Extract of Bobby March Will Live Forever
‘Death is not the worst thing that can happen to men.’
– Plato
‘Night time's a lonely time . . . ’
– Alvin Stardust
He sits down, looks at what he’s done. Down to his trousers and vest now, hard work this thing he’s doing. Still an occasional moan from it, gurgle and cough as the blood runs back down its throat. He’s tired but he’s close to the end now. He stands back up, calls it a fucker again, spits at it. Tells it why he’s here even though it must know. Tells it again and again. No response. He takes a swinging kick at the side of its head. The moon emerges from the clouds, illuminates the scene in cold, heartless light.
He takes the Polaroid camera he’s bought himself out the holdall. Sticks a flashcube on the top and aims the camera at it. Familiar click as he squeezes the button, bulb fizzes, camera makes a grinding noise then the cardboard-backed photo slides out the back. He sticks it under his arm. Moves in, takes another one, closer this time, shoves that under his other arm and waits the two minutes just like it says on the packet. He peels the backs off, ghostly reverse image on the paper. He lets the wind take the paper out his hands, watches it fly up into the air then slowly descend over the side of the building. Nice little present for someone to find. The pictures are still sticky. He holds them by the corners, lays them on the ground, tries not to look at them too much, keep that for later.
Gurgling has stopped now, no more misty breath leaking out its mouth. Dead. He takes the ivory-handled razor out his pocket and moves in. He’s being a Good Boy not doing it while it’s alive. He smiles, not like he hasn’t done it before, maybe he’s getting soft in his old age. He says her name, tells her it’s all for her own good. Wishes she was here watching, knowing what he’d done. He lifts his arm and the razor comes down. An arc of dark red blood flies past his shoulder and splatters into the puddles on the ground.
10th February 1973
ONE
McCoy stopped for a minute, had to. He put his hands on his knees, bent over, tried to catch his breath. Could feel the sweat running down his back, shirt sticking to him under his jumper and coat. He looked up at the uniform. Another one of Murray’s rugby boys. Size of a house and no doubt thick as shit. Same as all the rest.
‘What floor is this now?’ he asked.
The big bastard wasn’t even breathing heavily, just standing there looking at him, raindrops shining on his woollen uniform.
‘Tenth, sir. Four more to go.’
‘Christ. You’re joking, aren’t you? I’m half dead already.’
They were making their way up a temporary stairway. Just rope handrails strung between scaffolding poles, stairway itself a series of rough concrete slabs leading up and up to the top of the half-built office block.
‘Ready, sir?’
McCoy nodded reluctantly and they started off again. Maybe he’d be doing better if he hadn’t just finished two cans of Pale Ale and half a joint when the big bastard had come to get him. Him and Susan were laughing, dancing about like loonies, Rolling Stones on the radio, when the knock on the door came. Big shadow of the uniform behind the frosted glass. Panic stations. Susan trying to open the windows and fan the dope smell away with a dishtowel while he kept the uniform talking at the door for as long as he could. Just as well they’d decided against splitting the tab he’d found in his wallet.
They climbed a few more storeys, turned a corner, and at last McCoy could see the night sky above them. It was grey and heavy, moon appearing every so often through the clouds and the falling rain. He stood for a minute, taking in the view, getting his breath back. Glasgow was laid out beneath him, dirty black buildings, wet streets. He walked to the side and looked out, didn’t want to get too close, no walls up here, just more rope handrails. Worked out he must be facing west, the dome of the Mitchell Library was right in front of him, university tower behind it in the distance. Below them the new motorway they were building cut through what was left of Charing Cross, a wide river of brown mud and concrete pilings. He heard footsteps behind him and turned.
Chief Inspector Murray held out his hand. ‘Sorry it’s a day early but Thomson’s away until Monday. Need someone working this soon as.’
For some reason Murray was wearing a dinner suit under his usual sheepskin car coat. Full shebang: dickie bow, cummerbund, silk stripe on the trousers. Only thing spoiling the dapper effect was the pair of black wellies he’d tucked the trousers into.
‘Lord Provost’s Dinner,’ Murray said, noticing him looking. ‘North British Hotel. Food was bloody swill. Never been happier to be called away to a murder in my life.’
‘Still trying to get you to take that Central job?’ asked McCoy.
‘Still trying, still not getting anywhere. No matter how many fancy dinners they invite me to.’ He took the unlit pipe out his mouth, pointed into the darkness. ‘Follow me, good pilgrim, for I am not lost.’
A path of damp stamped-down cardboard boxes led towards the far corner of the roof. There must have been ten or so people up here already, uniforms milling about, two technicians carrying the tent, even Wee Andy the photographer, almost lost in his duffle coat and a big woolly scarf. He could hear distant sirens; saw two ambulances crossing the river over to their side, blue lights spinning. Meant it wouldn’t be long until the press boys were here. Was hard enough to keep a murder quiet, never mind this one. A body found at the top of an unfinished office tower only a couple of minutes’ walk from the Record office? No chance.
‘Quite a view from up here,’ said Murray pointing. ‘Can see the cathedral. If it wasn’t pissing with rain you’d even be able to see the People’s Palace.’
‘Great,’ said McCoy. ‘Well worth climbing up fourteen bloody storeys for.’
Murray shook his head. ‘And here was me thinking leave might have changed you, but no, still the usual moaning-faced bastard that you are. How’d it go anyway? You go and see him?’
He had. Three two-hour sessions in a draughty back room in Pitt Street. Question after question.
How did you feel when you pushed him off the roof?
How did you feel when you saw the dead body?
How did you feel, really feel, inside at that point? Did you feel guilty?
What he’d really felt was an overwhelming desire to lean over the desk and punch the bastard in the face but he knew if he did he’d never get signed off so he sat there saying as little as possible, watching the clock. It was only when he got home he’d started thinking about the last thing the bloke had said to him.