The Long Glasgow Kiss

‘It takes more than a bunch of pig-arsed Irish gyppos to scare me. It’s a nuisance that I don’t need at the moment. I can’t sell the heroin yet and I needed to raise money to buy the knackers off.’ He jerked his chin in the direction of the broken statuette. ‘This is the biggest business opportunity I’ve ever had. This stuff’s going to be big here … Have you seen Glasgow on a Saturday night? Half the city gets totally fucking stocious. Thousands of men out of their skulls on booze. No one drinks for the taste and Christ knows they don’t drink for the social fucking aspect. Do you know what they want? They want a holiday. They drink because for a few hours they can step outside their lives. If cheap whisky or red biddy gives them a day trip to Largs, this stuff is two weeks in fucking Monte Carlo. This …’ He bounced the package in his hand, as if assessing its worth. ‘This is the future, Lennox. This is Glasgow’s future. We won’t be able to get enough of this stuff to keep up with demand. I’m fucking telling you, this stuff was made for Glasgow. Because this stuff makes Glasgow go away. Anyway, talking about making things go away, enough chat …’

Kirkcaldy pulled the carriage back on the Browning. The three of them faced me. Collins looked even paler. He had known from the moment he left his office to lead me up here that this was what was going to happen. Bert Soutar twisted his thin lips underneath his busted-up nose. He was going to enjoy this.

For some reason that I couldn’t fathom, Fiona White’s face came to my mind. Maybe it was the fact that she was about to have a vacancy to let.

There was a terrible grace to it. I had guessed it would be Singer who was behind the car. After all, it had been me who had suggested he was put onto tailing Kirkcaldy. He moved out from behind the car without a sound. It was Collins’s startled cry that caused Kirkcaldy and Soutar to spin round. I saw Singer’s hand move swiftly up and make a short arc in the air. Collins made a gurgling sound and blood started to pulse from his neck where Singer’s razor had slashed him.

I lunged for the scythe. Kirkcaldy heard the rasp as I tore it from the wall and he spun back, swinging the gun around. The scythe sliced into his wrist and the gun fell to the floor. I rushed forward and swung the scythe again, this time its tip sank into Kirkcaldy’s back and he screamed in a way that didn’t sound human. I saw that Singer and Soutar were now desperately wrestling with each other: Soutar’s iron grasp on Singer’s wrist, stopping him from bringing the razor down to his throat. I threw down the scythe and snatched up the automatic Kirkcaldy had dropped. I didn’t even think about it. I put two rounds into the side of Soutar’s head and he went down. Lifeless. His dead grip pulling Singer down on top of him.

The whole thing would only have lasted four or five seconds, but now Soutar lay dead, Collins was on his back, shivering and twitching the last of his life away, Kirkcaldy was on his knees, clutching his hacked-open wrist.

‘Thanks, Singer …’ I said. ‘If you hadn’t come along, I’d be dead.’

Singer straightened himself up and nodded. He was out of breath but I thought I detected a hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth.

We left the bodies in the garage. I wrapped a handkerchief around Kirkcaldy’s hand and we put him in the passenger seat of his Sunbeam-Talbot Sports. Tucking the Browning into the waistband of my trousers, I gathered up the jade demon, wrapped it back into its blanket and put it into the boot of my car. I knew Kirkcaldy wouldn’t give me any more trouble, so I told Singer to follow me in my Austin Atlantic. We stopped at a telephone box by the side of the road and Singer watched Kirkcaldy as I ’phoned Willie Sneddon. I gave him a brief outline of what had happened and told him there were a couple of consignments of meat for Hammer Murphy’s mincer, and where to find them.

We drove back into Glasgow, all the way Kirkcaldy trying to do a deal with me, offering all kinds of riches if I helped him get out of this mess. As I drove along the Clyde and into the Gallowgate, I promised I would; that I knew people who would sort him out.

Singer parked outside and waited for me. I drove into the enclosure at Vinegarhill. The old guy I’d seen before ran across to Sean Furie’s caravan and hammered on the door. Furie nodded to me and I nodded back. Neither of us paid any heed to Kirkcaldy’s begging. I threw the keys of his car onto the ground and he fell out of the car and started to scrabble in the dust for them, but they were too far away and the ring of gypsies that had formed was already closing on him.

When I dropped Singer off at Sneddon’s place, I thanked him again. He nodded once more and got out.