Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) (18 page)

Chapter 40

Weekend Blues:

  Walking out of the District Court on Queen Street on a Monday with Tim by my side, our eyes were blinded by the sunlight, but a welcome relief.

  Charged with assaulting a police officer, resisting arrest and breach of the peace, police liked that one. It went on top of most charges dished out at weekends.

  Tim received the same. Saturday and Sunday stuck in a lone cell in Aberdeen police station was the longest time in my recent years. Lying on a flat, padded, blue rubbery-type mattress, staring at four plain white walls was enough to make me overthink every situation that went through my head. Work, life at home, Dad and Mom. It’s torture, believe me. No wonder Micky Macdonald’s brain was a deluded mess.

  The smell of shit and piss lingered in the air, belching from the stainless-steel shitter in the corner, no escape from the foul stench.

  Walking self-confidently out of the court in the morning, there’s one thing I wasn’t looking forward to. The wife’s wrath.

  I called her on Saturday morning. Hungover, body aching due to four policemen attacking me with their truncheons, forcing me into the back of the police van. The abuse of power they just loved to dish out, giving them their fix of control. I made them all struggle with me, right into my cell. Cowardly bastards, they were.

  Dad hated them, and so did I. Filth was a precise term, bending any rules to suit them and not a hope in hell of a bit of rational thinking. Common sense was out of the window. Hit first with no concern for their victims. Scum in my eyes, complete scum. Criminals, every one of them.

  “Hi, it’s Joe.” Muttering cowardly to May, calling from the cells.

  “Joe, where the fuck have you been?! I’ve been worried out of my mind!” Her love for me not in doubt, it shone through her worried voice.

  “The Fountain. I went for a couple after work.” Just delaying the inevitable, dreading telling her I was in a cell.

  “What?!” She barked down the phone, as I had to pull it away from my ear. “And where are you now, then?!” Her anger drowning out any compassion she had for me.

  “I’m eh…in the jail, in town.” It was hard to say, and it must have been tougher to hear.

  A long pause as she realised the worst, this could be the start of some bad shit to come. She had seen me when I was down and out after Mom’s death, ten weeks on a bender. I hardly washed, hardly ate, and treated May like a piece of shit.

  Lost, full of regret, a different person, only longing for the sight of Davie Rhodes, so I could tear him apart.

  I knew May better than she believed I did, I knew these thoughts would automatically enter her mind.

  “Oh, my God, Joe! Don’t tell me! Fighting?! You bastard!”

  I stayed silent, I didn’t know what to say. The only person that I could depend on in this unbalanced life, was livid with me. And I didn't blame her one bit, but the scary thing here was, I couldn’t give a fuck.

  Locked in a cell over Friday night, just because we covered for Micky so he could get away. I felt rough as fuck, aching, physically and mentally drained. I didn’t need her shouting down the phone at me. How was that going to improve my situation here?

  “I bet that Tim was involved, was he? What about your kids? Did you spare a thought for them before you went to the pub? Junior had a game this morning, he was asking for you. I had to lie to him, Joseph. I can’t believe you’ve done this to me!” My head just about had enough of this conversation.

  “I know May, I know OK! I’ve fucked up. I don’t need this shit just now. I’m feeling bad enough.” I felt bad in the sense I was hurt and hungover, not in the guilty way. “Look, I’ll be home on Monday, after court.” Looking for an end to her shouting, the policeman shadowing me on the phone, feeling like I had little time left.

  “Court?! Fuck me. Make your own way home, arse-hole.”

  Well that was that, she hung up the phone and PC Plod took me back to my cell.

  I was interviewed later in the afternoon by a temporary detective, Graham Munroe, and Detective Sergeant Barry Magill, a right cut-from-the-cloth career man in the CID. Heavy Glaswegian accent and thrived in thinking he was the real deal in the force. In his mid-forties, experienced, thinking he could wrap me round his finger, the prime example of why I hated them. Trying his snide strategy in reeling me in, by making idle chit-chat and broken promises. I would get off with a slap on the wrist, if I grassed up who beat Billy Duncan within an inch of his life.

  “Well Mr Marks, if you’re not going to talk, you'll just make this embarrassing situation harder on yourself. You’re sitting here without a lawyer, looking at a little stretch inside for assaulting my colleague last night. It doesn’t sound very smart keeping quiet, does it? We can help you out of this situation, you know.” The fumes from his coffee breath enough to shame a skunk’s scent. “Don’t you want to go home, put your feet up and see your family?”

  Sounding cocksure, leaning inward over the coffee steam evaporating from his polystyrene cup, he underestimated my willingness not to talk. I was screwed anyways, no doubt there. “You know Mr Duncan’s in a pretty bad way in the hospital. Do you realise how serious this is?”

  I don’t know why he thought I was prepared to talk, fifteen minutes I sat there and not a peep out of me. His colleague Munroe equally silent, only observing his older mentor take the field of play.

