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735 lines
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<h1>5</h1>
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<p>Alice Lorne asked the same question Kate had. Jack shrugged and told his mother he had some plans, but he was in no
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big rush.</p>
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<p>The new building society passbook lay open on the table between them, both their names on the inside cover, and they
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had the kitchen to themselves.</p>
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<p>They faced each other, drinking sweet, strong coffee. Sheena was upstairs playing bimbo music on her CD and Michael
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was stacking shelves at Safeway. </p>
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<p>"Are you sure about this?" Alice held up the booklet and the bright plastic card. </p>
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<p>"Sure I'm sure. I have to get a few things sorted out, and Mike, well, one of the Lornes has to end up a job that
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needs a suit."</p>
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<p>"It's a lot of money."</p>
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<p>"Yeah, so it is and that's what it takes. That's why I put it in joint names. You can use the card to take it out,
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and keep that pin secret, okay? It's better you have it than me, because I'll just piss it away when I'm skint."</p>
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<p>She gave him a quick flick of reproach for his language, cuffing his ear with the back of her hand, but she was
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laughing as well. She was dark, same as he was, with thick, heavy hair cut in a short bob that took years off her
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and some tiredness under her eyes that could have been age creeping up or maybe just lying awake at night worrying
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for one or all of them.</p>
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<p>"Anyway, with what he gets at Safeway this summer, that should get him through and then he's got a chance. He can buy
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me a Bentley when he's stinking rich."</p>
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<p>"And what will you do?"</p>
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<p>"This and that." She'd be the last to know, he'd make sure of that.</p>
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<p>"But you'll finish your course?" Everybody seemed to ask that these days. Too many people were pinning their hopes on
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a damned business course.</p>
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<p>"Sure I will," he said, not sure that he meant it. This was not a time for absolute truths, no time for serious
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promises. It all depended on how things went over the next couple of weeks, and how many of the boys would come in
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on the deal that was still growing in his head.</p>
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<p>She put a hand on his arm and he felt the warmth of her, the way he always had and she gave him a mother's look that
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didn't require too many words for what she wanted to say. He shot her a wink and clamped his hand down on her
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fingers, gave them a squeeze and that was all that needed to be said. </p>
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<p>"I'll be here and there," he said, trading her a reassuring smile. "I have some people to see, fix a few things
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up."</p>
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<p>Some of that was true, but he'd been fixing things up already. He'd scraped down to the bone to get things for Mike
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sorted out and he had to meet the rest of the guys later, see what they could pull together. There was some cash
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left, enough, hopefully, for what he needed. He'd beg, borrow or bully for the rest, and he'd get the boys to chip
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in to the kitty, once he brought them in. But the truth was, he'd got himself down to the essential and that was the
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best. He was stripped for action and that was the way to be for what he had planned on the long walks along the
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Creggan Cliffs and up on the crags that overlooked the town. He'd have no need of extras in the next couple of
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weeks, and maybe none in the time after that. </p>
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<p><em>Seatbelt on when the devil's at the wheel.,</em> his grandfather had been fond of saying. </p>
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<p>But the Stealer's Wheel song kept coming back to him: <em>You started off with nothing and you're proud that you're a
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self-made man.</em></p>
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<p>One out of two so far. He was starting out with nothing, very nearly. </p>
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<p>Glasgow had been sweltering hot and every now and then the thermals spiralling over the city would raise little
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whirlwinds of papers and road dust. Mothers heaved foot-dragging children, girls in tight tee-shirts wilted and
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couples drank cold beers at pavement tables and soaked it all up. Buskers baked, bakers burned.</p>
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<p>He had been up to the city centre, dodging between the commercial offices and lawyers' branches, then along the west
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end, checking out some of the old tenement properties before doubling back down to Argyle Street to the bank and
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then up to the bus station at Buchanan Street where it cost him fifteen notes for a season ticket to somewhere he'd
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never been before. He puffed out his cheeks and bit on his bottom lip as he waited for the camera in the booth to
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click and flash and then another three minutes for the column of pictures to slide out, smelling of fix. The girl at
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the counter took the photo without looking at it and pressed it down between two sheets of plastic. </p>
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<p>"Just show this when you want to renew," she said. </p>
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<p>He looked at the photograph. It was just like any passport picture. It looked nothing like him. </p>
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<p>Down on St Vincent Street the bank tellers were suffering as the air conditioning tried to cope and failed valiantly.
