Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) (32 page)

I was walking too slowly, got a shove in the back, a ‘Hurry the fuck up’. I felt like a condemned man taking his final steps. Chances were that I was. Had I ballsed up? Oh, yeah. Ben had lost his life, for what I didn’t know, or much care if truth be told. If this was the class of company he kept, they could all swing. Sure, his mother would go without answers, and I felt for her. But Stevo, he was different. He had just been caught in the crossfire. It burned me to know that I’d been part of that.

What had I done? I thought of Amy and my mother, all those who knew me, Hod, Mac … by Christ, I’d let them all down. Always had. But this kind of pain, the kind I’d be bringing them, was too much. None of them deserved it – I’d put them through too much already.
Fucking hell, Dury … going out in some style, eh?

‘Get going, janny man.’ Another prod in the back, a kick. Got me moving.

‘You in a hurry?’ I snapped.

Paul spun; flecks of white spittle came as he spoke: ‘We should have done you first.’

‘Would that have saved Stevo?’

The fucker actually smiled at that. ‘Who’s to say?’

I pulled back from my restraints, tried to front up to him, but got tugged back, snapped, ‘You really get something out of this … playing God.’

Paul ran white fingers through his mop of red hair, then quickly slapped a hand on my shoulder. ‘I said, get going.’

He pushed the back of my head forward as I passed him. I collected another jab between the shoulder blades. Near dropped me on the floor – my knees caved, I coughed my guts up. There was some blood in there; I watched it drool down my front. I’d seen too much blood lately. The image of Stevo soaked head to toe in his own claret wasn’t ever going to leave me. But something told me I wasn’t going to have too long to be haunted by the image. The pack of boys was growing excited, they sensed another kill; they paced harder, faster.

Paul grabbed me again as we walked down the corridor to the main hall.

‘You have no idea, Dury … no clue what we’re about.’ He sounded as though he wanted to explain, to defend himself. Like I gave a shit what was contained in his messed-up head.

I spat more blood, trying to rile him. ‘You hear that, lads? … He’s trying to implicate you all.’

Got nothing but laughs. They were all well gone, high on themselves. To a one they felt protected, beyond censure. They had got away with too much already; no wonder they felt invincible. I wanted to know how those in the Craft might respond to this latest turn of events – there was only so much the filth could sweep under the carpet. Another two deaths in similar fashion to the others, and on the same night, were going to set some big alarm bells ringing. I watched as two of them ran to the door – pushed it open and stood there flagging us through. They looked enthusiastic, eager
even. I remembered an old movie,
Lord of the Flies
, one about the boys stranded on an island, slowly turning into savages. I felt like the lad they called Piggy, the one who’d managed to get on the wrong side of everyone.

‘Nice try,’ said Paul, ‘but you’re not going to save your sorry arse, Dury.’ His face was flushed red, I could see the veins in his neck standing out like tensed rods: he was pumped for this. This sick freak was getting high on his own power to kill; it made me want to spit. As I looked at his face I knew I was staring into the last pair of eyes Stevo ever saw. I felt a heavy urge to gouge them out, stamp on them. I wanted to see Paul buried, and to dance on his grave.

An image of Ben hanging on a rope flashed before me. He had been Paul’s best friend, for Chrissake – what kind of human being could kill so coldly someone they knew, and for what? For nothing, it seemed. Another life wasted for nothing. To satisfy the ego of some twisted fuck. I didn’t want to count the lives this guy had wrecked; the Gillians of this world would be walking wounded for the rest of their days. He’d as well as killed them too.

It burned me to think of the people I’d be leaving behind … Amy especially would be felled. We’d only just got it together; I’d only just got over Debs. Things had looked so bright for us; for me, even. I know when that happens to expect the worst – but was there more than this?

‘That what you told your friend, is it?’ I blasted him. ‘That what you said to Ben?’

Paul spun, pulled back his coat-hanger shoulders and stuck his face in mine. ‘Ben chose his own way to go.’

I used what strength I had left to struggle, blared at him, ‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? … Chose to fucking hang himself, did he?’

