by RJ Mitchell
“Ah, You, perfect music to die to.”
He placed the empty CD sleeve on one arm of his favourite Chesterfield and his grandfather’s service revolver on the other and ambled over to the chiffonier cabinet where he saw to his relief that there was still a decent quantity of Lagavulin in the bottle.
Thoroughgood poured a generous glass and returned to the armchair enveloped in the semi-light piercing through his lounge curtains. He fired up the volume via the remote control.
Scanning the sleeve he saw that track two was now playing. “Five to go Gussy boy, better swallow a large one,” said his voice out loud again.
He did so and shut his eyes, slouching back in the chair. The third track struck up; ‘Get a life’. How ironic, and he smiled, raised the glass in mock salute and then to his lips once more.
His mind jolted back and forward, faces came and went. Meechan’s spitting hate at him; Celine’s imploring him; Hardie cajoling him.
He started to imagine how it would all have ended up if she was still here and he’d managed to take Meechan out.
Would they have been able to bring up Meechan’s bastard? Could he have swallowed the happy families scenario or had Celine been right when she’d said he was too eaten up with hate and bitterness?
Track four — The Voice Inside — started up with De Garmo’s slide guitar and Tate asking; “Do you know the people fighting for your head?”
‘What a fuckin’ requiem,’ said the voice. He shook his head. Once again his choice of funeral music had been perfect. Only three more songs until the big bang.
He picked up the revolver and held it in his hand, looking down at the barrel and chamber and wondering just what he would feel when it spat lead into his head. How often had his grandfather used it? Questions, questions and more questions.
He returned to the chiffonier and pulled out the black and white photo album that recorded his grandfather’s life and times with the RAF in the Second World War and leafed through them. Track five, Some People Might Fly, filled the room. Thoroughgood marvelled again at the perfection of his final musical accompaniment as it fitted perfectly once more with his thoughts.
Again the questions:What would he have thought? Was the old man looking down right now?
‘You are letting him down, letting Celine down, letting yourself down. But so what?’
The guitar began track six — Saved — and Thoroughgood had had enough. Something snapped inside.
“No fuckin’ way are you getting off with this Meechan. Some day, some place, some time I will catch up with you.”
Standing up, he raised his glass in the air. “I promise you’re mine, Meechan.” He took a final swig of malt and kissed the barrel of the revolver.
He placed the handgun on the armchair and strode over to the curtains, ripping them open and wincing as the daylight flooded in.
Staring out of the window the salt from his tears provided an odd contrast to the peatiness of the Lagavulin.
The phone rang. He turned round and stared at it like it was an object just landed from outer space. “Fuck it,” he said and lifted the receiver.
“That you Gus? It’s Dr Meths here.”
His mind was slow to register but eventually recognition dawned. Doctor Graeme Goode, his old Uni mate.
“My dear doctor, how can I help you?”
“I heard you were back from your stay up the road and wondered if you fancied letting your old mate give you a thrashing on the squash court?”
Before he could get a word in Goode was off and running in his usual machine gun delivery style.
“Listen to your doctor, Thoroughgood. Exercise and endorphins are just what you need! Why don’t you pick me up at the hospital, say 4 pm and I’ll have you tickled up, off the court and in the Rock by half-five? A spanking on your home courts at Western squash club? You ready to take your medicine mon ami?”
“Do I have much choice Dr Meths?”
“You know the answer to that one. All the best, and don’t be eyeing up any of my bloody nurses on the way in.” With that parting shot the good doctor was off.
7
FIVE HOURS later Thoroughgood entered the city’s Western Hospital to meet the ‘Goode’ doctor, wondering if he would wind up back there after they had done battle on the courts.
As he walked into the hospital he found his mind returning to Saturday afternoons in the late eighties during their time at Glasgow Uni. It was then that Meths had insisted on introducing him to the delights of the game. Those Saturday sessions had turned into peculiar episodes of teenage masochism. Hangovers on either side of the court were habitually so bad that bouts of prolonged nausea were apt to break out and interrupt their contests.
