by Tony Black
‘You’re a student, then.’
‘Sorta — it’s art school.’
It sounded just the thing for Amy, put her excess energy to use. ‘Art, wow… you look so focused now.’
A laugh. ‘Changed days, eh?’
‘No, I didn’t mean… I wasn’t trying to have a go.’
She reached over, touched my arm. ‘Gus, I know. I’m only messing.’
‘Sorry.’
‘So, coffee then?’
I hesitated, then thought, why not? I had little else in my life. ‘Okay. Great.’
She rummaged in a huge bag and produced what looked to be a complicated phone, said, ‘Can I beam you?’
‘Come again?’
‘Have you got Bluetooth?’
‘God no! I’ve a pen.’
She rolled up her sleeve. ‘Write your number on there.’
As I wrote I felt suddenly self-conscious, like I was being watched. I shook it off, thought it was probably just nothing but when I raised my head I got a definite eyeball from a man in the street.
He was short, heavy in the build, a cube of a man carrying a three-day growth. As I caught his eye he took a newspaper out of his back pocket and started to read, leaning up against a lamp post, far too casually I thought.
‘Friend of yours?’ I asked Amy.
‘No. Never seen him before. You okay for about five?’
‘I’m good for five,’ I said dipping into Friends speak. I blushed, then said, ‘Er, five o’clock’s fine.’
‘Great. I’ll text you to make sure, but will we say in there?’ She pointed to a Starbucks, one of about fifty that seemed to have sprung up in Edinburgh in the last year or so.
‘Christ, do we have to?’
‘They do good coffee. You’ve not gone all health-nutty in your old age, have you?’
‘That’ll be right — Starbucks it is, then.’
She leant over and gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘It’s really good to see you again, Gus. It’ll be good to talk — you know, clear the air as it were.’ She turned quickly and gave a childish little wave as she went.
When I looked around the man with the newspaper had gone.
10
I crossed the road at the lights and jumped on a number 11, heading down to Leith. The bus driver looked like a time-warped old Teddy boy with his greasy quiff and a swallow tattooed on his neck. His watch strap had studs in it like a pit bull’s collar. Even though it felt about four below he was in shirt sleeves, and sweated like a pig on speed. Two big purple pools under his arms and a skitter down his back that looked like it’d just been shat out of his duck’s arse. Public transport — no wonder the roads are clogged with cars.
A group of young yobs made a racket on the back seat, cursing strong enough to shame navvies. I gave them a stare. In my younger days an adult gave out a stare on a bus, you shat bricks. To this lot it was incitement.
A hail of little rolled-up newspaper pellets started to make their way in my direction. I turned round and saw old women, too scared to look, sat between us. I felt sorry for them, the old women, but more so the yobs.
I checked round the bus for interfering types. Only one college day-releaser. None likely to hold me back. I stood up and approached the funny boys. A few giggles started up, then their eyes trained on the windows.
I planted my foot on the seat of the ring leader, a pencil-neck with a bleached-in badger stripe circling his barnet, said, ‘See that?’
He smirked out the side of his mouth. ‘Aye, it’s a foot — you’ve another one there, look.’
A peal of laughter burst out from his little crowd of admirers. I cut it short. Grabbed the yob by the ear, forced him to re-examine his response. ‘Take a closer look.’ I pushed his head onto my toe. ‘That boot’s coming between you and your first ride if I hear another crack out of you, geddit?’
He whimpered, but said nothing. So I twisted his ear tighter than a wing nut.
‘Ah, right, right. Sorry mister. Sorry n’all that, eh!’
Kids today. No respect. On my way back to my seat I smiled at one of the old women, said, ‘I blame the parents.’
Got nods all round.
The rest of the journey passed in silence. I felt glad to have the time to gather my thoughts. Mac wasn’t my only source in this town; I still had a few favours due. And some open to persuasion by other means.
As I jumped off the bus a Rasta played Bob Marley. The travelling public weren’t impressed. Too early to be jammin’ — and his voice sounded like a Wookie being molested.