  The door opened, a plain-clothed women handed over a sheet of A4 to Mr Magill. He examined the paper for a minute, then wrinkled his head and arched his brows, a new purpose in mind. I wondered what truths were written on this bit of paper. “So, Mr Marks, how’s your Father nowadays?”

  Stunned, I sat forward, glaring into his slimy eyes. “What?” I grunted, breaking my code of silence for the first time.

  “Your father, Davie Rhodes. Where’s he hiding?” I leaned my back up against the wall sitting side on in my seat, taking Magill on for the first time. This was a development not foreseen. Was Dad still remembered by the police around these parts after being gone for years? Or, had he been hovering around somewhere ducking the feds for some reason?

  “Fuck knows. You tell me, I’d love a Father son catch up.” If this bent fuck knew anything about which rock he was hiding under, I needed to know.

Chapter 41

Junior:

  Heading back into work on Tuesday, explaining to HR that I worked the doors in Aberdeen at the weekend, getting into a bit of a scruff and was wanted by the police for an important eye-witness interview. They believed me.

  May was furious, I’d never seen her so upset. My head had a massive bruise up my right side where the coppers slammed me to the ground. My thighs and hamstring battered by their truncheons.

My monotonous tasks at work bored me to the core. The constant computer work, keeping the stock in check and dealing with my boss, started to frustrate me to the point I wanted to flip two or three times a day.

  Some nights I spent time playing FIFA with Junior. One night gathered in the living room, I did something awful, something I never thought I’d be capable of.

  We were all in there that evening. May sitting on the sofa at the end, Jess standing in front of her getting the knots brushed out her shiny blonde hair, now half-way down her back. Junior crouched about two metres back from the telly, the Xbox remote glued to his hand. Me sitting on the edge, bent over with the excitement of playing FIFA.

  “Dad, stop beating me, it’s not fair.” He moaned like a girl, and now eight years old. The age when you start playing up. If only he knew what happened to me at that age. He just kept getting more and more frustrated each time I beat him.

  “Come on then, one more game, then it’s bed time.”

  “Oookaaayyy” lengthening his answer, as he sulked about not winning. We were past half-time and still no score.

  Junior was getting very animated, shouting instructions to his players, sounding like a real coach on the side-lines at Pittodrie. Then after eighty-four minutes of game-time left, Robin Van Persie slotted the ball home 1-0.

  “Not fucking fair!” he shouted, livid, chucking his remote over the TV, leaving a dent in the wall.  

  Jumping out my seat, a red mist descended, taking a vice-like grip round his nimble wrist, lifting him off his crouched position, his head pinged to the side with the full force of my slap.

  The echo sickening the entire family as they gasped in disbelief, before I realised what I had done. Junior’s head hung at the floor, afraid to look at me, body trembling with tears, I couldn’t let go of his arm.

  He tried to wriggle free by leaning his body weight away from me towards the door. I still couldn’t let go, I wanted to say sorry, but I didn’t know how to. Wanted to take it back, somehow.

  “Let go, Joe. Let go.” May spoke softly placing her hand on my shoulder, trying to calm me. I let Junior go. He sprinted out the room to the safety of his own. The poor guy was terrified, I never thought about it, it just happened, never registered in my head what I was doing.

  Jess was left stunned as well, she started crying frantically. May picked her up, grasping her into her arms tightly, leading her up to her room. I stood alone in the sitting room.

  What had I done. What’s happening to me?

Chapter 42

Phone Call:

  Sitting in The Fountain a few weeks later, waiting to meet Micky MacDonald for a cold one on Saturday afternoon, the place was quiet. The usual heavy-rock music from the jukebox wasn’t blaring. A few regulars sat at the bar sipping their drams and a collection of Leeds United fans were glued to Soccer Saturday. A couple were throwing darts up the back and the plump Margaret tended the bar.

  Three weeks passed since the trouble that night, the old-timers full of questions about the incident. I suppose the gossip lines were at full speed the past few weeks.

  The regulars spoke to me with more respect, and a willingness to share a conversation. Everyone had heard who my old man was, and that went a long way to explain my actions outside the pub, knocking out a cop.

  Billy Duncan was carted off in an ambulance, spending the next eight days nursing facial injuries in hospital.

  Micky had been in hiding, today being his first day out, he would still be welcomed into the pub, but like Royalty this time. People in here stuck up for their own, and knew we would do the same for them, without question.

  15.30, the main man came stuttering in looking relaxed and casual in his white trainers, tracksuit bottoms, and plain t-shirt.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the man of the hour. How’s it going, Micky?” Looking pleased with himself, proud as punch and delighted he had dodged the filth for three weeks.

  The double team of Magill and Munroe were definite that Micky was to blame. They didn’t have the proof though. No witness would speak and the camera system was conveniently broken that evening. Margaret, the lady of the bar, sorted all that out.

