Loss gd-3

by Tony Black

  She looked into me, sucked in her lips, and turned away. I thought she might cry.

  ‘Debs?’

  A hand went up to my mouth. ‘Don’t, Gus… Don’t ask me that. It’s not fair.’

  I didn’t know what she meant. ‘What?… I mean, why?’

  She stepped back from me. She tied a knot in the top of the carrier bag, tugged it tight, spoke firmly: ‘I know you won’t stop, I know you’ll go on and on until you get an answer and I know I’ve no right to get in the way of that, but I can’t watch you do this to yourself any more… I just can’t.’

  I put my hand out, touched her fingers. ‘Debs, come home.’

  She jerked away from me. ‘No, Gus… Do you know what it’s like for me? I sit here and I wonder if there’s going to be a call or a knock at the door telling me you’ve went the same way as Michael…’ I put my arms round her, she pushed me away. ‘No. I won’t do it… I won’t wait for you to be killed, Gus.’

  Debs elbowed her way past me, made for the door.

  I called after her, ‘Debs… Debs…’ I darted into the hall; she was opening the door. I slammed the heel of my hand on it.

  ‘Gus, let me go.’

  ‘Debs, please…’

  She pulled at the handle. ‘Let me go.’

  ‘Debs…’

  The door edged open an inch. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Debs…’

  She struggled with the handle, hauled back. Tears fell from her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Debs… I’m sorry.’

  I stepped away.

  As the door slammed, I pressed my back to it. The wood was cold against my T-shirt. I slumped all the way to the floor. A chill draught blew just above the carpet as I curled over and held my head in my hands.

  Chapter 36

  I lay hunched up on the floor until the draught from the stair started to freeze my spine. I knew I had to go on, hauled myself to my feet; but I knew also Debs wouldn’t be coming back. I’d hurt her again, perhaps more than I ever had. Her face had tensed at the thought of my grief and I knew she felt deeply for me, but she couldn’t help me. That was her revelation — Debs had sensed there was nothing she could do for me, because there was nothing I could do for myself. I had brought my demons to the relationship once more, and they had defeated us both.

  I took the quarter-bottle of Grouse from my Crombie and walked through to the living room. I sat down and unscrewed the cap, placed the bottle in front of me. I smelled the whisky working its way to my nostrils; the mere scent of it triggered a sensation in my brain. I felt the wonder of it putting my thoughts to sleep already. I smiled, laughed. One sip and I’d have a legion of help to beat back those demons.

  ‘Dury, you piece of shit…’

  After all Debs had done, after all her efforts, here I was.

  I picked up the bottle.

  My hands trembled as I brought the rim to my lips.

  ‘You fucking loser,’ I laughed out. The glass edge touched a tooth, I felt the whisky vapour rising into my throat. And I froze. My mind seemed to hurtle down another path.

  ‘No.’

  I put down the bottle, stared at it and screwed the cap back on. I knew that one sip would have thrown me on the flames. One sip would have undone all Debs had put herself through for me. One sip would have let my brother’s killer off.

  I straightened myself. Got up and grabbed my mobi from the mantel.

  Dialled.

  ‘Fitz, what the fuck’s happening?’

  He latched on to my tone. ‘Calm down, Dury, there’s a limit to what I can do.’

  ‘Limit… I gave you the gun, what have you done with it?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Would ye feckin’ watch what you’re saying, Dury…’ Fitz dropped to a whisper, ‘The boffins say the shooter’s a match… but.’

  I clenched my teeth, felt my pulse racing. ‘But what?… I need a name, Fitz. Just give me a fucking name.’

  A pause, his voice rose again: ‘We don’t have the prints tied up yet.’

  He was bullshitting me, I smelled it. ‘I want the name, Fitz.’

  He locked me down: ‘Dury, I want you to listen to me very carefully. There are things about this case you have no idea of, no idea!’

  I went back at him, ‘That’s why I’ve come to you. Don’t brush me off, Fitz.’

  He paused again. I heard him shuffle forward in his seat. ‘Look, we’ve busted the house in Leith… We’ve got Radek in the cells. There’s a warrant for murder out on him in the Czech Republic… He won’t be going anywhere.’

