Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4)

by Tony Black

  ‘By fuck I would …’ I’d mouthed the words before I realised I had company.

  ‘Mr Dury … I’m Dr Scott.’

  Couldn’t say I was glad to see him, but was delighted it wasn’t the no-nonsense west-coaster I’d legged it from at my last visit.

  Said, ‘Pleased to meet you … I think.’

  Frowns, over Penfold glasses.

  The doc edged over to the bed, clocked the monitor. There was a brutishness about him; hands that would have looked more at home on a boilermaker. He wasn’t here to fuck around, that was a given.

  He paced to the end of the bed, picked up the clipboard. He took a propelling pencil from his coat pocket, pumped it, then made some marks on the paper. His face never once changed. Held steel. He was a type I’d met before. Couldn’t say I was overly enamoured with any of his lot, though they did offer a kind of reassurance: it was an image that focused on the utilitarian, the type you want to get a job done, done well even, but not the type you want to pass the time of day with. His was a fast-vanishing breed; as a race we are becoming more vacuous and lightweight every day. Things like focus and seriousness have little or no value. These days people wanted the wrapping to be bright, look the part. They want visibility, not credibility.

  Dr Scott spoke: ‘I suppose you’ll know why you’re here.’

  Fuck me, was this another lecture?

  Was I even biting? No way, said, ‘Well, it’s a lovely view …’

  Not a flicker on him. ‘Alcoholism’s a progressive disease.’ He returned his pencil to his pocket then the clipboard to the end of the bed. ‘You’ll have been aware of that, surely.’ His look said, You’re not an idiot, why are you acting like one?

  I raised myself in the bed. The act was a trial: felt my chest constrict; some burn in there made me wince. The doc watched without as much as a crease appearing on his brow. I tried to use my faltering voice once more: ‘Cut to the chase, eh …’

  He stared at me for a moment, seemed to be sussing whether I was ready for the news. ‘You have extremely dilated submucosal veins in your lower oesophagus.’

  I rolled eyes. ‘In English … please.’

  Dr Scott took off his glasses, removed a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and started to clean the lenses as he spoke. ‘The veins in the narrow part of the tube from the oesophagus to the stomach are damaged. That’s what’s been causing you to vomit, Mr Dury.’

  ‘And the blood … ?’

  He returned his glasses to his nose, pressed the frame, ‘All part of the progression. I don’t want to underestimate the seriousness of this situation for you.’

  I gritted my teeth. I was ready for the worst, said, ‘Gimme it straight.’

  ‘Are you a betting man, Mr Dury?’

  Wasn’t, but saw where this was going, said, ‘Time to time.’

  ‘Let me put it this way: your alcoholism is so advanced that you are on the final furlong.’

  I felt surprisingly nonplussed, it didn’t faze me. ‘Heading for the home straight!’

  The doc’s face held steady, not a move, then, ‘If you have another bleed like that it could be your last.’

  ‘You think?’

  Now emotion, deep frowns and slit eyes as he tucked his handkerchief away and raised a finger to me. ‘I’ve seen a lot of people in your boat, son, and listen to me, if you don’t get off the bottle you’ll be lucky to see the year out … if not the month.’

  The word ‘son’ stung. Always did. I knew the concern of his warning was genuine. I knew he was right; also knew soon as I got out of this place where I was headed.

  ‘Thank you for your … assessment, Doctor.’

  The impassive look returned. It screamed, You can lead a horse to water …

  He went for the door, took the handle and said, ‘You’ll need some rest. I’m putting you on lansoprazole – don’t forget to take it. I’ll write out a scrip for the pharmacy, you’ll need a few other things too … a beta blocker, propranolol, to keep your heartrate down. There’s one thing you know you can never take again, but I’m sure you’ve heard that before, so I won’t waste my breath here.’ He didn’t even look at me, not so much as a backward glance, as he opened the door and strode out.

  I closed my eyes, dug my head back in the pillow.

  Knew the forecast down pat. By this stage, there was no need to hear the words. But I also knew that as the warnings had got louder, my ability to hear them had diminished. Felt very little of the fear that I knew a man in my situation should be experiencing. My thoughts were elsewhere. They were where they always were – in the gutter.

  I felt the most almighty pull to a whisky bottle.