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The big ornate doors were wide open, wasting the cool air, and heavy women fanned themselves while perspiration laid
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flood-trails in their make-up. </p>
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<p>"Any identification?"</p>
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<p>"What do you need?"</p>
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<p>"A driver's license? A passport?"</p>
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<p>"I don't drive, and I've never been abroad," Jack said. He fumbled artlessly in his pockets. "But I have to get one
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soon. Here. All I've got is a bus pass, but it's me all right. See?"</p>
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<p>She checked the picture and the address. "Looks nothing like you."</p>
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<p>"I don't take a good picture," he conceded. "Camera doesn't like me."</p>
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<p>She allowed him a smile. "Normally we need a passport, but this will be fine, I suppose. Do you want to make a
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deposit today?"</p>
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<p>"Sure," he said. "I shouldn't keep this in a coffee jar, should I?"</p>
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<p>The girl flashed him a bigger smile. "Heavens no, that's <em>far </em>too much." All the notes were crumpled into a
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wasp-nest wad and she separated them before flattening them out under her hand. The crumple made him look
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disarmingly na\u00EFve, and that's just how he wanted it. She started to count, still smiling and throwing him the
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occasional look that told him she didn't much care what his picture looked like.</p>
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<p> "Look, I could get one of our advisers to have a chat about investments. This money hasn't been earning if it's been
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stuck away in a tin."</p>
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<p>"Maybe another time," he said agreeably. "I just have to get used to the idea of somebody else holding on to it."</p>
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<p>"Oh, we'll look after it for you. The papers will arrive with your card in five working days. And be very careful
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with the pin, won't you."</p>
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<p>"In case I jag myself?" He made it sound truly gauche and got the expected chuckle. </p>
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<p>"No, it's a security number. It's <em>your </em>secret."</p>
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<p>This time he did the smiling. He had a few of those already.</p>
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<p>The post office had been even hotter, the still dry air filled with paper dust and burlap haze. Sweating men hoisted
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big sacks non-stop, dripping down shoulderblade and armpit. The man at the hatch never looked up as he gave his
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details and signed a name he'd practiced from a receipt he and Jed had got in a car-dealer yard. The form redirected
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the mail he expected to arrive soon. All of this took three hours and he made his way slowly up towards Sauchiehall
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Street and the MacLellan Galleries, taking his time as he passed the tailors shops on Renfield Street, thinking
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about the right kinds of clothes to wear, thinking about all the other things he had to do, and wanting to be down
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in Kelvingrove Park in the sun with the fast river at his feet watching the kingfisher dive for minnows and Kate
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Delaney soaking the sun.</p>
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<p>She had dropped him off down at the graving dock on the other side of the Clyde before the sun rose high and began to
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heat the city. It was Thursday, six days after they'd all been given the long awaited bad news and it seemed to need
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some time to sink right in. The Levenford Gazette carried a picture of angry men self-consciously glowering at the
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camera outside the distillery gates, and that was just a repetition of front page pictures from decades past. Even
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the headlines were familiar by now. It was no shock and no horror. The drama might start building up in a couple of
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months when everybody was ducking and diving for the same handful of low-pay jobs. </p>
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<p>Kate had looked up dubiously at the ship in dry-dock, more of a boat than a ship, short, stubby and built neither for
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comfort nor speed. Nothing at all like the big Moody sailboat he'd wanted to cruise away in.</p>
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<p>"<em>This</em> is your great idea?"</p>
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<p>"Got to start somewhere," he said. Men were working on the propeller down there in the depths and a hot electric blue
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sizzle of an arc-welder's torch punctuated the grey below the red lead. The air smelt of oil and burning metal and
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stale brackwater. </p>
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<p>"You'll be back in a week," she retorted with some certainty. "You can't even think about giving up the degree for
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this. I thought you wanted a real boat, not a rust-bucket."</p>
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<p>She was on her way to the gallery where three of her oils were among a hundred new works by young local artists. He'd
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taken advantage of the fact she was heading for the city, and he told her he'd join her there after he'd spoken to
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Uncle Lars. </p>
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<p>"A week's a long time. I might be back a lot sooner than that," he allowed. "And don't you worry about me."</p>
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<p>She was about to respond when a figure blocked the light on the passenger side and the door yanked open. Lars Hanssen
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leaned in. </p>
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<p>"<em>Yack!</em>" he bawled, beaming through the hair and the beard. "You feeling brave, hey?" He sounded exactly like
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a cartoon Swede should. </p>
