‘C’moan,’ said Jamie. ‘They’re guid fellas, ken?’

‘Aye,’ said Marc. He shouted to the back seat, ‘And whit’s yuir opinion, mah man?’

Jamie slugged Marc in the arm. ‘You sick fuck,’ he said. ‘That’s hardly fair.’

The man in the back seat didn’t say anything much. It wasn’t that he was the silent type. At least, he hadn’t been in life. His silence had something more to do with the bullet hole smack-bang in the middle of his forehead. Jamie had to admit, it had been a good shot. It had been like watching one of them movies with Jean Claude or maybe Arnie. The shot had been good, clean and clear. The only real shame was that he had meant to miss the poor wanker.

‘How’s he lookin’?’ said Marc.

‘Dead. How do you think?’

‘Whit I mean is, is he gaunny draw us any attention?’

‘Nah, I don’t think so. He’s sitting up fine enough.’ Jamie knew why Marc was getting nervous. They were driving up Lochee Road, just about to pass the police station. He remembered reading somewhere in the papers about some poor bastards who’d been on the run from a bank job and had pulled into the car park without quite realising where they were, to argue about where they were heading on the map. Dumb Cunts, Marc had called them. He’d been right.

Jamie looked in the mirror. The lawyer’s dead eyes were still open and they seemed to be staring, bouncing off the reflection, right at Jamie. There was an accusation there. Who could blame the dead man, right enough? It had been Jamie who pulled the trigger.

Jamie reached up and gingerly touched his nose. It still stung. Lucky for him it wasn’t still bleeding.

Marc had the gun now. For “safekeeping”. Jamie had to admit, he was a wee bit nervous that when they dumped the boy of the lawyer, Marc was going to dump Jamie as well. Jamie couldn’t find it in his heart to blame him, right enough. This entire fuck-up was Jamie’s fault.

They drove past the station without any incident. They were heading out a wee bit past Camperdown Park to some woods. They were going to dump the body there, leave it alone. There was no evidence to tie them to it. Marc had made sure of that. He was pretty quick-witted, even considering that his Mum and Dad came from Cupar.

Marc said, ‘Change the CD.’

‘Whit?’

‘Change the music, man. Change the bloody music.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Ah want Frank, man. That’ll keep you calm. None ay this modern shite. All it does is work ye up, ken?’

‘Aw Christ, but Frank…’

‘Put it on,’ said Marc in a tone of voice that made Jamie remember who was the one with the gun.

Jamie pulled out the Travis and put the CD in the glove compartment. The radio clicked on, tuned to some local radio crap.

‘Its only the best at Best’s Restaurant,’ said a guy with a thick, Dundee accent trying to sound American. Jamie had to admit, even Frank was better than local radio.

The body in the back slumped to the side as they hit a roundabout.

Frank sang That’s Life. Marc sang along.

That’s how the whole shitestorm had started in the first place.

***

Karaoke; the last refuge of the man out on the town.

‘And could we have a big hand for Marc, who’s going to sing that perennial Frank Sinatra favourite, That’s Life!’ The wee chap doing the karaoke sounded like he was from the posh end of Edinburgh. Not to say he wasn’t any good. As far as they went, he was pretty entertaining, and he knew just which people to applaud and which people to mock.

Jamie sat at the table, feeling like a big man. He was twenty now, for three days. It was a good age; the age of manhood, if you liked. He felt even better because he was carrying a gun in his jacket. It wasn’t anything special, but it felt pretty ace just the same.

Marc burst into song, slurring the words getting them out of order. He wasn’t drunk, he was just pretty shite, but you had to admire his balls for getting up there. Jamie wouldn’t do it even when he was ratarsed. It just wasn’t in his nature. He loved music and all that. But there was no way you’d catch him even thinking about doing karaoke.

The lawyer – the man whose body was going to end up in the back of Marc’s new car – was sitting at the table next to Jamie. Halfway through the song, he leant over and whispered, ‘Your friend’s a bit crap, likes.’

Jamie’s hand went to the gun, but he stopped himself and said, ‘At least he’s up there, man.’

