Long Way Down (A Gus Dury crime thriller)

by Tony Black

As I passed the old Station Bar I felt tempted to take another scoosh home with me but I clocked the laundrette's lights burning and remembered my washing.

  'Shit, man ...'

  The little Dot Cotton woman in there would have a lecture for me, like the last time, and the time before. She was what the Scots call thrawn. She was what I called an aul' witch. Something happened to a certain type of women in their bad fifties that boiled the bile in them. They just couldn't pass up an opportunity to spit out some spite.

  The bell above the door chimed as I walked in. Empty. I looked around. The machines were silent, a few had the pay boxes removed. I was heading over to the counter when a small blonde head appeared through the window in the door to the back of the shop. The face lit up, a heartmelter smile. I didn't recognise the girl but I was already glad Dot wasn't filling tonight's back-shift.

  'Hello,' she said. The accent was hard to place, I'd have said Italian but I'd likely have been wrong.

  'Hi there ...'

  'I have your things. I put them in a bag for you, I hope that is okay.'

  I nodded.

  She handed over the bag. Everything was neatly folded. I didn't know what to say. Christ, had she folded my boxers as well? I felt the burn of my cheeks flaming up.

  'Thank you,' I said.

  She smiled again, straight white teeth. The Ultra-bright variety. 'Did you forget something else?'

  'I'm sorry?'

  She started to laugh, reached under the counter and put something behind her back. 'From earlier, when you were in?'

  I twisted my neck. Put eyes on her. 'You've lost me?'

  A hand swung round from her back, produced my beaten-up iPod. 'Tah-dah!'

  'Oh, I see ...'

  She was grinning as she spoke. 'It must have sat there on the bench all day ... no-one even touched it!'

  'Well, it's hardly a worthy find.'

  She put her hands behind her back again, looked content with her good deed. 'I've seen you with it before ... I recognised the, er ...' She pointed to the sticking plaster.

  'The Elastoplast ... had ran out of tape.' I tucked the iPod in my pocket.

  'I played some songs through the speakers ... I hope you don't mind.'

  'No, not at all.'

  'I hadn't heard of Love and Money. They're good ...'

  'They're great.'

  'I liked The Stagger Rats too ... Fuzzy, Fuzzy.' She held my gaze for a moment and then looked away suddenly.

  The conversation seemed to have bottomed out. I picked up my bag and slotted the iPod on top.

  'Look, thanks again,' I said. 'Much appreciated.'

  'Not a problem.'

  At the door I turned back before I reached for the handle, 'Where's that accent from?'

  'Poland,' she said. 'I'm from Poland.'

  'Oh, I'd have said Italy.'

  She turned down the corners of her mouth, sneered. 'Too sunny for me.'

  'Me too, for sure.'

  The bell sounded as I gripped the handle and walked out into the rain-spattered street.

  * * * *

  My flat was on Easter Road, a stone's throw from the Hibs stadium. There was no more monolithic reminder of my father's standing in the city. The sound of the match day roar, of police horses herding hooligans in the street, all played their part in keeping me tied to a past I'd sooner forget. My father's playing days coincided with the apogee of his own egotistical form of self-destruction. We had that much in common, I was prepared to admit, only all my arrows were trained on myself. None of his were, they were trained on his family, and none of them missed.

  I was slotting the key in the door when I heard the sound of a fancy car alarm clicking on. I turned to catch the blinkers flashing on and off and then I heard Danny Murray's loafers slapping off the wet flags.

  'Hello, Gus ...'

  'The fuck is this, Danny?'

  I looked over his shoulder, back down the street.

  He flagged me down. 'A friendly visit, between colleagues.'

  We were pretty far from that level. And friendly was the last word I'd use to describe Dan the Man.

  I shook my head and rested my laundry bag on my hip. 'What are you after, Danny?'

  He eyed the open door behind me. 'Maybe we should go inside, Gus ...'

  He had me on the back foot. I turned and let him follow me up the stairwell. The hinges on the door to my flat wheezed as I directed him inside. Danny made his way to the living room and stationed himself in the centre of the sofa.

  I was sparking up a Marlboro from the pack on the coffee table when he started to speak.

