Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) (18 page)

‘I’m sorry … she doesn’t approve of … this,’ said Gillian.

‘Oh, no?’

She shook her head. ‘Thinks sleeping dogs are best left to lie. Thinks I don’t have my troubles to seek.’

‘And you, what do you think?’

She pressed the sides of her mouth back. It was a weak attempt at a smile of sorts, said, ‘I need to know … I need to know the truth about what happened to Ben.’

I felt her grief; I’d lost loved ones myself, knew that nothing prepares you. Knew the need to know eclipses everything at times of pain. Gillian wouldn’t rest till she had all the answers. I admired her strength, her resolve … I just hoped Tina wasn’t right. Though something told me her motives were entirely different from what she was letting on.

I thanked Gillian, said, ‘I’ll be in touch.’ We headed for the door.

Tina was sulking by the window in the front room. She had a cigarette in her hand; I couldn’t see an ashtray. I nodded to her. She turned away, leaned against the wall, one high-heeled shoe supporting her, just like a proper brasser.

As the door closed on us, Hod pulled out the contract and kissed it. ‘Oh, Gus … fucking nice one, mate.’

I couldn’t share his enthusiasm. I was glad for him, but I knew the shit was shaping up to hit the fan. There were so many interests lining up to stick the knife in me that I felt like yon Pop-up Pirate.

I WAS WOKEN BY THE MOBI going off next to my ear – bit of Chemical Brothers was normally a good get, but not this time of the day. Knocked over a few empty stout tins as I reached for the phone, said, ‘Hello.’

‘Gus, that you?’

I recognised the hardy voice at once. ‘Mr Bacon … yeah, it’s me.’

‘Good, good … How you keeping?’

Was this a fucking social call … this early? ‘
What
?’

‘Aye, small chat, eh, screw that. Just calling to let you know I looked out that stuff you were after.’

‘The files?’

‘Oh, aye … quite a few. Some good reading in there as well.’

‘There is?’

‘Bastardin’ sure there is. That laddie was up to his neck in some muck!’

‘Oh, really …’

Rasher’s voice arked up: ‘Fucking wee scumbag, so he was … Looking at this load on my desk, I’d say he wasn’t far off a stretch at Her Majesty’s displeasure. Total wee toley so he was.’

‘Sounds like interesting stuff.’

‘You’re no’ kidding, but that’s not the half of it.’

‘It’s not?’

‘Not by a long stretch. Turned up something that I think you might be interested in having a wee look at.’

‘From the files?’

A spark of enthusiasm: ‘Aye, from the files … and let me tell you, Dury, you get a link to this wee beauty and there’s a page-one splash with your name on it!’

He had my interest. ‘Go on then, spill the beans.’

‘Uh-uh … Better we meet up for this.’

‘Okay, I’ll come into the office later.’

He pitched his tone lower: ‘Oh fuck no. Got the top brass in today. Heid bummers from down south, got to get the red carpet out.’

I didn’t want to hang about on this. ‘Tomorrow, then?’

A pause, rustle of papers, opening of a desk diary. ‘Friday … can you make the afternoon?’

Would have to do. ‘Aye, okay.’

I hung up.

Spent the rest of the morning on the verge of banging seven shades of shite out of my mobile phone. Had stopped sending texts for some reason – would be close to the built-in obsolescence period, no doubt. Toyed with the idea of complaining to the shop, the service provider … thought better of it. Had long since given up on taking on the capitalist behemoth, better chucking the phone in the bin and buying a new one: that’s what they want after all; resistance is useless. The days where I saw myself wasting precious energy on the phone to Mumbai call centres and filling in customer complaints were long over, life was too short. Mine sure as hell was.

Had holed up in a spit-and-sawdust B&B in the Southside, one of those joints where they house dole moles and immigrants. An Indian bloke was running the shop. Seemed a nice enough sort, but cringing Christ, I wouldn’t like his paper round. I’d been here one night only and had already started counting fights to get myself to sleep. Rough wasn’t the word.

I cracked the seal on a tin of Murphy’s. I’d tanned a score of
those bad boys already. Was about to spark up when my mobi rang: wasn’t fully on the way out, then.

