The Deep Dark Sleep

Provan shook his head. ‘Not that I heard about. And believe me, I checked. Every day, all the papers.’

We both fell silent for a moment.

‘And where did you get the money for this?’ I gestured vaguely to indicate the bungalow we sat in.

‘I pulled a few jobs on my own. A couple in Glasgow and a few in Edinburgh. I’d learned a lot from Gentleman Joe and I decided that all of my jobs would be big takes. Strachan always said that robbing fifty quid carries the same risk as fifty thousand. When I had enough to keep me going, I gave the business up. Went straight. Even got a job for appearances’ sake and actually did well for myself.’

‘That night, when the Lad approached the Railplane site … he won’t have had a balaclava on then. Did you get a look at him?’

‘No. Or not enough to ever recognize him again. Like I said, it was as dark as a coon’s arse that night and he didn’t get close enough for me to get a decent squizz at him. But he was young. Younger than I thought and a lot younger than me.’

I took another few sips of the whisky but decided not to drain the tumbler, unless I wanted to see dual carriageways through Glasgow again.

‘What are you going to do now?’ I asked.

‘Believe me, Lennox, I’m open to suggestions.’

‘Do you have a car?’

‘Aye. In the garage.’

‘Then I suggest you get packed. Right now. And get in your car and drive. Lock this place up, empty your bank account and drive. South. England. Don’t tell me where, just go. And I suggest you stay there for a few weeks, or until you hear that this is all over.’ I handed him a business card. ‘Telephone me every Monday morning at ten a.m. I’ll tell you what the state of play is. Call yourself Mr French when you call and if you hear anybody’s voice but mine, hang up. Got it?’

He nodded, but had a strange expression. Not suspicious, more confused.

‘Why are you helping me?’ he asked.

‘It’s Bob-a-Job week and I’m a Boy Scout. By the way, you owe me a shilling. I don’t know … I think you’ve been punished enough for your involvement in the robbery. You didn’t get anything out of it and you’ve spent the last eighteen years looking over your shoulder. And whether it’s Strachan or the Lad or someone else, whoever’s behind all of this mayhem has made it all very personal with me, like I told you.’

‘Well,’ said Provan. ‘It’s appreciated. Sorry about …’ He nodded to my blood-stained hand.

‘That’s okay. I don’t feel like I’m me if I’m not bleeding or bruised. Anyway, it’s a souvenir from my encounter with my commando window cleaner.’ I nodded to the kitchen sink. ‘Do you mind if I clean up?’

‘No problem. I’ve got a first aid kit if that helps.’

I took off my jacket and rolled my shirt sleeves up. My right sleeve was sodden with blood. I eased up the dressing and saw that two of the stitches had popped, as I’d suspected and the wound gaped slightly at one end. I took a fresh pad and bandage from the frowning Provan and patched myself up as well as I could.

While I cleaned up, Provan packed a couple of holdalls for himself. He saw me out, locked the bungalow’s door behind him and shook my hand.

‘Thanks again, Lennox,’ he said.

‘Don’t thank me yet. Like I said, keep driving until you’re the only one with a Scottish accent, then drive some more.’

‘Will do.’ He waved and headed into the green-painted wooden garage.

I sat in the Atlantic for a moment and considered my next move. I knew who I had to see. I’d known it for some time now. My guess was that if I didn’t see him, he’d come visit me. And there was Fraser, the solicitor, with whom I had an account to settle. But I decided that before I did anything, I’d have to visit the Casualty Department and get my wound stitched up again. Then I’d visit a sign painter and get the lettering on my office window changed to ‘Lennox. Enquiry Agent and Human Tapestry’.

I could have sworn the whole car shunted sideways. The blast sideswiped the Atlantic and I felt the same stunned paralysis that I’d got during the war every time a shell or a grenade had gone off that little bit too close to me. And as the scars on my face attested, they had gone off too close. I ducked down and hugged my knees and a shower of green painted wood clattered down on the car. After it subsided I turned and looked out of my cracked side window. The garage was gone, along with a lot of Provan’s car. And Provan. I could make out something barely recognizable as a human shape blazing like the rest of the car.

Instinct took over and I sped off, taking the first turning off Provan’s street, hopefully before the neighbours who were coming running from their homes spotted my car or, worse still, my licence plate.

I cursed as I drove. I still didn’t know exactly whom I was cursing, but I cursed colourfully and loudly. Once I was in open countryside, I pulled over to the side of the road and checked the Atlantic for damage. Nothing much, apart from the cracked window on the driver’s side. I brushed what fragments of green-painted wood were left on the roof and bonnet and drove off at speed.