Open Wounds by Douglas Skelton sampler
Davie McCall is tired. Tired of violence, tired of the Life. He's always managed to stay detached from the brutal nature of his line of work, but recently he has caught himself enjoying it. In the final instalment in the Davie McCall series old friends clash and long buried secrets are unearthed as McCall investigates a brutal five-year-old crime. Davie wants out, but the underbelly of Glasgow is all he has ever known. Will what he learns about his old ally Big Rab McClymont be enough to get him out of the Life? And could the mysterious woman who just moved in upstairs be just what he needs?
Davie McCall is tired. Tired of violence, tired of the Life. He's always managed to stay detached from the brutal nature of his line of work, but recently he has caught himself enjoying it.
In the final instalment in the Davie McCall series old friends clash and long buried secrets are unearthed as McCall investigates a brutal five-year-old crime.
Davie wants out, but the underbelly of Glasgow is all he has ever known. Will what he learns about his old ally Big Rab McClymont be enough to get him out of the Life? And could the mysterious woman who just moved in upstairs be just what he needs?
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16 douglas skelton<br />
McCall closed his eyes briefly, the images flashing uninvited.<br />
A face…<br />
A voice, pleading…<br />
Screaming…<br />
He forced them from his mind, pushed them into the darkest<br />
part of himself, where he knew there were other memories waiting<br />
to be released. Over the years he’d become very adept at keeping<br />
most of them locked away, but that one kept surfacing and he<br />
didn’t know why. He turned away, leaving Jimsie’s question<br />
unanswered.<br />
‘Just as I said,’ Jimsie commented. ‘Taciturn as fuck.’<br />
McCall rested his head on the side window, the glass cool<br />
against his forehead, and watched the buildings, the streets and his<br />
life slide past.<br />
The words had been painted on the cemetery wall with a brush,<br />
not spray-painted, as was usual. There were places where the<br />
white emulsion had run and long tails ran down the brickwork,<br />
and even as the car sped past McCall and Jimsie could see the<br />
brush strokes.<br />
Jimsie asked, ‘Who’s Dan Miller, d’you know?’ McCall shook<br />
his head. Jimsie puffed his cheeks and commented, ‘Well, whoever<br />
he is, he’s a dead man…’<br />
McCall watched the words DAN MILLER IS A GRASS recede<br />
in the side mirror and wondered who Dan Miller had offended.<br />
Then Jimsie turned a corner and they arrived at the taxi office.<br />
It was a low building in an industrial estate near the river.<br />
There was space for parking outside, a tall aerial on the roof and<br />
a high mesh fence around everything. No-one knew what the fence<br />
was for, because none of the local vandals or break-in artists<br />
would dare set foot near the place, not if they knew what was<br />
good for them. They all knew who owned it.<br />
The heavy front door had been specially strengthened to<br />
withstand anything up to a nuclear detonation and the first thing<br />
McCall saw when he pushed it open was Stringer’s bullet head.<br />
McCall may have been an old pal, but he was too much of a
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