by Tony Black
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.’
Chapter 10
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.
It came from the front door.
I tried to raise myself. Wasn’t happening. Got one foot planted on the floor, knee bent. Tried to push. The floor got the better of me.
Louder blows.
Fuck, was that an actual hammer? Was guessing a sledger.
Hod came running through. ‘What’s going on?’
I found some juice in my legs, raised myself. ‘The door …’
‘Some fucker’s putting in my door!’
Hod legged it from the room, turned down the hallway to the front of the flat. I pegged it after him, hobbling like a jakey with one foot. My limbs ached, my heart pounded as if I was on the last hundred yards of a marathon but something kept me keeping on. When I rounded the corner the door was coming off its hinges. The only things keeping it up were some heavy-duty screws and security chain. Hod raised hands to his head, turned. He made that Twilight Zone face you see on the most scoobied from time to time, then balled fists.
The hammering kept up, then a chink of light came through above the chain. I didn’t have enough time to process what was coming as a red-tipped axe split through the links. Then the door fell open. Wood splinters and busted bits of metal sprung into the flat.
‘Holy shit!’ said Hod.
I was still away with it, but the sight of Danny Gemmill and another burly pug in black leather pushing in and slamming Hod against the wall brought me round.
There’s a phrase, act first, think later: I was making this my motto. Fired in with a haymaker right, cracked a nice bit of knuckle on bone but the effect wasn’t what I’d hoped for. Gemmill raised fingers to his cheekbone, as though he was wiping off a tart’s lipstick, looked at the tips then came for me.
I was quicker on my feet than I thought, dropped back a few steps, maybe managed three in total before the wall stopped me. I had less than a second to contemplate my next move. As the lump ran me, smiling, I launched my forehead at his coupon. Caught nose, got some noise from him. Thought: Result. As the hands went up to stem the blood flow, I put a thumb in his eye. This was new for me; I was going feral. Gemmill squealed. It was encouragement to me. Before I knew it I’d grabbed him round the neck – big mistake. In a flash he raised me off the floor with a swift jab, got to battering me against the wall but I hardly felt a thing. Truth told, my body was still too rubber from the sauce to register pain. As I flailed about I hoped to tire Gemmill out; caught sight of Hod getting the better of his man, raising up the axe and pinning him by the throat.
The whole scuffle was over in under five minutes.
When Gemmill dropped to his knees, Hod released his pug. The look on their faces said they couldn’t comprehend this turn of events. As Hod wielded the axe like Conan the Barbarian, something told me they were gonna have to believe it whether they wanted to or not.
‘Before I cut you both a new crack, better get speaking up,’ said Hod.
The pair breathed heavily, and what was that, drool? Fucking drool coming from them. Bloody troglodytes.
Said, ‘Liven up, lads. I’ve seen him take eyes out with blunter instruments.’
Gemmill, Leith as the Walk, spoke: ‘You know the score … fucking sure you do!’
‘You’re Shaky’s boy,’ said Hod. ‘But what the fuck you doing here? Just got my motor, didn’t you? … I’ve got a fortnight to pay up.’
‘Aye, but …’ Gemmill spoke through his bust nose, ‘Shaky’s no’ too pleased with that set ay wheels.’
‘The fuck you on about, Gemmill?’ I said. ‘It’s near twenty grand’s worth ay motor!’
Splutters, blood. ‘The alternator was gone, needed replaced, and the tyres were well tanned, had to put four new tyres on … And there’s nae fucking tax or owt.’ He was spewing, raging mad about a car that they could score the best part of twenty grand on. It didn’t stack up. This was crazy mental. If I didn’t know better I’d think Shaky was looking for an excuse to wipe Hod out.
‘You’ll be complaining I never emptied the bloody ashtrays next!’ said Hod.
‘Aye, well … aye, well … there wis a fag burn on the leather seat … passenger’s side.’
Hod glowered at me.
I bit back, ‘Wha’?’
‘Look, Shaky’s no’ fuckin’ chuffed,’ said the other one. Obviously not the brains of the operation – he had too much of a mouth on him. ‘Says that motor’s not buying you the two weeks he thought. That’s you on a week to come up with the poppy or—’
I slapped his face with my right palm. ‘Or fucking what, sunshine?’ He watched me hover over him. Wished I had the strength to remould this guy’s features round my kneecap, said, ‘Here’s what you tell Shaking fucking Stevens: He’ll get his poppy when we’re good and ready and if he doesn’t like that …’
‘Gus …’ Hod blasted.
