Butcher Page 32

  Dorcus peered out. ‘Oh G-god, it’s Chuck. What’ll we do?’

  Jackie Ace was already planning a course of action. She squeezed Dorcus’s hand. ‘Can you go down and keep him occupied?’

  ‘Occupied? You kidding?’

  ‘A minute’s all I need, Dorcus.’

  Dorcus trembled. A gun. He’d never even seen a gun. ‘I don’t think I c-can d-do it, Jackie.’

  ‘Stop stuttering. You can do it. I won’t let you come to any harm. I promise you. Go, before he comes upstairs.’

  Dorcus felt cold fear. He trusted Jackie with his life, but even so … What if Chuck shot him right away, no questions asked?

  From below Chuck yelled, Where’s my girl, Dorco? His big blustery voice rattled through the hallway.

  ‘Stall him. Tell him you don’t know where she is,’ Jackie said. ‘Look at him with confidence, right in the fucking eye.’

  ‘C-confidence?’

  Jackie Ace said, ‘The way you were with Perlman.’

  ‘Perlman didn’t have a gun.’

  ‘Do it for me, Dorcus. Show me.’

  Dorcus stepped out into the hallway and moved as if through marmalade to the top of the stairs. Brave and bold, right, he wanted to show Jackie he was worthy, he wanted to be manly. Nobody comes into this house and threatens me with a gun. He descended. He sweated. His eyeballs felt numb. He had the feeling he’d piss his trousers any moment. He’d done that years and years ago, hiding behind the curtain and spying on the séance, the creepiness of it all.

  He reached the landing and looked down and shook and tried to conceal his fear. Jackie promised.

  Red-faced, swaying, Chuck was looking up at him.

  ‘Where’s my girrel, Dorco? What have you done to my lovely Glor-ian-na-na?’

  ‘She’s n-not here, Mr Chuck.’ His bladder swelled. His throat was so dry his words felt like wads of cotton. I’m coming apart, Jackie.

  Chuck blasted the gun at the ceiling, hitting the chandelier, which burst in a fine shower of glass rain and Dorcus flinched, covering his ears with his hands. C-c-confidence.

  ‘Where the fuck you keepin her?’

  ‘D-don’t shoot me, Mr Chuck. I’m coming d-down.’

  ‘Tell me about my girl, ya bastart!’

  ‘I t-told you—’ Dorcus was halfway. Going all the way, can’t stop now. He reached the bottom step. He slipped into a kind of trance. He heard his mother ask for a kiss, he smelled roses, he imagined the assembly of ghosts might rise to support him.

  ‘Tell me again!’

  Chuck advanced in a staggering mode along the hallway and fired at two oil-paintings that pissed him off. A pair of ugly fuckin faces starin at him. They slid from the wall, and their wood frames cracked as they tumbled over and down slowly, step by step. Then he turned and followed Dorcus, who’d hurriedly retreated inside a room where a lamp lit a piano and a wingback chair, both covered in white dust sheets.

  ‘Where’s my fuckin girl?’ He fired twice into the piano, shooting through the dust sheet and the keys, and the soundboard vibrated like a choir of crones tuning up their dehydrated pipes. He booted the wingback chair, and it fell over, and a mouse streaked out from a hole in the upholstery.

  ‘Rodent problem,’ Chuck said, and fired at the moving mouse and missed.

  Briskly, Jackie Ace tossed a few things in a big blue canvas bag. Timing was important. Had to act quick. She heard the sound of gunfire and Chuck’s upraised voice. She walked to the top of the stairs, descended softly to the first landing, looked over the handrail.

  Chuck grabbed Dorcus and forced him to the floor, pressing him down, knee crushed into his chest.

  He shoved the gun at Dorcus’s throat. ‘Did you do a nummer on her, Dorco? Did you gie her the scalpel treatment?’

  ‘N-no way, Mr Chuck.’

  ‘Cut out her heart and sliced that lovely young body, didya? Stuck her innards into an ice-box and delivered her, did you, did you, did you? Tell me where she is, you fuckin faggot. I’ll rip this fuckin dump apart if I have to.’

  Dorcus felt the barrel against his throat. He saw in Chuck’s eyes a world gone berserk. Why hadn’t the spirits of the house come to help him? ‘I n-never t-t-t-touched her, M-m-mr, I s-swear … n-never a ha-hand on her.’

