Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) Page 2

  He closed the door. I got out and eyed him across the car roof. ‘What do you mean?’

  As he turned I saw his pallor descend several shades of grey to rest at white. ‘Get inside, Gus. We need to talk.’

  Hod managed another three steps before he was T-boned by a burly biffer in a black suit. He placed a hand on Hod’s chest. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’ Another suit, shorter, but heavy in the neck, emerged from the passenger door of a pimped-up Merc. He started to put leather gloves on as he strode towards us. I couldn’t see his face but I recognised the gait. Looked the kind of swagger I’d seen on more than a few widos from this town: the strut that said, You messing?

  ‘The fuck’s this?’ I said. My heart was pounding, didn’t do my head any favours. If either of them breathed on me I’d fall over. I knew I’d be no use in a pagger.

  ‘Get back in yer fucking hole, Dury,’ shouted the wee man. He pointed a black leather-clad finger as he put the bead on me. Now I recognised him. It was Danny Gemmill. A bottom feeder, but connected. He’d been a Hibs casual back in the eighties, back when they’d sharpened the tips of their golf brollies and gone looking for eyes to stick on them. He was a skelf with a serious wee-man complex. Had worked a rep as a nut-case after Stanley-knifing a few faces. After the casuals had carted the Samba and Pringle sweaters, though, Danny had moved into the more organised stramash, ran with a few mobs in the town; some of the bigger ones of late.

  Hod held up his hands in submission. ‘Okay, okay …’

  Gemmill quickly patted him down, thrust hands in his pockets. I’d seen Hod in some shit in my time, but this was the first I’d seen him roll over. The wee pug found what he was after, shook the car keys in front of Hod’s nose and smiled. ‘Don’t think you’ll be needing these, eh.’

  Hod drew swift breath, his deep chest inflating. I could tell there was a thought brewing, maybe a swift kick to the knackers and a few jabs to the jaw as a follow-up, but he clocked me pressing a palm to my aching ribcage and started to slowly exhale. ‘Nah, don’t suppose I will,’ he said.

  Gemmill placed a paw on Hod’s face, leaned in. ‘Don’t think this buys you much time, boy. You’ve got a fortnight to come up with the rest.’ He spun on the tarmac, tossed the keys to his mate, who took off for Hod’s Beemer laughing like an asthmatic hyena, seemed to be putting that in my direction; wondered why.

  I watched the pair drive off. Hod caught my gaze, shrugged.

  ‘The fuck’s that all about?’ I said. I couldn’t get over seeing him cave like that.

  Another shrug, hands thrust in pockets. ‘Come on, let’s get in, eh.’

  I reached out to grab his shoulder as he started away from me. ‘Hod, you just handed over yer car to a pair of fucking mugs! What’s going on?’

  He turned. ‘I’m in for a few bob … to Shaky.’

  ‘Fuck me! Shaky?’ Boaby Stevens specialised in brutal violence, loansharked on the side. Not even Hod was that stupid, or desperate, surely. No wonder Gemmill was laughing his arse off – he’d hit the big time now.

  Hod removed a hand from his pocket to scratch his chin. This was altogether a new expression for him. He didn’t do whipped dog well. Went, ‘Let’s get inside, eh … I’ll fill you in.’

  I found myself staring open-mouthed. As he turned again, I sprang at him, surprising myself with the force I contained. ‘You’re in to Shaky! That fucker’ll cut yer hands off, y’know.’

  Hod checked to see there were no curtains twitching in his neighbours’ windows. ‘Gus, can we get inside?’

  ‘There’s nowhere to hide from him.’ I pushed past. ‘You daft cunt, Hod … You fucking daft fucker.’

  Chapter 3

  THANK CHRIST IT WAS SUMMERTIME – the place was as cold as a witch’s tit. For luxury apartment in Edinburgh, read: flung-up-in-five-minutes new-build. Bit of a view. Maybe some chrome on the balcony. If the estate agents were being honest they’d describe it as fucking shonky. Might make reference to plasterboard walls so thin you can hear your neighbours taking a piss and maybe a wanky Shaker-style kitchen from Ikea that’s the latest must-have on the ideal home front. If I’d seen one of these low-on-style, soulless shitholes, I’d seen a hundred. They were, as a whole, the boldest metaphor for what this city of ersatz culture had become. The architectural equivalent of gonorrhoea, only spreading faster among the Pinot Grigio-drinking smart set. Trendy yuppies – can’t get enough of them.