  I wanted to blot it all out. To block out the world. If it, or me, vanished for good … I seriously couldn’t give a fuck. If I could get Hod straightened out – off the hook with Shaky – and get Gillian some peace of mind, I’d be happy. There was nothing else to hope for on the horizon. The thought goaded me like the point of a sharp knife.

  Chapter 15

  SPENT A COUPLE OF DAYS in dry dock. Only contact with the outside world was to call Hod, tell him to keep an even lower profile than I’d suggested earlier. Had a bad feeling about Shaky’s sudden interest in us; figured there was more to it but couldn’t get that side of the Rubik’s cube to match up. Brain was still firing on half power, maybe I needed more rest … Yeah, like fuck: I needed a drink.

  Took myself to the shower room. The place was kitted out like a caravan park, lots of black grout in the tiles and blacker mould on the bench boards. No wonder our hospitals were in such dire nick; kip of this joint, I could be adding some superbug infection to the list of troubles I had waiting to fell me.

  Turned on the taps, caught sight of myself in the mirror. There were so many creases in my forehead, I made Gordon Ramsay look like an Armani model. Christ, what had happened here? I had a bad case of redeye too. Where the whites should have been were yellowed; throw in the red and I was in the ballpark of the Stoke City away jersey. I tapped at my pale cheeks, tried to slap some colour in there – wasn’t happening. I had the pallor of a corpse. Looked like Peter Cushing in the first Star Wars movie … tried to inflate my cheeks with air to see if I could fill out the hollows but the effort only made me feel light-headed.

  I couldn’t look any more. Turned my eyes to the sink, filled it. Was taking all my effort to drag a cold razor over my coupon when I was drawn out of myself by sheer disbelief. I clocked a twenty-year-old at the sink next to me in the midst of an act that made me despair for the future of humanity: he was applying eyeliner.

  My mouth drooped.

  I held the razor halfway to my chin, stared.

  The lad spotted me but kept at it. How did I know what he was at? How did I identify that he had an eyeliner pencil in his mitt, applying black lines to the lids? How? I had seen my ex-wife at this caper. Spanish eyes or some shit: yes, blokes know this … from women. HolyChristallfuckingmighty. What had happened to the world? This feminising-the-planet lark had gone way too far. They had us carrying bags, moisturising, and now, it seemed, applying make-up. I couldn’t believe it. Turned away. Knew there had to be an ad creative somewhere working on the campaign for blokes’ Pretty Pollys.

  The lad shrugged off; seemed quite chuffed with himself. Thought: Things you see when you don’t have a gun.

  I finished off shaving, felt an unbelievably macho act to perform. Wanted more of the same: rustling cattle, maybe wrestling a steer or two. Knew I wasn’t up to either; a nice facial would be more in keeping with my current capabilities.

  Got back to the hospital bed, turned on my mobi. Was strictly verboten in here, but like I cared. Had some voicemail from Hod: ‘Two things I need to chew you out about, Gus. Gillian’s full-on pissed about Joe Calder. She’s kicking up an awfy stink … wants to see us, soon as. And one word: Amy. Eh, what you playing at, Gus? You promised to leave her out. Right, bell me, eh. Sooner the better.’

  He clicked off.

&nbs
p; Said, ‘Fucksake.’

  Knew Hod was on bricks about this whole thing. Was seriously rattled since Shaky’s pugs doorstepped us. But I’d be fucked if I was having him dictate the way I went about business. Had a flashback to his usual modus operandi: going ape, bustin’ heads. Felt relieved he was being a bit more businesslike, but still, he needed some hauling back. I’d have to tell him to pull his head in. For all his involvement, help … this was my gig.

  I checked the text situ.

  One from Amy, read: Been checking on oor Ben. No good news. You know he was connected, aye?

  That I didn’t know. Had my suspicions; I mean, if Bender Ben was dealing on campus, he wasn’t getting it mail order. Someone was supplying him. The other stuff, the brassers that Rasher mentioned, could all be explained away by some wido contacts, but the drugs game was all sewn up in this town, had been for years. I felt a sudden belt of fear at what Amy was getting herself into. Knew Hod wouldn’t like this turn of events either.

  Hit my contacts, dialled Amy.

  Ringing.

  More ringing.

  ‘Shit … c’mon, pick up, girl!’

  Went to voicemail.

