booksnew/source/Full Proof/C05.txt

     Jack shrugged and told his mother he had some plans, but he was in no big rush. </p>
     <p>The new building society passbook lay open on the table between them, both their names on the inside cover, and they had the kitchen to themselves.</p>
     <p>They faced each other, drinking sweet, strong coffee. Sheena was upstairs playing bimbo music on her CD and  Michael was stacking shelves at Safeway. </p>
     <p>"Are you sure about this?" Alice held up the booklet and the bright plastic card. </p>
     <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 needs a suit."</p>
     <p>"It's a lot of money."</p>
     <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, 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>
     <p>She gave him a quick flick of reproach for his language, cuffing his ear with the back of her hand, but she was laughing as well.  She was dark, same as he was, with thick, heavy hair cut in a short bob that took years off her and some tiredness under her eyes that could have been age creeping up or maybe just lying awake at night worrying for one or all of them.</p>
     <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 me a Bentley when he's stinking rich."</p>
     <p>"And what will you do?"</p>
     <p>"This and that." She'd be the last to know, he'd make sure of that.</p>
     <p>"But you'll finish your course?" Everybody seemed to ask that these days. Too many people were pinning their hopes on a damned business course.</p>
     <p>"Sure I will," he said, not sure that he meant it. This was not a time for absolute truths, no time for serious promises. It all depended on how things went over the next couple of weeks, and how many of the boys would come in on the deal that was still growing in his head.</p>
     <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 didn't require too many words for what she wanted to say. He shot her a wink and clamped his hand down on her fingers, gave them a squeeze and that was all that needed to be said. </p>
     <p>"I'll be here and there," he said, trading her a reassuring smile. "I have some people to see, fix a few things up."</p>
     <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 sorted out and he had to meet the rest of the guys later, see what they could pull together. There was some cash left, enough, hopefully, for what he needed. He'd beg, borrow or bully for the rest, and he'd get the boys to chip 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 best. He was stripped for action and that was the way to be for what he had planned on the long walks along the Creggan Cliffs and up on the crags that overlooked the town. He'd have no need of extras in the next couple of weeks, and maybe none in the time after that. </p>
     <p><em>Seatbelt on when the devil's at the wheel.,</em> his grandfather had been fond of saying. </p>
     <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 self-made man.</em></p>
     <p>One out of two so far. He was starting out with nothing, very nearly. </p>
     <p>Glasgow had been sweltering hot and every now and then the thermals spiralling over the city would raise little whirlwinds of papers and road dust. Mothers heaved foot-dragging children, girls in tight tee-shirts wilted and couples drank cold beers at pavement tables and soaked it all up. Buskers baked, bakers burned.</p>
     <p>He had been up to the city centre, dodging between the commercial offices and lawyers' branches, then along the west end, checking out some of the old tenement properties before doubling back down to Argyle Street to the bank and then up to the bus station at Buchanan Street where it cost him fifteen notes for a season ticket to somewhere he'd never been before. He puffed out his cheeks and bit on his bottom lip as he waited for the camera in the booth to click and flash and then another three minutes for the column of pictures to slide out, smelling of fix. The girl at the counter took the photo without looking at it and pressed it down between two sheets of plastic. </p>
     <p>"Just show this when you want to renew," she said. </p>
     <p>He looked at the photograph. It was just like any passport picture. It looked nothing like him. </p>
     <p>Down on St Vincent Street the bank tellers were suffering as the air conditioning tried to cope and failed valiantly. The big ornate doors were wide open, wasting the cool air, and heavy women fanned themselves while perspiration laid flood-trails in their make-up. </p>
     <p>"Any identification?"</p>
     <p>"What do you need?"</p>
     <p>"A  driver's license? A passport?"</p>
     <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 soon. Here. All I've got is a bus pass, but it's me all right. See?"</p>
     <p>She checked the picture and the address. "Looks nothing like you."</p>
     <p>"I don't take a good picture," he conceded. "Camera doesn't like me."</p>
     <p>She allowed him a smile. "Normally we need a passport, but this will be fine, I suppose. Do you want to make a deposit today?"</p>
     <p>"Sure," he said. "I shouldn't keep this in a coffee jar, should I?"</p>
