What Will Burn by James Oswald (ebook reader web .txt) 📕

Gary doesn’t answer straight away, which isn’t normal for him. None of this is normal for him. He’s been kipping at his ma’s place since the meeting with the lawyer, but he couldn’t stay there long. Too many pictures of Bella and Wee Mary, and even he could see which side she’d taken. So much for family sticking together.

He slips the strap of his kit bag off his shoulder and drops the heavy weight to the floor. Everything he owns is in that bag, or out in the works van parked outside the tower block. Can’t leave it there long, mind. Bazza’s place isn’t the best part of town, and the last thing he needs is having to explain to the boss why he borrowed it without asking first.

‘Here you go, Gary. Get that down your neck.’ Bazza presses a cold tinny of Tennent’s lager into his hand, the ring pull torn open. He’s already taken a swig from his own can and lets out a belch as he drops into the couch and reaches for the TV remote. Gary looks around the room again, sees his future in its damp-stained walls and thin carpet. Bazza’s got all the stuff that matters; big screen telly, subscription to all the sports channels, fridge full of beer and a half-decent kebab shop across the road from the tower. It’s an existence, just barely.

‘What was the story about you an’ Trish anyways?’ he asks as he self-consciously brushes at the couch seat before settling down into it. Time was him and Bazza talked about shite, got drunk together, fought with the Hibees on a Saturday night and spent Sundays on the X-Box on this very couch. That all changed when Bazza got married. And Gary hooked up with Bella not long after. Thought they’d grown up. Aye, right.

‘Ach, youse know what birds are like. Promise you the earth an’ suck your dick ’til they’ve got their feet under the table.’ Bazza takes a swig of his lager, uncaring or unaware that some of it dribbles down his chin and on to his T-shirt. ‘Soon as the ring’s on, though? That’s when they change, aye? Then it’s just do this Bazza, fetch that Bazza, tidy up after yersel’ Bazza. Nag nag nag.’ He holds up his free hand and taps his fingers against his thumb like a naked sock puppet.

Gary takes a sip of his own beer. It’s too warm and tastes like piss. ‘Thought you shagged that Lisa works in Tesco, an’ her best mate told some friend of hers who was in Trish’s Zumba class. An’ that’s why she left.’

Bazza frowns, belches and thumps at his chest. ‘Aye, well. Mebbe. But what’s a bloke to do if his wife won’t let him shag her? Plenty more fish in the sea, eh? Stupid bitch.’

The two of them fall silent for a while, sip their lukewarm, fizzy pish and stare at the telly. There’s a footie match on – there’s always a footie match on – but it’s two foreign teams with players whose names neither of them can pronounce. Something to look at, take the mind off how shit life’s turned out for the both of them.

‘It’s no’ right, Bazza,’ Gary says eventually, the thoughts that have been sluggishly bubbling away in his head finally breaking free.

‘How no’?’

‘Wee Mary. I cannae even see her. No’ even if she’s wi’ her gran. My own ma. I’ve tae stay away from home if . . . she’s there.’ Gary doesn’t realise he’s clenched his fist until he’s crushed the can enough to spill beer on his jeans. ‘Aw, fuck, man. I need tae wear these tae work. Bitch isn’t even here an’ she’s fuckin’ things up for me.’

There’s another long silence while they stare at the screen. After a while Bazza gets up and fetches another couple of tins, hands one to Gary along with a cloth.

‘There’s a bloke I know youse should speak to.’

Gary looks at his mate without even trying to hide his scepticism. Bazza’s got form for this kind of thing.

‘No’ like that, man. He’s a lawyer or something. Runs a charity for dads who’ve had their kids taken away. Gets them their rights back an’ stuff.’

Gary holds the can away from himself as he pops the ring pull, but this one’s colder, the beer inside unshaken. There’s a tiny flicker of hope in him as he speaks. The first he’s felt since he signed his name on the papers the last lawyer put in front of him.

‘For real?’ he asks.

‘Aye sure, for real. I’ll gie’ him a call. Set youse up like.’

‘Who is he? Have I heard of him?’ Gary pulls out his phone before remembering that the signal’s crap in Bazza’s flat, and he hasn’t got the password for the Wi-Fi yet.

‘Aye, mebbe. He’s been on the news that many times right enough. His name’s Tommy. Tommy Fielding.’

8

McLean sat at his desk, half reading the case notes for the old woman found dead in her burned out house, Cecily Slater. Not that they were any different from the last time he’d read them. A week on, and they still had nothing. Still, it was good to be back at work, and the small matter of demotion to DI suited him just fine. No more senior officers’ strategy meetings, no more trips across to the Crime Campus in Gartcosh, no more wasting time briefing detective inspectors to brief detective sergeants to send detective constables off to ask questions, the answers to which were then garbled as they were passed back up the chain. He could get on with the job of puzzling out why someone would beat an old woman close to death, then douse her in petrol and set her on fire. And how nobody had noticed until she’d lain there for a week. How very few people had even known she existed at all.

He shuddered at the thought of