Gutted gd-2

by Tony Black

  Great.

  ‘Did they put a threat on you?’

  He screwed up his face. ‘Gus, this is the filth… Of course they dug up some dirt, threatened this, that.’

  I crushed the cellophane from the fag packet in my hand, said, ‘Y’know, they have nothing… but they’re gonna go digging for more dirt.’

  Another shrug. ‘So what?’

  ‘This Jonny fucker’s all over me like a cheap suit… That suggestion you gave me earlier about splitting, might be a wise move for yourself now if you know what I mean.’

  He grabbed the cellophane from me, binned it. Mac put his hands on my shoulders. ‘Gus, pal… I’m going nowhere! You understand? I’m sticking with you on this. You’ll beat this.’

  I removed his hands, stood up. ‘I know what you think you’re doing but what you have to understand is this: myself, I couldn’t give two fucks about; dragging you down with me is a whole other ball game.’

  Mac lit a tab, cupped it in his hand prison-yard style and blew on the tip. We’d been through some scrapes, but none like this. He moved across the floor, went to sit at a table. ‘Can’t expect them to be pleased with you down the nick after that last caper.’

  I sighed. ‘You think this was how Col imagined it would play out?’

  ‘What you mean?’

  ‘The bar…’

  ‘He left the bar to you, Gus. He wanted you to have it.’

  ‘Mac, he left the bar to his wife.’

  ‘He couldn’t have seen she’d cark it inside a month.’

  ‘It’s playing on my mind.’

  Mac leaned forward, balanced on one arse cheek as he reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet. ‘I’m gonna give you something.’ He ferreted about for a card, pulled it out and laid it on the table.

  ‘What’s that?’ I said.

  His eyes drooped; he seemed ashamed. ‘I, eh, when I got out the jail they put me on this course to get my shit together.’

  I looked at the card. ‘Mac, this is a head-shrinker.’

  ‘No. Therapist — different.’

  I tapped the name. ‘Mac, let me get this straight: you want me to get my head tested?’ Something simmered in me — anger.

  ‘She can help you. She helped me. There’s no shame in it.’

  ‘Mac, there’s no anything in it… It’s all psychobabble!’

  He put a glower on me. ‘Gus, you’ve took me all wrong here.’

  I tipped back a chair, jerked it out. Legs scratched across the bar floor as I sat down.

  Mac went on: ‘You’ve been through a lot lately with the divorce, the death of your old fella… I was talking to Hod and we’re both concerned.’

  ‘Concerned my arse! The pair of you have been jangling, that’s all this is. What is it? I’m not doing my bit in the bar? Or am I drinking too much of the profits? Fuck me, Mac, since when did you and Hod go all bleeding-heart and Oprah on me?’

  I was in a rage, out of control. Wrecking-ball mad. Off the dial.

  I stood up again, knocked over the chair. I had the card in my hand and shoved it in Mac’s top pocket. He didn’t so much as flinch as I waved the back of my hand at him.

  I took up my pint of Guinness, drained it.

  There was one hell of an atmosphere in the room. There’s a phrase — cut the air with a knife.

  I kept my gaze on him, waited for a response. None came. You get to my age, live the life I have, you think you’ve seen every reaction in the book. This I had not. Mac stood up, took the deepest breath, held it, and walked away from me. As the door swung behind him I was alone with my troubles.

  I felt confused. Had I shocked him so much? Surely not. This was Mac the Knife we were talking about, hardy Glasgow chib merchant. Was my take on life, the situation, so off-whack?

  As I watched the door shut itself, I suddenly sussed the look: it was despair. Utter despair was what Mac felt for me now. Something twisted inside me, a pang. It wasn’t physical, but emotional.

  I felt my gaze fall. My head drooped.

  Where my eyes rested I saw two others staring back at me. Slowly, the dog came closer, crouched at my feet and stretched out two paws.

  I said, ‘We’re having a time of it, boy.’

  His tail wagged. It didn’t seem like the right response.

  ‘It gets worse…’ I turned to see Mac back standing in the doorway. ‘I was going to leave this till the morning, but I thought I better not.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You had a visit… Rab Hart wants you to go and see him in Saughton.’

