Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) (10 page)

It came from the front door.

I tried to raise myself. Wasn’t happening. Got one foot planted on the floor, knee bent. Tried to push. The floor got the better of me.

Louder blows.

Fuck
, was that an actual hammer? Was guessing a sledger.

Hod came running through. ‘What’s going on?’

I found some juice in my legs, raised myself. ‘The door …’

‘Some fucker’s putting in my door!’

Hod legged it from the room, turned down the hallway to the front of the flat. I pegged it after him, hobbling like a jakey with one foot. My limbs ached, my heart pounded as if I was on the last hundred yards of a marathon but something kept me keeping on. When I rounded the corner the door was coming off its hinges. The only things keeping it up were some heavy-duty screws and security chain. Hod raised hands to his head, turned. He made that
Twilight Zone
face you see on the most scoobied from time to time, then balled fists.

The hammering kept up, then a chink of light came through above the chain. I didn’t have enough time to process what was coming as a red-tipped axe split through the links. Then the door fell open. Wood splinters and busted bits of metal sprung into the flat.

‘Holy shit!’ said Hod.

I was still away with it, but the sight of Danny Gemmill and another burly pug in black leather pushing in and slamming Hod against the wall brought me round.

There’s a phrase,
act first, think later
: I was making this my motto. Fired in with a haymaker right, cracked a nice bit of knuckle on bone but the effect wasn’t what I’d hoped for. Gemmill raised fingers to his cheekbone, as though he was wiping off a tart’s lipstick, looked at the tips then came for me.

I was quicker on my feet than I thought, dropped back a few steps, maybe managed three in total before the wall stopped me. I had less than a second to contemplate my next move. As the lump ran me, smiling, I launched my forehead at his coupon. Caught nose, got some noise from him. Thought: Result. As the hands went up to stem the blood flow, I put a thumb in his eye. This was new for me; I was going feral. Gemmill squealed. It was encouragement to me. Before I knew it I’d grabbed him round the neck – big mistake. In a flash he raised me off the floor with a swift jab, got to battering me against the wall but I hardly felt a thing. Truth
told, my body was still too rubber from the sauce to register pain. As I flailed about I hoped to tire Gemmill out; caught sight of Hod getting the better of his man, raising up the axe and pinning him by the throat.

The whole scuffle was over in under five minutes.

When Gemmill dropped to his knees, Hod released his pug. The look on their faces said they couldn’t comprehend this turn of events. As Hod wielded the axe like Conan the Barbarian, something told me they were gonna have to believe it whether they wanted to or not.

‘Before I cut you both a new crack, better get speaking up,’ said Hod.

The pair breathed heavily, and what was that, drool? Fucking drool coming from them. Bloody troglodytes.

Said, ‘Liven up, lads. I’ve seen him take eyes out with blunter instruments.’

Gemmill, Leith as the Walk, spoke: ‘You know the score … fucking sure you do!’

‘You’re Shaky’s boy,’ said Hod. ‘But what the fuck you doing here? Just got my motor, didn’t you? … I’ve got a fortnight to pay up.’

‘Aye, but …’ Gemmill spoke through his bust nose, ‘Shaky’s no’ too pleased with that set ay wheels.’

‘The fuck you on about, Gemmill?’ I said. ‘It’s near twenty grand’s worth ay motor!’

Splutters, blood. ‘The alternator was gone, needed replaced, and the tyres were well tanned, had to put four new tyres on … And there’s nae fucking tax or owt.’ He was spewing, raging mad about a car that they could score the best part of twenty grand on. It didn’t stack up. This was crazy mental. If I didn’t know better I’d think Shaky was looking for an excuse to wipe Hod out.

‘You’ll be complaining I never emptied the bloody ashtrays next!’ said Hod.

‘Aye, well … aye, well … there wis a fag burn on the leather seat … passenger’s side.’

Hod glowered at me.

I bit back, ‘
Wha’
?’

