The Word Cloud

Chapter 1 – the homecoming

Aulay Mackay opened the door and stepped into a blend of stale beer, old men and fried eggs. The Stushie, a pub on Glasgow’s south-side, served all-day breakfast. In the gloom were two booths, one for Eddie Curren’s inner-circle the other for hangers-on.

“Hi, Uncle Eddie and you other wasters.”

Eddie’s disciples gave Aulay a nod or a smile.

“Here,” said Eddie patting the seat next to him. “You sit here, Aulay.”

“No’ today, Eddie. I’m off to the bookies. You fancy a bet put on?”

“I’m all right the-now. Put a tenner on Bloody Nose in the 3:15 at Ayr. She’s worth a sniff, son.”

Eddie Curren downed his whisky, pulled in his seventy-three year old frame and eased his way round the booth. He patted his pocket for the makings.

“Let’s light a fire, Aulay.”

Eddie signalled for another round of drinks before bursting into the daylight. It was nine o’clock in the morning. Aulay and Eddie rolled their own.

The Stushie sat alone, her neighbours bulldozed to make way for the M74 as it sliced through Polmadie on its way to merge with the M8 in the city centre. The pub’s survival was down to an architectural quirk above the false ceiling; it gave The Stushie a Grade-A listing and the new motorway had to move sideways. The surrounding tenement streets, Aulay’s streets, were gone, replaced by concrete and tarmac which let the wind blow.

“How you finding being back then?” asked Eddie as they huddled together to light up.

“No’ bad. Everything’s the same but different, you know?”

“No, son. Last time I was abroad... was for your Uncle Harry’s wedding... in Edinburgh.”

Aulay left Glasgow on his eighteenth birthday. He joined the army. Seven years on, and a civilian, he was still taking orders. Aulay didn’t like it but the Spooks had him by the short and curlies.

Both men watched the nameless commuters on the new motorway. Sometimes the cars moved.

Eddie took a long draw. “You getting anywhere with what I asked?”

“If Kenny Finlayson’s making any moves, I’ve no’ seen them.”

“I don’t trust the bastard, Aulay. He’s been sniffing around too long and she’s still young yet, doesn’t understand these things. I can’t let her-”

One of Eddie’s cronies sauntered along pulling his fags out. Eddie raised an eyebrow and the man turned into The Stushie with a, “See youz inside, eh?”

“I can’t let her do this,” Eddie went on. “She’d never live it down.”

Aulay thought [ I’d ] should replace the [ She’d ] in that last statement. Eddie was pasting woodchip over his own cracks.

“When I hear something, Eddie, I’ll let you know.”

“I know, son, but... I’m no’ a good worrier.”

A trace of menace? The stakes were high. Even for Aulay who was one of the True-Ones. Long past the deference of Eddie’s followers, Aulay looked him square in the face.

“Anything at all, I’ll give you a bell.”

“I know, son.”

“Stay sane, Eddie.”

Aulay headed for the bookmakers. Eddie was wrong. Bloody Nose was a nag. His money was going on Rotund Relative, a dead cert.

***

It was early evening when Aulay followed a black Citroen into one of those oddly shaped developments which had sprung up since he’d been away. Pale coloured bricks, a mix of expensive houses and flats with ordered parking behind shiny metal railings. When Kenny Finlayson entered a house in the middle of a terrace, Aulay slipped his car into a space down the street and dialled Eddie’s number.

Three hours later it was getting dark when Eddie’s Chrysler 220 swung in and launched into the back of the Citroen with a good thump. The little French car leapt forward, its rear end crumpling. The lull lasted a second or two before other cars, as if in sympathy for one of their own, joined the Citroen’s wailing. A concerned member of the public made his way over as Eddie got out, leaned on his unmarked bonnet and lit up. Twenty feet from the Chrysler the man coughed, checked his watch and walked away. Glaswegians can sense a ‘situation’ in their sleep.

Time ticked on and nothing happened. Aulay wondered if the secret lovers had sneaked out the back door.

A kafuffle at the corner; two heavies dragged along a dishevelled Kenny Finlayson. Kenny was being levered into the back of the Chrysler when a terrace door opened. Shaz Curren, hair a shambles, stockings torn, blouse buttons in the wrong sequence, tottered down the steps waving a pretty .22 special at her dad.

“Leave Kenny alone you auld bastard, what gives you the right?”

Eyes closed, Shaz fired off a couple. There was the high-pitched crack you get from small guns. Eddie didn’t move. Shaz fired a few more. After a second hollow click, Aulay watched his first girlfriend drop the gun, sit on the pavement and howl. Sliding down the seat, Aulay reversed out and drove away. He never saw Eddie fall.

***

When Shaz made her entrance into the world, Aulay was two days old and they shared a cot in the maternity ward of the Southern General. They grew up in the same tenement, glued together until Shaz went to University and Aulay took the Queen’s shilling.

His first trips home were intense, a mix of sex and clinging on. Then, the day before shipping out for his second stint in Iraq, Aulay phoned his mum and she dropped the big one.

