Two Wee Craws

A big craw sits oan the gate as we draw up tae fairm. It caws at Scanlon as he gets oot the motor an walks taewards it. Briefly airborne, it flaps its wings afore landin again oan the gatepost.

‘Get tae fuck ya cunt, ye!’ he sais, wavin his airms at it.

It flies away, restin oan a nearby telegraph pole, still cawin loudly as he swings the gate open an ah drive through.

‘Ye hear that fuckin thing, man?’ he sais, gettin back intae the motor, ‘Ah hate they fuckin creepy bastarts.’

‘Just a bird int it?’ ah sais, but ah know whit he means. Think aboot it too much an it almost sounds like it’s shoutin, ‘Go, go, go.’ As in, ‘go, leave here. Don’t come back.’ It’s just a fuckin bird though ah tell masel an gie masel a shake.

‘Right, ye sound man? Skoosh case, this. Nae bother at aw. We go in, gie them the gear, get the money an we’re oot ay there.’

‘Easy as that, eh?’

‘Easy as that.’

‘Whit if they want tae check it – sample it, kind ay thing?’

‘If they want tae check it, let them. Try afore ye buy, int it? Ye’d dae the same yersel.’

‘Ah but —’

‘Don’t worry aboot it. We’ll be in an oot in five minutes.’

At the end ay the long driveway cuttin through an expanse ay desolate grassy fields, we draw up at a run doon fairmhoose – a wee, wan storey cottage kind ay deal. There’s a barn tae the right wae a roof that’s collapsed in oan itsel. Maist ay the gable end’s crumbled an fell away tae nothin; looks like the next strong gale tae blaw through’ll finish it. The hoose, shitehole that it is, looks fuckin hauf decent by comparison.

‘Two wee craws sittin oan a waw, sittin oan a waw, sittin oan a waw.’

‘Whit?’ ah sais.

‘Whit?’

‘Ye were singin there.’

‘Wis ah?’

‘Aye. Fuckin rap it, eh?’

There’s two auld cart wheels mounted oan the waw between each ay the three doors ay the stables that run aff the buildin taewards the barn. An auld, corroded plough sits in the coarner among the weeds that spew oot ay cracks an fissures in the concrete.

‘The first wee craw couldnae flee at aw, couldnae flee at aw, couldnae flee at aw.’

‘Yer fuckin dain it again!’

‘Whit?’

‘Singin! Somethin aboot wee craws.’

‘Aw aye, ma Granny used tae sing that wee song.’

‘Well fuckin rap it eh? Yer freakin me oot ya mad dick.’

‘Ye sure this is the right place?’ he sais.

‘Ah think so. We foallied the directions tae the letter.’

‘Where ur they then?’

‘They’ll be here.’ ah sais, but if ah’m honest, ah’m wonderin the same masel.

Scanlon tries the door but it’s loacked. Ah look in the windae, cuppin ma eyes tae see. It’s just an auld kitchen, dusty an neglected. A table sits in the middle ay the room, surrounded by a few chairs. Some pots, pans, an an auld set ay bellows hing oan the waw above the range.

The shrill ring ay a mobile phone shatters the silence an ah pull away fae the windae.

‘Hullo? Naw, no the noo. Ah’m busy, ah’ll phone ye later – Aye. Aye. Naw, ah telt ye. Stoap talkin ya cunt. FUCK OFF!.’ he slams the flip phone shut, ‘That fuckin wee prick, McDade. Burstin ma baws fur a gram.’

‘Turn it aff eh? We’ve goat enough tae be gettin oan wae waeoot worryin aboot your stupit wee cousin interruptin us in the middle ay it.’

He gies us a look but switches it aff an puts it in his poakit. The sound ay a motor approachin alang the driveway cuts acroass the fields an Scanlon looks at me fur direction. Ah suppose ah’m the leader ay the operation by default but ah’ve as much ay a clue aboot how this is gonnae go as he has. Fuckin blind leadin the blind, know whit ah mean?

‘Grab the bag fae the motor, eh? So’s we’re ready when they get here.’

He nods an makes fur the brief, openin the back door an grabbin the holdall when a big Mitsubishi Shogun comes roarin intae view, skiddin tae a halt at the motor.

The sound ay dugs barkin fills the courtyerd as the back doors open an two cunts jump oot. Wan goes tae the boot, openin it tae louder barkin as two dugs jump oot. The other cunt makes fur Scanlon. He’s goat a tool in his haun.

The front doors click open an another two get oot, their coupons indecipherable behind the glare ay the hauf dozen fog lights that cover every free bit ay space oan the front ay their battle-ready, action man mobile.

