The Hurting

by RJ Mitchell

  Hardie burst into a trot and ran over to the slumped corpse of the criminal, hauling it off Thoroughgood, whose features had been spray-painted in blood.

  “For fuck’s sake Gus! Are you okay man?” Hardie almost screamed. Lying flat on his back with his eyes shut, there was no response from the DS. But nor to Hardie’s trained eye were there any fatal wounds.

  A mounting anger swept over Hardie and grabbing his mate by both shoulders he shook him with all his strength.

  “Open your fuckin’ eyes you bastard! You are alive and I’m going to keep you that way, whether you like it or not!”

  “Why?” came the reply.

  5

  ONCE AGAIN they sat side by side in the Focus, heading for Glasgow, engulfed in silence. The laborious process of providing Central Scotland Police with statements had been duly completed. A search of the boot of the wrecked Audi had provided the answer to why Felix had been so keen to avoid their attention: a haul of oil paintings valued at around £100,000 and fresh from a series of three housebreakings sustained by the Perthshire gentry. Proof that fine art theft was as rife as it was unreported in the upper echelons of old Scottish high society.

  Of the three travelling villains, the shotgun rider had met his maker while the criminal in the front passenger seat had sustained a couple of fractured ribs and would be around to pay the butcher’s bill. Baker was 50/50 in Stirling Royal Infirmary.

  Shooting Thoroughgood a sideways glance Hardie saw that his mate was gazing aimlessly out of the passenger window once again and into the darkness. As usual, Hardie’s need to puncture the surrounding silence was growing by the moment and finally he said;

  “I don’t know about you Gus but all that has left me starving. You still up for a curry?”

  Thoroughgood turned his head and applied an intense gaze on his mate. “I suppose I’ve got fuck all else to do with myself. But I think we could both do with a shower and a change of clothes first. Mr …”

  “India’s,” finished Hardie for his mate, mightily relieved that Thoroughgood appeared none the worse for their afternoon’s work.

  “Aye, that would be great Gus and if you don’t mind me saying so, a quick pint in The Rock would go down a treat beforehand.”

  Thoroughgood nodded his head and then returned to stare out his window on the world.

  Hardie drained the last of his pint glass and slammed it down on the table for good effect but there was no movement from behind the pages of the Daily Telegraph sports section. The veteran DC cleared his throat and a slight rustle of the newspaper pages preceded their lowering and Thoroughgood’s vacant stare.

  “Sorry mate, you Hank Marvin’?”

  Hardie’s grimace indicated that he was. “Sorry to rush you Gus but ain’t that the truth?” Leaving The Rock they walked straight into a gentle drizzle that had moisture streaming off their faces by the time they had reached Mr India’s.

  To Hardie’s surprise the brooding silence that had shrouded their quick pint and the walk from boozer to curry house was willingly broken by Thoroughgood.

  “Fancy a bet faither? Remember that Diner Tec Review I set up for my mate Kenny, at the Evening Times, the one they had pinned to the outside wall back in 2004? What money it’s still up?”

  Hardie liked his odds. “Nae feckin’ chance, I’ll take a tenner on that. Look Gus, maybe you had a wee laugh over the bit about the waiter being a Partick Thistle fan but it’s done the job drummin’ up trade and making sure you enjoyed a lifetime of freebies. Forget it and give us the tenner.”

  “I don’t know… old India was pretty proud of it, I’m sure it was still up at the beginning of the year. But hey, here we are!”

  “Bastard! If I didn’t know you had been up in Castlebrae for the last month I would have said you set me up, boss.” Hardie’s indignation was of the mock variety and an attempt to hide his relief that his gaffer was at last starting to show signs that he was capable of moving on.

  As they made their way through the understated entrance of Mr India’s the thought crossed Thoroughgood’s mind that it would be easy to walk right past the restaurant if you didn’t know it was there, but then maybe that was what made it the West End’s best kept secret.

  They stood on the raised landing just inside the doorway with Hardie intentionally staying in the background. The dimly lit restaurant was half-full and a pleasant buzz of conversation filled the air. Hardie instantly felt the tension leave his body aided by Thoroughgood’s unexpected conversation piece and anticipation of a pint of the excellent Lal Toofan beer.