  If he was telling me this, he knew Radek wasn’t our man as well as I did. Fitz wouldn’t be slow in slapping a murder charge down. ‘What about Davie Prentice?… What about the Undertaker?’

  ‘Dury, would ye ever feckin’ listen to me?… We are on top of it. Let us do our work.’

  ‘And let me do mine. I’ll call back soon, I want to know whose dabs are on that Webley, Fitz, and I’m not fucking around.’

  I threw my phone at the couch. Cursed Fitz.

  He was holding out on me and I knew it. I needed to get moving before he dragged someone in; if he got to them before I did, chances were I’d be watching my brother’s killer grinning at the cameras on the Six O’clock News, after receiving a slap on the wrist. I had proper justice in mind for the fucker.

  I paced the flat, sparked up a Marlboro. The place seemed so empty again without Debs. Her words kept singing in my ears. I heard every one of them like they were being replayed to me on a tape recorder. I knew what she meant; I was out of control. Nothing could stop this rig smashing into the wall. I wouldn’t let up until I’d squeezed the life out of Michael’s killer.

  I thought of my mother’s struggles to raise Michael, how she had taken the news of his savage beating by my father all those years ago. I thought of Catherine and of Jayne and of Alice. Little Alice, whom Debs and I had held in our arms the night she was born. My niece had been robbed of her father. Michael had tried so hard to be the kind of father we never had, and it had all been for nothing.

  I couldn’t focus any more. My thoughts sprang one way then the other. I remembered what Debs had said about minding out for Alice and I booted up the computer. The internet connection was slow, almost dial-up speed; I cursed the service provider and slapped the monitor in frustration.

  ‘Fucking piece of shit!’

  My Yahoo homepage was full of doom-laden news about business collapses, house prices nosediving, car lots full of unsold motors and the Prime Minister, as ever, proclaiming he was doing everything in his power to stabilise the fallout. I wanted to spit, but I clicked away from his smug coupon instead.

  I had no idea of the web address so I Googled Alice Dury and Bebo together. The search threw up a page of responses, but Alice’s name and page sat top of the list.

  I double-clicked.

  The page took a while to load — seemed to be a lot of photographs — but then Alice’s photo appeared, a yellow smiley face and a few lines of biog beside it.

  I grinned, said, ‘Hello, Alice… found you.’

  The site had a stack of puerile comments from schoolfriends, all accompanied by thumbnail pictures of them taken on mobile phones. To a one they looked half-cut. Teenagers know how to party these days; in my time, I was always the most pished in the room.

  I read and scrolled, and then I stopped.

  I didn’t expect this.

  A photograph of the Czech lodger that my brother had installed in his home had been put up. Vilem was standing in the garden, seemingly unaware his image had been captured. In the comment box beside the photo Alice had keyed: ‘Welcome to my Boy Zone!!.. More to follow!!’

  I didn’t know how to interpret this — was it just a teenage girl being a silly wee lassie? She’d posted the picture a week before my brother’s death. A few of Alice’s friends had posted comments in their hybrid language of text-speak and slang, but Alice hadn’t updated the site again. It seemed pointless to l
eave a message for her there if she wasn’t using it right now.

  I logged off the web.

  Shut down.

  I felt guilty for not giving Alice more attention. I knew she was taking the loss of her father hard. I should have intervened earlier, maybe come down on her harder about the drinking. Decided I would try her mobi again. I had the contacts book open, finger hovering on the call button when I heard a knock at the door.

  I jumped up to the spyhole. The back of a head covered it. I opened up, immediately regretted the move.

  A shoulder forced the door into my face. I went back, tumbled downwards and felt my palms get scorched on the carpet. Next thing I felt was a backhander knocking me into the wall.

  ‘All right, Gus boy.’ It was Dartboard; the pug with the parka stood behind him. ‘… You and me are going on a wee visit to a friend of ours.’

  He grabbed my hair and hauled me up.

  ‘Get his coat, Sammy.’

  Chapter 37

  The undertaker was dressed in a double-breasted grey suit. The last time I saw lapels that wide it was in an Edward G. Robinson movie. He had on a black shirt and it was open at the collar, an eyeful of bling played for attention beneath a heavy white chest rug. His eyes followed me as Dartboard prodded my back all the way across the bar floor. My head throbbed from the spank he’d given me in the flat, and I was sorely tempted to land a fly jab in his puss. Only thing that held me back was I knew this boy had some moves; maybe I was learning.

