The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter (Glasgow Trilogy) (4 page)

‘Why have you still got so much left?’ Winter is asking angrily. He doesn’t do anger well. He always looks too downbeat to be worked up. Comes across as huffy instead.

‘Ah dunno these people. They dunno me. They ain’t buyin’.’

‘They’re buying from him,’ Winter tells the man. He used to know their names, but he can’t remember now. They won’t last anyway. They never do.

‘Ah dunno.’

‘How much time have you spent trying to shift it then?’ Winter asks, knowing the answer will be a lie. They’re so bad at lying. Bad at telling the truth. Bad at everything.

‘Loads. Loads. People ain’t buyin’.’

‘I’m running out of patience with you,’ Winter tells him, staring into the middle distance. They’re in the centre of a quiet street, talking as though they’ve just
bumped into each other. He hates them. Despises them. He needs them. ‘Try harder. Make it happen. I want you to have sold the lot by Saturday – you’re getting more then.
You,’ he says to the other one, ‘will get more tomorrow. You’ve done well. I’ll see you right.’

The young man smiles and nods enthusiastically. A dog given a pat on the head by a brutal owner. A toothless grin. Pathetic. Scum.

Winter is in his car. He doesn’t know he’s being followed. When he was young, he would check. He would look around to make sure there was nobody tailing, nobody that might cause him
harm. When he was young, nobody ever tailed him. They didn’t care. He wasn’t important. He’s now spent so long not being important to anyone that he doesn’t bother to check.
If he had, he wouldn’t have noticed. There’s a lot of traffic, nothing will stand out. He needs to get something to eat. He needs to change the taste he has lingering in his mouth.
Those junkies. They represent him. They are what his livelihood depends on. They are the scale of his achievement.

Calum follows behind, intrigued. He doesn’t know the two junkies, but he knows what they are. Peddlers. They’re the sort of people who sell for a few months until they become so
unreliable that they have to be cut loose. They’re a real risk to deal with. If you cut them loose and they get talkative, then you could be in trouble. You might have to deal with them.
Winter has to take the risk, though. The alternative is to spend every night going round the city trying to sell his own product. It wouldn’t be long before people got to know who he was and
what he was doing. It wouldn’t be long before someone jumped him, or the police arrived. He needs others to take that risk. But they are hopeless to rely on. It’s obvious that Winter
has come away from the meeting angry. Now he’s stopping outside a cafe.

He eats lunch alone. Back in the car, another meeting, this time at a house on the south side of the city. Calum notes the address. Find out who that was. A quick google on his mobile tells him
nothing. Too well maintained a home to be another junkie. Maybe a supplier? Probably not important for the job at hand. Then home. Back to Zara Cope, the love of Winter’s life. Ha, the love
of his life. Calum sits in the car at the bottom of the street and watches the house. Boring job. Boring, boring, boring. Necessary, though. Has to be done. Will have to be done for at least
another couple of days. If no routine shows itself after that time, he might have to keep on watching. Never rush it.

Zara is watching TV. She looks bored. That scares him. He stands in the doorway, not sure what to say. She’s so pretty. Shoulder-length dark hair, full lips, high
cheekbones, large eyes. Striking. A confidence in her look that’s complacent and well established. Superior. He’s sixteen years older than her, but that’s not what stops him
talking. That has never been the cause of the barrier between them, the discomfort he feels. The discomfort is the difference in lifestyle, the difference in what they want. Perhaps that all comes
from age, he supposes sadly. Can’t escape it. The one thing you can’t change. She wants parties and fun. He’s already done that. He wants something more. He wants marriage,
children, and compassion. She looks up at him, standing there watching her.

‘What’s up?’

He has a tendency to stand and watch her. Watch her get dressed, watch her in the kitchen, watch her watch TV. She doesn’t mind – whatever entertains him. She knows she’s
pretty. Worth watching. She’s always been aware of it. When she’d first begun to hang around with these underworld types, they had all been sniffing around her. She was eighteen; the
men who mattered were in their thirties and forties. She was well raised, intelligent, well spoken. She was a cut above their usual meat. It had seemed like innocent fun. Nothing serious. They used
her, she used them. Not too many; she didn’t let herself get a terrible reputation. Not like some. Then she got a little older, and other pretty young things appeared. New experiences. She
was still beautiful, she just wasn’t the kind of beautiful that important people wanted to play with. Not the shiny new toy any more. When she started, she thought it was fun, something extra
in life. Now it was all. She didn’t know any other life. It was this or nothing. If Lewis could pull off the new deal, this might be worth sticking around for.

