Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) (27 page)

I found words, ‘I’m not married … any more.’

Shaky pulled a face. ‘Oh, it speaks!’ He walked round behind me. ‘That’s right, remember hearing something about that … when I put my feelers out. Did you know I was taking an interest in you, Dury? Oh, aye … big interest, let me tell you.’

I twisted my neck, followed his pacing. ‘Is that right?’

He snapped: ‘I’m no’ a liar! … In fact, anything I tell you, you can be guaranteed of it, bet the fucking farm on my word, so ye can. Now, do you remember what I told you the last time we met, son?’

I remembered, but didn’t let on. Shrugged out a ‘Not really.’

The crowd didn’t like that, let out whoops and hisses. It was high drama for these idiots. Serious as pay-per-view sports.

Shaky felt the crowd baying for blood. ‘String the cunt up.’

My hands were tugged behind my back, then a rope was tightened. One of the butcher’s hooks got dragged along the rail; the shrill shriek of it set my spine on edge. I was raised up and my tied hands attached to the hook. The pain as my body’s weight pulled at my shoulder blades was an agony. I wailed out in utter defeat.

The group laughed and cheered, a few banged tins of beer together. Shaky walked beneath me where I hung … ‘Now, see that Laird laddie – he wasn’t strung up like that, Dury. He had the rope round his fucking neck … Would you prefer that?’

I started to sweat. The pain felt as if my shoulders would explode at any moment. It’s funny how, faced with your own destruction, all notions of bravery leave you. I managed some words: ‘No … no.’

‘What’s that?’ Shaky cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Think I missed it!’

‘I said no … No, I don’t want strung up like Ben Laird.’

Jeers, some clapping. Laughter ringing off the walls.

Shaky didn’t seem to like my response, though. He snapped, ‘Then why the fuck are you still padding about this toon trying to rake into the cunt’s death?’ He grabbed my jacket collar, pulled me down closer to him. ‘Eh, answer me that. Did you just choose to forget what I warned you, Dury? That it? You making a cunt oot ay me? Or are you just plain fucking stupid?’

I couldn’t speak now. The pain was too much; I passed out.

When I came to, Shaky was stood over me, smoking a cigarette. He put the filter-tip in my mouth, played up to me. ‘Answer me this, Dury … what’s your fucking game here, eh? Who’s working your strings? Cos either you have some serious back-up or yer on a death wish … which is it?’

I had nothing to lose by laying my cards on the table so I said, ‘I’m not the one you need to worry about.’

‘Eh? What you fucking on about?’ I had his attention.

‘There’s worse than me you could cross.’

He arked up, grabbed my hair and pulled back my head, ‘Stop pissing me about here, son. Say what you’ve got to say or I’ll put you back up on that fucking hook, and no’ by the hauns this time.’

He let go my hair, my head slumped forward. ‘I know about Ben Laird and Gemmill … about the money he owed and that you want to see the case closed so it doesn’t come back to you …’

‘Well, if you know that, what are you fucking playing at?’

I gasped for breath. Took a gamble: ‘This goes higher up than you think … the filth are all over this.’

‘Are you on about that mad Irish bastard?’

‘You’ve met Fitz?’

‘Creeping about, rattling folks’ cages … He’s no’ playing the game.’

I spat, ‘And neither are you.’

Shaky’s eyes burned. ‘What the fuck you on about? … Now, spit it oot!’

I played my one and only card; it was no ace, but it was all I had. ‘I know you don’t want the kid’s murder laid at your doorstep, so you need to let me get Gemmill out the frame … Trust me, if he didn’t do it, I’ll find out.’

‘He didn’t fucking do it! But you think that’s gonna stop the polis hanging it on him, and my business out tae dry with him?’

I felt my breath seep out slowly. I was close to collapse again. Had little or no energy resources left to draw on. ‘If I get Gemmill off … are we quits?’

Shaky nodded. ‘Aye, oh aye …’

‘And Hod?’

His answer came slower this time: ‘You get our Danny in the clear and yourself and Hod are of no interest tae me.’

