by Tony Black
‘Well, if you told me all the facts, maybe I’d make better decisions.’
I picked up my shirt, flung it on. This was an argument I was never going to win so I played cautious. ‘The fact is, Amy, I care about you, and I don’t want you hurt. Can you get your head around that?’
She nodded, moved closer and put her arms around me. ‘I don’t want you hurt either.’
I sighed. Way things were shaping up, that wasn’t going to be an option.
Chapter 30
IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE happiest of days; I’d opened up to Amy and found myself experiencing something close to joy. Never a good state for a drinker: it means something bad is just around the corner. It’s the alky’s rationale. Days are meant to bring grief; it’s in the contract. The minute something starts to go right, panic sets in.
I holed up in an East End drinker. I’d given up staying out of Shaky’s manor. The self-destruct button had been flipped, nothing mattered to me any more. If he found out I was still working the case after he’d warned me off, so be it. Like I said, I expected grief … it was in the post.
The thing about getting together with Amy was that it meant dredging up more memories of Debs. I couldn’t escape them, she was still a part of me. My hands trembled as I picked up my mobi. I was well on, blootered drunk. Had put away the best part of a bottle of low-flying burdie. It stung on the way down but I was past caring; I needed drink … I needed to be drunk. To block out the hum of thoughts circling inside my head. If it ended me, so be it.
Ringing.
I cursed her loudly. ‘Fucking pick it up, Debs … what you doing to me?’
I wanted her to tell me she was okay, that I could move on.
Ringing.
I needed to know things were over between us for good. That all the hurt of our past was behind us. That I was free to stop worrying about her.
Ringing.
I wanted nothing from her, nothing. Why couldn’t she see that? Why did I need to hear the words? My head was a mess. I knew I was in bad shape. I belched up a sliver of whisky-perfumed bile.
Voicemail.
‘Oh for fucksake … Debs, Debs … it’s me. Why are you doing this? Why? Why can’t you just speak to me? I need to hear your voice. I’m sorry for everything … everything that went wrong between us. I know you don’t want to hear it but it’s important to me to let you know I’ve moved on. I just need to know you have too … that there’s a world without Gus and Debs. Tell me, please, and I’ll stop calling … I just need to know, Debs … that’s all I need to know. We never spoke. We never talked about this. We just split. Please, Debs … tell me life goes on, eh. Please—’
The call timed out.
I sat the mobi on the bar.
The barman came over. ‘You okay there, mate?’ He was an Aussie, blond and buff – aren’t they all?
‘Oh, aye … give me another Grouse, eh.’
He looked unsure, put hands on the bar. ‘I think you might have had enough, mate.’
I leaned over, grabbing his shirt front. ‘Look, I’ll say when I’ve fucking well had enough, right?’
The Aussie unhooked my fingers, motioned to the door with his eyes. ‘Think you better go now.’ He pointed me out to the street.
‘I’m going nowhere until I get another fucking drink!’
For a moment we stared at each other in silence. I was ready to go to blows. He’d have flattened me into the floor, and knew it, but I was wankered, totally wrecked.
My phone buzzed on the bar top.
I picked it up. I had a text. From Debs.
My hand trembled as I opened the message. It read: Life goes on Gus – Debs.
‘Mate, I think you should call it a night,’ said the barman.
I looked up from the mobi. ‘Yeah, yeah … all right.’
My head felt light as I walked out the door and into the dark night. A Festival crowd wandered past yakking about some comedian they’d just seen. They laughed as they recounted some of the gags, slapping each other on the back as they went.
‘Shut yer fucking faces!’ I roared. How dare they be so happy around me. They turned and laughed at me.
‘Oh, aye … laugh it fucking up.’ I was ranting. This is what I’d come to, ranting at strangers in the street. There was a time when I picked my battles – now they picked me. More and more I was at war with the world. For what? It didn’t matter.