‘You! Whit ye doin there? Turn round till ah see ye.’ the wan wae the cosh sais tae Scanlon.

‘HE’S WAE ME! Zander, is that you? Whit the fuck is this? ah sais, catchin the prick’s gaze, noo they’ve stepped intae the bright lights ay the vehicle. He looks at me, then Coln.

‘Right, settle down there Paddy, Finn. You heard the man. Nothin to worry about.’ Coln sais, gesturin tae the two cunts, ‘ . . . ye should’ve told us ye were bringin someone, Stevie. Yer man could’ve ended up wae a sore one there.’

‘Dae ye fuckin think so? Ah’ll stick that cosh up his arse, he comes near me wae it again.’ Scanlon sais.

‘Fuckin shut it, Johnny! Fuck sake Coln, he’s here wae me. Ma mate. Dae ah need tae send ye a fuckin written request?’

‘Ye should’ve said, Stevie. The guys didnae know him. Thought he was tryin tae turn the place over.’ Zander sais.

‘Aye, well who ur they two? The fuckin welcomin committee? Ah thoat ah wis dealin wae you two only.’ ah sais.

‘That’s my brothers, Paddy an Finn. They’re in this deal with me.’ Coln sais.

‘Right well. Noo that we’re aw formally introduced, kin we start again? Ah don’t think ah kin haunel much mare excitement. He’s goat the gear there. In the holdall.’

Coln flings a set ay keys at Paddy, ‘Open her up, lets take it inside lads. Finn, tie the dogs up over there. Let them stretch their legs.’

Paddy leads the waiy, turnin the key in the loack ay the auld weather-beaten, oak door, pushin it open. Zander heads in efter him. Coln hings back behind me an Scanlon.

‘On ye go there lads. Make yourselves home.’ he sais, an we head in tae the dark interior ay the cottage, ‘Finn! Bring the bag from the car!’ Coln instructs his other brother who’s still ootside, tyin the two big German Shepherds tae a gatepost.

‘He’s a bit slow, on the uptake, our Finlay. Still though, that man would run through a brick wall for me, if I asked him.’

‘Ah know how ye feel. Ah’ve goat Scanlon. We’ll need tae try him wae a brick waw, mind.’ Ah look at Scanlon, then Coln, neither ay whom seem tae appreciate the joke. Beads ay sweat run doon ma spine, ticklin the nerve endins under ma skin as though a line ay fuckin millipedes ur crawlin doon it. Scanlon gies me another look that sais, whit noo? as Zander an the boay, Paddy, busy themselves in the next room.

‘You’ll have to excuse the state of the place. Only recently taken ownership.’ Coln sais, usherin us through the loabby intae the room.

‘Naw, don’t be daft man. It’s bran new.’ ah sais, runnin ma haun alang the surface ay the table, leavin a mark in the dust.

‘The bigger picture, Stevie. See, you probably look around here and see an old, neglected shitehole of a place, here in the fuckin arse-end of North Lanarkshire, am I right?’

Ah sais nothin, ‘ . . . but what I see here is – opportunity.’ he puts his airm roon ma shooder an walks me tae the windae at the rear ay the buildin, ‘Ye see that out there? That might look like any other field for miles around but that there represents opportunity.’ Ootside, the wild grass — stretchin tae the brow ay a rollin brae, where it meets the sky — sways in the wind.

‘Real estate, int it? Yer gonnae build hooses.’ Scanlon posits, wae a sanguine nod ay the heid, like he knows the score.

‘Houses? No, no, no – and blight this beautiful landscape with another collection of over-priced shoe boxes for the country folk to fall over themselves, gettin mortgages they’ll spend the majority of the rest of their miserable lives payin off? Fuck that! This here land’s for horses, so it is.’

‘Horses?’ Scanlon an me sais the gither.

‘Coln, the lads don’t need to know your plans for the place. We’ve business tae attend tae.’ Zander pipes up fae the table, drummin his hauns oan its surface. He’s oan edge. Ah know how he feels.

‘Mortgage, that’s a good one, eh? You know it comes from the old French word, mort, itself derived from the Latin word mortuus, meaning “death”. Coupled with another old French word, gage, or “pledge”, and you see what they were gettin at. It literally means death contract. Signing yer life away with one of those, so you are.’

‘I much prefer hard cash, Stevie. Payment up front. Call me a traditionalist, but if you want something, you better have the money to purchase it, eh? How about you, Steven?’ he sais, openin the holdall lyin oan the table. It’s full ay bundles ay used notes, tens an twintys maistly, but there’s a few bunels ay red fifties in there an aw.

‘There’s forty grand there, as agreed Steven. Now, I’ve shown you mine, you better show me yours, eh?’