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<p>Kate's fingers were engulfed by the massive hand and her arm wobbled up to the shoulder joint. He was bull-broad and
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had a battered face that could have stood in for big Jimmy Cosmo in a gritty Glasgow movie. Jack was not small but
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he looked slight and boyish beside this bear of a man. </p>
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<p>"Come and I show you my <em>Valkyrie.</em>"</p>
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<p>"I suppose that's another blonde?" He knew she was just being arch. The name stood out clear against the black of the
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hull, and she knew her mythology too. </p>
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<p>"You want to come on board too?" </p>
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<p>Kate shook her head. "Another time perhaps."</p>
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<p>The boat was well used, plate-dented and paint-chipped and strung with cables and hoists and between the bow and the
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wheelhouse was an empty well that yawned to the sky, all hatches flat back. She couldn't see a space where anybody
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could possibly sleep, unless it was down in a hold. </p>
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<p>Jack looked down and she touched a finger to her temple, letting him know exactly what she thought of all this, then
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smiled sweetly before swinging the car back to the gates. </p>
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<p>"You come up now and see what we can do for you," Lars said.</p>
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<p>A few hours later, she saw him come walking down the length of the wide upstairs gallery. Here it was cool, lit from
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up on high so that fine dust motes cascaded in slow gold shimmer slides down the beams.</p>
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<p>"My fan club of one," she said. </p>
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<p>"Wait until they see your stuff."</p>
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<p>"They have done. Got a couple of compliments, but that's all so far. I don't need a sale, just a show of my own."</p>
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<p>Jack had scanned some of the rival frames on the way to the far end where the light was from the north and gave the
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best. He stopped dead when they reached the corner where her three oils huddled close together and now it was her
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turn to laugh. </p>
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<p>"Close that mouth or the wind might change." She hooked an arm round his and leaned in, patting his shoulder. </p>
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<p>"What do you think?"</p>
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<p>She'd caught him three quarters on, deep in shadow, looking down from the window, a faint wash between the painter
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and subject, like dust or clouds, just easing the features out of focus, making the whole scene grainy and not quite
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distinct. The light was stolen from Rembrandt's <em>Man in Armour</em>, and the haze from Keir's <em>Ballet
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Practise</em>. </p>
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<p>"You never told me," he finally said. She'd only sketched him one time, fast crayon on black card, strong lines, soft
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fill. </p>
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<p>"You never asked. And anyway you'd have said no, wouldn't you?"</p>
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<p>He nodded, leaning in. A small oblong card read: <em>Not Quite</em>, oils on canvas. Kate Delaney. </p>
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<p>"Not quite? What's that supposed to mean?"</p>
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<p>"Too many things to explain right now. It's you, isn't it? I like it. Close and far away, Jack Lorne. You want to buy
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it?"</p>
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<p>"When I've got some money, sure. Then nobody gets to see it."</p>
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<p>Neil Cleary's brother got him a mobile phone and a modem that took Jack and his brother two hours to slot into the
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old computer and rig up to the internet. Paddy Cleary could get you anything, anytime, given enough notice. Cloned
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phones, digital receivers, chipped DVD's, whatever technology you wanted, he knew somebody that could figure out how
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to make it work and by-pass the usual encumbrances, like rental or call charges. The black economy never had it so
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good. Jack put in an order for some more equipment they'd need in the next little while, confident that Paddy could
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deliver.</p>
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<p>Jack knew his way around the web and knew what he wanted. Once Mike had gone out, he checked the little notebook he'd
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been filling in for the past week and called up a couple of sites for firms that could set up a new company on
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demand. He gave the details asked for, name, address, credit card, and after that he had seven days to wait. Time
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was moving fast in some directions and slow in others, as if he was caught in a deep event horizon round some
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gravity well that was sucking him in while he looked out. He had to work to keep a tight rein on it. The plan had
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now almost crystallised in his mind.</p>
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<p>He went on a visit to Aitkenbar Distillery and Ed Kane recognised him right away.</p>
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<p>Ed did a comical double-take and Jack put a finger to his lips and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. It
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had surprised him, but Ed was sharp enough and Jack knew he'd have to haul him right in on the game. He stood with
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his arms folded and said nothing and Jack hoped it would stay that way until he could get a hold of him and he
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wondered why he hadn't thought of him in the first place. He could have saved himself all this bother and used the
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time to better purpose. </p>
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<p>The guide had that kind of determinedly cheerful voice that made you wonder how she could keep it up day after day.