  Chapter 17

  It was a restless night. Tossed and turned for hours before I found sleep. Then I woke bolt upright in the darkness, my heart banging harder than a marching band. I’d seen the gutted corpse of Tam Fulton flash before my eyes again. I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever shake the image. Didn’t seem like it.

  I got up and paced the flat; had every light blazing. I tanned a few cans, smoked nearly a full pack of Superkings. The only thing that got me back into bed was the prospect of having to navigate the dark stairs to the bar to restock. I wasn’t risking the sight of another corpse coming out the blackness.

  Had managed to catch some kip, but not enough, when Hod appeared. ‘You’re cracked, y’know that!’ He fiddled with my books, got bored too easy, turned to the CDs.

  ‘Well, you know cracks… must have brown-nosed enough of them to get so set up.’

  A CD frisbeed at me. I yelled, ‘Jesus, that better not be Lennon!’ I knelt down, picked up the disc. It was Franz Ferdinand. ‘You’re lucky it’s one of yours. Have it back — shite anyway.’

  Hod ducked as the CD went his way. It missed, hit the dresser. ‘I mean it, Gus, now you’ve rattled the filth it’s time to shoot the crow.’

  ‘I couldn’t if I wanted to.’ I climbed over a pile of old clothes, dumped on the floor by Lothian’s finest in their recent investigation of my property. ‘They’ve taken my passport.’

  ‘Seized it?’

  ‘Seized, lost, does it matter? Like I’d get far anyway. Have you seen the new street furniture?’

  ‘Come again?’

  I pointed to the window. Hod dipped his head through the curtains, said, ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Red Golf… It’s plod.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘You want a bag of doughnuts for proof? Trust me, I know.’

  ‘How long’s he been out there?’

  ‘Since I got out.’

  ‘So it’s official — you’re a suspect?’

  ‘Och, I’d say they were taking a serious interest in me.’

  Hod released the curtain, paced, tugged at his wispy chin. He said, ‘And under surveillance. This is bad shit.’

  I collected a roll-on deodorant from the dresser, looked about for a comb, razor. ‘No kidding.’

  ‘You’re remarkably chilled for a man who’s being investigated for murder.’

  ‘What would you like me to do, piss myself? Whine, maybe? Not my style.’

  I made Hod’s choice of CD for him. Morrissey wailed out ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’.

  ‘Gus, man.’

  ‘ What?’

  ‘Do you have to?’

  ‘Do I have to what?’

  ‘Play that… It’s depressing.’

  I put a hand on Hod’s shoulder, squeezed hard. ‘Believe me, mate, in my world, this is pretty fucking far shy of depressing.’

  Eyes rolled again. A blank look, then a hand brought up to his chin again. ‘Gus, I was wondering, y’know the therapist that Mac suggested-’

  The word put my stomach on spin cycle. ‘Hod, don’t get on that.’

  He stopped rubbing his chin — was too Freud a look even for him — clasped both hands together. ‘Sure. Sure. It’s your call totally, but if you’re feeling any pressure, on the purse strings, I could sort out the fees.’

  I swung him by the shoulders towards the door. ‘Out!’

  ‘W
hat? I’m only trying to help. You’ve been so zoned lately, Gus, it might help.’

  I shot him a glower as I grabbed for the door handle, watched his arse bump against the corridor wall. ‘Next word I hear about a therapist, I’m up for two murders. Got it?’

  A nod. Eyebrows drooped towards the nascent beard.

  ‘And tell Mac if he starts again, he’ll see a side of me he won’t like either.’

  I slammed the door. Bounded back to Morrissey, turned up the volume. Thought: The cheeky bastards.

  I knew the therapist was a ruse to get me off the sauce. I’d been drinking the bar dry. Since Mac took over the running of it he’d been watching how much I put away. He didn’t understand the quantity was nothing special. I’d been drinking from morning till night for years. Was I going to change without a reason? Was I buggery.

  I set the shower running, collected up my things, took a last glance onto the street. Plod was reading the Daily Star. Copping an eyeful of Candy, 22, from Essex on page three. I thought: You sad fuck. Mouthed, Don’t let me catch you having a tug down there.