I walked down the maze of bustling streets at this end of the city to a little greasy-spoon cafe I knew. It served up killer bacon and egg rolls, smothered in onions, dripping with brown sauce. If you talked nicely to the old girl behind the counter she’d even trim the fat off the rashers.
I ordered up a bellyful. One roll, heavy on the onions. Coffee, mug of, very sweet. And a pack of Rothmans, for afters.
I took the Sun down from the rack. It looked to be full of nothing but celebrity gossip. Half the pictures, I didn’t even know the people. There was a time when to be in the paper meant something. You’d done something or had a talent. Now, fame — everyone’s at it. You shag a footballer, tug-off a pig, and suddenly the world’s hanging on your every breath. Riches and the whole nine yards to follow.
The waitress came over with my roll. She was near to retirement and world weary. Must have discovered blow-drying at some time in the eighties — her hairstyle wouldn’t have looked out of place on the pages of Smash Hits. She said, ‘It’s all a bloody joke, isn’t it?’
I started to agree, thought she was talking generally, and then she tapped the pages of the Sun. The picture showed Bob Geldof addressing a group of politicians, and, of course, some celebrity un-worthies. He was on the tap for more cash for the developing world.
‘I wonder how many African babies that suit would have immunised?’ said the waitress.
I nodded, tried to appear interested.
She fumed on. ‘I don’t see the likes of him using our lousy health service or hanging out for a pittance of a pension.’
I felt like I’d been trapped in the back of a taxi, listening to some cabbie’s bigoted nonsense. I looked down at my roll. God, I felt hungry.
‘It’s a disgrace.’ She added, ‘Bono — he’s another one. If they’re so bothered about saving the world why don’t they give their money away and come and live like the rest of us!’
‘That would be a bit of a soberer for them,’ I said.
She smiled at me. I saw I’d done enough to humour her.
‘You better eat up, love, that roll will be going cold.’
As she turned away I flattened the newspaper, wiped the base of my cup on its cover. I raised my roll to take a bite, saw the rashers cold and grey within; then in walked plod.
He was bang on cue. ‘Morning, Officer,’ I said.
‘Dury. By the cringe.’ Fitz the Crime’s eyes lit up like polished hubcaps.
‘Can I buy you a pot of the usual?’ I said.
He nodded, sat down, said, ‘What you after?’
‘Oh, and real nice to see you too, Fitz.’
He leant forward, went, ‘Don’t bollocks me, Dury.’
I stood up, called out, ‘A pot of your finest, love.’
I felt a hand pull me back into my seat. I knew Fitz felt anxious, but he’d no need to be. Fitz and myself, we go way back.
‘Jesus, what’s with the animosity? I thought I was in your good books, after — y’know.’
Fitz squirmed, unbuttoned his overcoat, said, ‘Look, Dury, that business is over with.’
He referred to the time I kept his name out the headlines. The filth may be prepared to turn a blind eye to one of its officer’s peccadilloes, but they do tend to draw the line at it appearing in print for all the world to see. Examples have been known to be made in such cases. Fitz, however, merely lost his DI badge. Busted back to buck private as the Americans say.<
br />
‘One good turn deserves another, wouldn’t you agree?’ I said.
‘Piss off.’
‘Now, now, Fitz, you never did pay me back.’
‘Aye, and now you’ve nothing on me, Dury, and you’re all washed up.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Aye, it is. Who would take the likes of you seriously?’
He sat back. A contented, smug grin crept up the side of his face. He looked like a lizard after its tongue has snapped an insect. I felt drawn to reaching across the table and smacking seven bells out of him. For years Fitz had been what is commonly called ‘crooked as two left feet’, and he knew it as well.
‘Isn’t that a risky strategy, Fitz?’
Cogs turned behind his eyes. I imagined a gerbil on a plastic wheel inside that great fat head of his. Who was he kidding? The only weight he brought to this table sat round his waist.
‘Risky, you say?’
‘Oh, I’d say very risky. Have you ever watched The Blues Brothers?’
‘ You what?’
‘ The Blues Brothers — you know, Belushi and the other one.’
