Gutted (20 page)

Rasher waved Mac down. ‘Yes, well, that’s one way of putting it . . . We’re here to make you aware of our concern for you, Gus.’

Hang on – was I hearing this? Mr Bacon, concerned about me? I wasn’t buying it.

‘Whoa! Back up. Can you cut to the chase here? I’m not overly familiar with this concern you’re talking about.’

Mac rose. ‘Gus, this is an alcoholic’s intervention . . . We’re here to shock you into taking some steps.’

Now I got the picture. Alcoholic’s intervention. I’d heard nothing like it. The image I had stored in my head of Rasher presenting me with a contract, his fat hand poised, pen gripped over it as he asked me to sign, suddenly vanished. There would be no job offer, no new life. It was all dreams.

I looked to Debs. She stared at the floor. I knew she’d been dragged along for this, I felt nothing but sympathy for her. How could anyone ask her to do this, after what I’d put her through? I felt massive rage – I wanted to fire it at someone.

I stood up quickly, the chair went flying at my back.

I heard my mother gasp. ‘Angus, please hear the man out.’

‘No, Mam, this is stupid.’

‘Now, Gus, I appreciate it must be a shock,’ said Rasher.

‘Shock! I’ll give you shock, you deceitful bastard.’

Hod rose. ‘Gus, c’mon, man, give it a chance.’

Mac followed him, put his oar in. ‘People have come a long way here, Gus. You have to give them their say.’

I pointed a finger at him, but words failed me. I turned for the door.

As I stormed through the restaurant I heard Debs’s voice call me, ‘Gus, Gus, wait up.’

I didn’t stop.

Grey heads bobbed up all over the place this time.

In the car park Debs finally caught me, grabbed my jacket and spun me round. ‘I told them it was a daft idea.’

‘Oh, they listened to you.’

She turned down the corners of her mouth. ‘I’m sorry.’

It seemed strange hearing her say that; normally that was my line. I turned away, kept walking.

‘Gus, where are you going?’

‘Away from here.’

She followed. ‘Then I’m coming too.’

I turned, said, ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

‘I don’t care.’

‘I could stop you.’

‘You could try.’ She smiled at me, stuck out her tongue.

We laughed together.

‘And what use would that be?’

We walked around for about an hour, settled down on an embankment like two teenagers, a bottle of Cherry Coke between us.

‘I didn’t think they still made this,’ I said.

‘They brought it back. Wispas too.’

‘Wispas were away?’

‘Och yeah, for years, Gus.’

Where had I been? I’d wanted to talk to Debs for so long, about so many things, but none of it seemed to matter now. I was happier than I could ever remember being, just talking about utter nonsense.

‘Look, a star,’ said Debs.

‘I think it’s a satellite.’

‘You sure?’

‘No.’ Christ, was I sure about anything? ‘It doesn’t look like a star, though.’

She passed over the bottle. ‘Do you remember when we used to do this down at the chute?’

I laughed, wheezed. ‘Oh yeah. How could I forget that Merrydown? It was foul.’

‘Think kids today still hang about parks and drink Merrydown?’

‘I don’t think they make it any more.’

‘Maybe they’ll bring it back.’

We laughed again, huge laughs. I fell back and lay on the grass. Debs joined me.

‘It’s getting dark,’ she said.

‘Late in the day, Debs.’

She raised herself on an elbow. ‘You always manage to make an unrelated statement seem related to what we’re talking about.’

‘No I don’t.’

‘And you always deny it.’ She tweaked my nose.

‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m a wise-ass . . . but it takes one to know one.’ As I stared at Debs I knew no one would ever know me as well as she did. She just understood me, inside out. No matter who I was with, nobody could match Debs for insight. It was just her, and her alone, who got me.

‘Look, now that’s a star,’ I said.

‘Wow, it’s bright.’

‘First of the night, too . . . Make a wish.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Will I tell you what I wished for?’

‘No, don’t – it might not happen then.’

She was silent for a moment, then lay back down on the grass. ‘Gus – I wished something for you.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes.’

I sighed. ‘Thank you.’

The darkness came fast now. A wind struck up, blew right along the embankment.

‘Och, that’s a cold breeze,’ said Debs.

I sat up. ‘We should get inside.’

‘No, stay.’ She pulled me back down, moved closer, brought her hands up under her chin and sheltered beside me. ‘I like it here.’

‘Okay.’

The moonlight shone on her hair. I wanted to put my arm around her, hold her close to me, but somehow I was held rigid. I was fifteen again and under the chute, and Debs hadn’t changed a bit. I knew inside neither of us ever would.

A SOPPY OLD
labrador was ready to trade teeth with a dachshund, right in the front room of the vet’s.

‘Harvey’s quite harmless really,’ said the owner, Morningside lady in twinset, tweed skirt, wellington boots. Could have done with some help restraining Harvey, I thought.

I smiled, said, ‘Nerves, probably. Don’t like these visits myself.’

The Lab growled, a deep noise from the pit of its chest.

‘He doesn’t like the vet . . . always sets him off,’ said Morningside. ‘I’ll maybe take him outside till he calms down a bit. Will you tell them to give me a shout?’

I nodded, said, ‘Will do.’

Harvey strained on the lead as he went, snarled. I gave him a little wave. The dachshund looked victorious.

‘Do you have an appointment?’ asked the receptionist.

‘Well, no. I didn’t know I needed one.’ Was all too close to the real world for me. Appointments, dealing with professionals. I was more at home in less respectable establishments.

‘Well, we don’t normally take people without an appointment.’

‘Och, it’s just to take out the dog’s stitches . . . He was attacked, you see.’

