Long Time Dead

A grin spread over his chops. ‘That’s the one… Left her husband, some big film director, for a twenty-year-old glamour model.’ He put open hands in front of his chest to mimic a sizeable rack.

‘She just dumped the film guy and swapped sides?’

‘He was a bit of a swordsman, lives over in the States now. Put it about for years. I’d say she got fed up and took the dramatic course of action.’

I shook my head. ‘Some family… The glamour girl was a pole dancer, yeah?’

‘I dunno what nationality she was!’

‘Ha-fucking-ha… The one she’s sleeping head-to-toe with, she’s the one the papers ran the scoops on: had worked in the Pubic Triangle, and been a junkie and all that.’

‘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.

Chapter 2

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.’