February's Son. Alan Parks
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Dunlop. I told you!’
She looked amazed. ‘Him? That’s the guy who got cut with the sword?’
McCoy nodded. ‘Stevie. He’s a friend of mine—’
‘A friend? Are you joking? He looks like he’s going to stab someone any minute. I was scared, Harry! I didn’t know who he was—’
‘Stevie’s fine. You don’t need to worry about him.’ McCoy tried to calm her down, gave her a hug. Could feel she was shaking. Not good. ‘I’ll take care of it. Okay? He’s a pal. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ He let her go, looked into her eyes. ‘Okay?’
Susan couldn’t have looked less happy if she tried. ‘Just get him out of here. Please?’
Harry nodded.
‘And you’re remembering what tonight is? Need to get ready.’
McCoy nodded. Hadn’t. Did now.
‘Course I do. I’ll sort it.’
McCoy walked into the living room of the flat, Susan following behind. Stevie Cooper was sitting in the armchair by the bay window, mug of tea in his hand, flicking through a copy of Spare Rib, of all things. Cooper wasn’t even the most surprising sight. That was Jumbo. All six foot three of him sitting on the settee munching his way through a plate of biscuits.
Cooper sat back in his chair, put the magazine down. ‘No at your flat, no at the station, not even at the fucking pub.’ He put his mug down next to the coaster on the coffee table. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d say you’ve been avoiding me, Harry.’
McCoy shook his head. ‘Come on, Stevie, I wouldn’t do that.’ ‘I should fucking hope not,’ Cooper said. ‘Not after what I’ve been through. But you know what, Harry? You’re making me wonder. Two fucking visits. Three weeks I was in that hospital, on my back, forty-two stitches, all because of you, and two fucking times you came to see me. Two times. Not good.’ He shook his head. ‘Not good at all, eh, Jumbo?’
Jumbo shook his big stupid head, replied through a mouthful of shortbread crumbs. ‘Not good, Mr Cooper.’
‘C’mon, Cooper,’ said McCoy. ‘I wasn’t avoiding you. I had things on, had to go and see the psychologist, all sorts of shite.’
Cooper sat back and lit up a cigarette. He was dressed as he always was: blue jeans, short-sleeved shirt, red Harrington jacket. His blond hair was neatly parted and swept over in a Jimmy Dean quiff, smell of Bay Rum coming off him. Jumbo didn’t quite match his boss’s sartorial elegance. A brick shithouse squashed into old jeans, plimsolls and a red woolly jumper.
Cooper looked McCoy up and down, at the worn suit and the soaking shoes and the tweed coat with a cigarette burn in the arm. ‘So how’s your wee world been getting on, Harry?’
‘Good. Back at work. I think that—’
‘That right? Well, I think too. And what I think is you and I need to have a wee chat.’
‘All right,’ said McCoy. ‘How’s about tomorrow? I can—’
Cooper looked at him, smiled and shook his head. ‘Not tomorrow,’ he said, standing up. ‘Now.’
*
‘Hotspur Street’ was all Cooper said when McCoy asked him where they were going. No more information forthcoming so McCoy gave up trying.
The three of them walked up Byres Road. It was busy, as a road full of pubs would be. Crossed Great Western Road and kept going up Queen Margaret Drive. McCoy tried to see if Cooper was walking funny, if the sword damage had affected his legs, but he seemed fine, usual rolling stride like a sailor on deck. They crossed the bridge over the Kelvin and Jumbo stopped to throw a penny into the running water below.
‘If you cross a river you should throw a penny into it,’ he said. ‘Protects you from bad luck.’
‘That right?’ said McCoy.
Besides granting luck to the penny throwers, the river also acted as the great divide in this part of Glasgow. The area they’d come from, the leafy West End, was full of students, smartly dressed women, academic-looking blokes. Lecturers at the university, workers at the BBC Studios.
Once they’d crossed the river it was a different story. Now they were in Woodside, Maryhill. Dark streets full of flats where the people who worked in the wee factories and workshops around the canal lived. More Cooper’s scene.
Hotspur Street was up on the left, a road of tenements overlooking a swing park. Cooper stopped outside the second close. ‘Up here,’ he said.
They climbed the stairs to the top floor and Cooper knocked the door. A few steps then the door was pulled back, revealing the last person McCoy had expected or wanted to see. Iris. She looked equally pleased to see him.
‘Fuck sake!’ she said. ‘I hoped you’d fallen off that bloody roof too.’
‘Nae such luck. Thought you were running a sauna now,’ said McCoy as they walked in.
‘I was. Then Mr Cooper came to his senses, realised what an asset I was.’
‘Got sick of your moaning more like,’ grunted Cooper. ‘This way.’
He pushed the door open and they went through into the main room. It was dark and hot, smelt of stale beer and stale sex. There was a bloke asleep on the couch, snoring away. He’d no shoes or shirt on, just braces hanging down by his sides.
A young girl, eighteen or so, falling out her lacy dressing gown, was carefully pouring a bottle of Tennent’s into two mugs. Mission accomplished, she handed one to the other occupant of the room. He was a big fella, no shirt either, just fleshy shoulders and a beer belly covered in black hair and a pair of long boxer shorts. He took the mug from the girl and drew her close. They swayed back and forward, moving to the music coming from the record player in the corner. ‘Three Coins In The Fountain’.
Neither of the dancers took much notice as they made their way through to the kitchen beyond, just kept swaying to the music.
‘Thought you were closing down the shebeens,’ said McCoy. ‘Not opening up another one.’
‘Comes in handy,’ said Cooper. ‘I sleep in the back bedroom sometimes, get Iris to make me breakfast. She likes doing it. That right, Iris?’
Iris plonked a couple of bottles of beer down on the table. ‘Do I fuck. C’mon, Jumbo, you can help me get rid of that fat lump on the couch.’
They left, and McCoy looked round. Kitchen was big, pulley on the ceiling full of drying bedclothes, crates of drink and towels everywhere, just like every other shebeen he’d ever been in. A bright blue budgie in a cage on a stand in the corner. Whistled at him when he tapped the wire bars.
‘Didn’t know you were such a soft touch when it comes to Iris,’ said McCoy, sitting down.
Cooper shrugged, opened the bottles and handed one over. ‘Needed somewhere to go when I came out the hospital, Memel Street’s a fucking zoo these days. Iris had been moaning away so I set her back up. Suits us both. Besides, she was shite in the sauna, put the punters right off.’
Cooper took a gold lighter from his trouser pocket, lit up, handed the packet over. McCoy took one. Jumbo reappeared, sat down in the corner, started cooing at the budgie. Last time McCoy’d seen him he’d just managed to stop Cooper killing the poor bastard. Now they seemed glued at the hip. Wasn’t like Cooper to need muscle, he could take care of himself, no trouble. Injury that had put him in hospital must have taken its toll after all.
Cooper took a long slug of the beer. ‘Tasty wee bird that. How long’s that been going on?’
‘Few weeks,’ said McCoy.
‘And you’re shacked up there already? Must be love.’
McCoy shrugged. Wasn’t sure how happy