“Oh, and dear, Shaz is seeing a nice boy from Yooni, Francis something, I think, from Coatbridge.”

Aulay sank into a dark hole where Francis-Shite-Bastard threw a bright light onto his last home leave. Shaz’s mood, she’d been distant, different. What happened? At first Aulay blamed the barren waste of the text message. Going on-line had worked for a while but there’s no spark when you know the person on the other side of ether-ville. The phone sex had been great until the novelty wore off, after a fortnight. In the depths, Aulay remembered what the old hands had said. A long distance love affair takes work. What made him think Shaz would sit by the fire while he played the hero?

For the next few years Aulay didn’t return to an empty Glasgow. He spent his leaves drinking vodka as he chased Shaz look-a-likes round the Costa del Sol, or was it the Costa Brava?

After a dodgy tour in Afghanistan, he took the three months they gave him and crossed America by iPod. The New York shop assistant recognised his type and pre-loaded the pocket juke-box with American-sad-classics. The songs reeked of longing, loss and betrayal. He wasn’t alone. Still, it was ages before he stopped putting the light out with, ‘night night, Shaz-babe’.

When he came home this time, he found Shaz and her current Shite-Bastard in trouble with her dad. Not where he’d recommend anyone spend too much time.

***

Aulay, dressed in black, walked through Craigton Cemetery; two square miles of Victorian decay where the older gravestones lie buried in the weeds. He knew every road, track and path. It’s as close to ‘countryside’ as he’d ever got. A playground until he and Shaz were old enough to appreciate its isolation. Happy days.

“Hi Shaz, how you doin’?”

“No’ bad, Aulay. Howz you?”

“Fine. Good day for it, eh?”

“Aye.”

The greeting manoeuvres were a struggle and the stinging sleet didn’t help. They were standing by Kenny Finlayson’s grave in the grizzled scene from countless films, or filums as they say in Glasgow. A gray slab for a sky with two gravediggers huddled under a tree, eager to fill in the hole and get to the pub. The smell of fresh soil drifted from under green plastic sheets.

When the sobs came, Aulay wasn’t surprised, Shaz’d been busy. Three days after she’d shot her dad in the leg, her boyfriend died in a hit and run, apparently. Hospital bed or not, Eddie Curren could still organise things.

The sleet changing direction to horizontal reduced the mourners to Aulay, Shaz and Irene Finlayson, Kenny’s stricken mum. The story goes that the teenage Irene went camping and hooked up with an American sailor out of the Holy Loch. Introduced to Jack Daniels, Irene woke up in her tent naked, sore and no Leroy. Nine months later, young Kenny arrived.

“He wasn’t a bad boy,” said Shaz.

Aulay knew Kenny Finlayson through conversations. He drank in the Pandora, did a bit of trading at the Barras Market and could plaster a fine wall, for cash.

“When Da’ first found out he hauled Kenny in...” Shaz paused for more sniffling. “But Kenny wouldn’t listen, figured Da’ was ancient, past it. I tried to end it, believe me, but Kenny kept coming.”

Aulay ignored the pun.

Shaz was looking at him but seeing something else.

“He wasn’t blazin’ saddles, Aulay, in or out the scratcher. He was cute and good fun and... know what I mean?”

Aulay nodded. Shaz was enjoying Kenny until something better turned up. He’d been guilty of doing the same but Shazs are hard to find.

“I should have tried harder,” she said. “A part of me used Kenny, me with my educated liberal bollocks. I used him to stick two fingers up at Da’ and... fuck me, Aulay, I got the poor bugger killed.”

More sobs came. Aulay felt a bit guilty himself, but hey, he’d get over it.

Kenny didn’t deserve to die. Looking at Shaz, you could see why he’d risk it. Think Uma Thurman with or without the sword.

***

Aulay and Shaz did all their early fumbling together. Not just sex, all the adolescent stuff, booze, drugs, theft and extortion. They kicked vandalism after one night, neither of them got it. The thieving was small time, shoplifting mostly and that stopped when they started working in Woollies at the weekends, where stealing was a perk.

The extortion was more of a scam. Shaz developed early and they’d charge 50p for a look, a quid if you wanted her to jiggle them about. A fanny flash? Never.

There was the one exception. Johnnie Smote saved up for months and Aulay had to agree. For the big bucks he’d a sneaky suspicion Shaz’d go behind his back.

A trembling Smote turned up at the usual place. The tenement’s bin-store didn’t have a roof but the walls were high enough to prevent any gawkers from the third floor looking in for free. It didn’t smell too bad.

“Right, Smote.” Aulay had authority in his recently broken voice. “Here’s the rules. You need to stand there and no’ move... nothing.”

“For forty quid I want ten seconds worth,” squeaked The Smote.

“Fu-”

Shaz broke in. “Smote, you’ll get three seconds.”

With The Smote struggling and tears nearby, Shaz switched to a softer tone.

“Kneel down, Smote. You’ll get a better angle.”

