Truth Lies Bleeding Read Online Free Page B

whole demeanour said trouble – he was either in some kind of bother, or about to be.
    At the door the man tried to catch McArdle’s attention. He leaned forward and made a gesture with his shaking hand. McArdle ignored him, walking out the door and onto London Road. The street was busy. It was early afternoon; giro day at the post office had attracted a crowd. As McArdle walked he felt his thighs rub together. He had the squat build of a weightlifter, could handle himself: they called him ‘the Deil’. Those that didn’t know him thought it was a contraction of Devlin, a play on the Scots for Devil , but those who did know him knew the name was hard earned. McArdle liked people to know that about him.
    The thin man followed him up the road. McArdle caught sight of him shuffling into doorways and under scaffolding as he tried to keep a respectful distance. He had told Barry Tierney never to stop him in the street; he’d warned the loser more than once. He felt his feet stamping harder with every step, wished he hadn’t put on trainers – boots would have been better for bursting this stupid prick’s head. His shoulders tensed as a haar shot up Maryfield on its way to the tourists trekking Arthur’s Seat. He crossed over the road, onto West Norton Place, and took the side street at the old tech college. He turned to see Tierney pegging it up behind him. McArdle ducked into wasteground behind a Shell garage and waited. In a few moments he started to hear the shuffling gait, the heavy breathing. He reached out and pulled Tierney into the back of the disused building.
    ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’
    Tierney flinched, brought hands up to his head. ‘I’ve got money . . . I’ve got money.’
    McArdle slapped him; one slap, it toppled him. Tierney fell to the ground and curled up. ‘I’m sorry . . . I know you said, but I’ve got money.’ He dug in the pockets of his torn Adidas hoodie. ‘Here, here . . .’ It was forty, maybe fifty pounds.
    McArdle snatched it. ‘What’s this?’ He slapped the notes and his fist off Tierney’s head. The force of it scraped his knuckles. Blood streamed from a gash on the thin man’s forehead. ‘You’re into me for more than fifty quid!’
    ‘I know . . . I know . . . I just thought—’
    ‘You thought what?’ McArdle stamped his foot on his ribcage. Tierney coughed heavily. ‘I’ll tell you when to think, y’piece of shit. Get it? . . . Eh? Get it?’ McArdle was ready to end Tierney’s days but the noise of a car parking up at the Shell garage changed his mind. He leaned forward, grabbed Tierney by the neck and yanked him to his feet.
    ‘Look, I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry, I’ve got your money . . . I can soon get all of it!’
    McArdle released his grip, poked Tierney’s chest. ‘What are you on about?’
    Tierney gasped, stepped back. ‘When, y’know, Vee and me had that deal with you – remember that time?’
    McArdle’s lower lip drooped. He was confused. Was Tierney saying what he thought he was? ‘You mean you and Vee . . . ? You’re not saying you want to pay me off like that again?’
    Tierney stepped back. His face twitched and ticced as he brushed himself down with his bony fingers. ‘Yeah, yeah. I mean, no . . . last time you paid more than that. More than we owe you.’
    McArdle put out a hand, resting it on Tierney’s shoulder. He was interested enough, but unsure if he could trust him. ‘This isn’t some bloody scam, ’cause if it is, I’ll burst you all over this town.’
    Tierney double-blinked, quick movements, unnatural. ‘No. Straight up.’
    ‘And you want to sell to me?’
    ‘Sell, yeah. We do.’
    McArdle closed his mouth, brought a hand up to his head. He ran fingertips over his crown – the tight cut of the razor felt good to the touch. He walked away from Tierney; he didn’t trust him. He was trash, a junkie. His girlfriend was a junkie too, hardly the type to be doing any sort of