How a Gunman Says Goodbye Read online

  Now he’s sitting on the couch, in his usual position. Two more minutes have ticked by on the clock since he got here. This is starting to look hopeless. What is Frank doing, right now? Maybe he’s already dead. If he tried to do something, tried to make a run for it, they’ll have shot him. It’s not impossible that he might find a way to escape unaided. If Scott’s armed, but they still need Hutton to do the job, then Scott obviously doesn’t have the bottle to pull a trigger. That might give Frank the opportunity to do something. It isn’t much to cling to. The odds are that Frank’s alive, but not for much longer. They should leave him there to die. Horrible to think, but true. Young hates being in the club at this hour. It’s the silence. He feels exposed. You can hide behind people. You can hide behind noise. The only protection now is the darkness, and he’s in the light. A car door. Someone arriving outside. Wouldn’t usually hear that. So exposed.

  11

  The second Young said there was a problem, Jamieson was awake. He knows Young doesn’t exaggerate. One of the great things about him. He can sort out most trouble without ever involving Jamieson. The ideal right-hand man in that respect. He only makes a nuisance of himself if it’s big. This really is. Frank. One of the few he can respect. One of the few he really trusts. It was such a relief when Frank said he was fit to return to work. A good feeling to give him a job. To have him back. He won’t lose Frank. You judge a man by how he protects his people. The people who matter to him. He’ll go as far as he has to for Frank’s sake. Not just to impress others. It’s also to impress yourself. Convince yourself you have an organization that can rescue its own. No matter the trouble, you’re strong enough to sort it out. You can deliver another blow to Shug-bloody-Francis.

  This trouble with Shug has been going on way too long. People are talking. He hears the rumours that nobody wants to tell him about. They think he’s weak. They think Shug might have the better of him. He doesn’t. Jamieson knows that, and so, probably, does Shug. Shug’s bitten off more than he can chew. He manages to keep holding on by his fingernails. Bloody awkward target. A pest that’s difficult to swat away precisely because he is small. Most of his money is legit. Most of the people who work for him are outside the industry. Targeting them would bring greater police involvement, which he needs to avoid. Have to stamp on his criminal business. Have to see it to stamp on it. Tommy Scott. A public face. Make an example. That could still happen.

  Jamieson’s walking downstairs with his phone in his hand. His wife might have woken up beside him, but she didn’t show it. She won’t say a word. Won’t even ask him about it in the morning. She’s been in this life long enough to understand the value of silence. Away from the kids’ bedrooms, too. They don’t understand the value of silence. They’re old enough to understand the nature of their father’s work, but they mustn’t hear things they shouldn’t. Things they might repeat. The chore of fatherhood. Into the living room, closing the door, sitting on the couch. The first number he finds is Kenny McBride’s. Kenny’s his driver, has been for a few years. A good boy. A little nervy around people that matter, a little mouthy around those that don’t. There are still lessons for him to learn. Reliable, though, that’s the key.

  ‘Kenny,’ he’s saying quietly. ‘Get round to my house right away, pick me up, okay.’

  There’s a slight pause while Kenny processes the order. The latest in the chain to be woken. His mind moves at a gentle pace at the best of times. ‘Yes, on my way.’

  That’s it. That’s the conversation. Jamieson gives the order and Kenny accepts it without question. Jamieson never needs to justify himself. Kenny never needs detail. Others might ask for more. People like Frank and Calum. That’s because the work they do matters. It’s because they can afford to ask. They’ve earned the right to question. But drivers are ten a penny. Kenny’s expendable. Good drivers aren’t so common, but Kenny rarely needs to be good. Chauffeur and delivery boy aren’t taxing. Tonight may be a night when Kenny needs to prove himself. That’s something else to worry about.