Scanlon puts the bag oan the table an opens it up, liftin oot the Polyethylene wrapped brick an placin it doon. Coln nods to Paddy who casually whips oot a Bowie knife — concealed in a sheath fae his waistband, at the small ay his back — an hauds it oot, presentin it tae him.

‘Fuckin hell, dae you always kerry that aboot wae ye?’ Scanlon blurts oot.

Coln looks at him blithely; the kind ay look capable ay dismissin ye waeoot verbal response, then cuts open the plastic wrappin, ‘Finn, get me somethin to put this out on.’

The boay, Finn’s away riflin through drawers afore he’s finished the sentence, ‘ . . . an see if there’s anything to drink in here while you’re at it.’

He cuts a wee coarner ay the coke oantae the choppin board Finn’s just clattered oan tae the table, usin the flat ay the blade tae compress it against its surface, afore cuttin it up intae powder form wae the razor-sharp edge, arrangin it intae lines.

Liftin a bit ay the powder up tae his beak, oan the end ay the blade, he ingests it in a sharp, greedy inhalation. A few seconds elapse an the room faws silent, every pair ay eyes lookin at him. He pounds the tip ay the knife intae the table, leavin it embedded in the surface, ‘Fuckin Hell Steven. You’ve come through for us there boy, eh?’ he sais, wide eyed an fuckin mental lookin, grabbin me in a playful heidloack.

Zander’s next tae take wan, an his face sais it aw, gien it an authoritative nod ay the heid as affirmation, ‘Good job Stevie, ma bro-ski. Ah told Coln you wouldn’t let us doon.’ he sais, gien it tae the boay, Paddy tae sample.

‘This is all ah could find.’ the big Finn fella sais, placin a dusty boattle ay Ricard oan the table. Coln inspects it, openin the lid an takin a sniff, ‘I hope yous like liquorice.’ he sais, grinnin, an pours a wee dram intae an assortment ay auld, chipped mugs.

‘Have one yourself.’ he sais, slidin the choppin board alang the table tae us. Ah’m gonnae pass, make ma excuses, get the money an get the fuck oot ay it when Scanlon barges by me, ten poun note awready rolled up in his haun in anticipation, an belts wan up his beak, ‘Aw aye, that’s the business man. Ye’ll huv nae bother shiftin that big yin.’ he sais tae Coln, who gies him another look, momentarily, then slaps him oan the back a beauty, wae a hollow thud.

‘I think you might be right there, mucker. I like this guy Stevo. Direct. Says what’s on his mind. A good trait to have, so it is.’

‘Aye, he certainly dis that.’ ah sais, lookin at Scanlon, staunin, mooth open an stupefied, the wind knoacked right oot him.

‘Here, you are boys.’ Coln sais, passin the mugs oot tae us, ‘To your good health – and, to a long-lasting business relationship, eh? What say you to that?’ he sais as we clink the mugs the gither, ‘ . . . Slàinte.’

‘Aye, eh – the first ay many.’ ah goes, tryin tae sound earnest, takin a drink fae ma cup. Ah dae ma best no tae whitey it right back up in front ay him. It’s fuckin barkin, like aniseed mixed wae petrol.

‘And to the Houlihans, this is just the beginning lads.’ he sais, raisin his mug again.

 

We made oor excuses an bolted just as he wis startin tae tell us his plans tae breed hoarses. Somethin aboot there bein good money in the traveller community in that gemme. Sais it wis a proud tradition that hud fell oot ay favour in his branch ay the faimily, an wae the money he intends oan makin through puntin gear, he’s gonae get them back intae it.

Nae bother mate, if you say so.

‘Fuckin big bit ay a boay, that Coln int ay?’ Scanlon sais as we drive away doon the driveway, the sound ay barkin dugs fadin away behind us.

‘Coln? Whit aboot the two brothers? Ah thoat that cunt wis gonae rip yer heid aff when they pult up an dived oot the motor like that.’

‘Aye – he could’ve tried, the cunt.’ he sais, tryin tae convince himsel that any other outcome wis a viable consideration.

‘Still though, we goat it done, eh? Open the bag again. Ah want tae see it.’

He pulls the brass zip ay the leather Head holdall open an ah grab a haun fae ay notes fannin them in front ay his face. He takes them aff me, breathin in the smell.

‘Forty grand man, whit could ye dae wae that?’ ah sais an he goes tae answer but ah cut him aff afore he kin say anythin, ‘Rhetorical question mate. That’s aw gaun tae McNulty. We cannae let him doon noo, kin we? That cunt deserves tae get everythin that’s comin tae him.’