Smoke Page 2

  He hadn't expected opposition, but there it was, some enormous hound flying up to his face.

  He felt sharp points rip into his flesh. It didn't hurt.

  Next he knew he was lying on the floor unable to breathe under the huge weight pressing on his chest.

  The hound tore into his cheek and gave accompanying, slobbering growls.

  Felt like his face was being torn away. Burned away. Now it hurt.

  When the pain became too big to handle, Jimmy's mind drifted.

  It took him to many places, but he couldn't get a hold in any of them. He was a balloon lost at a fair, trying to get down to its owner, but floating further and further away.

  "Oi. Lay off him, Count." Jimmy knew the voice. Kris' brother Mikey, for Christ's sake. His voice came from somewhere close. Sounded like an echo. Jimmy couldn't open his eyes. Just lay there listening.

  The weight moved from Jimmy immediately. He opened his eyes and saw the huge dog lying down, its tongue lolling out, Jimmy's blood on its fangs.

  It stood, walked casually to the ball, picked it between his jaws and dropped it at Mikey's feet. Jimmy's eyes closed again. He felt hands frisking his body and reaching into his pockets.

  Next he knew his inhaler was being forced between his lips. He felt the spray go down into his lungs. Amidst all the action, he'd forgotten about breathing. Now he moved his chest, in out, in out. Counted to three. Did it again.

  Felt his phone taken from the side pocket of his combats.

  "Ambulance," he heard Mikey say, then everything went dark.

  He was a balloon again, passing the moon and the stars and headed out for the edge of the universe.

  Carlo

  Carlo's first night at home hadn't been quite as bad as he'd expected.

  Bert had been brilliant – as soon as the Occupational Therapist left, he'd put the kettle on and made a sweet, soothing cuppa. For tea, fish, chips and mushy peas cooked on the premises, topped off with a micro-waved jam roly-poly and custard pudding. Couldn't have been more pleasant, though Bert might have been more forthcoming about Kylie.

  It seemed she and Kris were going through a sticky spell, but that was all he'd say. Even so, there was enough of a hint in the news to give him the boost he needed.

  He held on to that thought as he put the chair into gear and headed towards her door.

  Calling her first would have been sensible, but he was happy to have the element of surprise in his favour.

  He knocked on the door and hoped the surprise would be a pleasant one.

  Her face appeared and he tried to read her reaction. Pale and thin around the cheeks, her hair uncombed and she was still dressed in her dressing gown. Old before her time.

  "Carlo," she said. "You'd better come in."

  Kicking a few toys out of the way, she cleared a path through to the kitchen.

  Carlo's wheelchair managed the hallway easily. Meant he'd made the right choice. The brochure had been full of motorised chairs, each subtly different from the others. This baby was the Rolls Royce of the motility range. Light, narrow and fast, it boasted extra stability and adjustable height. Everything was controlled by buttons and switches, perfect for the one-hander.

  She put the kettle on.

  Carlo wondered if tea drinking was a genetic condition.

  "Joe's sleeping," she said, as if she'd anticipated the first question. "I'd rather not disturb him. Some other time, eh?"

  Carlo felt shockwaves pass through him. It wasn't the start he'd been hoping for.

  He shook himself back into the moment, determined to get it right this time. Some other time, she'd said. That could mean the next day if all was well.

  "Yeah. Sure," he said. "Let him sleep."

  "How have you been?"

  The hospital routines weren't interesting enough to bother with and the ins and outs of his recovery seemed too grim. All he mentioned was the food and his chair and the way her dad had been a solid friend.

  "He's a good man, Dad," she said. "I think he had hopes for us."

  Had. The way she said it knocked his confidence.

  For a moment he wondered whether his plans to get back with her made any sense. Not that it mattered. What was important to him was getting to see his son.

  "And you? Do you have hopes?"

  She looked blank. Lit up a cigarette and paused to let the nicotine give her a kick.

  "Listen. When we met, I was mixed up. Kris was seeing another woman and I wanted to hurt him. You were a good catch. Then you had your…incident."

