Long Time Dead

by Tony Black

  Debs had said it. She’d made the prediction long ago that I’d end up alone and bitter, cursing the world, blaming everyone and everything for my mistakes. Roaring and ranting. Not even choosing my targets any more. Blasting. Just blasting. She’d seen the future, and it wasn’t bright. Thing is, that was a long time ago. Funny how the past catches up with you.

  Called over the barman – squat beer gut with a shaved head and a star tattooed on his neck – said, ‘Pint. Chaser.’

  Got a nod. All it took. Places like this, the chat’s minimum, if uttered at all. Another couple of scoops and Beer Gut would be over with a nod at the pumps and we’d be away. There’s a comfort in this kind of interaction, if you can even call it that; people will say these types of joints are for the lonely. They’re wrong. They’re for the seriously fucked off. The beyond lonely. People who are lonely crave company; people who hole up in spit-and-sawdust drinkers are after the opposite. Knew I was. I was looking for complete anonymity. If I could excoriate my skin like a snake I would, shed the lot, all identity with it. The past. The mistakes. The lost dreams. The heartache. The loss… Christ, I’d shed the lot.

  The drinks came. Tanked them. Couldn’t even look at the barman. He took the hint, said, ‘Same again?’

  I nodded at my empty pint glass.

  My mind was all over the place. I knew where it should be: on the case. Each time I thought about it, the tweed Hod had bought me itched; I could feel those business cards weighing heavily in my breast pocket. But the straight road had long been a stranger to me. There was a place in my head, a cold spot… the kind that people refer to when they say that bloke has something dark in his locker. I did indeed. Could pinpoint it. Was the size of a football pitch, bigger maybe. Did I feel sorry for myself? Did I ever.

  My mind went back, further back beyond the recent hurts…

  I’m to be married; Debs is happy. For the first time in an age I see her start to thaw, smile again. It has been so long. She… we… have been through so much.

  ‘Look at the way it sparkles.’ She holds up the diamond in the engagement ring to the window. The rare blasts of Scottish sunlight – scarcer than hen’s teeth, as my mam always says – alight on the diamond, the rays dissemble, spread and fill out. It’s beautiful. It says happiness.

  ‘God, it does… You wouldn’t think something so small could shine like that.’

  Debs smiles. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  My throat tightens. I feel welled up with emotion. I want more than anything to make her happy. I put my arms around her and hold tight. We have a chance, I can sense it. The bad times are behind us now; this is a fresh start.

  We collapse onto the bed, giggling.

  For a long while we just lie there, looking at the diamond and smiling. I’m overwhelmed that something so simple can create so much happiness. Debs’s eyes hardly blink; she’s blissed out.

  ‘I’ll never take it off,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, no?’

  Her face hardens. ‘No… never. The day I take it off, it’s over!’

  I know she doesn’t mean it, it’s just one of those things people in love say to each other, the kind of words they use to try to communicate the incommunicable. We both know there are no words for how we feel. It’s written in the sky…

  I sit up, lean in and kiss her.

  Debs sits up beside me. ‘Time for me to go. Got to get back to work.’

  She smiles as I stand up, puts out her hand for me to raise her from the bed. I take her fingers, grip them and lean back to help her up. I’ve done this a million times before but something has forced me to make too dramatic a gesture this time, I heave her too suddenly. Her hand loosens within mine, seeming to shrink. She falls back onto the bed. I try to grip her fingers but they slip through my own.

  As Debs lands on the bed, I feel my hand go into a fist. A small hard object is in my palm, I turn over my hand, open my fingers.

  ‘Oh, Gus…’ Debs’s mouth widens. She touches her cheeks. The diamond engagement ring has came off in my grasp. I hold all our fallen hopes in my hand.

  ‘I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to, it just…’

  Debs’s lip trembles, she starts to cry. ‘Oh, Gus… Oh, Gus…’ It’s all she can say. She pulls herself from the bed, runs to the bathroom and locks the door behind her.

  I look down at the small, shining rock.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I walk to the bathroom door; I can hear Debs’s sobs inside.

