Watt frowns at his drink. Something has changed in the mood of the evening but he doesn’t know what. He frowns. Maybe more drink will help. He drains his glass and hopes.
‘Thing is,’ he whispers in Manuel’s ear, ‘if I did that to my daughter, I would certainly have turned the gun on myself. But I didn’t, you know, I was fishing.’
The ‘sh’ tickles Manuel’s eardrum. He brings his shoulder up defensively and catches Brady’s eye.
Brady has seen that there is something very wrong with them being together. They’ve been here for two hours, necking it on Watt’s dime, but Brady doesn’t want them there any more. They are about to lose the corner. Manuel draws on his cigarette, refusing to look back at Brady as Watt finishes what he is saying.
‘Fishing is waiting. All waiting. And it’s while you’re waiting for the bite, you know, your mind just–’ He can’t think of the words for what he means so he shuts his eyes and waves vaguely. ‘You know? Things. You know?’
He looks at Manuel to see if he understands.
Manuel nods impatiently, stubbing his cigarette out. Soon Dandy McKay will know that he is with William Watt.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
Watt is astonished. ‘Why?’
‘Just go somewhere else.’ Manuel finishes his beer chaser.
Brady steps towards them, wiping the ashtray, about to put it down and tell them, fuck off yous two.
Watt can’t believe what is being proposed. ‘Why go somewhere else? I like it here.’
‘Come on.’
Manuel is at the door, yanking it open. Watt watches him, puzzled, because it isn’t closing time. Watt still has money. They’re winning! They have a corner to hold. But Manuel is leaving, quite definitely. Watt hurries out after him into the December night.
Back in Jackson’s the power vacuum at the corner is filled by the man who was drinking next to them. He slides over to the space, puts his hands on the still warm bar. He is small, no one knows him and Brady has seen his money. It’s all shrapnel. Brady glares and the man giggles as if he has just tried on his daddy’s hat. ‘Fuck off out of it,’ says Brady and the man slides back to where he came from, uncomplaining.
Outside, Manuel is walking down Crown Street. He has drunk a lot and his legs are moving faster than he means them to. He is falling forwards, catching his weight with the next step, falling towards the river. He feels as if he is running but he isn’t. His strides are long, is all.
Big tall Watt catches up effortlessly and asks him where’s he going?
Manuel finds he can’t speak. He says ‘fooof’ and staggers off down the pavement.
They are in the Gorbals, on a main road with churches and shops and ramshackle, crumbling tenements built around and above. A huge private school, Hutchesons’, is set back from the road.
They slow and stop. They’re both unbelievably tired all of a sudden. Manuel sees them both as if from far away. Two drunk men sagging in Crown Street. Quiet street, because it’s not yet closing time. Sagging. Small drunk, big drunk. Wants money, has money. Knows something, wants to know.
‘Give me money,’ he blurts at Watt.
Watt considers his petition. He raises his hands and sighs, ‘Haven’t gotneny.’
Manuel points to the river, over the river, to away. ‘Got somewhere?’
Watt shakes his big head and says nononono. But he has. They both know he has. ‘Got the gun?’
‘I’ve got. I’ll get.’
Manuel shakes two cigarettes out of his packet and gives one to Watt. He lights a match and they take their time, no rush, trying to make contact with the flame. It takes a while.
They smoke in a considered manner.
It is frosty. Cold creeps through the bar-warmed soles of their shoes, up their shins. They pull their jackets tight around them.
Watt is looking at Hutchesons’, a centuries-old public school. He smiles warmly at it and Manuel asks, ‘Wha’? D’you go there?’
Watt says no but smiles and straightens his back, flattered. He looks at the wall next to him. It’s a black tenement and the stone is crumbling. Sand and lumps of soft stone lie scattered on the pavement. It looks as if someone has been kicking bits out of it. Gang slogans and graffiti are scratched into the soft surface.
‘This?’ Watt turns and sweeps a panoramic hand over the street. ‘Gone. All gone. Big money.’
Manuel nods. ‘Knocking it down.’
‘Really big money.’ Watt makes a raspberry with his fat yellow tongue. ‘Ptttthhhhhhh. Ten years. All gone.’ He sees that Manuel isn’t interested in land-development scams. Manuel should be. They’ll cost him his life. When the city is flattened and being rebuilt with bathrooms and plumbing and kitchens, money will be scammed on the materials and the labour. But Watt is in on the meta-scam. This pleases him enormously. ‘Big money.’ He spins on his heel. ‘Mon to the car.’
They stagger down to Watt’s maroon Vauxhall, parked outside Jackson’s.
Watt can’t find the key. He finds the key. He can’t fit it in the lock. He fits it in the lock. This though is seamless: door open, twist, fall into the driver’s seat, breathe. Turn, lean deep back and lift his big legs in. Shut the door. Breathe. Reach over. Unlock the passenger door. Breathe.
Now they are both in the car. Now the doors are shut.
They take a short break. They are both looking out of the windscreen at Jackson’s. Yellow light spills into black night.
The door to Jackson’s opens and a man staggers out. He crab-walks away from them, along the pavement until he hits a lamp post. He clings to it, waiting until his legs agree to listen to orders. Confident he has reached an entente cordiale with his knees, he straightens up, watching his rebel legs to see if the truce holds. It does, but only for standing. The moment he attempts a step he is swept around the corner like a trawlerman thrown from a deck in a storm. Watt watches, glad he’s not as drunk as him.
‘I know who killed your wife and daughter.’
‘I know you do. Will you tell me?’
Manuel sighs. It isn’t a drunken sigh. It a different kind of a sigh. ‘You know who did it.’
Watt nods and slumps, his forehead resting on the backs of his hands on the steering wheel.
Manuel mutters in the background, ‘You need a joe. I’ve got one, a right good fit.’
Watt is confused for a moment. He doesn’t need a joe. ‘I just want the gun,’ he says.
Manuel nods, as if that’s what they were discussing anyway. ‘And I’m the boy who knows where it is.’
Watt can finally see an end to this nightmare. It won’t be easy but he is sure he was right to meet this terrible man. Fortune favours the brave.
‘I know where it is,’ slurs Manuel, ‘but I’m gonnae need money.’
In the dark car Watt says, ‘I have money. I can get money.’
Manuel nods. ‘All right then. Let’s go.’
4
Thursday 15 May 1958
GLASGOW HIGH COURT WAS finished the year Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo. The floor, the bench and the jury stall are oak, the walls bare lath and plaster. The acoustics in the room are acute.