  Said, ‘Amy … it’s Gus. Got yer text. Look, when I got in touch I thought you might take a bit of a sniff around the uni, y’know, some of the poncy wee losers. I didn’t want you going anywhere near drug dealers or anyone who might be connected to supplying Ben. You hear me? Right, that’s it. Call me when you get this and for Chrissake keep out of trouble!’

  Knew that kind of message would have no effect on her at all. Amy was a force of nature; she did what she did. Headstrong, that’s how to describe her type of woman. I knew this because I had been married to one for so long – Amy and Debs were cut from the same cloth.

  I checked the rest of my messages. Nothing special. But according to Vodafone, I’d qualified for free weekend calls. Was jumping ecstatic about that. It was Tuesday – hoped I made the weekend.

  Turned on the TV. I’d been charged a Jimmy Denner for the privilege of watching telly in an NHS hospital my taxes had helped fund. Fair boiled my piss but there was worse to come on that front: Gok Wan was on Loose Women.

  ‘Holy Jesus …’

  Was there a worse combination? The hatchet-faced blonde one was keeping her trap shut, though. Probably too scared in case Gok suggested she give her face a good iron.

  I couldn’t watch.

  Flicked to off.

  Got up. I was about to start pacing when my mobi went off.

  Was Amy: ‘Gus boy, how’s tricks?’

  ‘Amy … where are you?’

  ‘Eh … aye, hi there to you too, Gus.’

  ‘Look, tell me you’re not up to some shit again.’ My voice was weak, rasping.

  ‘You sound rough. Been on the piss?’

  I wished. ‘Amy, I mean it, I don’t want a repeat of the last time …’

  ‘Chill. I’ve only been talking to a few folk down the union bar.’

  I wasn’t buying that. It was the kind of weak excuse she’d always plied me with, but it felt futile arguing, went with, ‘Gimme it, then.’

  Amy’s voice increased in pitch and velocity – she was excited. ‘Well, Ben was quite the lad about town, let me tell you—’

  This much I knew, said, ‘Okay, cut out the preamble, eh.’

  She sparked: ‘Well, he was all for his Es and whizz, and one or two other things. Had a rep as being able to deliver quicker than Domino’s Pizza … But that’s not the best of it. He was pimping brassers about the party scene like you wouldn’t believe. Cheesy fucker used to say they’d all been personally road tested … cockhead!’

  Amy had only confirmed what I already knew and suspected, said, ‘Who was supplying him with the drugs?’ If she’d found that out, we were on to something.

  A pause.

  Pages flicked on a spiral-bound notebook. ‘Got that somewhere … was some bloke called Gemmill.’

  I felt a heat flash in my chest. ‘Danny Gemmill?’

  ‘Hang on … got it here somewhere.’ She flicked through the pages, ‘Right, here we go … Danny Gemmill, aye … D’you know him?’

  ‘Could say that.’ If Gemmill was mixed up in the death of Ben Laird, it made sense why he’d been playing Hod and me so hard. Sure as fuck he wouldn’t want Shaky finding out; what he’d want was me off the case, pronto. At the moment, though, this was all reaching. I’d nothing to back it up. Still, it was an interesting association to have uncovered. Would take some looking into.

  ‘Right, Amy, well done. That’s a big help. You’ve more than earned your weight in Costa coffees. Now, get back to your studies and forget about this case.’

  A huff on the line. ‘Gus … are you brushing me off?’

  She’d come good, real good – I needed to keep her sweet. ‘No. No way.’

  ‘Fucking well sounds a lot like it!’

  I pulled it in: ‘Look, Amy … this guy Gemmill’s connected to some hard bastards. Kind that don’t think twice about putting folk like me in the ground. You understand?’

  ‘I’m not fucking dippit.’ Her tone said far more than her words could.

  ‘I know, I know … and that’s why you’ll stay clear now, Amy. Trust me, if they’ll put me in the ground, they won’t think twice about you. Only, way you’re put together, they’ll likely have some fun with you first … Get the picture?’

  ‘In Technicolor.’

  She hung up.