Fitz looked lost. Truly stupefied. I waited for a drool to start from the corner of his mouth.
‘Anyway, in the movie they have this saying, “We’re on a mission from God”. Do you remember?’
He shook his head. He had the face of a saint… Bernard.
‘No. Oh well, they did. It’s what they said. But do you know what they were really saying? Deep down, what they were really trying to say with that statement, Fitz?’
I swear his mouth widened.
‘What they were saying was — Don’t fuck with us!.. Fitz, let me tell you something — I am on a mission from God.’
‘Fucking hell, you’ve cracked. You’ve finally cracked, Dury!’ he roared.
The tea came, the waitress gently placed it on the table before us. Fitz rose to his feet.
‘Shall, I be mother?’ I said.
He put on his hat, hurriedly fastened up his overcoat.
‘Fitz, I’m gonna be in touch soon. Real soon, about that favour.’
11
A crusty-looking geezer with a suitcase stopped me in the street.
‘Wanna buy the latest U2?’ he said.
I didn’t want to buy the first. They’ve had one good album, maybe two, tops, said, ‘Why would I?’
‘Oasis?’ he said.
‘I still have Revolver, what’s wrong with the real McCoy?’
He stood in front of me, held out his arms, tried not to let me past.
I stopped flat, said, ‘That’s a sure-fire way to get yourself hurt.’
He stepped aside. ‘Okay, okay, I can tell you know your music — name it, I’ve probably got it, or can get it. Just name it!’
‘Frenzal Rhomb.’
‘What?’
‘Australian punk outfit. Have you got Sans Souci? That’s their best.’
I started singing from my favourite track, ‘Russell Crowe’s Band’.
He left, tapping the side of his head.
Back on the bus, my phone went, said, ‘Amy?’
‘Who’s Amy?’
Turned out to be Col.
‘Sorry. I thought you were someone else.’
‘Obviously. I was calling to see how you were moving, but I see you’ve got your mind on other things.’
‘No, Col. Shit no. I was just…’
‘Distracted?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Well don’t be, Gus. Get your mind on the job I’m paying you for.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Did you speak to the tart?’
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘Like you said it.’
‘But did she give you anything.’
‘Hell no, no way. Col, I’m working here, what do you take me for?’
‘I meant, information.’
‘Oh, right. No, nothing really. Look, I’ve put out some feelers.’
‘Any leads?’
‘Leads? Christ, I’m not Eddie bloody Shoestring!’
‘Okay. It’s just, well, his mother — her heart is broken.’
I felt an almighty pang of guilt. It appeared there for no reason, I’d been doing my best. I knew there were words I should be searching for to comfort Col, but my mind flipped.
‘There’s no point thinking like that,’ I said.
‘I just wish you had something to go on, you know, so I could say to her — Gus’s found this out, or what have you. Do you understand?’
‘I do. As soon as I have any news I’ll let you know.’
‘Okay, son. We’re all praying for you, you know that, don’t you?’
‘I do.’
‘Good. Good. Well, I’ll say goodbye then. God bless.’
I stopped in at the 7-Eleven on the way back to Fallingdoon House. Got stocked for a night in: six-pack of Murphy’s (Guinness sold out), half of Grouse and a full bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label.
I concealed the lot under my jacket on the way past Stalin. I’d got as far as my door when he shouted, ‘Tomorrow’s Monday.’
‘Yeah, and…?’
‘You’re not paid to be here by Tuesday.’
I shot him a glower, said, ‘Tell me tomorrow.’
Inside I pulled the plug.
I shotgunned three cans in no time, then quickly necked half another, topped it up with the scoosh and gulped deep. I felt the hit coming on right away. I remembered reading one of Hemingway’s books, the characters drank a few beers quickly and felt them go to their heads immediately. I hadn’t felt that way for a long time. But to get lashed good and proper, definitely don’t hang about.
I cracked the last can when the door went.
It was Milo. ‘Howya.’
He had his head bowed, when he looked up I saw he carried a massive shiner. Bruno got off lighter from Tyson. I felt furious, immediately gripped with rage.
