A Question of Blood

Callis was staring into space, not really listening. “The thing that gets me is, I sit here with the shakes, and those little bastards are still out there, carrying guns and getting away with it. What sort of system is that, John?” He turned to stare at Rebus. “What the hell use are we if we can’t stop that from happening?”

“Sitting here and getting maudlin’s not going to change things,” Rebus said quietly. There was as much anger as defeat in his friend’s eyes. Slowly, Callis lifted both feet from the stool and eased himself upright. “I’m going to put the kettle on. Can I get you anything?”

On the television, several contestants were arguing over some task. Rebus checked his watch. “I’m fine, Andy. I should really be going.”

“It’s nice of you to keep dropping in, John, but you shouldn’t feel you have to.”

“It’s only a pretext for raiding your liquor cabinet, Andy. Soon as that’s empty, you won’t see me for dust.”

Callis tried smiling. “Phone for a cab, if you like.”

“I’ve got my mobile.” And he could use it, too-albeit by pushing each key with a pen.

“Sure I can’t get you something else?”

Rebus shook his head. “Busy day tomorrow.”

“Me too,” Andy Callis said.

Rebus obliged him with a nod. Their conversation always finished this way: Busy tomorrow, John? Always busy, Andy. Aye, me too… He thought of things he could say-about the shooting, about Peacock Johnson. He didn’t think they would do any good. In time, they’d be able to talk-talk properly rather than the games of Ping-Pong that so often passed for conversation between them. But not yet.

“I’ll see myself out,” Rebus called to the kitchen.

“Stay till the taxi gets here.”

“I need a breath of air, Andy.”

“What you mean is, you need a ciggie.”

“Instincts like that, I can’t believe they never made you a detective.” Rebus opened the front door.

“Never wanted to be one,” came Andy Callis’s closing words.

In the cab, Rebus decided on a detour, telling the driver to head towards Gracemount, then directing him to Martin Fairstone’s house. The windows had been boarded up, door padlocked against vandals. It would only take a couple of junkies to turn the place into a crack den. There were no scorch marks on the exterior walls. The kitchen was to the back of the property. That was where the damage would be. The fire crew had dragged some fittings and furnishings out onto the overgrown lawn: chairs, a table, a broken-down upright Hoover. Left there, not even worth looting. Rebus told the driver they could go. Some teenagers had gathered at a bus stop. Rebus didn’t think they were waiting for a bus. The shelter was their gang hut. Two of them stood on top of it, three others lurked in its shadows. The driver came to a stop.

“What’s up?” Rebus asked.

“I think they’ve got rocks. We drive past, they’ll pelt us.”

Rebus looked. The boys on top of the shelter were standing stock-still. He couldn’t see anything in their hands.

“Give me a second,” Rebus said, getting out.

The driver turned. “You off your rocker, pal?”

“No, but I’ll be mad as hell if you drive off without me,” Rebus warned. Then, leaving the cab door open, he walked towards the bus stop. Three bodies stepped out of the shelter. They wore hooded tops, the hoods pulled tight around their faces to ward off the night chill. Hands tucked into pockets. Thin, wiry specimens in baggy denims and sneakers.

Rebus ignored them, kept his eye on the two atop the shelter. “Collecting rocks, eh?” he called. “It was birds’ eggs with me.”

“Fuck are you talking about?”

Rebus lowered his eyes, meeting the hard stare of the leader. Had to be the leader: flanked either side by his lieutenants.

“I know you,” Rebus said.

The youth looked at him. “So?”

“So maybe you remember me.”

“I ken you all right.” The youth made a snorting noise, in imitation of a pig.

“Then you’ll know how much damage I can do you.”

One of the boys on top of the shelter let out a laugh. “There’s five of us, ya wanker.”

“Good for you, you’ve learned to count to five.” A car’s headlights appeared, and Rebus could hear his taxi’s engine start to whine. He glanced back, but the driver was only moving it closer to the curb. The approaching car slowed but then sped up, unwilling to get involved. “And I take your point,” Rebus continued. “Five against one, you’d probably kick the shit out of me. But that’s not what I meant. What I meant was what happens after. Because the one thing you can be sure of is that I’d see you charged, sentenced and stuck in jail. Young offenders? Fine: you’d get a spell in some cushy institution. But before that, they’d have you locked up in Saughton. Adult wing. And that, believe me, would be an absolute pain in the arse.” Rebus paused. “Your arses, to be precise.”

“This is our fucking ground,” one of the others spat. “Not yours.”

Rebus gestured back towards the taxi. “Which is why I’m leaving… with your permission.” His eyes were back on the leader again. His name was Rab Fisher. He was fifteen, and Rebus had heard his gang called the Lost Boys. Plenty of arrests under their belts, no actual prosecutions. Mums and dads at home who would say they’d done their best-“battered the life out of him” first few times he was caught, according to Fisher’s dad. But what can you do?

Rebus had a few answers. Too late for them, though. Easier just to accept the Lost Boys as another statistic.

“Do I have your permission, Rab?”

Fisher was still staring, relishing this moment of power. The world waited on his say-so. “I could do with some gloves,” he said at last.

“Not these ones,” Rebus told him.

“They look comfy.”

Rebus shook his head slowly, started sliding one glove off, trying not to flinch. He held up a blistered hand. “Yours if you want, Rab, but this has been inside it…”

“That’s fucking gross,” one of the lieutenants stated.

“Which is why you wouldn’t want to wear them.” Rebus slipped the glove back on, turned and headed back to the cab. He got in and shut the door after him.

“Drive past them,” he ordered. The cab moved forwards again. Rebus kept his eyes front, though he knew five separate stares were on him. As the cab sped up, there was a thud on the roof, and a half-brick bounced across the road.

“Just a shot across our bow,” Rebus said.

“Easy for you to say, chief. It’s not your fucking cab.”

Back on the main road, they paused at a red light. A car had stopped across the road, its interior light on as the driver pored over a street map.

“Poor sod,” the cabbie commented. “Wouldn’t like to get lost around here.”

“Do a U-turn,” Rebus ordered.

“What?”

“Do a U-turn and pull over in front of it.”

“What for?”

“Because I’m asking,” Rebus snapped.

The driver’s body language told Rebus he’d had easier fares. As the lights turned green, he signaled for a right turn, and executed the maneuver, pulling up to the curb. Rebus already had the money ready. “Keep the change,” he said, getting out.

“I’ve earned it, pal.”

Rebus walked back to the parked car, opened the passenger door, and slid inside. “Nice night for a drive,” he told Siobhan Clarke.

“Isn’t it?” The street map had disappeared, probably beneath her seat. She was watching the cabbie getting out, examining the roof of his vehicle. “So what brings you to this part of the world?”

“I was visiting a friend,” Rebus told her. “What’s your excuse?”

“Do I need one?”

The cabbie was shaking his head, casting a baleful look in Rebus’s direction before getting back into the driver’s seat and heading off, executing another U-turn so he could make for the safety of town.

“Which street is it you’re looking for?” Rebus asked. She looked at him and he smiled. “I saw you studying the A to Z. Let me guess: Fairstone’s house?”