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  Damian pursed his lips.

  “Like old times? What the fuck does that mean?” His face broke into a grin. “A country pub? For starters, I hate the country. Full of cow crap and horse’s piss, and fuck knows what else. What if you need to shit? What do we do then? Squat over some hole in some field in the middle of the fucking snow? What about pussy? I’m not about to shag some stray sheep. A lot of questions, Teacup.”

  “I would never crap in a field, personally,” interrupted Blakely. “We would never do that in Manchester. No chance. We’ve got style, you understand. The stray sheep however… that’s more tempting. What word was it you used – potential? That would have real potential. If I’m lucky, that is.” He gave a steely smile. “Better wear my best shirt. And change my underpants.”

  Everyone laughed. Teacup gave a silent sigh of relief. The tension was broken. For now. And if he could coax Damian to a place where there were no other mad bastards, then they just might survive an evening unscathed. Maybe. It was a big ask.

  Damian jumped to his feet, already buzzing with the effects of the cocaine. Teacup knew the routine. He watched silently as Damian padded through to the open-plan kitchen and fixed himself a tall vodka from a large array of bottles on the worktop, which he gulped down in one.

  “I can’t tempt you?” Damian asked, gesturing to Blakely.

  Blakely looked over, smiled, waved his hand in the negative. “On duty, you understand.”

  “That’s right,” said Damian, giving a mock salute. “On duty, Mr Blakely! You need to keep that co-ordination of yours in tip-top condition when the old knuckleduster comes out of his resting home, to wreak havoc and devastation.” Damian cocked his head to one side. “The truth is, I’ve never seen someone use a knuckleduster before. Must do a bit of real damage to a man’s face. Or a woman’s, for that matter.”

  “It can do,” chuckled Blakely. “Untold damage. Caves the bones in, and the face implodes. Folds in on itself. Can rip a nose right off. Blinded a man once. The eye just popped out, like a fucking snooker ball. Bad news for most people. But for your average Glaswegian, it’s like a face improvement. I say that only because the average Glaswegian I’ve met, present company excluded, is the ugliest bastard in the western hemisphere.”

  “Too true!” Damian laughed as he poured himself another large tumbler of neat vodka.

  “But the blade is different,” continued Blakely, his voice quiet and sombre. “The blade isn’t showy. There’s no…” Blakely’s brow creased as he struggled for the right expression. “… theatre, if you catch my meaning. It doesn’t maim or disfigure, unless it’s just a message you’re sending. The blade is honest. It’s clean. Done right, puncture the heart, and it’s over. Goodnight Vienna. You can’t argue with a blade. Does the job fucking proper.”

  “Fuck me!” Damian waved his drink about, splashing it on the kitchen worktop. “This man is a fucking philosopher. Hats off to Mr Blakely. What do you think, Teacup? Knuckleduster or blade?”

  Teacup frowned. It was such a ridiculous question. But he had to go through the motions.

  “Neither. Way too personal. How about a double-barrelled shotgun? Sawn off, for maximum impact. No shitting about, instant head explosion. All done from a safe distance. Job complete. And no blood on your flash Gucci shoes.”

  Damian gave a wild burst of high-pitched laughter. “We’re going to party tonight, boys!”

  He downed the remnants of his vodka, grabbed a bottle, and lurched out of the kitchen, and the lounge, making his way to his bedroom at the end of the hall, singing as he went. He would shower, change, polish off more vodka, and undoubtedly snort more cocaine up his nasal passages. Teacup was used to the routine and dreaded it.

  Blakely glanced at him, shrugged, and focused back onto the newspaper. “Good idea.”

  “What?”

  “A country pub. Quick thinking. Could mean less trouble, if we handle it right. Keep him off the spirits. And any more drugs, if we can.”

  “If we can.” Teacup got to his feet and made his way to the bay window beside Blakely. The penthouse flat they were in was a gift from Damian’s father, to his only son, and must have cost a cool half a million. Possibly more. And one thing was certain – you got a good view for your money. Teacup gazed at the scenery – in the near distance, a cluttered landscape of rooftops and chimneys, and beyond, roads and bridges, and the broad river Clyde, and in the far distance, hills the colour of pale grey under the dreary winter sun. Somewhere nestled in those hills was their destination tonight. And tonight was supposed to be a blood moon, he had heard.