  The Undertaker nodded to Dartboard and he pointed me to a velour-backed seat. ‘I’ll stand, thanks.’

  I didn’t see the fist coming for my gut, but I felt it, compressed me like an accordion; I made as much noise too. Fell onto my knees, panting and wheezing. I looked up at Dartboard, tried to figure how he’d packed so much power into a blow that had come straight from his pocket.

  ‘You’re gonna…’ I coughed my guts onto the floor, tried again, ‘you’re gonna have to show me how to do that.’

  He smiled, impressed with himself.

  The Undertaker stood up. ‘Get the cunt in the chair.’ He looked even closer to death than the last time. Under the full glare of the lights his skin was almost transparent. He was like a waxwork of himself, before they’d applied the paint.

  Dartboard dragged me into the chair, sat me down. I watched as he retreated to the other end of the room with the parka prick they called Sammy. Neither spoke, just stood with their hands at their sides, clenched fists.

  The Undertaker walked the floor. His legs were so thin beneath his baggy trousers that his kneecaps poked out like shards with his every step. He was like a cadaverous Peter Crouch. There’s a phrase, all arms and legs.

  ‘What did I fucking ask you, laddie?’ he said. His tone had changed too: the sandpaper rasp was still there but now a belt-grinder was working it. He was keenly pissed at me, proper furious. ‘Eh, y’cunt… What did I ask ye?’

  I held in my entrails. I felt that if I took my hand from my stomach it’d spill on the floor. ‘Do you mind standing still?’ I said. ‘It might come back to me then.’

  He stopped dead. I saw the false teeth in his head as his mouth widened. The Undertaker looked as if he’d been poked in the arsehole with a sharp pencil.

  Sammy seized the initiative and dived forward, clapped a mitt on my jaw. I fell off the chair. He had a way to go before he was in Dartboard’s league. I shook it out and clambered back onto the seat. ‘You’ve stopped pacing, good. The answer you’re after is… Davie Prentice. You gave me a message, and I passed it on. So why the fuck am I here?’

  The pug with the skinhead got nodded away, the Undertaker approached me. As he leaned in I saw the grease on the back of his collar. His breath smelled as though a rat had been living in his mouth for a year and there was dandruff falling on me from his shoulders as he spoke. ‘Aye, that’s right, laddie, I gave you a wee fucking simple message to pass on to that fat cunt…’ He turned to Dartboard and Sammy. ‘Should’ve been simple, eh no?’

  The shit-lickers nodded. Dartboard tucked his hands behind his back. He looked as if he was trying out for a job at Slater Menswear.

  The Undertaker started on again: ‘Well… you fucked it right up!’ He grabbed me by the ear and hollered, ‘Davie’s fucking scarpered… He’s had it away on his toes, and I’m oot my poppy!’ He let go of my ear, stepped back. It was like watching a stork wading into a river for fish.

  I said, ‘He’s what?’

  ‘Fucked off…’

  It was news to me. ‘When was this?’

  ‘The factory’s been closed doon. His fucking Czech fancy man’s been hauled doon the polis station and I’m no’ best pleased, Dury.’

  It made sense to me: the Czechs were Davie’s shield; without their protection, what choice did he have but to go rabbit? The prospect of getting any cash out of him seemed distant now. I wondered where all of this left me, and Michael’s killer.

  I said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Don’t play wide with me, Dury,’ he said. ‘Remember what I told you last time I had you in here?’

  I replayed the speech: ‘You didn’t like bad news.’

  ‘And remember what I said I’d do to you if you fucked up, Dury?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Aye, well, I had a wee think aboot that and came round to the conclusion that since you clearly don’t give two fucks for yerself, I’d have to take it out on someone else.’

  I sat up in the seat. I thought of Debs leaving the flat shortly before me: fucking hell, had they grabbed her? I rose to my feet. Dartboard came behind me and grabbed my arms.

  ‘If you’ve…’

  The Undertaker leaned over me. He looked like a suited-up Albert Steptoe as he spat at me, ‘If I’ve what?… Hauled in yer wee niece and her Czech boyfriend, tied them up ready for going the same road as your brother?’