  As he relaxed the veteran DC could see Thoroughgood’s shoulders relax too, for the first time since he had got into the Focus and headed for Glasgow at the beginning of the afternoon.

  Hardie recognised the small dark Indian waiter – and the trademark lunar grin that came with him heading their way but he couldn’t remember his name.

  Thoroughgood had no such problem. “Suleiman my man, how are you?”

  “Mr Thoroughgood. We have not been seeing you for a long while. Where you been hidin’ boss? You left Glasgow because Fistle are so rank rotten?”

  His accent, half Glaswegian and half Indian with some Cockney thrown in, introduced a comic element into almost everything the diminutive and darting-eyed waiter said, especially when he persisted in ending almost every sentence with ‘boss’ in old fashioned deference to Thoroughgood’s professional status. Something, Hardie noted, his mate had not corrected the waiter over.

  “All that from Glasgow’s number one Jags-supporting Indian waiter!”

  “Ah, come on Mr Thoroughgood, that joke of yours on the Diner Tec review, I still hav’nae lived it down. West Ham is the team of ma faithers and it will be that of Suleiman Khan until my last day. Now boss, you want the usual table down in the alcove? I made sure it stayed clear as soon as I got the call yous were comin’.”

  Hardie was even more surprised by Thoroughgood’s response. “Allahu Akbar! That’ll do nicely, Sushi son.”

  “Salam, boss,” replied the waiter in an exchange that Hardie had no interest in deciphering although, judging by the reciprocal grinning between Thoroughgood and Sushi, Thoroughgood’s name shortening had brought an equal amount of illicit mirth.

  By 9pm the two detectives were wading thorough their pakora, with Hardie already anticipating the delights of his customary lamb dopiaza, while the Lal Toofan came thick and fast.

  Hardie’s attempt to create an air of normality around the events of the afternoon had been met with no opposition by Thoroughgood. Leaning back on his chair the portly DC let out a raucous belch before quaffing the last of his third pint of house lager.

  “Aye they make the Lal Toofan that bit flatter than your normal bog standard British lager. Brilliant really! It has a high proportion of rice and maize and not so much of the old barley and hops, you know Gus.”

  Thoroughgood’s eyebrows shot up in mock surprise as he feigned interest.

  Hardie was in full flow. “Bloody smart, our Indian friends you know, coming up with a flat lager that compliments the best dish money can buy. No gas, precious little air fizzing up inside you and cutting down on the space available for dopiaza. Think about that the next time you’re quaffing a Stella, Gus. Brilliant stuff if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t,” was Thoroughgood’s reply as he kept his gaze on the menu while trying to choose his own main course. They were seated in the corner of a dimly lit alcove that was even more understated than the rest of India’s.

  Putting down the menu Thoroughgood finished off his lager and gave a nod to Sushi, who had been dancing attendance on them from the minute they had walked through the doors – just the way Hardie liked it.

  As the small wiry Indian trotted across to take their order, Hardie beat his mate to the punch. “Ah, Suddi, here’s a question for you. What is the English for Lal Toofan?”

  The waiter’s features went blank and he shot a ‘what the hell is this all about’ glance over at Thoroughgood, w
ho merely shrugged his shoulders in mock resignation.

  “Ah dinnae know boss. And it’s Sushi, by the way.”

  Hardie smiled benignly. “I thought so my friend. It means Red Storm and if you don’t mind me saying so that’s something you should know if you want to be boosting your beer sales.”

  Again Sushi shot Thoroughgood a glance but Hardie, in full flow, was clearly warming to his night’s entertainment. “Anyway I’ll have a helping of your excellent . . .”

  This time it was Sushi who interrupted: “Lamb dopiaza, a portion of boiled rice and of course, a garlic Nan.”

  Hardie beamed. “Bang on Suddi, you never forget do you son? And that’s why we keep coming back.” By way of an explanation to Thoroughgood, Hardie added; “The missus is out on a hen night so my breath isn’t going to be an issue – thank feck.”