  He prayed to Christ that’s where the blood stayed.

  4

  Black glanced up at the sky; the moon held centre stage, like a perfect pebble in a glittering black desert. He had completed the first lap. He was at the foot of the A, where it was flat. He’d found a second wind. The next lap would be easier, he knew. No niggles, no aches. Feeling good. The chill had gone; his muscles were loose and easy. He could run for a hundred miles. He increased his pace, thinking of the wonderfully described soggy pasta his wife had threatened him with, if he were late. He reached the turning point and made his way up the hill again. The glow from the street lights gave a strange, witchy quality to the houses and pavement, as if he were running through another world, in another time. Running through a dream. He wondered briefly if he would encounter any more insults at the pub, a half mile up the road. The air was still, and calm.

  Perfect, he thought.

  They arrived at 5pm.

  Teacup knew about the Old Swan because he’d been there once, years back, with his father, and had vague memories of a quiet, sedate atmosphere, where one or two locals sat nursing pints and chatted in low voices. His father had landed a job fixing a roof for someone who lived in the village, and Teacup had helped as a boy, carrying slates up and down a ladder, as he recalled. That was long ago. His dad was long dead, lungs shrivelled black with cancer. Teacup had never been on a roof since, and never intended to again.

  They parked the Range Rover a short walk from the pub, only forty yards from the door. Still Damian managed to complain.

  “Fucking hillbillies better not key the car,” he grumbled.

  “Don’t panic. No one’s going to key the car,” said Teacup.

  Damian didn’t let up. “This is a fucking mountain climb. You could have told me we were going on a hike. Would have brought my climbing boots.”

  “You don’t have climbing boots, Damian,” said Teacup.

  “This is the country.” William Blakely was walking beside him, taking an exaggerated breath. “Smell that country air. Take it in, boys. Clears the lungs. Better than all that city shit.”

  “Just look out for cow shit.” Damian laughed, perhaps a little too loudly, and they all laughed together. So far so good, thought Teacup. Damian was laughing, a good sign. It could all change in a split second.

  The pub was warm and friendly, and fuller than Teacup had expected, with people out for pre-Christmas party drinks. A warm-up before fun time in the city, he realised. It was Olde Worlde. A real log fire crackled in a brown stone hearth, oak beams blackened with age and smoke ran the length of a low ceiling; the floor was simple dark wood, which creaked with every step; the walls were simple stone the colour of cream, with pictures of faded places and faces. High stools lined the bar; people laughed and chatted in wooden booths and round rough-hewn wooden tables.

  They got three stools at the bar.

  “What are you having, boys?” Damian was still buzzing. His eyes sparkled. When he spoke, the words rattled out, tripping over each other. “No – let me guess. Mr Blakely – you’ll be wanting a diet Coke with a slice of orange. Or was it lemon? Teacup – you’ll be having some woman’s drink. Fresh blackcurrant juice and lemonade. Or some other piss. Or let me guess! Maybe a cup of fine Darjeeling tea, in a fine china teacup, for the man they call Mr Tommy ‘Teacup’ Thomson.”

  “Blackcurrant and lemonade is as strong
as it gets.” Teacup shrugged. “Orders are orders.”

  He knew instantly, as soon as the words left his mouth, that he’d said the wrong thing.

  “Orders are orders?” repeated Damian. “That’s the response I get? My dad’s wee wooden clockwork soldier?”

  He leaned forward, an inch from Teacup’s ear, and spoke in a rasping whisper. “Orders are orders. Then get the orders in. And you can pay for them too. Mine’s a double. Whisky. Any fucking type. And a pint. Please. Pretty please.”

  He stared at Teacup, close up, and stayed that way for several long uncomfortable seconds. Teacup tensed, aware anything could happen. He didn’t reply. He didn’t twitch a muscle. He was a friend, he was a relative. But when Damian Grant was in the zone, no one was safe.

