Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) (9 page)

Was having real difficulty finding a note of sympathy for our Ben. Sure, he was a young lad, a life cut tragically short … but I couldn’t see it in me to feel for him. Going on Amy’s vague description, the boy was hardly one in a million; quite the opposite. He was the worst of a bad type. Yes, he was young, might have matured. But you live in Edinburgh, you watch the fuckwits dragging their knuckles to Murrayfield on match day, you start to question Darwin’s theory of evolution. I could see Ben at thirty, forty even, pissing it up and getting a belt out of Immacing some prop forward’s nads. I didn’t have it in me to feel a shred of loss. Perhaps that was to the good. I needed to keep a level head; past cases I’d let things bottle up, get the better of me. There was a chance I might actually keep the boat steady here. And Christ, didn’t I need that. Didn’t Hod. And Gillian.

The Black Heart was singing in my pocket; took it out, drained a good belt. The fire of it settled my insides. I was ready for more, ready to put the bottle to bed, duck in there beside it and let the world outside go to fuck, but whilst I had one shred of conscience left in me I knew I needed to screw the nut, get on with this.

I schlepped through the Grassmarket, left out the carnage of the Royal Mile at Festival time and headed for the
Hootsman
newspaper building. There had been a time when my face was known here. There had been a time when many faces were known here, but now the place had turned into a revolving door for school leavers and work experience looking for a first rung on the ladder. They didn’t realise that the first rung was also the last. The game had gone to shit. All those days I spent mourning my loss of career had been wasted; it was always coming down the pike, it seems. The game was bust.

At the chrome and glass frontage, I rocked up. Put on a bit of a swagger, not too much: spelled pisshead in here. Could remember the days when anyone who wasn’t off their face at the five o’clock news conference was treated with suspicion, verging on derision, but these were changed days. The green tea drinkers had taken over.

I hit the intercom, called out to my former boss, Mr Bacon – or as I still liked to call him, Rasher.

Got a blast: ‘Editorial …’

‘Not become a by-product of Advertising yet, then.’

‘Eh, what? That you, Gus?’

I played it cool – needed to get the gate buzzed for me, needed to get up to the newsroom and have a deck about in the files if poss. Gillian Laird’s public fall from grace had been one of those tragic celebrity moments played out in the full glare of the TV cameras and Sunday supplements. Kind of thing I switch off to without so much as a gob in the street; well, maybe a few of those.

‘Aye, aye … look, you got time for a catch-up?’ Holy Christ, ‘catch-up’ – where did I pick up these sayings? The world – and me within it – was becoming way too metrosexual for my liking.

A bit of gruff: ‘Well, if it’s a quick one.’

Played the card: ‘I’d love a quick one.’

Gate buzzed.

I took the elevator; didn’t even think of calling it the lift any more. The language was mangled. Rasher waited at the top floor. He had the same sideburns, heavy on the mutton-chop, that he’d worn since the seventies, and a shirt and tie that looked about the
same vintage. There was a gut pressing hard above the belt buckle of his Farah slacks; I’d read somewhere this was a sign of optimism. Apparently wearing the belt over the gut is the opposite, a sign of pessimism.

Hand extended: ‘Gus, good to see you.’

‘Likewise.’ I played it smooth; had some making up to do. I’d given Rasher a fair old blast at an alcoholic’s intervention he’d hosted for me; could tell he hadn’t forgotten either. But we had some mileage together. I’d handed Rasher more than a few scoops in my day. Washed up as I was, and as beyond help as he obviously saw me, I was still what they call in this game a ‘good operator’. I could bring in the news, and say what you like about the state of play in this outfit, news was still a commodity … among newsmen.

We went through to Rasher’s office, kicking up static from the heavy-duty carpet tiles. I took a seat as he opened the bottom drawer of a large metal filing cabinet – so old school – and brought out a bottle of Teacher’s. Not my favourite drop, but it was wet.

He poured out two styrofoam cups and nodded. I took the cue. Drained a fair whack. Felt my lips cracking as the whisky punched back some of the moisture that the air-con had taken.

‘So, to what do I owe the privilege?’ said Rasher.