I managed a dim smile before my eyes closed on me and the room fell into blackness.

I SHOULD HAVE BEEN GRATEFUL for the run back to town, but somehow the pug in the trackie wore down my enthusiasm. He played
Slowhand
on the CD, did the chords on air guitar when ‘Layla’ kicked in. When he got to nodding along, I thought he was a bit too used to banging his napper, didn’t want to find myself on the end of it later on. As I sat beside him I could see he was carrying some meat: his gut pressed against the wheel when he turned corners and his neck shook on the cobbles. I was unnerved most of all by his bonhomie. The man was far too happy, made me think he had a surprise in store for me. Like maybe he wasn’t running me back to town after all.

We flew through Musselburgh and Porty, hit Meadowbank in good time. At London Road the pug turned to me, said, ‘I know a good spot.’

‘A good spot? … Here’ll do.’

That made him laugh. His meaty neck wobbled on his chest. As he smiled sharp lines cut the corners of his eyes. It was a face I could never tire of punching.

At the stadium he chucked a left, hared it past a Skoda garage and took another left, followed the road round to a little industrial estate. He allowed himself a handbrake turn in the car park before
slapping the wheel and starting to remove his watch. I got the hint; went for the door handle. It was locked.

He laughed, ‘You thinking of going somewhere?’

‘Are you as daft as you look, fella?’

He didn’t like that. ‘What the fuck did you say?’

‘I said, are you as daft as you fucking look? If you’re thinking of working me over … it’s not gonna help your boss out.’

His smile returned. ‘See me, I’m funny that way.’ He smacked me in the mouth with a backhander, let out a ‘Yee-haa!’ I yelled as my head banged off the car window. After all I’d been through already, it should have been enough to call lights out, but I hung in there.

The pug walked round to my side of the car, opened the door – I fell out. As I crumpled on the tarmac he started to lay into me.

‘Mouthy little cunt!’ he roared out.

I watched his face contort then redden. He took his work seriously. I could tell that by the way he put his back into it. I tried fending him off for a bit – put up arms, curled into a ball – but it was only incitement to him.

‘Get yer hands out the road, y’prick!’ he yelled.

Like I paid any notice. It was only when he started belting my gut, and the blood came up into my mouth again, that I held off. In no time at all, I’d lost consciousness.

I woke up in hospital again. The frequency of these visits was becoming embarrassing now. Not just for me, but for the staff. A nurse loomed over me with a thermometer. She seemed to have just taken it from under my armpit.

‘Oh, you’re with us, are you?’ she said.

I didn’t have an answer for that. I didn’t feel very with it. I couldn’t remember too much; the lights hurt my eyes. ‘What happened?’

‘I believe you were found in a pool of your own …’ she left a pause for emphasis, ‘blood.’

‘Makes a change from my own sick!’

She didn’t see the funny side. I tried to pull myself up. A strong smell of disinfectant filled my nostrils, made me feel like chucking up again. As I settled down I noticed there was a figure at the bottom of the bed. I squinted, tried to make my eyes focus. ‘Mam?’

‘Hello, son.’

‘What are you doing here?’ I felt embarrassed for her. Heat flashed in my cheeks.

She walked around the bed, patted the nurse’s arm, ‘The hospital called me.’

The nurse spoke again: ‘We thought we might lose you … it was touch and go there for a while. You know, you’d be better off playing Russian roulette, Mr Dury.’

I tried to swing my legs over the side of the bed. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ My second attempt at raising a smile on her miserable coupon fell flat as well. She shook her head and went for the door. I was glad to see it close with her on the other side.

My mother came and helped me to stand. ‘I didn’t know what to make of it when they called.’ There was a tear in her eye. ‘I thought … well, I just thought.’

I couldn’t bear to see my mother so hurt; I patted her hand. ‘Mam, I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, Gus.’ She took a handkerchief out of the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘Whatever happened to you?’ I thought at first she was talking about my latest hospitalisation, but as she moved to the chair by the bed she said, ‘How did it ever come to this?’

