"Like that makes a b.l.o.o.d.y difference!"

The train pulled up beside us. The doors opened. "I'm getting outtae here," Ally said, stepping across the gap.

I lunged forward and grabbed him by the collar. He made a little strangled sound as his shirt tightened round his throat. He fell backward. I stepped aside and he landed a.r.s.e-first on the plat- form. He tried to stand up, but I kicked my foot down on his chest.

Pa.s.sengers on the train looked out the windows, gawping as I applied pressure to Ally's chest. No one did anything, however. It's a peculiar trait of people that they can just stand by and idly watch as someone gets their a.r.s.e handed to them on a plate. I kept Ally there on the ground with my heel digging into his chest until the train pulled away from the platform again. Once the train was gone, I lifted my foot. Ally stood up cautiously. He tugged at his shirt to straighten it out. 'a.r.s.ewipe," he muttered.

Name-calling wasn't going to do him any good. "You're going to be a good citizen, Ally," I said. "Believe me, it's a good feeling."

"Aye, I'm king of the world," said Ally. "Christ, give it two days and I'll be in a hole in the ground."

"You won't. They can protect you, Ally. They know what they're doing!"

Ally laughed. "Aye, sure," he said. He sighed. "Come on then, if we're going."

As we walked down the platform, he chuckled and said, "Dead w.a.n.ker walking!"

"Cheer up," I said. "They were going to give you a nice hotel."

Sirens began to blare in the near distance.

"They're coming for me," he said.

"Aye, that's right," I said.

"They're going tae be p.i.s.sed off, right?"

"Maybe a little."

"I hurt two of their officers, like." He took in a deep breath.

"Maybe it's no just the Kennedys I have tae worry about."

"This isn't LA.," I said. "You're not Rodney King."

He looked at me strangely. "Who?" he said. I let it go.

We were about to head back into the station itself, out of the cold night air. Someone came out of the departure lounge, b.u.mping into us. I registered that he was a big guy, but didn't think much of it.

"Sorry, mate," he grumbled and kept going.

"a.r.s.ehole," muttered Ally.

I started to walk inside.

"Hey, Dudman!" shouted the big guy.

When Ally turned, I knew something was wrong. I went to push him out the way as the big guy threw back the raincoat he was wearing and pulled out a shotgun. I watched this happen in slow motion, pushing Ally as hard as I could, trying to get him on the ground.

I looked at the big guy's face, now that he was standing under one of the yellow lights that illuminated the platform. I recognised him: it was the guy I'd seen at Jennifer Fischer's place.

Ally stumbled toward the tracks, as if hoping he could somehow leap down there and get out the way. But he was too slow. And I was too slow. It was so hard to move, to think straight, to make the right decisions.

A moment's hesitation and the big guy pulled the trigger. The explosion was so loud I felt like my head was going to explode.

But it was Ally's instead. The side of his head ripped outward as he spun with the force of the impact, flesh flapping loosely. He smashed to the ground. His body rolled with the momentum, and he tipped over the edge of the platform down onto the tracks.

The big guy smiled and walked toward me, the shotgun held high. I kept my ground, my eyes locked with his, my face as still as I could manage. I was giving nothing away "I know you," he said.

"We've met."

"You're a t.i.t, you know that?"

"At least I'm a left t.i.t, not a right t.i.t," I said. Which, in retrospect, was not a cunning plan: it's never a good move to p.i.s.s off the guy holding a shotgun.

"The police are coming," I said, trying to play for time.

"Guess I'd better be quick," he said.

The sirens had gone silent now. They were here, probably coming down the stairs. I just had to keep him talking for a moment more.

But it wasn't going to happen. He knew as well as I did that this was no time for him to be d.i.c.king around. His finger tightened on the trigger.

I faked right and then shifted my weight, diving left, pushing the gla.s.s doors inward to the departure lounge. I fell through the door and hit the ground with my shoulder, rolling and ignoring the pain. I heard the shotgun blast and the shattering of gla.s.s. I rolled onto my back. I couldn't keep going. The momentum died a death and I lay on the floor.

I heard footsteps and shouting. Someone was kneeling beside me.

"Sam, you okay?" It was Sandy.

"That b.a.s.t.a.r.d with the shotgun," I said, my voice rasping with effort, "shot Dudman."

Sandy helped me to my feet. We ran outside. Two P.C.'s were pursuing the big guy with the shotgun down toward platform four. He was running with his back to them.

Sandy said, "He's going to run out of platform."

He was quick for a guy with such a bulky frame. He stopped suddenly, turning on his heels and raising his gun.

Sandy shouted to the officers, "Get down!"

They hit the deck as the big guy fired off two shots. He stumbled as each blast recoiled. His feet hit the edge of the track. He tried to shift his weight and staggered at the edge of the platform before falling backward, his arms flailing wildly. The shotgun went over with him. There was a final explosion and then silence.

Sandy let loose a lungful of air. He ran a hand through his hair.

He looked at me. "You did your best," he said.

"Not good enough," I said. "The Kennedys are going to walk, aren't they?"

"Aye," said Sandy. 'Without Dudman, everything we have goes to h.e.l.l."

I swore.

"I went to have a wee word with Jennifer Fischer," Sandy said. "You were right. That son of b.i.t.c.h pummeled her nearly tae death." He gritted his teeth. "If I ever get my hands on him . . ." he said.