  The job formed in Jamieson’s mind as soon as Young told him what had happened. He could picture it all. The way they’ll have to do it. They supply Calum with a gun because he won’t have time to go and get one himself. Kenny drives him to the flats. He leaves him there. Calum’s on his own. He gets to the flat and does what he does so well, with Scott and his bum-chum. He gets Frank out and they leave in Frank’s car. Without realizing it, Jamieson is slapping the seat of the couch. It’s a bloody nightmare job. He’s closing his eyes tight. Justify it to yourself. Go on. Find a justification. Anything. Reverse the roles. Would you send Frank in to rescue Calum? Would you take this risk with a friend’s life to rescue an employee? No, you hypocritical prick, you wouldn’t. You’ll risk an employee for a friend, though. Even if the employee’s more valuable.

  He’s standing up now, in the darkness. What would happen if you lost Frank? No, it’s still not justification enough to risk Calum. Frank’s not a young man. The end has been creeping up on him for a long time. He deserves a better end than this. That’s no justification, either. Most people deserve a better ending than the one they get. Certainly in this business. Very few get to pick the door they leave by. The thought of Frank lying on the floor of some shitty flat, with those bastards standing over him. Two little scumbags, goading him, thinking they’re better than him. The thought of Hutton putting a bullet in him. Dragging him out of the building and dumping his body somewhere. If it were Calum, Jamieson would leave him. It’s the risk a gunman takes. They don’t expect someone to come and rescue them if they botch it. They don’t expect people to risk their lives for them. They certainly shouldn’t.

  Sitting down again. Another minute wasted. Not too late to back out. Let Frank suffer his fate. The price of botching a job. It’s the same for everyone, why should he be different? It’s a hopeless mission. Calum would have to get into the building and up to the flat. High up. Scott lives near the top of a tower block; Jamieson remembers that from the research. Get inside. How do you do that? That would be his problem. Get in. Kill two men. Has to be both of them. One will have Frank’s gun. Him first. Then the other one. He’s a witness. He’s a danger. He’ll have to go. So a double hit. That’s rare. Raises eyebrows with the police. Gets them all excited. Invites trouble. Then Calum has to get Frank out of the building. What if he’s injured? What if his hip has gone again? Frank might be a dead weight. How does Calum get him safely out without being seen? Oh, it’s a shitty job to send one of your own into.

  But he will send Calum to do it. Jamieson knows it already. Has known it all along. Right now he’s sitting on the couch and he’s wasting time. He knows that, too. He knows he’s making Calum’s job harder with this pointless agonizing. There’s little enough time. He’s squandering a little of what there is. Just call Calum. Tell him nothing yet. Get him to the club. Too late for him to say or do anything when he’s there to collect the gun. He’s a pro. He’ll do the job. He’s one of the few capable of doing it well. Jamieson’s shaking his head. Calum will try to do the job. He’ll try to do it well. Another fucking cripple. Frank with his hip, Calum with his hands. Stabbed by the now-silenced Glen Davidson. Calum handled that well. Hasn’t done a job in the months since. Calum doesn’t want to work for an organization–that’s been obvious from the start. Jamieson has suspected for a few weeks that Calum’s swinging the lead. Time to change that.

  12

  It only takes one ring to wake Calum. The last man woken on this wakeful night. He’s never been a good sleeper. Not because he’s waiting for a call–he never worked so often that he got regular calls. It’s just his nature. Cautious, unsettled, preferring to live in a small, controllable world. His sleeping is worse now than ever. He’s been waiting for a call like this. Knowing it would come. Dreading it. He’s supposed to be a professional. He’s supposed to set standards for himself. Make the sacrifices. He’s made an unprofessional error. The error is lying next to him. She’s asleep. Calum’s reachi
ng out and grabbing his mobile from the bedside table. At a glance he can see that it’s not Young’s number. Young calls if there’s a job to do. It’s a local number he doesn’t recognize. That could be good or bad.

  He’s already out of bed by the time the phone starts its third ring. He’s answered it, but he’s saying nothing until he’s out of the room.

  ‘Hello,’ he’s saying. He’s trying not to whisper. There shouldn’t be anyone in his flat that he needs to hide this conversation from. A good gunman is available to talk freely whenever the call comes. Calum’s uncomfortable, trying to cover up his error. He’s along the corridor and into the kitchen now.

