Chapter 3.15 #2
This place must’ve been left to rot for years.
Trees and bushes cracked their way through the concrete floor, weeds choking the one patch of earth. The walls were a mess of loose guttering and dripping downpipes. Algae growing up the blockwork, turning it slimy and green.
A petrol-powered woodchipper sat in the middle of a cleared area, shrieking away as Lewis Kelman fed a branch into it.
He’d swapped the Toad-of-Turd-Hall outfit for a grubby pair of overalls, work boots, work gloves, eye protectors, and a hard hat with a built-in face screen and ear defenders.
That was a lot of Health-and-Safety for a right-wing, death-to-the-nanny-state tosspot.
As the branch disappeared into the machine a fountain of damp chips spattered out of the nozzle, into an already-full half-tonne builder’s bag.
Three more were lined up against the far wall, stuffed with shredded undergrowth.
A scuffed orange chainsaw lurked in the gloom – along with a billhook. Curved, glinting, and deadly . . .
Kelman had been busy.
He didn’t look up as Roberta and Harmsworth entered his domain.
Harmsworth waved his arms about. ‘Mr Kelman?’
As if the bugger was going to hear that over all this racket.
So Roberta stuck two fingers in her gob and let loose a shrill whistle. Then: ‘HOY! LOUIE!’
Kelman’s head snapped up, staring at them as if they’d just broken into his bedroom and crapped on the pillows.
The woodchipper devoured its branch, leaves and all, then Kelman hit the off switch. The machine whined down, spinning and rattling to a halt.
He swivelled his ear defenders up. ‘Wondered when you’d get here.’ Took off his hard hat and hung it on a stunted tree.
Roberta made a show of looking around, top lip curled. ‘Bit humiliating, isn’t it? A man of your calibre: manual labour?’
‘I hear you’re retired.’
‘No’ to mention living in a manky wee flat. We seen some of your mates, and they’ve all got houses.’ Kicking at a loose twig. ‘Would’ve thought your multimillionaire mate would’ve seen you right. Trouble in paradise?’
‘Hmmmph.’ He picked up the billhook, weighing it in his hand.
It was the kind of thing you could do some serious damage with – a ten-inch blade with a hook on the end.
‘People like you: you see somewhere like this and you think, “Manky, manky, manky.”’ He hacked at a twisted beech, trimming off the smaller branches, grunting out a word with every swing: ‘People . . . like . . . me . . . see . . . luxury . . . apartments . . . with . . . easy . . . access . . . to . . . the . . . city . . . centre.’
She turned again, taking in the algae-greened walls, knackered guttering, and rotting window frames. ‘Part of Graeme Anderson’s property portfolio.’
Kelman stopped hacking. ‘It’s mine.’ Pointing at her with the billhook. ‘Everyone else told you to fuck off, what makes you think I won’t too?’
‘Someone stabbed a wee girl, Lewis. Thought you “alpha males” were against that kind of thing?’
He slashed away at the tree again. ‘I didn’t stab anyone.’
‘Aye, you were too busy getting the mob all whipped-up with your loudhailer, weren’t you.’ Folding her arms, head on one side, acting puzzled. ‘Or . . . Nah. I can’t believe a fine upstanding gentleman like you authorised the knife attack on Billie Nesbit . . .?’
‘Course I sodding didn’t.’ He whacked his blade into the tree trunk, sticking it there. Gathered up a double-armful of trimmings, and dragged them over to the pile by the chipper.
‘So, what: one of your crew thought, “Sod what this prick Kelman says, I’m stabbing her anyway!” You losing your grip on the foot soldiers, Louie?’
He hauled the overflowing half-tonne bag over to join the other three. Yeah . . . Lewis Kelman might look like a weedy streak of frog piss, but there was some power there. Wasn’t even breathing hard. ‘What makes you think it was one of my boys?’
‘Oh, fuck right off.’
Kelman unfolded a new bag, propping it into place beneath the woodchipper’s spout. ‘Think about it. We’re there flying the flag for common sense and decency, you think it works in our favour to kill a photogenic young woman? Think that plays well in the press?’
‘Two people saw one of your—’
‘Then why don’t you arrest the bastard?’ Kelman barked out a laugh. ‘One of my boys stabs a woman in the guts, and somehow doesn’t get a drop of her blood on him? Please.’
Roberta tightened her fists. ‘Lots of broken noses and split lips that day. Samples get corrupted.’
‘You’re so ungrateful.’ Looking her up and down like a piece of rancid meat.
‘You should be on your knees, singing Graeme’s praises.
Saved your bloody life; putting a bill through Parliament with your name on it; and you’ve not so much as said “thank you”!
’ Kelman sniffed, then spat on the ground at her feet. ‘Should be ashamed of yourself.’
Wee shite.
She turned to Harmsworth. ‘Ever notice how these right-wing tits play the hardman the whole time, Owen? Beating their chests and shouting the odds, but they never stop whining cos they’re scared of everything.
Women, foreigners, vaccines, gay people, trans people,’ giving Kelman a withering look, ‘personal hygiene.’
Harmsworth tugged at her sleeve, voice low and warning. ‘Guv?’
Kelman stuck his chest out. ‘Typical bloody “tolerant left”. Can’t say anything without you snowflakes taking offence and running home to mummy with your thumbs up your arses. We get things done!’
‘Yes.’ Harmsworth nodded. ‘Well, it was nice talking to you, Mr Kelman.’ Tugging Roberta towards the exit. ‘We should be going, Guv.’
No chance.
‘Guv?’
She thunked her walking stick against the weedy concrete. ‘Aye, and we all know what you knuckle-dragging hate-filled freak-of-nature shite-mongers “get done”.’
‘Guv!’
Kelman stepped forward. Teeth bared. ‘Hey, I’m not the one with a six-inch steel plate in my head. You’re the freak.’
‘It’s titanium!’ Chin up. ‘And it’s no’ six inches, it’s three. And that’s still twice the size of your micro-dick!’
They glared at each other in crackling silence.
Up on the rooftop, that seagull was back, scrawking as its nemesis went kyeeick-keeyick-keeyick.
Somewhere in the distance, an ambulance siren wailed.
Out on George Street, a drunken idiot launched into an a capella rendition of a deeply silly song about how his milkshakes brought all the boys to the yard.
Kelman put the hard hat back on. ‘Graeme should’ve let you bleed-out on the tarmac.’ Jerking a thumb at the exit. ‘Now bugger off: I’ve got work to do.’
He was halfway through getting his ear defenders into place when Roberta held up a finger. Giving it her best Columbo. ‘Just one more thing.’
Kelman glared. ‘Oh for . . . What?’
‘You’re out of milk.’
Maybe not the coolest of lines to finish on, but it made him stare at her as if she’d just turned into an octopus and spewed ink everywhere.
So she turned on her heel and limped off, with Harmsworth scuttling ahead.
The woodchipper was screeching before she’d even reached the door.