  My heart flutters. There’s an emptiness in the pit of my stomach that seems to be rising up into my chest, into my jaw, my head. I feel bereft.

  I want to talk, to say something to her. But there’re no words. Nothing can repair this. Just like there are no words to say how we truly feel, there are no words to explain this kind of message. My fist tightens around the little ring. I want to throw it into the bright sky… but I can’t. I walk over to the dresser, place the ring in the little mauve box from the jeweller, close the lid.

  My shoulders and spine tense as I pass the bathroom door, leave for the stairs, and head back to the office. I can sense the heavy hand of predestination on me as I walk along the road. I want to know what the future holds… but at the same time, I really don’t.

  ‘You fucking sack of shit, Dury…’ I was drawn back into reality by the gravel tones of a shortarse pug. He was squat, but brick shithouse, jaw like a snowplough jutting in my face. My eyesight was a bit hazy after the good bucket I’d taken but I could smell Bovril on his breath, wondered who drinks that outside the footy? As my vision started to focus I saw the answer: Danny Gemmill. He had both hands on the bar, some of Elizabeth Duke’s finest sovies on show. I suddenly felt a spark of life return. ‘That’s some manners your mother gave you, Gemmill.’

  The taciturn barman arked up, got gabby for a change: ‘Look, he’s been in here all afternoon, been on a right fucking sesh, but if yer up for bouncing him aff my walls ye can take that patter outside!’

  Gemmill showed his bottom row of teeth, grey and craggy; two lone tombstones sat higher than the rest – made him look like a missing link between man and ape. ‘Shut yer fucking yap, boss!’

  Barman retreated, eyes darting left and right as he edged himself closer to the telephone.

  I got off my stool, was surprised how light-headed I felt; the floor seemed to swim beneath me, or was that my legs caving? Said, ‘Look, what’re you about?’

  Gemmill didn’t seem to have an eloquent rejoinder on hand; decided he’d punch a hole in my gut instead. I folded like paper. I saw the barman pick up the phone as I fell on the floor, squirmed. It felt like my stomach was on fire; I could taste acid in my mouth. I vomited heavily. Then dark frothy blood came – a good whack of blood rose into my windpipe, spewing out of my mouth. I coughed the lot on the floor. The pug laughed.

  ‘Look at that, fucking claret…’

  I twisted on the ground, felt like my knackers had been cut off. The pain was beyond agony. The room started to fade on me, tables and chairs floated up to the ceiling.

  Gemmill was shouting at the barman: ‘Put that fucking phone down or I’ll wrap it round yer fucking heid!’

  The barman had plod on speed dial. ‘Yes, King’s Arms… Aye, I want polis… An ambulance, aye, y’better…’

  Gemmill mounted the bar – no mean feat for such a shortarse. He grabbed the phone; I watched him slap it off the barman’s brow. He dropped like a horse taking a bullet. The ripped-out phone was flung over the bar, hit an old Younger’s mirror, smashed it to smithereens. Gemmill went scripto now, pulling down optics and smashing bottles. Something told him to empty the till, fill his pockets. A stack of KP nuts went for a flier as he mounted the bar. His arse skited on a Tennent’s towel and cardboard mats floated to the floor.

  His boots stomped towards my head, but I couldn’t move. My arms held in my guts as he grabbed my collar, yanked me to my feet.

  ‘Aff yer fucking arse, Dury. You’re coming wi’ me.’
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  I felt woozy, beyond wankered, beyond drugged. There’s a phrase, at death’s door. It seemed to fit.

  ‘C’mon, y’cunt…’ He shook me, squeezed my face in his mitt; a grim spark of intuition crossed his eyes as he clocked me. Said he wasn’t for doing a serious stretch for my murder. He dropped me to the floor.

  I curled up again; the pain in my gut was all-consuming. I felt ready to cark it. Seriously, this was the real deal. New territory. I wanted to pull the plug, anything to stop the pain. Another mouthful of blood appeared; seemed to piss off the meathead even more.

  ‘Oh, you fucking prick… What’s wi’ the fucking blood, eh?’ Gemmill looked ready to burn me but something stopped him. I couldn’t see him ever taking prisoners at the footy with a Jambo at his feet. He’d either learned a few lessons or there was another reason for him holding back. But in my condition, I couldn’t figure it.