  ‘Calum, this is Peter. I need you to come to the club. Right away. I mean right away.’

  There is no answer to that. Jamieson can’t possibly expect him to say anything. He tells you in no uncertain terms to come. Peter Jamieson is the boss; it’s his organization. You do what he tells you, or there are consequences. He tells you to come, you come. You don’t have the freedom to refuse.

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘Good,’ Jamieson’s saying, sounding a little depressed as he hangs up.

  Calum ought to be worrying about this job. No other thought should intrude upon him at this moment. A middle-of-the-night emergency. He’s hardly thinking about it. It hasn’t struck him yet how odd it was that Jamieson called. In normal circumstances, that would be his first thought. Why Jamieson, and not Young? It’s always Young. It’s part of Young’s job. It’s obviously something worth being concerned about. If he was thinking clearly, he might have thought that Young himself was in some sort of trouble. He hates emergency jobs anyway. They’re rushed. Mistakes are easy and sometimes inevitable. He’s a planner. Meticulous and patient. Slow, some would say. Let them say it. His quality comes from his patience. He’s not even thinking about that, though. He’s thinking about her instead.

  Her name’s Emma. Emma Munro. In a sense, she’s Jamieson’s fault. She’s awake now. She’s put the lamp on and she’s sitting up in bed. He’s in the bedroom doorway. She’s rather short, but she carries it well. Short black hair, round face, a stud in her nose that he finds cute, and a tattoo on her wrist that he hates. He hasn’t told her yet that he finds tattoos vulgar. It hasn’t felt like the right time. The right time to pick a fight. It’s unusual for Calum. The whole scenario is. Emma’s the first proper girlfriend he’s had in nearly ten years. He’s always held women at arm’s length. They don’t rush towards him often; he’s, at best, a below-average-looking guy. Any time they’ve threatened to get close he’s found a way of repelling them. Like telling them he finds their choice of body art vulgar and unattractive. Pick a little fight. Let it burn out of control. Let them walk away because he’s unreasonable. You have to do it early in a relationship, though, before they get forgiving. He should do it now. Do it. Pick a fight.

  It’s a warm little flat; she’s pushed the duvet down. She’s wearing a vest that’s too small for her, and her underpants. She’s yawning. It’s the second time this week that she’s stayed the night. He likes it–let’s not pretend otherwise. He likes it a lot. It feels normal. It feels the way he assumes all normal relationships feel. Can’t have normal. Not with his job. He’s not normal. She’s a liability. There’s no way of doing the job without her finding out what he’s up to. Or at least realizing that he’s up to something. He can’t have that. No good gunman takes that risk. It’s why most of the good ones are single. Why most of them aren’t a kick in the pants off being loners. It was stupid letting her get so close. It’s weak not to push her away. It would be doing her a favour. She shouldn’t be dragged into his life. She’s only here because of Jamieson. Well, George can take some of the blame.

  George Daly is a good friend, a good guy. It’s not like him to turn up out of the blue and start trying to play best buddies, though. Calum has carefully created a life for himself where nobody turns up unexpectedly. A reliable, solid sort of life. Then George shows up. Calum had just moved from the safe house to a new flat. Jamieson pulled strings on his behalf; he was getting a nice little flat, decent sort of area. Nothing too fancy, he didn’t want to stand out. Jamieson was making every effort to win him round. Iron fist in a velvet glove routine. Doing plenty of nice things to make you want to work for him, now and then dropping in a reminder that you have no choice. Making Calum realize that he’s part of the organization now. Jamieson has a good relationship with Frank MacLeod, but he knows Frank won’t last forever. Needs a long-term replacement, needs backup. That’s Calum’s role. But Jamieson’s obviously worked out that Calum doesn’t want that role, so the pressure’s on. Send George round to pal up with him, make him feel closer to the organization. George works for Jamieson too–his best muscle. Entangle Calum in the Jamieson world. Create emotional bonds.