Thoroughgood smiled as he recalled how Dr Meths had been dubbed with his nickname during his studies as a fresh-faced medical student. That had been after a legendary drinking session involving a bottle of bourbon and an attempted moonlit walk over the roof of Dalrymple Halls of Residence.
‘Aye, happy days,’ he thought.
But Thoroughgood’s nostalgic reverie was abruptly ended by the sound of raised voices and the pleadings of an increasingly frantic female coming from A&E reception.
Before he turned the corner into the main waiting room the DS halted, trying to pick up what he could from the pandemonium he was about to walk into.
“Listen ya fucking cow, when is ma wean gonnae get seen? That’s three hours you’ve kept us pissing about for and she’s naw well. I want something done aboot it right fuckin’ now,” snarled a male voice.
“Look sir, if you’ll just be patient you will be seen. Your child is next and we are aware of your wait but it’s always busy at this time in A&E. We’re doing our best. If you’d just take a seat we’ll . . .”
The nurse’s voice was silenced, the abrasive tones of her patient cutting in.
“Listen, ya cow, I’ve fucking had it. Me and the bird are needing oor methadone scripts and the wee yin needs to get seen. So fuck anymore of your waitin’! You see this, ya bitch?”, the male produced a syringe from his pocket, “Well, it’s one I used just the day and guess whit … I’m fuckin Hep C and AIDS. Come here ya bitch, and tell me where I can get some gear.’
“We’re naw going cauld turkey jist because some lazy cow cannae do her fuckin’ job. Where’s the fuckin’ medicine chest cos you’re gonnae open it for us and we’re oot o’ here.”
Thoroughgood took stock before turning the corner. The ned would know the instant he appeared that he was CID so a bluff was not an option. If the junkie was needing his smack, or the methadone substitute supposed to wean him off it, his judgement was sure to be non-existent, the desperation of his craving dominating every thought process. Where the fuck was the security guard who should have been patrolling the casualty area?
“Typical – pay these guys peanuts and what do you expect?” muttered Thoroughgood. Rummaging through his pocket the detective found one of the empty cellophane evidence bags he always carried as a matter of course. Opposite him was the room used as a tea area by the porters, on the table was a silver bowl with fine brown sugar in it. The DS filled the transparent bag and twisted the ends into a neat knot.
‘Believable score bag?’ wondered Thoroughgood, turning the corner. What a mess. Half a dozen petrified civvies, including an obviously stoned female in her early twenties with a howling little girl in a pushchair in front of her.
On his right was the ned with the syringe in his hand which was wrapped around the nurse’s neck. Two feet away was a doctor who looked fresh out of medical school, his face radiating fear.
“Listen son, it isn’t worth all that for a score bag. Especially when I can help you out nice and easy,” said Thoroughgood calmly.
The desperation in the nurse’s features, a dark goddess the DS couldn’t help noting, was obvious as she begged, “Help me!”
“Will you shut the fuck up you stupid slut? Now what you talking about rozzer? You get me something and she’
s as good as gold. Don’t fuck with me or I plunge the bitch!”
“That isn’t going to help the wee one is it? Look, here’s a bag I took off a boy up in Royston Hill the other day. It’s yours if you let the nurse go and then we get your kid seen to and everyone is happy,” said the DS.
The junkie was on a knife edge. The DS could see in his sunken eyes that reason was a distant memory. Supply might be what he was demanding but that was not what was going to bring an end to the situation.
A coffee table, six feet to the thug’s right, and half that to Thoroughgood’s left, offered some middle ground for negotiation. The DS tossed the cellophane bag onto the table. “It’s your call son, there you go, just what the doctor ordered.”
The junkie eyed the table for a second, opening a mouth that was missing most of its molars and barked at his vacant female. That was just the moment Thoroughgood needed.
The police issue ASP baton inside his jacket came out in one movement, clicking to its full length immediately, and the DS brought it down with an overhand motion as he closed the gap between the two.
“Shona, gonnae …” the words died in the junkie’s throat as the baton smashed into the side of his head and onto his right shoulder, the syringe dropped to the deck and the young nurse sprang free.