     <p>The girl flashed him a bigger smile. "Heavens no, that's <em>far </em>too much." All the notes were crumpled into a wasp-nest wad and she separated them before flattening them out under her hand. The crumple made him look disarmingly na<6E>ve, and that's just how he wanted it. She started to count, still smiling and throwing him the occasional look that told him she didn't much care what his picture looked like.</p>
     <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 stuck away in a tin."</p>
     <p>"Maybe another time," he said agreeably. "I just have to get used to the idea of somebody else holding on to it."</p>
     <p>"Oh, we'll look after it for you. The papers will arrive with your card in five working days. And be very careful with the pin, won't you."</p>
     <p>"In case I jag myself?" He made it sound truly gauche and got the expected chuckle. </p>
     <p>"No, it's a security number. It's <em>your </em>secret."</p>
     <p>This time he did the smiling. He had a few of those already.</p>
     <p>The post office had been even hotter, the still dry air filled with paper dust and burlap haze. Sweating men hoisted big sacks non-stop, dripping down shoulderblade and armpit. The man at the hatch never looked up as he gave his details and signed a name he'd practiced from a receipt he and Jed had got in a car-dealer yard. The form redirected the mail he expected to arrive soon. All of this took three hours and he made his way slowly up towards Sauchiehall Street and the MacLellan Galleries, taking his time as he passed the tailors shops on Renfield Street, thinking about the right kinds of clothes to wear, thinking about all the other things he had to do, and wanting to be down in Kelvingrove Park in the sun with the fast river at his feet watching the kingfisher dive for minnows and Kate Delaney soaking the sun.</p>
     <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 heat the city. It was Thursday, six days after they'd all been given the long awaited bad news and it seemed to need some time to sink right in. The Levenford Gazette carried a picture of angry men self-consciously glowering at the camera outside the distillery gates, and that was just a repetition of front page pictures from decades past. Even the headlines were familiar by now. It was no shock and no horror. The drama might start building up in a couple of months when everybody was ducking and diving for the same handful of low-pay jobs. </p>
     <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 comfort nor speed. Nothing at all like the big Moody sailboat he'd wanted to cruise away in.</p>
     <p>"<em>This</em> is your great idea?"</p>
     <p>"Got to start somewhere," he said. Men were working on the propeller down there in the depths and a hot electric blue sizzle of an arc-welder's torch punctuated the grey below the red lead. The air smelt of oil and burning metal and stale brackwater. </p>
     <p>"You'll be back in a week," she retorted with some certainty. "You can't even think about giving up the degree for this. I thought you wanted a real boat, not a rust-bucket."</p>
     <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 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 Uncle Lars. </p>
     <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>
     <p>She was about to respond when a figure blocked the light on the passenger side and the door yanked open. Lars Hanssen leaned in. </p>
     <p>"<em>Yack!</em>" he bawled, beaming through the hair and the beard. "You feeling brave, hey?" He sounded exactly like a cartoon Swede should. </p>
     <p>Kate's fingers were engulfed by the massive hand and her arm wobbled up to the shoulder joint. He was bull-broad and had a battered face that could have stood in for big Jimmy Cosmo in a gritty Glasgow movie. Jack was not small but he looked slight and boyish beside this bear of a man. </p>
     <p>"Come and I show you my <em>Valkyrie.</em>"</p>
     <p>"I suppose that's another blonde?" He knew she was just being arch. The name stood out clear against the black of the hull, and she knew her mythology too. </p>
     <p>"You want to come on board too?" </p>
     <p>Kate shook her head. "Another time perhaps."</p>
     <p>The boat was well used, plate-dented and paint-chipped and strung with cables and hoists and between the bow and the wheelhouse was an empty well that yawned to the sky, all hatches flat back. She couldn't see a space where anybody could possibly sleep, unless it was down in a hold. </p>
     <p>Jack looked down and she touched a finger to her temple, letting him know exactly what she thought of all this, then smiled sweetly before swinging the car back to the gates. </p>
     <p>"You come up now and see what we can do for you," Lars said.</p>
     <p>A few hours later, she saw him come walking down the length of the wide upstairs gallery. Here it was cool, lit from up on high so that fine dust motes cascaded in slow gold shimmer slides down the beams.</p>
     <p>"My fan club of one," she said. </p>
     <p>"Wait until they see your stuff."</p>
     <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>
     <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 best. He stopped dead when they reached the corner where her three oils  huddled close together and now it was her turn to laugh. </p>
     <p>"Close that mouth or the wind might change." She hooked an arm round his and leaned in,  patting his shoulder. </p>
