah mean? Fuckin Carpe Diem an aw that shite.

There’s a junkie comin oot the door ay the close as ah pull up wearin a pair ay Bermuda shorts an an auld Nickelson jayket, only partially zipped up, exposin his emaciated, pasty torso. He’s spaced oot his dial. Wasted. ‘Here mate! Haud that door fur me!’ ah shout oer at him but he just stoats oot an skites aff the railins oan either side ay the path like the fuckin empty vessel he is. ‘Here, you! Fuckin Moon-man, did ye no hear me?’ ah sais.

‘Whiiiiit?’ he sais, the cadeverous, glakit lookin cunt. Lookin at him though, it’s aboot the best ah kin hope fur as a verbal exchange. The sad thing is, he cannae be much aulder than me but ah’ve nae time fur sentimentality an tryin the door, ah’m relieved tae find its oan the snib an push it open. ‘Any chance ay a snout aff ye big chap.’ ah hear the walkin corpse shout efter me but it’s too late, as ah click the door shut, makin sure it’s loacked this time, an fuck off up the stairs.

The door’s ajar when ah get there - nae doubt the junkball fae doon the stair’s fault - so ah just head straight in, slowin doon as ah approach the livin room as ah kin hear a conversation gaun oan. ‘Whit aboot this wan here? . . there’s just a dash next tae the name.’

‘Aw aye, that’s a new wan. Ah went roon. . . a couple ay auld guys, prolly a couple ay bent-shots. Never hud nothin this week so ah telt them the craic, it gets put oan tae the principle an kerried oer tae next week. Ye should’ve seen them. Thoat they were gonae burst oot greetin. . .’

Ah’m staunin, haudin ma breath, listenin intently fur anythin ay note; anythin ah kin use; any fuckin leverage.

Peerin through the gap ay the partially closed door, ah see Ged an the other stupit lookin cunt, Monty, sittin at the table, money lyin spread oot in front ay them. The dug’s lyin in the coarner snorin, its chist risin an fawin as it lies oan its back, heid tilted, droolin oan tae the flair.  

Its nose twitches an its eyes open, startled lookin. It jumps up, snarlin an intemperate an comes fur me, its wee short-arse legs scuttlin oer the boggin, hair covered, pish-stained carpet taewards the door.

Slammin it shut, the dug’s weight pounds intae it, pushin back at me, the sound ay its claws tearin doon the surface at the other side. Its heid gets through the openin an it gnashes an snarls vituperatively, salivatin its drool oer the flair an ah’m jammin the cunt’s heid wae the door so that it’s splutterin an chokin wae the pressure oan its throat but it’s insatiable, unrelentin. ‘Yer fuckin chokin him!’ Let go ay the door!’ some cunt shouts fae the other side.

‘Um ah fuck letting go! Get a haud ay that bastarn dug then!’

The door bursts open wae a boot fae the other side an ah’m flung back intae the opposite waw. ‘Look who it fuckin is! How long ye been staunin there fur, eh ya sneaky wee cunt? Ah’d huv caved yer heid in when we hud the chance.’ Monty sais, staunin oer me. The dug splutters an coughs, gaspin fur air. ‘Whit ye dain tae Ged’s dug? Here, Ged, ye seen whit this cunt’s dain tae yer dug?’ he sais.

‘Pebbles!’ Ged sais, appearin fae naewhere, pickin the bastart up an rockin it in his airms, like a wee wean.

‘Pebbles? You’re huvin a fuckin laugh. That fuckin thing should be loacked up!’ ah sais. ‘’It fuckin went fur me.’

‘Of course it went fur ye, yer sneakin aboot like a fuckin copper. An whit’s wrang wae Pebbles?’ Ged sais, genuinely.

‘Nuttin. Furget aboot it. McNulty phoned. Sais he wanted tae see me.’

‘He dis. Where wur ye last night? We should’ve done you in when we hud the chance. Yer a fuckin liability.’ Monty sais.

‘Awright lads. Nae need fur aw that. Like ah told him, somethin came up. Couldnae be helped.’ ah sais, feelin the colour drainin oot ma face.