‘Nothing,’ Winter answers. ‘What d’you want for dinner?’

Zara shrugs. ‘Whatever’s in. Are we going out tonight?’

The question means she’s decided that they are going out tonight. It’s not that she bullies him. She only has to hint and he accepts. He fears what her reaction will be if he refuses her obvious wish. He’s seen
her huffy side, the petulance. Nothing to rock the boat. Nothing to let her get upset and be dramatic. He wants this happy family. He has to accept the sacrifices it takes.

‘I thought we might,’ he lies.

‘No need for anything heavy then,’ she says with a smile.

She looks happy now. Good actress, he knows that. To see the smile is enough. Might not be real, but it’s pretty and it warms him.

It’s his turn to cook. They take it in turns, and she does do most of the housework. Hard to think of her as a housewife, but there you go. It’s a role she seems increasingly willing
to throw herself into. People change. What people want from life changes. He’s thinking about that while he’s rummaging in the freezer. Not looking forward to another night out. Almost
every night now. Only way to keep her entertained. He’s always looking for signs that she’s growing up. Anything that might suggest that she’s turning into the same sort of person
he already is. Sometimes he thinks he sees hints of her maturing, then she does something to obliterate that hope.

He’s encouraged her to see more of her daughter. The idea of playing the kindly stepfather appeals. She’s only visited the girl twice that he knows of since they started dating;
he’s never met the girl. It seems uncaring to him. Inexplicable. How can you not love a child you’ve brought into the world? He’s not a father. He wishes. It would be what he
needs. A life to truly love, and to be loved back. Zara doesn’t love him; she tolerates him. She benefits from him, so she stays – he understands that. He accepts it, because it’s
how it’s always been in his life. He expects nothing more, but he longs for a relationship that can be different. He sees other people with it. Why can he not have it himself?

Poor judgement. He knows it. He’s always known it. Zara isn’t the right person, not for that sort of life. He’ll never be able to play happy families with her. They could fake
it for a while, but she would get itchy feet. It wouldn’t last. There’s the fear, though. He thinks about it as he sits opposite her, both eating some chicken-and-pasta dish that
he’s thrown together. It’s flavourless, but she’s already talking about where they should go, playfully complaining that his choices are always dull. The fear. If he dumps Zara,
and looks for something more meaningful elsewhere, he might not find it and be left with nothing. What they have may not be much, but it’s better than nothing. He agrees to her suggestion of
a nightclub – one that she always enjoys, he always hates.

Zara can see that he’s not happy with the suggestion; he’s such a poor liar. He plays along, though, as he always does. Too insecure ever to disagree, ever to fight back. Too weak?
In some ways, she thinks, he is. In some ways he’s pathetically weak. He’s scared of what lies ahead in his life, miserable about what’s gone before. He never talks about it, but
it’s written all over him. In other ways he can be courageous. He tries to make things happen. He has ambition. He’s willing to take a risk to try to make life better for both of them.
That’s impressive. He wants things for both of them that take courage to achieve. His ability to silently go about risking his life for their betterment – that impresses her.

She reaches a hand across the table and places it on the back of his. He stops and stares at her, unsure of the gesture. It’s not her way. Is it the prelude to bad news?

‘This deal you’re doing,’ she tells him. ‘I want you to know that I’m proud of you. It takes guts. I know you’re doing it for us, and it means a lot to
me.’

Her eyes twinkle when she smiles for real, and they twinkle this time. It makes him feel soft, it makes the world seem like it’s turning back to face him again. It makes him feel the risk
is worth it, and that he wants to live through it. That brings another fear. The fear that just as she is changing, just as the relationship is growing, he’ll fail again.

Winter smiles and nods. ‘Things are gonna get a lot better,’ he’s telling her, ‘for both of us.’

