Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) (2 page)

‘Aye, aye, aye …’ Hod clicked fingers at me, shook his head, rapid-style. ‘Look, that’s neither here nor there, mate. What you need to know is, Gillian Laird is looking for someone to go and poke about in her son’s murder, and she’s paying big money.’

He had my full attention.

I was flat broke. Jobless. Hod had lost his last means of income, the Holy Wall pub, which I’d sold to him. The last thing I needed was any more grief in my life, but shit on a stick, I needed something. Fast. My situation was worse than a fly sliding down a razorblade
using its balls as brakes. Something had to give here – could this be the something?

Said, ‘Go out that door and keep shoatie, Hod.’

‘Come again?’

‘Till I get dressed. You don’t want me creeping out of here in a hospital gown, do you?’

Hod grinned. ‘Nae danger … Let’s get ready to rumble, eh.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’

On his way out the door, Hod spoke: ‘Seriously, Gus, you won’t regret it. I have a good feeling about this.’

I’d heard those words from him before; nothing ever shitted me more.

As I picked up my trousers the belt buckle rattled so much in my shaking hands I was like a leper with a bell, said, ‘Fucking hell, Gus, what’re you thinking?’

I was in no state for this whack. I was in no state for anything.

I TRIED TO PULL OUT the needle attached to the saline drip, but my vision wouldn’t focus. Be fucked if my hands would work either – shaking like a jakey with a tin cup.

‘What’s up?’ said Hod.

I didn’t let on. Big mistake.

‘Aahh …
fuck
.’ The needle broke in my hand. I almost leapt through the wall.

Hod was grimacing. ‘Jesus, Gus …’ He ran over, grabbed up my arm. ‘You’ve made a right cunt of this.’

Like I needed telling. ‘Just pull the thing out would you!’

He grabbed hold, tried to steady my hand, couldn’t do it. It flapped about like a power hose on the loose. ‘Can you keep still?’

‘Does it fucking look like it, Hod?’

Three-quarters of the thick needle was poking through the skin and blood was oozing from the now sizeable hole it sat in. ‘Christ on a cross, Dury! Will you ever learn?’

I thought that was one of those questions that required no answer, even the obvious one. As Hod removed the needle, flung it in the sink, I folded my arms and tucked hands under my oxters. Figured the flapping was on for the day; they wouldn’t settle. Had it come to this? I thought. What was next, shitting in a bag? Sleeping on cobbles and waking blind after a night on the meths? I had reached
the end of a very long drop. My heart wept at what my mother must think of me. I could care less about the kip of myself, but I couldn’t bear putting more hurt on anyone else; I’d made an art form of that already.

‘Right, I think you’ll live,’ said Hod. He shot up an eyebrow. ‘For a wee while longer anyway.’

He opened the door, looked out into the corridor. Was empty; he motioned me to follow. I was unsteady on my pins, my knees bucking on every step. There was a cement mixer going in my stomach, and I knew that had I eaten anything of late I’d be spraying the walls. My head hurt, but I couldn’t remember when it hadn’t so that made no difference to me. The real pain, though, the real heartscald, came from the realisation that I was walking back to reality, going into the real world. The song of drink called to me with every step; I needed a swally. A quick one or ten. A good bucket. I needed to put the lights out, shove my head under the pillow and wait with blessed relief until the magic wore off. I was hurting.

In the lift I caught sight of myself in the stainless-steel doors. There’s a film,
The Machinist
with that Christian Bale bloke, think he went down to about eight stone for the role … He looked the picture of health by comparison to the image before me now. I’d watched my physical deterioration over the years with a kind of detached wonder … wonder at how I could let myself get so fucking bad. But now the wonder was replaced with flat-out awe. It was nothing short of miraculous that a human being could get so close to death’s door without knocking; mind, I didn’t have the energy.

Hod placed a hand under my elbow, said, ‘You okay?’

I jerked my arm away. ‘Get off, would you … I don’t need looking after.’

He shook his head as the lift juddered and the doors pinged open.