  People never wanted to talk about what happened. Like they weren't supposed to ask about the arm and leg. They took glances at the prosthetics when they thought he wasn't looking, but he saw all right – there was nothing wrong with his vision.

  "I'm not sure what you mean," he said.

  "I'm saying it was all bollocks. You didn't even get me a proper ring."

  "Aye, cos your fucking boyfriend was busy tying me to a bloody train track." His trauma counsellor would have been impressed by his outburst. Felt a pulse beat in the vein in his forehead. "Pardon me for not leaping out of my hospital bed and running along to the jewellers."

  "Kris never did that to you." She leaned forward to make her point. "Swears he didn't. On his nan's grave."

  "Lying bastard." Had to have been him. Had to.

  Kylie's voice got higher. "He didnae, Carlo. I believe him."

  "Doesn't he mind looking after somebody else's child?"

  She looked down. Something was wrong. "Joe's his."

  It hit Carlo like a ball in the nuts.

  She was lying. Had to be.

  "I was seeing him right up to our first night," she said. "I did the maths. Nine months, right?"

  The pressure built inside until he felt he might burst. Tears filled his eyes as if there wasn't enough room in his body to contain them.

  What happened was done before he could do anything about it.

  His left hand, powerful now he'd rewired his body to use his unnatural side, moved so quickly that he wasn't fully convinced it had really happened.

  It walloped her on the side of the face.

  The chair legs gave out under her and she fell to the side. On the way down her head cracked the corner of the table.

  "What the fuck?" He didn't expect an answer.

  It was a mess. The whole damned thing.

  He didn't bother to check whether she was all right. Just turned for the door and left.

  Reaching the pavement, he noticed Jimmy approaching.

  Pulled the lever in the opposite direction and accelerated to full power.

  His heart was pumping. Kris Ramsay. He was going to get his all right.

  Which meant taking on Mikey, too.

  Which meant 4 arms against 1.

  Which meant he needed to even up the odds.

  Only way to do that was to get himself a gun.

  Which meant it was time for him to reacquaint himself with Billy down at the Cross Keys.

  Jimmy

  The opening bars of 'One Step Beyond' meant only one thing to Jimmy and the kids of Tranent. Ice-cream.

  Rock-Steady Eddie's van was a Tranent institution.

  Normally the sound of the chimes excited Jimmy. Today, his first time on the streets since the dog attack, he wasn't sure how he felt about anything. Only left the house at all because Kylie needed some company while she went looking for Kris.

  The van pulled up into the Co-Op car park, the new paintwork glistening. A Walt Jabsco rude-boy in black and white check on the back had his hat tilted to one side. Jimmy stared at the big bold letters underneath, Eddie's motto 'SKA'D FOR LIFE'. Didn't seem so cool to Jimmy now.

  Eddie stepped out of the back door, dressed as always in a dark suit, ironed shirt and a thin, mod tie. He was a small guy but not one to under-estimate in any way. Had been an apprentice jockey for a while, before a fall put paid to his career. "Jimmy Hook. A sight for sore eyes, mate. How're you doing?" He doffed his Po
rk Pie hat, gave Jimmy a hug then held him at arms length to get a look at him.

  Jimmy was wearing his face guard, 'the sort professional footballers use' they'd told him in the hospital. It felt funny to Jimmy, having something on one side of his face and not the other.

  Eddie nodded at Jimmy's cheek. "Hurt much?"

  Jimmy ran his fingers around the edge of the mask. "Not really."

  The McMerrys came over to the van. They wore suits that were all rumpled up, just like the faces of the wearers. Skinheads, the pair of them. Necks too big for their heads, heads too small for their huge bulk. Practically identical they were. Looked like they'd missed out a step or two in the evolutionary chain.

  They grunted hellos and carried on to the window.

  Eddie got back into the van. Left the door open so that Jimmy could follow him in.

  Tim McMerry put his copy of 'the Sun' on the counter.

  Eddie went through the motions. "Two oysters, one with raspberry sauce." He sounded more like a cocktail maker than an ice-cream vendor.

