The Storm Without by Tony Black Read Free Book Online Page A

a mock light-sabre fight with their cue cases.
    ' Very friendly boys, ' I muttered, before firing a comment of Rabbie's at Gilmour: ' wretched is the person who hangs on by the favours of the powerful .'
    I battered off a few pictures. The more I focussed the lens on the suit, the more he seemed familiar to me. He wasn ' t police. At least, he wasn ' t any kind of police I recognised. He might have been a desk jockey or a bean counter. But I steered clear of that lot. The thought struck me: maybe I wouldn ' t be sitting in a grimy Ayr car park scoping scrotes if I ' d paid more attention to the suits who ran the RUC. I pushed Ulster from my mind; I needed to keep my thoughts clear, my mind open and alert.
    The pair got into the Lexus, drove off. I turned the ignition on the TT, pulled out. I let them get past the roundabout, watched them head for Prestwick and then let out the clutch and followed at a proper distance.
    ' Okay, Gilmour … lead the way. '
    A thought jumped at me: you might be wasting your time, Doug. I nodded it down. Sure, I could be. But something told me I was onto something with Gilmour. Mason ' s reaction was writ large in my mind. He warned me away. He was never a man for subtleties, our Mason, but he knew how the job got done.
    ' What were you hinting at, Mason? ' I was still mumbling to myself, still airing my thoughts when the Lexus pulled over and stopped outside a villa on the Prestwick Road. It was one of the old red sandstone jobs, I ' d be guessing four bedrooms at least, kind that attracted a tidy price tag. The suit got out the car, raised his cue case and put up his collar as he jogged up the drive.
    Gilmour tapped the horn twice and pulled out.
    I followed on.
    Prestwick town had changed, seemed busier. Seemed even further down the path to yuppie-dom than Ayr. The pubs looked to be doing good trade, plenty of teenage girls teetering on vertiginous heels. The sight of them put a knot in my stomach. Kirsty wasn ' t much older than them. She was too young. The loss of such a young life was a wrong that enraged me, but the way she had gone made my fists grip the wheel tighter.
    At The Dome I looked in the big windows, thought of the roaring fire they lit during the winter months. Gilmour had beat the lights, headed for the Cross. I followed on, past The Red Lion on my left and made for the Monkton Roundabout. The Lexus driver had other plans though, veered to the slip road on the left, headed for Troon. I dropped the gears, snuck in behind a Micra and watched the car in front.
    We hadn't gone far when the blinkers started and Gilmour pulled in to a gated driveway. I clocked the number on the white stanchion out front, then drove past, slowed my speed and stopped. As I turned in my seat I had just enough time to catch Gilmour pulling up outside a dreary looking, overly lit mansion.
    Jesus, Jonny Boy, you ' ve come a long way in a short time … From council curtains to Southwoods.

Chapter 11
     

    I dropped the revs on the TT, slipped down the gears and flicked the blinkers on. It seemed an overly cautious trip to be taking, but Mason insisted. I hadn ' t been out this way, save passing through, for some time. A host of McMansions had sprouted up on the other side of the road from the entrance to Belleisle golf club. An overt display of wealth, incongruous with the news full of nations facing bankruptcy. I thinned my eyes, allowed a squint towards the bricks and mortar someone had mortgaged their life to: what was the point? Money, greed, it had taken over. Everywhere. This was Ayrshire. I still remembered the Thatcher years. The pit closures and how the miners fought, in the end, for nothing. They closed the pits anyway. The miners got a few bob, but that was cold comfort for having their way of life taken from them. The money went fast — six-month millionaires they called them; I wondered if they felt right having it. Some of us still held onto values you couldn ' t measure in pound