The Death Of Ronnie Sweets Part 20

"What?"

"The business."

She hesitated, then. Her entire body froze as though someone had hit a pause b.u.t.ton on her life.

Then: "Seriously, babe?"

I said, "These last few years, I've been landed in hospital more than once. I've seen a man's head blown apart by a shotgun. I've been nearly gla.s.sed several times. I just don't..."

"You can't wrap yourself in cotton wool just because you're a father."

I said, "You used to tell me you were afraid about what might happen to me."

"You're a big boy." Another time or place it might have been a kind of joke. But she said the words with an odd wistfulness.

I said, "It's not this boy I'm worried about," and I reached out to stroke her stomach with my fingertips.

Sunday 1012.

Neil Cullum leaves the house, with his head down and his coat collar up. He is tall, with a kind of cowboy swagger about him. As my gran would have said, he has legs like rubber bands. Cullum's carrying something. A sports bag. The insignia red on black is from a company that has long gone out of business. The bag looks ready to retire Cullum's car is parked down the street. He walks with his back to me. Its no coincidence, one of the reasons I chose this spot; last place he was likely to look.

As he opens the door of his car a BMW that's a few years old, now, but he keeps it in fine repair his mobile clearly goes off because he has to fumble with his coat to retrieve it from the inside pocket. He talks as he climbs into the car. Something in his body language tells me that he's annoyed. The caller's unwelcome. And yet Cullum clearly has to talk to him.

Business?

When the BMW finally starts up, I give it enough time before following.

There's an art to the tail. I still sweat hard every time, convinced that I've been made from the get-go. But you can't allow paranoia to get the better of you. You have to keep believing that you're fine unless the subject gives a clear indication that he's noticed you.

Cullum's driving is natural enough. He takes his time, indicates clearly. He doesn't try anything fancy. So if he knows he's being followed, he's happy enough with it.

We head North East to a clutch of multis that have been earmarked by the council for demolition in the next few years. Every time I pa.s.s the buildings, I feel a strange sense of sadness at their history, the grand dreams that became nothing more than a failed social experiment.

Cullum's car doesn't fit round this part of town. It's too new. Too clean. It screams: money.

When Cullum finally pulls over, I do likewise, making sure I'm far enough behind that he won't notice me.

Cullum double checks the car is locked before he makes his way to the front door of one of the tall, imposing, grey buildings. I wait a little longer before twisting in my seat to open the door and follow him.

That's when I see the old man. He's skeletally thin with lank, grey hair that falls forwards across his face. His stubble is salt and pepper and growing thick. There's a scar just under his right eye, which seems to have a life of its own, the pupil not dilating properly. I think maybe he's blind in that eye.

When I open the door, I see that he's holding a long-bladed knife. The steel looks a little rusty, but that doesn't mean its not going to do any damage.

The old man says, "Get out the car." His voice is rough, deeper than I expected.

I do what he says. "You'll be Neil's dad," I say.

Craig Kinney.

Cullum's birth father is squatting in an abandoned flat on the fifth floor of the mostly-abandoned multi. It's an unofficial residency. He has to jimmy the lock to get in, and makes sure that Cullum is holding the knife on me while he does so.

Cullum holds the knife at an awkward angle, more like he's afraid to get it near him. Where his dad has the stance of a killer, Cullum looks like he's never even used a knife to slice a lemon.

I make a mental note of that.

Inside, the flat is a mess. Long abandoned, the floors are starting to rot and the only real comfort is a rotting mattress with a rough blanket.

Cullum's dad Kinney gestures for me to sit down against a wall. I opt to squat for fear of going through the floor.

Cullum starts to pace.

Kinney says, "Ye knew this was comin'." Takes me a minute to realise he's talking to his son.

"Aye," says Cullum. "Aye, but you said you were just going to scare him off, and "

"Ah, shut your pus, ye wee crybaby." Cullum's dad looks at me, and shakes his head. "Chrissakes, eh? What have they done to my wee lad? Who'd'ae thought my son would grow up tae be a b.l.o.o.d.y wuss?"

I nod. "He's still your son."

"Aye," he says. "There is that."

"And you're still his dad," I said. "Which in a way explains everything." I look at Cullum. Still pacing. I say, "What age did they tell you the truth?" and he finally stops.

He looks at me with his head c.o.c.ked at an angle. He hasn't quite worked out who I am. I've caught him off balance. He says "I was eight. He wrote me a letter from prison."

"How did it make you feel?"

"Oh, come on, pal," his dad says, "You're no' a b.l.o.o.d.y psycholologist."

I ignore him. Although the old playground taunt, don't say words you cannae spell, pops into my head for one dangerous moment.

Cullum says, all his attention on me, now, "It was a b.l.o.o.d.y betrayal. Like, Andrew wasn't my real dad? My real dad was in prison. In prison and they wouldn't let him write to his own son."

