he’s given us a refund.’
I handed over the twenty-six pounds.
She had glasses on a chain around her neck, she put them on, ‘Oh, I think he’s given me too much.’
I smiled, gave her a wave as I turned to my flat. ‘Treat yourself,’ I said. This wealth distribution felt good. Knew it would never catch on.
Usual barked and jumped onto the couch at the sight of me, barked again and dropped back down. He stretched out his front paws and lowered his chest to the floor. I was grateful for the welcome but thought I deserved none of it.
‘Down, boy, down.’ I patted his head, watched his tail wag as I took out my mobi; I’d had it switched off since my meeting with Andy and there were half a dozen missed calls from Mac.
I pressed ‘return call’.
He answered on the second ring. ‘Where the fuck you been?’
‘I owe you a tenner,’ I said.
‘Wha’?’
‘Just caught the stair pisher…’
He didn’t even laugh. His voice came low and flat: ‘Gus, there’s been some developments.’
‘Such as?’
‘Hod got into a bit of bother… got himself a bad kicking.’
I didn’t like the sound of this. I’d asked Hod to look into the Czechs. He had a rep for Rambo-ing. ‘Spill it.’
‘There were words exchanged… some boxing.’
Knew at once he’d been hurt. ‘How bad?’
‘He’s up on bricks.’
‘I’ll be right round.’
Mac raised his voice: ‘Gus, he’s not here. He’s at the hospital.’
I felt empty.
Hung up.
The thought of Hod being worked over felled me. I headed straight for the cludgie and took out my bag of speed. I’d been hammering it; the wraps were going down. I got tanked into one, then another. The dog watched me. He knew I was up to something, wore that ‘Debs won’t be pleased’ look of his. I yelled him off. He flattened ears and went to his basket. ‘Like I could feel any worse,’ I told him.
I took myself to the hall, then back to the kitchenette and opened one of the cupboard doors. My mind was working so fast on all the possibilities that I hardly noticed my movements speeding. I dished up some Pal for the dog and grabbed my Crombie from the hallstand.
It was rush-hour traffic, roads clogged with double-deckers. For half an hour I sat in a stationary lane next to a ten-foot poster of Carol Smillie flogging the chance to win a million quid on the Postcode Lottery. When I finally made it to the Royal the sky was dark and the temperature well below zero. I got the ward number from reception and headed for the lift. I still felt like I was speeding out my face, the blood pushing behind my temples as the bell pinged and the doors opened.
Mac sat on the end of the bed. As I clocked Hod he looked to have been solidly worked over. Both his eyes were blackened. His nose wore a white T-bar where the doctors had tried to reset it; I knew from experience it would never be the same. I was relieved to see his limbs had been spared. Thought: Christ, how bad is it if you’re grateful his kneecaps are intact?
‘All right,’ I said as I walked in. I eyed some fruit sitting by his bedside, a bottle of Lucozade and a couple of cards. ‘I, eh, haven’t brought anything… sorry.’
Hod shrugged. Immediately a wince spread on his face and he touched his ribs. ‘Don’t sweat it, I’ve been promised jelly, I’m rapt.’
I smiled, glad I wasn’t being blamed for this. Least not by Hod.
Mac spoke: ‘Where you been all day?’
It didn’t seem the place to talk. There was an old geezer in the next bed, sitting up in striped pyjamas, reading the Hootsman. I tried to appease Mac, hunted in my pocket for a tenner, handed it over. ‘Here you go… Your winnings.’
He grinned. ‘Stair pisher got you as well, eh?’
‘What’s this?’ said Hod.
We both shook heads. Mac said, ‘Fancy a donner down to the day room?’
Hod hauled himself out of bed. ‘Aye, c’mon… Grab a coffee, eh.’
Hod hobbled down the corridor — wouldn’t take any help. In the day room we bagged some industrial-issue chairs, bright orange hoseable numbers that looked like relics of the seventies. Thought they wouldn’t have been out of place in our rental flat.
Mac carried over three cups. ‘Only got tea.’
‘I can’t drink tea,’ I said.
Mac looked back to the vending machine. ‘There’s soup — mushroom, I think.’
‘I’ll go without.’
When I got a closer look at Hod’s injuries I saw his knuckles were scraped to bits, swollen and bruised. ‘You got a few good biffs in, then,’ I said, pointing to his hands.
He grinned. ‘Some fucking belters.’
Mac sipped his tea, tore back the corners of his mouth. I guessed I’d made the right move crying off it. Went, ‘So, what happened?’
Hod drew fists. It looked difficult for him; the tendons in his wrists showed as he spoke to Mac. ‘Did you give him it?’
‘Nope… first I’ve seen him since.’
I looked between them, tried to piece together their thoughts. ‘I’m guessing this was the Czechs. Right?’
Mac returned to his tea, blew on it. He shook his head. ‘Tell him from the start.’
Hod’s shoulders rose and fell beneath his gown. His face portrayed every painful movement. ‘I haven’t got started on the Czechs yet, Gus.’
That only left one other option. The thought stuck in me like a blade.
‘You haven’t?’
Hod spoke: ‘I was planning to, but got a bit sidetracked.’
I took the blow. ‘Wasn’t meaning…’
‘Don’t worry. Can I get on with this?’ He leaned forward, took a sip of tea. ‘Christ, that tea’s rough… Anyway, I was locking up and there was a bloke standing over the road, staring in. Just giving me eyeball, y’know. And I thought, What’s his fucking problem? So I says I’ll go have a word, and he gets the same idea, started strutting over like the Big I Am, yeah…’
I couldn’t see that going down well with Hod. Man works sites in all weathers, he develops a certain amount of hard.
‘I thought he was casing the bar, or had his eye on the till… or fuck, I dunno, maybe I’d put a line on his bird or something. So I went out. He was a big lad. Y’know, skinhead, fucking rocks in his head more like. And I said, “What you playing at, mate?”’
I felt Mac’s eyes on me. He was waiting for my reaction to the next bit.
Hod went on, ‘So then he goes, “Nice pub. Gus Dury still run it?” I told him I was the fucking owner and what’s he asking about you for, and the cunt starts to laugh.’
I glanced at Mac. He was nodding, said, ‘It gets better.’
‘So I asked him what was so funny,’ said Hod, ‘and then he walks off. I was half tempted to panel the prick, when he got into a big Daimler and who’s in the back but-’
I cut in, ‘Ronnie McMilne.’
Mac and Hod looked at each other. ‘How did you know that?’ said Mac.
‘I had a visit myself.’
Hod tutted. ‘Not one like mine you didn’t.’