‘Look, Shaky’s no’ fuckin’ chuffed,’ said the other one. Obviously not the brains of the operation – he had too much of a mouth on him. ‘Says that motor’s not buying you the two weeks he thought. That’s you on a week to come up with the poppy or—’

I slapped his face with my right palm. ‘Or fucking what, sunshine?’ He watched me hover over him. Wished I had the strength to remould this guy’s features round my kneecap, said, ‘Here’s what you tell Shaking fucking Stevens: He’ll get his poppy when we’re good and ready and if he doesn’t like that …’

‘Gus …’ Hod blasted.

I flagged him down, went on: ‘And if he doesn’t fucking like that then he can start playing the lottery to sort out his finances.’

The mouth arked up, ‘You must be off yer fucking heid, pal!’

‘I am … pure fucking Radio Rental.’ I made to grab the axe haft from Hod. It shook before the pug’s face. ‘Doubt me?’

The pair on the floor exchanged glances, first at each other then back to us. Hod held firm to the axe; it was a heavy job. No trouble going through a skull or two. Had I the strength, I was hyped enough to do it. I thanked Christ I hadn’t … Dury, get a grip, I told myself.

Said, ‘Now get the fuck out of here and tell that boss of yours that he’ll get his money when we have it, and if he comes for it before that then all he’s getting’s blood … and it’s not gonna be fucking mine!’

They shuffled back a few feet on the floor, eased up and walked slowly to the door. Gemmill looked fit to be tied, glowering and showing teeth at me like an angry pit bull. He spoke up: ‘I tell you, Dury, this is bad patter. I’m gonna kick yer cunt all over toon.’

I played hardball. ‘You can try, Gemmill.’

As they left I turned back to Hod. He’d slumped against the wall, slid slowly down onto his haunches, put his head in his hands. ‘Gus, what the hell have you done?’

I smiled. ‘What the fuck have I done? I should be asking
you
that question.’

He looked up, eyes like a child who’d been told there was no Santa. ‘What you on about?’

‘I’m on about all that for a few grannies owing to Shaky. Is there something you’re not telling me here, mate?’

‘Gus, you know that’s how Shaky’s boys carry on. Fuck me, we’ll be in boxes come the weekend, way you played them.’

I wasn’t buying that. Either Hod was holding back or somebody else was. And it wasn’t me.

‘Fuck off, Hod … We’ll talk about this later. But trust me, I know these types, they respect some balls.’

I was still flying, walked over to the wall, patted Hod on the head. It was quite dark outside; flicked the light switch but the bulb had gone. Tried the other switch but it seemed to have gone too.

‘Fused, eh?’ I said.

‘No … leccy’s been cut off. Got the letter yesterday.’

‘Good job we’re moving on then, eh?’

Hod put his head back in his hands, sighed. ‘Gus, there’s nowhere far enough.’

I’D DONE WORSE JOBS; Christ I had. But at least I got paid for them. Still, jannying at the uni was gonna get me close to the action. Figured the hardest part of the job would be convincing folk I really was on the staff. I knew Calder wasn’t happy about having me around, but he could hardly say no given the circumstances of his rector’s son’s recent demise.

I felt enormous relief to get the tweed jacket off, was like shedding a dead skin. The dustcoat seemed to be more my style; more my class of loser. Felt an atavistic pat of approval on my back – it was like getting down to honest graft, proper work, kind you got your hands dirty at. Always thought it beat desk-jockeying any day of the week.

Calder wasn’t best chuffed at my snooping around the campus in the guise of a janitor. He’d threatened to ‘raise the issue’ with Gillian; I’d told him I didn’t give two shits. A boy had been murdered on his watch and the man seemed more concerned with covering that up than finding any kind of justice. Sure, I could see why the mere fact of the matter wasn’t going to attract any positive PR for him, but there was a bigger issue here: his mother was closer to the money when she’d called it murder – I became more convinced of that with every passing hour. Call it gut instinct, or a nose for bullshit, whatever: my antennae were twitching for sure. I needed
to get closer to the action, start pushing a few buttons, busting a few heads.

I looked around the doocot: lots of tin pails, heavy-duty mops, bottles of bleach in powder form and an assortment of paper hand-towels and loo rolls stacked to the ceiling. There was a few gardening tools: a rake, a fork and some fencing posts sat alongside tightly wrapped bales of barbed wire. The place smelled like a heavily disinfected public urinal and had just about the same appeal. The only relief from the smell came from the odd waft of turps. I was wondering who utilised the rusty kettle and dirty cups when the door opened.