‘He chose to face up to his own mistakes!’ Paul’s voice rose to a level I hadn’t thought him capable of. The red of his cheeks darkened, made his pale eyes sink deeper in his head.

‘And what was that, Paul … getting on the wrong side of you?’

‘Shut the fuck up, Dury.’

‘He pissed you off, your best mate, so you killed him.’

We’d reached the hall. Paul beat the heel of his hand off his forehead. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know a fucking thing, Dury.’

‘I know you’re off your fucking head … I know a sicko when I see one, a fucking mentaller, that’s what you are … You need help, you need locked up. You’re a fucking lunatic, Paul … do you know that?’

The two lads at the door held it open, flagged us to hurry. I could see that the lights were on inside. A heavy punt struck at my back. It hurt like hell but as I got dragged in I realised I wasn’t going to have too much time to dwell on things like pain. The crowd of lads ran for the stage; two blocked the doors with a broom handle then made for the centre where a noose hung over a three-legged stool. The group arranged themselves in a semicircle facing the floor. They seemed calm, as if they’d been down this road before. I wanted to slap them back to life; they stood there like Stepford Wives in some kind of trance. They looked as though they had no idea what they were about to do. They were about to commit murder, and it seemed like it was their entitlement. My mind jarred, spun … but I couldn’t take my eyes off the thick rope. I knew it had my name on it.

‘Wake up, you fucking idiots … think you’ll get away with this?’ I roared out.

They were impassive. Lost in some
Boy’s Own
adventure.

I felt my arms tugged. The pain shot through my shoulders.

‘Accept your fate, Dury.’ Paul pointed to the noose and my captors sprang.

My Docs scraped noisily along the floorboards as I was hauled towards the stage. Figured they’d leave a few streaks; make for some interesting evidence. Was no way I was letting them think this was a suicide … or that I was into tugging myself with a rope round my neck. I was going out kicking and screaming. Wondered if anyone would pay attention to the evidence this time. Doubted it.

My mind ran with the faces of the people I loved, had loved. I knew it was said that at the point of death your whole life flashes before you. I’d dismissed it as a cliché, but now I knew it wasn’t. I saw my brother Michael, my father stood by him. I felt confused, lost. I knew my heartbeat couldn’t sustain this rate for much longer; the pulse in my temples seemed to be squeezing my vision. I felt fragile, close to the end. Did I accept it, like Paul told me to? Did I give in, shake off this mortal coil? What the fuck had it ever done for me? Who’s to say there wasn’t better to come?
Fucksake, Dury
…
knowing your luck, it would be the other place, the shithole.

I felt a last surge of fire in my belly, yelled, ‘This the way Ben went … loud and proud? That the way you killed your best mate, Paul … is it?’

For a young bloke, he held it together well. I expected more of a kick-off, more sparks. But he’d made that mistake once already, he wasn’t about to show himself up again. He knew he needed to keep it together. Paul had some idea of himself that didn’t tally with the facts, though. The lad was living up to the image of someone with more experience, years on the dial, import. But he was just a boy – who was he modelling himself on? There was no way he’d come this far without serious back-up, without protection.

‘Who’s pulling your strings, Paul?’ I blurted.

His thin lips trembled above his weak chin as he pointed to the stage. ‘Get him up there.’

‘Well, who is it? … I know the Seriatim are hooked up with the Craft, Paul. I know the filth are wiping your fucking arse.’

He turned. His eyes were moist, watery. I watched his thin lips part, almost imperceptibly. He seemed to take a deep breath, calmed himself, then took three steps towards me and grabbed at my collar.

‘Move it!’ he said.