  'Well?' he said.

  'Well, what?' I eased out a blue trail of smoke, it swirled towards the dim bulb in the centre of the room.

  Danny put out his palms. 'What have you got for me?'

  I started to remove my Crombie, dropped it on to the crook of my arm, laid it over the back of the easy-chair. I was looking directly at Danny as I took another gasp on my cig. 'Are you trying to be funny?'

  He shrugged. 'Funny ... No, not me. I'm not known for my jokes, Gus ...'

  He had that right. 'You just saw me this morning ... Do you think I've managed to take care of business in that time?'

  'To be honest, yes.'

  I reached round the back of the chair and removed the Racing Post and envelope with his cash from the inside pocket of my jacket. I had the package raised and ready to chuck it back at him as he rose from the sofa and started to fan hands in my direction.

  'Whoa ... Whoa ... Gus, I'm just checking on my investment.'

  I flicked some ash on the tray, shook my head. 'Investment? Do I look like the fucking Man from the Pru?'

  He stopped flat. Dropped his brows. 'Gus ...'

  My tone wasn't doing it. I pointed my fag like a dart as I spoke again. 'Now look, Danny, I understand you want Barry found and I understand that time is a factor to you ... what I don't understand is why you're so bloody jumpy.' I dipped my head, brought it closer to his own. 'Now what are you not telling me about why you need Barry in such a hurry?'

  He stepped back, tried to laugh me off but the move towards slipping on his back-tracking shoes was clear. He didn't want to reveal to me that Shakey wanted Barry for the inside-track on the Irish mob's job. Once he got hold of Barry and his information the boy was likely to become as expendable as pig feed.

  'Gus, you get me all wrong ... I'm just anxious to find Barry, that's all. We go back and it's not easy readjusting to the street after a stretch in the pound.'

  It was all very altruistic of him. And about as believable as the plot to Iron Sky. But I let him think I was as dumb as him. 'Okay, Danny ... I hear you. I want to look out for our Barry as well ...'

  He smiled, reached a hand on to my shoulder. 'Good. Good ... So you'll definitely have him soon?'

  'Yes, Danny ... soon.'

  He put out his other hand, caught me in a pincer movement. 'How soon?'

  'How soon would you like him?'

  He gripped my shoulders tightly. 'Tomorrow.'

  'Too soon. I have some leads but this is a big city and if he doesn't want to be found ... No, tomorrow's too soon, Danny.'

  He bit his lip, dropped arms and turned away from me. 'Look, you don't understand how much ...' He stopped himself, realised his halo was slipping. Danny touched the corners of his mouth with thumb and forefinger, spoke again. 'Okay, when?'

  'Give me a week.'

  He bit, flared up. 'No way! ... That's far too long.'

  'Okay then, you need to give me a deadline. I work well to deadlines, I used to be a hack ...'

  Danny was gripping fists as he spoke. 'The day after tomorrow ... but let's just say, if you turn Barry over to me any later than midday, well, I can't guarantee to be any help to him. '

  * * * *

  I woke with a ringing in my head and what felt like a bison sitting on my chest. I buried my face back in the pillow but the heavy smell of Marlboros had me gagging. I sat up and swung my legs over the edge
of the bed.

  My Levis looked too far away, hanging on the back of a chair on the other side of the room. I pushed myself on to my feet and made the pilgrimage over the manky carpet, picking up a freshly-folded white T-shirt and a black V-neck from the laundry bag. Inside ten I was in the neighbourhood of respectable — if unshaven, red-eyed and a gut-rasping cough are your idea of respectable.

  I clocked my boots beside the coffee table in the living room but my stomach was too tender to contemplate bending over to lace them up; I sparked another red-top and gazed upwards as the bulb became submerged in swirling blue plumes.

  'Fucking hell, Barry ...'

  I had a day.

  24 little hours.

  Hardly any time to find him before the statute of limitations ran out on Danny Murray's patience. The thought of Shakey's unctuous errand boy calling the shots riled me but at least I'd managed to inveigle some proper information out of him. Midday tomorrow would be too late, he'd said. And that had to be because the Irish mob were planning their job then. If Barry went ahead I knew the consequences and they didn't bear thinking about. Vivisection with a rusty corkscrew was likely one of the nicer options on the cards.

