The Hurting

by RJ Mitchell

  The Hurting: The Glasgow Terror

  R J Mitchell

  © RJ Mitchell 2012

  The author asserts the moral right to be identified

  as the author of the work in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Fledgling Press Ltd,

  7 Lennox St., Edinburgh, EH4 1QB

  Published by Fledgling Press 2012

  www.fledglingpress.co.uk

  eBook ISBN: 9781905916511

  Print ISBN: 9781905916528

  1

  THE FIRST shards of light splintered their way through the bedroom curtain as the greyness of the morning light started to fill the room and slowly Thoroughgood began to waken from a fractured sleep.

  Turning over onto his left side he reached out across the bed searching for her presence but the sheets were smooth and the bed was empty. Slowly the stupor of his drowsy awakening gave way to the cruel reality that was his waking hours. She was gone . . . gone forever.

  His eyes flashed as the feeling of blind panic that had marked the start of his every day since Celine had been taken from him gripped his mind and body anew. He sighed out loud and stared uncomprehending at the space in the bed where she should be lying, where she had been lying what seemed liked a moment ago, so alive, so real, so sensuous, so Celine. But now she was no more, forever consigned to his past, yet during his sleeping hours so much a part of his present.

  He had taken the offer to come to Castlebrae, the Scottish Police Convalescence home, thinking that a break in the Perthshire countryside might help him escape the torment that had seemed to taint everything in Glasgow.

  Glasgow. Where everything reminded him of Celine and the man who had ended her life and his hopes of happiness . . . Declan Meechan.

  He ran his right hand through the strands of the jet black hair that was increasingly grey-streaked, sat up in the bed staring at the curtain ahead, and then the Hurting came and it was too much. Gus Thoroughgood buried his head in his knees and wept until his body was wracked with a pain he knew would never go away and all the time her face remained the focus of his mind’s eye. Then the voice in his head spoke up.

  “C’mon Gus get it together, a month up here and you still haven’t got it under control, face facts: she’s gone and she ain’t coming back, you’ve got to start again.’

  The problem was where did he make that start, when nothing seemed to work? It had been almost five months since he had found Celine at Meechan’s place, shot dead by a hired killer, so still, so peaceful, never more beautiful and yet so dead.

  Grief had given way to anger. Alcohol had provided a false balm for the pain that seemed to sear his very being. He had tried to throw himself into his work and find a way to occupy every moment of the day. Failed.

  Eventually it had been too much and Superintendent Tomachek had summoned him to his smoke-filled room. There, with his partner Kenny Hardie adding some moral support, they had suggested he take a month’s leave at Castlebrae.

  “A change of scene might help you put some distance between what has happened down here and maybe get some perspective on it all. Help you decide how to start again.” Tomachek had said, trying to find some advice that might kickstart the healing process by offering him a way forward.

  The anger surged anew through his veins as he thought back to that day and his reaction to the best advice the old boy could come up with.

  “Just what the fuck is there to start again?” He had leaned across Tomachek’s desk and the old man had recoiled from the fury that had spread across his features.

  “That bastard Meechan has murdered the only woman I’ve ever loved and gone scot free, so please enlighten me, just what do you think I can start again?” He had ripped his warrant card out from his jacket pocket and tossed it onto the table. “I’ve sacrificed everything for this fuckin’ job and with it has gone everything that meant anything to me. You can stick yer fuckin’ job up your arse. I can’t give it any more.”

  With that he had charged out the office, almost taking the door off its hinges in the process and leaving the disbelieving Tomachek and Hardie stunned in a combination of silence and pity at his meltdown.

  Now, Thoroughgood got to his feet, pulled the curtains open and stared out at the gently rolling hillside painted in pleasing pastel shades.

  He looked at his watch and saw that it was Saturday and he had a visitor today. Hardie was coming to pick him up and take him back to the place he had called home – Glasgow.

  But as the moisture filled his eyes afresh and he felt droplets trace down his cheeks and salt slither into his mouth the voice in his head asked: “How can you call it home when there’s nothing there for you anymore?”

  2

  KENNY HARDIE eased through the gears of the Focus as he picked up speed, zig-zagging through the lanes of the M8, manoeuvring into the outside lane and flattening the accelerator. The rain lashed off the windscreen this bleak grey Saturday lunchtime, as the weather tried to make up its mind whether it was autumn or spring.

  As well as the dampness that hung habitually in the air, wrapping around his body like some soggy old blanket, there was also a chill that made the DC shiver. As the car began to heat up his mind started to thaw out and he began to focus on the meeting that had been dominating his thoughts.

  His destination was the Perthshire village of Auchterarder and the subject of his visit was DS Gus Thoroughgood or the shell of the man who had been Gus Thoroughgood; his governor and his mate.

  As Hardie’s mind replayed the previous months which had left the DS gutted and broken, living a life devoid of meaning, his hair-trigger temper broke its banks and he rapped his left hand on the Focus dashboard.

  “Why the fuck did you have to go after her again Gus?” Hardie shouted out loud and found his mind focusing on the image of his partner cradling the lifeless body of the woman he had put everything on the line for –

  Celine Lynnot.