  ‘Lyin faggot peeza shite. Tell me the fuckin truth Dorco or my next bullet goes – guess where, fudgepacker? Right between your fuckin eyes.’ Chuck stared at him, but his line of vision was skewed so that he seemed to be looking directly at Dorcus’s left ear.

  ‘D-don’t … t-to t-tell … M-m-m … Chuck …’

  ‘You’re for the b-b-bad fire, Dorco. You’re for the heavenly choir, soprano section.’ Chuck held the gun at Dorcus’s forehead. ‘Never touched Glorianna, eh?’

  ‘No, nev – nev – n-never!’

  ‘Last chance, Dorco.’ Chuck pushed the gun hard into the bone between Dorcus’s eyebrows.

  Dorcus quivered and closed his eyes and felt he’d be transported any moment into that sphere where the Judge and his mother lived, that dank mysterious void where draughts cavorted in strange partnerships and somebody invisible shuffled endlessly up and down the hallways—

  His back to the door, Chuck had no idea someone else was gliding quietly into the room. If he’d turned he’d have seen her, but he was preoccupied with Dorco’s fate and his senses were kaput anyway.

  When he felt a jab at the back of his neck his first thought was a bee, a wasp, a gnat—

  He imploded, sagged and slithered away from Dorcus, and the gun slipped out of his hand. He rolled face down and lay very still.

  Dorcus said, ‘I th-thought you were never coming.’

  ‘I said I would.’ Jackie Ace looked at Chuck for a time. ‘You were brave, Dorcus.’

  Brave. Dorcus was trembling and white as a freshly laundered sheet. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  Jackie said, ‘Let’s get the van.’

  45

  Perlman shucked off his coat and tossed his shoes and socks aside and flopped down on the sofa, closing his eyes and seeking sleep. But the persistent sparrow hawks of the day soared through his mind, buzzing him relentlessly. He kept hearing whispers of Miriam. He sat up, smoked, fingers trembling. He flipped the TV on, saw highlights of one of the afternoon’s football matches, mince, players who couldn’t pass a ball, goalies who flapped at space.

  As I flap at space, he thought.

  He switched off the box, went upstairs. Inside the bathroom he took one of his painkillers. It eased pain, also promoted sleep. And, oh, he wanted sleep, he wanted forgetfulness. The two pills left in the bottle looked like the remaining survivors of a crew of thirty that had foundered on the reef of Perlman’s broken hopes. He worried about a Habit. At this time of life, oy, a dope fiend. He took off his trousers and shirt, and lay down in his boxers, drawing bedsheets and quilt over himself. He listened to wind shake plants in the backyard.

  I used to have a Habit called Miriam.

  He floated down a gradient into sleep and dreamed of a forest where a bear was stalking him. He called his father’s name for help and woke suddenly, panicky, as if he sensed the beast’s presence in his room, wet fur, rancid meaty breath. He raised his head and stared at the black window and thought he saw the outline of a huge animal pass in front of the glass. Bear dreams.

  His mobile phone was ringing. What hour of day or night was this? He rose and went in a glazed manner downstairs to the living room. Christ, it was sharp cauld. He picked up the phone and heard a relentless hammering, like the voice at the other end of the line was talking to him from a factory where machines pounded.

  ‘Who is this? I can’t hear. Speak up.’ He switched the TV on with the remote and checked the time on SkyNews. 3.20 a.m. The groggy hour. He’d taken his contacts out and the image on the screen showed a newsreader and his blurry twin.

  ‘Come rescue me, Perlman. You owe me.’

  ‘Owe you …’ Perlman thought: this is part of the dream, the bear wand
ers inside a factory and finds a phone and speaks human.

  ‘I’m in fucking serious trouble, and you I thank for this.’

  ‘Tartakower? You know the time?’

  ‘Time I don’t have. You put me in jeopardy.’

  ‘How did I manage that?’

  Tartakower snorted. ‘You gave my name away, schlemiel. What I told you in trust, you broadcast, and landed me in a pile of jobbies.’

  ‘How did I land you—?’

  ‘Ace and Dysart, fool! You want them to kill me? I give you their names to help you, is this repayment? Thank you, thank you. I’m afraid, Perlman.’

  ‘You never said you wanted your name kept out of it—’

  ‘Some things I took for granted; confidentiality one of them. Now they’re coming for me, Perlman.’