An orderly in a pale blue smock and a pair of Dunlop Green Flash was waiting with a mop and bucket. The smell of the strong disinfectant made me dry-retch. I brought a hand up to my nose and tried to hold off the stench, wasn’t working. Hod sensed my
unease and put an arm around my shoulder. I was too faint to argue now, let him guide me past the reception desk and out the front door.

We got a few steps into the car park when I was clotheslined by the sunshine.

‘Some day, eh?’ said Hod.

‘Won’t last.’

Frowns, bit of a headshake.

‘But you can enjoy it whilst it’s here.’ A broad smile crossed his face. He clasped palms together and headed for the car. How could I argue with him? Was a given I felt more comfortable in the dreich, grey rain pounding down like stair rods of the Edinburgh I knew.

Hod spun the tyres, seemed anxious to get rolling. I watched the city go by in a blur as we made it out onto the main road and headed for Porty.

‘We’ll hold up at my gaff for a bit,’ he said, ‘just till you get yerself on your feet again.’

I turned to catch his expression, said, ‘That better not be what I think it is.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Your usual caper … keeping an eye on me!’

He smiled again, a fake one. ‘Gus, calm down. We have a job on.’

Hod had got himself mixed up in my previous jobs for want of anything better to do, for kicks, a nice break from the office; slightly more of an adrenaline rush than snowboarding or rafting. With his property business going tits up, I guessed he had nothing better to do. Was that likely to play to my advantage? Was it hell as like. Hod on Rambo-action mode was like a Ritalin-deprived six-year-old with a Super Soaker. He needed more looking after than I did, and that was saying something.

‘Look, Hod … what’s the go here?’

‘Come again?’ He pulled out, floored it as he overtook a shit-heap Astra.

‘I mean, why the fuck are you getting all hyped up about some posh bint’s son copping his whack?’

He cut the revs, steered round a parked white van with the blinkers on. ‘Look, Gus, it’s not a case of me taking an interest in the Laird boy’s murder—’

‘Whoa, whoa,’ I cut in, ‘you don’t know that it was a murder.’

‘Bollocks. You going with the papers, with plod?’

I felt an urge to cough; I was craving nicotine. ‘Look, the way you fire up, mate, I’d be taking the dogs on the street serious before you.’

Hod shook his head, gripping the wheel tighter. Saw I had him: there was more to this than he was letting on.

I ferreted out a crushed ten-pack of Regal from my jacket pocket, sparked up. ‘So, what’s yer angle here, Hod?’

‘My angle? … Did you read that paper?’ He tapped the dash. ‘Look, I saw yer Laird woman on the news the other night – she’s fucking dripping in bling and living in a castle!’

‘And?’

‘
And
… she’s putting up serious poppy to get to the bottom of this murder.’

I didn’t bother correcting him again. ‘And that’s your sole interest, is it? Making a nice little wedge? Cos I know you’re a fucking action junkie, Hod, and if you think I’m getting dragged along so you can play at being Richard Branson on his balloon race with my time and dime you can forget it.’

He brought the car to a halt outside his block of luxury flats, turned the key in the ignition and opened the door. As he eased out he looked back to face me for an instant. ‘Gus, I need this payday like you wouldn’t believe.’

He closed the door. I got out and eyed him across the car roof. ‘What do you mean?’

As he turned I saw his pallor descend several shades of grey to rest at white. ‘Get inside, Gus. We need to talk.’

Hod managed another three steps before he was T-boned by a burly biffer in a black suit. He placed a hand on Hod’s chest. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’ Another suit, shorter, but heavy in the neck, emerged from the passenger door of a pimped-up Merc. He started to put
leather gloves on as he strode towards us. I couldn’t see his face but I recognised the gait. Looked the kind of swagger I’d seen on more than a few widos from this town: the strut that said,
You messing?

‘The fuck’s this?’ I said. My heart was pounding, didn’t do my head any favours. If either of them breathed on me I’d fall over. I knew I’d be no use in a pagger.