Recognised the caller ID straight off. ‘Amy … was trying to text you but—’

‘Spare me, eh.’

There was a note of derision in her voice; she had the tone down cold. Had to admire that, Amy did a nice line in no-messing attitude. I said, ‘No, seriously, got some techno trouble … Mobi isn’t texting out.’

‘Fucksake, Gus … have you checked it’s not full?’

‘
Y’wha’
?’

‘Look at the screen. Is there a red icon or something?’

I took a deck, spotted a little red square with an ‘x’ in it. Hadn’t seen that before. ‘Yeah, there is … what’s that about, then?’

Amy laughed. ‘Christ, Gus, get with the programme! Your phone is so shite it only stores a pissy amount of texts … You’ll have to delete some.’

Felt a total dope. Tried to snigger around it; wasn’t happening. ‘Yeah, right … I knew that. Look, to what do I owe the pleasure, Ames?’

Her voice changed, dropped an octave or two. ‘Pleasure … I’m all about the pleasure, Gus.’

‘Yeah, keep it up, see where it gets you.’ Shit, I was flirting now. Where was my head?

‘That a promise?’

Clawed it back: ‘Yeah, whatever … So, you rang.’

A stall, some deep breaths taken. I could hear her juggling the phone with the cupboard doors, cups, kettle. ‘I thought you might like to know that I’ve got a date.’

Felt a twinge in my gut – didn’t know why. If I did, I wouldn’t let on. ‘You have?’

‘Big time.’ She sounded pleased.

‘Amy, I’m very happy for you … but did you think you needed to call and let me know or is there more to this?’

A laugh, sharp exhalation followed. ‘In your fucking dreams,
sunshine! I’m calling to let you know I have a date with Danny Gemmill.’

My heart stilled. I let a long silence stretch out on the line. My mind seemed to reboot: was she serious? Couldn’t be for real. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘What?’

‘Gemmill … you’re cracking on to him? … Sure.’

Amy slipped into shit-stopping seriousness. ‘I am as well. Think I’d make that up? Like, why?’

Now my heart kicked up a notch, felt ready to blow. This was Amy I was dealing with after all: there was no telling what the fuck she would pull next. She was off-the-scale scripto at the best of times. ‘Amy, are you off yer fucking dial? Do you even know who you’re messing with here? … Jesus Christ, he’s beyond the borderline psycho range. Gemmill’s a full-on mentaller!’

‘I can handle myself.’

I had to laugh. She didn’t like it – I heard a tut. ‘Look, girl, this guy’s a fucking nut-job – get me? He’s already put me in the hospital. Think he’ll treat you any differently when he finds out what you’re up to?’

‘I said I can handle myself, Gus.’ She was deadly serious.

I lost it: ‘Handle your fucking self! You’re a silly wee lassie! Bloody hell, Amy, there’s no way you’re seeing Gemmill … no fucking way! It’s just not on, not on … you hear me?’ I was ranting so strong, so loud and long, that I’d missed the fact that she’d hung up.

‘Fuck!’ I hit my contacts, dialled her number. Went to voicemail. ‘Amy, look, call me back, eh. We need to talk. I’m not kidding about Danny Gemmill, he’s bad news … Don’t do this, seriously, just don’t do it. I know you’re not a silly wee lassie, you’ll see sense, so just leave this to me now. Please, huh? … I’ll call you later, we’ll go for a bite to eat or something, grab a movie, eh. Okay, Ames, we’ll speak soon, eh. Right, catch you later.’ What was I saying? It was all too much too late. I’d fucked right up.

I hoped she’d see sense, that she’d hear the message and see beyond my sparking up when she’d called. I knew Amy wasn’t the
headstrong young girl of just a few years ago – she’d matured. Surely there was no way she’d go through with this. She’d see sense. She’d realise she’d gone too far … least, I hoped she would. I hoped I was right with a lot of my assumptions about Amy. Felt my stomach flutter, muttered, ‘Get a grip, boy.’ Where was my head? What the fuck was I thinking? Amy? Never. There was way too much baggage there.