A low screech began in my head. I could hear it, spinning around in there, mashing with the thoughts and memories. I was lost to reality. I had fallen low. I staggered down the street, feeling my way along shop fronts and walls. My legs were rubber, my feet on the end of them had no coordination, slipping and sliding all over the pavement. ‘Well … you got what you wanted, Gus,’ I told myself.
My legs suddenly buckled beneath me.
‘Be careful what you fucking wish for,’ I muttered.
Debs had contacted me. She’d broken her silence. I’d got what I wanted – why wasn’t that enough? Why hadn’t that changed everything? My thoughts mashed, all the dark imaginings subsided, but became supplanted with new, more morose musings.
‘Life goes on, Gus … that’s what she fucking said.’
I had worn her down. She wanted nothing but to be left alone and I’d forced her to give me one last out. Well, now I had it.
I’d pressed some buttons lately. My mam, who deserved to be comfortable in her retirement, had had to look at me with shame in her eyes. She’d explained herself to me as I sat before her in a state of utter deterioration. Christ, what must she have thought of me? Her son, her only remaining son, coming to her in wasted condition looking for words of comfort. I was pathetic. Truly worthy of pity.
I crossed the road at the lights and tried to straighten myself to get through the doors of what looked like the Station Bar. I couldn’t be sure, because I couldn’t see clearly. The sign above the door was a blur; fuck, the door was a blur. Everything was melting before me. I wanted to find oblivion, fast.
I got some looks on the way in but I didn’t care. I had reached a point of drunkenness I had never experienced before. My entire mind seemed steeped in alcohol. I felt ready to blank out, but I couldn’t stop the craving.
‘Give me a Grouse, please.’
To my astonishment, I was served.
I put the glass to my lips and downed it.
‘Get me another, please.’
The drink came. I sipped it slower. Tried to get my bearings but it soon became clear there were none. I had entered a world more surreal than Weekend at Bernie’s. I became vaguely aware of other people in the bar; they were engaged in conversation, laughing, joking. I couldn’t bring myself to join in. I felt lost in hurt and pity.
A bloke in a black leather coat approached me. ‘How you doing?’
His face was a blur and I didn’t recognise the voice.
Fired out, ‘Well … well.’
I took up my glass again, drained it.
I tried to order another but I seemed to have lost the power of speech now.
‘Get him oot ay here!’ I heard the shout, but couldn’t trace it.
I tried to move but collapsed onto a tabletop.
I heard the glasses smash and a woman scream out.
‘Oh my God … he’s bleeding.’
I tried to steady myself on the floor. I could see nothing except a red mist. My hands slipped on the wet floorboards as I made to get up. I couldn’t move. I tried dragging my body to the door; but I didn’t know where the door was. The place seemed to have gone quiet now, a stilled silence as the crowd stared at me – what a show I made of myself.
‘For fucksake … get him outside before the floor’s covered in blood.’ It sounded like the barman again. I felt hands go under my armpits. I was lifted. My head battered on the pub doors. I felt a rush of cool air as I hit the street.
I was dropped on the flags. The doors shut behind me.
I lay face down on the cold slabs. I could feel my
mouth bleeding, the salty blood seeping beyond my lips. There was, strangely, no pain. I was numb.
‘Life goes on, Gus,’ I said. ‘Life goes on.’
I felt my hair grabbed in a bunch then the back of my head was pulled back sharply.
‘You fucking think so, eh.’
It was the bloke in the leather from the pub. I recognised his voice this time: ‘I know you.’
It was Shaky’s pug, one who’d been rolling up his sleeves in preparation to give me a booting the last time I’d seen him. He’d looked disappointed then, but not now. He dropped my head onto the pavement. ‘What are the fucking chances ay seeing you here, eh?’
I felt the bile rising in my gut. More blood flowed over my lips.
The pug raged, ‘You were fucking told, Dury … told to leave off by Shaky and you didn’t listen. How many warnings does a cunt like you need?’
I had the answer now, but it seemed pointless to let him know.
‘I’ve had more chances than I can count already …’
He looked scoobied. Picked me up by the collar, dragged me towards a navy Subaru. He had the remote central locking key in his hand; the indicator lights flashed. I had no chance to protest as I was thrown in the back, a heavy fist laid on the side of my head in case I felt like checking out early.
