Free Crow Bait by Douglas Skelton

Jimmy,’ said Donovan.
    ‘Cry me a river, Frankie Boy. She was only a tout, for fuck’s sake.’
    Donovan was neither shocked nor surprised by Knight’s callous attitude. He had always known Jimmy Knight doesn’t do sentiment. Knight flicked the ignition and jammed his cigarillo between his teeth. ‘I hear that Davie McCall’s getting out today,’ he said.
    ‘Heard that too,’ said Donovan.
    Knight stared at him for a second and Donovan had the impression he was waiting for him to say something else. Perhaps the big cop had heard that Gentleman Jack had asked him to make contact and expected to be kept in the loop. Donovan remained silent, so Knight nodded and said, ‘Got a feeling in my pish that we’re in for some interesting times again, Frankie boy.’
    Donovan shrugged and began to walk back to where he had abandoned his car when he’d spotted wee Mo. He heard Knight’s car pull away and he watched it move past him. He thought about the murder room, he thought about blue-eyed John Keen, he thought about Davie McCall.
    He couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was all linked.

12
    IT FELT STRANGE being out.
    Davie didn’t think freedom would have affected him so much.
    It began when the big door slammed closed behind him and he was outside Barlinnie Prison for the first time in ten years. He was a free man. It was the same air he’d breathed in the exercise yard, but today it seemed fresher, sweeter. He stood still for a second to listen to the birds singing in the trees. He had heard them from the yard, too, but this morning their song sounded cheerier, as if they were glad to see him.
    The screws had taken their own sweet time processing his release papers, a move Davie put down to a final show of authority. He should have been through the door in the big gate to the right of public reception earlier in the day, but bureaucracy would not be hurried. He sat around, his impatience growing, but refused to let them see it. He knew it had to end eventually so he sat calmly in the processing area and waited it out.
    It was Bobby’s blond hair that Davie saw first, then the smile as wide as the Clyde. Bobby had been a good-looking bastard when they were young, and he had improved with the years. The hair was shorter now than it had been ten years before, but he still looked like a young Robert Redford. He was standing beside the small car park to Davie’s right. The larger car park to his left was already filled with vehicles.
    ‘Thought you’d maybe banjoe’d somebody and they were keeping you in,’ said Bobby as he shook Davie’s hand.
    ‘Crossed my mind, Bobby,’ said Davie. ‘Controlled myself though.’
    ‘Had to move the motor about ten times,’ said Bobby, pointing the way to a double-parked Blue Montego. Then he clapped Davie on the back. ‘So – how does it feel to be a free man at last?’
    ‘Good,’ said Davie, but it was an understatement. Ten years was a long time and he still expected the harsh bellow of a screw telling him to get back into the gallery, to get a move on, to move his skinny arse before he put a boot to it. He wondered how long he would feel that way.
    He breathed in a lungful of the cold November air before he settled into the passenger seat and strapped on the seatbelt. Even that felt unusual.
    ‘Aye, you’ll find a lot of things have changed in the old town,’ said Bobby as he backed out of the space. ‘City of Culture and all that this year. Sinatra played Ibrox, you know that? Joe woulda loved that.’
    Bobby fell silent for a few moments and Davie felt his friend regretting his mention of Joe Klein. Davie nodded, letting him know it was fine. ‘Aye, opera and ballet for masses,’ Bobby went on. ‘You didn’t see Pavarotti out in the schemes, though. Some streets, the only culture they’ve got is what’s growin on the bottom of their dirty dishes.’
    Bobby steered the car down the drive away from the prison and Davie looked in the side mirror to see