McSorley Squeaky Clean

WINNER OF THE McILVANNEY PRIZE for SCOTTISH CRIME NOVEL OF THE YEAR
1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-1-78227-837-5
Verlag: Pushkin Vertigo
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 384 Seiten

WINNER OF THE McILVANNEY PRIZE for SCOTTISH CRIME NOVEL OF THE YEAR FEATURES AN EXTRACT FROM THE NEXT ALISON MCCOIST THRILLER, PAPERBOY 'Amazingly accomplished' The Times, Crime Book of the Month'Loved it'Kevin Bridges'A talent to watch'Chris Brookmyre'Very funny'Scotsman'Pitch dark yet dripping with warmth'Caz Frear __________ Half the Glasgow copshop think DI Alison McCoist is bent. The other half just think she's a fuck-up. No one thinks much at all about carwash employee Davey Burnet, until one day he takes the wrong customer's motor for a ride. One kidnapping later, he's officially part of Glasgow's criminal underworld, working for a psychopath who enjoys playing games like 'Keep Yer Kneecaps' with any poor bastard who crosses him. Can Davey escape from the gang's clutches with his kneecaps and life intact? Perhaps this polis Ally McCoist who keeps nosing around the carwash could help. That's if she doesn't get herself killed first.

Callum McSorley is a writer based in Glasgow whose short stories have appeared in Gutter Magazine, Monstrous Regiment and New Writing Scotland. Squeaky Clean is his debut novel, inspired by his years working at a car wash in Glasgow's East End. With it, Callum became the youngest ever author to win the prestigious McIlvanney Prize for best Scottish crime novel of the year. He is currently working on another Alison McCoist thriller.

Autoren/Hrsg.

McSorley, Callum

Leseproben

7

Davey was early the next morning—couldn’t sleep. He chased himself around the bed most of the night, seething at Sarah, scared for Annalee. Howsit ma fuckin fault? Howsit it always ma fuckin fault?! He must have dropped off at some point but his eyes were open before the alarm went off, red and unrested.

He put on yesterday’s clothes, which he’d hung on the radiator—any foosty smell of sweat completely blitzed by the car soap, which never seemed to wash out anyway—and walked to work. He stood waiting at the shutter in the cold and dark. He’d given it a rattle in case Sean was in already—he sometimes dossed on the couch in the office if he was too stoned to be arsed going home—but there was no response.

Tim arrived with a Starbucks cup in his gloved hand. “Morning, Davey Boy.”

“Wit fancy drink ye goat the day, Tim?”

“Eggnog latte—they’ve got the Christmas drinks out already.”

Davey snorted. “Christ, it’s no even December yet. Wit the fuck is eggnog?”

“It’s some American thing—I think they make it with alcohol over there.”

“Any in that yin?”

“Unfortunately not.”

“Sounds rank.”

“Tastes good but.” Tim took a sip, a smugness coming over his face from the warmth of it—bliss on a cold bastard morning.

“Just mind an drink it up before Sean appears—it’ll set him aff. He’ll be bangin oan aboot tax dodgin fir fuckin oors an a cannae be arsed wae it the noo. Av goat a splittin heedache.”

Tim laughed. “He is right though, I shouldn’t be giving them my money, it’s just it’s the only place open on my way here.”

“An yer a fuckin addict an aw.”

“That too.” He took another gulp and a cloud of sweet-smelling steam emanated from his mouth.

“Ah, Tim, wit’s that shite yer puttin in yersel?!” Sean already had a joint hanging from his mouth, stomping towards them with his bent-backed swagger. “Thoat ad fuckin telt ye aboot they fuckin crooks!”

“Fucksake, here we go,” Davey said.

Tim chuckled.

Sean unlocked the shutter and hit the switch, the door grinding its way up in a racket that reverberated down the street, bouncing off the dusky yellow stone of the closed factories currently in the process of being converted to luxury flats which made up most of the buildings from the car wash to High Street. “Am no huvin ye bringin that shite intae ma shoap, ye better drink it oot here an go find a bin somewhere else fir the cup.”

“I know the rules,” Tim said.

That didn’t stop Sean launching into his usual tirade—one that eventually ranged, in a raging stupor, into all sorts of areas of politics and ended up lambasting the UK government and celebrating the bare-chested, horse-riding Vladimir Putin, hero of RT—“the real fuckin Don”.

“You’re het fir any jizz the day, Tim,” Davey said. “You an yer fuckin eggnog latte.”

“Back in a minute.” Tim ran off down the street to the nearest bin while Davey set up for the day. Once he had the hoses laid out—snaking out the shutter door, down the street and looping back to where the big blue barrel held the lances—he didn’t bother delaying hitting up Sean for some baccy. He wasn’t even going to pretend to quit today.