  She had a soft spot for Micky, he was a good cunt really, especially to Margaret, who needed help from time to time with troublemakers she couldn’t handle. Micky was the first port of call for her.

  Spending his youth in and out of foster care due to his unstable parents, he saw Margaret as a bit of a mothering figure and was quite protective over her while she worked. And newcomers found that out pretty quick.

  “How’s it going?! I’ll tell you how it’s fuckin’ going!” Said sarcastically, puffing his chest out. “Fuckin’ beautiful. I gave that CID scum Magill the run-around for three weeks. It’s me who’s been watching him, fuckin’ Muppets.” Proud as muck he was, and straight out with his story of where he’s been. “Been hiding in ma’ Aunt's shed over in Torry. The thing’s practically a miniature bungalow. Bar, TV, kettle, heating, bed and three weeks of throwing darts. I’ve been on holiday, chaps.” Loving life at the minute, he was.

  “Game of darts ‘en, Micky?” A sixty something year-old man with a bushy Captain Phillips white beard asked, taking a sip out of his whisky with his pinkie up.

  “Fuckin’ game o’ darts, you’ve no chance, geezer.” Winding everyone up, he set the scene for the rest of the afternoon. He had a seat at the bar next to me.

  “Get a round in for everyone, Margaret, please.”

  “No probs, Micky.” She seemed as happy as everyone else to see the energetic local back in the pub.

  “£18.50 please.” Micky took out his tri-fold wallet, opened the cash section and handed over a wad of notes totalling 300 quid.

  “Thanks a bunch, Margaret. Keep the change.” Gave her a little wink of his beady eye and a salute of gratitude. She accepted it with a smile, showing her feelings for him.

  “Fuck me, Micky. Robbed a bank?”

  “Well, you’ve got to keep your friends happy. So, Magill give you a good grilling, did he? Cheers for keeping hush, by the way.” Gave me a ‘good lad’ nudge in the elbow and picked up his pint.

  “Aye, he tried to. I said nothing. Getting done for assaulting an officer and resisting arrest.” I didn’t bother to mention the breach of the peace charge. That was a given, Micky knew that.

  “Lawyer, who’s your Lawyer?”

  “Some local law firm in Inverurie. He reckons I’m pretty screwed.”

  “Listen, you’re going to probably end up doing a wee bit of time, no doubt there, but my lawyer’s a fuckin’ class act, mate. Got me off with a few things over the years. If there’s a loophole, he'll find it, no doubt about it. Here’s his card, give him a call, tell him you know me.”

  “Nice one, mate. I’ll call him first thing Monday.” I needed somebody bent to get me out this mess, and lawyers were like cops, bent.

  “When’s the court date?”

  “Well into August.”

  “What about Timmy?” Micky was the only guy to call Tim, Timmy.

  “Tim never hit a fed, but they’ve pinned the same charges on him. The cops are giving statements saying he hit one of them. It’s all bullshit, bent bastards.”

  Tim did nothing to any cop, they pinned him down the same way they pinned me down.

  “Overwhelming police force.” He was just drunk and interfering. Poor cunt, I didn’t want this for him, but knowing Tim, there’s an ace up his sleeve somewhere.

  “Aye, wankers they are. Jail isn’t that bad, depending on where you get sent. You’ll get sent to a short-time nick. You don’t want to be inside with any paedos. Cunts should be shot, full stop. You shouldn’t, though. But, you’re a big lad, you’ll be able to handle yourself. Do the time and get on with life.”

  Yeah, get on with it, easy for him to say. He's spent most of his life doing time, right back to his juvenile years. My phone started to ring.

  “Better no’ be the wife.” Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Joe Marks?” He asked bluntly.

  “Aye, who’s this?”

  “Steve Dean. I have a problem and wondered if you could help me out?”

  “Go on, Steve.” I knew this call was trouble, more than likely unwanted trouble.

  “There’s a man of mine up your way. I need to keep tabs on him. Can’t tell you the whole story, but I need him followed and not let out your sight for a split second. Understand, Joe?” Exactly to the point: he wanted perfect surveillance on his man.

  “Perfectly, Mr Dean. What’s he look like and where is he?” Mr Dean was a man of precise engineering. He operated on a ‘Get things done properly’ basis.

  “Glad you asked, Joe. I’ll send you a picture straight away. Right now, he has just walked into the petrol station at the bottom of the Haudagain roundabout. You have to move now, or this opportunity will be lost. I won’t talk figures just now, but I’ll see you alright.”

  “Alright ‘en.” The phone went down and instantly a picture came through. Having to move quickly, I turned to look at Micky. He anxiously waited for me to tell him what the fuck was going on. “Did you drive here?”

  “Aye, ma’ Aunt’s motor’s outside. Why?”

  “Let’s go, I’ll tell you on the way.”