If Shaz’d told The Smote to eat his thumb, he’d have asked, ‘Which one?’

Shaz surprised them both when she turned, lifted her short skirt and bent over. Aulay watched The Smote explode before the gateway to heaven swung into view.

***

Smiling at the memory wasn’t the most diplomatic thing to do at a graveside. Shaz elbowed him away.

“You findin’ anythin’ funny here, Aulay?”

“Sorry, Shaz, got stuck in a memory there. Look, let’s get out of here before we drown.”

The sleet had matured into a biblical deluge. Shaz waved at the unseeing Irene Finlayson and they left Kenny’s mum alone with her grief.

“You fancy a wee drink then?”

They’d reached the cemetery gates, by the war memorial where Aulay used to chase the screeching Shaz to the top. His mouth was dry. Would she?

Her green eyes looked up. “I was sloshed when I shot Da’, you must have heard?”

Aulay nodded.

“I wanted Kenny to go out on a high, had it all planned, our last time together. We drank champagne... the big cheerio. I borrowed a house from this girl at work...”

Aulay waited.

“How the fuck did Da’ find us?”

Aulay tucked his guilt behind shrugging shoulders.

“My brain’s gone, Aulay. Let’s get a bottle and go to your place. We’ll shag for Scotland.”

How could he refuse and anyway, he was safe. Aulay was white.

Chapter 2 – Departure Lounge

It was Aulay’s first time seeing an old Uncle Eddie. The striped pyjamas hung loose, his skin didn’t fit and looked pasty. Eddie was dying from cancer, walking dead before Shaz put a bullet in his thigh. He was in command of the hospital ward though. When Aulay arrived, four or five limpets scurried back to their beds.

What do the young and alive say to the old and dying?

"Hi, Eddie. Howz you?”

“I’m fucked, son... bet the 2nd favourite in a one horse race.”

The eyes still had it. On the visitor’s chair was a Daily Snot, open at today’s race meetings.

“Want a bet put on, Eddie? I’ve got a tip for the-” the blood left Aulay’s face.

“Christ, Aulay, you’re sharp the-day.”

Eddie tried a guffaw but it fell short. The tubes up his nose didn’t help. After the spasm, he nudged a finger at the newspaper where Aulay’s fuck-up was underlined in red.

- Nr 6, running in the 4.15 at Doncaster. The even money favourite - Daughter’s Revenge. –

“She’s a shoo-in, son,” said Eddie. “Put your house on it. Get my wallet.” Eddie grinned as Aulay took the twenty. “On the nose, mind.”

“Sure, Eddie.”

Awkward places, hospitals. The act of trying to be normal prevents it. In the silence, Aulay wondered if pregnant pauses were longer in the maternity ward.

“Pull the screen round, Aulay.”

Before the thin curtain hid them from view a nurse caught Aulay’s eye. She gave him a knowing smile. When he turned back, Eddie had the makings out and was rolling a fat one.

“You can’t smoke-”

“Wheesht, son.” Eddie slipped his tongue along the dark liquorice paper. “It’s all fine.”

After lighting up and savouring the opening draw, Eddie motioned at the bedside cabinet.

“The nurses get one-a-day.”

In the drawer was a healthy stack of £10 Marks & Spencer’s vouchers.

“It’s no’ bribery, Aulay, it’s a present. Nurses are allowed wee presents.”

Nurses on three shifts added up. “Expensive habit.”

“Och, money’s the least of my worries.” Eddie held out his tobacco tin. “You fancy one?”

“I’m ok, stoked up before I came in. How many fags you allowed?”

“One in-between Doctor’s rounds and...” Eddie twirled the lit end. “...I think night-shift Betty fancies me ‘cos...” He paused to purse his lips in a kiss before exhaling. “... she wakes me up before breakfast for a quickie.”

Eddie sniggered and Aulay joined in. A good smoker, Eddie puffed with style.

Using a thermos for an ashtray, Eddie dropped the smouldering end in before screwing both lids on. After spraying around the stuff you see in posh toilets, he winked and lowered his head onto the pillow.

“I’m going to savour this one, Aulay. I’ll be bursting into different flames soon enough.”

Did he mean hell or the on-coming cremation?

A few minutes later, Eddie stirred. “Bottom shelf, Aulay. The black bag, take it.”

“What?”

“Christ, son. I’m cackin’ it here and you’re messin’ about.”

Eddie fiddled with his insides and coughed up a couple of weak ones. Aulay wiped the spume with a paper hankie. There’s a box of hankies by every hospital bed, like a mini-tombstone.

“You remember when Mrs Eddie went, Aulay?”

“Aye.”

“Good do. Fair old turn out, eh?”

Did Eddie think he’d match it? No chance. Half the south-side turned out for Mrs Eddie. A minister and a priest did the honours before the police turned up, to divert the traffic.

“I’d do well to match that,” said Eddie, “more there than at Gory’s send-off.”

This’ll do, thought Aulay, the days of yore, familiar ground.

