Gutted gd-2

by Tony Black

  ‘Debs is carrying,’ Hod said. He bear-hugged me. ‘God, that’s smashing.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know… we’re made up.’

  Of course we were made up. It took us ten years to get to this level. Ten years to get over the thing we would sooner never think about. We just never realised the two events — one so sad and one so happy — could be intertwined. How could they be?

  I watch Debs fold more little clothes. The little booties look like Christmas tree decorations. One box is full. She puts the little empty picture frames on top of it, turns to me, says, ‘Can you take that down to the garage?’

  I nod, lift up the box.

  I want to speak now. I hear a voice prodding me: Say something to her, say something to her. This behaviour isn’t natural; she’s in shock.

  But I say nothing.

  I take the box away. In the doorway, I turn. She’s almost filled the second box; a little yellow bath, no bigger than our kitchen basin, is being filled up too.

  I walk away.

  In the garage I can’t bear to look at what I’ve carried down there. I shove it up against a stack of old tyres. It looks so out of place with the mower and power tools sitting nearby. I’ll take it to the charity shop, I tell myself. I want to go straight away, get the next box, fill the car. But I don’t. I stay in the garage. I stay in the garage and smoke a succession of cigarettes. Lighting each new one with the tip of the last. Only when the pack runs out do I go back inside.

  The place is quiet. Eerily so.

  The television is on low, Antiques Roadshow ’s familiar tune playing. I walk into the room, hoping to see Debs. But she’s not there.

  I go through to the kitchen. It’s empty. The bedroom too.

  I know the only place left is the spare room, but I don’t want to go back in there. She’ll have packed up the place. Stripped the walls and cupboards. It will be a different room now. It’s not that I want to remember it how it was, how we set it up. No, I want to forget that. I want to forget it all. Pretend it was never there in the first place.

  But I can’t.

  I hear Debs crying and I know I have to go to her.

  I try to edge the door open but there’s something wrong. The door’s blocked.

  ‘Debs, what’s up, sweetheart?’ I push the door again, but it’s still blocked. ‘Debs, babes, I can’t get in…’ I push harder. In panic, I wonder what she’s done to herself.

  The door gives way and I see her lying on the floor.

  I rush to her side. She’s tipped out all the stuff from the boxes. All the stuff she so carefully packed.

  ‘Debs, what is it? What’s wrong?’ It’s a stupid thing to say, I know it. But what else can I say? There’s no instruction manual for this kind of thing.

  I kneel by her side and place a hand on her back. She trembles. I remember the time she trembled on our wedding day and it sends a shard of ice into my heart.

  ‘Debs, please… don’t do this.’

  She’s completely lost to me. I wonder: Does she even know I’m here?

  I try to rub her back, calm her. She still trembles and then she turns over and curls up like a small child. She looks so helpless, so frail. I feel every shiver that passes through her.

  ‘Please, don’t do this to yourself, Debs.’ I stroke her head. Her hair is shiny and smooth. It seems unreal to me, like the whole world has become now.

  She shakes some more, cries hysterically. Her face becomes a mass of red, her cheeks look fit to explode. I try to stop her convulsing but I can’t.

  I know no one can.

  I do all I can do. I lie down beside her on the floor and hold her. Just hold her. I hold her tight. As she cries and cries into my chest she repeats the same word over and over again: ‘Why?’

  I know there is no answer.

  ‘Why?’

  I wish I knew.

  ‘Why?’

  Yes, God… why?

  Chapter 42

  I put on my long coat. Crombie, navy blue. Was a remnant from my work days. Cost me a few sheets. I checked myself in the mirror. I’d removed the bandage, gelled my hair flat over my butterfly stitches. Had that gaunt definition going on with my face, bit of breakage in the nose adding some edge. Where I was headed, I’d need as much as I could muster.

  ‘Rutger Hauer, eat your heart out,’ I said.

  The Hitcher didn’t get a look in.

  Debs had agreed to meet me. I was taking Usual for support. ‘Wanna go for a walk, boy?’

  Barks. Loud, one after the other.