I look at Kinney. The "real dad". Some role-model. He's still got the knife, holding it ready in case I make a move. "Enough of this s.h.i.+te," Kinney says to his son. Then, challenging me directly: "Who the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l are you, anyway?"

"My name's Bryson. I'm a private investigator." I look at Cullum directly, knowing he's the best chance I have of getting out of here in one piece. Back to my own child.

Besides, I feel sick every time I look at Kinney. I know what he's done. Extorting his own son. Kinney may talk like a mouthy p.r.i.c.k, but underneath that skeletal exterior, he's got a sharp mind. The kind you develop after years Inside. The kind of mind that sees another man's weakness and exploits it mercilessly. Doesn't matter who the other person is. Even if they're your own son.

I say to Cullum, "Your dad's come to you with a sob story, right? About how he needs to get on his feet? Look at him living here like this, you can't have that. This is your dad, after all, Even if you never really knew him. He's still your flesh and blood. He's what you've been missing all your life. Right?"

Cullum's starting to shake.

As long as he could kid himself that no one knew what he was doing, he was fine. But now there's an outsider involved, and he's scared.

I start to stand up, slowly, using the wall behind me for support. Cullum's dad is now looking at his son, gauging the younger man's reaction to what I'm saying.

"So he's out of prison, he's down on his luck, and he comes to you, his son, and he asks for help. Nothing much. Just a few small favours. How can you say no? But he's asking to take these bags around town, to talk to people you'd normally only see in the dock, and it's too much for you. That's why your work's been suffering, why you won't talk to your mum. But this man here, he's your dad. And you want to help him. What does it matter if no one knows and no one gets hurt?"

I'm getting to him. Cullum's moved to the window now, has his back to both of us. He's staring out through the grime-streaked gla.s.s at the suns.h.i.+ne outside.

I say, "It's not late, Neil. This man may be your biological father, but he's never been there for you, he's never wanted to be there for you, not unless "

I realise my mistake too late. I've been focussing all my energy on Cullum the weak link when I should have been keeping at least half an eye on Kinney.

He's on me fast, the knife plunging low. I don't react in time. I twist to escape the attack, but the knife digs into the left hand side of my stomach.

I roar with pain and fall to the side, las.h.i.+ng out towards my a.s.sailant. My guts are on fire.

Kinney retracts the knife, and the pain is enough that the world blacks out on me for a moment. Somehow I stay on my feet, and my vision clears.

Kinney's looking at me expectantly. I think he's waiting for me to collapse.

I can't give him the satisfaction.

But I can't fight back.

I'm in no state.

I lunge towards the door. Out into the stairwell.

Every steps feels like it tears a muscle in my abdomen.

I'm bleeding out.

My stomach feels warm, but the rest of my body is growing cold. I know the pain's there, but I have to ignore it. I have to keep moving.

I grasp at the bannister in the stairwell for support. My grip slips, my hand slick with my own blood. My stomach does flips. I taste vomit at the back of my throat. The world is moving too fast and I can't keep my balance.

Five floors up.

I don't want to fall.

I don't want to die.

I think about Ros. The life that's growing inside her.

I hear swearing and footsteps behind me. I try to move faster, to fight through the pain, but only tip my weight forward.

Six concrete steps down to the landing. Again, my vision goes. This time the recovery is only partial.

I'm on my back. There's a shadow standing over me.

I know its Kinney.

I know what he's going to do.

I close my eyes.

Think of Ros.

Sat.u.r.day 2358.

Ros was sleeping, her breathing gentle and controlled. I was propped on one elbow, watching her. The bedroom was to the back of our block, looked out on uninterrupted views towards the Tay. We slept with only the thin lace curtain across the window, which allowed the light of the moon to spill across us as we slept.

I watched Ros's face bathed in that gentle light.

Thinking about the past.

About all we had been through. As much as we loved each other, there had been bad patches, the strains and stresses you always get when you allow someone to get close to you. My obsession with work, with involving myself in other people's troubles, had nearly destroyed what we had. But we'd come through all of that. I think it made us stronger in a strange way.

Ros muttered something, and moved slightly in her sleep.

I thought about the future.

About the promises I'd made to her.

Promises I meant to keep.

Ros mumbles something again and this time turns over so that she's facing me. Her eyes open. She says, "Sam?" and reaches up to touch my face. Her palm cups the side of my face so that I can't look away from the question...

Sunday 2303.

"Sam?

I'm not in bed. At least, not my bed.

The sheets are tucked tight round my upper body. I'm lying on my back and someone has the back of their hand on my forehead?

"Sam?"

It's not Ros.

I open my eyes. The woman smiling back at me is dressed in Nurses' scrubs. Her kind smile could be practiced.

I try to speak.

My mouth is dry.

There's a drip feed in my arm and I can feel a dull throbbing in my abdomen. I don't know how bad things are.

But I know this: I'm alive.

A DS by the name of Lindsay takes my statement. He's a gruff b.a.s.t.a.r.d, looks like he doesn't believe a word I say.