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The crowd was from Newcastle, up on a trip to the Trossachs on a bus, doing a tour of the distilleries and the
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tartan tat outlets that sell hairy jackets and frilly shirts and effete velvet waistcoats with the kind of buttons
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clan chiefs would never be seen dead in outside a Walter Scott fantasy. Most of the tourists were old and grey and
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slow-moving as cattle but there were a handful of young couples who looked as if they'd got on the wrong coach and
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Jack was glad of them, otherwise he'd have stuck out like a sore thumb. He'd had to go through to Edinburgh and pick
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up the bus and he'd slicked his hair back with gel and borrowed Mike's glasses and still Ed Kane saw through it. He
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realised he'd have to do a whole lot better next time. </p>
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<p><em>Good enough never is!</em> Rule number three in the ten top tips for success. It went through his head like a
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mantra and he knew he should have thought this out a little better. One wrong word and he'd be back to square one,
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or out in the North Sea with the same rank as the ship's cat, down in the bowels covered in oil and shit and
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bilgewater. </p>
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<p><em>If better is possible, good is never enough</em>. That was the rule. Better <em>was</em>
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possible. He was running out of time and the mail still hadn't arrived. </p>
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<p> The guide was talking away, with that cheery smile surgically on planted. </p>
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<p> "Whisky. The name is an English corruption of the ancient name for spirits - water of life - which in Scottish and
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Irish Gaelic is <em>uisge beatha</em> and sounded to the English ear like whisky."</p>
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<p> It was straight out of the hundred things you ever wanted to know about Scotch handbook, but the Geordies never knew
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that. They hoovered it all up in that slow, bovine-hungry senior-citizen way that needs to be fed new but pointless
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facts by tour guides, to ponderously chew, swallow and digest. </p>
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<p> "Scotch means simply that the whisky was distilled and matured in Scotland. Whiskies are made in other countries,
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notably Ireland and Japan but whiskies they may be, and good ones even, but Scotch they are not. Scotch comes from
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Scotland."</p>
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<p> Indeed it does, he thought. They were coming through the first long, high building and the smell of malt was
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overwhelming, like sweat-soaked towels from the team gym drying out over hot pipes. The men turning the barley with
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long flat paddles kept on, ignoring the herd as they slowly passed to the walkway above the malt kiln where the
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sprouting shoots were killed off in the slow heat and where the air clogged like treacle in the throat. </p>
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<p>"Malt is essentially barley which has been allowed to germinate by soaking in water then has been dried by the
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application of heat." He knew she was reading this off a page in her head and it came out almost sing-song, like a
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kid repeating the nine times table. Nobody spoke in sentences like that.</p>
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<p>"The malting process converts the stored starch into soluble compounds such as the sugar maltose and by so doing
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makes fermentation possible. Drying the malt over a furnace stops the germinating process and lacing the furnace
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with peat imparts a peaty aroma to the malt."</p>
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<p> The English folk were fascinated. He wanted to hurry them along, with sharp sticks if necessary. The guide had it
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timed and took plenty of it, earning her money. He forced himself to be patient. This part of the plant was old,
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maybe two hundred years and more and it had no interest for him. He'd lived with the malt smell hovering over the
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town like a friend's flatulence, familiar, but still very unappealing. This process here had no interest either.
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Production would stop in a couple of weeks time and whatever came from this malting would end up in somebody else's
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warehouse, waiting to be mixed with a good smooth gain and blended for the supermarket trade. </p>
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<p> "This indicates that the raw material is barley malt, by itself fermented with yeast and distilled in a pot still,"
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she was off and running again. The oldsters listened, sheep eyes wide and docile. "This produces a far superior
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whisky to the common grain whisky found in blends. Note however that just occasionally quality single grain whiskies
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<em>can </em>be found."</p>
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<p> The distillation hall was different. Two massive copper stills squatted, belly broad and tapering up to the high
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ceiling. At the far end of the big hall, a modern stainless-steel contraption made the old malt stills look even
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more primitive. The flat stench had faded out when they had come through the doors and up the stairs, like
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submariners escaping through an air lock, and here the sharply sweet smell of alcohol was thick enough to tickle the
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back of the throat. </p>
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<p> "Newly distilled malt whisky is generally a hundred and twenty degrees proof, but we double distil here and it can
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be up to a hundred and forty. That's about eighty percent by volume of alcohol which is <em>much</em> too strong to
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drink."</p>
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<p> Jack remembered Donny Watson down at the golf course. That just about matched with what he said. He suddenly got the
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premonition that she would tell the gunpowder story and sure enough, as soon as the thought sparked in his head, she
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was fascinating the southerners with the tale. </p>
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<p> The stillmen in white coats looked like scientists at retorts and apart from a faint hiss of steam and a steady
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bubbling from deep inside the casks, there was little action. </p>
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<p>"The size of the batch depends on many different factors, but each distillation can be up to ten thousand
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gallons."</p>
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<p>Somebody whistled, impressed. </p>
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<p>"But then, of course, it's not real Scotch until it has lain in barrels for three years, and that's the minimum. All
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over Scotland, there are millions of gallons of whisky, just getting older, and better, just like fine wine and good
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women.</p>
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<p>Another round of obedient laughter.</p>
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<p>"And then, of course, there is the second tax on whisky. While in storage, whisky evaporates at the rate of two
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percent every year, so for a fine old malt of twenty five years, that's a lot of evaporation. But we don't grudge
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it, of course, because that's what we call the Angels Share, and what the angels take only improves the whisky."</p>
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<p> Jack went from foot to foot, impatient to be at the far side, working out his bearings inside the distillery by
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comparison to the outside walls. He recognised several of the faces here and kept his head down, but nobody looked
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their way. They were used to having the herds shunted through here twice a day and they pretended not to notice, or
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perhaps simply didn't see them.</p>
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<p>Finally they were through, past the filling bay where a constant stream off clear liquid was siphoned into a rack of
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barrels that came rolling along a trough, one by one, watched by two uniform customs men who took careful notes of
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the amount each barrel held before making sure the beech bung was hammered home and the barrel stamped and
|
|
stencilled. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>The bottling hall was as familiar as the dairy, miniature roller coasters where racks of bottles shunted along onto
|
|
the shiny machines that spat golden liquid and screwed on corks, all automated apart from the labelling down at the
|
|
far end. He kept to the back of the crowd, because Linda had some friends who worked the lines here and would
|
|
recognise him too, but the guide hustled them through, glancing at her watch, to the decant room where the barrels
|
|
were emptied prior to the final blend and bottle operation. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>It was all steel and brass here, twisting pipes and valves in a wide room dominated by a massive central tank that
|
|
sank below the steel-grate floor. Down below he could see the pipes lead off in parallel lines, twisting round stout
|
|
pillars. This was what he had come to see. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"The tank holds up to fifty thousand gallons, but most blends are under thirty, especially at this time of the year."