  “And for you Mr Thoroughgood, still a chicken ginger bhuna and boiled rice?”

  “I’m glad we’ve cleared that all up,” replied Thoroughood, winking at Sushi.

  “Thank you Mr Hardie, we will have it with you in no time.” Now Sushi hovered, with an air of anxiousness that was tangible and totally at odds with his previous jovial presence.

  “Mr Thoroughgood, I wonder if I could have a wee word in your shell-like before you leave tonight. I have some information for you.”

  Hardie’s eyebrows arched involuntarily in surprise at the waiter’s words, and also in anticipation of Thoroughgood’s reply, for at this precise moment the DS had still to indicate whether he would take his warrant card back and return to duty.

  Thoroughgood attempted a side step. “Ah, Sushi, I’ve been off duty for a while now, on leave, and I’m not so sure I’m the officer to be speaking to.”

  Sushi’s right hand fired up to his slick black hair and shot through it in an obvious sign of agitation. “I have something that you and Mr Hardie must hear, boss. It is for no one else’s ears. I will not be wasting your time boss, believe me.”

  Hardie tried to pour oil on troubled waters with a placatory comment: “I tell you what Sushi son, you get myself and the boss here a couple more Lal Toofans pronto and let us have a wee chat about this and we’ll see what we can do. That good enough for you?”

  “Thank you Mr Hardie, I would not be botherin’ yous if it wasnae important boss. But we cannae be speaking in here, can I come around to your flat in Partickhill Road? You hav’nae moved boss?”

  Looking over at Hardie, Thoroughgood nodded in an almost resigned manner.

  “Listen Sushi, I appreciate you are keen to help but I am not going to be in a position to do anything about anything until I have met with my Super. That will probably happen in the next 24 hours or so, so why don’t you give me a couple of days to get back in the saddle and swing by a night next week some time? That do you wee man?”

  Sushi smiled in affirmation and as the waiter headed off Hardie saw his chance to pin Thoroughgood down on his immediate plans for the future.

  “So Gus, are you the officer Sushi should be speaking to? I mean first things first, you still haven’t accepted this . . .” and Hardie slapped Thoroughgood’s warrant card on the table taking care not to soil it on a patch of pakora sauce that had somehow escaped his mouth.

  Thoroughgood stared at his image on the white laminated plastic card as if it was a ghost from the past, something that reminded him of a memory that was too painful to countenance. His right hand stayed wrapped around his lager and his left twitched at the edge of the table cloth. He said nothing.

  Unperturbed, Hardie pushed on. “Listen Gus, the statements we gave this afternoon, that whole incident with Baker and his boys, well you’ve given your designation as DS StrathPol again. We are going to have to see old man Tomachek and rubberstamp all of that.

  “But it looks like …” Hardie stopped for a moment and perused Thoroughgood’s features for confirmation he was not off on another one of his metaphorical wild goose chases, before proceeding. “You are back on the job? Well, I’m no’ sayin’ it is reason enough to take the warrant card back but right now, right here, what else is there for you do? Plus we don’t know what Sushi has cooking up for us, pardon the pun; it could be tasty, eh?” Hardie quickly supplied one of his trademark winks to underline his point.

  Thoroughgood’s features remained blank, still unimpressed with the prospect of returning to his former life.

  Hardie finished the dregs of his pint and ploughed on. “Look, I said I would bell Tomachek after we finish here and let him know if you are willing to come back on board. If it’s yes, the old man wants you and me in his office at 10am Monday morning.”

  Thoroughgood leaned back on his chair, clasping his hands together and placing them on the back of his head, his face expressionless but irritation soon evident in his voice.

  “Fuck me, nothing ever changes does it? How long you been waiting to spring that on me?”

  Knocked off balance by his mate’s response, Hardie tried a new angle. “Come on Gus, you said to Sushi yourself, two minutes back, you were going to speak to Tomachek. But hey Gus, if your bottle has crashed that bad you’re only gonnae come back into the job so you can find a way out, like you tried with friend Felix, you can forget it. It’s up to you but for fuck’s sake say something man.”