  I stared at the phone, watching the backlight fade. That feeling I’d had, the unsure, hesitant feeling I’d had about contacting Amy, came back, on full heat this time. I was grateful for her help, but wondered what I had got her into. There was no way she’d be walking away from this now. I had to get moving. Dreaded to think what Amy would get up to; just hoped I’d beat her to it. She had an uncanny knack of rousing trouble, of diving in head first when she should be holding back, playing it cool.

  Checked the time and date on my phone. I’d missed my meet with Fitz, but I couldn’t help that. I was in hospital; he’d understand, surely.

  Dialled his mobile number.

  He answered fast – was driving by the sound of things – said, ‘Fitzsimmons.’

  ‘It’s Dury.’

  Van Morrison got turned down on the CD player. ‘By the feckin’ cringe … Dury. Thought you’d been blotted out once and for all!’

  ‘Close … but no cigar.’

  ‘What happened to ye?’

  ‘Let’s just say I … ran into some health issues.’

  ‘Fucking liver packed in, has it?’ He laughed that up. I didn’t.

  ‘Look, where are you? We need to meet.’

  ‘That would be a good idea. I have some things I need to discuss with you.’ This was a turn up for the books. Usually I had to claw information out of Fitz; him suggesting a meet-up was a first. He’d have an ulterior motive, no doubt. He was plod, c’mon.

  ‘Can you get out to the infirmary … ?’

  ‘Y’wha’?’

  ‘You heard right. Look, I’m about to check out. Can you pick me up?’

  ‘Jaysus feck … yer serious. Okay, well, gimme a few minutes. Are you fit enough for this lark, Dury? I mean, nothing I have to say to you will be a comfort in your situation.’

  Comfort? What the fuck was that? ‘Trust me, Fitz, I’m as good as I’m ever going to be … Better wear your thick skin too – don’t think I’ll have anything complimentary to say about your lot. Been some serious shenanigans hereabouts. Fucking serious.’

  He sighed; clicked off.

  I held my breath for a moment; sighed back.

  Chapter 16

  I GOT DRESSED; IN THE same clothes I came in with. My shirt, a nice blue Superdry that Debs had bought for me, was covered in blood. Worse, it stank of rank puke. The front of my 501s had collected some claret on the thighs and knees, probably where I’d writhed in agony on the pub floor. I must have looked like a butcher’s mate, some junior workie not long enough in the
job to have gotten the overalls in. The only item of my get-up that wasn’t looking the worse for wear was my Docs. Okay, they were cherry, same colour as the blood-laden barf, but those boyos were hardy; the bonny fechtirs had seen some action in the past and knew how to handle it. Wished I could still say the same about myself.

  I strolled out of the ward, down the corridor to the pharmacy. I clutched at the doctor’s scrip; seemed policy to get the thing filled out. I wasn’t about to take any chances on a return to this place. Sure, there was as much chance of the Second Coming as me swearing off the sauce – I could feel the crave already – but screwing the nut, if not deadbolt tight, was on the cards now. Deffo. Things were starting to look serious, not just on the health front. But the way this case was stacking – with Fitz and Hod and Amy showing an interest – I’d need to start pulling out the stops. Christ, I’d need to start pulling my weight. People were relying on me. I’d involved a shower of folk I cared about and needed to protect … even if it meant putting myself to the sword in the process.

  The pharmacy wifey was old time, but fighting it. Had the look of one that had dragged herself up from sitting behind a counter in the Co; a chemist shop was big time for her. Could see her having once spent her nights playing dominoes down the British Legion, night at the Mecca bingo maybe. Now she’d be on the line dancing; glue-gunning sequins on her hubby’s cowboy shirts and drinking bourbon and Coke. She had what Fitz, and all our Celtic cousins across the Irish Sea, call ‘notions’. I didn’t like her one bit, could see she was going to give me grief.

  Said, ‘I have this prescription from Dr Scott.’

  She pretended to be busy with something, tapped a few random keys on the PC notebook in front of her, trying to look important. I was waiting for a hand to go up, a finger to the lips, maybe a ‘Sshhhh’. What I got was nothing. I wasn’t even worth consideration. She let me stew for a full minute, then eyed me with derision. She clocked the blood on my shirt front. I looked away, tried to close my jacket but the zip jammed. Cursed inwardly as she pinched her lips at me. I could see the deep radial lines drawing from the thin crease of her mouth out towards her nose and cheeks. Was there a face more worthy of a slap? Christ, I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t playing into her hands.