I put down the cup, crossed my legs and made a steeple of my fingers above my knee. It was a practised look: canny. Rasher failed to raise an eyebrow. Instead he clocked me head on. I said, ‘I’m working a story.’

‘You are?’

‘Laird kid.’

He looked nonplussed, barely altered his breathing; if he did it was a sigh, ‘Oh, really.’

‘No interest there? You surprise me. I thought Gillian Laird was big news.’

Now an eyebrow went up. ‘Aye, you’re right …
was
.’

He was trying to say there’d been too much print given to her already, that the public can only stomach so much before it starts rebelling.

‘The lezzing-off’s old news, granted … but this isn’t,’ I said.

Rasher took up his cup, supped, smacked a white tongue off his lips, said, ‘Folk have had enough of her coupon on the front page, Gus. You know how it is.’

What he meant was they’d given her a hard enough time of late; the lawyers had likely urged they ease off.

‘Aye, sure … but this is a new line. I’m telling you, there’s a tale in there that no one’s got to yet.’

‘Go on, then.’

Was that interest? Doubted it. Had seen him more enthusiastic for the Spot the Ball solutions. Christ, they’d went overkill on Gillian’s coming out, understood, but this case was worth looking at; I felt that in my gut. Did that mean I still had the stomach for this racket?

‘She’s convinced the kid was murdered.’

‘We’ve ran that line.’

‘Yeah, but no one’s probing it, no one’s looking into the facts. That’s what I’m on about.’

Rasher stood up, drained his cup. He wasn’t buying. He picked up the bottle of Teacher’s and put it back in the filing cabinet. I watched his every move closely. Could feel my grip slipping, felt played out. Knew I’d failed to impress. He thought I’d wasted his time.

‘Dury, if you have something … say.’

I had squat.

‘Well …’

‘Exactly. Look, it’s hard to ignite public sympathy for some posh brat that got tanked up and stretched his scrawny fucking neck … Nobody cares. Even if you do turn something up, it’s a tough sell.’

There was more to this than he was letting on. I pressed: ‘Okay, what’s the Hampden Roar here – you got a spoiler story?’

Rasher arked up, ‘Shit no … Look, you’ll find out soon enough, suppose. Ben Laird was no good … into all sorts he was.’

‘Like what?’

‘Trust me, everything bar a shit sandwich! He was the campus wide boy, go-to guy for grass and brass.’

Ben was obviously more of a piece of work than I’d thought – even going on Amy’s assessment. Not quite the mummy’s little special, then. ‘How do you know this?’

‘Filth was all over him. Got some fucking record, tell you wide as a gate, that boy. No story there, though, family far too connected, nobody saying a word that doesn’t come through press officers or a fucking lawyer. Trust me, it’s a non-starter … unless.’

I knew what that ‘unless’ meant. I knew every permutation of ‘unless’ he was after. It was scandal, preferably of a sexual nature. If I could crowbar in a tug at the reins of power, maybe some corruption, or any old dirt involving some city figures, I’d be in with a shout.

‘Okay, I hear you. Look, this is early days. I’ve only just took the job, but if you’re prepared to extend me a bit of help …’

Rasher kicked the filing cabinet’s drawer shut with the heel of his cheap plastic shoes. ‘Help? … And what might that translate into?’

I drained my cup then stood. ‘Get one of your copy boys to print me out the scoops on Gillian Laird. Do me a file of interest on Ben and—’

‘Jesus, y’know how fucking short-staffed I am? That’s taking someone off the job for a day or two, Dury.’

I held schtum. He sighed, a loud one. Sparked again, ‘Right, okay … just this once, but I’m promising nothing.’

‘Except a byline.’

‘You need a fucking story for that.’

‘You’ll have your story.’ I felt a latent spark of ambition reignite. Christ, I loved this caper. ‘Count on it.’

SPENT A NIGHT ON THE sweats. Fitful dreams, or should that be nightmares? I awoke to find myself shaking, burning up worse than a dog tied to a radiator. Mopped my brow with the sleeve of my tweed jacket – oh yeah, I’d crashed clothed. Hod’s gaff, for all the uptown chic of the address, was seriously down-at-heel on the interior. Kipping on boards with nothing but scratching mice for company was a new low, even for me.