‘Aye,’ said the Lawyer. ‘You’ve got tae give the big guy a wee bit credit for that.’

Jamie, who didn’t know the man was a lawyer, looked him up and down. The man was slight, in his mid-fifties, dressed in a grey-wool suit, white shirt and burgundy tie. His hair was white and wavy and his skin was rough, the lines cutting in deep. Jamie thought, I could have this bastard, nae problems.

The man leaned over and again and said, ‘Sorry mate, nae offense.’

Jamie didn’t want trouble at the moment. He said, ‘Aye, sure.’

‘Nah, I mean it,’ the other man said. Jamie wanted to shoot right there and then. It would be easy and nobody could touch because he’d be holding a gun. He’d be the man with the say-so, right enough.

‘Get lost,’ said Jamie.

‘Aye, sure,’ said the man. He looked offended but returned to his pint.

When Marc had finished singing he came over and said to Jamie, ‘Who’s yer friend.’

‘He’s no mah friend. He’s no yours either.’

The man leaned over again, obviously having heard the exchange, and said, ‘I didnae mean nothing, mate. Just having a laugh with yer wee pal there.’

Marc looked the man up and down and said, ‘What do you do wi yerself?’

‘I’m a lawyer. Actually, I’m a solicitor.’

‘Aye,’ said Marc and turned away again.

‘We like a pint just like everyone else.’

‘Nobody wants tae talk to you.’

‘Listen, mate, I’m just being friendly.’

‘Well I’m no.’

Jamie listened to this exchange with interest. If he was honest with himself, Marc was his mentor, his father-figure, if you like. Marc had always been there for Jamie, always ready to help the younger lad out. Sure, his taste in music was outdated, but he was a stand-up man and that was all that counted. Not only that, but he had a real way of handling wankers like the lawyer.

The lawyer got the hint and returned to his pint. Marc downed his and said to Jamie, ‘Are you comin’, then?’

***

Outside they hung out on the pavement, waiting. Jamie said, ‘What are we waitin’ roond here for?’

‘Waiting for that shite,’ said Marc. ‘I want tae teach him a few things.’

The night air was cool, and although it didn’t bite, Jamie could feel the cool beneath his shirt, moving across his skin. A police car passed and he felt conscious both of just hanging around and because he was sure they knew he had a gun in his jacket.

Marc said, ‘Have a fag or something.’ He proffered a pack of his own and Jamie took one.

They stood out there on the street, smoking. A few student-types walked past, their footsteps hurried, like they sensed they were intruding on Jamie and Marc’s patch here. Marc shouted insults after them.

‘Wee bastards,’ he said to Jamie. ‘What dae they do with their lives, eh? Welch of the likes aye us, that’s what.’ He screamed obscenities at the students, who kept walking, huddling closer together as though it would provide some protection.

The lawyer walked out the bar. Marc clocked him first, walking round the back of the pub to the car park.

They followed him, keeping their distance.

Round the back of the pub, they were isolated. Windows from a few flats looked down, but there were no lights on; no one was watching.

Jamie snickered, took out the gun. Marc nodded his approval. Jamie just wanted to scare the lawyer. This was going to be a laugh, that’s all. A few yucks and they could talk about it later over a few pints, how they taught the snooty wee lawyer a damn good lesson.

Jamie took out the gun. He sneaked behind the lawyer and placed it against the man’s head. ‘Boo,’ he said.

Marc reached out and slammed the lawyer’s head against the silver roof of his flashy BMW. The man slumped to the ground. Marc kicked him until he turned over, his back against the car’s body. Jamie, grinning like a maniac, held the gun down. His aim was steady and true. In his imagination, he saw the whole thing like a movie, kind of a Pulp Fiction in Dundee affair. Yeah, and he was way cooler than John Travolta.

‘Hey, remember us?’ Marc asked the lawyer. The man was too dazed to reply. Marc kicked him in the ribs and said, ‘Whit do you think of ma singin’ now?’

He kicked the lawyer again. The man doubled up and rolled over, landing in a puddle. He tried to crawl away across the car park. Jamie laughed and fired the gun. It zinged into the gravel about a foot in front of the lawyer who let out a yelp.