|
|
The guide was tiring now, and the travelogue seemed to be more hackneyed. She explained how the barrels of malt and
|
|
grain were decanted into the tank and stirred for up to a day before being filtered and pumped out and up to the
|
|
lines. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"And that is the end of a journey that could have taken a quarter of a century," she declared. "And the final journey
|
|
will be in four weeks time, when the very last special bottling of Glen Murroch will be made, a sincere tribute to
|
|
all the men down the years who have helped create something truly Scottish and truly special."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>She gave them all a big grin that looked forced. Jack realised that she too would be out of work, and felt a pang of
|
|
regret at his disparaging thoughts. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"And if you want to discover if it was all worth while, follow me to the distillery shop, where you can sample some
|
|
of the whisky that the angels left behind."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>She did a little bow and got a patter of applause and they all followed through for their sip of whisky and wedge of
|
|
shortbread and Jack had to wait for them to make up their minds over which special blend they would scrape up the
|
|
money for before he got out into the sunlight. He picked a ten year old in an elaborate presentation box and tucked
|
|
it under his arm. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>He stopped the coach a mile outside the town and got off, leaving the driver to wonder where he'd gone. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>His uncle was delighted with the bottle. </p>
|
|
<hr />
|
|
<p>"What are you up to?" Ed Kane stopped him down at Gooseholm on the way to the dog-track, taking Jack by surprise
|
|
because he'd spent the past hour looking for Ed. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"I thought it was Clark Kent when I saw you. Made you look a real four-eyed geek. So what's the score?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Anybody else see me?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Ed shrugged. He was slim and wiry with knotty muscles on his arms and despite his featherweight frame, he could
|
|
handle himself well and he never missed a trick. "How should I know?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Did you tell anybody?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Tell them what? Jake Lorne wears horn rims and brylcreem? What's the deal?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"I mean did you. . . "</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"No, man, I never told anybody. Why should I? I thought you'd get round to it. Sneaking about with the grannies, I
|
|
had to hear it straight. Are you shagging old birds?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"I'm meeting some of the guys tonight."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Mac's?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>He nodded. "Me, Donny Watson, a couple of the lads."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"What for?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"I'll tell you when we're there."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Okay." He seemed to accept it. Jack liked that.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Neil and Jed were coming down Gooseholm Street, hands in their pockets, heads down against the lowering red glare of
|
|
the sinking sun. Woodsmoke and grass smoke billowed down from the Cardross Hills where a bunch of wild youngsters
|
|
had torched the gorse and heather in the seasonal burn-off, rolling a grey pall over the river flood-plain. Off in
|
|
the distance, a fire engine siren whined its song.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>They all sauntered along the path, following the line of trees and crossed over the bridge, pausing only to stop and
|
|
lean on the railings to watch the water flow, much as they had done as kids when they came down to guddle trout from
|
|
under the rocks or spear flounders under the deep banks. The field on the south side of the river was long and
|
|
narrow and bounded by thick hawthorn hedges that shielded it from the road. The smell of fresh cowshit mixed in with
|
|
the smoke and wild rose and broom flourish, oddly heady and somehow wild and primitive. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Tam and Donny were there already, mixing with the crowd in the corner. The dog-men had set up their traps and right
|
|
off at the far end a little diesel motor chuntered slowly, feeding power to a small wheel. Two men came down the
|
|
field, dead in centre, hauling the hare, just an old skin stuffed with straw, sorry and ragged. The greyhounds
|
|
whined and snarled in the traps, pin-faced and anorexic, wanting to run. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Dan McGraw, who had a predictable nickname, was taking bets on the dogs, stuffing notes into a wad that could have
|
|
served as a doorstop. A couple of runners passed from group to group doing the same thing. Gus Ferguson and his
|
|
scrapyard crew were in a huddle around a big black dog that he kept in the yard cages and doubled up as a
|
|
guard. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>A few of the bottle men who'd been laid off along with Jack and Neil nodded condolences and came up to part with the
|
|
cash they could little afford, but that's the way it is in these parts. Jack would have forked out five on a hungry
|
|
black dog with unblinking eyes in trap two, because he knew Mick Haggerty the owner and he'd seen the Dozy Ray take
|
|
a hare right up on the Longcrag straight, moving like a cheetah and snapping it clean before it had a chance to
|
|
