Long Time Dead

I saw where this was going. ‘Went to Shaky.’

‘No, no… not really.’

This was promising. Maybe he might get to keep one hand; a few fingers, anyway. ‘Go on.’

‘I went on a bit of a spree. Actually, went a bit high-roller for a while there.’

‘Shaky doesn’t touch casinos. How did he get in the picture?’

Hod’s head fell back, landing on the jamb of the door. He looked out towards the Forth. ‘It’s a bad debt. Shaky buys bad debts… Willie Gallagher from the casino sold Shaky my debt.’

‘The cunt.’

‘Oh, aye… he’s that.’

‘Did he not give you any time to pay?’

Hod raised palms. ‘Few weeks, days… Everyone’s short of poppy, need to get cash flows moving. Can’t blame him for that.’

‘But Shaky. Fucksake, Hod, man’s a mad bastard.’

Got a soul-deep stare, ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

I dug in my pocket for my smokes, lit up. Kip of the place, didn’t think there was any need to ask first. ‘So you’ve sold all your stuff?’

Nods. ‘Everything… pub’s gone too.’

That was a belt; Col would be spinning in his grave. ‘What about the flat?’

He reached into a cardboard box at his feet, pulled out a stack of letters from the bank, all printed in red. ‘Already started repossession proceedings. Matter of time before the locks are changed and I’m flung out.’

This was not good. It was hard to see a man of Hod’s stature felled like this. I had come to rely on him as one of the few constants in my life. Hod was the man I could have been if I’d got my shit together. Held down a job. Held on to my marriage. Holy fuck, I was hurting for him. I needed a drink, more than ever.

‘I’ve got to whet my thrapple, mate… Been too long on the dry bus.’

Hod arked up, ‘Are you off yer nut?’

‘Whoa-whoa…’ was I the one up to my sack in shit here? Well, yes, but that wasn’t stopping me playing the heavy hand. I needed a drink desperately now. ‘I’ll take no lectures from Porty’s answer to Stig of the fucking Dump.’

He marched over to the other side of the room, dragged out another cardboard box. It was full of cartons of UHT milk and packets of Complan, the build-up drink. ‘This is all you’ll be drinking, Gus!’ He picked up the box, started ripping into the contents.

‘Complan… What the…? Are you serious?’

‘Need to build you up, Gus, it’s part of the plan!’

‘What fucking plan?’ I wasn’t having this. I didn’t want any more looking after. I’d had enough of that from Debs, and look how that had ended – her walking out, leaving me nothing, not even the dog. The thought stung, but I knew she was better off without me.

‘Here, look, it’s strawberry. Who doesn’t like strawberry milk-shake? Get it down you, come on… You’ll be well on the mend after a few of these shakes.’

‘Hod, I have enough shakes as it is!’ I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘Have you no Grouse?’

He walked forward, thrust the glass tumbler into my hand. ‘Drink!’

‘No!’

‘Do I have to hold your nose and pour it down your throat?’

‘You could fucking try…’

He did.

Hod’s strength seemed superhuman to me; I couldn’t even muster a struggle. When my pathetic put-up was over, I had a frothy mouthful of milkshake left, which I spat at him. Didn’t have the power to put any force in it, though: the lot leapt in a low arc for a millisecond before landing on my shirtfront.

Hod laughed. ‘That’s piss weak, Dury.’

‘Fuck off.’ Pink bubbles came out my nostrils.

He went off again: ‘Piss weak…’

I pulled myself together, tried to land a punch on his arm but my wrist collapsed behind my fist and I ended up shrieking like a schoolgirl, shaking out the pain of it. ‘Ahh, Christ.’

‘Look, cool the beans, Gus. I have a plan.’

This I did not want to hear. All Hod’s plans, with few exceptions, had seen me setting up shop on Shit Street. They invariably involved broken bones, time inside, and a bundle of regrets.

‘I don’t want to hear it.’

‘Shut up.’ He strolled out the room, returned with a manila envelope. There seemed to be something bulky inside.

‘I hope that’s dosh.’

Wide smiles. ‘Good as!’ He chucked me the envelope.

As I ripped into the contents, I couldn’t believe what he had handed me.

‘Tell me this is a joke.’

‘Joke?’ Hod crossed his brows. ‘Fuck no… this is our only hope.’

I put my hand in the envelope and took out one of the small white cards that read, Gus Dury, Private Investigator. I put it back, said, ‘You have to be kidding.’

‘No way. This is primo.’

I held up the cards. ‘Hod, tell me, how many packets of Bazooka Joes did you need to save for these?’

He looked wounded, stood rolling on the balls of his feet. ‘I thought they would help with the case… y’know, the actress, Gillian Laird. She’s paying top poppy, I thought-’

‘No, Hod, you didn’t fucking think… My days of running after rainbows are well and truly over. Check the nick of me – I’m done, Hod. And that’s my final word on it… Done.’

Chapter 4

I LEFT HOD AND HIS grand plan to simmer. Grabbed a dusty cushion off the floor, drop-kicked it against the wall and sat. My mind was swimming. I knew I was at the end of my rope. A prayer away from the grave. The trembling began again in my chest. The whole cavity felt suffused with fire – like hot coals had been shovelled into me. I knew only one thing would cool it: if I didn’t have a drink soon the bats would be back, swooping me, clearing the way for the vampire monkeys that always followed them. I started to shake. My head hurt – worse than usual – and a cold line of sweat was forming on my spine. I looked at my hands; they were in an all-out flap. Tried to sit on them but it only made my whole body tremble. Oh, sweet Lord… get me a drink before I die.

‘Gus, look… I’ve never asked you for anything before.’ Hod approached again, looming over me. ‘I really need this.’

I looked up to meet his gaze but his head was turned the other way. Like Bogart’s beggar in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, he just couldn’t ask another man for help and look him in the eye. I felt an enormous weight of responsibility descend on me. Hod needed me, but I also needed him.

I said, ‘Right, do as I say, no questions, and I’ll see what I can do.’

He turned to me. ‘Okay.’

‘Go out that door, down those stairs, and bring me back a bottle of scoosh.’

‘Gus… I-’

‘Hod, if you don’t I won’t last the fucking night!’

He looked down on me, dark eyes pleading, then the resigned face, well-worn by the loved ones of alcoholics, appeared.

He went for the door.

As he left I was suddenly surrounded by the blackness. I knew the hallucinations were coming back. I sensed them creeping up on me, like a child who expects nightmares. I had felt pain, real and emotional, in equal measure in my life, but this was a new form of hell. But then, hadn’t my life turned down that track since Debs had left?