‘Well he’s no here. Mone, ah’ll take ye tae him.’ Monty sais. ‘Well, don’t just staun there, fuckin move!’ he sais, pushin me hard, back intae the waw again. Ah feel ma temper rise an just as quickly dissipate as ah assess the likelihood ay me gettin oot ay there in wan piece should ah retaliate. ‘FUCKIN MOVE!’ he sais, pushin me again fae behind, ma heid joltin backwards wae the force as we walk doon the hallway.

 We get in the motor an he directs me taewards an auld industrial area doon by the railway, gettin me tae pull up next tae a ten fit high perimeter fence made ay chipboard hoardin, thick wae layers ay illegible graffiti apart fae wan bit ah kin make oot that says: Home Rule? Dole Rule? an ah reflect fleetingly oan its meanin, an ultimately it’s futility afore Monty interjects, ‘Oot, prick!’

We get oot the motor an he bowls oer tae the fence, wrenchin a loose sheet ay chipboard open gien us access through tae the other side. ‘Through there.’ he sais.

‘That’ll be shinin bright, um ah fuck.’ ah sais, an he lets it go, slammin it back intae place, ragin. ‘Ah’ll no tell ye again, get fuckin through there!’ he spits, an yanks it open again.

Steppin through, ah near shite masel as the hoardin slams again as he lets it go. ‘Ye no comin wae me?’ ah sais, but there’s nae answer. ‘Whit yous cunts playin at? Where um ah meant tae be gaun, eh?’ ah sais tae silence, the rustlin ay the wind blawin through the long grass an weeds ma only company. Ah hear the door ay the motor slam shut.

The site hud wance been an industrial area, thrivin at wan point, another casualty ay Thatcher’s boom or bust Britain. Nae longer a viable concern, it wis razed tae the grun leavin only an expanse ay concrete showin where the factory wance stood, reclaimed by nature an relentlessly pounded intae submission by years ay encompassin vegetative growth.

Ah shiver as a cauld sweat runs doon ma back in tandem wae ma racin thoughts as tae whit ah might be walkin intae. That Monty prick seemed awfy eager tae get me here, know whit ah mean?

Folliein the muddy trail that snakes through the nettles an foliage, ah see it in front ay me, staunin, like a sentry post in some bleak, dystopian landscape. A solitary tower comprised ay corrugated iron an green, painted timber, it rises fae the concrete foundation slab ay the factory; a doocot.

There’s nothin else in the vicinity; nothin but the doocot; that an the expanse ay dereliction; weeds, industrial remnants an rubble reachin doon tae the railway track. The door’s closed oer but the hasp is open wae nae padlock oan it. Ah climb the crudely constructed steps up tae the door an pull it open.

Inside there’s a caunel, placed in tap ay an empty wine boatle, the flame ay which flickers in the breeze. There’s a frenetic flappin ay wings, an dust an wee white feathers fill the small space as a squint ma eyes tae see through the pitch darkness. ‘Ah see ye found it.’ a voice comes fae the gloom. ‘Come in an shut the door oer behind ye.’

Ah step aff the ladder an intae the doocot, shuttin the door oer. ‘There’s a bit ay rope there, tie it roon the nails tae keep it shut.’ he sais.

Wrappin the rope roon the bunch ay corroded nails that ur bunched the gither an driven intae the door frame, ah turn roon tae see him, emergin fae the shadows, cuppin a doo in his haun. ‘There’s another caunel there, just next tae that wan, light it.’

Hardened streaks ay wax break aff in ma haun as ah tilt the boatle oer the flame ay the lit caunel. ‘So, whit happened last night? Ah’ve goat Zander Patterson oan the phone, sais he’s wantin hauf a bar an canae get a haud ay ye?’ he sais.

‘Like ah sais, somethin came up. It’ll no happen again.’

‘Whit wis that exactly, that came up?’ he sais.

‘Eh, a commitment ah couldnae get oot ay.’ ah sais.

