giving the peace sign, stared back from a calendar on the left hand wall.
A warm sweet sickly odour pervaded the place and made you immediately want to take a shower. Something was dead, of that there was no doubt.
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Even though it was early afternoon the room was dark. I could just make out the outline of a body propped up against the back of the door, its legs splayed out on the carpet. I tried the light switch a couple of times but the bulb had blown, so I made my way to the window and threw the curtains back. Several pigeons took off from the window ledge. I turned back and looked at the body.
It was Tony McCaffrey, the Bumble’s nephew. I recognised him from the photo I’d been given.
Around his neck was a rope which hung from the brass coat hook. His backside was suspended a couple of inches off the floor and his tongue bulged from his mouth as though someone had stuffed it there, like an apple in the fatted pig. His rigid arms were outstretched as if he was welcoming me, and his long dark hair had fallen over his face. His only item of clothing was the gold crucifix around his neck with the Man nailed to it. Once again I was looking at Christ and he was looking back at me.
I prised open the window to let some fresh air into the room, then sat on the edge of the unmade double bed and lit a cigarette. I surveyed the scene while the pigeons settled back down on the ledge. One of them had a stump for a leg and I wondered what had happened. In America some country singer would write a song about it. On a wing and a prayer with Pigeon Pete, only one leg so hence no feet – or words to that effect.
I snapped the Zippo shut, took another draw on my cig and looked Tony over. I felt his face. He was cold as the proverbial marble. I reckoned he had been dead a day or so. It was then I noticed the deep bruising on his wrists and ankles. He had been bound at some stage prior to death. I couldn’t help but look again at the crucifix. The pigeons began to coo as they became amorous on the windowsill.
Well, I had finished my job. But I was still none the wiser as to why the Bumble wanted his nephew found. My instructions were clear – persuade him to return to Glasgow. That would no longer be a problem, he’d be going as a VIP in a long black limousine.
I stepped over the body and looked out of the back window. There was nothing to recommend the garden. It was a bleak wilderness with a solitary shopping trolley lying on its side. Stumpy the pigeon was oblivious to me, as his love interest circled about on the ledge. He makes a remarkable job of staying upright, I thought, for a one-legged randy pigeon. I took a few more draws and flicked my cig out the window and turned to see I wasn’t alone.
The Bumble's End by Jimmy Bain. UK
The Bumble's End by Jimmy Bain. USA