  Damian suddenly laughed, and pinched Teacup’s cheek. “I’m only joshing, you silly prick.” He pulled out a wallet from the zip pocket of his leather jacket, and fished out a fifty-pound note, which he slapped on the bar. “Take it from that. Back in a mo.” He manoeuvred himself off the high stool and made his way to the gents’ toilet.

  Blakely blew through his lips. “He’s off for another score.”

  Teacup nodded. “That’ll be his fifth today. Maybe more. You lose count. And I thought this would be easy. Better brace yourself. Could be a long night.”

  Blakely smiled, and gave Teacup a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, son. Nothing we can’t handle.”

  5

  Three hours of solid drinking. Damian was talking way too loudly, swearing so the whole pub could hear, reminiscing about stories no person in that place had any business knowing about. Dangerous stories about dangerous men, stories that could get people into trouble. The bartender was watching them closely. Teacup read the signs. It was time to go. He had it planned out in his head – first, another fag break, and then when the three were outside, a subtle suggestion that the place was way too boring, that they should move on. He couldn’t imagine Damian disagreeing. He was wired. Itching to get to pastures new. Situation successfully diffused, for the present. And then a good while in the car, driving about, debating where to go, and then when they eventually reached their next destination, the whole thing would undoubtedly start again. But the way Teacup saw it, a new start was better than a bad finish.

  And in the past few days, Teacup had seen lots of bad finishes.

  Such was the plan.

  They went out into the freezing cold air, and all three lit up. There were four other people standing outside, two middle-aged couples, talking amongst themselves, laughing, each face illuminated by an orange dot of burning nicotine.

  “Look at this crazy fucker!” Damian shouted suddenly. Everyone looked in the direction he was pointing. Up the hill, coming towards them, was a jogger. No, thought Teacup, as he focused on the individual about forty yards from them. This guy was running at speed, more than just jogging. And to run at that speed, in this chill and up such an incline, meant the guy was fit. Super fit. Teacup felt a trace of envy, and a little admiration. He could have done that five years earlier, when he was boxing. Not now though.

  The runner dodged onto the road, to avoid them. Damian shouted some expletive. Thankfully the runner continued, hardly glancing at them.

  “Why would people do that?” asked Damian, to no one in particular. “I mean seriously. Is he retarded or something? And in this fucking weather. His balls must be the size of peanuts. And his cock must be shrunk to the size of a …. what size does a cock shrink to, in this shitty bloody weather?”

  Blakely took a deep drag of his cigarette. “A chipolata. Which is the equivalent to a miniature sausage.”

  “Yes, William,” said Damian. “We all know what a fucking chipolata is. That’s not the issue. The issue is… what in Christ’s name is he doing, running like that in this weather? Doesn’t make sense.” He tapped his finger against the side of his head. “The guy’s a moron.”

  Teacup tucked his hands in his coat pockets, against the cold. “Maybe. But he’s a fit fucker.”

  The conversation drifted, and a silence fell. Teacup looked up, and in the sky was the blood moon. He gazed at it, entranced. It seemed perfect to him. A red circle, unblemished by cloud. Untainted. He had never seen anything quite like it. Maybe an omen, he thought. A sign. Whether good or bad, he did not know. Usually bad, in his world. The four other people finished off their cigarettes, stubbed them out in an outdoor ashtray, and made their way in. A stillness fell. Beyond the periphery of the street lamp were shadows and darkness, and not much else. The world was holding its breath.

  Teacup was not the type of man to soul-search. In his particular trade, it never paid to think too much about actions, consequences. Thinking could eat you up, consume you. Render a person ineffective. Yet now, at this moment, under this strange alien sky, he felt… what? A weight pressed in his mind.

  Sadness.

  He was here, in the village of Eaglesham, babysitting a psychopath. Along with a man who killed for money. The partygoers around him, smoking, drinking, laughing, were just people. Men and women, living normal lives, doing normal things. Two different worlds. His and theirs.

  Teacup gazed up at the blood moon, looking for an answer. What was he, then? He was far from ordinary. He lived a life steeped in violence. Death. He had worked for Damian’s father since he was in his teens. He was family, after all. It was a natural progression. A progression toward drug dealing, extortion, prostitution, racketeering. Murder. Every fucking sin imaginable, he thought grimly.

