Gutted gd-2

by Tony Black

  He wiped his mouth. It was only a few seconds, but telling. Immediately he dropped the wallet back in the tray, ordered the uniform away and strolled to the side of the clearing to make a call.

  I tried to get closer. Caught the words ‘It’s fucking Moosey!’ Then he turned, caught me in his gaze. He lowered the phone. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘I found the body.’

  ‘Dury!’ It seemed my reputation preceded me. ‘Well, well, well.. the mighty Gus Dury. I don’t know whether to shake your hand or bow.’

  I tried a smile. Nah, wasn’t happening.

  He walked over to me, checked me up and down. I got the impression he’d been rehearsing this bit. ‘Well indeed… I had you down as quite different.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Oh, yes… I didn’t have you down as a total fucking jakey.’

  The dog squirmed. I did too.

  ‘Look, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.’ I held out my hand. It was covered in blood. Dark, almost black blood.

  Boss Suit looked down, laughed. ‘I don’t fucking think so… Though, given I wouldn’t be standing here now if it wasn’t for you, maybe I should be shaking your hand, Dury.’

  I saw where this was going: my last case had made some waves with Lothian and Borders plod. ‘I don’t think that’s true.’

  ‘No, you’re right. I was fucking fast-track; that wee shit storm you caused with the people-smugglers just sped things up. But if the force hadn’t shed a dozen-plus of the top brass, who’s to say I might not be poking about in the grass with those uniform retards?’

  I looked away, tried to appear bored. Truth was, I’d heard it all before. I’d blown the lid on an Eastern European people-smuggling racket that was bringing young girls into the city, forcing them into prostitution. My discovery led to some big boys in the force being shown the door. The papers ran with it for weeks. I was the man pointing the finger but I sure as fuck didn’t get anything out of it. This prick, though, seemed to have done all right.

  I fronted him: ‘Look, this is all very interesting, going over old times and all that, but if you don’t mind-’

  ‘What, the case in hand?’

  ‘Well…’

  He smiled. Teeth dazzled me more than the torches going about the place. ‘I’m happy to take your statement… In fact, it would be my pleasure.’

  He produced a Moleskine notebook, black with an elastic strap. He twanged the band, licked the tip of his pen. ‘Go on, Dury… I’m Johnstone by the way, Jonny Johnstone. You might be hearing more of me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, I’d say so… But to your statement.’

  He had me rattled and knew it; he was enjoying winding me up. I tried to calm it, but my nerves were shot. ‘I was just going down the hill after these yobs-’

  A hand went up. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa… back up. What were you doing here?’

  ‘I was on a case… badger-baiting job.’

  He burst out laughing, had to wipe his eyes, near toppled over. ‘Come again… badger what?’

  I repeated.

  ‘Fuck me, Dury… you’re big time, eh.’

  I was beginning to lose it. ‘Look, d’you want to hear this or what? I could just as easily have fucked off and left you to it.’

  He straightened, put a bead on me. ‘Ah, but your sense of civic duty wouldn’t allow that now, would it?’

  I turned away. ‘Fuck this.’

  ‘Not so fast, Dury.’

  I swung back. ‘Look, I have a dog here that’s been shot at with air pellets. I need to take it to a vet.’

  Another smirk. ‘Badgers, dogs… You’ll be doing Rolf Harris out a job.’

  I moved off.

  ‘Stop. You’re not going anywhere until I’m well and truly fucking finished with you, Dury… and I mean finished.’

  I stood still. I had my back to him now. He walked slowly towards me, then around my right side until he faced me. He said, ‘We have more in common than you think, Dury.’

  I wasn’t biting, though he had my full interest. I let it slide. He seemed almost disappointed, went back to the job in hand, said, ‘So, these yobs… descriptions.’

  ‘I gave your boys the descriptions.’

  ‘And they were in a car, you say?’

  ‘Corrado, a white one.’

  ‘Probably not related.’

  ‘You seem very sure.’

  He raised his brow. ‘I’m a proper detective, fuckface. Don’t even think of questioning my judgement.’

  ‘Are we done here, Detective?’

  ‘Oh, I think we’re done, don’t you?’

  I nodded, said, ‘Good.’

