He toppled over, put his hands on his knees. ‘I’ll need to get your details for the police.’
‘Police… they never got away with anything.’
He stood up, still panting. ‘I need to tell them. We lost stock, that’s a bottle we could have sold.’
I passed him a fiver, said, ‘Write it off.’
He shook his head. ‘No, can’t do that. Who was that girl?’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘You knew her name, though.’
I walked away. ‘I was mistaken.’
‘You called her Alice.’
I kept walking. ‘Alice… Alice… Who the fuck is Alice?’
Chapter 14
Loud thumping on the door of the flat woke me. Usual kicked off, barking his best. I dragged myself from my pit; Debs had left for work hours ago, without a word. Figured I’d have to get used to that for the foreseeable.
I opened the door. Was the guy with the mop and bucket again. He said, ‘Stair money.’
My eyes weren’t fully open, my mind barely sparking. ‘You wha’?’
The bloke scratched his head through the beanie. ‘I just cleaned the stairs there.’
I found my voice, some marbles worth throwing about. ‘Didn’t I speak to you about this just the other day?’
He stopped scratching. ‘Aye, well… stairs were needing cleaned.’
He wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t giving this schemie daytripper a button. ‘So what?’
He held out his hand. ‘Three pounds, chief.’
I closed the door on him. I got two steps towards my bed when I heard him knock on the auld wifey at number three’s door. I returned to the spyhole. She was parting with her poppy again. I wasn’t sure I was happy about this, made a note to check it out later.
I showered. We were out of soap, had to use Debs’s Clean amp; Clear facial wash all over. Left me feeling clean, if not clear of anything. I’d finally found some music I could listen to: Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds. There was something about Richie Burton’s whisky-soaked tones that touched the void in me. The only trouble was the recording drove Usual mental. Every time the turning of the cylinder sounded, the dog went off his scone — barked and snarled like we actually had the Martians in our gaff.
I was wondering what my next move should be when my mobi rang.
Voice said, ‘Dury…’ It was Fitz, a croak in his throat as he spoke. ‘I thought I better give you a call.’
He had my attention. ‘You did?’
‘I, eh, there’s no easy way to tell you this, Gus, so I’m just going to come right out with it.’
He’d went back to using my Christian name again; it still unnerved me.
‘I want to let you know that your brother’s death is no longer being treated as a mugging gone wrong.’
This meant little to me; official or otherwise, it had been fucking suss to me from the get-go. ‘That’s what you’ve decided, is it?’
Fitz chose his words carefully, muttered a bit, shuffled the phone about. ‘’Tis all I can say.’
I wanted to know what had changed his mind. But he played coy. Fitz knew there was no way I’d let him call me up like this and leave it at that. I pressed him: ‘So what’s changed your mind?’
Now he went overcautious. I could imagine his gaze flitting about the room, looking for a distraction to light upon. ‘Really, for sure, there isn’t another thing I can give ye, Gus.’
‘But this is all quite a leap from just another Meadows mugging.’
A sigh. Followed by another. ‘As I say, I’m not at liberty to disclose any more of the relevant facts at the moment.’
‘Relevant facts… at liberty to disclose: have you got a fucking media release in front of you, Fitz?’
The line went quiet. When Fitz spoke again he put a finality in his words that said Don’t push it: ‘I’ve got to tell you that, for now anyway, we won’t be able to release the… remains.’
The word stung me. Remains. The remains. All that was left of my brother. I held my breath. Not consciously, my breathing just stopped.
Fitz broke in: ‘Gus, are ye there?’
I was, but only just. ‘I want to meet.’
‘I don’t think that will be poss-’
‘Don’t jerk me off, Fitz. I want to see you, today.’
His tone rose: ‘I have a desk full of paperwork in front of me. There’s no way I can get-’
I didn’t listen, broke over him: ‘Round the back of the parliament there’s a place — Beanscene.’
He snapped, ‘What’s that, some fucking dyke hangout?’
For a copper, he wasn’t very community aware. ‘It’s a coffee shop.’
He wasn’t pleased by the proposal, but I could tell he was thawing. ‘Beanscene… by the holy…’
‘One hour.’
Hung up.
I put on the radio as I dressed. Prime Minister Hash Brown was on the news, promising to do everything in his power to protect the stability of the banking system. I almost laughed. There was fuck all stability in the banking system — it had gone tits up. And the rest of us weren’t that far behind. The man’s arrogance astounded me: there he was strutting the world stage, talking up his role in the great economic rescue of the world and forgetting totally the part he and the swinging dicks in the City had played in getting us here.
‘The jobless figures are now greater than two million,’ said the newsreader. ‘And now to other news…’
Other news! There was no other fucking news. Try putting food on the table without a job. I flicked the switch to off. The standard of reporting on this financial storm had been piss poor; as a trained hack it terrified me. Worse, got me ranting. ‘I could do his job,’ I roared, ‘read the fucking news! Christ, I could write it as well.’ I sounded like Yosser Hughes, wondered how far I was from the ‘Giz a job’ speech.
I dressed in a pair of grey cords from Next, and a black Stone Island top that Debs had bought me. The top fitted like a dream, definitely a touch better than I was used to wearing. I played with the zip on the front a few times; the noise it made was poetry, could never get used to that. My Docs looked decidedly down at heel. If I had the Gene Tunney I’d have sprung for a new pair by now; Debs had offered to get me some Caterpillar boots but I’d said no. She’d even suggested a pair of pointy numbers that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Donald and Davey Stott, but I declined. I’d be sticking with the Docs, no matter what was in fashion.
Suited and booted, I took a quick delve beneath the cistern in the bathroom, got out my wraps of speed. I had a quick blast on a couple and sealed up the bag again, returned it into hiding beneath the cistern lid. I knew if Debs found this it was lights out. But I also knew she wasn’t as suspiciously minded as me.
I had to leave Usual behind. Chucked him a couple of Bonios and said, ‘Mind and behave… No digging on the couch!’
Arthur’s Seat was covered in snow as I schlepped down to the half-a-billion-pounds parliament. It was our national shame; well, one of them. The cost had been the cause of massive anger and political recriminations, but none of the main players had lost their hats. I’d read in the paper recently that, at night, the forecourt of the place had been taken over by skateboarders. I saw their tracks now: wheel marks, skids and doughnuts on the concrete. A half-billion skate park — money well spent.
Out the back of the parliament a Marks and Spencer food van was being unloaded. Christ, this got my goat — did those bastards deprive themselves of nothing? Fucking Markies food deliveries whilst half the country is on bread rations. It boiled my piss.
I saw Fitz up ahead, outside Beanscene. I wondered why he hadn’t gone inside. As I drew closer I saw the place had been shuttered. Another victim of the economic catastrophe.
‘This place gone to the wall?’ I said to him.
He seemed pleased. ‘I didn’t like the sound of it anyway… Beanscene: fucking hell, amn’t I in the wrong get- up entirely without the dungarees?’