  I’d kipped at Hod’s gaff before, been a guest more times than I cared to remember … but never once did it look like this. As we entered the hallway my Docs clumped heavily on the exposed floorboards. I say boards – can you call chipboard slabs floorboards? The walls were bare, the light fittings had been removed, the one concession to homeliness was a cheapo Argos slim phone, sitting disconsolately on the ground with its cord twisted and kinked into all angles.

  Hod held schtum, closed the door behind us and motioned me to the living room. The carpets had been lifted in here too, every stick of furniture had been removed. On the wall where the plasma had hung was no more than a depressing oblong outline that looked as though it had been drawn in charcoal on the wallpaper. Hod caught me staring open-mouthed and turned away. He took off his jacket and flung it on the fireplace. The fireplace had once been in the wall; now it was on the floor, no doubt on its way to the car boot sale.

  ‘Hod, what the fuck has happened here?’ I said.

  He stalled. ‘Want a coffee?’

  ‘Do you even have coffee?’

  ‘Erm … actually, no.’

  Hod walked the long steps to the kitchen door, opened it, pointed in. The kitchen had been stripped.

  ‘Where’s your kitchen, man?’

  He put his hands behind his head, ruffled his hair a bit then threw them up with a great exhalation of breath. ‘Gone to the yard.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Flogged it … Was Italian marble – needed the wonga.’

  I felt my hand rising to my forehead, don’t know why; is it the universal symbol for disbelief? Hod had been the one safe port in my stormy existence. He was successful in a way most people can only dream of. He was stable. Sorted. Had a Nectar card, for Chrissake. This was off the scale.

  I walked towards him. ‘Hod, mate, time to spill the beans.’

  That sigh again. Huge chestful of air departed. ‘I got into a bit of a rut there with the pub …’

  This I did not want to hear. The Holy Wall had been bequeathed to me by our mutual friend Col. With all the business acumen of Del Boy I’d promptly set about running it into the ground … Then Hod had stepped in.

  ‘I knew I should never have let you buy me out—’

  Hod sparked up, ‘It’s not what you think. It’s, well, finances were stretched across the whole business.’

  ‘Bedsitland by the Sea … Thought the student digs were doing all right.’

  ‘Were … look, the long and short of it is I ran out of credit with the bank and …’

  I saw where this was going. ‘Went to Shaky.’

  ‘No, no … not really.’

  This was promising. Maybe he might get to keep one hand; a few fingers, anyway. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I went on a bit of a spree. Actually, went a bit high-roller for a while there.’

  ‘Shaky doesn’t touch casinos. How did he get in the picture?’

  Hod’s head fell back, landing on the jamb of the door. He looked out towards the Forth. ‘It’s a bad debt. Shaky buys bad debts … Willie Gallagher from the casino sold Shaky my debt.’

  ‘The cunt.’

  ‘Oh, aye … he’s that.’

  ‘Did he not give you any time to pay?’

  Hod raised palms. ‘Few weeks, days … Everyone’s short of poppy, need to get cash flows moving. Can’t blame him for that.’

  ‘But Shaky. Fucksake, Hod, man’s a mad bastard.’

  Got a soul-deep stare, ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

  I dug in my pocket for my smokes, lit
up. Kip of the place, didn’t think there was any need to ask first. ‘So you’ve sold all your stuff?’

  Nods. ‘Everything … pub’s gone too.’

  That was a belt; Col would be spinning in his grave. ‘What about the flat?’

  He reached into a cardboard box at his feet, pulled out a stack of letters from the bank, all printed in red. ‘Already started repossession proceedings. Matter of time before the locks are changed and I’m flung out.’

  This was not good. It was hard to see a man of Hod’s stature felled like this. I had come to rely on him as one of the few constants in my life. Hod was the man I could have been if I’d got my shit together. Held down a job. Held on to my marriage. Holy fuck, I was hurting for him. I needed a drink, more than ever.