  The shower was hot. Near boiled the skin off me. Imperial Leather label peeled off the soap, I’d such a lather going. For some reason I was scrubbing at myself like I’d been interned in Bar-L. I wondered if subconsciously I expected to be.

  There seemed no end of shit piling up on my doorstep. Of most concern was a visit from one of Rab Hart’s goons. Mac and Hod leaning on me was only making things worse, though.

  As I got out of the shower I saw I had Morrissey jammed on repeat. Further along the track, he wailed about giving his valuable time to people who didn’t care if he lived or died. Got my vote. Nodded to the CD player.

  I picked up some clothes from the ground: crisp white oxford, newish pair of dark-blue Diesel and a black lambswool cardigan. A few years ago, you wore a cardy, you were borderline care-in-the-community. Now, it was the look. I checked myself in the mirror: the look worked. Seemed to fit my mood.

  I grabbed my mobi.

  There was a heap of calls I needed to make, but only one pressed. Only one I knew might help my case.

  Dialled.

  Girl on the switchboard said, ‘Lothian and Borders Police. How may I help you?’

  ‘Eh, Fitzsimmons, please?’

  ‘Would that be Detective Sergeant Fitzsimmons?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Connecting you to his line. Thank you.’

  I waited, got the feeling I’d missed him, then, ‘Yes?’

  Gruff, to say the least.

  ‘Good morning to you too.’

  Bit of edge creeping in now. ‘Who the hell is this?’

  ‘Oh, I think you know. Shall we say… a friend in need?’

  Full-on badass mode hit fast: ‘Are you out your feckin’ mind?’

  ‘I’d like to meet you.’

  ‘I don’t believe my feckin’ ears… I have no idea who this is calling and I want to point out wasting police time is a criminal offence. Good day to you, sir.’

  The fucker hung up.

  I stared at my phone in disbelief. It began to ring. Showed a mobile number.

  ‘Hello…’

  ‘Dury, ye have pulled some feckin’ stunts but calling me at my own desk is the limit… Is it the sack you’re after for me?’

  I sighed. ‘Yeah, that’s it, I’m that mad.’

  ‘Dury, get a feckin’ grip, and fast.’

  ‘Easier said than done in the current state of play. There’s a pair of your little helpers sitting outside my house.’

  ‘What did you expect — tickets to the Bahamas?’

  ‘I didn’t expect… Look, it doesn’t matter what I expected, what I need is some information.’

  ‘Am I feckin’ hearing this?’

  ‘ What?’

  ‘Are ye on the tap for police intelligence?’

  ‘That’s an oxymoron, Fitz.’

  Gap on the line. Silence.

  I continued: ‘What I want, and what you want, are one and the same here, so before you go all righteous on me just remember your wife’s new-found interest in her lovely garden.’

  ‘Dury, don’t push it.’

  ‘See sense, Fitz. I’ll meet you by the National Monument. Off the track enough?’

  ‘Is this entirely necessary?’

  ‘Shall we say midday?’

  I did the hanging up this time.

  Chapter 18

  Hod sat at the bar, moving dust about with his finger. Mac looked bored. There were no punters in.

  ‘Why are you still here, Hod?’ I said.

  A spin on the stool, eyes flared. ‘I’m, er, at a loose end.’

  I spotted Mac. He scratched his palm nervously.

  ‘This better not be what I think it is.’

  Mac let out a sigh, fiddled with the little stud earring in his left ear, said, ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Minding… I don’t need looking after!’ I pointed to the pump beside Mac’s elbow. ‘Usual.’

  The dog came running up to meet me, put claws up. I swear that dog smiled. I looked down at him. He barked. Turned his head to one side, then the other. An ear sat up.

  ‘Gimme a Grouse whilst you’re there.’

  Mac poured the whisky, placed it down. I fired it, said, ‘Another like it.’

  Looks passed between the pair of them.

  ‘ Yes?’

  In unison: ‘Nothing. Nothing.’

  ‘Make it a double. Fuck it, treble.’ I smiled. ‘… As well hung for a sheep as a lamb.’ I sparked up a smoke, inhaled deep, said, ‘So spill.’

  Hod bridled, tweaked the hair on the back of his knuckles. ‘I’m at a loose end.’