I knew what she meant. She was wondering how I had come to this level of despair. Was it the way my career went tits up? The wreckage of my marriage? My childhood? Christ, I wish I knew. I was a disaster, seemed like I always had been.

‘I don’t know, Mam.’

She dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘I wanted so much for all of you … I had so many dreams and hopes. Every mother does.’

I heard the words, and I registered her hurt, but for reasons beyond
me I thought of Gillian Laird. She was a mother too, she had lost a son. She needed answers, and she wasn’t going to find them with me in here. I had lost too much time already. I needed to act.

‘Mam, did the nurse say when they were thinking about letting me out?’

‘Oh, it won’t be for weeks. You need a good rest, and to heal up … They thought you were a goner, son … didn’t you hear her?’

I didn’t want to believe her. Jesus, how many times had I heard that in the last few weeks? I was ready to take my medicine like all the other times and move on. Figured, if I hadn’t carked it yet, I was on a winning streak. And I was still standing – it couldn’t be that bad, could it?

I said, ‘That’s not going to be possible … I’ve too much to do.’

My mother double-blinked. She dropped her handkerchief as she rose. ‘But you can’t go anywhere … there’s people to see you.’

‘What? … Who?’

She walked over to me. ‘Out there … they wouldn’t let them all in together.’

‘Who’s there, Mam?’

‘Everyone … I had to call them, they said it was near the end for you … Was like your father all over again.’

My mind flipped out. I watched my mother go for the door. She said, ‘I’ll send them in …’

When the door opened again, the last person I expected to walk through appeared. ‘Hello, Gus …’

‘
Debs
?’

She clutched at the shoulder strap of her bag, a blush spreading on her face. I watched her eyes flit from me to the window, as if she was too embarrassed to look at me. Christ, it was a heartscald.

‘Your mam called … when …’

‘She said.’

Debs put down her bag, sat in the seat with her knees together and her legs turned to one side. She looked tense. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Like shit … thanks for asking.’

She laughed. ‘I suppose you don’t need me to tell you that’s how you look!’

I smiled, ‘Boom-tish!’ Knew I deserved that. Worse, probably.

We looked at each other. It was great to see her again, but I felt nervous – tweaked at the hair on the back of my hand as I spoke. ‘I got your text.’

‘Gus, I don’t want you to think that I’m re-establishing contact.’

I shot up a hand. It seemed to take more of my energy than I’d imagined it would; blood rushed to my head. ‘No, Debs … I know.’

‘That text—’

I cut in: ‘Look, I just wanted to know you’re okay, and now I do, so all’s cool.’

She turned in the chair, fiddled with her watch strap. She searched herself for a new topic of conversation. ‘I, er, met your friend, Amy.’

I flung back my head. ‘Christ, is she here too?’

‘She was in bits last night … thought she’d lost you.’

‘Oh, bollocks … I’m sorry if you felt awkward.’

She stood up, smoothed out the creases in her jeans with the flats of her hands. ‘No, Gus … not at all.’

‘You sure?’

‘She seems lovely … You deserve a break. I hope she makes you happy.’

‘She does.’

Debs’s face hardened, her eyes thinned. I wondered if she ever played over all those conversations where we’d come to the conclusion that we could never make each other happy. No matter what we said or did, or how hard we tried … it just wasn’t in us. As I stared at Debs now, I understood we were never meant to be. We had spent so long together, but it had all been for nothing. We were never fitted as people. I hoped we could both take the lessons we had learned and move on.

‘I’m glad, Gus …’ Debs picked up her bag from the floor, slipped the strap over her shoulder. ‘I’m going to go now.’

I didn’t know what to say, went with, ‘Okay.’

‘You’ll be all right now?’

It was her way of asking if we were ‘good’. Had we drawn a line under things once and for all. I believed we had. It was hard to admit it, but I knew it. I’d seen her now, spoken to her, and understood where she was at in her mind. Now was time for a fresh start.