‘Attacked!’ She lifted her gaze from the counter. ‘Oh, the poor love! We’re seeing so much of that kind of thing now.’

I played up to her. ‘Like I say, there was an attack and they had to patch him up, poor little tyke.’

‘He seems okay; hasn’t done him any real harm. Some of the dogs we see that have been brutalised just go in on themselves.’

I knew the territory. ‘He’s happy enough.’

‘If it’s just the stitches to come out, bring him through.’

‘Okay.’

‘I think we can fit him in with Mr Andrews. Can you wait and I’ll see when he’s got a free mo?’

Seemed Mr Andrews wasn’t busy. Managed to find a slot for us right away. I got up to follow him through. Usual was none too keen to see the vet, using his front paws as brakes as he was led into the surgery. First time I’d seen any form of disobedience in him.

‘C’mon, lad . . .’ I said. He thawed a bit. But still determined he was going nowhere. ‘I don’t know what’s got into him.’

‘It’s the animal instinct,’ said the vet. ‘You’ll never see a beast happy to traipse through to the surgery.’

I lifted Usual up. Bit of a struggle.

On the vet’s table I held the dog’s head, let the man do the business. The stitches came out without any drama. Usual seemed as relieved as me.

‘Is he a rescue dog?’ The vet didn’t seem to know the story.

‘Well, yeah, kind of. I caught some little bastards—
sorry
, teenagers – using him as target practice.’

He seemed unfazed, said, ‘All too common these days.’ A few wipes of antiseptic and Usual was good to go. ‘Right, that’s us. Don’t let him lick that off.’

I nodded, said, ‘You hear that, boy? No licking off the medicine!’

The vet filled out some details on the computer, punched a few keys. I got ready for the fright of the bill, then, ‘If that’s all then, Mr Crawford.’

He’d lost me. ‘I’m sorry, no – Dury.’

The vet took off his glasses, looked at the screen, then back to me, said, ‘Dury’s not the name we have here.’

‘I’m not following you. Who would give you another name?’

‘On the chip – this dog’s microchipped.’

I walked round to the side of the screen. The dog struggled, didn’t want me to leave him. I put a hand on his head. ‘Just a minute, boy.’

The vet pointed, said, ‘Look, Mark Crawford . . . That’s the name registered on the chip.’

I scanned the details. There was an address too: Ann Street.

The vet put his glasses back on, looked at me with squinted eyes.

I bluffed. ‘Well, that’s fantastic. Means I can reunite the pair of them. Isn’t it brilliant? This has been a visit well worth making . . . Thank you so much. Can I settle up now?’

At the reception desk I collected a pack of Bonios and the biggest dog chew they had on offer, added them to the bill.

‘You look relieved to be out of there,’ said the receptionist.

‘Yes, I think he is.’

‘I was talking about you.’ She didn’t know how right she was.

In the street I knelt down, grabbed Usual and ruffled his ears. ‘Who’s a good boy, then? . . . Eh, eh? Who’s a bloody good boy then?’

I fed him a Bonio. He munched away blissfully.

‘Christ, boy, you might just have saved my bacon.’

I took out my mobile.

Ringing.

‘Yeah, Mac here . . .’

‘Who’s the man?’

A huff.

Sigh.

‘Mac, what were you saying about this case being a bogey . . .?’

‘Yeah, what about it?’

‘Well, my son, I think I just got our first break.’

I could hear shuffling. ‘You’re in line for another one as well.’

‘Come again?’

‘Rab’s heavies were round again. If we thought they were unfriendly the last time, this time they left no doubt.’

I did not want to hear this. ‘You okay?’

‘Well, I’ve got a nice piece of steak on my eye that would have been better punted out with a plate of chips for a tenner . . . a tenner we could well do with now.’

‘The bar?’

‘Bit more smashed up than when plod left.’

I felt a twinge in my chest that was either the onset of a coronary or my last vestige of hope dying. ‘What did you tell them?’

‘I told them you were at the boat.’

‘Good.’

‘I thought, y’know, it was better you went to see him . . . Next time he might not ask any questions. We don’t want you offed for bloody-mindedness, Gus.’

I couldn’t fault Mac’s reasoning, he knew how these people worked. ‘Okay, I’ll get back to the boat right away. Get this fucking thing over with.’

I was about to hang up when Mac said, ‘Mind and be careful, and especially, watch that fucking mouth of yours.’

THEY WERE WAITING
at the quayside. Two burly pugs in schemie uniform: trackies, bling, and barnets seen to with the number one. Put them beside John Goodman and people would be asking if he’d been on a diet. The biggest of the two wore a white vest that revealed not an inch of his arms hadn’t been tattooed. As they saw me coming they waddled over, heads tipped back as if they were waiting to avoid a swipe. Like I’d be so stupid.

‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ I said. God, they looked scoobied, could almost hear the gerbils on the little wheels inside their heads going faster to try and work that out. I fired out a joke: ‘Church of Latter-Day Saints, is it?’

Nothing.

A scrunch of brows.

‘No, och well, it’s either that or you’re selling steroids.’

The tats geezer started to stride towards me. Usual strained on the lead, let out a hail of barking. He looked fierce – I felt protected. The pug stopped in his tracks.

‘Don’t worry, his bark’s worse than his bite. Let me put him on the boat and then I’ll accompany you to Saughton . . . I take it you’re from Rab.’

Tats Man was first to speak, ‘Aye, and we won’t be hanging about.’

The other one added, ‘It’ll be him that’s fucking hanging about if he tries anything.’

They laughed that up. Clapping, the lot.

I put some fresh water and food out for the dog. He settled down in his basket and seemed quite content to be back home. I tapped his head, said, ‘See you soon, fella . . . No licking that medicine.’