‘Get back in yer fucking hole, Dury,’ shouted the wee man. He pointed a black leather-clad finger as he put the bead on me. Now I recognised him. It was Danny Gemmill. A bottom feeder, but connected. He’d been a Hibs casual back in the eighties, back when they’d sharpened the tips of their golf brollies and gone looking for eyes to stick on them. He was a skelf with a serious wee-man complex. Had worked a rep as a nut-case after Stanley-knifing a few faces. After the casuals had carted the Samba and Pringle sweaters, though, Danny had moved into the more organised stramash, ran with a few mobs in the town; some of the bigger ones of late.

Hod held up his hands in submission. ‘Okay, okay …’

Gemmill quickly patted him down, thrust hands in his pockets. I’d seen Hod in some shit in my time, but this was the first I’d seen him roll over. The wee pug found what he was after, shook the car keys in front of Hod’s nose and smiled. ‘Don’t think you’ll be needing these, eh.’

Hod drew swift breath, his deep chest inflating. I could tell there was a thought brewing, maybe a swift kick to the knackers and a few jabs to the jaw as a follow-up, but he clocked me pressing a palm to my aching ribcage and started to slowly exhale. ‘Nah, don’t suppose I will,’ he said.

Gemmill placed a paw on Hod’s face, leaned in. ‘Don’t think this buys you much time, boy. You’ve got a fortnight to come up with the rest.’ He spun on the tarmac, tossed the keys to his mate, who took off for Hod’s Beemer laughing like an asthmatic hyena, seemed to be putting that in
my
direction; wondered why.

I watched the pair drive off. Hod caught my gaze, shrugged.

‘The fuck’s that all about?’ I said. I couldn’t get over seeing him cave like that.

Another shrug, hands thrust in pockets. ‘Come on, let’s get in, eh.’

I reached out to grab his shoulder as he started away from me. ‘Hod, you just handed over yer car to a pair of fucking mugs! What’s going on?’

He turned. ‘I’m in for a few bob … to Shaky.’

‘Fuck me!
Shaky
?’ Boaby Stevens specialised in brutal violence, loansharked on the side. Not even Hod was that stupid, or desperate, surely. No wonder Gemmill was laughing his arse off – he’d hit the big time now.

Hod removed a hand from his pocket to scratch his chin. This was altogether a new expression for him. He didn’t do whipped dog well. Went, ‘Let’s get inside, eh … I’ll fill you in.’

I found myself staring open-mouthed. As he turned again, I sprang at him, surprising myself with the force I contained. ‘You’re in to Shaky! That fucker’ll cut yer hands off, y’know.’

Hod checked to see there were no curtains twitching in his neighbours’ windows. ‘Gus, can we get inside?’

‘There’s nowhere to hide from him.’ I pushed past. ‘You daft cunt, Hod … You fucking daft fucker.’

THANK CHRIST IT WAS SUMMERTIME – the place was as cold as a witch’s tit. For luxury apartment in Edinburgh, read: flung-up-in-five-minutes new-build. Bit of a view. Maybe some chrome on the balcony. If the estate agents were being honest they’d describe it as fucking shonky. Might make reference to plasterboard walls so thin you can hear your neighbours taking a piss and maybe a wanky Shaker-style kitchen from Ikea that’s the latest must-have on the ideal home front. If I’d seen one of these low-on-style, soulless shitholes, I’d seen a hundred. They were, as a whole, the boldest metaphor for what this city of ersatz culture had become. The architectural equivalent of gonorrhoea, only spreading faster among the Pinot Grigio-drinking smart set. Trendy yuppies – can’t get enough of them.

I’d kipped at Hod’s gaff before, been a guest more times than I cared to remember … but never once did it look like this. As we entered the hallway my Docs clumped heavily on the exposed floorboards. I say boards – can you call chipboard slabs floorboards? The walls were bare, the light fittings had been removed, the one concession to homeliness was a cheapo Argos slim phone, sitting disconsolately on the ground with its cord twisted and kinked into all angles.

Hod held schtum, closed the door behind us and motioned me to
the living room. The carpets had been lifted in here too, every stick of furniture had been removed. On the wall where the plasma had hung was no more than a depressing oblong outline that looked as though it had been drawn in charcoal on the wallpaper. Hod caught me staring open-mouthed and turned away. He took off his jacket and flung it on the fireplace. The fireplace had once been in the wall; now it was on the floor, no doubt on its way to the car boot sale.