The Sin Bin

by Tony Black

  'You know what I want.'

  'Gilmour. You're out. No bastard will work with you now ... Just don't get any ideas about a challenge, that would be fatal. He dropped his chin and laughed. 'I'd be going far, far away ... I hear Tasmania's nice.'

  'And the cash?'

  He pulled a Jiffy-bag from inside his leather, 'You're paid up.'

  I ripped open the seal. All sound.

  It was getting colder. I shielded my eyes from the wind, brushed a layer of muck from the top of the Golf.

  'Come here,' I said.

  He followed me round to the front of the car. I wet a finger on my tongue, started to draw a map in the bonnet's grime. 'The dog's tucked up in an old barn about three miles from here ...'

  He left so quickly, looked so gladdened, I never had time to utter the words, 'Sorry I broke the cunt's neck ... But, fair play, it had gone for me.'

  Last Orders

  (a Gus Dury story)

  There was something about this prick that got me thinking.

  I took a deck at his shoes, brogues. His type have a name for the colour, ox-blood. I wear Docs, same colour, I call them cherry. Go figure.

  He strolled over, 'Mr Dury, I have something to say and I will not ...'

  He stopped flat.

  I put the bead on him. My hand went up, slowly.

  'Yes ...' It was a question, really, the pause told me. Like I needed the nod, too, that I clocked as affectation.

  'Call me Gus, I hear the mister in there, I think you're after money, or worse, mistaking me for my old man.' The bold Cannis Dury was not a man you'd like to be confused with. Trust me on that.

  He looked to the ceiling. Huffed. Was that a tut? I let it slide.

  I stood.

  He said: 'A-hem, are you?'

  'Leaving? Oh yes.'

  'But we have business.'

  'You think?'

  That was when I noticed the tweed cap in his hands. He twisted it like he was wringing the neck of a pheasant on his country estate. It boiled my piss. I'm working class, c'mon, it's in the contract.

  I reached the street in a heartbeat, as they say Stateside, tugging the zipper on my denim jacket. I know, sacrilege: buttons are the thing for denim — go tell Mr Wrangler. These days, fashion, the whole world, don't get me started.

  The hand on my shoulder told me I'd been followed out. That, I did not like. Too close to keeping tabs. Or worse, control.

  'I have a daughter and she is no longer contactable through the proper channels,' he said, a pause, then, 'Gus.'

  The proper channels? He spoke of his daughter like he was some ponytailed ad-man at a PowerPoint presentation.

  I eyeballed him, 'And this is my problem, why?'

  I sensed his distaste at the way I talked, not my accent, though that was bad enough — heavy on the Leith — what got him was what riled teachers in school, made them say, 'The temerity!'

  He looked skyward. Wanted to bolt, turn on his heels, throw up his hands. In the days of Empire, I'd be flogged where I stood.

  He checked himself, two yellow tombstones bit down on his lower lip. His pallor was grey as concrete. He spoke, slowly, 'I believe you are a man of some ... reputation.'

  I allowed myself a blink. Only the one, mind you.

  He went on, 'You have, I understand, some background.'

  'Background?'

  'I took the liberty of, oh what's the demotic? Checking you out.'

  The hand again. I blocked his words. Funny how, you're in a situation, you act out old habits.

  'And how did you manage that?' I said.

  There was a spit of rain in the air, threatened more of the same. In Edinburgh it could be coming down in stair rods inside a minute. He sussed this too. 'Mr Dury, can we return indoors?'

  His face changed shape. I'd seen the look before, what the Scots call, thrawn. I thought, fuck the ox-blood brogues, if he's buying then why not?

  Truth told, it was close to last orders anyway.

  ****

  There were one or two old soaks propping up the bar, bluenoses with tractor tracks cut in their brows. Rough's the word. I knew I'd be there soon enough myself, but was there a point in hastening it? I ordered up a Guinness anyway — and a double whisky chaser.

  'A malt?' said ox-bloods.

  'Is there another kind?' Like I was settling for a blend on his time and dime.

  We collected our drinks and headed for the snug. I felt like sparking up, had a pack of Rothmans raring to go, but the smoking ban had me beat to the punch.