  I leaned over, could feel my ribs pinch. Must be bruising up nicely now, I thought. ‘Well, boy, let’s hope this goes better than the last time.’

  Usual nuzzled his chops against my leg. His tail wagged, like he was ready to go. I took the hint.

  He sat.

  ‘Okay, let’s nash.’

  As I watched him spring up for the door, I wondered what he had been through. I felt a part of me grow closer to this wee dog every day; we were life’s losers together.

  We bused it to the South Side.

  Set off down through the Meadows. Let Usual take a run over the grass. He seemed to have a route all mapped out for us. He checked on a few trees, sprinkled them, kicked out his back legs.

  We left the park, snaked through the streets with Usual tugging on the lead.

  A bloke in half-jog for the bus hollered, ‘He’s a lively one.’

  I nodded. ‘You bet.’

  We were hitting Papa John’s Pizza when I felt my pulse quicken. I’d know that walk anywhere. Wasn’t exactly an Impulse ad moment, but in the ballpark. Then the image shattered as Debs spotted me too. We were both early.

  ‘It’s yourself,’ she said.

  ‘Hello, Debs.’

  She lowered her head to the street. ‘What’s that?’

  I leaned, patted Usual. ‘Eh, my new best friend.’

  Debs ventured a giggle. ‘Come to that, has it?’

  I was grateful for the in. ‘Could say so.’

  She laughed as Usual raised a paw. Hey, it was a start.

  Awkward silence.

  Forced herself: ‘Look, Gus… I don’t want to-’

  ‘Debs, whatever you think I’m going to say, I’m not. All I wanted to talk about was how you were coping, and to say… sorry.’

  She looked back to the dog, played with the buckle on her shoulder bag. A big retro number, said ‘Gola’ on the side in black and red letters.

  ‘Jeez, they’re back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Those bags, Gola… Remember when we used to do the squash club thing?’

  She tapped the bag. ‘God, Gus, stop. That was for ever ago.’

  She seemed so young to me. Debs hadn’t aged a single day since I’d met her. All that exfoliating and hydrating working wonders. She had miracle skin. I wanted to touch her face, just to know it still felt the way I remembered, but more, just to have the connection.

  ‘Will we grab a coffee?’ I asked.

  She stared up the street, searched for the Peckham’s with the chairs outside, said, ‘Yeah, c’mon.’

  We moved off towards the caf. Usual followed.

  They had lightweight chrome chairs on the pavement. It was sunny now, but the last downpour still sat on top of them.

  ‘They’re soaked, Gus.’

  I put a newspaper down for her. ‘There — sorted.’

  Was an age before the waitress appeared, hurriedly grabbed our orders. Debs took a pair of sunglasses out of her bag. Big jobs, thick legs. I knew they were the latest thing, not because I followed fashion, but because when you’re so far removed from it — in the realms of anti-fashion — you can’t miss it.

  ‘You look like Jackie O.’

  ‘That supposed to be a compliment?’

  ‘One of the world’s great beauties…’ I felt a beam rise on my cheeks. Christ, Gus, when did you get to be so nervous around her? This is Debs, I told myself. Remember, your childhood sweetheart. Former wife.
Love of your life.

  ‘I’ll take it as such, then,’ she said.

  I waited for the return fire. Normally, in this situation, she’d say I looked like shit. Not from nastiness — from concern. A rod to poke me with; I was used to people trying to motivate me to do things in myriad ways. None worked.

  She pointed to my head. ‘Been in the wars?’

  ‘Just a scratch.’

  Silence. Heads turned away.

  The coffees came.

  Debs smiled. Sipped, said, ‘Mmmh… it’s good.’

  I looked at the bill, wanted to say, Bloody should be at that price, let it slide. Went for, ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about… you know.’

  The sun vanished. Debs lowered her cup. She raised her glasses, sat them on her head. Her hair trapped underneath gave her a sleek look.

  ‘You can use the word, Gus.’

  I didn’t want to.

  ‘I… I don’t know why, just the time of year, I guess.’

  ‘She would have been eighteen this year.’