  Nodding over to Jimmy he spoke quietly. "Let The Right One In."

  Jimmy flicked through the DVDs in the box until he found it. He passed it over and watched Eddie slip the disc into the newspaper.

  His copies were as good as the real thing. That's why folk kept coming back. That and the fact that they cost three times more in the shops.

  "Five quid for the film, two for the ice cream," Eddie told them.

  "Your shout, Ray." Tim nudged him with the elbow of his jacket without taking his hands from his pockets.

  Ray didn't protest. He took the oysters with one hand and the change with the other, the coins looking like toy money on his palm.

  His brother took the paper. They turned to go without saying a word.

  "Hang on boys. Got a message." Eddie leaned out of his window.

  Taking licks of ice cream in unison with tongues as thick as 8 ounce steaks, they turned and stood waiting. Could get parts in Eastenders no trouble, Jimmy thought.

  "From the Ramsays."

  The McMerrys looked unimpressed.

  "Said you used to know a thing or two about dogs," Eddie went on. "Asked if you old-timers would like to meet the new kids on the block."

  "Wankers." Tim wasn't the type to give a shit about young pretenders.

  "64 dogs, £1,000 entry, winner takes all. They're calling it the Scottish Open"

  Tim looked over at his brother who was watching a seagull and yawning. Jimmy could tell he was interested right away. "Haven't been in the pit for a while."

  "You've got a week," Eddie went on, "and there's no footie."

  "Doesn't leave much time."

  "Kris reckoned you'd bottle it. Said you'd have heard of their dog, Leo."

  "Leo?"

  "Not even been out yet and they're laying 3-1."

  "Crazy kids."

  "So what shall I tell them?"

  Ray spoke without taking his eyes from the gull. "Tell them we'll be in touch."

  The McMerrys sauntered off muttering to each other and up stepped Ryan Mason. Never at school, always peely wally. Bright red sores all the way round his mouth. Standing on tiptoes to get a proper look, he laid a copy of The Beano on the counter.

  "Specials of the week," Eddie said in his ringmaster's voice, "Vanilla Sulphate and Hash Cookie Dough."

  ***

  Jimmy couldn't wait to get home. Eddie paid him for the afternoon's work with a copy of 'Deadzone 4' which wasn't due for release for another month.

  Kylie was asleep in the living room when he got back, stretched across the sofa with her mouth open, a ring of saliva on the shoulder of her tee shirt between the milk stains and the vomit.

  Joe slept in the pram next to her looking angelic and pure.

  Dad wouldn't be back from the chip shop for another hour.

  It all meant that Jimmy could go up and use Kylie's X-box. His own had been sold the day after he broke into Mrs Lorimer's house, a punishment that seemed way out of line for the crime. He wondered what would have happened if he'd smashed in Sean Mulligan's head.

  He kicked off his trainers and ran up the stairs three at a time, set the X-box going and inserted the disc.

  The soundtrack was the same as the others, zombie mood music to kill to.

  He skipped the intro, selected 'one player' and waited, adrenaline preparing his body for action.

  As the game was about to begin, he heard the back door shut and the voices of the Ramsays.

  "Let's not wake them for Christ's sake," he heard Kris say.

  Jimmy knew they'd be headed his way. Needed to eject the disc and get out of there before they reached the stairs.

  With the disc in his hand, he ran to the door and realised he was too late.

  Had to find a place to hide and quickly.

  Under the bed was all he could think of.

  Two pairs of trainers entered the room.

  One of them disappeared immediately.

  Next thing Jimmy knew the bed frame almost collapsed on top of him. The metal and the floor sandwiched his head for a moment. Did it twice more as the mattress bounced.

  An almighty fart ripped into the silence somewhere just above his face.

  "Man. Couldn't you have done that on the way up?" Mikey asked.

  "And wake the baby? No bloody way."

  The odour filtered its way down. An odd mix of sweet roast meat and his dad's homebrew kit. Made Jimmy gag.

  "Jeez, man," Mikey said. "If that's what you get when you listen to your dub-step, you can keep it."