Hands bundled me onto the stage. I kicked out, tried to free my arms, but I had no energy, no strength. My hands were tied behind my back and I was lifted onto the stool with little effort. As I stood I felt my legs tremble beneath me; my feet swayed on the stool as the noose went over my head. I stood silently for a second or two
and then I felt the noose tightening round my neck. My whole body swayed in circles under the noose. The rope dug into my neck, pressed hard on my throat and arteries. The skin beneath the rope burned, I could feel the bite of it mixing with the salt of my sweat: it stung like a lash. I tried to block out the pain, to steady myself on the stool, but it was next door to impossible for me. With every movement the rope tightened on my neck. I saw my brother and my father again, they’d been joined by Stevo … I could taste blood, death.

Paul spoke: ‘You don’t understand a thing, Dury … not one thing.’ I tried to control my eyes, focus my gaze on him. He had his hands to his head. It was difficult to follow his movements as he paced.

‘I understand you killed Ben Laird,’ I spat. I still had some blood rising in me; my voice was a low rasp.

Paul stopped still when he heard me. ‘No … you’re wrong!’ He jerked suddenly where he stood. A shudder seemed to pass through him and he ran to my side. His hands grew animated as he spoke: ‘You see … Ben was the one that was off his head, mad at his mother for running off with that whore … Did you know Tina was a whore? Bender Ben couldn’t live with the shame, so he devised a little plan to get rid of Tina.’ Paul walked to my side, poked at my chest with his forefinger as he continued, ‘He slipped some GHB into her drink one night and introduced her to some of the lads that didn’t know her, said she was just another one of his whores.’ I saw where he was going with this. He didn’t seem to need any encouragement either, his hands shot into the air, painting the scene for me. ‘They all had her, every one of them. She was a fucking whore … Ben told them so.’

He turned away from me. His face reddened again and contorted with anger, sweat pooled beneath his eyes and nose, he gripped his fringe in his fingers. The knowledge of what he’d done was bursting out of him. I couldn’t tell if he was proud or worried – he was certainly hyped.

I spoke, ‘But Tina wasn’t on the game by then—’

‘No. No, she fucking wasn’t
then …
she was with Ben’s mother
by then.’ He slapped his hip, drew fists. ‘Fucking Ben wanted rid of her … Ben brought this about. Put us all in danger, he fucking put us all in it … He didn’t think about anyone other than himself!’

I felt the rope cutting into my neck again, tightening harder this time. My head grew hot under the lights. My knees were buckling. ‘So you fucking hanged him for it.’

Paul flapped his arms, then hooked them around himself, shaking. ‘No. You don’t understand. That’s not how it was … that’s not how it was.’

I bit my lip; I could taste more blood. ‘Then tell me, Paul … how the fuck was it?’

He scrunched his brows. His words trembled: ‘When a member brings the Seriatim into disrepute, there’s only one way to deal with it … There always has been.’ He stepped back, motioned a hand to the floor. ‘They’re put on the stool with a noose round their neck. If they survive the night, then they’re home free.’

‘And if they don’t?’

Paul sparked, ‘Then they got what they deserved.’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It sounded like the kind of boys’ club horseshit that you only read about in silly novels by public school ponces. Did this kind of thing really go on? Did silly wee boys think they had the right to do this? My head spun.

‘So Ben never made it through the night?’

Paul shook his head. He let his chin touch his chest for a second. As he did so, there began a pounding on the door to the hall. I saw the broom jump in the handles. The pounding grew louder; some splinters fell from the hinges. I felt my feet slipping as my Docs lost their purchase on the smooth surface of the stool. I tap-danced for a few seconds, watching as the broom cracked and split. The pounding grew louder still, like a battering ram was being used, but the doors started to blur on me as the noose seemed to cut off my vision.

MY ANKLES TURNED NUMB, my shins ached. My calves and thighs burned up. I knew I couldn’t hold on much longer. The rope dug tighter and tighter. It was hard to breathe. I started to feel my shoulders grow heavy. My mind was all over the place – awash with strange sensations. Lights, flashes. At any moment, I knew, I could slip into unconsciousness. Paul paced before me: he spoke as though he was giving a lecture, but most of it missed me. I tried to tune in, caught odd words, phrases, but everything was blurring on me. He stopped still, leaned in and stared at the stool, ‘You won’t last the night, Dury … you’re just about done as it is.’