  The pint of dark settled a craving, tasted like old memories. I was heading for the wee goldie when himself removed his scarf, revealing a dog collar.

  'You're Church?'

  'I am, yes, Church of Scotland ... does that makes a difference?'

  The short answer was, 'Yes', the easy one was, 'Should it?'

  'That would be an ecumenical matter.'

  I picked up my pint again, supped, said, 'I believe you're right ... can we skip it, get down to business?'

  'Indeed.'

  His name was Urquhart. A Church of Scotland minister from the North; the trip to Edinburgh had left him, he said, 'Unsettled'.

  'How come?'

  'I have what you might call, no good reason to be here.'

  Hadn't we all. 'Should I get my coat?'

  'No. No. Please, if you'll indulge me, Mr Dury.'

  'Gus.'

  'Of course ... Gus.'

  He played with the lid on his mineral water, Highland Spring, still. Sparkling just too exciting an option no doubt. 'My daughter ...'

  'Yeah, you mentioned her.'

  'I'm afraid, she has, erm, well ... it's rather embarrassing, gone missing.'

  Embarrassing? Somehow, that didn't seem the right word. A daughter gone from home was a cause for sleepless nights, not a cause for losing face. I eyed him cautiously over my pint, gave him some more rope.

  'She got herself mixed up with the wrong crowd some time ago, my parish is a very poor community, we once had mines but they are long gone and I'm afraid in their wake came some rather extreme views.'

  I knew pit communities had it tough after Thatcher, they lost their livelihood so the old bitch could prove a point. Some got paid off, a few grand to piss up the wall; they called them six-month millionaires.

  'Extreme?'

  'Well, yes ... anarchists, Mr Dury.'

  'Go, on ...'

  He poured out the rest of his mineral water, drank deep, he had quite a thirst on him. I knew the territory. 'My daughter, Caroline, she was a very wilful child and ...'

  'Whoa, back up ... was? What makes you think we're talking past-tense here, Minister?'

  He bridled, removed a handkerchief and wiped his palms, 'A figure of speech, I have no reason to believe ... I mean, I have nothing to go on, Gus, that is why I have come to you.'

  I'd say one thing for him, he had my attention. These days, my situation, wedded to a bottle of scoosh and forty, scrub that, sixty, smokes a day, that was no mean feat. I pressed him for some details, jotted them down.

  'I'll need five-hundred in advance and another five when I conclude.'

  'Conclude?'

  'That's right ... I don't have a crystal ball, Minister. I go digging, what I find is what I find. What I get is a grand for my trouble. We understand each other?'

  He nodded and took out a cheque book.

  'Cash.'

  'I'll have to go to a bank.'

  'Then, let's.'

  I drained my pint.

  On the way out the door, Urquhart placed a hand on my elbow, spoke softly, 'One more thing, I neglected to mention ...'

  'Yeah?'

  'My daughter, I believe, is ... with child.'

  ****

  The papers had been full of scare stories coming out of the hospitals. We had a dose of superbugs rampaging through them. Resistant to treatment, the red-tops said it was the new plague. I'd watched a documentary about the issue, doctors were in the clear, so were nurse
s, the blame was being planted firmly at the feet of immigrant workers. I'd been a hack and knew a beat-up story when I heard one. Everyone needs a scapegoat: welcome to Scotland, scapegoats a speciality, we've a history littered with them.

  I traipsed through the main doors of the Royal Infirmary and looked for the maternity ward. Figured a young girl — Urquhart had said she was barely sixteen — wouldn't be too hard to find. Women were having kids later and later, right? Wrong. They had a ward full of them. Gym-slip mums they called them in my day. Christ knows what they called them now ... Britney had kids, last I looked, it was probably the fashion.

  I grabbed a nurse as she passed me in the corridor, 'Hello, there ...'

  I was eyed with suspicion, got, 'Yes.'

  'I was wondering if you might be able to help me.'

  Now I got the full head-to-toe eyeball, 'Visiting hours are four till six.'

  'No, sorry, I'm not visiting. I'm just looking for someone.'

  'Looking for someone?'

  'Yes, a girl ... name of Urquhart, about sixteen.' I knew the chances of her using her own name were slim to none but chanced it.