“The Polmadie’s first Top-Banana was a proper hard-man, no messing with Gory, or his team. Not like these days, son.”

Eddie joined The Polmadie in the fifties when being a hoodlum carried some community spirit and the Top-Banana lived in your street. As Eddie warbled through a few favourites, Aulay nodded at all the right bits. From sitting on his knee to rolling cigarette lessons, Aulay had been brought up on Eddie’s ‘in his prime’ stories. He’d learned a lot, which was the plan.

After a bit, the cheery reminiscing dipped. “I’ve always regretted not being there. I could maybe have done something.”

Unconscious in the dentist’s chair, Eddie was getting root-canal treatment when ‘Gory’ McGlorry was gunned down in 1989.

After a suitable pause to respect the memory of the divine Gory, Eddie carried on.

“When Mad-Rab took over, he ran The Polmadie with his fists. We were a tight ship though, son.”

“How come he ended up in the Clyde then?”

“You no’ hear about it, Aulay?”

“Chinese whispers.”

Aulay lied to keep Eddie talking. Eddie was slipping away but some supernatural nonsense clung on, pumping up the thing called hope.

“Well, son, Mad-Rab went mental. Two broken bodies wasn’t enough and he picked on the wrong bloke to be number three.”

Eddie slumped a bit so Aulay gave him a prod. “He went for Chancer MacKinnon?”

“Aye... and after pulling the knife out of Mad-Rab’s chest, this Chancer geezer declares himself Top-Banana. You know him, Aulay?”

“No’ really.”

Regime-change in Glasgow gangs doesn’t happen often. The Polmadie were now run by a younger generation, Aulay’s generation.

“You heard if the new Banana’s made many changes, son?”

Retired and three generations removed, Eddie was still Polmadie down to his leather soled brogues which were peeking out, optimistically, from under the bed.

“I’ve heard the new Banana’s thing is computers and stuff.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. ”And?”

“He’s I.T.’d the Tanning shops, the Fat Controller Ice Cream Vans and The Bull’s Security. The pubs and bookies are said to be next.”

“What about the Depot, anything happening there? Have things changed?”

There was a trace of desperation in Eddie’s voice, which was fresh.

“Christ, Eddie. No-one’s going to talk to me about the Depot, more than a life’s worth.”

The Depot was The Polmadie’s drug distribution centre where the smack goes out and the cash comes in.

“Aye, s’pose you’re right, anyway, not enough time to make big changes there.”

Eddie looked exhausted. Lying back, he squirmed a bit before launching into more stories from the good old days. He stopped halfway through the Schnell / German Tourist story, which is a peach.

“Howz Sharon doin’, Aulay?”

“No’ too bad, Eddie, bit stressed out.”

“Was she hooked on that nigg-”

Even Eddie understood the potential fallout in a place like this.

“Kenny Finlayson had his hooks in,” said Aulay, “Shaz didn’t and tried to end it. If you’d left it a wee while-”

“Shite. I left it twice already. Christ, if-” a cough developed into a bout of wheezing.

Hospitals put your inadequacy in the spotlight. Now, if Eddie had a shrapnel wound, Aulay could...

When he resurfaced, Eddie’s voice was weak. “I did it for you, Aulay.”

Aulay leaned in. “Did what, Eddie?”

“That black bastard Finlayson’s out the way now, son. You’re the only one for Sharon. She was a shambles after you left... first thing she did? Go out with a fenian for Christ’s sake.”

Eddie went crimson. A hefty coughing and spluttering developed into a beep-beep-beep from one of the machines. Before the cavalry arrived, Aulay managed to slip a half bottle of whisky into the voucher drawer. The nurses would understand. The incoming medics politely shoved him to the side and the curtain swished round a purple Eddie, a black doctor and two brown nurses.

Aulay paced the corridor. Eddie had Kenny killed so he and Shaz could...? His cold sweat said yes. A nurse appeared after an age. Another hospital rule, time slows down.

“Mr Curren is heavily sedated... he’ll be out... until morning.”

She kept her look of concern from sliding into pity, a pro.

Aulay walked through the labyrinth that is the Victoria Infirmary. It took him ten minutes to reach a place he could self harm, a retired bus shelter. He rolled one, lit up and blew adolescent smoke rings. His visit to the grim reaper’s departure lounge had decided it, he needed a new plan. The old plan, to join The Polmadie using Uncle Eddie as a reference, was at death’s door.

Why the Security Services wanted him to infiltrate the Glasgow drug gang was a mystery to Aulay. Small potatoes in this era of global terrorism, weren’t they?

A doctor appeared asking for a light. He introduced himself; Hamish MacCrimmon from the Isle of Skye. Aulay didn’t believe him until he produced his driving licence. He had to ask.

“You play the pipes?”

“Och, aye.”

“Fantastic.”

They smoked in silence until the doctor answered his phone and prattled away in gibberish Aulay assumed was Gaelic. Whatever the lingo, he was in love with the caller.