‘What did you dae that for?’ Marc screamed.

‘He was trying tae get away!’

‘We’re in the city centre, you eejit! They’re gonnae hae the pigs doon on us in no time!’

The lawyer was on his feet. Marc saw him and said, ‘You stay were you are!’

Jamie turned the gun on the lawyer again, but his arms were unsteady now. He was shaking, trembling like a wee poof. ‘Aye, stay there or I’ll shoot.’

‘Gimme the gun!’ Marc made a grab for it.

The lawyer was facing them now, looking uncertain whether he should run on stay where he was.

Jamie pulled the gun away from Marc’s grasp, but it was clumsy and uncoordinated. The gun fired once more.

‘Jee-zus!’ screamed Marc.

Jamie dropped the gun. He was lucky it didn’t fire again.

The lawyer dropped to his knees and flopped forward so he was lying flat on his stomach.

Marc picked up the gun and went to where the lawyer lay on the ground. He turned the man onto his back and said, ‘Jamie, you stupit wee shite! Look at what you’ve done!’

Jamie went over and looked. The man had a hole right in the centre of his forehead, the skin and bone blasted inwards creating a horrific mess. The rest of the man’s face was washed red with the blood.

‘Aw, shit!’ cried Jamie.

‘Now see what you’ve done. Who gave you that bloody gun in the first place?’

Jamie didn’t answer. He felt sick to the stomach. He’d never seen a dead body before; not really. He’d always imagined it would be like the movies; utterly impersonal, maybe amusing.

The lawyer’s eyes were fixed on Jamie with a certainty and purpose. Jamie wanted to run away, but his feet had taken root in the gravel and he could only stand there.

Marc was saying something, but there was a sound like the rush of water through pipes that obscured the older man’s words. Not that Jamie could have responded, anyway. The Lawyer’s dead gaze held him in a horrific bear hug.

Marc stood up and, using Jamie’s gun, pistol-whipped the younger man. An immense cracking sound overrode the rushing of water pipes, and Jamie stumbled backwards, ripping the roots from the gravel and crashing back against the BMW.

He slipped to the ground and tried to speak. His face felt swollen and heavy, the sensation focused right in the centre of his face.

‘Get up,’ said Marc, standing over Jamie. He held the gun loosely in his left hand.

Jamie touched his nose, pulling his hand back quickly. He tried to say, ‘You broke my nose,’ but the words were too thick and heavy to make any sense.

Blood trickled over his lips and onto his tongue.

‘Help me move this bastard.’

‘Where?’

Marc looked at Jamie like he was a retard.

‘Put him in the back of the car.’

***

Jamie had to admit it, the BMW was a smooth ride. They pulled slowly out of the car park, not wanting to attract attention. Marc was sure someone would have called the police. They just had to behave casually, and they would be fine.

Jamie opened the glove compartment and rifled through the CDs. There was an eclectic mix. Jamie assumed that the man had a son, which would explain the mix of Travis, Coldplay and the Eels thrown in amongst the prevalent easy listening bullshit like old Frank and Dean Martin.
He pulled out The Travis CD and shoved it in the player.

***

They stopped in a quiet street. Jamie didn’t know where they were. He didn’t care. He thought he could hear, in the sudden silence that descended when the engine cut and Frank stopped singing, the lawyer begin to breathe once more. But he told himself it was just his imagination.

‘Stay here,’ said Marc, getting out the car.

Jamie watched as Marc walked in the front door of an old tenement block. He twisted round to look at the lawyer. The man’s bloodied face seemed to be leering now, like he knew what was going to happen.

You’re going to be caught, Jamie. They’re going to lock your pathetic whiny little arse away for life.

He shivered and looked to the door on the tenement block, willing to Marc to get a move on. He didn’t like being stuck in the shiny new BMW with only a dead body for company. It wasn’t as if he could even turn the radio on for company; Marc had taken the keys with him.