  I heard the sirens now. Sounded like the last bell.

  I coughed again, more blood.

  ‘You’re full ay it, Dury… I’m having you! I’ve got your fucking number boyo… I want you out this toon or out the fucking game! You got me?’

  A flashlight shone in my head: I had something on him. Managed to splutter, ‘Gemmill, I don’t take a scare from your like… suck my balls!’

  That was enough for him: he stamped his boot on my stomach.

  There was a second of searing agony, as though I’d split in two. Then a tractor tyre rolled over my gut and left me to writhe for a few more seconds. I was dimly aware of Gemmill putting the boot in again and again. The maniacal grimace on his face said he’d lost some control, but not all.

  I held firm; held it together. The pain stopped as sharply as it had began. I never felt a thing as I watched Gemmill legging it for the door. I’d gone beyond pain. Gone beyond the beyonds, to be honest.

  Everything went completely dark.

  Chapter 14

  WHITENESS.

  Blinding light. So much it hurt my eyes.

  A slow, persistent beeping. The slight hum of footfalls, just within earshot.

  I felt numb.

  I couldn’t feel any part of my being. There was a corporeal mass beyond the scope of my thoughts; sensed it. Just couldn’t seem to focus on it, feel it, bring myself back to it.

  The numbness changed, was supplanted by a buzzing in my head. I felt drowsy, thirsty – had what the Scots call a great drouth. Was like a killer hangover. Christ, I’d drank enough for that; for sure.

  Remembered the ten or so pints; ten or so whisky chasers… doubles.

  Where the fuck was I?

  A flame of recognition, something stirring in my soul. Was I upstairs? The Big Fella’s gaff… No chance. I should be so bloody lucky.

  The slow beeping pulled me in, got me thinking. I let my eyes open wider, take in more of the harsh light. I could see nothing but a white mass… so strong it bleached everything else out. I shut my lids fast; scrunched them tight. Let them stay shut for all of fifty seconds, counted it, then tried again.

  ‘Fucking hellfire, Gus.’ My voice was a rasp, my throat hurt like hell, but I knew the score now. ‘Back here!’

  It was a hospital ward. Well, more of a room; had it to myself.

  I scrunched my eyes again. Thoughts flooded in. I was in a hospital, yep, no mistake. I was tucked up tight in a bed. A needle in the back of my hand was attached to another drip. But this time I didn’t feel savvy enough, or wise-ass enough, to try and bolt. There was a definite pain around my windpipe, a hot poker of it reaching down my oesophagus into my gut. Had a vague notion this was just the aftermath of something; like I’d been through the fucking mill.

  ‘Blood…’ I stuttered out the word, recalled the pub floor. Frothy vomit, then blood. Lots of it. Enough to have put the shits up Gemmill.

  I was in some kip all right.

  Felt the heart in me quicken; the beeping from the monitor kicked up. Had a minute or so of this, watching the needle jump with my thoughts, until the door swung open and in strode a sister.

  ‘Oh, you’re awake, then,’ she said.

  I spluttered, ‘After a fashion.’

  She approached the bed, leaned over me and squinted at the monitor before turning back. ‘You must be feeling a bit groggy. Throat’ll hurt, mouth a bit dry.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You’ve had an endoscope… but the drugs will take the edge off the pain. Just try to relax.’

  She watched my eyes open; the look said more than any words.

  ‘I’ll get the doctor to come and have a word with you.’

  This didn’t exactly enthral me. Okay, I was in one piece, but I’d been probed and prodded. There was a reason for that, and the doctor’s explanation, sure as shitting, wasn’t going to be one I’d want to hear.

  I tried to sit up on the bed.

  A hand was placed on my chest. ‘No! Stay still, Mr Dury. You need some rest now. Can’t risk any more haemorrhaging.’

  ‘Haemorrhaging…’ The word came like a bullet; Vincent Price couldn’t have put more fear in me.

  The nurse straightened her back, turned for the door. ‘The Doctor will be along in a minute or so to explain everything… Try to rest and please try not to worry yourself.’

