Chapter Sixty-Seven

The early afternoon traffic was busy. The lunchtime crowd from the Mission were making their way to various park benches, alleyways and street corners, but a significant number of them huddled together outside the shop doors, in groups of twos and threes, hunched against the prevailing north wind. I studied their weather-beaten faces, searching for Kenny Cameron. He was nowhere to be seen but, as I looked for him, the small hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. My stomach clenched and, turning my head, I made no effort to disguise the fact I was looking over both shoulders. I was sure someone was watching me–if it was that bastard Marshall and he knew I was on to him, maybe he would bugger off and leave me alone. Maybe.

Scouting out the immediate area for my stalker, I spied the very man I thought was stalking me. Marshall wasn’t alone. Wee Elvis and Lucky stood by his Mercedes, which was parked up in the Grassmarket. Wee Elvis looked distressed. I made a move to see what was what when a rusty white transit van pulled up at the kerb-side and blocked my view. Irritated, I headed for Joe’s custom-made chopper. It wasn’t the best undercover vehicle. With its coffin-shaped tank and red leather upholstery, once you spotted it in your rear-view mirror, you didn’t quickly forget it.

The driver pulled down his window and someone hissed at me to get my attention. I ignored whoever it was. There was no way I was wasting time giving anyone directions. Walking away from the van, as if I wasn’t aware the driver wanted to get my attention, I heard the hiss again but turned a deaf ear and started undoing the lock on the chopper’s wheel. Three or four alcoholics in thin tracksuits lolled against it, shivering and drinking cans of Special Brew. They parted to let me get on with my business. They chatted amongst themselves and offered pieces of advice, like that the crankshaft was cracked, as if they knew what a crankshaft was. ‘Oi, hen,’ said a young man with dull, matted hair the colour of mouse fur and red-rimmed eyes. He pointed a nicotine-stained finger at the dirty white transit van. ‘The gadge in there wants to speak to you.’

I nodded, ignored him, and turned my back on the group, concentrating on turning the stiff lock. It needed some WD40. A hand went over my mouth. I tried to sink my teeth into the callused skin but my assailant’s grip was too tight. He bent down over me, crunching my back against his chest. He was a big, heavy bastard. I breathed in a deep lungful of air, and amongst the odour of unwashed skin was a smell I loved. There was only one big bastard who smelled like that and he was mine.

I stopped struggling.

Glasgow Joe was back.