  'Are you a relative?'

  The boat was out, so I pushed it further, 'Yes. I'm her brother.'

  I knew at once she wasn't buying it. I was only in my thirties, but the sauce had added a few years to the dial of late.

  'Do you have any identification?'

  I stalled, 'Can I show you a picture of her?' Urquhart had supplied a photo, a few years old I'd say. Caroline was still in school uniform, one of those dreadful posed, say-cheese numbers that everyone has tucked away in a sideboard at their parents' home. Not me, though. What I have tucked away at my parents' home is skeletons.

  The nurse took the photograph from me, looked at it, said, 'This girl has red hair.'

  'Yeah?'

  'And blue eyes.'

  'You caught that.'

  'If you and her are related then I'm a monkey's uncle.'

  I snatched back the picture, 'Are you in charge here.'

  'I'm the ward sister.'

  'Well look, sister, this young lass is missing, her father is very concerned and if I don't find her soon who's to say what might happen to her.'

  I got hands on hips from her. 'I'm calling the police.'

  'Y'what?'

  'If you're not off this ward, and out of this hospital, in the next thirty seconds, I'm calling the police.'

  I pocketed the photograph. Turned and fired out, 'Nice bedside manner you have there.'

  A finger was pointed to the door.

  'Out!'

  'Don't worry, I'm gone.'

  I felt a torrent of abuse at my back and caught the words, 'come in here stinking of drink'. I knew I'd reached the end of one line of inquiry.

  ****

  Before I got my jotters from the paper, I had a helper. Not quite an assistant, more a Girl Friday. Amy was work experience, had a thing for old movies with journalists cracking big stories. Had a thing for old journalists too, but that's another story. I caught up with her in Deacon Brodie's pub on The Mile.

  On any given day of the week, Amy, you can bet your hat, is dressed to impress. She sauntered in, white mules, white jeans (skin-tight) and a pillar-box red crop top that showed a stomach so flat you could eat your dinner off it. The diamanté stud in her navel, you could argue was over the top, but who'd listen.

  'Gus boy, how do?'

  'Mair to fiddling.' That's a Scots spoonerism for you; does it have a meaning? Does anything?

  Amy settled herself at the bar, ran her fingers through long black hair. She was a show stopper, men's eyes lit up like Chinese lanterns about the place.

  'I need your help?'

  She ordered a rum and coke; got the fastest service I'd ever seen, 'Yeah, help with what?'

  'A case.'

  A smile. Wide, a from the heart job, 'Great!'

  'Calm down, I wouldn't get too excited about this one.'

  'Work's work ... beats staying home watching Antiques Roadshow.'

  'Maybe not this one ... I warn you, I don't see much scope for excitement.'

  'I'm an excitable girl! Try me.'

  I gave her the details. My main concern was just what was behind Urquhart's tale.

  'You think he's hiding something?' said Amy.

  'Dunno.'

  'He's a minister, though.'

  'There's no sin but ignorance.'

  'Is that a quote?'

  'Sure is.'

  ****

  I stood in the car park of the Royal Infirmary. I couldn't believe I was about to do this, had to call and double check.

  'Fitzsimmons, please?'

  'Inspector Fitzsimmons, connecting you now.'

  Fitz the Crime and I went way back. In my time on the paper I'd kept a couple of his indiscretions out of the headlines. Plod tends to turn a blind eye to its own lot's peccadilloes, but seeing them in print is a whole other matter.

  'Hello.'

  'Fitz, I wanted to check ...'

  'Dury, by the feckin' cringe, what in the name of Christ are ye doing calling me here?'

  'Calm down, man, all I want is a little confirmation.'

  'By the holy, it's my bollocks in a jar yeer after! I'm certain of it.'

  I let him settle, grab a hold of himself, said, 'It's definitely the blue Micra ... the reg' ends in KLP?'

  'Jeez, didn't I tell ye it was?' The Jamieson we'd tanned over lunch was rising in him, brought out some more Irish, 'It is her and that's that ... why are ye doubting me?'

  I could see the nurse by the car, she was chatting with a young lad of about twenty, the blue shirt a giveaway that he was also a member of staff.