I took the tin of Murphy’s up to my mouth, slugged deep, stopped for air. Not for long, though. I started to pace. I was all over the fucking shop. Needed to sort myself out. Being holed up in a tenner-a-night kip house with woodchip on the walls and baked-in barf on the carpet had a strangely hypnotic effect on me – or maybe it was the booze – made me think I’d hit my true level.

My mind spiralled, I was seriously worried. Played out the scenario where I called Hod, listened to him blasting me on the trip out to Amy’s. I knew she was a big girl now. But Danny Gemmill, Holy Christ … he was a nut-job. He could seriously hurt her.

I grabbed my coat, headed for the stairs.

The way Amy operated, I knew Gemmill’d have to be fucking superhuman not to spill his guts to her, and more besides. When he found out who she was he’d string her up. What he did to her after that would be prolonged, and painful. I couldn’t bear to think of it.

My mobi went.

Answered: ‘Amy.’

‘You chilled any yet?’

‘Look, I’m only thinking about … y’know, you.’

I heard a sigh. ‘You’re pissed. I can hear it in your voice.’

‘I’m not fucking pissed. Amy, I’m serious … I don’t want you to get hurt.’

‘
Hurt
?’

‘Aye, Gemmill’s a crazy … you know that.’

A pause on the line, then soft tones. ‘Gus, I’ve been hurt before …’ she let that hang, went, ‘I’m not worried about anything that loser throws at me. I can take care of myself.’

There was no holding her back – she was a force of nature. She really thought she had the guts to go through with this, to handle Gemmill. ‘Amy, this is Danny Gemmill—’

She livened. ‘So what? He’ll be putty in my hands.’

‘Somehow I doubt that!’

A laugh. ‘You perv.’

I clawed it in: ‘I’m not joking. How in hell did this come about?’

‘I have my ways.’

She certainly did. I still remembered her hard-core declarations of undying love for me when she was a cub reporter at the
Hootsman
: cost her a job. Still, she’d sorted herself out now, moved on a lot since then. Matured.

‘I know you do. But Amy, I can’t let you do this … it’s way too dangerous.’

‘Gus, I don’t need mothering.’

She was right about that; I knew she was of hardy stock. I just couldn’t help feeling protective. ‘I know, I know but …’

‘No buts, I know what I’m doing.’

I sparked up a Marlboro as I descended the stairs, passing through to the lobby with the rotting sash windows. ‘Well, I seriously doubt that.’

‘Gus …’

I didn’t like the sound of her reaction. ‘No, Amy, I mean it, I want you to stay put. Cancel Gemmill.’ I eased into the street, flagged down a Joe Baxi. I needed to keep her talking now.

‘Okay, okay.’ She sounded perfunctory; there was no conviction in her words. It unsettled me. She was suddenly taking this far too casually; putting me on.

I covered the phone, told the driver to boot it for Amy’s gaff. I needed to throw her a line. ‘I’ve got a few other irons in the fire, don’t think there’s any need to go overboard. Way things are shaping, you might be seeing a bit more of me than usual.’

‘
Really
?’

‘I’ve taken a job at the uni.’

‘No way!’

‘Yes way … a janitor’s job. So, when you get back, when term starts again …’

The laughter was deafening. ‘Get the fuck out of town.’

I waited for her to dry her eyes, said, ‘Are you quite finished?’

‘Oh, Gus, that’s a laugh riot. Have you got the Brylcreem looked out? And the teeth … you have to get a few teeth blacked up. Fuck me, this will be a mental laugh!’

‘Yeah, okay, guffaw away. I’m not doing this for a giggle, there’s a serious motive here, remember? It’s a boy’s death we’re looking into.’

Silence.

It was short-lived. ‘You’re so right!’

The driver blasted his horn, shouted at some skanky junkies in blankets crossing the road.

‘Amy … you still there?’

Her voice lightened, took on a serious note: ‘Yes, Gus, but I’ve got to go.’

‘Amy … Amy …’

The dial lit. She’d clicked off.

THERE’S A PHRASE,
BURN RUBBER
. That’s where I was at with this taxi driver already.

‘C’mon, man … give it some poke, eh,’ I yelled through the perspex.