Down on his knees, but not out, the thug attempted to grab his blood-stained syringe and ram it into Thoroughgood’s advancing legs.
Thoroughgood, whose gaze had been magnetically drawn to the nurse, caught the movement from the corner of his eye. Bringing the baton back up in a diagonal sweep to the left, as he had been taught in all those mind numbingly boring hours spent in Officer Safety Training, Thoroughgood smashed the weapon off the underside of his attacker’s jaw. The junkie hit the floor cold.
“You’re under arrest pal, and I’ll thank you to keep your thievin’ hands off my brown sugar,” pronounced Thoroughgood.
He snapped the cuffs onto the ned’s wrists which he had placed in the small of his back, the prone figure now inert on the floor.
Over at the reception window the young nurse shook uncontrollably.
Thoroughgood’s hearing was assailed by the continued howling of the junkie’s little girl who was being comforted by her mother in between mouthfuls of abuse spat at her unconscious boyfriend, but his attention remained on the nurse and he liked what he saw.
The dark hair that swept out from just under her hat had a sheen to it that immediately grabbed your attention. Yet it was the opal flecks in her eyes, sparkling like small shards of the precious stone that hit Thoroughgood right between his eyes.
He approached the nurse cautiously. “You okay? I don’t s’pose you sign up for that kind of thing when you join a caring profession like nursing. Is there anything I can get you?” He asked and offered her a handkerchief, the voice in his head already chastising him for his wooden line.
“Thank you,” she managed between sobs and tried to find some humour in the bleakness of the situation, “I guess it’s all in a day’s work.”
Inadvertently Thoroughgood’s right hand reached out and touched her on the shoulder in a spontaneous gesture of compassion. “Maybe, but I bet you don’t get any danger money for it.”
She managed a smile. “Thank you again Officer, I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come along, do you have a name?”
Thoroughgood was slow to reply, his mind taking in the lithe shape of her body which the navy nursing uniform thankfully failed to hide, “Sure, it’s Gus. Yours?”
“Aisha,” she replied and held out her hand.
Thoroughgood reached out and took it in his grip, his hand lingering for maybe a second or so too long as he realised this was the first time he had engaged with another female, spoken to another female, since Celine.
Maybe the sadness in his eyes shone out but almost immediately he withdrew his hand guiltily with an abruptness that drew a questioning look from her.
He attempted a smile to salvage the situation, then said, “Well, I better get back to my friend over there before he comes to and kicks off again. But it was nice to meet you Aisha, just a pity about the circumstances.”
‘Feck me!’ said the voice in his head, ‘What’s this? Speed dating?’
Again she smiled and then, as she dabbed at her eyes with the Partick Thistle monographed hankerchief he had given her, the action prompted the nurse into speech, “Oh, what about this, detective?”
“Don’t worry about it Aisha, keep it as a memento of our meeting.” This time they both laughed and with a weak smile he turned and headed back over to the prone figure of the ned.
Thoroughgood sat down on one of the plastic moulded chairs and placed his feet on the junkie’s back.
He shot a glance at the girlfriend and then at their frightened wee girl, cowering in the corner waiting for the inevitable. Sometimes life just wasn’t fair, he thought. What chance did the little girl have? She would be with social services within a couple of hours but what about the long term damage of her silent witness to all the drug abuse of her parents?
He soon concluded it wasn’t his problem. Cold-hearted it may have been but as a young cop working in the city’s old ‘D’ Division – known to everyone in Strathclyde Police as the North – Thoroughgood had learned his lesson early about not getting personally involved in his work. Detachment was the golden rule and one he had tried – not always successfully, he admitted to himself – to keep.
A voice perforated his reflections. “Need any help, detective?” asked the security guard, who, resplendent in full stabproof vest, had just returned from his teabreak.
“Cheers mate, but I think I’ve taken care of this one,” replied Thoroughgood, with a wink, his feet still resting on the ned’s back.
Minutes later the sound of a siren preceded the arrival of the nearest area Panda, and its two uniformed cops. Thoroughood handed over his ‘body’ and told them he’d stick his statement through internal, marked for London Road Police Office, for the next day.
