The Blood of Crows by Caro Ramsay Page A

lassie an ice cream on a hot summer day.
    He went into the hall, and picked up the mail. The white envelope from Scottish Power he flung aside, and the one from 3 Mobile, but he eagerly opened the two DVDs he’d been sent to keep him entertained. He checked his mobile. No flashing light, no message yet that he couldmove on. So, he still had to sit tight in this social security hellhole. One of these days there’d be a phone call, and they would say the codeword which meant he could move on. If they didn’t say it, he wasn’t to go. But Skelpie was confident he was going to be looked after, and it would all look legit.
    He stamped on the cushion, making a comfy dent for his head, then flung himself bum first on to the brand-new sofa. He bounced slightly on landing, and heard the base of the sofa crack. Bit of cheap shite, so it was.
    Eyes on the TV, his hand scrabbled over the floor, doing a blind search through the grime and grease and dirt caught up in the fibres of the skanky carpet. A half-eaten KitKat, one fag packet empty and crushed, another fag packet half full, a bottle of Teacher’s. That would do for his breakfast. Before starting his feast, he picked up the remote, pressed Play and waited for the DVD to load. He scratched himself with yellow fingernails, and bits of skin flaked into his belly button. Content now, he tossed his lighter from the back of his hand to his palm, catching it and then flicking it on. The click of the flame was echoed by that of the DVD player. He reached down and picked up the tinfoil tray from last night’s Chinky to use as an ashtray and balanced it on his thigh.
    Then he felt around on the carpet for the dregs of a can of lager and tipped that into the makeshift ashtray, to be on the safe side. Falling asleep while pissed and smoking equalled toast. As Billy the Bastard had found out. Skelpie would be more careful.
    He burped loudly and lifted his bum off the sofa to fart. It was good to be out after four years of being locked uptwenty hours out of twenty-four. And God, was he out! He was free now, on a firm legal argument that he couldn’t make head or tail of – though he knew the word ‘disclosure’ came up a lot. Something the bastards at the fiscal’s office ought to have said, but didn’t. Something the cops should have revealed, but didn’t. He was letting Faulkner, his lawyer, do all the talking for him. The wee shite had been Biggart’s lawyer, and Biggart had footed the bill up front. But then Biggart, God bless his burned-out socks, had owed Skelpie big time.
    He wasn’t that innocent – he’d done plenty and got away with it – but it gnawed at him that he’d actually been banged up for something he hadn’t done. Though he knew who had.
    The story he’d given the cops was, for once, the truth. He was just the local bus driver, and he’d got caught up in a nasty situation. He knew all the local kiddies by name, kept an eye on them as they got on and off his bus. Wee Lynda Osbourne, a six-year-old with blonde pigtails, often got the bus to school with her granny. Then one day he’d left Hugh and Lenny in the pub and had gone up to the Botanics for some fresh air and a wee bit of business, intending to go straight back to the pub. It had been a hot day, like today, and he’d queued at the ice cream van. There was a summer fair going on, and the gardens were packed with parents and children; it was hard to tell which adults and children belonged together. He was already in the queue when he saw wee Lynda join the end. She seemed to have two older boys with her, but they started chatting to some friends, ignoring the wee girl. He had waved, offered to buy her a cone to save her waiting. He was justbeing nice; it wasn’t safe for kids to wait. She’d really wanted raspberry topping, but they’d run out, and she’d had a wee tantrum. So, the ice cream man gave her a double dollop of strawberry and everyone was happy.
    But that encounter had got him banged