Rebus tried to shut it out, his own teeth bared not in anger-but anguish. Then he aimed his rifle at the ceiling and let loose a -single shot, and everything froze… A final kick to the bloodied figure on the floor and Mean Machine turned and walked out of the club. The others hesitated again, then followed. He'd proved something to the other men: for all his lowly rank, he'd become their leader.
They enjoyed themselves that night in the barracks, chiding Rebus for letting his trigger-finger slip. They cracked open cans of beer and told stories, stories which were already being exaggerated, turning the event into a myth, giving it a grandeur it had lacked.
Turning it into a lie.
A few weeks later, the same IRA man was found shot dead in a stolen car south of the city, on a farm road with a view of hills and grazing land. Protestant paramilitaries took the blame, but Mean Machine, though he admitted nothing, would wink and grin when the incident was mentioned. Bravado or confession – Rebus was never sure. All he knew was that he wanted out, away from Mean Machine's newly minted code of ethics. So he did the one thing he could – applied to join the SAS. Nobody would think him a coward or a turncoat for applying to join the elite.
To be born again.
Side one had finished; Rebus turned the record over, switched off the lights and went to sit in his chair. He felt a chill run through him. Because he knew how events like Villefranche could come to be. Because he knew how the world's continuing horrors could come to be perpetrated at the cusp of the twentieth century. He knew that mankind's instinct was raw, that every act of bravery and kindness was countered by so many acts of savagery.
And he suspected that if his daughter had been that sniper's victim, he'd have run into the bar with his trigger-finger already working.
Telford's gang ran in a pack, too, trusted their leader. But now he wanted to run with an even bigger gang…
The phone rang and he picked up.
`John Rebus,' he said.
`John, it's Jack.’
Jack Morton. Rebus put down his can.
`Hello, Jack. Where are you?’
`In the poky one-bedroomed flat our friends at Fettes so graciously provided.’
`It has to fit the image.’
`Aye, I suppose so. Got a phone though. Coin job, but you can't have everything.’
He paused. `You okay, John? You sound… not all there.’
`That just about sums me up, Jack. What's it like being a security guard?’
`A dawdle, pal. Should have taken it up years ago.’
`Wait till your pension's safe.’
`Aye, right.’
`And it went okay with Marty Jones?’
`Oscars all round. They were just heavy enough. I stumbled back into the shop, said I had to sit down. The Gruesome Twosome were very solicitous, then started asking me all these questions… Not very subtle.’
`You don't think they twigged?’
`Like you, I was a bit dubious about setting it up so fast, but I think they fell for it. Whether their boss goes along is a different story.’
`Well, he's under a lot of pressure.’
`With the war going on?’
`I don't think that's the whole story, Jack. I think he's under pressure from his partners.’
`The Russian and the Japs?’
`I think they're setting him up for a fall, and Maclean's is the precipice.’
`Evidence?’
`Gut feeling.’
Jack was thoughtful. `So where do I stand?’
`Just ca' canny, Jack.’
`I never thought of that.’
Rebus laughed. `When do you think they'll make contact?’
`They followed me home – that's how desperate they are. They're sitting outside right now.’
`They must think you're a good thing.’
Rebus could see the way it was going. Dec and Ken getting panicky, needing a quick result – feeling vulnerable so far away from Flint Street, not knowing if they'd be Cafferty's next victims. Telford, pressure applied by Tarawicz, and now with the Yakuza boss in town… needing a result, something to show he was top dog.
`What about you, John? It's been a while.’
`Yes.’
`How are you holding up?’
`I'm on soft drinks only, if that's what you mean.’
And a car doused in whisky… he could taste it in his lungs.
`Hang on,' Jack said. `Someone's at the door. I'll call you back.’
`Be careful.’
The phone went dead.
Rebus gave it an hour. When Jack hadn't called, he got on the blower to Claverhouse.
`It's okay,' Claverhouse told him from his mobile. `Tweedledee and Tweedledum came calling, took him off somewhere.’
`You're watching the flat?’
`Decorator's van parked down the street.’
`So you've no idea where they've taken him?’
`I'd guess he's at Flint Street.’
`With no back-up?’
`That's how we all wanted it.’
`Christ, I don't know…’
`Thanks for the vote of confidence.’
`It's not you in the firing line. And I'm the one who volunteered him.’
`He knows the score, John.’
`So now you wait for him either to come home or end up on a slab?’
`Christ, John, Calvin was Charlie Chester compared to you.’
Claverhouse had lost all patience. Rebus tried to think of a comeback, slammed the phone down instead.
Suddenly he couldn't be doing with Van the Man; put on Bowie instead, Aladdin Sane: nicely discordant, Mike Garson's piano in key with his thoughts.
Empty juice cans and a dead pack of cigarettes stared up at him. He didn't know Jack's address. The only person who'd give it to him was Claverhouse, and he didn't want to pick up their conversation. He took Bowie off halfway through side one, substituted Quadrophenia. Liner notes: `Schizophrenic? I'm bleeding Quadrophenic'. Which was just about right.
Quarter past midnight, the phone rang. It was Jack Morton.
`Back home safe and sound?’
Rebus asked.
`Right as nails.’
`Have you spoken to Claverhouse?’
`He can wait his turn. I said I'd phone you back.’
`So what did you get?’
`The third degree, basically. Some guy with dyed black hair, frizzy… tight jeans.’
`Pretty-Boy.’
`Wears mascara.’
`Looks like. So what was the gist?’
`Second hurdle passed. Nobody's mentioned what the job is yet. Tonight was a sort of preface. Wanted to know all about me, told me my money worries could be over. If I could help them with a "little problem" – Pretty-Boy's words.’
`You asked what the problem was?’
`He wasn't saying. If you ask me, he goes to Telford, talks it through. Then there's another meeting, and that's where they tell me the plan.’
`And you'll be miked up?’
`Yes.’
`And if they strip you?’
'Claverhouse has access to some miniaturised stuff, cuff-links and the like.’
`And your character would obviously wear cuff-links.’
`True enough. Maybe fit a transmitter into a bookie's pencil.’
`Now you're thinking.’
`I'm thinking I'm wiped out.’
`What was the mood like?’
`Fraught.’
`Any sign of Tarawicz or Shoda?’
`Nope, just Pretty-Boy and the Gruesome Twosome.’
'Claverhouse calls them Tweedledum and Tweedledee.’
`He's obviously classically educated.’
Morton paused. `You've spoken to him?’
`When you didn't call back.’
`I'm touched. Do you think he's up to it?’
'Claverhouse?’
Rebus thought about it. `I'd feel better if I was in charge. But that probably puts me in a minority.’
`I didn't say that.’
`You're a pal, Jack.’
`They're running a check on me. But that's all in place. With luck, I'll pass.’
`What did they say to your sudden arrival at Maclean's?’
'I've been transferred from another plant. If they go looking, I'm in the personnel files.’
Morton paused again. `One thing I want to know…’
`What?’
`Pretty-Boy handed me a hundred quid on account: what do I do with 1t?’
`That's between you and your conscience, Jack. See you soon.’