Chapter 15 – a shame of Knoxians – Scotland’s most wanted

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ I asked Phil. ‘If the Knoxians are mixed up in this should we really be waltzing in asking a load of questions that might get us killed?’

‘We won’t get killed. Least not today. The Knoxians are smarter than that, they wouldn’t do anything in front of so many witnesses.’

‘Oh right, well, that puts me at my ease.’

After he’d picked me up from the flat that Saturday afternoon, Phil and I were walking along the Perth Road, past the Art School towards the Mecca Bingo Hall where the Knoxians were holding one of their open meetings. The Knoxian would be leading the event and when Phil had called the night before to say he’d arranged an interview with the Man In Black himself, his excitement had persuaded me along. But getting closer, I started to have Doubts, felt flurries of angst, guilt at leaving Mum with Colin. I couldn’t work out if they were caused by genuine anxiety or were the effect of such a concentrated Knoxian presence in the city centre. 

‘Look, it’s going to be fine. We’re just getting the lie of the land, see how they react when we ask a few awkward questions. They can’t do anything to us, they won’t want to risk the bad publicity.’

‘Yeah, but you’re forgetting, we’ve seen what they can do…I mean, your face could end up spread all over the place.’ 

‘Jeez, right bag of neuroses today, aren’t we?’ Phil’s face morphed into Woody Allen’s long enough for me to give a startled laugh. He switched quickly back to normal, looking at me carefully. ‘Hey, if you’re worried, we can do it another time or I could do it myself. I mean, if you’re scared -’

‘Of those pricks? No, nae chance, nuh uh, nut…’ Phil twitched an eyebrow. ‘Right, OK, yes, I admit it, I am a bit… nervous. A tiny bit and – Jesus fuck…’ 

We’d passed the D.C.A. and were heading towards the traffic lights that would take us over the road to the Overgate when it hit us. A Knoxian blast of shame that lasted long enough to leave your mouth dry, heart pounding, body screaming at you to run away while your knees were too weak to do anything about it. It was one of the methods the Knoxians used to drum up business and I wouldn’t have wished it on the Slorach even. For some passersby it put them off completely but for others it weakened them enough to seek out a cure and the Knoxians were there to give salvation, like a doctor offering you morphine after breaking your leg. You’ll hate the bastards but that won’t stop you taking what they’re giving. 

There were five of them over by the Mecca Bingo Hall in their black suits and pork pie hats, two by the door, three dotted about in front overseeing the queue forming and it was one of them looking at us directly. He was the one who’d got us, made our cheeks burn with the flash memory of every harmful, thoughtless, stupid thing we’d ever done, the sort of thing that wakes you up at 3:30am and keeps you awake, praying for forgiveness. The other two were dealing with the after-effects of the guilt-blast, steadying folk, holding their shoulder as they handed them a leaflet, leading them towards the queue that had already formed outside the Mecca, a good hour before the event was due to start. 

I patted my jacket pocket where I’d stuck Davey’s cross. I’d convinced myself I was taking it along as evidence but there was superstition there too. Not that it had done Davey much good but the Knoxians did have a touch of the Draculas about them. Davey’s cross would help me focus, remind me why I was there rather than getting distracted by any of their nasty mind tricks and guilt trips.

‘Christ, and that’s before we’re even through the doors,’ I muttered, hoping Phil would have a quip to make it all better. Then I saw the state of him and had a mind to turn right back home. He was standing fixed but trembling, his face flickering, running through a sequence of faces, other guys, like a too fast slide show, none of the expressions happy, most shouting or crying and I recognised at least three exes of his. 

‘Phil!’ I grabbed a sleeve, shook him, didn’t realise I’d pulled out Davey’s cross with my other hand and had it pressed to his chest like a supernatural defibrillator until he was staring down at it, laughing shakily.

‘What’s this? You gone all Van Helsing?’ He was still pale but gave his face a rub, shaped it back to normal, then grimaced, resolved, and hooked his arm through mine. ‘Come on. Let’s sort these cowardly bastards out.’