  As I turned he called me: ‘Oh, Dury… don’t be leaving the city any time soon.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I think you heard.’

  As he walked past me he twanged the elastic on his notebook again, tucked it inside his suit. I clocked the lining: purple silk. ‘We may need to talk to you again… so make sure we can get hold of you, nice and easy, eh.’

  Chapter 4

  The dog squirmed under my coat. I didn’t think he was trying to get comfortable, more like seeking a way to escape the pain of his wounds. I took a look: some of the deeper gashes would need stitching for sure. At a guess I’d say those little fuckers had been at him with some kind of lash before they got started with the airguns.

  ‘That’s a proper doing-over you’ve had, pal,’ I whispered.

  He put those eyes on me again. Heart-melters. If I’d less to worry about, I’d be looking for those yobs, tearing them new arseholes, more than they could make use of.

  The sky verged on fully lit now. I saw the blood congealed on my hands. It had dried in dark streaks; under my fingernails it looked black. I tried to rub it away and then, the worst, I got a waft of that smell again.

  I couldn’t stop my guts heaving. I’d more in the tank, copped for a barf. It sprayed my Docs. I put my hand to my mouth, but the smell of blood caused another burst. I chucked and chucked until I was left dry-retching. The dog whined and clawed at me.

  As I straightened I saw the reporter from the paper arriving. He had a snapper with him who was firing off shots of the scene. Boss Suit had a hand up, but it was all pretence — he looked delighted to have his picture taken.

  ‘Fucking ponce,’ I muttered.

  I stepped into the path down the hill, looked to the road. I could see a set of headlights; turned out to be a Joe Baxi. I knew Mac would be on his way, but I was anxious now for the dog. His breathing had got heavier. He seemed more sluggish. I thought I might be losing him and it punched my heart.

  Another set of lights, not a cab this time.

  It was Mac. I sighed with relief.

  ‘About fucking time.’ As he pulled in there was no screech of tyres. He even used indicators. I grabbed the door. ‘You know, you could work for Meals on fucking Wheels.’

  ‘It’s speed cameras all the way down the road.’

  ‘Towels… where’s the towels… and the water?’

  Mac yanked on the handbrake, leaned forward. ‘Holy buggery… What the hell’s happened to you?’

  ‘Don’t ask?’

  ‘Is that blood?’

  ‘No. It’s creosote… Thought I’d do a few fences while I waited.’

  Mac’s eyebrows lifted, then shot down. ‘What’s the fucking Hampden roar here, Gus?’

  I patted out a towel on the front seat, got in.

  ‘Gus?’

  The dog’s head popped out of my jacket.

  Mac screamed, ‘Fuck me! What’s that?’

  ‘You never seen a dog before?’

  ‘Not popping out a man’s chest like fucking John Hurt in Alien I haven’t, no!’

  I pushed the dog’s head back under my jacket. ‘Mac, you realise it’s probably not got long to live.’

  That registered, a wince stretching out his half-Chelsea smile. Now he gunned it. Tyre-screeching, the lot.

  I
smacked my brow with the heel of my hand, tried to get into gear. ‘You’ll have to take him to the Vet School, they do emergency cases.’

  ‘Aye, okay. I’m on it, eh.’

  The dog wouldn’t take the water. His head lolled from side to side, his eyes were slits. ‘Better fucking nash, Mac.’

  My guts started to churn again with the motion of the car.

  ‘Don’t you be puking in my motor.’

  The stench of blood in the confined space hit me. ‘I feel rough.’

  Mac opened the windows. ‘I’ll drop you at the pub… You’re in no state to be seen out anyway.’

  Like I could argue with that.

  The streets were empty of traffic; we got there in no time. I placed the dog on the seat I’d vacated. He yelped, had a fit of panting then looked up at me. I placed a hand gently on his head, said, ‘Good luck, fella.’

  Mac didn’t hang about, tore away leaving tyre marks on the street. I felt better in the open air again. My legs were rubber but I was used to that; could have done with a large one to settle me down.

  A jakey was sleeping in the doorway of the Wall. I lifted his collar, told him, ‘Do one.’

  Grunts, bit of a grumble. Think I woke him. Asked, ‘Do you need a kick in the arse as well?’