He felt a tap on his shoulder, “All right, Gus old mate, you just can’t help it, you bugger!” joked Dr Graeme Goode. “You coppers are all the same, nothing better to do with your time. Aye well, they say there are only two certainties in life; a nurse and death!”
“Coming from you, my dear Dr Meths, that is priceless,” replied Thoroughgood.
The Doctor winked: “Maybe I was wrong about the two certainties Gus, cos you’ll be bloody lucky to get a game off me tonight, plod!”
They shook hands and headed for the exit as Thoroughgood took stock of the Female and Child Unit officers surrounding the junkie mother and her little girl, at the same time nursing a feeling that he was also under observation.
Turning to his left he looked back over at the reception window and there behind it was Aisha. She smiled and offered him a wave goodbye and he winced inwardly as he realised he hoped that would not be the last time he saw her smile.
8
TOMACHEK SMACKED the head of his pipe down on his desk and knocked the charred remnants of the tobacco into his bin, added fresh Condor, lit up, then reclined back into his chair and took a massive inhalation before releasing the smoke into his office.
His shrewd eyes scrutinised Thoroughgood intently; the Detective Superintendent managing to hide his shock at the change in his prodigy’s appearance. The hollowness of his cheeks, the sunken nature of his eyes and the flecks of grey evident in what had previously been a head of pure jet black hair.
Tomachek couldn’t help his gaze sliding over to Hardie, sitting next to Thoroughgood, both on the opposite side of his imposing mahogany desk. Hardie shifted uncomfortably. This was the moment he had dreaded, the moment of truth, and the bottom line was he still didn’t know which way Thoroughgood would go; the fleeting glance between Tomachek and the veteran DC confirming that they were equally uncertain of how the unfolding conversation would pan out.
Tomachek’s gaze returned to Thoroughgood and at last he rem
oved the pipe from his mouth. “How are you Gus? How are you really, son? No bullshit, just tell it like it is.”
Thoroughgood shocked both his colleagues by producing a smile that was the last thing either Hardie or Tomachek had expected.
“Actually I can hardly fuckin’ walk!”
“Pardon?” Was the best Tomachek could manage.
“Best of three falls with a crazed junkie at the Western A&E, then five sets on a squash court with a sadistic doctor make for a helluva welcome back to Glasgow.”
Tomachek’s discomfort continued with the unexpected nature of his subordinate’s conversation. Hardie cleared his throat, uncomfortably aware that he had fed the ‘old man’ a lot of positives about how he was confident Thoroughgood wanted to get back on the job, equally conscious that the DS was not producing the goods in that respect.
Thoroughgood, aware that his initial reply had put both his colleagues off balance continued. “What the pair of you really want to know is am I likely to be topping myself anytime soon? The answer to that one is no.” He couldn’t help a sardonic smile as he thought back to the previous morning and his Desert Island disc moment.
“Ok, I’ve been better, but I’m gonna live. But I realise now I need this job more than ever if I am going to come through this whole thing. So if you don’t mind boss, I’ve been through the whole post mortem thing with the shrinks up at Castlebrae.”
Shooting Hardie a sideways glance, he added, “And with Strathclyde police’s answer to Sigmund bloody Freud. Now I just want to get back on the job, get busy and put the whole Meechan thing behind me.”
Tomachek’s pipe had found its way back into his mouth and the Detective Super was chewing furiously on the mouthpiece, hanging on to Thoroughgood’s every word. At last he removed it and pointed the walnut stem at the DS.
“But that is just it my dear boy, are you ready to get back into the thick of it?” Before Thoroughgood could answer his superior’s question Tomachek was off and running.
“Look, I know you have had a helluva weekend back, what with the Felix Baker business and then that episode at the bloody Western yesterday. Balls and buggery Thoroughgood, the plain truth is that wherever the feck you go trouble seems to be waiting there to kick you in the goolies. By the way Hardie, you can thank your lucky stars that Felix the cat burglar has not used up his nine lives and will live to tan another day! But blow me, Thoroughgood, how much of that, after what you’ve been through, can a man take?”