     <p>"What do you think?"</p>
     <p>She'd caught him three quarters on, deep in shadow, looking down from the window, a faint wash between the painter and subject, like dust or clouds, just easing the features out of focus, making the whole scene grainy and not quite distinct. The light was stolen from Rembrandt's <em>Man in Armour</em>, and the haze from Keir's <em>Ballet Practise</em>. </p>
     <p>"You never told me," he finally said. She'd only sketched him one time, fast crayon on black card, strong lines, soft fill. </p>
     <p>"You never asked. And anyway you'd have said no, wouldn't you?"</p>
     <p>He nodded, leaning in. A small oblong card read: <em>Not Quite</em>, oils on canvas. Kate Delaney. </p>
     <p>"Not quite? What's that supposed to mean?"</p>
     <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 it?"</p>
     <p>"When I've got some money, sure. Then nobody gets to see it."</p>
     <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 old computer and rig up to the internet. Paddy Cleary could get you anything, anytime, given enough notice. Cloned phones, digital receivers, chipped DVD's, whatever technology you wanted, he knew somebody that could figure out how to make it work and by-pass the usual encumbrances, like rental or call charges. The black economy never had it so good. Jack put in an order for some more equipment they'd need in the next little while, confident that Paddy could deliver.</p>
     <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 been filling in for the past week and called up a couple of sites for firms that could set up a new company on demand. He gave the details asked for, name, address, credit card, and after that he had seven days to wait. Time was moving fast in some directions and slow in others, as if he was caught in a deep event horizon round some 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 now almost crystallised in his mind.</p>
     <p>He went on a visit to Aitkenbar Distillery and Ed Kane recognised him right away.</p>
     <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 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 his arms folded and said nothing and Jack hoped it would stay that way until he could get a hold of him and he wondered why he hadn't thought of him in the first place. He could have saved himself all this bother and used the time to better purpose. </p>
     <p>The guide had that kind of determinedly cheerful voice that made you wonder how she could keep it up day after day. The crowd was from Newcastle, up on a trip to the Trossachs on a bus, doing a tour of the distilleries and the tartan tat outlets that sell hairy jackets and frilly shirts and effete velvet waistcoats with the kind of buttons clan chiefs would never be seen dead in outside a Walter Scott fantasy. Most of the tourists were old and grey and slow-moving as cattle but there were a handful of young couples who looked as if they'd got on the wrong coach and 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 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 realised he'd have to do a whole lot better next time. </p>
     <p><em>Good enough never is!</em> Rule number three in the ten top tips for success. It went through his head like a mantra and he knew he should have thought this out a little better. One wrong word and he'd be back to square one, 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 bilgewater. </p>
     <p><strong>  </strong><em>If better is possible, good is never enough</em>. That was the rule. Better <em>was</em> possible. He was running out of time and the mail still hadn't arrived. </p>
     <p>  The guide was talking away, with that cheery smile surgically onplanted. </p>
     <p>  "Whisky. The name is an English corruption of the ancient name for spirits - water of life - which in Scottish and Irish Gaelic is <em>uisge beatha</em> and sounded to the English ear like whisky."</p>
     <p>  It was straight out of the hundred things you ever wanted to know about Scotch handbook, but the Geordies never knew that. They hoovered it all up in that slow, bovine-hungry senior-citizen way that needs to be fed new but pointless facts by tour guides, to ponderously chew, swallow and digest. </p>
     <p>  "Scotch means simply that the whisky was distilled and matured in Scotland. Whiskies are made in other countries, notably Ireland and Japan but whiskies they may be, and good ones even, but Scotch they are not. Scotch comes from Scotland."</p>
     <p>   Indeed it does, he thought. They were coming through the first long, high building and the smell of malt was overwhelming, like sweat-soaked towels from the team gym drying out over hot pipes. The men turning the barley with long flat paddles kept on, ignoring the herd as they slowly passed to the walkway above the malt kiln where the sprouting shoots were killed off in the slow heat and where the air clogged like treacle in the throat. </p>
     <p>"Malt is essentially barley which has been allowed to germinate by soaking in water then has been dried by the application of heat." He knew she was reading this off a page in her head and it came out almost sing-song, like a kid repeating the nine times table. Nobody spoke in sentences like that.</p>