  I dowped my cig, reached for my cherry Docs.

  The heavy footwear were a struggle to lace but once in place the bouncing soles felt the part. I picked up the rest of my fags, slotted the Camels in beside the Marlboros and made for the door.

  It was cold out, but only a smirry rain that could be fended off by turning the collar up on my Crombie. I headed back up Easter Road, passed the Manna House and the posh offie, then on to the first London Road bus stop. I checked the real-time message board for the next bus to Porty, said, 'Ten minutes ...'

  I waited the ten minutes.

  Waited to see the final countdown turn to 'due' but the bus didn't arrive. The timer changed back to fifteen minutes instead.

  'Fuck me drunk ...' I shook my head, took hands from my pockets and waved palms either side of my head.

  'Those buses, son ...' I turned round on the sound of that word. My heart stung when I heard someone call me 'son'. I still couldn't fathom whether it was because I wanted to be someone's son, or didn't want to be the one person's son that I was.

  An old bloke in a tweed cap, his nose a riot of burst blood vessels, joined me in shaking heads, said, 'As much bloody use as tits on a bull!'

  He had their number. 'Lothian buses are a joke.'

  'They try to blame the tram works.'

  'Well they've axed enough of the service to pay for them.'

  He shook his head. 'Aye. And if they ever get the bastards running, they'll blame them for taking more buses off the roads.'

  I had a sense this conversation could go in circles all day, I clamped it down. Looked the other way. As I glanced over to the laundrette, I found myself wondering about the Polish girl from the night before; I don't know why, perhaps it was the unusual kindness. Had I even said thanks properly?

  She wasn't there. I could only see the old witch, the Dot Cotton, loading a drier from a yellow plastic laundry basket. She wore a shiny tabard with pale blue checks and two pockets on the front. She reminded me of the battle-scarred cleaners who used to hoover around my desk at The Hootsman, grunting and moaning about the state of the place as an eternal Woodbine dropped ash on my in-tray.

  The bus ride out to Porty was the usual trial of screaming and shouting care-in-the-community patients with backing vocals from noisy schoolchildren on the doss. There was a time in my life when I'd have hollered a few notes in their direction myself, but not now. The older I got, the more appealing the path of least resistance became. Could it be I was actually maturing enough to pick my battles carefully. Surely not.

  The main access door to Katrina's block of flats was being held open by the postie for a pram-face mum with a screaming toddler on one hip and a fluorescent buggy with mag-wheels by the other. I kept my distance just long enough for the melee to pass and then I jogged for the slow closing door and took the steps.

  I picked out the smell of piss and sickly-sweet Buckfast mingling on the grimy stairwell. Some of the young crew had been in to tag the walls since my last visit, and despite being a respecter of the creative urge that I am, I couldn't help but think their efforts sucked balls. Right into a hernia.

  I clattered up the last step and battered on Katrina's door.

  There was no movement beyond.

  I ramped up the thuds with the heel of my hand.

  Now some stirring. The sound of a plate sliding into the skirting, a knife and fork joining in.

  I heard a light switch going on.

  Then the bolt turned in the door.

  I was given an inch of exposure to the flat. It was more than enough. I pressed my shoulder to the wood and my inch became a mile.

  Katrina took a few seconds to register her disgust. 'Hey, what you playing at?'

  I walked through to the front room. The place was in darkness. I pulled open the curtains and the grey Scottish skies brought a familiar dim pallor to the proceedings.

  Katrina slumped in the door's jamb. 'I told you Barry's not here.'

  I tried a few doors, more for effect than anything else. The rooms were all empty.

  'I can see that, Katrina ...'

  'Well fuck off then.'

  'Tut-tut ... terrible language.' I walked over to the spot where the Gola bag had sat yesterday, the blue shag-pile carpet displayed a familiar depression. 'I hope you're not going to make me swear, Katrina ... do you know why?'

  'Why?'

  I pinned back my mouth. 'Because I only swear when I lose my temper ... I'd hate to lose my temper with you, Katrina.'