I flagged him down, went on: ‘And if he doesn’t fucking like that then he can start playing the lottery to sort out his finances.’
The mouth arked up, ‘You must be off yer fucking heid, pal!’
‘I am … pure fucking Radio Rental.’ I made to grab the axe haft from Hod. It shook before the pug’s face. ‘Doubt me?’
The pair on the floor exchanged glances, first at each other then back to us. Hod held firm to the axe; it was a heavy job. No trouble going through a skull or two. Had I the strength, I was hyped enough to do it. I thanked Christ I hadn’t … Dury, get a grip, I told myself.
Said, ‘Now get the fuck out of here and tell that boss of yours that he’ll get his money when we have it, and if he comes for it before that then all he’s getting’s blood … and it’s not gonna be fucking mine!’
They shuffled back a few feet on the floor, eased up and walked slowly to the door. Gemmill looked fit to be tied, glowering and showing teeth at me like an angry pit bull. He spoke up: ‘I tell you, Dury, this is bad patter. I’m gonna kick yer cunt all over toon.’
I played hardball. ‘You can try, Gemmill.’
As they left I turned back to Hod. He’d slumped against the wall, slid slowly down onto his haunches, put his head in his hands. ‘Gus, what the hell have you done?’
I smiled. ‘What the fuck have I done? I should be asking you that question.’
He looked up, eyes like a child who’d been told there was no Santa. ‘What you on about?’
‘I’m on about all that for a few grannies owing to Shaky. Is there something you’re not telling me here, mate?’
‘Gus, you know that’s how Shaky’s boys carry on. Fuck me, we’ll be in boxes come the weekend, way you played them.’
I wasn’t buying that. Either Hod was holding back or somebody else was. And it wasn’t me.
‘Fuck off, Hod … We’ll talk about this later. But trust me, I know these types, they respect some balls.’
I was still flying, walked over to the wall, patted Hod on the head. It was quite dark outside; flicked the light switch but the bulb had gone. Tried the other switch but it seemed to have gone too.
‘Fused, eh?’ I said.
‘No … leccy’s been cut off. Got the letter yesterday.’
‘Good job we’re moving on then, eh?’
Hod put his head back in his hands, sighed. ‘Gus, there’s nowhere far enough.’
Chapter 11
I’D DONE WORSE JOBS; Christ I had. But at least I got paid for them. Still, ja
nnying at the uni was gonna get me close to the action. Figured the hardest part of the job would be convincing folk I really was on the staff. I knew Calder wasn’t happy about having me around, but he could hardly say no given the circumstances of his rector’s son’s recent demise.
I felt enormous relief to get the tweed jacket off, was like shedding a dead skin. The dustcoat seemed to be more my style; more my class of loser. Felt an atavistic pat of approval on my back – it was like getting down to honest graft, proper work, kind you got your hands dirty at. Always thought it beat desk-jockeying any day of the week.
Calder wasn’t best chuffed at my snooping around the campus in the guise of a janitor. He’d threatened to ‘raise the issue’ with Gillian; I’d told him I didn’t give two shits. A boy had been murdered on his watch and the man seemed more concerned with covering that up than finding any kind of justice. Sure, I could see why the mere fact of the matter wasn’t going to attract any positive PR for him, but there was a bigger issue here: his mother was closer to the money when she’d called it murder – I became more convinced of that with every passing hour. Call it gut instinct, or a nose for bullshit, whatever: my antennae were twitching for sure. I needed to get closer to the action, start pushing a few buttons, busting a few heads.
I looked around the doocot: lots of tin pails, heavy-duty mops, bottles of bleach in powder form and an assortment of paper hand-towels and loo rolls stacked to the ceiling. There was a few gardening tools: a rake, a fork and some fencing posts sat alongside tightly wrapped bales of barbed wire. The place smelled like a heavily disinfected public urinal and had just about the same appeal. The only relief from the smell came from the odd waft of turps. I was wondering who utilised the rusty kettle and dirty cups when the door opened.
‘Oh, aye … what’s your game?’ A gut-heavy twenty-something in a mustard-coloured dustcoat put wide eyes on me.
I played it safe: ‘Eh, I’m Gus … the new help.’
‘What fucking new help?’ He sounded far too well bred to be a janny; I wondered what his story was.