Long Way Down (A Gus Dury crime thriller) (3 page)

'Debs? ... Debs, is that you?'

As I uttered my ex-wife's name my eyes widened.

I was still in the bar.

A table full of empty glasses.

My heart-rate ramped; I looked about me. Only a few old
bluenoses and a dole-mole nursing a pint of heavy.

My mobile was ringing. I dipped a hand in my pocket and
took it out.

'Hello ...'

It was Mac. 'Fuck me, you still on the sauce?'

'What? ...' I looked out the window. Blackness. 'I mean,
what time is it?'

Mac's voice rose, became lyrical. 'Gone ten anyway ...
where are you?'

I had to think, tried to lace up my thought patterns. 'Portobello
... I paid a visit to Barry's missus.'

I heard Mac scratching the stubble on his chin. 'Yeah, I
bet that was a waste of shoe leather.'

'Well ... something like that.' I felt my head start to
reconnect with reality; my mouth had dried over, I drained the last of my warm
Guinness.

Mac dropped his voice, tipped in some serious tones. 'You
wanted to know about Shakey and what he had in mind for your friend, Barry ...'

My breathing stilled. 'You found something?'

'Well, that depends.'

I knew what Mac's depends meant. It could be delivered
in two instalments. The first was the grim facts. The second was the grim facts
and a warning dressed up as advice.

'Go on then ... spill it.'

Mac drew breath. 'Shakey has been hearing a few things
about your pal, Barry ... things he doesn't like the sound of.'

I couldn't see Barry in the same starting blocks as
Shakey — the idea that he might be likely to put a chink in Shakey's armour was
laughable. 'What? How is that even possible?'

Mac's voice rose. 'Seems Barry made some very
interesting contacts in Saughton. Heavy mob, Irish ...'

Barry was an affable bloke, he could make mates anywhere
but he had the nous to shy away from the 40-watt variety of criminal. I hoped
he hadn't latched on to someone as serious as the word 'Irish' suggested. 'What
do you mean, heavy?'

'I mean what I say ... fucking loyalist nut-cases. You
know the type.'

I did indeed. The type — if they were over here — were
not getting enough action at home. The end of the Troubles didn't sit well with
them so it was over the water to pastures new — expand and conquer, pick a
fight.

'Fucking hell ...'

'Aye, well, that's what I thought.'

I sighed into the mobi. 'What else did you hear?'

'Jesus, Gus, your pal's about to kick off a turf war ...
with some big-time players, isn't that enough?'

I couldn't get my head around it. 'What do you mean ...
what exactly has Barry got himself into, Mac?'

He dropped his voice to a whisper. 'Gus, he's planning a
job on Shakey's turf ... but if that's not bad enough he's planning it with
some Irish hardies and that just doesn't sit well with a good patriot like
Shakey.'

My thoughts started to mash. I could feel a hot band
tightening around my skull. 'We need to find, Barry.'

'Eh, what's this we?'

If Mac the Knife was in retreat it was more serious than
I imagined. 'Come on, Mac ... since when did you go pussy on me?'

He laughed. 'Aye, nice attempt at reverse psychology,
mate ... not working.' He seemed to be moving, I heard a car door open, an
ignition bite. 'No, Gus, you can count me out on this one. I don't know the guy
from Adam but he must be a decent enough sort for you to stick your neck out
for him ...'

'He is ...'

'Yeah, just don't go as far as slapping your neck on the
chopping block!'

He hung up.

* * * *

I staggered on to a Number 26 bus heading back
to the east-end of the city. The air inside was rank, filled with a grim
dampness that misted the windows and clung to the fabric of the seats. The
grunting engine, evacuating diesel fumes, and the slow revolution of the lumpy
wheels made my guts churn. Two teenies played a tinnie tune on a phone that had
them laughing and guffawing like burst drains. I was tempted to turn round,
blast them one, but I kept schtum. I couldn't guarantee that I wouldn't chuck
up some Guinness if I opened my mouth.

The orange glow of the street lamps battered the
top-deck of the bus and sent a sickly sheen all the way down to the tarmac that
was taking another battering from the rain. I reached out to steady myself,
gripped the silver rail, and got looks from an old giffer in a bobble hat. She
had a mouth as tightly pursed as a cat's arse and I'd have been surprised if
anything half as pleasant came from it. I wasn't fazed. So she had me down as
another one of Edinburgh's drunken jakeys — who didn't? I'd fallen pretty far
from the days of desk-diaries and pinstripes. If I'd been somebody of note
once, I'd forgotten. My past was as far behind me as the reek of the Porty
sewage outflows that spewed into the sea.

At Abbeyhill I thanked the driver and stepped out.

The wind was blowing down London Road, a procession of
black cabs lined the street hoping to pick up those afraid of the rain. Some
young girls in high-heels and tight dresses, likely heading to a George Street
style-bar, took the bait and climbed in. I mean, there was no point spending an
hour with the hair straightners to get pished on, now was there?

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.