  ‘How do you know this? They phoned you? Or they’re coming up the stairs, how?’

  ‘They came to my door, they were pounding on it only a minute ago, they shouted threats at me.’

  ‘Are they outside your door now?’

  ‘Perlman, be a mensch one time, save me, just save me.’

  There was more banging again, like hammers booming as they rose and fell against Tartakower’s door. ‘I’m in terror, Perlman.’

  ‘Call the Govan cops, they’re closer.’

  ‘Polis would come running for an old con like me?’

  ‘Try them. And where’s that gang of yours?’

  He heard Tartakower shout, ‘Go, fuck off! Leave me alone. I don’t need trouble from you. Oh Christ, Perlman come please—’

  The line died. Perlman checked his incoming call register and immediately dialled the number Tartakower had phoned from. There was a monotonous whistle, which stopped after a few seconds, and then silence.

  How had Dysart and Ace located Tartakower? It didn’t matter. They’d found him anyway. He couldn’t believe they’d want to hurt him – he was old, poor, pretty much harmless. But Perlman wasn’t entirely convinced by Tartakower, whose word wasn’t always sound. He dialled the number again; again dead. Then he thought about the search warrant Adamski was applying for – if Joe Adamski had been granted one and served it, then maybe he had Ace and Dysart in custody for questioning.

  Which would make Tartakower’s story yet another load of toalies.

  He called Adamski, who answered curtly. ‘What?’

  ‘Did you get that warrant, Joe?’

  ‘Eventually.’

  ‘Did you serve it?’

  ‘I wish. No sign of Dysart or Ace. And the front gates have been battered down. Somebody rammed a Jaguar through them.’

  ‘A Jaguar?’

  ‘Strange, eh? The car’s registered to a certain Reuben Chuck. Only there’s no sign of Chuck either. And the car’s been stripped. Wheels, hubcaps, sound-system. The local yobs saw the broken gates as an invitation to come in and help themselves. Right now my team’s going through this place. I’ll call back when I can.’

  ‘Wait, is there any sign of a white van?’

  ‘None.’ Adamski hung up.

  Perlman imagined Chuck had gone there to look for Glorianna, or at least information about her – why else? What happened after that? Chuck, in a rage, bulldozed the gates down, and then what? Did he find the house empty, Dysart and Ace gone? And where did he go after that? Or was there a confrontation between Chuck and the lovers? He imagined a number of possibilities, at least one of which might be ghoulish. He tried Tartakower’s number again – but the same silence persisted.

  He massaged his eyelids, felt a weight settle on his shoulders. What obligation do you have to the old guy? He thinks you betrayed him. He’s living in fear. You don’t like him particularly, but you never set out to bring his world down around him, never dreamed your questions would imperil him. You should have foreseen that possibility, and soft-pedalled a little, and kept his name private, but no, ah no, you were burning to get back into an old vibe.

  So now you’re responsible. We’re all slaves of our own deeds.

  He hurried upstairs, dressed quickly, slid his contacts in. Back downstairs, he put on shoes and socks, grabbed his coat, headed out to his car, which was sluggish to start. Going down Wellshot Road it picked up some speed and by the time he reached the Gallowgate it was moving smoothly along.

  Glasgow, Sunday, 4 a.m. The dregs of Saturday night revellers were chasing taxis. High Street was crowded with scores of kids in their best shagging gear stumbling out of a nightclub, raucous, wasted.

  He crossed the river, pricked by a smouldering needle of guilt. He owed Tartakower, OK, OK – enough already. I admit the debt. I admit it, I was careless, unintentionally so, but careless all the same. Govan Town Hall went past, then he was travelling Govan Road parallel to the Clyde. He parked his car and locked it in the narrow slumbering side-street where the charred tenement was situated. Nothing moved. No sign of Tartakower’s hoodies.

  Where were they when Tartakower needed them?

  He reached the entrance to the close. Darkness extended unbroken ahead of him. A blind man could see better than this. The smell of recent fire was sickening, throat-catching.

  If black had a smell, this would be it.

  Hurry. Hurry. How do you hurry when you can’t fucking see? He remembered he had matches and he rummaged in his coat pocket for the box. He shook the box – it sounded like he had only a few matches at most. He opened it, groped around inside. Three fucking matches, three. He struck one, and it went out instantly. He edged toward the stairs, fired a second match, which burned long enough to allow him a glimpse of stone steps. He climbed a few, the match singed his fingers and he let it go. Darkness again and an after-image of flame behind his eyes. One match left.

