Mortal Causes

Inside, the bar was airless, a drinkers' fug of smoke and television heat. You didn't come here for a good time, you came out of necessity. The regulars were like dragons, each mouthful cooling the fire inside them. As he entered the bar, he saw no one he recognised, not even the barman. The barman was a new face, just out of his teens. He poured pints with an affected disdain, and took the money like it was a bribe. From the sounds of atonal song, Rebus knew the marchers were upstairs, probably emptying the place.

Rebus took his pint – still in a glass glass – and headed up to the dance hall. Sure enough, the marchers were about all there was. They'd shed jackets, ties, and inhibitions, and were milling around, singing to off -key flutes and downing pints and shorts. Getting the drink in had become a logistical nightmare, and more marchers were coming in all the time.

Rebus took a deep breath, carved a smile into his face, and waded in.

'Magic, lads.’

'Aye, ta, pal.’

'Nae bother, eh?’

'Aye, nae bother right enough.’

'All right there, lads?’

'Fine, aye. Magic.’

Gavin MacMurray hadn't arrived yet. Maybe he was off elsewhere with his generals. But his son was on the stage pretending he held a microphone stand and a crowd's attention. Another lad clambered onto the stage and played an invisible guitar, still managing to hold his pint glass. Lager splashed over his jeans, but he didn't notice. That was professionalism for you.

Rebus watched with the smile still on his face. Eventually they gave up, as he'd known they would, there being no audience, and leapt down from the stage. Jamesie landed just in front of Rebus. Rebus held his arms wide.

'Whoah therel That was brilliant.’

Jamesie grinned. 'Aye, ta.’

Rebus slapped him on the shoulder.

'Get you another?’

'I think I'm all right, ta.’

'Fair enough.’ Rebus looked around, then leant close to Jamesie's ear. 'I see you're one of us.’

He winked.

'Eh?’

The tattoo had been covered by the leather jacket, but Rebus nodded towards it. 'The Shield,' he said slyly. Then he nodded again, catching Jamesie's eye, and moved away. He went back downstairs and ordered two pints. The bar was busy and noisy, both TV and jukebox blaring, a couple of arguments rising above even these. Half a minute later, Jamesie was standing beside him. The boy wasn't very bright, and Rebus weighed up how much he could get away with.

'How do you know?’ Jamesie asked.

'There's not much I don't know, son.’

'But I don't know you.’

Rebus smiled into his drink. 'Best keep it that way.’

'Then how come you know me?’

Rebus turned towards him. 'I just do.’

Jamesie looked around him, licking his lips. Rebus handed him one of the pints. 'Here, get this down you.’

'Ta.’

He lowered his voice. 'You're in The Shield?’

'What makes you think that?’

Now Jamesie smiled. 'How's Davey, by the way?’

'Davey?’

'Davey Soutar,' said Rebus. 'You two know each other, don't you?’

'I know Davey.’

He blinked. 'Christ, you are in The Shield. Hang on, did I see you at the parade?’

'I bloody hope so.’

Now Jamesie nodded slowly. 'I thought I saw you.’

`You're a sharp lad, Jamesie. There's a bit of your dad in you.’

'Jamesie started at this. 'He'll be here in five minutes. You don't want him to see us…’

'You're right. He doesn't know about The Shield then?’

'Of course not.’

Jamesie looked slighted.

'Only sometimes the lads tell their dads.’

'Not me.’

Rebus nodded. 'You're a good one, Jamesie. We've got our eyes on you.’

'Really?’

'Absolutely.’

Rebus supped from his pint. 'Shame about Billy.’

Jamesie became a statue, the glass inches from his lips. He recovered with effort. 'Pardon?’

'Good lad, say nothing.’

Rebus took another sup. 'Good parade, wasn't it?’

'Oh aye, the best.’

'Ever been to Belfast?’

Jamesie looked like he was having trouble keeping up with the conversation. Rebus hoped he was. 'Naw,' he said at last.

'I was there a few days ago, Jamesie. It's a proud city, a lot of good people there, our people.’

Rebus was wondering, how long can I keep this up? A couple of teenagers, probably a year or two beneath the legal drinking age, had already come to the stairs looking for Jamesie to join them.

'True,' Jamesie said.

'We can't let them down.’

'Absolutely not.’

'Remember Billy Cunningham.’

Jamesie put down his glass. 'Is this…’ his voice had become a little less confident, 'is this a… some sort of warning?’

Rebus patted the young man's arm. 'No; no, you're all right, Jamesie. It's just that the polis are sniffing around.’

It was amazing where a bit of confident bull's keech could get you.

'I'm no squealer,' said Jamesie.

The way he said it, Rebus knew. 'Not like Billy?’

'Definitely not.’

Rebus was nodding to himself when the doors burst open and Gavin MacMurray swaggered in, a couple of his generals squeezing through the doorway in his wake. Rebus became just another punter at the bar, as MacMurray slung a heavy arm around his son's neck. 'Awright, Jamesie boy?’

'Fine, Dad. My shout.’

'Three export-then. Bring them up back, aye?’

'No bother, Dad.’