  A love triangle that had imposed a grip on Thoroughgood’s life; which had tormented and tantalised him in almost equal measure for the best part of a decade. Ended with Celine’s pre-ordered slaying by her fiancé, Declan Meechan; Glasgow’s foremost crimelord and Thoroughgood’s mortal nemesis.

  But as Hardie continued to turn over the aftermath of Celine’s brutal demise he knew that all that mattered was how to get Gus Thoroughgood back into the here and now. That was the reason behind this trip to Perthshire. Achieving just that, Hardie knew, was going to be far from easy.

  He reached for one of the Silk Cut cigarettes poised half out of the almost empty pack of twenty, pushed in the cigarette lighter on the Focus dash and a minute later was filling the interior of the car with smoke.

  “Fuck ’em all,” said Hardie in defiance as his mind briefly strayed to the string of complaints he knew would head his way from the next users of the pool car when he finally returned it to Stewart Street, City Centre office, later that day.

  The diversion from the events at hand was momentary and as he filled his lungs with a deep inhalation of nicotine, Hardie tried to train his mind on exactly what he needed to achieve from the visit.

  No matter what happened he needed to get Thoroughgood back to Glasgow. The month’s compassionate leave granted by Detective Superintendent Tomachek was up and it was time to somehow start getting his DS back into the routine and structure of bo
g-standard coppering.

  The fact that Thoroughgood had tendered his resignation by virtually slapping the old man with his warrant card was neither here nor there. Tomachek valued the services of a DS he had taken under his wing as something of a protégé far too highly to let a moment of grief-fuelled angst put the full stop on Thoroughgood’s career.

  Apart from anything else, by putting his life on the line and ultimately losing the woman he loved, Thoroughgood had also brought down the seemingly untouchable Meechan and smashed a multi-million pound drug operation filtering into the city from the Western Isles. Thoroughgood’s warrant card had remained in Tomachek’s desk drawer until the Detective Superintendent had handed it over to Hardie prior to his departure that morning, with a warning.

  “For God’s sake Hardie don’t hand it back until you are sure the time is right.”

  But that, as Hardie knew, was only one side of the equation. It was all very well Strathclyde Police wanting to welcome the returning hero back into their ranks with open arms but did the prodigal son want to return? Only time would tell how things would pan out and Hardie had resolved that whatever decision Gus Thoroughgood ultimately came to, he would be there for him. He flicked the automatic window switch and as the glass panel lowered, lobbed the Silk Cut out.

  “Fuck it! As if that isn’t enough, I’m gonnae miss the Rangers game as bleedin’ well. I hope you’re grateful Gus,” Hardie said out loud and tuned into Radio Scotland’s coverage of the afternoon’s football.

  It was almost 2.30pm when Hardie arrived in the grounds of Castlebrae. The imposing sandstone building immediately recalling memories of the twin visits he had made as he recovered from back and shoulder injuries sustained during separate incidents.He parked the Focus and eased out of the car, tried to fight back the sense of dread enveloping him at just what kind of state he would find his mate and colleague in.

  His attention was diverted by ducks waddling past his feet and heading to the small pond situated in front of the imposing Victorian building. He had not forgotten about them and delved into his overcoat pocket to produce a paper bag he had had the ‘missus’ fill with bread crumbs. Then Kenny Hardie got on the end of the line and followed his feathered friends down to the pond.

  After he had waited for a moment to let the birds immerse themselves in the icy water, the grizzled detective began to throw assorted crumbs and chunks of his breakfast toast into the pond. “There you go my beauties, fire into that why don’t you?” A smile that would have warmed the coldest winter night covered Hardie’s face as he enjoyed a moment of rare satisfaction.

  Submerged in his moment of animal magic Hardie failed to hear the footfall on the gravel behind him.

  “Hello old friend, come to save me from myself?” Hardie recognised the voice immediately.

  He turned round slowly and tried to keep his smile welcoming as he took in the appearance of his partner.

  “Aye, you and your birds, some things never change,” said Thoroughgood as he gestured to the bench overlooking the pond, “Fancy a seat?”

  Hardie nodded and took the half dozen steps towards the bench overlooking the family of water fowl with the silence between him and his partner deafening.

  The first thing he had noticed about Thoroughgood were the hollows his eyes appeared to have sunk into, while his cheek bones stood out like the edges of a ski slope. The weight loss was blatantly obvious and the jersey he wore – a yellow number Hardie used to taunt his mate about as being primrose – hung from him like an empty sack.

  Perhaps most stark of all was the grey, in places white, materialising in the DS’s previously jet black hair. But there was something else, something about Thoroughgood and the way he moved that Hardie had noticed immediately but been unable to diagnose. It was as though Thoroughgood had become weighed down, aged by the pain of a loss that had drained the very sap of life from his being.

  They sat side by side on the bench and watched the ducks. This time Hardie did not smile for he had no idea where to begin. Surprisingly it was Thoroughgood who broke the silence.

  “Ah fuck it, any crumbs left in the bag faither?”

  The mention of his nickname brought the smile back to Hardie’s face. “Sure, help yourself.”