  I struggled to get to him. Dartboard twisted my arms up my back. The pain sent nails into my joints. ‘You fucking dirty bastard…’

  He started to chuckle, frothy spit gathered in the corners of his mouth. His whole frame shook and then he fell into a hacking cough that rattled off his ribs. ‘Come on, Dury… deal’s a deal after all. That’s what I told yer brother before he got his.’

  I stopped struggling. Played him hard: ‘You’re shitting me… You don’t have my niece.’

  ‘That right, eh…’ He called the pug over. ‘Sammy, get that fucking fancy phone ay yours over here.’

  The screen of the phone got shoved in my face. A video played. I saw Alice on her knees in a field. She was gagged and tied. Vilem was tied behind her; he had tape over his mouth, a badly bruised face, and blood on his shirt. They’d both been tethered to a rusting tractor axle; Alice struggled to try and free herself, tugging at the rope on her hands. I wanted to reach out to her, and then the scene shifted, a flash of sky as the camera moved on an excavator in motion. The driver leaned out the cab — it was Dartboard — then he lowered the digger into the frost-hardened ground. As the screen’s angle shifted again I saw he had already dug one hole in the ground. Dartboard was working on the second as the screen changed again, homed in on a Transit van. An arm came before the camera and opened the back doors. Inside was stacked with pine-box coffins.

  I’d seen enough, looked away.

  The Undertaker took the phone up. ‘That niece ay yours has got a tidy wee arse on her… No wonder the Czech was poking her.’

  I didn’t want to listen. I saw the pug start to laugh.

  The Undertaker pointed to the phone. ‘See this Czech boyo here? Your brother told me they put that cunt in his hoose to keep an eye on him, make sure he didn’t do anything stupid like break their wee arrangement.’

  I looked up, saw the Undertaker twisting his mouth at Vilem. I said, ‘What are you saying?’

  He shrugged. ‘See me, I don’t waste time thinking, Dury… I act. When those cunts cut me oot I told Michael, get those wagons running again or there’ll be both
er. Your brother was a smart laddie, he knew I didn’t waste time on threats. No like these Czech bastards… That’s why he went home to tell that fucker to get out his hoose, and get his nose out our fucking business.’

  ‘He killed my brother?’

  ‘Oh, I’d say so… Wouldn’t you?’

  I strained to free myself again. ‘I’ll kill him.’

  The Undertaker stepped back. ‘You might no’ get the fucking chance.’ I looked up at him. He continued, ‘You’ll do something for me if you want your wee niece back… And your hands on her boyfriend.’

  My head burned up. I couldn’t think fast enough to take it all in. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Simple, Dury. That fat cunt’s no’ going anywhere owing me the poppy he does. Bring him back here and I’ll do you a wee favour — since it’s Christmas — I won’t put her in the ground till she’s dead.’ He paused. ‘Way the weather’s going, though, that won’t be long.’

  He started to wheeze with the exertion of baiting me, rasped into a cough. He broke away, nodded to Dartboard.

  I felt my arms released. I landed on the floor.

  ‘Get the fuck up, Dury,’ said the Undertaker. ‘Time’s ticking away, laddie.’

  Chapter 38

  I stood in the snow facing Tollcross in the dark of night. The Christmas lights draped over the road glowed down on the traffic, danced on the car roofs. I heard screams and wails carry from the showground in Princes Street Gardens. The sounds sliced me as a double-decker bus passed by, wet spray flying from the gutter. A man with gift-wrapped parcels in his arms tried to squeeze past me, grunted when I didn’t move. He dropped a glove, failed to notice; I didn’t tell him.

  I stood staring. Watching the traffic lights change, the taxis turn in the road. I started to get wet. The snow fell heavily. I’d never seen snow like it. It settled where it lay, inches of it already on parked cars. My hair flattened to my head, stuck to my brow. An old woman approached me and held up the fallen glove. She asked if it was mine but I didn’t answer. She waved it at me but I ignored her. The woman’s mouth kept moving and moving and moving but I didn’t hear the words. Eventually she walked away, placed the glove on railings and continued up the street.