The wee black bag didn’t weigh much.

Back at his bedsit, the first floor cupboard of a big sandstone villa he shared with fourteen other loners, Aulay flipped the latch to release his bed from daytime vertical to night-time horizontal. The cupboard was six feet across, fourteen long and temporary. The rent was minimal and he didn’t have much stuff. There was a Baby Belling to reheat any leftover take-away and no TV. Aulay’s years away had stifled any longing for crap telly.

He picked up his book, a Tom Clancy. There’s a lot of hanging about in the army and Aulay had got into the reading habit. He’d read anything, a list, a thesis, an instruction manual.

Uncle Eddie’s revelation and the look on the face of the ICU nurse; ‘you’ve seen the last of Mr Curren’, joined forces. Unable to concentrate, Aulay left the cupboard and walked along Shields Road. He needed a drink.

Pollokshields is split in two. One side of Shields Road has square blocks of three-storey tenements with a large Pakistani population. The shops are colourful, smell great and are full of stuff Aulay didn’t know anything about. To the west are long wide avenues lined with grand mansions built when Glasgow was the Empire’s second city. The further along you go, the more likely the monoliths are still single family homes where the seriously wealthy live.

Marooned at one end of the bar, Aulay was on his sixth Heineken when Eileen McCloy appeared at his shoulder.

“Aulay MacKay, well, well. Here’s a delightful surprise.”

If a cheroot rolled on the humid thigh of a fat bird is your bag, Eileen McCloy will fire your torpedoes. Aulay blamed the lager for mixing his phora-mets.

“Eileen, howz you, doll?”

“I’m fair to fabulous and all the better for seeing you, handsome. A wee drink, Aulay?”

“Sure, a shite & mackay.”

On the wrong side of fifty, Eileen didn’t hide her assets. Her chest announced her presence before she entered the building and straining thigh-high leather boots drew the eye up to where fantasies lived. Eileen McCloy could round up her followers with a whisper and one of the faithful, the tittle-tattle had, was Eddie Curren.

They were in Sammy Dows, a pub taking up the ground floor of a tenement in Strathbungo. Even after a fresh coat of paint, Sammy’s looked tired, a pub with a hangover. There were a few regulars in, some Aulay knew, others he was on nodding terms with. He arrived wearing his Solo-Flight badge so everyone gave him a wide berth. Eileen ignored badges. They moved to one of the window seats, a gamble ‘cos it wasn’t unknown for a brick to come flying through from an ejected punter. After the weather, the football, the state of the union and a couple of house whiskies, Eileen got round to it.

“Eddie’s a goner then, I hear?”

“Yep, auld bastard’s riddled with it, Eileen.”

“You’ll have something comin’ to you then?”

Aulay supposed he would.

“What you planning to do with it, Aulay?”

“With what, the family estate?”

Aulay laughed until he noticed Eileen wasn’t.

“You’ve no’ looked in the black bag yet?”

This was the genius of Heineken mixed with blended. Crap lager and cheap whisky swim together but not too synchronised. Eileen sussed out the path Aulay was on when he threw back his whisky. She scribbled something on the back of a business card, handed it over and stood up.

“Come and see us on Tuesday night, Aulay.”

“Us?”

“The Strathbungo Cellists. Home safe, now.”

“Shhhure thing, doll.”

Too far gone to read, Aulay stuffed the card into his jeans and slipped back into the warm slime of self pity. His return to Glasgow was going really well. Uncle Eddie would soon be joining Kenny Finlayson in the hereafter and Shaz Curren still pushed every button. ‘It’s only a comfort shag,’ she’d said after their post funeral session. He’d texted since, keeping it light, no replies.

The hole Aulay fell into when Shaz dumped him was deep. In the years since, he’d only managed to peek over the top a couple of times.

Aulay left Sammy’s waving at Auld Neil and John-the-Taxi. There are four John regulars in Sammy’s, hence the need to differentiate. Auld Neil isn’t old; he’s just older than Young Neil. Rowing out the door, Aulay barged into the puffing Wee John, nearly knocking the little guy into the gutter. He was well on the way to Amarillo.

Aulay woke with a pounding head and a mouth like an Airdrie butcher’s. After scratching various bits of himself, he coughed up a little phlegm, took a swig from a half empty Irn Bru tin, rummaged for the makings, rolled a thin one, flicked the Zippo, drew in a good belt of Golden Virginia and coughed for five minutes. He looked in the mirror at the result of the previous evening’s intake. He needed stronger tobacco.

After a shower in the communal bathroom, Aulay spent the next eight hours delving through the black bag’s contents. Mobile on silent, he ate a tin of corned-beef with Jaffa-cakes. Uncle Eddie and The Strathbungo Cellists had the mother of all scams mapped out. A raid on The Polmadie’s Depot. It was beautiful, poetic and fuckin’ crazy.

Searching for cigarette papers, Aulay found Eileen’s card.

The Fotheringay, Tue @ 8pm. Come to the back door.

He had five days and a missed call, it was Shaz.