jink. But not today.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Tam was keeping an eye on the odds. Ferguson's beast was favourite so far, but dog races, particularly illegal ones
|
|
like this are too easy to fix. Some egg white smeared on the balls could slow a runner down, human of canine. A long
|
|
walk on rough ground, or a heavy meal of oats and sausage would do the same thing. You had to really look at the
|
|
animals and see how they squared.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>They had wandered around, all placing small bets with each of the bookies on a runt of a bitch that had no chance
|
|
against the bigger dogs. Good long odds.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack scanned the field and eventually caught sight of Neil Cleary hunkered down beside his old van at the far corner,
|
|
hidden behind a hawthorn bush. The bitch was draped in a hand-made coat that came down to her ankles. Jack wet a
|
|
finger and tested the wind direction. He grinned to himself. Tam winked.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>The greyhounds were buzzed, waiting for the start. Down the far end, somebody raised a white handkerchief. Out of the
|
|
corner of his eye, Jack saw Neil whip the coat off Fanny.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Five seconds later, the breeze carried her overladen scent to the traps and the dogs started howling and twisting
|
|
around in their cages.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>The marker dropped his hand and the little petrol motor dragged the old hare, bumping and scraping across the uneven
|
|
ground and for a moment you'd have sworn it was the real animal. The gates swung up and the dogs exploded out.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>The hare streaked away in a straight line.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>All the dogs veered to the right, howling, and heading for the hawthorn bush. Jack saw Neil bundle Fanny into the
|
|
back of the van and then take off down the lane, with five snarling dogs in raunchy pursuit.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>The little runt bitch, totally unaffected by whatever was carried in the wind, went straight after the hare, running
|
|
at forty to one, and crossed the line in a grey streak.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"What the <em>fuck</em>?" Gus Ferguson's bellow came from down the field. His big black brute was leading the field,
|
|
as he probably would have but for Fanny's compelling scent. They hit the scrubby hawthorn in a mass of yelps and
|
|
snarls. Tam chuckled beside Jack. Neil had tied an old rag to one of the branches, but before that he's assiduously
|
|
rubbed the rag on Fanny's, well, fanny. The sex crazed dogs just followed their noses. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>By the time the handlers reached the hedge, two of them were at each other's throats, trying to win the rag of their
|
|
desires. And Gus Ferguson's big black champion was busily trying to hump one of the runners who seemed to take great
|
|
exception to having a dog's sharp business end rammed up its sphincter.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Ferguson's minders waded in and tried to separate them, grabbing each dog by the scruff of the neck. The one under
|
|
Ferguson's dog came willingly, but the big beast arched its neck and sunk its canines into Seggs Cullen's palm.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>He bawled in pain. Instinctively his meaty free hand came down in a swift arc and caught the dig on the side of the
|
|
jaw. It gave a muted help and went down like a sack, teeth still clamped on Cullen's hand. He clubbed it again and
|
|
was about to get its head under his boot to drag his hand free when Gus Ferguson grabbed his arm, swung a roundhouse
|
|
that caught Cullen on <em>his</em> jaw and sent him sprawling on the grass, still attached to the dazed greyhound.
|
|
</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You don't <em>ever</em> hit my fucking dog, you fucking mutt!"</p>
|
|
<hr />
|
|
<p>The steward's inquiry was impromptu and prompt.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack and the boys had spread small bets around on the little bitch. At forty to one it would be playing money for a
|
|
while, and the bookies were happy to pay out, chiefly because their losses were minimal.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"It was a fuckin' fix." That was the general impression, but nobody could work out why the pack had veered in the
|
|
opposite direction to the prey.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"No race!" somebody demanded. "I demand a re-start."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Dangerous Dan McGraw held a hand up, the other protecting the big wad in his pocket. Most of the bets had been with
|
|
the two favourites and he wasn't prepared to part easily with the cash.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"It would be void," he agreed, "If they had all gone off the track. But they didn't, not all of them, did they?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>He pointed to the little brown bitch. "And we have a clear winner."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Gus Ferguson glowered at him, but there was nothing he could do, at least not in public. The other bookies closed
|
|
ranks, keeping their fists tight on their money. Over in the corner, Seggs Cullen was wrapping his hand in a dirty
|
|
handkerchief and looked as if he was ready to fight anybody who looked at him the wrong way. He turned and saw Jack
|
|
and the others. Jack saw he still had bruises around his mouth and cheeks where the six iron had hit the sweet
|
|
spot.</p>
|
|
<hr />
|
|
<p>As an ambush it lacked the all-important ingredient of surprise. Cullen and Wiggy Foley stopped them on the towpath,
|
|
as they walked alongside the river but Jack was ready for it and he knew just where they'd be, behind the old wall