  She looked at me through drooping eyelids. If there was a thought distilling behind them it deserted her. She opted for the same old. 'He's not here.'

  'No, I can see that ... and neither is his bag.'

  She put a hand to her mouth. Her chin became dimpled like a lemon. 'I threw it out ...'

  I jumped at her. Pinned her scrawny neck to the wall with my forearm and stared into her eyes. 'Now you have crossed the fucking line, girl ... If you know what's good for you, and give half of a shit what's good for Barry you'll tell me where the hell he is now!'

  Her eyes dimmed.

  I roared again. 'Now!'

  'He's not here ... he's not here.'

  'That's not what I fucking asked you ... I want to know where he is?'

  She started to whimper, struggling for breath. 'I don't know.'

  'Then tell me this, Kat ... what was Weasel doing here yesterday?'

  'I don't know ...'

  I pressed my arm harder against her throat. 'Wrong answer!'

  She coughed. 'He just brought me round a score ...'

  'And took the bag for Barry?'

  She didn't answer.

  'I'm only going to ask you once more, then I'll snap your fucking junkie neck, Katrina. Don't think for a second I won't, there's no love lost between us and I know Barry would be better off without you ...'

  'Aye, okay ... He took the bag.'

  'Where?'

  'Weasel's flat ... in Craigmillar.'

  I stepped back and let her grab for air. She folded like a hinge before me, coughing and spewing. I didn't want to know how much grief this pathetic excuse for a human being had caused Barry.

  'Get me the address ... now.'

  * * * *

  Walking cleared the head. Walking in Edinburgh, battered by gales and likely as not rain in stair-rods, washed the head right out. After leaving Katrina's flat I took to the high street in Portobello and bought a thank-you for the laundry girl. It was nothing much, just a CD. But it set me in mind of earlier days; I couldn't say happier ones.

  Myself and Debs had never worked out; the reasons too multifarious to go into. But she was still there with me — never far from the back of my mind. She was like my conscience and my caution rolled into one. If I was left to my own devices I'd be six-foot under by now. That voice though
, that shrill, pedantic whine that she always berated me with at the worst of times was never far away. I could hear it now as I turned the CD into my pocket.

  'What the hell are you playing at, Gus?' that's what she said.

  I wasn't playing at anything. The Game of Life had long since ceased to be of any amusement to me.

  I was just going with the flow.

  Rolling with the punches.

  Maybe I'd be lucky and get some sense knocked into me. Sure as shooting this business with Barry wasn't going to end without a few tasty blows being struck. If past form was anything to go by, then I'd be on the receiving end. The thought gored me, made me feel even more pity for Barry. He'd had it tough enough without having friends like me.

  It seemed every shop in the street was selling cute and cuddly pandas. Their sad eyes dug at me. I couldn't see past the fact that they were captive beasts. There was something unsettling about a city getting so excited about having the animals locked up in the zoo. Was I the only one who saw how miserable they really were? Keeping them behind bars wasn't helping them — it was helping us. It made us feel a little bit better about having ballsed up the entire planet. In Paris during the war they ate all the animals in their zoo — that shows what they really thought of them.

  From the pandas my mind latched back on to Barry's plight: it seemed like he was actually better off behind bars. He'd gone from the big house to the shit house in one fell swoop. Try as I might, I just couldn't get my head around his drop. It had been gradual, a slow steering towards the long way down but he'd hit rock bottom now. Nietzsche said you needed to strike the lowest depths before you could bounce back, but Barry wasn't bouncing anywhere from his dark pit of despair. Not unless it was back inside, or worse yet, into Shakey's hands.

  I flagged a Joe Baxi and the driver in the Nigerian footy shirt tapped in the Craigmillar address on his TomTom.

  'Cheers, mate ... and quick as you like, eh.'

  I checked my mobi for messages: zip. Unless you call a text from my mate Hod with a link to Frankie Boyle's Twitter account a message. It seemed the Pope had made his first tweet and the bold Mr Boyle had taken his chance to address the pontiff directly about abusive priests. I smiled inwardly; there was something about the direct approach, about speaking the truth to power that I liked a whole lot.