Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) (19 page)

The bloke turned. ‘You serious, guv?’ He was London – Christ on a cross, where did we find them? What was happening to this city? We’d have our own pearly kings and queens next.

‘Fucking deadly!’ I put the bead on him, let that sting in my tone settle down there a bit, take a bite out of him. He played it cool but had got the message. Two-wheeled the cab onto the kerb and floored it. We didn’t have far to go, but there wasn’t any time to be lost. Knew Amy was probably already putting on her lip gloss. Shit. My mind ran through a thousand dodgy scenarios.

What the hell was that girl thinking? She knew the kip of Gemmill, he wasn’t going to be turning up with a fucking rose in his mouth and tickets for Rachmaninov at the Usher Hall. More likely to be ten pints at some skanky drinker at the foot of the Walk … phial of Rohypnol thrown in if she wasn’t careful. I felt the blood pumping in my neck; my jaw tightened.

‘C’mon … c‘mon …’

Fair fucks to the cabbie, he was pushing it.

We flew down Lothian Road in the bus lane, turned a hairpin into Amy’s street. As we pulled up I could see it was almost too late.

‘Shit!’ I grabbed at the handle on the door. It was locked.

‘That’s seven quid, guv.’

I tugged at the handle again but it wouldn’t budge. I looked out the windscreen at Amy in the street, walking towards a familiar motor – Hod’s Beemer. Gemmill stood grinning on the pavement, opening up the passenger door and pointing her inside. He had on the same black leather that he wore to go stomping heads. I’d had a close enough look at it myself.

‘Fucking hell, let me out here, mate,’ I said.

‘No can do … need paying first.’

I ranted, waved a fist at him. He smirked beyond the perspex, then picked up the handset on his radio, threatening to call plod. ‘I can drive you kicking and screaming if you like.’

I dug in my pockets, yelled, ‘Fucksake …’

I kept an eye on Amy. Could see Gemmill putting a hand on her arse. I blew up inside – wanted to feed him that wandering mitt; would make sure I broke every digit on the way in. I rummaged in my pockets further, came up with a fiver, fed it through the slot.

‘Two quid shy,’ said the cabbie.

I was ready to go postal. Gemmill closed the passenger door, waving to Amy as he skipped round the back of the car. He had a grin on his face as he rubbed his palms together. I knew what was on his mind.

I rummaged in all of my pockets – they were empty.

Gemmill opened up the driver’s door, ducked in behind the steering wheel.

Heard him turn over the ignition.

Exhaust fumes spilled from the back pipe.

‘No, fuck …’

He didn’t drive off. He leaned over to plant a kiss on Amy’s cheek. She grabbed his face, went for the mouth. What the fuck was she thinking? Was she even thinking? This was madness.

I uncovered a two-pound coin in the pocket of my jeans; threw it at the cabbie.

‘Right, that’s the seven then …’

I amped it up: ‘Open the fucking door, y’cunt!’

‘There’s no need for any language, guv.’

I shot him daggers; got the result. He knew he couldn’t push it any further with me. The door popped.

I hit the street like Usain Bolt – tanked it towards the Beemer. Could feel my heart pounding, fit to burst. I wasn’t up for this lark. Not by a long stroke. My lungs started to panic, my breath shortened. The car was still sitting in the street, though, spilling blue-grey smoke. I could see Gemmill munching the face off Amy; it was like two teenagers under the chute for the first time. Was sure I heard someone yell, ‘Get a room!’ I was about fifty yards off when Gemmill broke free, engaged first gear and spun the tyres.

‘No way!’

I upped the pace but my legs bucked. I felt a stagger towards the flags, for a second it was like I was flying … I was wrong – I was dropping. I landed face first on the paving stones. My hands broke my fall – stung like a bastard. A million tiny nerve endings registered their disapproval as the flesh ripped open and painted two black-red streaks on the pavement. My face followed, smacked my mouth off the concrete. For a second it felt as though a china cup had been broken in my mouth, then my bridgework made a bid for freedom, spilled like shattered glass on the street before me. My pain centres arked up. I felt a sharp stab in my gut as my face bounced, then my forehead slapped into the ground.