A sweating Aulay dialled the number. His insides squeaked when Shaz answered.

Chapter 3

US Military Compound, Baghdad – 9 months earlier.

“Mr MacKay?” A British Army Major put his hand through the bars of Aulay’s cell. “My name is Storm.”

They shook hands. The Major’s eyes were prepared but Aulay didn’t care. The cell door slid open.

“Have a seat, Hurricane.”

A calm Major Storm sat on the bunk. Aulay sat on the toilet. The cell door shut with a clunk and the key turned. The sound was getting familiar. Aulay was staring at a long stretch in an Iraqi jail for something he didn’t do. What he did do was capable of sending him away for a long time too.

After asking about his general health and wellbeing, Hurricane got down to it.

“So, Aulay, tell me your story.”

First name terms already. Young for a Major, Hurricane was bright or had blue blood. Aulay hoped he was bright.

“Before we get to that,” said Aulay, “I’m a civilian now, what are you doing here?”

After serving five years, Aulay had left the army to join the private sector. A bodyguard in Iraq earned more in a month than a British Army sergeant did in a year. He had other reasons for leaving but money was the simple answer.

“Aulay, you are a British citizen charged with the murder of a US citizen, in Iraq. We want to ensure nothing is overlooked.”

“Who’s we?”

Hurricane ignored the question. “Before his death, did your employer mention his illegitimate son?”

“Maybe,” said Aulay hiding his surprise at the question.

Aulay’s last boss, Coulfield Waincross III, an American industrialist bidding for the multi-billion dollar contracts to rebuild Iraq, had been shot in the head by a sniper. Married with two daughters, Coulfield hailed from the US Bible-Belt. News of an illegitimate son from his student days would have created more than a few ripples. Coulfield had political ambitions.

“Do you know the boy’s name?” asked Hurricane.

Aulay shrugged. His American interrogators had questioned him for days and Coulfield’s bastard hadn’t got a mention.

“Aulay, I’m trying to ascertain the extent of your relationship with Mr Waincross. It may help with... your situation.”

Aulay’s situation was dire and Coulfield was dead. What the hell.

“The boy’s eighteen now and doesn’t know who his father is,” said Aulay. “His mother receives a monthly cheque and will do ‘til Todd’s twenty five. Mr Waincross set up a Trust. Todd believes his father died doing Government work, to explain the cheques.”

Clasping his hands together, Hurricane settled back, he was staying. Aulay’s tension level went up a notch. He’d passed a test.

“Aulay, please start at the beginning.”

He did.

***

For the post of Coulfield Waincross III’s bodyguard, Aulay was interviewed in Los Angeles where the Waincross family had one of their homes. Aulay had to prove he could mix in swell company and didn’t dribble at table, for a week.

The first attempt on Coulfield’s life took place at Gio’s, a restaurant perched high above the Pacific with armed security at the electric gates and an elevator from reception to the eating terrace. Brutally expensive, Gio’s boasted a clientele in the upper strata of L.A. society. Charlotte, Mrs Waincross III, liked to mix with people from the media and Hollywood. There was a uniform for these occasions. Jeans and sneakers for the Celebs, silk suits and slicked back hair for the hoodlums. Add shades for their bodyguards.

Allowed a place at an adjoining table, Aulay sat with Sal, an ex US Marine protecting a Mob family having a birthday lunch. They exchanged Middle East stories.

“You know I hate this place,” said Coulfield.

The tables were close. Aulay could follow the family chit-chat.

“Now darling, it’s a family day,” said Charlotte without a pause in her sweep of the room.

A more detailed scan would take place under the illusion of eating something. Aulay soon worked out that eating is what most people in these places spent a fortune not doing.

“Ciao, Giuseppe,” called Coulfield.

“Buongiorno, Signore Waincross”

“Usuale per me, Giuseppe”

“Pizza vesuvius con supplementare jalapeno, e chilli olio?”

“Si, grazie.”

“Coulfield?” said Charlotte. “When you have pizza the girls insist on it. You know their dietician has imposed a regime.”

“Do you think I give a shit what... whatever his name is, says?”

“We need to ensure they have a proper diet, Maurice says…”

“Fuck Maurice, sorry, you can’t, he’s gay aint he?”

Charlotte put her serious face on. “Do you know the scale of obesity in this country?”

“Charlotte, we have a dietician because you can’t show your face in this town without one.”

Coulfield pointed at their two girls who were running around in a soft play area.

“They’re fitter than Olympic gymnasts.”

Stinking rich and miserable. It was the first time Aulay had seen the combination in action.

Aulay followed Coulfield’s lead and discovered another first; Pizza can set your mouth on fire. He was reaching for a jug of iced water when the first bullet arrived. It struck the wrist of the host at the next table. He was raising a glass of Chianti to toast his nephew’s twelfth birthday. The second bullet entered the birthday boy’s left eye which, at the time, was following his uncle’s right hand as it spun through the air. The third bullet caught Coulfield’s upper left arm. Aulay was dragging him under the table at the time. Lying on top of him, Aulay waited for the next bullet. It thudded into the floor.