  ‘Horseshit.’

  ‘I am, straight up… I wouldn’t shit you about that. Why? Why would I?’

  ‘Cos you’re a born horseshitter.’

  He rose. Walked over to me and stole a smoke from the pack that sat on top of the bar. I waited for him to speak. What he did was cough on the first drag, then make a sharp exhalation.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m bored, Gus… I told you.’

  ‘What about the burgeoning Hod empire… Bedsitland-by-the-Sea division must be keeping you busy with the kip of the students I see about the streets.’

  ‘I’ve got staff to do that now. There’s nothing left for me, Gus, business runs itself. I need something else — I’m as flat as a plate of piss.’

  At once, I saw where this was going. Put the nail in that one. ‘Get a hobby.’

  Hod puffed his chest at me, got bolshie. ‘I’ve done every hobby going: diving, archery — all wank.’

  I wasn’t playing along. I knew the pair of them had cooked this up. The idea was to make Hod my sidekick; he could keep an eye on me. If there was one thing I didn’t need it was Hod Arnie-ing through this case, shooting all to buggery any chance I had of getting out of Dodge. I’d seen him in action before. Hod’s action I could do without.

  Mac placed my pint on the bar. I raised it, slugged. Took the break in proceedings to change tack, shove Hod off balance.

  ‘What have you got for me this morning, Mac?’

  He flung the towel over his shoulder. ‘By way of business, you mean? Well, there’s the bill from the brewery and the rates are due.. Some damp in the cludgie I’d say needs looking at smartish. Apart from that, diddly.’

  ‘Mac, you’re giving me chatter. This is avoidance.’

  He looked at Hod. The pair put eyes on me.

  I turned to the wall, checked the calendar — had a Scots piper on it in a field of bluebells. Mac seemed to get the hint. He put his hands on the bar, leaned forward. ‘There’s still a hole in the books. There was another letter from the bank.’

  ‘Get it over.’

  Mac leaned under the bar, took out the petty cash box. He ferreted in his pocket for a bunch of keys, found the one, opened up. I snatched the envelope. It was taped along the seal. Same Manila deal as usual, same threats from t
he manager. ‘This looks great,’ I said.

  ‘We need about thirty grand to keep afloat, and that’s before any refit to get new punters in. We can’t remortgage either,’ said Mac.

  I put the letter back inside the envelope, tucked it in my pocket, said, ‘Did plod see this?’

  Mac nodded.

  ‘Great.’ If Jonny Johnstone was looking for a motive, he had one in black and white.

  In the last twenty-four hours I’d been planted firmly in the shit. The funny thing was, though I was fucked, all I could think about was letting Col down. I’d run his pub into the ground. I could feel his eyes on me where I stood, admonishing me, telling me I was better than I gave myself credit for, that I could pull this back. ‘Quality ye are, boyo,’ he’d said. God, hadn’t I proved him wrong, though. Col was the only man who had ever let me make mistakes without judging. He was the only man I knew who had ever felt genuinely proud of any minor achievement I’d made in my life, had shown faith in me, trusted that I wasn’t washed up, when all evidence pointed the other way. He was nothing like my own father.

  Hod smoothed down the hair at the sides of his mouth. ‘Look, I can help out, but what you need is a buyer… If I put that to the firm, they’ll think I’m running a charity. If I take over the Wall, you’ll be left with nothing, Gus.’

  I didn’t want to contemplate that. It sounded far too much like what I deserved.

  I went to the window, stared out. A dog barked on the street and the one at my feet let off with a round of its own.

  ‘ Usual… Usual, down, boy!’ roared Mac.

  I was taken out of my gloom at the sight of the dog scurrying off to his basket, tail between legs. What that beast had been through put things into perspective. Thank Christ he was still in one piece.

  ‘What did you call him?’ I said.

  Mac grinned. ‘Usual.’

  ‘ What?’

  The pair laughed. Hod butted in: ‘He thinks it’s his name… Fits, don’t you think?’

  I turned to my pint, said, ‘Jesus H. Christ… I don’t know what to think any more.’

  Chapter 19

  ‘ Now, you know what to do?’ I said.