  ‘I’ve got to whet my thrapple, mate … Been too long on the dry bus.’

  Hod arked up, ‘Are you off yer nut?’

  ‘Whoa-whoa …’ was I the one up to my sack in shit here? Well, yes, but that wasn’t stopping me playing the heavy hand. I needed a drink desperately now. ‘I’ll take no lectures from Porty’s answer to Stig of the fucking Dump.’

  He marched over to the other side of the room, dragged out another cardboard box. It was full of cartons of UHT milk and packets of Complan, the build-up drink. ‘This is all you’ll be drinking, Gus!’ He picked up the box, started ripping into the contents.

  ‘Complan … What the …? Are you serious?’

  ‘Need to build you up, Gus, it’s part of the plan!’

  ‘What fucking plan?’ I wasn’t having this. I didn’t want any more looking after. I’d had enough of that from Debs, and look how that had ended – her walking out, leaving me nothing, not even the dog. The thought stung, but I knew she was better off without me.

  ‘Here, look, it’s strawberry. Who doesn’t like strawberry milk-shake? Get it down you, come on … You’ll be well on the mend after a few of these shakes.’

  ‘Hod, I have enough shakes as it is!’ I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘Have you no Grouse?’

  He walked forward, thrust the glass tumbler into my hand. ‘Drink!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Do I have to hold your nose and pour it down your throat?’

  ‘You could fucking try …’

  He did.

  Hod’s strength seemed superhuman to me; I couldn’t even muster a struggle. When my pathetic put-up was over, I had a frothy mouthful of milkshake left, which I spat at him. Didn’t have the power to put any force in it, though: the lot leapt in a low arc for a millisecond before landing on my shirtfront.

  Hod laughed. ‘That’s piss weak, Dury.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Pink bubbles came out my nostrils.

  He went off again: ‘Piss weak …’

  I pulled myself together, tried to land a punch on his arm but my wrist collapsed behind my fist and I ended up shrieking like a schoolgirl, shaking out the pain of it. ‘Ahh, Christ.’

  ‘Look, cool the beans, Gus. I have a plan.’

  This I did not want to hear. All Hod’s plans, with few exceptions, had seen me setting up shop on Shit Street. They invariably involved broken bones, time inside, and a bundle of regrets.

  ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘Shut up.’ He strolled out the room, returned with a manila envelope. There seemed to be something bulky inside.

  ‘I hope that’s dosh.’

  Wide smiles. ‘Good as!’ He chucked me the envelope.

  As I ripped into the contents, I couldn’t believe what he had handed me.

  ‘Tell me this is a joke.’

  ‘Joke?’ Hod crossed his brows. ‘Fuck no … this is our only hope.’

  I put my hand in the envelope and took out one of the small white cards that read, Gus Dury, Private Investigator. I put it back, said, ‘You have to be kidding.’

  ‘No way. This is primo.’

  I held up the cards. ‘Hod, tell me, how many packets of Bazooka Joes did you need to save for these?’

  He looked wounded, stood rolling on the balls of his feet. ‘I thought they would help with the case … y’know, the actress, Gillian Laird. She’s paying top poppy, I thought—’

  ‘No, Hod, you didn’t fucking think … My days of running after rainbows are well and truly over. Check the nick of me – I’m done, Hod. And that’s my final word on it … Done.’

  Chapter 4

  I LEFT HOD AND HIS grand plan to simmer. Grabbed a dusty cushion off the floor, drop-kicked it against the wall and sat. My mind was swimming. I knew I was at the end of my rope. A prayer away from the grave. The trembling began again in my chest. The whole cavity felt suffused with fire – like hot coals had been shovelled into me. I knew only one thing would cool it: if I didn’t have a drink soon the bats would be back, swooping me, clearing the way for the vampire monkeys that always followed them. I started to shake. My head hurt – worse than usual – and a cold line of sweat was forming on my spine. I looked at my hands; they were in an all-out flap. Tried to sit on them but it only made my whole body tremble. Oh, sweet Lord … get me a drink before I die.

  ‘Gus, look … I’ve never asked you for anything before.’ Hod approached again, looming over me. ‘I really need this.’