  My chest constricted. My throat froze. I knew words were impossible now. Debs had always said it was a girl. We never knew.

  ‘Eighteen… I know that’s right, only it seems wrong.’

  ‘Too long ago, or too short… I can’t decide.’

  I knew exactly what she meant. It was a long time ago, but yet, at the same time, it seemed like yesterday.

  ‘It never leaves you. It’s as if… it’s as if it’s impossible to move on from that time.’

  The sun seemed to have left for the day. Debs put back her shades; I knew she wanted to hide the reddening of her eyes. ‘Sometimes, I wonder, did we make a mistake?’ she said.

  I felt I should reach out and hold her hand, but I didn’t want to scare her off. I knew this was important; we needed to talk about this, however painful it was for us both.

  ‘Deborah, we were judged enough for that decision… Don’t be judging yourself now.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘No buts, Debs… We were children ourselves; there was no way we could have raised a child. For crying out loud, your mother turned you out the house when she found out you were carrying. There was nothing we could have done different. Nothing.’

  She nodded, understood. ‘Gus, it was abortion… a horrible thing.’

  Oh hell. The word.

  No other word in the world haunted me like it. It accounted for a million and one miseries I’d seen Debs go through.

  ‘Deborah, don’t play that Catholic guilt trip on yourself.’

  ‘I can’t just stop, it’s-’

  ‘Your programming. It’s all just religious mumbo-jumbo, Deborah. Listen to me, you are a good person, don’t ever think anything different for a second.’

  As she looked at me I realised, without thinking, I’d taken her hand. We sat holding each other’s hands for a moment and then it passed. Debs pulled her fingers away slowly. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t say it lightly.’

  I’d seen the best and worst of her, and I knew there was little difference. Even when she was whipped by the family she’d done nothing to deserve, she held her values in check. She was as good and kind a soul as I had met and I knew it would be a lifetime before I met another like her. As I stared into the depths of her I understood the misery I had brought her. Her time with me was something she could have done without. She had so much to look forward to. She had so much going for her. But when she took up with me all that evaporated. An abortion, then a miscarriage that ruined her chance of a child when we dearly wanted one. I was a plague on this poor girl’s life. She had every right to hate me for what I had brought her to. And, worse, denied her still.

  ‘Debs, I don’t want to mention this…’

  ‘ But…’

  ‘Yes, well, there’s always one of those, isn’t there.’

  ‘Just spit it out, Gus.’

  ‘I, eh, met Jonny again.’

  She didn’t flinch like I thought she might. Only the intonation of her voice shifted, became harder. ‘And?’

  ‘Well, he said something which didn’t quite make sense to me.’

  ‘He thinks you killed a man, Gus.’

  That bust my flush.

  I threw up my arms. ‘There you go, that again. I didn’t fucking kill anyone. Though that little bastard gives me any more of an excuse, I might yet!’

  Debs sat further back in her seat, pouted. ‘Look, what did he say, Gus?’

  ‘He hauled me down the station to tell me fifty grand was lifted from Tam Fulton’s corpse and he thinks I took it.’

  Debs’s mouth widened; she looked as if she’d been slapped. ‘Fifty thousand pounds…’

  ‘Your prick boyfriend is pinning his hopes on it being my motive.’

  ‘I don’t think he’d do that, Gus.’

  I tried to rein things in again. ‘You don’t think, Debs? Full stop you don’t think, if that’s how you rate the fella.’ I’d gone too far. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m a little on edge.’

  ‘Need a drink?’

  Booka-booka. She got me.

  I stood up, said, ‘Deborah, I think I should go. I’ve enjoyed being with you again. I really appreciate that you still see fit to give me the time of day and I don’t want to get in the way of any happiness that you have found for yourself.’

  A cold stare. ‘You think he’s wrong for me.’

  I put a tenner down on the table, moved my cup and saucer over it. ‘Debs, I’ve said too much.’

  ‘You think I’m wrong to marry him.’

  The dog sprang to life. Ran to my heels, eyes wide.

  ‘Who am I to say?’ I wouldn’t be drawn in; I knew I’d said too much already. Debs needed to find some enjoyment in life. She was still young, beautiful. She could move on, put the past behind her.