|
|
of the dyeworks, just round the corner where the path narrowed, out of sight in both directions. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack had all his antennae out and working, aware of how it was likely to turn out and he had watched the pair of them
|
|
saunter off, taking sneak backwards glances, unconsciously telegraphing every intention.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>He was walking with Donny, just the pair of them, when Cullen and Foley came out from the gap. Cullen had picked up a
|
|
heavy branch and held it waist high in both hands. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Hey you."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>They turned, as if surprised. Jack could sense Donny's tension. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Payback time for you bastards."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack stepped in front of Donny. "Payback for what?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You know what the fuck <em>what</em>."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"I don't think so," Jack said. Donny held his ground, but Jack could hear his breathing come in short intakes. He'd
|
|
taken a real beating last time and while he'd always been quick in the mouth, he was never fast with his fists. He
|
|
was no scrapper. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Cullen took a step forward, with Foley at his shoulder. Foley was a bull of a man, with a nose that had come off
|
|
second best a couple of times, and a dark red toupee that was just a shade too red for the thick natural hairs that
|
|
sprouted behind his ears. He was muscle, pure and simple, one of Ferguson's stick-men.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Can we help you gentlemen?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Cullen and Foley whipped round.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Tam Bowie stood behind the pair of them, flanked by Neil and Jed. They had come through the hawthorn and climbed over
|
|
the old wall to come in the back way. A simple ambush on the ambush.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Cullen spun back, towards Jack, completely taken by surprise. Tam had a four foot piece of scaffolding tube in his
|
|
hands.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Behind him Ed Kane sauntered into view. Ed hadn't even been involved before, but he walked right up to stand beside
|
|
Tam, with a pugnacious look to him. He held an old length of two by two. Neil hefted a half brick. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack stuck his hands in his pockets. "Come on guys. Time to call it a day, eh?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"No fuckin' chance, Lorne." Cullen's eyes screwed up to slits. One of the scabs on his lips had cracked and dribbled
|
|
a little red. "You're a fuckin' dead man."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack shrugged, wondering what the hell he was going to do about these two. He needed no distractions now. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Well, what do you think then? You want to pitch it here?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Six against two?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"It was two against one last time," Donny piped up. "With a baseball bat, you gutless skags."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Kate had been right. Donny just couldn't button it. Tam tapped the scaffolding iron on a rock and the other two
|
|
backed in against the wall. Jack pulled back, giving them space. If they got down to it here, there could be broken
|
|
arms and heads and they didn't have the time to wait for bones to knit. Time was sucking him down.. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Some deep and feral part of him still wanted Cullen and McFall to make a move and for him and Tam to take a swipe,
|
|
but he forced himself back another step, giving them a way out. Old Sandy had always told him: <em>Never back a man
|
|
into a corner, because there's only one way out, and that's through </em>you<em>.</em></p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Cullen dropped the branch and hauled Foley by the arm. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Next time, Lorne. Just you and me."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"And whose fuckin army?" Donny bawled. Jack slapped him backwards with an impatient hand against his chest. That's
|
|
what had got them into trouble in the first place. </p>
|
|
<hr />
|
|
<p>The big grey limousine cruised slowly along Crosswell Street and turned down into the narrow avenue, windows darkly
|
|
opaque, engine almost silent. It finally stopped at the house and two dark shapes behind the glass paused, checking
|
|
the number on the door.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Sandy. Are you expecting somebody?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Sandy looked up from the board. He had his old motorbike carburettor in pieces on the table. The chess-board was on a
|
|
space between them and a couple of beers stood in amongst the oily tools. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You're up to something, Jackie-boy," he'd said. "I can tell."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"What makes you think that?" Jack had changed his mind about the beer. Despite the foul smell in the making, it had
|
|
mellowed to the taste. Sandy had another forty gallons on the go, but they were out in the little greenhouse next to
|
|
the pigeon hut, covered in big black bin-liners to soak up the heat. It made it ferment quicker and kept the smell
|
|
out of the house.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You always had that look about you when you were up to some mischief. I'd recognise it across the street, <em>Muchacho</em>.