‘What happened?’
‘Arrah, it’s nothing.’
‘Milo, it’s more than nothing. Have you had it seen to?’ The eye bulged to the size of an egg, angry blood vessels had burst inside.
‘Go way outta that, it’s just a scratch.’
‘What happened?’
‘I… er… well it’s embarrassing, really. I walked into a door.’
I don’t know whether the drink or my instinctive trust of him let me believe this, but I bought it straight away. I watched him shuffle into my room and slowly lower himself down in a chair.
‘Have ye tea yet?’
‘Eh, no. Sorry, it’s on my list. I’ve had a bit of a full day.’
‘No matter. You have the telly, mine is still broke, can I watch with you?’
‘Sure you can. Go ahead.’
River City polluted the airwaves.
‘Bloody shite,’ said Milo. ‘Can’t watch this, can you?’
‘Never have.’
Milo flicked, settled on a doco, something about the Beats. Some dated footage showed Jack Kerouac reading from On the Road. He looked old and wasted. Alcohol oozed from his every pore.
Like most of my generation I’d read his books, once or twice, some more than that. There was a time when the whole Beat thing meant something to me. I swore it spoke to me, but not now.
I couldn’t quite pin it down but somewhere in the last few years I’d lost all sense of idealism. The thought of cruising across the States with a bunch of dropouts seemed nothing more than a trip to me now. Not worth bothering about. And, no shit, I didn’t have the energy.
After the doco, Milo muttered, ‘You know, I’ve a notion to go and read that book.’
‘I wouldn’t bother.’
‘You’ve read it then, On the Road.’
‘I could tell you more about it than they’re letting on. For starters, he didn’t write it in three weeks flat the way they tell it. Oh no, there was about ten years’ worth of rewrites before it made its way into print. But they like to keep qu
iet about that.’
‘Ah, it removes some of the mystery the way you tell it.’
‘No mystery, just plain old hype — gotta keep those tills ringing.’
‘My, you’re a cynic, Gus Dury. It’s a cynic ye are.’
‘I won’t deny it.’
I broke the seal on the Johnnie Walker. ‘Can I tempt you?’
‘My stomach would never take it. ’Tis a terrible affliction I have these latter years.’
I thought, ‘That’s all the more for me then.’
‘Sure I can’t tempt you with even a small one — could water it down.’
‘No thanks. I’m sure you’ll manage fine on your own. Gus, do you mind me asking — how do you know all this stuff, are ye an educated man?’
‘God, no. I just know books. I’m a reader for my sins. Since I was a boy, I’ve been bookish and solitary, scared the hell out of my father so it did.’
‘Ah, ’tis the best time to start. I used to be a terror for the books m’self, until the old eyes went. Sure isn’t the only education of any worth one that’s burned in by lantern light!’
I nodded. ‘I’ve always been a reader.’
Milo dropped his voice. ‘And… have you always been a drinker?’
I didn’t mind the question. After a few scoops I would talk the leg off an iron pot. And it mattered not an iota what I talked about.
‘Can’t say always, though maybe it was there at the back of me waiting to surface.’
‘Most times there’s a reason for it.’
‘I’ve a million of those.’
Milo laughed. ‘Jaysus, Gus, you’re a rare character. Quite a combination, the reader and the drinker.’
‘Just your average saloon bar Socrates.’
‘Oh, you’re above that.’ He stood up slowly and let out a little laugh. ‘We’ll have to talk more another night.’
‘If you like,’ I said.
Milo tried to straighten himself but remained hunched over. ‘Well, I’m obliged to you for letting me watch your television. ’Tis grand to have a bit of company of an evening as well.’
I took him to the door, saw him safely into his room. I swore sleep was already upon him, it scalded my heart to see his exhaustion.
I felt far from tired myself; my mind raced. There was a lot of stuff spinning about in there. The talk of childhood topped the bill. I’ve nothing but a pile of desperate memories left over from this time, which in darker moments will haunt me. It’s always the way of it. The darker things look, the more I remember.
