The Long Glasgow Kiss

Someone had done a real number on Davey. His head and jaw were bandaged, framing his face like a mask. And it was more like a grotesque mask than a recognizable face, puffed and swollen until the eyes had become slits between thick pads of bruised flesh. It looked like his nose had been broken but, thankfully, whoever had attended him in the hospital had made some effort to set it straight. His lips were split and the lower lip had ballooned up like Maurice Chevalier’s on a bad day. There were stitches in his upper lip.

‘Davey, it’s Lennox. Are you all right, son?’

Davey turned his head to me. His distended lips twitched and I realized he was trying to smile. That simple act caused a tidal wave of rage to swell up inside me.

‘Who did this, Davey?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Lennox. I let you down.’ Davey’s voice was strained through clenched teeth and I realized that his jaw had been busted and wired shut.

‘You didn’t let anyone down. Who did this?’

‘I didn’t see them. They came up behind me and clobbered me. When I was on the ground they gave me this kicking. Then I passed out. That’s all I remember, Mr Lennox.’

‘Okay, Davey … okay. You take it easy. Anything else broken?’

‘Just my jaw … and some cracked ribs. The doc says I must have a steel skull. He says he doesn’t think there will be any permanent damage.’

‘That’s good, Davey. We’ll have you out of here and on your feet in no time. I owe you a bonus.’

‘You don’t need to do that, Mr Lennox. Just tell me that you’ll let me work for you again.’

‘Sure, Davey. Sure I will.’

‘Mr Kirkcaldy came to see me.’

‘Bobby Kirkcaldy?’

‘Aye … it was him what found me. He ’phoned for the ambulance and that.’

‘I see. Did he see who attacked you?’

‘No. He only came along later.’

‘I see.’

‘I lost my book,’ said Davey through the wired cage of his teeth.

‘What book?’

‘The one you gave me, Mr Lennox. My notebook that I wrote everything down in.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Davey. I’ll probably find it in the car or on the ground up there. It’s not important.’

‘I’m sorry …’ Now Davey’s voice sounded distant. He made a soft, detached groaning sound.

‘You rest, Davey. I’ll be back to see you tomorrow.’

‘Promise?’ he asked and sounded like a kid. In that moment I remembered that he was alone in the world. No parents. No brothers or sisters that he knew about. A Barnardo’s kid out in the world on his own. The thought restoked the fury in my gut. A fury that was directed in equal shares at whoever had done this to Davey, and at myself for having put the kid in that position.

‘I promise, Davey. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

We left Davey to sleep, and outside in the corridor I had as coherent a conference with Sneddon as I was capable of having. I told him to put men on watch on the Kirkcaldy house twenty-four hours a day. I asked if they could look around for Davey’s notebook, more to put the kid’s mind at rest than anything else. Given that Singer had followed me all the way out into darkest Renfrewshire without me spotting him on my tail, I suggested he be put on following Kirkcaldy. I wanted whoever clobbered Davey, and Sneddon was itchier than ever to find out what was going on with Kirkcaldy. He didn’t care about people getting hurt: he had invested in Kirkcaldy and didn’t want his money to get bruised.

We headed back along the gloomy, porcelain-tiled corridors towards the exit. My head hurt like a bastard and the lurching in my gut was turning into determined heaving. I stopped off in the washroom and only just made it to the cubicle before I vomited. After I finished retching I went over to the wash-hand basins and splashed cold water on my face. When I looked into the mirror I saw a wraith with deep blue shadows under its eyes set into a bleached face. No wonder the ladies found me so damned attractive. The harsh hospital lighting threw up the hard angles of my face: the sharp, high cheekbones and the arch of my brow. The faint scars on my cheek, the reminders of an encounter with a German hand grenade, seemed more noticeable. I smoothed my black hair back with the palms of my hands. A plastic surgeon had had to do a bit of tidying up after my adventure with German munitions and it had left me with taut skin that accentuated my features. One thing I got a lot, especially from women, was that they thought I looked a little like the actor Jack Palance. Women seemed to like my face. I’d been told I had a handsome face but it had a touch of cruelty in it. That’s why they liked it and that’s why I hated it.

‘You fucking coming?’ Sneddon was at the door of the washroom.

‘Sure,’ I said, sniffing and drying my face with a paper hand towel. ‘I’m coming. I’ve got work to do.’

I took one more look at the face in the mirror; it seemed to me it looked a little more cruel.