He could feel the body in the back leering at him. He said, out loud, ‘Just shut up, allright? Its yer own bloody fault you’re dead, ye basturt!’ He licked his lips; his mouth was getting dry with fear. ‘I didnae mean it, alright? I didnae mean it! You shouldn’t hae run is all. You shouldae just let us give you a good kickin’. We werenae gonnae hurt you, really.’ Or at least, Jamie hadn’t been going to hurt him, really. With Marc… well, with Marc you never really could tell.

Marc came out the tenement block with another man. Marc opened Jamie’s door and said, ‘Get out and give us a hand with him in the back.’

He did not introduce the other man. Jamie took a quick look at him. He was about the same age as Marc, maybe slightly older; say, about forty-nine-ish. He had grey hair that he cut short and while he might usually have been clean shaven, it was obvious he had not bothered for a few days at least. The lines around his face were pronounced, cut deep into the flesh; emphasised knife-deep. He wore a cheap, brown suit and a blue shirt with it. No tie. He wasn’t posh, but he dressed like a man brought up in a certain age.

‘You,’ said the new man to Jamie. ‘Take the body by the feet. Marc, you take his shoulders. The two of you follow me.’

When they had manhandled the body from the car, Marc kicked the door shut. Jamie backed towards the main door of the tenement block, following the new man.

‘Who are you?’ asked Jamie once they were inside, and attempting to manoeuvre the body up the winding, misshapen stone steps.

‘Tam,’ said the new man. ‘Now shut up and follow me. Try no tae call any attention to yourselves.’

They took the body up to a door on the second floor. It was hard not to draw attention, so difficult it was to manoeuvre the lawyer. As Tam opened the door for them, he said, ‘Christ, you’re a pathetic pair of shites.’

The flat they entered was small; large enough for one person, two people if they were living together.

‘Take it into the living room,’ said Tam. ‘There’s a plastic sheet on the floor. We’ll wrap him in that.’

Jamie had to wonder, how was it that Tam was so organised? He seemed barely worried by the fact that the two of them had turned up at this time of night with a dead body in the back of a brand new BMW. Jamie worried about the car; on a street like this it would attract attention, parked as it was amongst so many old rustbuckets and souped-up Metros with go-faster stripes.

He didn’t say anything, however, and obediently helped Marc with the body. There was a plastic sheet spread out across the deep, shit-brown carpet. They dropped the body onto that.

Tam stood over them and said, ‘I havenae seen a marksman like that in years. Who shot him?’

‘That twat,’ said Marc, nodding at Jamie.

‘Did you mean to?’

‘No.’

‘Christ,’ said Tam. ‘If you’d said, aye, I wouldae had a wee bit of respect for you.’ He took in a deep breath, then exhaled loudly. ‘Okay, lads, looks like we have a wee bit of a situation here.’

‘How much?’ asked Marc.

‘However much I ask you for when all’s said and done. You should know that, and anyway, I don’t think you should be worrying about the cash right now, do you?’

‘I don’t care,’ said Jamie. ‘What do we do wi him?’

Tam smiled, and walked out the room.

Marc and Jamie stood, facing each other across the dead lawyer. Jamie kept expecting the dead man to move like one of those horror movies they kept showing late at night on Channel 4.

The older man spoke first, saying. ‘You’re an idiot. Nobody shouldae given you a gun in the first place.’

‘Its no mah fault,’ said Jamie. ‘I didnae know I was gonnae kill him.’

‘What do you think guns were made for?’

Jamie fell into silence.

‘Tam’s a good man. He knows what tae do.’

‘How?’

‘You know what mah Dad used to say to me when I was a bairn?’

‘No.’

‘I think it was a lullabye or something. He said, “Them that asks no questions don’t get told no lies.”’

Jamie nodded. He didn’t want to cause any upset at the moment. He was deep enough in the shit as it was.

Tam walked back in. He had a leather tool bag with him which he emptied out onto the carpet. He picked up a hammer and threw it to Jamie. He caught it, fumbled, and dropped it right onto the lawyer’s groin.

‘A bit higher,’ said Tam. He sounded like he might have been grinning, but his face was set in stone. ‘Smash his teeth in.’

‘What?’ said Jamie.

‘Smash his teeth in. You get the easy job since you’re such a jessie from what Marc’s been tellin’ me.’ As he was talking, he handed a saw to Marc.

