I was running around like a headless chicken trying to get ready to leave for the police station. As usual I couldn’t find anything and I was making another promise to myself to be more organized.
‘You’re a bloody infuriating woman, do you know that?’
‘So people keep telling me.’ I pushed my feet into my bike boots.
‘You make me so mad but all the time I was in Darfur, I wanted to talk to you, to run stories past you, to get your opinion – even if the only one you ever seem to have is that I should shut up.’
He looked at me, waiting for an answer or encouragement – I couldn’t give it to him. The safest way was to continue ignoring him. I rifled through a bag searching for my keys – Malcolm was waiting and I needed to see Moses on my way to St Leonards.
He sat up in bed and a shaft of light came in the window. He was tanned, lean and, in this light, without my contact lenses, did a fair impersonation of George Clooney’s less attractive brother playing a war correspondent.
‘Brodie – this has been going on too long … Is there any point in me taking all this crap from you – always ending up back in your bed?’ I wanted to object to his use of the word ‘always’, but maybe he had a point. I thought I was safe with Jack; Mr Deans was definitely not the marrying type. Was I wrong? It’s sod’s law. Whenever you’re not looking for commitment they come running – it’s the same principle as buses.
‘I’ve spent the last few hours watching you wrestle demons in your sleep, wanting to hold you and make it all better, and knowing there’s no point in me even trying. That’s not my job is it? That’s for Glasgow Joe to do.’
He was trying to look all appealing and sad, but that was never really the type I went for. I liked him rough and uncommitted, and I liked him knowing where the door was as soon as we’d finished having sex. He wasn’t playing ball at all.
‘Brodie …’ he began. Again.
I held my finger up to him. ‘Uh! No!’ I barked, as if he was a leg-rubbing puppy (which was a pretty accurate description, come to think of it). ‘There was never a point when I said I wanted to hear another word from you, Jack.’
‘You weren’t complaining a couple of hours ago,’ he replied, predictably.
‘Oh, shut up – that wasn’t talking, that was grunting. And you may have noticed you did a hell of a lot more of it than me, so don’t go thinking you’ve waltzed back into town like bloody Casanova.’
‘I got a call. A personal one.’
I didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow of interest, finding my cuticles much more interesting instead.
‘From your Grandad. He had a bit of news for me – namely that you and Joe were definitely over, and if I came back, I might find myself in with a shout.’
‘Lovely,’ I hissed. ‘Did he offer you a dowry as well?’
‘The timing was perfect – the Sudanese government was throwing me out anyway. And I got here in time for Christmas.’
He pulled on a red Santa hat that lay on the floor.
‘How about we give it a try?’
I slammed the door on my way out.
Susie Wong’s, George Street, Edinburgh Sunday 23 December, 1.25 a.m.
I’d ridden the Fat Boy thousands of times – I needed the instant focus that comes over me when I kick-start the engine. I wanted the answers to some questions and the first one was – how drunk was I when I dragged Jack Deans back to my bed? Sadly, I couldn’t have been that bad as I seemed fine to drive – I’d have to just put it down to bad judgement. Again.
I had other things to bother me – I had to get to Malcolm and had been delayed by the festive scenario I’d just left behind in my flat. A chill had settled in my bones; I hoped it could be explained away by the fact that it was minus two degrees. The pavements were slippery and young girls teetered down the street singing Christmas songs.
Following Malcolm’s instructions I headed off to meet Moses en route to the police station. The Christmas lights were up in George Street and it was quite a show, classier than the Blackpool illuminations – I didn’t like to admit it, but they always made me feel good. Moses Tierney, leader of the Dark Angels gang, and my most important client, had opened a new club there. I walked into Susie Wong’s and saw him immediately. As usual he was dressed in full-length black leather coat, leather trousers, black silk shirt and handmade boots. He was leaning on his ebony walking cane surveying the scene when I got there. He raised his cane in salute to me but kept his eyes firmly on the queue. Very few people in Edinburgh know he is the owner; they dismiss the presence of the Dark Angels as the hired muscle, but Moses is shrewd. I’d never underestimate him.
‘Have you got Malcolm’s pills?’
‘They’re just coming.’
The burglary skills of the Dark Angels come in handy sometimes.
‘Business is good,’ I commented, shaking my hair, trying to get the knots out of it. Moses turned to me and said, ‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ before turning away. I followed the line of his eyes. A large queue had formed outside the club where two young Dark Angels were out of uniform. The Dark Angels were a brand. They marketed fear in the city, instantly recognizable from their platinum-white hair and ashen skin. Both sexes wore black from head to toe, including nail varnish. Mascara was optional for the men; immaculate grooming was not. They scared lots of people, but I loved them. Moses had looked after me for years – many of them without me knowing it – and, along with Kailash, had saved my life. He wasn’t a criminal to me; he was a guardian angel.
‘What are you up to?’ I asked. Moses didn’t reply: too busy directing operations. It was a game that we often played – I had to see if I could figure out his scam, even although we both knew that, as soon as I did, I’d have to leave. It was bound to be illegal. I scrutinized the two Dark Angels. They were beautiful – but that was generally the case. The boy was around seventeen and wore a 1920s evening suit, with tails and a white tie. A battered brown leather suitcase was open on a table. It contained his props. He pulled out two scimitars. To prove the sharpness of the swords, he went up to a man in the crowd. Grasping hold of the man’s tie in one slashing movement, he cut it in two. The man’s face fell and the crowd stepped back uneasily. They all agreed it was sharp.
‘He’s going to fix the guy’s tie, isn’t he?’ I was nodding in Moses’ face as I asked.
‘No.’ Moses turned his mouth down and shook his head.
‘That tie is silk, Moses – you can’t let them go around destroying customers’ clothes. In case it hadn’t occurred to you, it’s bad for business.’ My tone of voice was getting higher. Grandad was coaching me to speak low and slow like Ingrid Bergman, but right now I was doing a fair impression of Betty Boop.
‘Do you really think I’d let someone as ugly as that in my club? Anything that happens in the queue will only be to punters that the bouncers won’t let in.’ Moses laughed, as if I was the one who had lost my marbles. The performance was hypnotic. The magician’s assistant had ignored the cold and was wearing a pink tutu. She looked like a malevolent Tinker Bell. It wouldn’t be fair to say that all eyes were on her colleague, because she was a beguiling sight. It was true that eyes, particularly male eyes, were on her, but they definitely weren’t watching the hands that were picking their pockets. It was just as well they wouldn’t miss their wallets until they tried to pay for the taxi home.
‘Here.’ Moses handed me a bottle of pills, which he’d just been given. I shuddered. The news that I was buying drugs would be all over the ‘steamie’; Moses’ reputation as