     <p>"The malting process converts the stored starch into soluble compounds such as the sugar maltose and by so doing makes fermentation possible. Drying the malt over a furnace stops the germinating process and lacing the furnace with peat imparts a peaty aroma to the malt."</p>
     <p>  The English folk were fascinated. He wanted to hurry them along, with sharp sticks if necessary. The guide had it timed and took plenty of it, earning her money. He forced himself to be patient. This part of the plant was old, maybe two hundred years and more and it had no interest for him. He'd lived with the malt smell hovering over the town like a friend's flatulence, familiar, but still very unappealing. This process here had no interest either. Production would stop in a couple of weeks time and whatever came from this malting would end up in somebody else's warehouse, waiting to be mixed with a good smooth gain and blended for the supermarket trade. </p>
     <p>    "This indicates that the raw material is barley malt, by itself fermented with yeast and distilled in a pot still," she was off and running again. The oldsters listened, sheep eyes wide and docile. "This produces a far superior whisky to the common grain whisky found in blends. Note however that just occasionally quality single grain whiskies <em>can </em>be found."</p>
     <p> The distillation hall was different. Two massive copper stills squatted, belly broad and tapering up to the high ceiling. At the far end of the big hall, a modern stainless-steel contraption made the old malt stills look even more primitive. The flat stench had faded out when they had come through the doors and up the stairs, like submariners escaping through an air lock, and here the sharply sweet smell of alcohol was thick enough to tickle the back of the throat. </p>
     <p>    "Newly distilled malt whisky is generally a hundred and twenty degrees proof, but we double distil here and it can be up to a hundred and forty. That's about eighty percent by volume of alcohol which is <em>much</em> too strong to drink."</p>
     <p>   Jack remembered Donny Watson down at the golf course. That just about matched with what he said. He suddenly got the premonition that she would tell the gunpowder story and sure enough, as soon as the thought sparked in his head, she was fascinating the southerners with the tale. </p>
     <p> The stillmen in white coats looked like scientists at retorts and apart from a faint hiss of steam and a steady bubbling from deep inside the casks, there was little action. </p>
     <p>"The size of the batch depends on many different factors, but each distillation can be up to ten thousand gallons."</p>
     <p>Somebody whistled, impressed. </p>
     <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 over Scotland, there are millions of gallons of whisky, just getting older, and better, just like fine wine and good women.</p>
     <p>Another round of obedient laughter.</p>
     <p>"And then, of course, there is the second tax on whisky. While in storage, whisky evaporates at the rate of two percent every year, so for a fine old malt of twenty five years, that's a lot of evaporation. But we don't grudge it, of course, because that's what we call the Angels Share, and what the angels take only improves the whisky."</p>
     <p>  Jack went from foot to foot, impatient to be at the far side, working out his bearings inside the distillery by comparison to the outside walls. He recognised several of the faces here and kept his head down, but nobody looked their way. They were used to having the herds shunted through here twice a day and they pretended not to notice, or perhaps simply didn't see them.</p>
     <p>Finally they were through, past the filling bay where  a constant stream off clear liquid was siphoned into a rack of barrels that came rolling along a trough, one by one, watched by two uniform customs men who took careful notes of 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>
     <p>--------</p>
     <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 scroff 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>
     <p>____</p>
     <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>
     <p>_____</p>
     <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>
     <p><hr />_</p>
     <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 ballpeen 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>
     <p>The bell did its sing song.  Sandy had been standing just behind it and he opened it very fast, taking whoever stood there by surprise. A tall, well dressed man stood on the doorstep, flanked by the big slab in the chauffeur's suit.</p>
     <p>"I'm looking for Jack Lorne," a man's voice said. Jack was  close behind his grandfather, just out of sight, but ready.</p>
     <p>"Oh yeah, and who wants him?"</p>
     <p>"My name is Hammond Hall. Mr Lorne did me a great service. He saved my boy's life."</p>
     <p>Sandy looked him up and down, weighing him. After a while he nodded.</p>
     <p>"Maybe you'd better come in and speak to him yourself."</p>
     <p>
Chapter 5: Full Proof                                                                                                                                   Joe Donnelly




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