I could taste warm, salty blood rise on my tongue. For a moment I coughed to clear my throat, then gave up. I sensed a frothy stream of vomit spilling from the side of my mouth as I passed out.

The times I’ve seen this …

He’s been dropped from the first team. The man carries a gut Jocky Wilson would be proud of – what does he expect? I must
be twelve or thirteen, everyone says it’s a ‘difficult age’. They don’t know the half of it.

I come in from school and I’m shocked to see him so drunk. It’s not four o’clock yet. This is new territory. Even for him.

‘Oh, it’s himself … little Boy Wonder.’

I brought home a report card the day before; he has it in his hand. In the other, a tin of Cally Special. There’s a stack of them in the waste bin with the Spanish dancing lady painted on the front, and more yet on the carpet. He’s been sat in the seat by the fire throwing empty tins to the bin. My mother is perched on the edge of the couch like a delicate little bird; her hand trembles every time she brings the Berkeley Superking to her mouth. Her spine straightens as she sees me come in. Some ash falls from the cigarette in her pale, thin hand. Her eyes flit quickly between my father and me as I stand in the doorway. I know what’s coming.

‘So what the fuck do you call this?’ He shakes the report card at me.

I shrug.

Mam stands up, dowps her cig in the ashtray, smooths down the sides of her skirt. ‘Now, now … come on,’ she says.

The mighty Cannis Dury roars, ‘And you can shut the fuck up … When I want to hear an opinion from you I’ll fucking well tell you what to say!’

Mam curls her lower lip. I can see the heavy make-up filling the creases at the sides of her mouth. She puts an arm around me and pats down my stray fringe. It’s as if the action sparks a bolt of life in my father. He leaps from the chair and jerks her from me.

‘Get away from him.’ He throws my mother on the floor. She looks up at him as she lands with a clatter of bone on wooden floorboards. Her face is twisted, her mouth seems to change colour. I want to go to her but I’m frozen to the spot. My father is looming over me. He’s an awesome size, drowns my pathetic child’s frame into shadows. ‘What the fuck is this?’ He waves the report card at me. I see the line of As … and the single C.

I say nothing. I feel my throat freeze but an almighty anger is
burning in my gut. I want to go to my mother. She speaks: ‘Please, Cannis … leave the laddie. He’s a good laddie.’

He turns to her, waving the report card again. ‘But whose fucking laddie? … no’ fucking mine!’

I can’t believe I’ve heard the words. I know what they mean – I’m a smart laddie, everyone says so.

My mother looks away, starts to cry. My father strides over to her, grabs her hair and throws her to the wall. She lands against the bin, Cally Special tins spill out onto the floor. Her eyes close tight as she falls; there’s blood on her mouth. As she lands I see the blood drip down the side of her pure white cheek. It seems so red, so out of place on that perfectly drawn face of hers.

I watch him loom over her. She doesn’t move. Even when he kicks her in the stomach and raises her whole body from the ground again and again there doesn’t seem to be any movement from her. She’s lifeless. All that moves is the slow trickle of blood when he steps back from her.

‘He’s no’ ma fucking laddie … C for Games. No’ ma fucking laddie, y’dirty hoor.’

He’s still holding the report card as he turns from her. He staggers into the dresser, breathing heavily as he approaches me. I know I should move, dive out of the way, but I’m frozen to the spot. He sees me staring at him, wipes the sweat from his brow. I wonder will he speak but he doesn’t seem to have any words for me, just brushes me aside.

I hear his noisy footfalls on the staircase, then his heavy frame falling into the bed. I wait for what seems like an age for my muscles to return to my control. I feel like a different person now, confused and alone. I begin to tremble, in my shoulders to begin with, then all down my spine and into my legs. My knees are buckling and I fall over.

