He turned down the corners of his mouth, mumbled, ‘Is that supposed to be like a quote or something?’
‘Napoleon. You should look him up, you share some… traits.’
Guess he didn’t take it as a compliment. He put his finger in my chest, was close enough to smell the — what was that, Obsession?
‘Know this, Dury: Debs is with me. I’m the one she comes home to every single night.’
I felt my facial muscles tightening. He had some moves after all.
‘Every single fucking night… and that’s how it’s going to stay, you get me?’
I said nothing.
He went on, ‘I have Debs. You don’t. And I am going to give her everything you never could — the big house, the two cars parked out front, the foreign holidays, the kids — we’re gonna be living happily ever after and you…’
He trailed on for so long I lost interest. My mind was stuck on the little dream scene he’d created for him and Debs. It didn’t square with the facts. Either he was totally deluding himself, or Debs was doing it for him.
I turned to walk away.
‘Hey, I’m talking to you.’
‘No you’re not.’
I took a few steps, turned to see Jonny spraying Gold Spot on his tongue. He looked smug; I’d be wiping that look off his chops before long.
I trudged off, collar up, into the rain.
Got as far as the Tesco Metro on the corner when I noticed two raincoats following me, making it all too obvious what they were about. I stopped and pretended to read an ad in the window for Nigella Lawson’s latest cookbook. The raincoats stopped behind me, stamped their feet.
Thought: Fuck me.
Chapter 38
Sparked up a bensons, my last one. Scrunched the pack, dropped it in the bin. Made a show of looking up and down the street. I darted for a newsagent’s across the road. My fan club followed suit while I smoked the cig near to the filter.
Outside the shop, I stubbed my tab. Went in.
‘Twenty Marlboro, mate… red top.’
Paid the man, then made a call on my mobi.
‘Hod, you about?’
‘Fucksake, Gus… where you been?’
I stalled him, ‘Around.’
‘Don’t give me that — where?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Well, yes, actually… we’ve had a bit of a stroke of luck.’
Luck. What was that? ‘Do tell.’
‘Well, my dog-fighting contacts came up trumps.’
‘You what?’
A sigh on the other end of the line. ‘We have a pit fight on.’
I knew where he was going with this: catch Sid in the act, see who was pulling his levers. But I also needed to grab hold of the dog-torturing wee bastards. Things were getting desperate.
I played Hod along: ‘Good.’
‘“Good”. That it?’
‘Well, I’ve kinda got a fair whack on my mind right now, Hod.’
‘What’s up?’
It was time to spill. ‘I had my collar felt again. Now I’ve got two of Lothian’s finest clocking my every move.’
‘ Christ.’
‘What’s he got to do with it? Although they do look a bit like Jehovah’s on the door-to-door.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Just out the nick.’
‘Got any ideas?’
‘You know me — Mr Creative.’
‘Well, c’mon, let’s hear it.’
I filled Hod in. Told him to jump in his motor and wait for me outside the Cameo cinema. I tucked away my mobi, hit the street again.
I took plod onto Lothian Road. At St Cuthbert’s Church I stalled, took a deck at the graveyard. They have a watchtower in there, a remnant of Burke and Hare’s grave-robbing antics. I always stop to stare at it — reminds me there’s more to this city than most people imagine.
Made for the Lavazza coffee stall and bought up a large black. Kept my shakes at bay till I could get hold of something stronger.
A Romanian beggar approached me. She carried a cardboard sign that read: PLEASE HELP ME FEED CHILD. GOD BLESS YOU. I looked at her. Her face was dark, heavily lined. She wore a red shawl; intricate stitching and beads fell all the way round the edge of her face. Below she seemed to be wrapped in a blanket. Popping out beneath were a set of Nikes, the swoosh on show.
She made to open her mouth, brought pinched fingers up. Thought: The international symbol for I’m friggin’ hungry, right?
I said, ‘You want a feed?’
She looked at me, put out her hand.
I’d read a story in the local paper recently, said people had reported seeing vanloads of these Romanian beggars being dropped off at strategic locations around the city. I thought it sounded like a typical slow news day beat-up. This woman looked dirt poor, starving.
I pressed: ‘Look, you want food? I’ll buy you something to eat.’
She put her hand out, ran a finger over the palm. ‘Money. Money.’
I shook my head. ‘No. I’ll buy you food.’ Slit the air between us with my palms. ‘No money.’
Her face turned, twisted. The teeth gritted as she ranted at me in Romanian, a hail of curses, then she spat at my feet. Could have sworn I heard laughter following me; turned to check my stalkers were still on plan.
Guess she wasn’t so hungry after all. Was that me cursed now?
I made my way up to the top of Lothian Road and followed the dog-leg round to the Cameo cinema. It is one of the few remaining places in the city you can go that hasn’t been taken over by one of the multinational chains. Still looks like a cinema — cornicing, old-fashioned balconies, ornate plasterwork. Not a hint of plastic cup-holders. It still has chairs that feel like they’re stuffed with horsehair.
The Cameo is said to be Quentin Tarantino’s favourite picture house in the world. I would have thought Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood might have the edge, but what do I know? That’s the thing about your home city: you lose sight of its charms. It takes the tourists, the visitors, to point them out to you sometimes. I know one thing for sure — we lose the Cameo, this place would be poorer for it. We’ve lost too much of the old stuff already.
I ordered up a ticket to the matinee: 3:10 to Yuma. Was a remake starring Russell Crowe. Christ, have they made an original film in the last ten years? Still, wasn’t intending to watch the thing anyway. Would serve my purposes.
I got myself settled in the very last row. End seat, nearest the door.
Watched as plod came in. There was some confusion.
Heard, ‘Shit.’
Some tutting.