"He's closer than you think," I said. "See that big-boned b.a.s.t.a.r.d down with the shotgun, that's your man."

Sandy nodded. He walked to the lip of the platform. He looked down at the big man on the tracks below. The big man wasn't moving. His head lay at an awkward angle. "I hope he isn't dead,"

Sandy said. "That'd be the easy way out of this."

I got back to my place at half past three. I'd spent a few hours talking to Sandy and then Curious George, who said they'd have found Ally Dudman eventually and it was my fault the situation went spinning out of control. I nodded and answered his questions.

Curious George and I have never been friends. I don't care much for his opinion. If he wanted to think I was the cause of Dudman's death, I didn't care. The truth was, Dudman would probably still be dead whether I had become involved or not. Sometimes situations have their own way of developing and it doesn't matter what you do, things will work out the way they want to.

When I got back home, my body ached all over. The stress of being shot at and of seeing Ally Dudman's face being ripped apart by a 12-gauge shotgun had finally begun to manifest itself.

I looked in the kitchen cupboards and saw a half-finished bottle of Jack Daniel's waiting there for me. I thought about it for a moment and then decided that maybe I deserved some of the good stuff for a change.

I reached further back into the drinks cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Glenmorangie. Okay, it still wasn't five star living, but it felt like more of a luxury; a reward for surviving another day. I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around and saw Ros standing in the kitchen door. Her hair was messed up from being slept on. She shook her head and took a step toward me. Reaching out with her left hand she took the bottle away from me and put it on the breakfast bar. "Not tonight," she said.

She took my hand and led me to the bedroom.

COUGHING JOHN.

(Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Mystery Magazine, July/August 2005) In a city even one as small as Dundee, some people just seem to be part of the scenery.

Coughing John, for instance. Coughing John lived on Union Street, generally in the shelter ,of the overpa.s.s that goes from up Union Street, crosses a roundabout, and comes back down to Dundee Rail Station. I used to give John money from time to time because he looked in need of it. I always figured that even if he spent it on drink, at least the drink would keep him warm.

He was a short man, maybe five-five, with grey hair and a beard that made him look like a Santa Claus who knew better days. He was always dressed the same: black trousers, a stained white shirt, and a green jacket that in its day probably cost a few quid. He was always polite to me, although we never really exchanged many pleasantries. I was just one of those few generous people who would share whatever I had with him.

I was the one called him Coughing John. I didn't know his real name until after he died. I knew he was called John because once I asked him for his name before I gave him his change. I called him Coughing John because of his rasp, a h.e.l.lish, torturous implosion that used to overtake his entire body.

But Coughing John was little more to me than a part of the Dundee city landscape, and like any landmark, when he left things were different somehow.

It was ten thirty on a Sat.u.r.day evening, and I was walking down Union Street to meet Ros at the train station. Ros had been down in Bristol for a conference. She's a philosophy lecturer at the local university. She specializes in Continental and feminist philosophy. I don't know much about any of it, though G.o.d knows she's tried to teach me. I guess I can't always see the point in it; it just seems like so much talk.

Ros had only been gone a few days, but it felt longer. I like to keep a hard exterior, but if I'm honest, I think inside I'm getting soft with old age. My mother always said when you fall in love, you know it because you can't imagine your life without thatperson. I'd like to have the opportunity to. tell her she was right.

Sometimes, when I go to visit her and Dad up at Balgay Cemetery, I imagine she can hear when I'm talking about these things.

As I turned off the Nethergate and down onto Union Street, I knew something was wrong. At the far end of the street, blue lights flashed, strobing the night air. The karaoke bar was silent.

I walked quickly down and saw Sandy talking to a uniformed officer. He looked serious, listening as the officer read off his notes. I waited until Sandy was done and then walked over.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey, Sam." Sandy looked up. "How're you doing?"

'What's going on?"

"Some homeless guy got himself killed," Sandy told me. He dug his hands into the pockets of his grey suit. It was a cold night. The wind picked up, ruffling his wispy orange hair.

"What happened?" I asked. I saw the overpa.s.s had been closed off Paramedics were coming down the stairs, negotiating a bed trolley. The body was covered in a white cloth. D.O.A., like they say in all the American movies.

"Scuffle of some kind," Sandy said. "If you ask me, it was some kids out for kicks. That copper there, he thinks it was drugs, but it doesn't feel right, you know?"

I nodded. It wasn't uncommon in any city. Kids get bored and sometimes that boredom erupts into violence. All the same, it was unsettling.

"Ros is waiting for me," I said. "At the station."

"Take the car" said Sandy. "No one's getting over."

I exhaled loudly.

Sandy got the hint: "No favours."

"Can I see the body?"

"Why would you want to? You're not on the force anymore,"

Sandy said.

I shrugged. "Professional curiosity."

"Morbid curiosity" Sandy said.

"I can't resist a mystery."

"Every time you look at a corpse, the situation gets out of control," Sandy said. He was right, of course. I'm known at the Tayside police force as something of a jinx. Even when I'd been a beat officer myself, I had a nasty habit of getting myself too deeply involved in cases most other coppers wouldn't even glance at.

The paramedics brought the stretcher down the steps. They stopped beside us. Sandy lifted the sheet to look at the homeless guy. I looked over Sandy's shoulder.

He must have heard my sudden intake of breath because helooked at me with surprise.

"Do you know this guy?"

"Aye," I said. "That's Coughing John."