‘What are you two gonnae do, likes?’

‘Cut off his hands and feet so we can burn him.’

‘What?’

‘Are ye deaf as well as stupit?’

‘Who are you?’ said Jamie.

‘Shut up and smash his face in,’ said Tam. ‘Or you’ll be joining this poor bastard.’ He got down on his knees and rolled the lawyer’s trouser leg up, exposing white-skinned legs coated with thick black hair.

Jamie got down on his knees and looked at the lawyer’s face. The man’s eyes were closed now, and he would have been asleep if not for the hole in the centre of the his head.

God, forgive ma wee boy, said his mother, speaking inside his head. Jamie wondered what would happened to the old bint if she ever found out about this night. She’d probably die of a heart attack.

Tam was sawing the lawyer’s ankles, struggling a little as he hit bone.

Jamie threw up over the lawyer’s face.

Marc said, ‘Aw, fer fuck’s sakes!’

Jamie mumbled an apology and smashed the hammer down into the lawyer’s mouth. The crack reverberated up his arm and down his spine, ending in his stomach which threatened, once more, to evacuate his lunch.

***

An hour later, the three men stood near the railway line, about twenty metres from the fence that kept people out, the grass-infected rubble of wasteland at their feet. Behind them, the city loomed, close enough for comfort, far enough away that they were safe from prying eyes.

Tam kept watch. This meant he stood to the side as the others dug a shallow grave for what remained of the lawyer.

‘Did ye read the papers the other week?’ asked Tam, almost jovial. ‘Some fuckers set up camp out here, on the wasteland.’

‘Morons,’ said Marc, struggling for breath. He was getting on a bit, after all.

‘Straight up,’ said Tam. ‘They were morons, but they were lucky, ken? I mean, this place, late at night, out the way of all the wee surveillance cameras they got in the centre of the town, its got tae be filled wi’ all these, ken, undesirable characters.’

‘Aye,’ said Marc.

Jamie was digging in silence, finding a rhythm and sticking to it, concentrating on keeping on because it was the only way to distract himself. Every time he stopped or allowed his mind to wander beyond the steady thudding of the shovel into the earth, he could see the hammer smashing against the Lawyer’s face, feel the spray of blood against his skin, soaking into his clothes.

Marc began whistling.

‘Shut up,’ said Jamie.

Marc kept it up. Frankie’s tune whistling down the breeze, now.

‘Shut up.’

That’s Life…

‘Shut up.’

Jamie stopped digging. He threw down the shovel and grabbed Marc by the shoulders, shaking the older man. ‘Just shut up, man! If it hadnae been for that song…’

Marc pushed him away.

Tam, standing a bit away, and smiling in the semi-light, said, ‘Keep digging, Jamie.
There’s nae use gettin’ angry about anything, now.’

Jamie climbed out the pit. ‘I didnae mean tae kill him.’

‘Get back down there and keep digging.’

‘I cannae live wi this,’ said Jamie, his voice coming out in a high-pitched whine like a child in a nasty sulk.

Tam came down and took Jamie by the shoulders. ‘You came tae me for help, and now I’m helping you, son. Do you want to go to jail?’

‘I didnae mean tae kill him.’

‘Do you want to go to jail.’

Jamie couldn’t or didn’t answer. He wasn’t even sure himself which it was. Tam threw the younger man down into the dirt. ‘Fuck it,’ he said.

Jamie tried to scramble to his feet. Tam pushed him down again, and suddenly Jamie was staring down the barrel of the same gun he’d shot the Lawyer with.

‘You’ve got a wee choice to make here, son,’ said Tam. His index finger slowly began exerting pressure on the trigger.

‘I don’t want to die,’ said Jamie, in tear now, like a child. ‘I don’t want to die.’

‘Are you going tae help us, then?’ asked Tam.

‘I didnae mean tae kill him.’

‘You havenae got all the time in the world, son,’ said Tam, still slowly pulling back on the trigger.

‘I didnae mean tae kill him.’

‘Ah, well,’ said Tam, ‘That’s life.’

Tam pulled the trigger all the way back.