  He got the message. Stumbled off, good few bottles of White Lightning rattling around inside him.

  I had to get out of these clothes, get in the shower, ease the bruising and swelling I could feel coming up on my face, the raw knuckles and the rest of it.

  First things first, though. I flicked the bar lights on, raised a glass. The nearest to hand was a pint mug. Filled it to nearly halfway with Johnnie Walker. The taste came to me like a recurring dream. People watch me at the scoosh and say, ‘You take that like tea.’ They’re wrong, of course: I don’t take tea. Lately, I don’t touch much other than this.

  I hit the optic again, swirled a shot in the bottom of the glass. Fired it like a twelve-gauge, then got moving.

  I took a few bar towels and nashed through to the gents’ cludgie. The lights blasting off the white tiles stung my eyes, nearly felled me. But it was the smell of rank piss that set my guts heaving.

  As I hit the nearest sink I caught sight of my hands. They looked raw as minced meat. I followed the length of my arms, took in my jacket, my shirt. Holy shit: I wore more blood than a slaughterhouse.

  The thought of the corpse on the hill rose, and I wanted to get tanked up, immediately. That’s how I do business: problem rears its head — drown it.

  I got the gear off, started to fill the sink. My hands trembled. I needed another drink.

  I grabbed soap, dooked the bar towels. It was cheap soap, took a while to work up a lather, but we got there. The blood went from black to red as the soap foamed. I dropped the bar in the sink, got to scrubbing. In a minute or two, the blood was merely pink streaks. I pulled the plug, ran my hands under the gushing taps.

  Couldn’t say I’d scrubbed up like they do on ER, but I was in the ballpark. I didn’t want dead-guy blood on me; call me picky.

  I caught a glance at myself in the mirror. From somewhere, the phrase death warmed up hit me. My skin looked grey, hollows in my cheeks like Peter Cushing. I could see past the fact that I needed a shave, a haircut, some serious dietary attention, but the man before me was someone I didn’t recognise.

  ‘Who or what the fuck is haunting you, Gus Dury?’

  ‘Tits up’ might describe my life. What shocked me was the way I seemed to be projecting this to the world.

  I touched my face. When did my skin get so leathery? When I was a kid, Clint Eastwood had skin like this. What had happened to me? I didn’t want to look, but something held my gaze where it was.

  I had black rings under my eyes. When I was a hack, back in the day, my wife — scrub that, ex-wife, I recently got the papers to prove it — would say I had panda eyes when I worked too late. I wonder what she’d make of these jobs? The predominant colour was red, where it should be white, few specks of yellow creeping in.

  ‘Quite a look, buddy,’ I said into the mirror. ‘You make touchline Alex Ferguson look a picture of health.’

  I turned away. Just as Debs had. We’d tried to patch up our marriage recently, had made a trip to Ireland with high hopes, but my self-destruction had terrified her; she said that she couldn’t watch me ‘doing myself in slowly’. I knew I couldn’t change, but I also knew I couldn’t put Debs through any more hurt. I’d done enough of that.

  I lifted my pile of clothes, took them up to my flat and dumped them in the laundry.

  I showered, hot as I could take it for near on an hour. Got dressed in a pair of Levi’s, frayed and faded, white T-shirt, and a black cardigan from Markies. Looked like a jazz musician, said, ‘Not nice!’

  My problem was footwear. My Docs were wasted, caked in blood and dirt. I was down to an old pair of Converse All Stars. There were holes at the edges. I could hear my mother say, ‘They’ve seen better days.’ I thought, Haven’t we all?

  I went back down to the bar, grabbed a pack of B amp;H off the shelf, sparked up. The blue smoke was a comfort. Since the ban, pubs don’t quite have the same appeal, the same… atmosphere.

  I took time over a pint of Guinness. Less time over the chaser; it became more of a starter.

  I was verging on comfortable — there’s something about a good wash and clean clothes that can make you feel like a new man — when in walked Mac. Straight away, he reminded me I inhabited a world of shit.

  ‘You all right?’ he said.

  ‘Och, you know… usual.’

  ‘Fair to fucked.’

  ‘Sounds about right… The dog, how’d it go?’