  ‘Gus…’ she grabbed my arm, ‘I can’t bring myself to tell him that I can’t have children.’

  I was on my knees, holding her tight before I even realised the tears had started all over again.

  Chapter 43

  Princes street has come down in the world of late. Once the site of Scotland’s most prestigious retailers, now it plays host to pound shops, puggies and, worst of all, Ann Summers. I slunk past the window display of naughty nurse uniforms, dominatrices and — is there a worse euphemism? — love toys. If it made me blush, Christ alone knows what John Q. Citizen thought of it. Back in the day, a window display like that would have the dirty mac brigade scuffling outside clutching brown paper bags — now it’s fair play for the Scottish capital’s main drag. How things have changed.

  I tied up Usual and jumped into a whisky shop. There were less of them, too. Got a half-bottle of Bell’s and a full bottle of Glenfiddich in a presentation case; had plans that required a ‘bring a bottle’ touch.

  Outside the shop I unscrewed the cap of my latest purchase, took a good blast. The dog was scratching at my legs to be untied. I let him loose, got strolling again and jumped a bus back to the boat. The slow drive through the city and the mild buzz from the whisky had me thinking about Debs all over again. I couldn’t put our meeting out of my mind. There’s a streak in me, Presbyterian probably, that moons over predestination at times like this. It’s a uniquely Scottish trait. We even have a phrase to live by: What’s for ye’ll no’ go by ye.

  Rough translation: what’s meant to be, will be.

  I liked the cut of it. Appealed to my alkie’s wisdom. We’re all looking for someone to say, ‘You’re doomed, there’s nothing you can do about it.’ In such instances, the best course of action is always to say: ‘Fuck it, let’s get blootered.’

  There are some alkies who can separate out the doomed stuff from the everyday disappointments like the shaving cut, the burnt toast, the late bus. Me, I add them up, say, ‘There’s your proof.’

  It’s when things go right that I become truly distressed.

  When nothing goes wrong on you, when the world conspires to give you calm, it’s the drin
ker’s duty to disrupt it. You start to feel the world closing in on you. It’s too small a place. Too simple. People, normal people, begin to irritate you endlessly. Your anger knows no bounds. Shouting, ranting, bawling and raging at anything becomes the norm. A DJ’s comments on the radio, a chance remark overheard in a shop, and you’re off. You want out. Anywhere will do. Just away from this… state.

  I’d read about famous alcoholics; it had become almost an obsession with me. To a one they all said the same thing: ‘I can’t imagine a world without drink, it would be too… boring.’

  When I hear this I know at once that it’s the addiction talking. Alkies just can’t put up with themselves. To a one they are self-loathing. Days on the dry are endless. Like being locked up with a stranger. A stranger you hate. You drink, and the stranger goes away, leaves you in peace. But more than that, you find another state. Somewhere where you don’t need to scream all day and all night like you were in purgatory being poked in the ribs by the Devil.

  Rousseau said: ‘Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.’ Alcohol was my key. It unlocked the chains. It set me free — for a little while.

  I was back on the boat before I knew it. Hit the half of Bell’s again; tanned the lot this time. The dog was watching me. Could have sworn he had disapproval on his face.

  ‘Sorry, boy, got to leave you again.’

  I knew I was wrong to stray too far from Hod’s boat. What I needed was something like that scene in Trainspotting where Renton locks himself away with the tins of soup, goes cold turkey. I also knew, like Renton, there wasn’t a chance in hell I was doing any cold turkey.

  Anyway… what’s for ye’ll no’ go by ye.

  I flagged a Joe Baxi to Sighthill. When I got out I gave the driver a nod, said, ‘Go safe.’

  A smile; whole head quivered on his meaty neck.

  I could hear trail bikes burning up the park beyond the road. This was the new craze: get a bike and go grabbing handbags. We had them all over the city now, young neds on bikes, could spot them by the bare head. There’d been some bad incidents, folk knocked to the ground and near killed. No one seemed to have any trouble identifying them, except plod. No revenue in it I guess.