A taxi arrives at the house just after half past eight. It idles outside, not blowing its horn. Probably a regular pickup, knows to wait. They emerge. She comes out and walks
slowly down the front path, in a coat that covers her to her knees. Winter is still at the door, locking the house. They won’t be back for a few hours. When they do get back, neither of them
will be in much of a condition to get the key into the lock. Winter’s wearing a dark coat and dark trousers; he looks too old for a night out. He turns and walks briskly down the path,
catching up with Cope before she reaches the taxi. He opens the back door for her; she drops in and out of view. Winter goes to the other side of the car and drops in, without looking around.

Calum sits in the darkness and watches. How paranoid is Winter? Evidently not as paranoid as he should be. Not looking around, not checking to see if anyone’s there. If it’s occurred
to him that he might be a target, then he’s not taking the threat seriously. He’s never been a target before, never been worth the effort. He doesn’t know how to play the game.
Calum starts his car, letting the taxi get far enough ahead before he switches on his lights and pulls away from the kerb. He’ll do nothing more than watch tonight, no matter how tempting an
opportunity might arise. Sometimes the temptation is strong. You sit back weeks later and realize that the first chance was a better chance than the one you took. So be it. It’s never worth
rushing.

They’re heading into the city centre. There’s enough traffic to hide in easily, no trouble tailing them. The taxi stops on a busy street. They get out, the taxi pulls away. Damn it.
Nowhere to stop. Calum has to carry on down the street. He watches in his mirror, picking them out. They’re going into an upmarket bar – seems more his place than hers. Perhaps just a
few sedate drinks. He finds a parking spot on the next street. Now a risk. How close does he get? Would Winter remember him if he saw him? Chances are that he wouldn’t. Chances are he could
sit right next to Winter and he wouldn’t have the slightest idea who he was, but you can’t take the risk. Some people remember faces well. If he sees Calum, remembers him and knows what
he does for a living, then the job becomes extremely difficult. It’s not that he can’t still kill Winter; it’s that Winter would tell people that Calum was out to kill him. When
he turns up dead, everyone will know who did it.

He won’t risk getting close. He won’t even risk going into the same bar as them, even though Winter probably wouldn’t see him and might think it a coincidence if he did.
He’s walking down the street, looking for a building opposite that has a view of the front of the bar. There’s a chip shop, but that’s only a temporary solution and his stomach is
already angry with him. All he can find is an alleyway to stand in. Dark and dank, and the sort of place other people might use for unattractive purposes. Calum stands and watches, out of view of
everyone. He can see the entrance to the bar. He mustn’t be seen by others. Mustn’t be seen watching the bar where a soon-to-be-dead drug dealer is drinking. Sort of thing that turns up
in court. CCTV isn’t a worry. It might have picked him up on the street, but it won’t see him in the alley. The police won’t check it anyway. He won’t be hitting Winter for
at least another forty-eight hours. He’ll be sure to keep a safe distance the day or so beforehand.

His stomach is making noises he doesn’t like. The smell in the alley doesn’t help. It’s nothing specific, just a dirty smell. A mixture of all of life’s ugly things, all
pushed into the corners. He tries to hold his breath for long spells, but that doesn’t help much. Hopefully they’ll be having a short night out. He doesn’t want to leave his vomit
splattered all across the alleyway. It’s the peril of watching. When you watch a target all day, you must eat what you can grab. You eat in the car, you drink in the car. Calum draws the line
at going to the toilet in the car, but he knows of people who have pissed in bottles while they watched. You eat junk. You sit still for hours on end. A recipe for disaster.

The alley is becoming a bad idea. If someone rolls out of a bar and needs to vomit, they would use the alley. If someone rolls out of a bar and needs a piss. If a couple roll out of a bar and
want some time alone. People go past, they don’t see him. After forty minutes Winter and Cope emerge from the bar. It’s a blessed relief to see them. They walk along the street, not
seeming to look for a taxi. Calum waits, watching, and then picks up the tail on foot. They have a few drinks inside them, but they aren’t drunk. Not yet. On the way, but not there.
They’re talking to each other as they walk. She’s doing most of the talking, leading the conversation. They seem happy. Content, at least. Calum follows them for two streets, to a
nightclub.