I coughed dark blood as I fell into the back seat.
Chapter 31
I MUST HAVE PASSED OUT. My mouth felt dry, which meant I’d stopped bringing up blood, but my lips were swollen and sore. There was a throbbing in my head, but that was nothing new. The motion of the car had my guts turning over and over, though I figured they’d have been doing all right on their own without any help. My heart battered off the insides of my ribcage where I lay, face down on the back seat. There was a pool of frothy sick, the kind the doctor had said was a sign of dire consequences to come. I knew I’d fallen off the wagon in spectacular fashion but somehow, even knocking at death’s door, it seemed the least of my worries.
I turned over; groaned. Got the driver’s attention. He yelled at me but I didn’t register a word. My mind was fixed on the dull fizz of the street lamps that flew past the window. The world outside looked bathed in a sickly orange glow; seemed to fit.
I raised myself on an elbow. The pug was still yelling at me: ‘D’ye want me to come back there and give you another slap?’
I touched my head – there was a nice cut above my left eye where his last slap had landed. I figured on there being more to come.
My senses slowly started to return to me. I had the vague notion to try and jump out of the car, make a run for it. But I knew, in my condition, that wasn’t an option. Even at thirty miles an hour, I’d end up as spam the second I hit the tarmac. And as for running – there was less chance of that than me finding the winning lottery ticket on the floor.
I worked myself up to straighten my back, found I could get upright without too much effort. It surprised me … I had a spine, then. The pug had another yelp at me: ‘You fucking better settle down or I’ll be pulling over to tan yer arse for you!’
He sounded like my father; at least, his turn of phrase did.
My hands stung like a bastard. I looked down at them, saw the palms were covered in dried blood. I remembered taking a flyer in the pub, and being thrown out onto the street. It didn’t matter to me which of these events had been responsible, the facts of the matter remained the same. I felt a gale of shame blow over me. I knew there would be a time when I replayed this scenario, went over every minor detail and castigated myself for it. That was the alky’s way. I had wondered once if this was why I did it – if I was a shame junkie. But I’d long since stopped wondering about anything. Life had become so unmanageable now that there didn’t seem any point.
I shook myself. If there was a spark of life in me, somewhere, I’d find it. I had Amy to think about and the case I was working held all Hod’s hopes for getting his life back on track. I had lost Debs, I knew that, but Gillian had lost a son; there were other people out there who needed me. I couldn’t let them down. The drinking, I knew now, had been a mistake … but I could move on from that. Or so I hoped.
‘Where are you taking me?’ I said.
The pug’s beefy neck twitched, two fat rolls of meat quivering as he twisted round to yell at me. ‘What the fuck was that? You speaking to me?’
I amped it up: ‘I said … where the fuck are you taking me?’
He slammed on the brakes. My neck jerked backwards, then my head snapped forwards and banged off the seat in front. I took a fair dunt, but wasn’t any more dazed than I had been previously.
The pug pulled off his seatbelt, got out of the driver’s door and marched around the side of the car. He tugged open the back door then looked at me for a second. There was an expression on his face that said he might have been weighing up whether I was actually still alive.
‘Christ al-fucking-mighty, Dury … you look like fucking shit.’
I managed a lame, ‘Thanks … not looking bad yerself.’
He leaned in and clasped a mitt round my throat; I tried to loosen it but my grip was too weak. He held me for about a minute, watched me struggle for air then threw me back on the seat. As I gasped he laughed it up: ‘Jesus … not gonna have much fun with you, y’wee sack of shit, am I?’
‘Depends.’
He looked as though he’d been poked in the eye. ‘What you say?’
‘You taking me dancing, big boy? … Can fair cut a rug, y’know.’
He pulled back a fist, thought better of it. I got the impression he really wanted me in one piece.
‘You’ll find out soon enough where I’m taking you, ya daft cunt.’