  They were friends already. They’ve done jobs together. Lewis Winter and Glen Davidson. Two in quick succession. George is always good company, so Calum agreed to go to a club with him. Not into clubbing. Never dances. Sweaty, unpleasant places, full of sweaty, unpleasant people. George was out there, throwing shapeless shapes and drawing attention. Calum hung tight by the bar. Two girls, young, student types. A boringly pretty blonde and an entertainingly pretty brunette. They were right next to him, but Calum said nothing. Just sipped at his orange juice. No alcohol, ever. Keep control. The new flat, being a part of an organization now, it was different. Made him willing to do things a little differently, but not a lot differently. No getting blitzed and chatting up random women in bars. Then George came back.

  ‘Ah, I hope Calum’s being keeping you entertained,’ he grinned, sticking out a hand towards the blonde first. ‘My name’s George.’

  It hadn’t occurred to George that Calum wouldn’t have spoken to them, and nobody ever corrected him. The four of them stuck together that evening. George and the blonde–Anna or Annie something-or-other–disappeared together at the end of the evening. Calum didn’t make a move. He was saying goodbye when Emma gave him her number and asked for his.

  ‘You really are the strong silent type,’ she said with a mocking smile. It was cute.

  ‘Mostly just silent,’ he shrugged. He gave her his number. Just seemed rude not to. She called the next day. He answered. Now here they are. Behaving like a normal couple, three weeks later. It’s just fun. Good, innocent, dangerous fun. Innocent for her. Dangerous for him. Maybe dangerous for her too, if the wrong people find out. He’s known a return to work was coming. That butcher with a medical certificate and a pill problem that works for Jamieson was round to check on him a few days ago. Sent by Jamieson, no doubt. Said the stab wounds to each hand and the right arm had healed nicely. A little healing still to do in the left hand, but mostly fine. Davidson’s knife shouldn’t leave permanent damage. This call’s been coming since then.

  She’s only twenty-one. Nine years his junior. Still a student. Finishing her last year of politics at Strathclyde University. Finished in three months. She’s said she’ll probably end up in Edinburgh or London. Seems to think she has an in with a research organization that’ll take her on. Unlikely she’ll stay in Glasgow. That would solve it. A short-term relationship, fun while it lasts. Three months is still too long to hide a secret like this. If she doesn’t already know. She’s a smart girl; she might have worked it out already. Not as serious as Calum, but every bit as sharp. He’s spun a yarn about his hand injuries. Said he worked for a printing company and the machinery chewed his hands. Said he’s not sure he has a job to go back to. She nodded along, and hasn’t said anything about it since.

  She looks adorable, sitting there. She must know something. Must at least know that he’s been lying to her about working for a printer. Her friend had a night of fun with George, hasn’t seen him since. How much did the friend glean from George? He wouldn’t have told her anything incriminating, he’s not so daft, but he might have given something away. If she knows and she’s turning a blind eye, then that’s positive. She won’t know th
at he’s a gunman. If she can live with the fact that he’s a criminal, then it would seem okay. But it’s not. He’s not concerned about her finding out and dumping him. His concern is much more selfish than that. He’s concerned that she might find something that gets him into trouble. That she might make his job harder. That she might be the very thing that trips him up.

  Hard enough doing a job you don’t want to do, without having her there. Having to think about her, factor her in to every decision. How to avoid her knowing anything she shouldn’t know. Tell her to go. Just tell her it’s over. It was a bit of fun and it’s run its course. He’s looking at her, and he’s hating himself. Too weak to tell her. Enjoying her too much. It’s unprofessional. Hard to admit, but he wanted this. He wanted her. Not specifically her, but a girlfriend, someone to be with. Loneliness was catching up with him. That’s why he let this happen. She’s not Jamieson’s fault or George’s fault. She’s his own fault. He chose to let things happen that he should have stopped. A year ago he would have stopped it. He hasn’t sent her away. Hard to admit, but he’s unprofessional. First time that’s happened.