  I looked up to meet his gaze but his head was turned the other way. Like Bogart’s beggar in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, he just couldn’t ask another man for help and look him in the eye. I felt an enormous weight of responsibility descend on me. Hod needed me, but I also needed him.

  I said, ‘Right, do as I say, no questions, and I’ll see what I can do.’

  He turned to me. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Go out that door, down those stairs, and bring me back a bottle of scoosh.’

  ‘Gus … I—’

  ‘Hod, if you don’t I won’t last the fucking night!’

  He looked down on me, dark eyes pleading, then the resigned face, well-worn by the loved ones of alcoholics, appeared.

  He went for the door.

  As he left I was suddenly surrounded by the blackness. I knew the hallucinations were coming back. I sensed them creeping up on me, like a child who expects nightmares. I had felt pain, real and emotional, in equal measure in my life, but this was a new form of hell. But then, hadn’t my life turned down that track since Debs had left?

  I had kept off the sauce, the bottle was corked and would have stayed so for good … if she had. We’d already split, separated and divorced, went our separate ways but something drew us back together. Love is a strange thing – can anyone ever understand it? Comprehend it, even? Not us. We were marionettes in its hands. Dragged dancing through some surreal times, but now the music had stopped. The lamps expired. We might both long for those headier days when we’d meant something to each other, but they were gone. Now we only wrought misery on ourselves; too much had happened, too many hurts. Neither of us had space left in our hearts for any more of that.

  But endings, I don’t do well.

  My father threw himself into the bottle when his playing days came to a close. The mighty Cannis Dury, the hard-as-nails match winner, the sweeper with the silver studs. He never lost his desire to fight, he merely swapped his opponents – battered his wife and children into submission instead.

  My brother Michael, dead and gone. Another end met unfairly. But what could I have done? Me, a washed-up loser. A hack who hadn’t had a decent byline in the best part of a year. A burned-out fuck-up who’d stumbled upon a line digging about in people’s dirty business. Gus Dury, he’s yer man … Used to be a good investigative reporter, one of the best … Now he’s the go-to guy for rooting out any half-dodgy caper in the town. Cheap too. Ply him with scoosh and he might just forget to charge you.

  I appalled myself. I had gone beyond self-loathing; I no longer recognised me. This trembling, incoherent wreck of a man was no one I knew. No one I wanted to know.

  The room grew dark.

  Cold.

  I heard the suck and wash of the tide, lapping at the beach. />
  A man in a black cape walked into the room. I couldn’t see his face, but I sensed he was smiling. He held out a storm lantern. The light dazzled me, near burned the retinas out my eyes.

  ‘Ah, get that the fuck away!’ I yelled.

  My arms flapped about my head.

  The man spoke, but I couldn’t comprehend him.

  The light burned, right into the core of my being. I could see nothing but bright white light. Burning. Searing into me. And then, the bats came. Far off at first, but getting closer, louder. They swooped. I could feel the rush of the wind they travelled on. I could hear their wings, their screeching. I opened my eyes, their teeth … I saw their pointed, bloodied teeth—

  ‘Gus, Gus, it’s me, Hod!’

  A slap across my face. Beads of sweat fell from my fringe. My eyes smarted. I couldn’t breathe. I was panicked, kicking out with my feet, flailing arms like a lunatic.

  ‘Gus, get a grip!’ Hod roared. His hand on my shoulder shook me into submission. In an instant everything seemed still, becalmed. My vision returned, the room was bright again. I could see the whisky bottle in Hod’s grasp; snatched it up.

  I twisted the cap in my mouth and spat it out. My teeth stung but the sweet smell of whisky took away the pain. I felt my dry, dead body coming back to life; at the throat at first, then in my chest and the pit of my stomach. Clarity, a moment like no other. My head began to still. My hands stopped flapping. I began to settle. I could feel my heart beating; it was a strange sensation, otherworldly. But I was alive. And that was something.

  Hod helped me up, took me to rest on the window ledge.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘What for?’

  That was a stupid question if ever I’d heard one. ‘Look, I know you’re in a bad way here, mate … I’m not saying I’m doing any better – Christ, worse probably – but I’ve got yer back.’

  Hod pressed out a weak smile. ‘Thanks.’

  He eased himself off the window ledge, took out some papers from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘I got this drawn up.’