“Wit’s the matter wae ye?” Sean asked. “Yer rattlin like skeletons shaggin in a biscuit tin.”

“The wean’s in the hoaspital.”

“Fuck, man. Wit’s wrang wae her?”

“Don’t really know yet, Sarah willnae let us see her.”

“Shite… Ye needin time aff?”

Davey rolled a cigarette—Sean didn’t even have a lighthearted grumble about him stealing his tobacco.

“You not well, Davey?” Tim came into the office, pulling off his hat and gloves, his long, lazy student hair falling into his face, which he swept back behind an ear.

“His wean’s in the hoaspital.” Sean answered for him while Davey smoked his life-preserver. “The ex willnae let him visit.”

Tim didn’t know what to say to that. He never knew what to say about any troubles Davey had—separations and sick kids were very far removed from Tim’s current situation and experience in life. He put on a serious face and managed: “Sorry, David.”

Davey and Sean’s eyes snapped together, smiles widening. They looked back at Tim, who took a beamer.

“David?! Ye ma maw noo?” Davey said.

“Fuck you guys!” Tim said, red-cheeked. The three of them burst out laughing.

“Fucksake, Timmy, put the fuckin kettle oan fir us. Sean, could a huv wan ae yer tablets? Ma heed’s bangin.”

“They’re up oan the shelf there, David.”

“Fuck the pair ae ye.”

Tea, fags and painkillers evened Davey out, made him functional. They had some steady work in the morning: a decent chain of washes and a couple of valets that weren’t too manky. Tim didn’t seem to want to start any sort of conversation and that was fine with Davey—they had work to get on with anyway. He didn’t feel he needed to supervise the lad either—he was a good one. It wasn’t that washing motors took much skill, but at the same time anybody who said it was a piece of pish was generally doing a crappy job of it. There was a line to walk between attention to detail and getting it done fast and Tim had the knack of it. You had to have a pattern, and once you had a solid pattern, your body could work through it mechanically without missing anything—no stripe of dirt along the lower door, no muck in the corner of the alloy spokes, no soap scum left to dry on the bumper. With a good line of cars to get through, you could get into this rhythm, move fast, and your mind would drift away and wander while your body did its thing.

Davey’s mind went places he didn’t want it to go. Annalee, white-faced and frail in a too-big hospital bed, sheets too stiff, machinery and tubes and bleeps and buzzes—all this purely his imagination as he hadn’t been to see her. Couldn’t go to see her. Wasn’t allowed. Wisnae fuckin allowed—says who? Says Sarah. Sarah’s word was law for now, but she’d made plenty of threats to take it higher up, to go to the courts. He was waiting for that hit to come, he knew she was winding it up already, could feel it in the anger coming off her last night in radioactive waves. It wasn’t that Sarah was quick to get nippy—she was never usually one for unnecessary aggro, always the peacemaker on the drunken nights out of their not-too-distant youth—but when she did get angry, holy fuck, it was cataclysmic. And where the subject of Davey and Annalee was concerned, she had very little patience and the whole thing strung with so many trip wires Tom Cruise could use it as a set piece in his next film.

Davey was valeting a rusty red Ford Fiesta—scrubbing away at the layer of dirt on the inside corners of the door with a rag—when he finally noticed Tim saying his name.

“Wit?!”

Tim was standing with a woman in a long coat, dyed brunette hair showing grey at the roots, face prim and puckered like a schoolteacher’s.

Davey launched into his spiel: “A wash fir a wee car is a fiver, any bigger an it’s six or seven, dependin oan how much bigger. A hoover is a tenner, a full valet and yer twenty. Ye want the seats shampooed ye can bung another fiver oan tap.”

“I’m not here to have my car cleaned.” Her accent was only just middle-class, maybe self-taught.

“Well, we don’t dae anythin else.”

“Detective Inspector McCoist.” The woman held out her warrant card at arm’s length, lanyard wrapped around her fist. “Is Mr Prentice in?”

“That’s me.” Sean was marching across the unit towards them. His eyes were cracked red, a cloud of earthy grass smell washing over them as he approached. The detective’s nose wrinkled further.

“Mr Prentice, I’m Detective Inspector McCoist.” She showed her ID again.

“Alison McCoist… Yer name’s Ally McCoist. Is this a wind-up?”

“It’s not. No jokes, please, I’ve heard them all.” (Davey felt some sympathy—all the shite car-wash patter foisted on him every day, she must get it just as bad.) “Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?” She looked towards the door of the office.

“Aye, course.” Sean sat down on one of the Kärcher pressure washing units. “Wit’s the problem?”

The...