  ‘Those wee bastards,’ Mac strangled the air in front of him, ‘I swear, I ever get my hands on them they’ll need photographs to put them back together.’

  He wasn’t kidding. I hit my Guinness. ‘Well, is the dog gonna be okay?’

  ‘Hard to say, doing X-rays and that. Vet said this kinda thing’s all too common these days.’

  I shook my head. ‘When will we know?’

  ‘Says we can call tomorrow… Can’t do anything else, Gus.’

  He was right. The night’s events suddenly seemed to overwhelm me. I was glad to know the dog had survived this far, felt a surge of relief. The exhaustion hit.

  Said, ‘I’m gonna hit the hay, mate.’

  Thought the sky was coming down.

  ‘The fuck’s this… Armageddon?’

  It was noise to split eardrums. I jumped out of bed, checked the window. Two hardy types rolling steel barrels off the back of a brewery truck. I say rolling: there was more dropping involved. By the look of things, it was just the start too — they had a lorryful to unload.

  I opened the window, yelled, ‘Can you keep it the fuck down?’

  The pair halted, shrugged shoulders at each other, then the bigger one puffed out his chest from under an England top, said, ‘Geezer, we don’t have a fahkin’ off switch.’ He put his hands together, scrunched his big padded gloves tight. There was a definite bead in his eye. Like I was having that.

  ‘All right, fine, sorry to trouble you,’ I said. ‘As you are, lads

  … Oh, one thing: use the word “geezer” round me again, I’ll install an off switch in your fucking mouth.’

  I put eyes on him for a few seconds. Was enough. He turned back to his mate, who was laughing at him.

  As I closed the window I heard the barrels start to roll again. Couldn’t say they were any quieter. Least I’d made my point on that score.

  Truth told, I was glad to be out of bed. I’d had a restless night. Kept waking, visions of Tam Fulton’s corpse coming back to me. Over and over. It was going to play on me day and night.

  Usually I sleep sound as a pound. Few brews, maybe a Jack Daniel’s or ten, and it’s sayonara, suckers. Till last night it was my one great source of escape. But drink will only take you so far when it’s oblivion you’re after. Blackout’s the hou
se next door, and it was a comfortable one until this shit broke. The thought of trudging on without that safe haven at the end of the trail was something that, to say the least, shook me up.

  I put on some Clash. Joe Strummer’s demise still taking the shine off them for me, but I was working through it. Felt more for that man’s passing than my own father’s. True fighter. So few of us left.

  Put ‘Train in Vain’ on repeat play as I showered again. Still enough blood on me to turn the soap pink. Had it loud enough to drown out the brewery diddies’ best work.

  I had a three-day growth. On some this says style. The old designer-stubble look. Me, it yells ‘Jakey’. Maybe a ‘Get a job, y’bum!’ thrown in. I wasn’t far south of Spencer Tracy in The Old Man and the Sea… all I needed was the grey hair to kick in. Still, it was staying for a few more days. My jaw was bruised, tender. Couldn’t match the shiner I had going on with my left eye, but it was running a close second.

  ‘Real nice look, Gus,’ I told myself.

  I put on the old Levi’s again, found a T-shirt with a picture of a Pernod bottle on it — had a stack of them from a failed promo at the pub downstairs. Covered it with a heavy-check flannel. Thought: Kurt Cobain, go spin. Had the man upstaged in the grunge stakes. Tatty All Stars kicking the look down another level. Oh yeah, I was gutter. No boho chic here.

  I grabbed my Bensons and headed for the bar.

  Mac stood polishing a pint glass. His last business had gone tits up thanks to my involvement with gangsters; minding the bar was helping us both out for now.

  ‘Morning, Gus.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Sighs. Glass clanged on glass. ‘Get you anything?’

  ‘Usual.’

  ‘No’ fancy a bite to eat?’

  I’d just sparked up, unplugged the tab, rose quickly. ‘No thanks, usual’s fine… Is that the paper?’

  Mac leaned over to pick up the morning paper. The page-one splash made my heart jump: CORSTORPHINE HILL MURDER.

  I snatched it from his hand, scanned the text. It was what I thought — the bare bones; the late reporter had got nothing from the filth.