Approaching the head of the queue it was easy enough to pick out the ones there to be ‘cured,’ with their fur-covered hands, clouds where heads should be or drinks cans skittering towards them across the pavement, nudging at their feet like unwanted pets. I glimpsed a few clients and couldn’t say I blamed them. I mean, what could SACS offer? A long wait for benefits and maybe, if they were lucky, a crappy part-time job whereas the Knoxians offered salvation. There hadn’t been any evidence that the practices they recommended had cured anyone but some did report a lessening of their condition. Whereas most SACS clients just reported a difficulty in getting through on the phone. 

What shocked me was the number waiting who looked normal, the ones there for prevention rather than cure, hoping to learn more about the Knoxian message of abstinence. Praying three times a day, making your life as miserable as possible so as not to turn into one of the freaks queuing next to them. I pointed out an ordinary-looking middle-aged, middle-class couple to Phil who looked as though they were straight off the bus from Broughty Ferry, nervously keeping their distance from the young man in front of them whose hair was one massive afro of barbed wire. ‘Looks as if the message is getting through.’ 

‘The message? Ha.’ We were a few feet away from the Hall’s foyer, Phil’s eyes darting between the two Knoxians keeping guard. ‘That makes it sound reasonable and rational. It’s fear that’s brought them here. And when people are scared, really scared, they’ll believe any crap you feed them,’ and he gave a sour smile to the younger Knoxian on the right who raised a hand in front of Phil’s chest. He was careful not to touch and he didn’t need to, Phil getting the message, stopping short. We both knew a touch would result in a blast of shame that would make the earlier attack feel like the guilt of leaving an energy saving light-bulb on overnight rather than accidentally killing a relative. 

‘Can I help you, sir. Madam,’ said the guard looking us over, his expression keeping a barely controlled balance between politeness and contempt. I’ll say this for the Knoxian Guard, they did give good threat. These two had probably been dodgy nightclub bouncers, the one who’d stopped Phil, neck as wide as his head, getting his broken nose turfing a couple of hen night survivors out of Fat Sams. It wasn’t so much the outfit that gave them authority, the cool Nehru-style black shirts with the white trim at the collar, the hats. It was more the self-belief that made you realise how unusual it was to come into contact with someone of utter conviction, who believed their world view was completely right. Paramilitary ministers, ready to escort you straight to hell if you stepped out of line. 

‘We have an appointment. An appointment with the Big Man. So if you’ll excuse us -’ Phil took a step forward and contact was made. Not much, finger-tip light but I’d noticed the small adjustment the guard made to ensure the touch was right over Phil’s heart and it was so subtly, horribly exact, I had to fight the urge to punch him.

Phil gasped, choked, his face slipping, and I steadied him which was as stupid as hugging someone who’s suffering an electric shock. I almost let him go straight away as a concentrated blast of shame tore through me, left me wanting to rip my own face off so I wouldn’t be recognised as the scumbag Cathy Burns.

‘Hie! There’s no need for that!’ I shouted as Phil’s face juddered and there were mutterings from the queue, none of them friendly. 

‘Now, let’s all just calm down a minute, eh?’ This came from the other half of the gruesome twosome, a guy older than the one smirking at Phil, in his fifties, short grey hair showing beneath his hat. I suspected a good few tattoos underneath his suit as he gave off an air of ex-military or ex-prison, either as guard or on the other side of the cell door. But I liked the fact that one head flick at his colleague had him backing off.  

‘Sorry about that kerfuffle, Mr Finlay. And it’s Cathy Burns, isn’t it?’ His smile wasn’t the warmest, the sort you’d see on an undertaker greeting a family member suspected of finishing off their relative. Still, it was nicer than being made suicidal. ‘The Knoxian will be a few minutes but if you’ll follow me.’