With only a flesh wound, Coulfield would be back on his golf course, he owned a bloody golf course, in a week.

With everyone secure in the limousine, a Cadillac with more armour plating than a Challenger tank, Aulay clambered up the cliff to the only spot the shooters could have been. In the scrub he found empty shells and Sal.

“I don’t get it,” said Sal. “This is either a warning or a right screw-up.”

“Who’s the guy who lost his hand?” asked Aulay.

“Angelino Carbretti. The second assistant accountant to the third accountant, he’s way down the food chain.”

“Why you here?”

“Guests from out of town. I was here for show. Angelino wanted to impress his wife’s folks.”

Following the line of fire there wasn’t any doubt. If the shooters wanted Coulfield dead, he’d be dead. Shooters? No single rifleman could fire four shots in two seconds.

“Who’s your guy?” asked Sal.

“Business man, wealthy. Works overseas a lot.”

“Where?”

“Iraq.”

Sal raised an eyebrow. “Why you here?

“I’m doing my interview. They’re checking I don’t lust after pre-pubescent females.”

Sal laughed.

One thing troubled Aulay. “I thought you Mafia types didn’t go in for the Military?”

“You been watchin’ too many movies. Where’s your skirt thing?”

“Touché”

During the interminable tangle with the L.A.P.D, Aulay and Sal talked and agreed to stay in touch. Aulay kept him up to date with Coulfield and Sal kept him up to date with Angelino...

***

...Angelino Carbretti’s books got the twice over and every illegal cent was accounted for, he was clean. When he returned to work, Angelino acquired a street name, Capitano Hook. He’d practised with the prosthetic until he could lift a glass and use a knife.

Mrs Carbretti hated it. “Don’t you think about entering the bedroom with, with that thing, Angelino”

“But honey, I-”

“No buts. Leave it in the kitchen drawer and cover yourself up. It’s disgusting.”

Claudia, on the other hand... “Il mio Capitano, please be gentle.”

Angelino would un-hook her straps, snip the ties then cut until Claudia was naked and cowering. It cost Angelino a fortune in lingerie which was of no concern at all to Il Capitano.

***

After the restaurant shooting Coulfield Waincross III took the philosophical view, the wrong place at the wrong time. Charlotte and the girls recovered and life returned to normal. Mrs Waincross wiped Gio’s from the ‘places to be seen’ list.

Aulay got the job.

For the next 15 months, especially during the long negotiations in Iraq, Aulay and Coulfield were rarely more than six feet apart. On many a boozy night, they’d sort out the world’s problems before blurting out their worst nightmares. It’s what drunken sad-bastards do. On the last night, in their hotel suite, it was late, they’d finished off two bottles of Jura, a malt whisky from the Isle of the same name and Cooly’s favourite. Aulay only called him ‘Cooly’ in private, obviously.

They were on the final lap, a place where confessions live. Where trust, self sacrifice and lifelong kinship are sealed tighter than a jar of beetroot. They’d dispensed with Shaz, again, Mrs Waincross, again, American foreign policy, why some Iraqi women, in the full burqa, are sexier than a lap-dancer on speed... and Cooly’s fear.

“I’ve received another death threat, Aulay. A final warning.”

“K-B aint goin’ to do nothin’.”

Aulay slipped into talking American when he drank with Cooly.

Kendler-Brand Corp. were Coulfield’s competition in the multi-billion dollar game and their preferred bogey-man. K-B were struggling. Word was they needed to win the next round of tenders or face going belly-up.

“Anyway, Cooly. Nothing’s goin’ to happen to you. You got me, remember?”

Rounding the last bend, they entered the home straight and a tearful Cooly told Aulay about his son, again. It lasted the first half of the third bottle.

“He’s a good boy, Aulay, eighteen now. Likes engines, made the grade, he’s going to M.I.T.”

Cooly puffed out his chest. “Todd reckons he got a scholarship but I’m picking up the tab, like a good father should, don’t ya think?”

“That’s cool, Cooly.”

“I’ve seen the boy but he doesn’t know me.” More tears came. “Aulay, my friend, my one true friend, promise me...”

Cooly’s reality balance was tipping under the weight of the Jura.

“...if anything happens to me, I want you to go see Todd, when he’s twenty five. Tell him about me; tell him what his father was like.”

“Sure, Cooly. You got it.”

The stalwarts stood and embraced. Was there enough malarkey left for the Grand-Gesture? Cooly weaved his way to his bedroom and returned with a bible. There was. Aulay placed his right hand on the leather bound volume and solemnly swore.

“Fuckin-A, Cooly. I will go see Todd and tell him you were the best buddy a man ever had.”