  Easier said than done.

  I watched her close the door behind her; settled into a dark brood of thoughts. What the fuck had happened to me?

  I was in bad shape – no question. But had been since Adam was a boy.

  This was new school, though. This was the big league. This was the culmination of years of serious physical deterioration; my chickens coming home to roost.

  I looked at my hands – pale and white, save the yellowed tips and black arcs beneath the nails. I was a wreck. I started to shake. Watched the thin sticks of bone covered in pasty white flesh twitch as if electricity was being passed through them. This was me, Gus Dury. This was what was left of me, anyway. I was down on my luck, always had been, but the way my defeat had manifested itself on my flesh was something I couldn’t take in.

  ‘What did you expect, fuckhead?’ I mumbled.

  I was in my bad thirties; racing towards the big four-oh. The days of tanking the sauce like a nineteen-year-old were well and truly behind me. My body was waving the white flag. I’d seen the signs for a while:

  The skin like a chamois.

  The mustard-coloured eyes.

  The undernourished frame.

  The vomiting.

  The last one had been a new addition. For the longest time, I’d skipped the traditional drinker’s purge. I’d managed to keep it all in. Keep the count high, and the contents on board. But somewhere along the line the rules of the game had changed. The tank still held the same amount of grog, more sometimes, but it was as though the cap leaked. Sometimes the contents made their way to the surface.

  Embarrassingly, I remembered a rare guilt-ridden trip to Alcoholics Anonymous. I’d listened to a corpulent, bearded middle manager who’d clearly been to the brink and back explain how the sauce had caused his ‘interior plumbing to become exterior’. He was ruddy-cheeked as he painted this picture of the dire consequences of his drinking and how it manifested itself in him having to strap a polythene bag to his ankle to catch his own piss. A chill had passed down my spinal chord; I’d put a gun to my own head before I hit that low.

  ‘By fuck I would…’ I’d mouthed the words before I realised I had company.

  ‘Mr Dury… I’m Dr Scott.’

  Couldn’t say I was glad to see him, but was delighted it wasn’t the no-nonsense west-coaster I’d legged it from at my last visit.

  Said, ‘Pleased to meet you… I think.’

  Frowns, over Penfold glasses.

  The doc edged over to the bed, clocked the monitor. There was a brutishness about him; hands that would have looked more at home on a boilermaker. He wasn’t here to fuck around, that was a given.

  He paced to the end of the bed, picked up the clipboard. He took a propelling penci
l from his coat pocket, pumped it, then made some marks on the paper. His face never once changed. Held steel. He was a type I’d met before. Couldn’t say I was overly enamoured with any of his lot, though they did offer a kind of reassurance: it was an image that focused on the utilitarian, the type you want to get a job done, done well even, but not the type you want to pass the time of day with. His was a fast-vanishing breed; as a race we are becoming more vacuous and lightweight every day. Things like focus and seriousness have little or no value. These days people wanted the wrapping to be bright, look the part. They want visibility, not credibility.

  Dr Scott spoke: ‘I suppose you’ll know why you’re here.’

  Fuck me, was this another lecture?

  Was I even biting? No way, said, ‘Well, it’s a lovely view…’

  Not a flicker on him. ‘Alcoholism’s a progressive disease.’ He returned his pencil to his pocket then the clipboard to the end of the bed. ‘You’ll have been aware of that, surely.’ His look said, You’re not an idiot, why are you acting like one?

  I raised myself in the bed. The act was a trial: felt my chest constrict; some burn in there made me wince. The doc watched without as much as a crease appearing on his brow. I tried to use my faltering voice once more: ‘Cut to the chase, eh…’

  He stared at me for a moment, seemed to be sussing whether I was ready for the news. ‘You have extremely dilated submucosal veins in your lower oesophagus.’

  I rolled eyes. ‘In English… please.’

  Dr Scott took off his glasses, removed a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and started to clean the lenses as he spoke. ‘The veins in the narrow part of the tube from the oesophagus to the stomach are damaged. That’s what’s been causing you to vomit, Mr Dury.’