|
|
You can't change your spots."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You can talk. You were the biggest chancer in Levenford, from what I heard."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Sandy laughed. "That's what the army does for you. And the merchant marine. It taught me to swear in three languages,
|
|
how to change money and how not to get caught. Anyway, you want to tell me what's the moves?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Nothing fixed yet."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"I heard you had another showdown with Ferguson's muscle."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"What are you? A spymaster?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"I told you, knowledge is power. I heard it from one of the boat club boys. So what's the score with these
|
|
gorillas?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"They want a return bout for Donny."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You better stay here for a couple of days, out of the way. You can't appeal to Ferguson's better nature, because he
|
|
never had one to start with. And he's ambidextrous; that polecat can steal from your right pocket as easy as your
|
|
left."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack agreed with that. It wouldn't be too easy in a town the size of Levenford, but he'd really have to try to stay
|
|
out of Ferguson's way for the next couple of weeks.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Sandy poured himself a short one from the presentation bottle and sipped appreciatively. He reached behind him and
|
|
hefted a big padded envelope, drew out a thick sheaf of papers.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"I might have something here," he said. "Me and Willie and the boat boys were checking out old navigation tidal
|
|
charts for the river and we came across some good stuff from the Charter."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"The Bruce Charter?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"That and some later papers. It's all down in the archives that aren't open to the public, but Willie's nephew works
|
|
down there and we can get what we want. I think you could have some fun with that skunk Sproat."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Sandy wiped his hand on a cloth, opened the wad of papers and photocopies of old documents and drew them out onto the
|
|
table.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Amazing what you can find out when you've got time on your hands." He stopped at a page and turned it round so Jack
|
|
could read it.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"It turns out that the Charter was never repealed in all these years, and we've got old maps, going back five hundred
|
|
years that shows the harbour inlet was there long before Sproat's family were heard of. It was the mouth of a
|
|
stream, so it was a natural inlet. That means it's part of the river, and all of the river was put in trust for the
|
|
people of the town. That means he can't just fill it in any time he likes."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Sandy sounded pleased with himself.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>" He needs the two bits of land together for it to be worth the real big bucks. <em>Contiguous. </em> I looked that
|
|
up. Tell you another thing, if he knocks down the distillery, it's going to cost him nearly forty notes a ton in
|
|
landfill tax to dump it anywhere else, so I reckon his whole deal depends on getting the go ahead to dump in the
|
|
harbour and reclaim the land."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"There might have been some transfer deal way back in the past," Jack played devil's advocate.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Might have been, but if there was, we can't find it. All we were looking for was something that gave us mooring
|
|
rights, and this is what we turned up. Even if there was a transfer, we don't think he can dump in the river anyway.
|
|
Because we found the old Harbour Act as well, and that says it's a crime to throw anything in the water. If the
|
|
council let him do it, <em>they</em> could get sued."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack bent forward and started to flick through the sheaf.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Do you mind if I take this away and have a look at it?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"No problem. I was going to get the boat club interested, just to have a go at Sproat after what he'd doing. People
|
|
like that have no sense of responsibility. Putting people out of work just to make a few extra bucks is exactly the
|
|
same as stealing, and like I said, stealing from ordinary people is a right dirty business."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack smiled at the logic of it. He stuffed the papers back into the envelope, determined to read them carefully over
|
|
the weekend. Something in what Sandy said had given him an idea.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Sandy sipped again.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Have you any idea of what you're going to do?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"I'm still thinking about it."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"There's nothing for you here, Jake. You should get out and see what the rest of the world has to offer. I got the
|
|
chance when I was younger than you, in the army, then on the boats. Gave me a chance to see a bit of the world as
|
|
well. You got a good brain on you, and you could make something of yourself."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"That's what everybody seems to think," Jack said.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"So you might start believing them. You've got your whole life ahead of you. Your Mam told me what you've done for
|
|
your Michael, and that's a big thing. But you can't live your life for the boy. He'll find his own feet."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"He needs a chance. Too many people in this town don't get one."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You could have had the chance yourself."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Sure, maybe I could. I got the chance now."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"To do what?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Watch this space."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack caught the movement through the kitchen window. He pulled back behind the curtain just as a tall man in
|
|
impenetrable sunglasses got out of the car. He was wide as a shack, solid and square and had a no-nonsense chin that
|
|
jutted like rock.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Hell," Jack muttered.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"What's the matter?" Sandy looked out from the edge of the curtain.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You know them?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Another man got out of the car, hidden from view by the rowan tree that Sandy had let Jack plant from a berry years
|
|
ago when he was just a kid.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You sit here son. I'll take care of this."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Sandy picked up a ball-peen hammer from the toolbox and hefted a big stilson wrench in the other hand. The back of his
|
|
hands were oil-streaked and the overalls stained. He would look just like a man working with car parts. No need to
|
|
look tough or stupid, just handy.</p>
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<p>The bell did its sing song. Sandy had been standing just behind it and he opened it very fast, taking whoever stood
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there by surprise. A tall, well dressed man stood on the doorstep, flanked by the big slab in the chauffeur's
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suit.</p>
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<p>"I'm looking for Jack Lorne," a man's voice said. Jack was close behind his grandfather, just out of sight, but
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ready.</p>
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<p>"Oh yeah, and who wants him?"</p>
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<p>"My name is Hammond Hall. Mr Lorne did me a great service. He saved my boy's life."</p>
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<p>Sandy looked him up and down, weighing him. After a while he nodded.</p>
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<p>"Maybe you'd better come in and speak to him yourself."</p>
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