We started out again. I watched the street lamps lining the road and my vision began to settle. My stomach felt as if someone had lit a furnace in there. I was on the verge of heaving all over the back seat, but I kept it down. Had a feeling that if I started I wouldn’t stop. And that would be that.
We left the East End and headed out through Porty. The streets were quieter here – bit far out for Festival-goers – but there was still the usual after-hours carnage of blokes pissing in shop door-ways, and girls in high heels and higher skirts screaming blue murder at each other through streaked make-up and lank hair. What did I ever see in this life? At night, being driven around in the back of a car, the whole city is laid bare before you. Makes you think … makes you want to pack up and leave. Maybe I would. If I got the chance.
I started to grow woozy, my eyes opened and closed, and I was in and out of consciousness by the time we reached Musselburgh. We seemed to be in a more residential area now; the street lamps had changed from orange to white and the roads were quieter. I rested my head on the window and caught sight of my reflection. I was beyond rough. My skin was pasty white and deep lines cut from the corners of my eyes to halfway down my cheeks. I seemed to have aged dreadfully. My mouth, minus the top row of teeth, was pinched and dour. I looked like an old jakey. I wanted to laugh, the state of me. I was so rough beyond belief that I knew the world wouldn’t miss me. Who, Amy? Hod? My mam? Sure, they’d miss me … but would they be any worse off for not having me in their lives? I had weighed it all up and come to the conclusion that if this was the end, so be it. I wouldn’t fight it. I wouldn’t even contest it. It would be for the best.
The pug pulled onto a gravel driveway. Bright lights lit up as the tyres crunched into the scree. We seemed to be approaching the rear of a large baronial-style home. The car came to a halt slowly, the wheels hardly making any noise as they stilled. The pug squinted out to the back door; the lights were too bright and he made a visor of his hand above his eyes. He seemed to see what he wanted to see, smiled and made a thumbs-up. I caught sight of a bloke, a lit cigarette in his mouth, making his way down from the back steps. He was another big biffer in a white trackie.
The pug turned on me. ‘Showtime!’
I had to laugh. ‘Is that supposed to put the shits up me?’
&nb
sp; His face dropped. ‘I’ll put the fucking shits up you, Dury.’
I managed another snort, felt less brave when I saw the corners of his mouth turning up; he looked the type who enjoys this sort of thing. It’s why they got into the racket in the first place – to bust heads.
The car’s back door was pulled open. I felt a cool gust of damp air and then a large hand with a heavy piece of bling on the wrist reached in and grabbed me by the collar.
In the far corner of the well-lit yard sat a one-storey building. It looked out of place, like a bunker; it seemed to have blacked-out windows. It didn’t inspire confidence in me; could guess what it was used for. As we walked towards it the pug put a boot in my arse. I turned, blared, ‘You can chuck that in! I’m fucking walking, amn’t I?’
The pair of diddies looked at each other and laughed. Was expecting a high five, but they were beneath even that level.
When we reached the door, the trackie pug knocked a couple of times and then the door sprung open. Another shaven-headed lump opened up, nodded us down a tiled corridor. I knew why it was tiled: easier to hose down the blood. At the end of the corridor a door was ajar; I heard voices coming from inside. I was sure I recognised one of them. When I was pushed through the doorway, my worst fears were confirmed.
‘Gus Dury, as I live and breathe!’ said Shaky. He stood in the corner with a group of biffers. They were drinking cans of Red Stripe. ‘Get you a wee tipple, Gus?’
I shook my head. That was a first. But I’d had enough for one night.
‘Och, wise … always gets you into bother the drink, does it no’?’ he said.
I walked into the middle of the room. It looked to have been a slaughterhouse at one stage. There was a rail of butcher hooks hanging from a metal bar that crossed two steel beams in the ceiling. On the ceramic floor was a gutter and grooves to let the blood drain away. If he had chosen this place for effect, it fucking well worked. I felt my throat freeze over; my heart all but stilled in my chest. All I could think of now was Amy, and how she’d feel when she heard how I went.