  The volume of Hardie’s voice had risen to such a level that there was a clatter of cutlery from the table five feet to their left. A fifty-something female with a blonde beehive, who had attracted a lingering glance from the wolfish Hardie earlier, had been given such a fright by the detective’s increased decibels her fork had jolted out of her hand and hit the tiled floor.

  At that point Sushi arrived with two further pints of Lal Toofan but with the temperature around the table rising, the waiter was smart enough to lay the beers down and leave in silence.

  “I don’t know what happened to me back there with Baker but it was like ‘what is the point anymore?’ But maybe I frightened myself, and I guess you’re right faither, if I don’t go back to the job what else is there? You would have been as well letting Baker split me.”

  Thoroughgood’s left hand reached out and picked up the warrant card. He lifted it and looked at the image of the young Detective Constable he had once been.

  “I reckon I’ll need a new picture for this because no one is going to believe it is one and the same person, eh faither?”

  Hardie smiled and raised his pint pot. “A toast then, to the return of DS Gus Thoroughgood!”

  “I guess so,” said Thoroughgood, but although he smiled Hardie could see his eyes were brimming with sadness.

  6

  SUNDAY MORNING dawned grey and wet. Thoroughgood lay in his bed and listened to the rain explode off his window as the realisation that he was home alone for the first time in months, empty and aching all over again, ricocheted around inside his head.

  He stared at the bedroom ceiling, fighting the overriding inclination to retreat into the past and fix his mind on her features – her smell, her voice and those delicious brown eyes – and felt moisture dampen his own yet again.

  The rage broke its internal dam and he screamed out, “For fuck’s sake not again! C’mon on son let’s be positive, get out your scratcher and get some brekkie, the morning papers. Bloody hell you pathetic excuse for a man! Who were Thistle playin’ this weekend?”

  The thought drew a wan smile over his emotionally derelict features and he stumbled into the kitchen on auto pilot, sticking on Radio Two: but Steve Wright’s ‘Love Songs’ was far from music to his ears and he switched the radio off, instead seeking some comfort from the familiar surroundings of his kitchen.

  There was none.

  This was it then; a day full of . . . what? No meaning, no point, no nothing.‘Aye, Hardie was right, if you don’t go and see the old man tomorrow what the feck else is there to do?’demanded the voice.

  Ten minutes later Thoroughgood sank into his favourite armchair, steaming mug of coffee in one hand, slice of toast in the other, his
glazed expression bouncing off the walls of his lounge.

  ‘Music, maestro. For pity’s sake, Gus,’ said the voice, and he stumbled over to his CD player and pressed the open button. It jammed.

  The CD player’s refusal to open was the final straw and he smashed his hand off it, wincing at the gash it opened in his knuckle. The tears started to flow once more.

  “Jesus H Christ!” He raged at the ceiling and left the room, curtains still drawn, wreathed in darkness.

  The sound of a voice continued to penetrate the engulfing silence where before only the rain beating off his windows had. Thoroughgood realised he had been talking to himself for some time now.

  “I’ve lost it then,” he said aloud in self-mockery. Retreating into his bedroom he looked for his old kit bag, the one he had taken up to Meechan’s that night, the last time he had seen Celine alive.

  He placed his hand inside and sought the only thing that could bring him the solace he yearned for above all else. At last his fingers clasped it and he pulled his grandfather’s revolver out of the bag.

  Returning to the lounge he saw that the CD player had opened and he shook his head in cynical amusement.

  ‘Alright son, let’s go out with a bang then. So what is your Desert Island disc gonna be?” asked the voice.

  He rifled through the CD tower fingering all of his old heavy metal favourites. A faint smile crept over his features as fleeting memories associated with individual discs came back to him.Finally he was left with two. A toss up between AC/DC’s If You Want Blood ‒ the first metal album he’d ever heard ‒ or the one that hooked him on Queensrÿche: Hear In The Now Frontier. He opted for the latter, the intelligence of Geoff Tate’s lyric and the scything power chords of Michael Wilton and Chris de Garmo’s guitars clinching it.

  As the album opened with Sign of the Times Thoroughgood looked down through the track list and chose exactly what his musical accompaniment would be when he decided the moment was right to join her.