Stonemouth

‘Aye,’ he says, drawing the word out. ‘As well to check, I suppose, eh?’ He smiles tolerantly. ‘You were never one of the daft ones, were you, Stu?’

I raise my eyebrows at this. Better than saying, One of the daft ones? I’m one of the dead fucking smart ones, you overstuffed, upgraded bouncer. Though not so smart I didn’t do something that got me run out of town, admittedly, so maybe he does have a point after all. Plus, for somebody we all confidently predicted would reach his life-peak standing outside a club rejecting people wearing the wrong sort of trainers, or being Thug Number One on a prison wing, Powell’s done pretty well for himself. So who am I to talk?

Powell nods wisely. ‘Aye, best to check. Feelings were runnin high an all that, eh?’

I just crease my mouth and nod a little. Powell’s about to say something else when his phone sounds suddenly with a snatch of Tinchy featuring Tinie. It’s ‘Gangsta?’, which probably represents high wit to Powell. The Rangie’s Bluetoothed screen wakes up with a single name I can’t make out before Powell’s hand flicks out and he stabs a button on the steering wheel, rejecting the call.

He winks at me. ‘So, frightened about coming back, were you?’

I squeeze out a tight little smile. ‘Concerned. Didn’t want to make anybody feel uncomfortable.’

‘Aye, well,’ he says, sporting a fuller grin than mine. ‘I’ve had a word with Mr M, just to check you’re persona grata, you know?’

Powell looks very pleased with himself for knowing this phrase. He’s a man it’s easy to dismiss intellectually, given his looks and size and just the way he carries and expresses himself sometimes, but he always could play a lot dumber than he is, and even when he was kept back that year at school he let it be known he had done this deliberately, for his own good reasons, the better to dominate all around him.

A few people scoffed a tad too publicly at that and paid for it. Only the first one had to cough up blood and a tooth; the others suddenly found it necessary to contribute a tenner or so to Powell’s never-to-be-used-for-its-stated-purpose college fund. That was the thing about Powell, even then: he didn’t mistake fear for respect, however grudging; he knew where to draw the line, and he certainly never enjoyed violence so much he’d prioritise it above a decent payday. He might have been educationally challenged, but he was always destined to do well with a certain sort of organisational hierarchy around him.

There’s movement outside his window. Black-and-white check pattern. Jeez, it’s the cops.

Powell swivels, grins, thumbs the window down. ‘Douglas, that you?’ he asks the uniform standing in the light rain outside.

‘Evening, Mr Imrie,’ the cop says. I think I recognise the face but I’m not sure.

Powell laughs. ‘What you doin this side of the firth, Dougie? This is fuckin bandit country for you guys, is it no?’

‘Aye,’ the officer says with a sheepish grin. He nods towards the bridge control buildings. ‘Over seein the bro-in-law; he’s a rigger.’

Powell looks down at him. ‘I’d invite you in,’ he says. ‘But you’re dripping.’

‘Naw, it’s all right.’ He stares in at me. His face scrunches up a little. ‘Stewart?’ he asks.

Werrock. Dougie Werrock. That’s his name. Year or two below us. I nod. ‘Hi, Dougie. Officer Werrock.’ I glance at Powell.

‘That your Ka over there, Stewart?’ Dougie asks.

‘Aye. Hired.’

‘Saw that. Left your sidelights on, sir,’ he says, with a professional expression.

‘Did I? Thanks. Thought I heard an extra beep or two. Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll be on my way shortly anyway, should think,’ I tell him, with another glance at Powell.

‘Right you are.’ Officer Werrock gives me a sort of half-nod. Powell merits a full nod and even a touch of hand to cap. ‘Nice to see you, Mr Imrie,’ Dougie says, then turns.

He’s a couple of steps away when Powell leans out and says, a little more quietly, ‘Aw, Dougie. Did we get that wee …?’

I can just about make out what Dougie says. ‘Eh? Oh. Aye. Aye, that’s all … That’s been … No, we’re fine there.’

‘Splendid. Hunky McDory. Right, Dougie. Mind how you go.’ Dougie walks off through the drizzle. Powell runs the window back up and sighs. ‘Cunt,’ he breathes, though he sounds almost affectionate.

I look at him.

‘Where were we?’ He sighs, pinches his nose. ‘Oh yes. Aye, you’re clear to land, Stewie-boy. No harm scheduled to befall. Not at our hands, anyway. You’re still not on Mr M’s Christmas list, and he’d appreciate a wee visit, maybe this evening, just so you can pay your respects, but no; you’re fine.’ He leans over and, with one enormous fist, punches me very gently on the thigh. It really is gentle, more of a push than a punch, but I can still feel the power behind it. ‘Appreciate you asking first, though,’ he tells me, winking. ‘Smart thing to do.’ He sits back, stretches a little as he looks through the just-cleared screen, as though some formality has been dealt with, before looking back at me. ‘You here long?’

‘Just the weekend.’