  Thoroughgood took the bag and filleted it for some morsels before lobbing the last few into the pond much to the delight of the attending drake and his little family. Still Hardie did not know where to begin and his attempt when it came was hardly adroit.

  “Tomachek and the rest of CID back at Stewart Street send their best and the old man is . . .”, but before he could complete the sentence Thoroughgood did it for him.

  “Wondering when I am coming back?”

  Hardie shrugged his shoulders and nodded uneasily as the gorging ducks soaked his scuffed brown suede shoes in spray.

  “It’s okay mate. I know my time at Castlebrae is up this weekend and you’ve come to take me back to Glasgow. No disrespect but I just don’t know if I want to go back with you.”

  The DC had feared as much. The arts of gentle persuasion and skilful diplomacy were unfathomable to Hardie. He knew then there was no point in pursuing his objective in a manner that would have left him open to ridicule. Thoroughgood may have had his heart broken but his mind was evidently in full working order.

  The DS leant forward and stared at the ducks. It was hardly an act of encouragement and Hardie sighed out loud before reaching inside his anorak and seeking to stiffen his resolve with another Silk Cut. One click of his Zippo and a deep inhalation and he launched himself into the matter at hand.

  “Fuck’s sake Gus, what the hell else are you gonna do man? I know you loved her, Christ I do, but she’s gone and it doesn’t matter where you are, the Hurting is still gonna be there with you. Sitting around moping, wherever you are intending running off to, isn’t going to bring her back is it? What you need is to get back to what you do best, back among the boys, and get stuck in. In my opinion the last thing you need right now is more time to torture yourself with what if’s and if only’s.”

  Hardie stopped for another drag on his Silk Cut but was just too late to stop ash falling on his treasured brogues.

  “Ah, piss off ya diddy!” He chastised himself before flicking his right foot in the direction of the ducks who were this time on the end of an unwanted shower of fag ash, and a volley of quacks soon let Hardie know what they thought of his not so fancy footwork.

  Hardie’s words of wisdom did however have the desired effect of gaining a reaction from his partner. Thoroughgood sat upright and turned his body towards Hardie before levelling those hollow, almost translucent green spheres on the veteran DC. Hardie felt uneasy under surveillance of his mate’s disconcerting gaze.

  “Straight to the point as always Kenny, eh? Maybe you’re right but I just feel tired of it all, I don’t know where my life is going anymore. One minute everything is there for me and we are making all these plans and now it’s back to square one, start again, like some sick game of snakes and ladders. But what is the point? You tell me.

  “Get stuck back into the job? What for? Where is that going to take me?” Thoroughgood saw Hardie remove his fag and held his hand up to stay any interruption from his partner.

  “Before you say ‘One day you’ll meet someone else’, well maybe, but she won’t be Celine. Anyway the old man took my warrant card so the problem is no longer yours or Strathclyde Polis’ is it now?”

  Hardie cleared his throat and drew an enquiring look from Thoroughgood who was well aware this usually meant an uncomfortable admission was imminent.

  “Well not quite, Gus.” Hardie rummaged in the other pocket from the one housing his beloved fags and slowly produced Thoroughgood’s warrant card.

  “The old man may have accepted it but your warrant card has spent the last few weeks gathering dust in his office drawer. We both think it’s time you took it back and returned to Glasgow.”

  Silence.

  Thoroughgood got up a
nd moved closer to the water’s edge, gazing across the pond and into the Perthshire hills ringing the horizon with their pleasing undulations.

  “You’re naw gonnae jump mate?” shouted Hardie from behind him and they both erupted in laughter simultaneously. An outpouring of relief as much as anything else.

  “OK, old mate, I’ll come back to Glasgow with you but you can keep the warrant card for now. Strathclyde Polis has had the best part of 15 years of my life and right now I’m not ready to commit any more.”

  Hardie allowed himself a smile and patted his mate’s right shoulder.

  “Good man. What do you say to a curry in Mr India’s once we get back to the West End?”

  “Good to see that at least you haven’t changed Kenny, still always thinking about your belly eh? Well I haven’t exactly got plans for my Saturday night have I? But listen, there’s one condition for me returning with you; there is no way I’m gonna put up with you kicking every ball of the Rangers game on the drive back. No radio ok?”

  “Fuck’s sake Gus, at least let me get the half-times! What’s the problem, have you finally given up on Thistle?”

  The raising of the middle digit of Thoroughgood’s right hand was indeed eloquent proof that he had not.

  “Just get me to the West End in one piece faither, will you?”

  3

  THE FOCUS surged down the A90, a study in still life. Hardie had not had the guts to ignore his partner’s wish, that, as far as the football was concerned Radio Silence was the only station he wished to be tuned into.

  Conversation was non-existent and Hardie shot Thoroughgood a sideways glance that revealed his gaze was vacantly focused out of the passenger window. For once in his life Hardie decided that the continued quiet of the vehicle was preferable to the vacuous chatter of conversation for the sake of itself.

  The red Focus pulled out to overtake a blue Audi estate as Hardie realised that the drumming of his left hand fingers on the dashboard was now becoming so incessant it was even beginning to get on his nerves. He stopped.