I’d been inside the Bingo Hall once a while back, indeed had been chucked out as a member of a rowdy hen night, the old ladies not taking kindly to our lack of serious intent, using those great big felt tip pens to decorate our cheeks instead of our cards. But I could pick up on how the presence of the Knoxians had changed the atmosphere of the place. Guards dotted about, arms folded, creating a heaviness in the air, making it clear you weren’t here for some light-hearted sinning but to repent.  

‘If you’ll wait here, I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.’

The guard left us outside the doors to the hall, opening one just wide enough for him to slip through and I got a fit of the giggles. Phil’s close shave and the feeling I was about to meet the President of a totalitarian state in a venue associated with mobility scooters and tobacco-stained grannies, enough to crack me up. 

I was wiping my eyes when I realised Phil had wandered off to gawp through the windows of the door to one of the bars. 

‘Phil? What you doing? We can go for a drink after but it’s a bit early to -’ He shushed me, waving me over and after seeing what he was staring at I could have done with a whisky. 

‘Shiiiiiiiit…what the fuck are they doing here? Shouldn’t they be locked away in Carstairs?’ I whispered. Phil nodded slowly, whispering back. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh? The League of Supervillainy up for a bit of eyes down of a Saturday afternoon.’

Ish always used to give me a hard time for referring to ‘supervillains’. She’d point out that you if suffered from a condition like the Gorbals Vampire, every full moon your teeth turning into rusty iron spikes and you having to put on a black cape and top hat and run round the streets trying to bite the necks of virgins, you probably do need psychiatric help rather than being splashed over the front of the Daily Record with the headline, ‘Jail This Sick Freak!’ But even she couldn’t deny there were some who enjoyed the dark side of their superpowers. And I was willing to bet that when one of them did go apeshit – hijacking an oil rig, say, or threatening to blow up Dounreay – most Heroes, the Goodies, were pleased. It gave them something more exciting to do than open a supermarket or help out with some dull infrastructure project.  

But to be a few feet away from the most notorious of the ‘differently powered’…it wasn’t pleasant. It was like standing too close to a pylon or an electrical substation, anything else that could kill you in an instant and not give a fuck. We’d heard the Knoxians had drafted in Bad Guys for help with security, supposedly to show that they were willing to welcome anyone into their sick wee club. Being this close you got a sense that their real motivation in drafting in Scotland’s Most Wanted was because they put the fear of God into you. 

The group standing at the bar was laughing too loudly, the sort of laughter full more of intimidation than humour. It was the Bleezin’ Squad, a bunch of six glorified Neds. Wee girls like Becky at work had this disturbing knack of reeling off their names like they were boy band members. They each had the ability to breathe fire, send flames out of their fingers and set their hair blazing but their most notorious talent was causing anyone who brushed up against them to feel incredibly, euphorically pissed out their head, drunk to the point of being a Viking Berserker. There was a cloud of smokiness with a bulk to it at the far end, a thick ghostly column and Phil gave a girly yelp as he realised what it was. ‘Is that…that’s not…not The Haar, is it?’ he asked as the greyness dissolved and spread, blurring figures, turning them even more nightmarish. Here and there it would clear giving you time to catch the rusted iron teeth of Gordon the Gorbals Vampire or the Beast of Ardnamurchan, the big blue furry figure with the flashing red eyes in the armchair – the size of those claws, fucking huge! – or see the horrible Parkinsons-like trembling of the standing corpse-like figure of Shivering Man. 

One of the Bleezin’ Squad caught us staring, his eyes turning white like two scorching coals. He took a step forward, seemed about to shout something like ‘What the fuck you looking at?’ when he stopped, gave a nod, raised his bottle of WKD. I was thinking, ‘That’s weirdly polite,’ then saw he wasn’t looking at us but behind. Which is when the fear of God blasted through me, the feeling that Judgement Day had arrived and I was found badly wanting as a deep voice sounded in a tone as soft and terrifying as your Dad threatening the skelping of your life when you were wee – ‘Ah, there you are. My inquisitors,’ – as the hands of The Knoxian fell on our shoulders and squeezed.