After their tumblers met across the whisky splashed tome, the two warriors entered the Order of the Blootered Knights of Jura, whose motto, best-est friends ever, they’d have had emblazoned across their chests if only a tattoo artist had been handy. Cooly slumped onto the couch, crossed the Rubicon and passed out. Taking a last quaff of Jura, Aulay too crossed the water. Next morning, Aulay was puking up in the toilet when he heard the shot. He’d been too drunk to check all the curtains.

***

When Aulay finished his story, Major Storm sat forward. “You need to convince me about the rifle.”

The bullet that killed Coulfield was fired from Aulay’s L11 sniper rifle.

“When it was stolen I must have filled in a dozen bloody forms.”

“The TC scope-”

Aulay interrupted. “TC scopes are shite. I had a B4 fitted and it was broken.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Lieutenant Forbes Ogg, 4th Battalion, the Highlanders, he broke it, check with him.”

The Major wasn’t taking notes. Aulay hoped he had a good memory.

Confinement didn’t suit Aulay, it nibbled away at him. When his hopes rose, even a smidgen, the fires burned.

“In your statement, Aulay, you claim to have won a lot of money from Mr Waincross.”

Having three hundred thousand dollars stashed under his hotel bed added to the body of evidence.

“Aye, Coulfield was a crap poker player, ask around. There’s a few big-shots took a pile off Coulfield every week. He didn’t care, had more money than God and loved playing, like a kid.”

“If Mr Waincross left you something in his will and there was a condition attached, would you know what that condition might be?”

This was news. Cooly never mentioned anything to Aulay about... Ah, the Order of the Blootered Knights of Jura.

“In seven years I’ll need to visit somewhere in Alabama.”

“To do what?”

“Track down a twenty-five year old called Todd and take him out for a beer.”

Hurricane stood up and straightened his uniform.

“Thank you, Aulay. I’ll be in touch.”

Aulay wanted to throttle the guy, ‘be in touch’, what the fuck did that mean?

***

British Military Compound, Basra, Iraq – 2 months later.

Once again, Aulay was sitting opposite Major Storm. Not in a cell but the NCO’s mess. Unlike the Americans in Baghdad, there was no air-conditioning and the place stank of fried eggs and black-pudding. It felt like home.

“You are fortunate,” said Hurricane. “The Americans took a little persuading and there are certain...em caveats to your being released to us.”

Fuck the caveats, whatever they were, Aulay was in the clouds.

“The TC scope fitted to your rifle at the time Mr Waincross was shot arrived in a batch two months after you reported your rifle stolen. Not in itself absolute proof but enough to sow a seed of doubt in our American cousins.”

“And...” Aulay said, keen to get to it.

“An inventory accounted for all but one scope, the one in question. A Quarter-Master Sergeant is now under arrest.”

Aulay stayed quiet, his heart was pumping though.

“In order to ingratiate himself; the QM Sergeant gave us a name, one Luther Black.”

Oops, thought Aulay, this could be tricky.

“Unfortunately, that individual’s body was discovered on the same day Mr Waincross was shot.”

Aulay stared into the eye of the Storm. He had no guilt; there was nothing to give away.

***

Before Coulfield Waincross III’s body was cold, Aulay crashed into another hotel suite. It was a stupid thing to do. It’s why he got away with it.

Two men were playing pool, jackets off, drinking Scotch-Rocks. It took Aulay three months to get Coulfield to stop polluting the Jura with ice. He was still working on these two.

A gun in both hands, Aulay asked, “Why?”

One man twitched.

“Stay still, Luther.”

Luther Black would have fired the shot that killed Coulfield but his boss gave the order. Aulay was prepared to let Luther off.

“Cooly was one of the good guys. Tell me why?”

Luther’s boss wasn’t looking too good. “Aulay...”

So, they were all pals now, which was true. Aulay liked these people, drank long into the evening with them.

“I just heard about Coulfield. I’m so sorry, a terrible thing, he was-“

Luther moved and everything slowed. Aulay put two in the chest and one in the head. The head shot was first, as per the manual, not too shoddy for someone sweating malt whisky. Luther managed to fire one into the floor.

His boss shrieked.

“Aulay, I’ll give you anything, five mill... ten, please...”

The C.E.O. of Kendler-Brand stayed alive for another half second. It wasn’t about money.

***

Back in the NCO’s mess in Basra, Hurricane said, “We suspect you killed both men.”

“Why am I here then?”

“No evidence and... your conduct at the Anfursati Mosque is still highly regarded.”

Aulay was a hero then.

“... and it’s the primary reason the Americans have allowed us some leeway.”

“What about my three-hundred grand?”

Aulay knew it was some cheek.

“You’ll get it in stages.”

“One of the caveats?”

“Yes, and there’s something we want you to do... for us.”

“What if I say no?”

“It’ll be back to Baghdad where you’ll go through the Iraqi legal system, behind bars. You could be found innocent... though I doubt it... it could take years.”

Aulay’s three months in a cell was enough. “What do you want me to do?”

“All in good time.”

Still buzzed up, Aulay couldn’t resist it. “Will I be a double ‘0’?”

A trace of a smile crossed Major Storm’s face. “Not initially.”