  Far from ordinary. A gangster. Nothing more, nothing less. If he didn’t end up in prison, he’d end up dead. Such were the career prospects, working for the Grants. He watched Damian from the corner of his eye. The guy was an emaciated drug-addicted fuck bag. But he was family. And he was Peter Grant’s only child. And Teacup had a job to fulfil.

  The sadness drifted away. The night lost its strange melancholy. An old emotion seeped into his heart. Bitterness. He was wasting his life. He raged against it. But there was nothing he could do. There was no way out. This was his job, pure and simple. And if you didn’t like it, then in Peter Grant’s world, you ended up in the ground, with a bullet in the head or a knife through the neck.

  Teacup took a deep breath. Christ, it’s freezing, he thought. It was time. He turned to Blakely. He opened his mouth, to suggest they move on, find another drinking hole, when Damian again pointed, arm stretched out, jumping up and down like an excited lapdog.

  “Here he comes again, mad fucker! Can you believe this guy!”

  Teacup and William Blakely, for the second time, jerked their heads round. Sure enough, the same runner was coming up the hill. If anything, noted Teacup, his pace had increased.

  Damian turned to him, and spoke in a low whisper, in a tone which Teacup had learned to dread.

  “So you think he’s a fit fucker? Think a stab in the gut might slow him down?”

  Damian produced a six-inch blade from inside his leather jacket.

  Teacup did not reply. His heart rose to his mouth. He couldn’t speak. The runner was only ten yards away and would be adjacent to them in two seconds. Damian suddenly dashed out towards him.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  6

  Black approached the pub. He felt good. Relaxed. The limbs worked. The breathing was easy. The group outside had diminished, and he saw only three people. He increased his pace slightly, aware the smoker who had shouted at him might still be there. Get by them quick, he thought. He’d be past them in five seconds. He gave them a closer inspection as he neared. Three men. Well dressed. Two of them powerfully built, wide shoulders, bull necks, standing with the unmistakable poise of athletes. Trained men. Men who worked at their physiques. The third was slighter, with a pale, almost gaunt face, who suddenly pointed at him. Black felt a burst of renewed adrenaline, sensing trouble, and veered towards the far side of the road.

  He was almost level. The man who had pointed, the smallest one, made a sudden mov
e, sprinting out onto the road, directly into Black’s path. Something flashed in his hand. A blade! The two others, like pack animals, came close behind.

  Black could not avoid the situation. The events which followed were swift and devastating.

  The man with the knife – Gaunt Face – lunged at him, trying to stab him in the midriff. The action was wild, uncontrolled. Black stopped suddenly, twisted round, grabbed the man’s arm in a lock, one hand on his wrist, the other just above the elbow, and thrust forward, snapping the ulna. The man’s arm broke with an audible crack. He shrieked. Black shoved him away. The two others were on him instantly.

  One swung a punch, hand glittering in the street light. A knuckleduster! Black ducked, took a step back. The other also threw a punch, a straight left, disciplined, accurate, like a boxer, trying to catch him as he ducked. Black raised his shoulder, absorbing the blow, but it felt like a slab had hit him.

  Then Black did something they did not expect.

  He attacked.

  Knuckleduster took another swipe. Black stepped in, blocked the blow, kneed him in the groin, struck him a hard jab on the throat with the heel of his hand, crushing his windpipe. Knuckleduster gagged, staggered back. The Boxer jumped on his back, one arm in a strangle hold around his neck, inflicting short hard punches to the side of his face. Black butted him once, twice with the back of his head. The grip loosened. Both fell onto the road, the Boxer trying to swing Black under. Black relaxed, used the man’s momentum, landed on top, struck his chin, his nose, heard the bones crunch. The Boxer produced a knife. Black disentangled, and with almost an acrobat’s agility, spun away, and assumed a fighting crouch. Knuckleduster reappeared, lurched forward, but was in obvious distress, waving a six-inch blade. He swept his arm, trying to catch Black’s throat. Black met him, caught his wrist, pulled him in, and brought a terrific blow to the man’s temple. He toppled to the ground and lay still.