The floor jolts me, sends a shock through my body and I come back to myself. I remember my mother, lying beaten in the corner. I try to get up to go to her but find myself walking on all fours like a dog. When I reach her I see her pale white face is now streaked
with blood. I touch her but she doesn’t move. Her skin feels cold as stone. For a moment, I think he’s killed her.

A bolt of electricity passes through me.

I run out to the street. I don’t know where I’m going. I know my sister and brother will be home from school soon; they can’t see her like this. They’d have questions – what would I tell them?

I run to the red call box at the end of the street.

I know I have no money, but quickly remember emergency calls are free. I dial 999.

In no time at all the loud bells of the ambulance are in the street. Neighbours come out to see what the commotion is all about. Old women in tabards and headscarves touch their faces and look shocked as the stretcher men carry my mother away.

My father doesn’t raise himself from his bed as the ambulance bells start up again and rush her to hospital.

I watched the blue flashing lights …

‘Mr Dury … Mr Dury … can you hear me, sir?’

I said nothing. My mind was very far away.

‘Mr Dury …’

The words didn’t register. I saw people standing over me. The street seemed to have come to a standstill. It felt like I was floating. On a cloud, maybe.

‘Mr Dury …’ said the man again. ‘Nope, he’s away. Get him up.’

A red blanket was brought out, the paramedics raised me.

I saw the blue lights flashing brighter for a moment, then all the lights stopped.

I WAS BACK IN HOSPITAL, trying to piece things together.

For a while now my memory hadn’t been what it once was, or what it should be. There were huge gaps appearing in the annals of my mind. The day-to-day stuff I could just about get away with, bluffing out the standard responses and catchphrases everyone used to grease the wheels of life, but the more important matters were slipping from me. Short term I was a disaster: put down a set of keys or a coat and I needed a sniffer dog to find them. Long term wasn’t much better; tying dates to past events was an impossibility. About the only things that I did recall with any clarity were the hard times: boyhood beatings and scoldings from my father; the wreckage of my marriage to Debs. Figured I’d replayed those so many times in morose, whisky-soaked meanderings that they were on repeat play at the back of my mind. Couldn’t wash them out with a power hose. Had tried to drown them, but that was coming back to haunt me now.

I knew I needed to confront my mother. I had been to the brink replaying the times my father had beaten her senseless … but one memory haunted more than others.

I’d put my mother on ice for so long now, since I’d relapsed into drink and had lost any pretence to normality, there was no way I could face her without scalding her heart. She knew me too well;
she’d take one look at me and suss that I was close to the grave. Still, I didn’t want to go there just yet, and I sure as hell didn’t want to go there without asking her the question I’d kept inside me for all these years. Why was I thinking about this now? I knew the answer: I felt as though I was running out of time to ask her the truth.

There was a jug of water at my bedside. I felt queasy just looking at it. I needed something stronger.

Someone had put a saline drip in me again; I couldn’t recall any of it.

My clothes hung on a rail at the side of the bed. I was tempted to dress and depart but my head hurt too much; I wasn’t functioning. Wondered had they medicated me?

As I sat up in the bed a nurse at the end of the ward stirred and approached me.

‘Back in the land of the living are you?’ she said.

I winced – too close to home, said, ‘Doesn’t feel like it.’

A frown. ‘Well, I’d say this is about as good as it gets for you right now, Mr Dury.’

The thought burned. ‘Oh, right …’

‘You’re in a terrible condition … We got hold of your records, there’s no telling you, is there?’

Did that require an answer? The look on her face, I doubted it. She was wearing me down.

‘How long have I been here?’

Full-on head shakes. ‘You came in with the paramedics about two hours ago. The doctor’s seen you once, so he won’t be back until tomorrow now, unless there’s an emergency.’

‘Emergency?’

‘You’re in a terrible condition, Mr Dury … like I said.’

Way I felt, I didn’t doubt her. ‘Thanks for passing that on.’

She turned heels, left for the door.