‘Oh, aye … what’s your game?’ A gut-heavy twenty-something in a mustard-coloured dustcoat put wide eyes on me.

I played it safe: ‘Eh, I’m Gus … the new help.’

‘What fucking new help?’ He sounded far too well bred to be a janny; I wondered what his story was.

‘Mr Calder appointed me this morning.’

The bloke shook his head, took out a packet of smokes, Camel. ‘Nobody tells me bloody anything in this joint … Sorry, not much of a welcome. Got a bit of a start to see you in here.’

I took a tab, sparked up.

‘So, it’s Gus …’ he said. ‘I’m Stevo.’ He started to take off the dustcoat, empty the pockets: a box of kitchen matches, packet of Rizla skins, more smokes. He transferred the lot into a scruffy Reebok rucksack hanging on the back of the door. When he put the coat up I saw there was a giant ink stain under the breast pocket and filthy smears round the hip pockets; it didn’t faze him. One of the pockets had a paperback sticking out. I couldn’t see the title or author’s name.

‘Aye … Gus Dury, that’s me.’ I stuck out a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Stevo.’

He took a deep drag on his tab, eyeing me cautiously over thick glasses. He looked as if it hadn’t been long since he’d been a student himself. A hint of acne sat on his hairline; the look of optimism hadn’t yet been beaten out of him by reality. He took my hand, shook. ‘Well, be interesting to see how long you last here.’

‘That right?’

He laughed, then removed the paperback from his dustcoat pocket. It was Hemingway’s
A Farewell to Arms
. ‘Oh yes, we have what you might call a high staff turnover.’

‘Tough station, is it?’

His laughter increased in intensity and pitch; he fair roared. ‘It’s the cushiest number going. Trust me, you’ll be struggling with the boredom more than anything.’ He sat down in a skanky armchair that was lodged between the sink and the table, put his feet up and delved into the book. I was already beginning to like this guy.

‘Bit of a fan of Papa?’

He looked scoobied, as though he wasn’t expecting any kind of intellectual stimulation within these four walls. Could hardly blame him – like I looked Mensa material.

‘Erm, I’m just getting into it now … You read?’

Did I read?

‘Big time. Hem’s a favourite too. You got his best there.’

Stevo put down the book, started a long drag on his tab as he took me in. ‘You’ve read the works, have you then?’ He sounded disbelieving. I could have taken offence, but let it slide; he didn’t know me from Adam.

‘Every word. Even the poetry … and that’s a push. I go for the Yanks – Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck … even Salinger in his own way is a bit of a master.’

Stevo stood up, walked over to a rusting file cabinet, opened it and removed a little tin box. Inside was a block of, if I wasn’t mistaken, Moroccan rock. ‘Fancy a smoke?’

I smiled my widest. ‘Wouldn’t say no!’

He rolled out the biggest doober I’d seen in a long time; must have been a six-skinner. As we smoked I got his life story. Seemed, until last term, he’d been a student here. They’d had a raid on campus and found his stash. He’d been too fond of the Bob Hope to flush it away: big mistake. His parents were appalled, but sufficiently connected to get him suspended for one term, with a cushy little job thrown in. He even got to keep his room in the halls. The way
he told it, the tale seemed nothing unusual to him. To me, it sounded like the worst kind of old-boy networking. You’re either part of that gig, or apart from it – and I was well and truly the latter. The whole trip boiled my piss. Smacked of superiority – just what this joint propagated.

‘This is some stuff, Stevo.’ Say what you will about students, they know good gear.

‘Oh yes … good toke, eh.’

I could see this helping me ease off the sauce. I’d tried speed once, but it had only made me even more jumpy. ‘Any more where that came from?’

He seemed to lose some colour from his cheeks, got antsy: ‘Erm, no … ‘

‘It’s okay, I’m not going to raid your stash there.’

He calmed. ‘No, it’s not that. Had some trouble with my dealer, that’s all.’