I tried to move. A familiar clatter of Cally Special tins came with me. Couldn’t say they chimed, more like rattled … a bit like my nerves. I couldn’t remember buying the beer; could remember tanning the rum but that was it. As I pushed myself up, a bottle of Bell’s rolled away underfoot. The noise of it on the exposed wood sent a spike up my spine. My shoulders trembled, my head took the hit and then I scrunched eyes as the tsunami of hangover engulfed me.

There was a time when my gut would jolt at this point. I’d be crouched over a sink or a toilet bowl, dry-retching. I’d be turning myself inside out to get whatever remained of the day before’s sustenance out of me. The power of those hurls still had me in fits of hurt, the fear of seeing a long dark streak of blood as the stomach lining detached itself and the white of the porcelain changed to a red warning sign in an instant. It took, I now realised, a modicum
of normality to be able to chuck your guts the day after a skite. I’d gone beyond that level; probably a fair while ago now. There was nothing in me worth hacking out – felt the odds were in favour of me throwing up a badly diseased liver, probably black as tar, and being done with it. One good hurl and I was on the way … wherever that was.

I knew where this had came from, knew where it started. Same place it always did: in my napper. I’d lost Debs. Christ, I’d lost the dog too. She’d left me – couldn’t blame her – but the way of it had stunned me. I’d known Debs for longer than I cared to tot up. We had years together. Long years, some of them. We had a history. Bleak as it may be, it was ours. Shared. Burned into us, seared sometimes, but there. No one, not even her, could deny we’d been together through thick and thin. But now, here she was, wanting to do just that: deny it.

I picked up my mobi.

My head spun, the floor looked glazed below me, the edges of the boards melding together, separating, then crossing like telegraph wires in wild winds.

I found Debs’s number.

This had become a ritual now. I pressed ‘call’ out of sheer bloody-mindedness. I knew the routine down pat. Eight rings before voicemail. She never answered, not any more.

Six, seven, eight …

‘Deborah, it’s me … Gus, again. Look, I know you don’t want to talk, and by Christ, who could blame you? But none of this feels right to me. I know you have your life to lead and I’m glad for you to do that … I seriously don’t want you wasting time on me, but I need to know you’re well. That’s all I want from you, Debs, a few words … Christ, a text even, just tell me where you’re at … in your head. I know I was a prick, I know I ballsed it all up but I’m not trying to mend it, trust me, Debs, all I want to know is that you’re okay, moving on. You can give me that, can’t you?’

I could hear my voice starting to croak; hung up.

This was new territory for me. In all my fights with Debs, in all
our brutal and bloody battles, never once had she turned the lights out on me. She’d completely switched me off now. I didn’t exist. Could I blame her? Could I even begin to comprehend what was going on in her head? Christ Al-frickin’-mighty, I’d ruined our marriage. Not just the marriage, but the attempt to patch it up. I’d let drink and arrogance and ego and misguided ambition get in the way. I’d cared more about myself and my own bloody selfish life than about her. What kind of a relationship was that?

It was over.

Sure as shit, we were done.

I knew it. Didn’t question it. When we’d split the first time, I railed against the universe. Fought. Went for broke to get her back … but this was different. This was final. This was black-armband stuff. I had no hope in hell of getting Debs back and I accepted it fully. Truth told, I didn’t want her to have anything to do with me. I was in complete agreement with her stance: shut him out. Fucking right. I’d do the same if I could. But none of that stopped me caring; wondering how on earth she was coping. I knew her too well. I knew Debs’s soul. She would be shattered by the break. She would be suffering, staying in, sulking. Skipping friends and digging herself into her workday. I didn’t want that for her. I didn’t want her to be boxed off from reality. I wanted her to be happy. God, did I ever. I wanted that so much for her because, I knew, the cause of all her unhappiness was me.

A loud thumping started in my head. Like hammer blows. Maybe a road drill. It increased in intensity, then in volume. Thought: The fuck’s this? Stroke? I should be so lucky. Something rousted me back to the land of the living. My eyes jerked open. My mouth was as dry as a pie. As I steadied myself on the bones of my arse. The hammering started again.