  How many flights up? Recollection eluded him. He was losing the specificity of things. The day had depleted him – and here he was, still moving, working off an obligation he’d brought on himself. Guilt was always easy to find, if you knew where to look.

  He felt a tickle of fear at the back of his neck. Feh. I should turn around, flee. All this blackness without apparent end chilled him. Climbing the stone stairs, seeking the handrail, hearing the crunch of broken bottles under his feet, pieces of newspaper, and a couple of tin cans which rolled out from under him with the sound of cymbals. I move through the garbage of the city. I gave a lifetime to this. How did I ever convince myself that Miriam would have fitted my world, with all its journeys into the sordid, coping with the incorrigibly bad, the injured, the dead?

  Does the haunting go on long after the love is ash? Or is it brief, like a flash bulb on a retina?

  He heard something from above. A groan, a moan, animal, human – he couldn’t tell. He hesitated on the landing. He lit his last match. Another flight of stairs lay ahead. He saw them rise in angular shadows. He tossed the match before it seared his fingers. Darkness coagulated: you couldn’t imagine another sunrise when you were in dark this dense.

  He continued to climb, a hand extended for the purpose of finding invisible obstacles. He wasn’t breathing well. The air in here was bad, and he had a taste in his mouth of burned timber. He coughed, heard an echo of his own noise. Then he saw light – the enfeebled flicker of a flame just a few steps above, which faded a second before it rekindled, a thin oily glow. He smelled paraffin. He moved toward the light source, a gap in a door, and the paraffin was stronger, abrasive.

  He pushed the door and stepped into a room lit by an old-fashioned glass oil-lamp. He recognized the dented tin teapot on the table from his only other visit to Tartakower’s. In this light everything was hallucinogenic. The teapot seemed to be melting. A couple of chairs had been upturned, one missing a leg. The TV lay on its side, the rabbit-ears mangled out of shape.

  He heard moaning again, and found its source beneath the plywood window. Tartakower was on the floor face down, arms slack at his sides.

  Perlman picked up the lamp and held it over Tartakower, who whispered, ‘Don’t … not again please …’

  ‘It’s me.
Perlman.’

  ‘Perlman? You came.’ A croak, a crocked voice.

  Perlman bent, aware of the ferret nearby in the cardboard box. ‘How bad is it? Is anything broken?’

  Tartakower whispered. ‘I don’t know …’

  Perlman leaned nearer. Tartakower moved his head a little, then swiftly sucked air, as if swallowing his pain. Perlman brought the lamp even closer. There was blood on the floor beside Tartakower’s head. He needs a hospital, treatment, God knows what’s been busted. Porous old bones snap as easy as dry kindling.

  Perlman touched the old man’s shoulder. Tartakower lifted his head an inch or two from the floor, and swivelled his neck to get a sight of Perlman.

  ‘Where does it hurt?’ Perlman asked.

  ‘Name any part of me.’

  ‘You need help. I’ll phone an ambulance.’

  Tartakower’s beard was red-stained. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. ‘You think I can move?’

  ‘They’ll carry you in a stretcher.’

  ‘Schleppers will bang my head on the steps taking me down. Oh Christ, how I ache.’ Tartakower raised an arm very slowly and grabbed Perlman’s sleeve, then let his hand flop back to his side. ‘Ace and Dysart … they break in, kick me in the balls. Beat my head with I don’t know what. You did this, Perlman.’

  ‘You want me to beg forgiveness?’

  ‘You’re beyond.’

  Perlman set the lamp on the floor. He listened to Tartakower’s stricken breathing. It was the sound of an iron lung. ‘OK, right, absolution’s not for me, but I better call a hospital. For your own good.’ He searched his coat pockets for his mobile.

  ‘Waste of time,’ Tartakower gasped, and dragged a hand to his beard, then squinted at the blood that discoloured his fingertips.

  Perlman took out his phone. The battery indicator was low. He watched the ferret rearrange itself and its glossy coat reflected flame. The hoodies must have shampooed it lately. Tartakower moved, grunting, turning very slowly over so that he lay on his back. He raised his hand up to touch Perlman’s phone and streaked it with red from his fingertips.