‘Let’s get wan thing straight ya wee prick. . .’ he sais, ‘your only commitment’s tae me.’

‘Aye well, aboot that.’ ah sais, ‘how much longer dae ye expect me tae dae this, eh? Ah’ve made ye thousands noo, tens ay thousands.’

‘You’ve made fuck all. That gear yer movin’s made the money. Whit exactly dae ye think you’re dain in aw ay this, eh? You’re just a conduit, Stevie; a fuckin donkey. A medium ah kin exploit tae make money, dae ye get it?’ he sais, the words evisceratin fae his mooth.

Ah know it shouldnae be a revelation tae me; that oor relationship is wan ay manipulation an subjugation, but tae hear it so casually framed hammers it hame, know whit ah mean? ‘Dae ye see this here?’ he sais, haudin up the doo in his haun tae the caunel light.

‘Aye whit aboot it?’ ah sais.

‘This here is ma best hen, or it wis.’ he sais. ‘She’s caught me some fuckin belters, so she hus. Two ay that Freddie Williamson fae Greenfield’s best doos, another few ay Sandy Gresham’s fae Cranhill. . .’

‘Aye, that’s smashin, but if that’s us, ah’m just gonnae. . .’ ah nod tae the door.

‘That’ll be us when ah fuckin say it’s us, right?’ he sais, spittin the words oot, the tendons in his neck taut wae anger. ‘The thing is, she’s broke her wing. Cannae fly anymare. . .’ he sais, revertin back tae a measured calmness, ‘. . . aye, ye kin try an splint it up fur her, let it set again but they’re never the same. The doo’s kin sense it. Damaged goods.’ he hauds the hen oot in front ay him by the neck an it’s flappin its wings frantically, its beady eyes bulgin oot its heid.

‘Whit ye dain?’ ah sais, an aw the other doos in their cages ur flappin, whippin up aw the dust an feathers an fuckin dried bird shite intae a cloud ay fine particles. They coo an jump aboot mental, flyin intae the wire mesh ay their cages. The hen flaps the fiercest ay them aw, seemingly knowin whit’s aboot tae happen when he wrings its neck, squeezin every bit ay life oot the bastart like watter fae a wet towel, its wings flutterin long efter it’s deid. He flings it oan the table where it flaps a bit mare afore eventually, efter a final twitch, it flops oer, motionless. ‘Ah’m askin ye, whit the fuck did ye dae that fur? You’re no right in the fuckin heid.’ ah sais tae him, whit ah’d witnessed huvin the required effect oan me.

‘Nae good tae me anymare, Stevie. It’s served its purpose. Ye get me?’ he sais.

 Through the caunel light, thousands ay dust particles swirl roon aboot him an some ay the wee feathers lodge oan the stubbly growth oan his face. ‘Open that fuckin door.’ he sais, lightin a fag an offerin me wan.

 Ah take it an unwind the rope fae the nails, shooderin the heavy door open tae the bright daylight. ‘Ah want ye tae remember the lesson learned here McShane. Yer useful, nae doubt, but yer expendable. You get me whit ye owe me, then we’ll talk. You runnin the white fur me isnae tae work aff a debt, that’s just so ah don’t do ye in. Wance yer nae good tae me dain that, then. . .’ he looks tae the doo.

‘Right, ah get it.’ ah sais, ‘ah’ll get yer money.’

‘Good. Noo go an see that Zander Patterson. Efter aw his greetin, he sais he’ll haud aff an wait fur ye but ye’ve tae go the day. Ah wis gonae send Monty doon tae see him but he insisted it wis you he wanted. Who um ah tae argue, eh? He’s a good customer. Get doon there.’

He disnae need tae tell me twice an ah’m back doon the ladder. Walkin away, ah rub aw the dust an shite ah kin oot ma hair an take ma jayket aff, beatin it oan the hard concrete tae aerate the cunt.

Ah wedge the hoardin open wae ma fit an squeeze masel through, back on tae the street. The motor’s away, an Monty wae it just as the heavy, pummellin rain starts again. These fuckin pricks ur pushin it man, ah’m tellin ye.