  'It's just I have her in my sights, and well, we've already spoken and she was none too keen on filling me in.'

  'Dury, I have no such qualms, I will gladly come down there and fill ye the feck in if I hear one more word out of ye. I cannot believe you would call ...'

  I hung up.

  If this was our one, there was no choice. I let her wave off her co-worker and headed for her car.

  The Micra had central locking, I opened the passenger door and got inside.

  'Hello again.'

  She looked, there's a phrase, shook. 'What are you doing here?'

  'Don't worry, I'm no mentaller. I want to talk to you about Caroline Urquhart and don't play coy, I know you treated her when she came to the Royal.'

  'Get out of my car.'

  'Look, lady, I don't care what you think of me but that girl and her baby need help, now either you're going to be the one to help her or we're relying on someone else out there being a very good Samaritan.'

  She fiddled with the keys in her hand. She looked at me, in the eye, then averted her gaze back towards the hospital car park. A sigh, 'I haven't seen her in weeks.'

  'How many?'

  'Two, three ... maybe a bit longer. She's due, you realise.'

  'What, now?'

  'Very soon. I have to admit, I've been a bit worried, she gave us an address for a place down in Leith and I went there, twice now, but it's boarded up. I don't think anyone is living there.'

  'Did she have any associates?'

  The nurse's top lip twitched uneasily, she looked out the window again, 'There was a boy, erm, he was a bit ... rough.'

  'How do you mean?'

  'Rough, rough. He was tattooed from head to toe and I think he had beaten her.'

  'Beaten?'

  'There was a black eye once and a few cuts on her face.'

  'The baby?'

  'Healthy. I think the child was fine, it was just male dominance issues.'

  'Backhanders.'

  She nodded.

  'This guy, you know anything about him?'

  'No. I don't think he had a job. I think he was wary of Caroline coming to the hospital. I know he had told her that he thought we suspected he beat her and ... look, I really can't tell you any more.'

  I took out my notebook, 'Just let me have the
address and I'll be on my way.'

  ****

  I grew up in Leith. Parts of the place, now, I hardly recognised. There was chrome and glass eyesores springing up every week it seemed. When my brother and I were young enough to go bikes we played boneshaker over the cobbles. I couldn't see any kids nowadays doing that, unless you can get it on the Nintendo Wii.

  I found the address quickly. This part of town, the developers had left well alone. Give them a few more months, there'll be bulldozers in. Then the chrome and glass.

  The stairwell was covered in graffiti. Tagging, mainly. You get your school of thought that this kinda thing ruins an area; me, I say, how much worse can they make it? Scrubbing it off's only turd polishing.

  The landing smelled of piss. Even with all the windows panned in, the piss was still rank enough to make me want to chuck. I stuck my face behind my jacket and waded through the detritus of aerosols, needles and White Lightning bottles. The address was the last in the line. I wondered if it was really the end of the road?

  I could see why the nurse would think nobody lived here. I pressed on the door's windowpane, there was no movement, it wasn't opening up. I looked in the letter box, a blast of damp, but also, I was sure, some movement.

  I banged on the door.

  Nothing.

  Tried again.

  A clang of, what was that, a door?

  I hollered in the letterbox, 'Caroline, is that you? My name's Gus, Gus Dury, your father asked me to find you.'

  I put my ear to the slot.

  No movement anymore.

  I knew there was someone in there. Toyed with the idea of putting my foot to the door when, suddenly, a whoosh of stale air as the glass pane came through. I caught a set of wooden step ladders in the mush.

  I fell back. My back smacked off the concrete landing just as I saw a blur of shaved head loom over me and cosh me across the face with a heavy pot.

  Next thing I saw was the dancing canaries.

  ****

  'Hello, can you hear me? Hello ... hello.'

  My head felt like Chewbacca had taken a dump in there. I was still on my back as I opened my eyes to find a young girl looming over me with dark panda eyes.

  'Can you hear me?'

  'Yeah. Just, maybe lower the volume.'

  'I'm sorry. Are you okay? Can you move?'

  I tried to steady myself, 'I think so.'

  'Would you like to come inside?'