  "You should have come along," Kris said. "People in Edinburgh, man. They're different. We need to get a place there. Bigger pond, bigger fish."

  Sounded good to Jimmy. The sooner the guys got out of town the better. He hated the Ramsays. Hated them for hitting his sister. Hated them for ruining his face with their dog. When he was old enough, big enough, he was going to go after them.

  "We'll be able to afford it soon as the Open's over," Mikey said.

  "64 grand from the entries alone."

  "Reckon we'll double that with the betting."

  "Not forgetting ticket sales."

  "We'll end up in Morningside with all that dough."

  "Aye. Imagine walking right into the solicitors and handing over the cash."

  "How the hell will Gran sleep with nothing to hold up her mattress?"

  "We'll throw in a load of newspapers when we take the money. She'll hardly know the difference."

  It all went quiet for a while. The silence was broken by another of Kris' farts.

  "Game of footie?" Kris asked.

  "Yeah, load it up. Bags Scotland."

  "Bastard."

  Jimmy lay under the bed trying to ignore the stench. He heard the X-box loading up, the familiar World Cup theme playing.

  His heart pumped hard and his brain ticked away working on a plan that would piss the Ramsays off big time.

  ***

  The first day of the dog-fights and the place was packed.

  Working in the van meant Jimmy and Eddie had the best seats in the house. Money was rolling in. Owners handed over entry fees as their dog was introduced.

  When Jimmy wasn't serving booze, fags, a bit of the wacky stuff, crisps or ice cream, he was tracking the cash.

  The Ramsays threw the money around like it was bags of sweets. Passed it to Roly and Ryan from the Pans who took them out back for Romeo Thirston and Sean Mulligan.

  Jimmy presumed it went to Nan Ramsay's from there where it would lie, unattended, under her bed until the payout to the winner.

  Mulligan strutted like he ruled the roost, the fucker, his tracky bottoms and his cap dazzling white. Brand new or washed by his mum. How Jimmy would have loved to roll him in dirt. Instead, he did what he had to do and paid attention to what mattered.

  Before any fighting took place, each of the entries was put on display.

  The dogs, all shapes and sizes, were pure fierce. Had the barn buzzing
every time a new one came on parade. Clusters gathered around the bookies when they saw something they liked. It was like Musselburgh races without the horses or the toffs.

  "Hold the fort, Jimmy," Eddie said. "Need to get some pennies on." He took off his apron and threw it over the driver's seat.

  "Thought you were on Leo." Half of Tranent was backing the Ramsay's dog.

  "Sure," he said, "but there's nothing wrong with a little saver on the side. Just don't tell Kris."

  "Who you backing?"

  "Have to think owners, not dogs." Didn't mean anything to Jimmy. Surely the dogs were doing the fighting. "The Macmerrys know a bit, but the whisper is that the Con brothers are as slippery as lube."

  "Put me a tenner on your pick."

  "Big spender."

  "Call it twenty." Squandering his hard earned cash on those animals defeated the object of being there, even if Eddie was hot shit when it came to a gamble.

  It would be a different story when he took the Ramsay's cash, mind.

  ***

  Mikey took his time over washing Leo's opponent. Jimmy admired the way he went about it. There wouldn't be many who could handle a dog so well.

  He rubbed the sponge from neck to tail, talking to it all the while, making sure it was completely clean. Brutus it was called. Brutal Brutus.

  Behind the other line, a big guy from Belfast gave Leo rougher treatment. His Union Jack tats were faded. Made him look harder than if they shone brand new. On his right hand, dripping with water from the sponge, the letters P-A-T. Maybe he was worried he'd forget his name one day. Somehow he managed to keep his ciggy going all the way through the clean, his head tilted to keep the chimney of smoke from his eyes.

  When the dogs were passed back to their owners they bristled, showed their teeth and rolled their eyes.

  Jimmy felt his stomach roll.

  Mikey and Pat leant into their dogs, spoke right into their ears like they were talking dirty. Drove the animals crazy.

  Looked like it took all of the men's strength to hold them at scratch.

  And then Kris told them to let them go.

  Leo sprang at Brutus.