I felt woozy, beyond wankered, beyond drugged. There’s a phrase,
‘C’mon, y’cunt…’ He shook me, squeezed my face in his mitt; a grim spark of intuition crossed his eyes as he clocked me. Said he wasn’t for doing a serious stretch for my murder. He dropped me to the floor.
I curled up again; the pain in my gut was all-consuming. I felt ready to cark it. Seriously, this was the real deal. New territory. I wanted to pull the plug, anything to stop the pain. Another mouthful of blood appeared; seemed to piss off the meathead even more.
‘Oh, you fucking prick… What’s wi’ the fucking blood, eh?’ Gemmill looked ready to burn me but something stopped him. I couldn’t see him ever taking prisoners at the footy with a Jambo at his feet. He’d either learned a few lessons or there was another reason for him holding back. But in my condition, I couldn’t figure it.
I heard the sirens now. Sounded like the last bell.
I coughed again, more blood.
‘You’re full ay it, Dury… I’m having you! I’ve got your fucking number boyo… I want you out this toon or out the fucking game! You got me?’
A flashlight shone in my head: I had something on him. Managed to splutter, ‘Gemmill, I don’t take a scare from your like… suck my balls!’
That was enough for him: he stamped his boot on my stomach.
There was a second of searing agony, as though I’d split in two. Then a tractor tyre rolled over my gut and left me to writhe for a few more seconds. I was dimly aware of Gemmill putting the boot in again and again. The maniacal grimace on his face said he’d lost some control, but not all.
I held firm; held it together. The pain stopped as sharply as it had began. I never felt a thing as I watched Gemmill legging it for the door. I’d gone beyond pain. Gone beyond the beyonds, to be honest.
Everything went completely dark.
Chapter 14
WHITENESS.
Blinding light. So much it hurt my eyes.
A slow, persistent beeping. The slight hum of footfalls, just within earshot.
I felt numb.
I couldn’t feel any part of my being. There was a corporeal mass beyond the scope of my thoughts; sensed it. Just couldn’t seem to focus on it, feel it, bring myself back to it.
The numbness changed, was supplanted by a buzzing in my head. I felt drowsy, thirsty – had what the Scots call a great drouth. Was like a killer hangover. Christ, I’d drank enough for that; for sure.
Remembered the ten or so pints; ten or so whisky chasers… doubles.
Where the fuck was I?
A flame of recognition, something stirring in my soul. Was I upstairs? The Big Fella’s gaff… No chance. I should be so bloody lucky.
The slow beeping pulled me in, got me thinking. I let my eyes open wider, take in more of the harsh light. I could see nothing but a white mass… so strong it bleached everything else out. I shut my lids fast; scrunched them tight. Let them stay shut for all of fifty seconds, counted it, then tried again.
‘Fucking hellfire, Gus.’ My voice was a rasp, my throat hurt like hell, but I knew the score now. ‘Back here!’
It was a hospital ward. Well, more of a room; had it to myself.
I scrunched my eyes again. Thoughts flooded in. I was in a hospital, yep, no mistake. I was tucked up tight in a bed. A needle in the back of my hand was attached to another drip. But this time I didn’t feel savvy enough, or wise-ass enough, to try and bolt. There was a definite pain around my windpipe, a hot poker of it reaching down my oesophagus into my gut. Had a vague notion this was just the aftermath of something; like I’d been through the fucking mill.
‘Blood…’ I stuttered out the word, recalled the pub floor. Frothy vomit, then blood. Lots of it. Enough to have put the shits up Gemmill.
I was in some kip all right.
Felt the heart in me quicken; the beeping from the monitor kicked up. Had a minute or so of this, watching the needle jump with my thoughts, until the door swung open and in strode a sister.
‘Oh, you’re awake, then,’ she said.
I spluttered, ‘After a fashion.’
She approached the bed, leaned over me and squinted at the monitor before turning back. ‘You must be feeling a bit groggy. Throat’ll hurt, mouth a bit dry.’
I nodded.
‘You’ve had an endoscope… but the drugs will take the edge off the pain. Just try to relax.’
She watched my eyes open; the look said more than any words.
‘I’ll get the doctor to come and have a word with you.’
This didn’t exactly enthral me. Okay, I was in one piece, but I’d been probed and prodded. There was a reason for that, and the doctor’s explanation, sure as shitting, wasn’t going to be one I’d want to hear.
I tried to sit up on the bed.
A hand was placed on my chest. ‘No! Stay still, Mr Dury. You need some rest now. Can’t risk any more haemorrhaging.’
‘Haemorrhaging…’ The word came like a bullet; Vincent Price couldn’t have put more fear in me.
The nurse straightened her back, turned for the door. ‘The Doctor will be along in a minute or so to explain everything… Try to rest and please try not to worry yourself.’
Easier said than done.
I watched her close the door behind her; settled into a dark brood of thoughts. What the fuck had happened to me?
I was in bad shape – no question. But had been since Adam was a boy.
This was new school, though. This was the big league. This was the culmination of years of serious physical deterioration; my chickens coming home to roost.
I looked at my hands – pale and white, save the yellowed tips and black arcs beneath the nails. I was a wreck. I started to shake. Watched the thin sticks of bone covered in pasty white flesh twitch as if electricity was being passed through them. This was me, Gus Dury. This was what was left of me, anyway. I was down on my luck, always had been, but the way my defeat had manifested itself on my flesh was something I couldn’t take in.
‘What did you expect, fuckhead?’ I mumbled.
I was in my bad thirties; racing towards the big four-oh. The days of tanking the sauce like a nineteen-year-old were well and truly behind me. My body was waving the white flag. I’d seen the signs for a while:
The skin like a chamois.
The mustard-coloured eyes.
The undernourished frame.
The vomiting.
The last one had been a new addition. For the longest time, I’d skipped the traditional drinker’s purge. I’d managed to keep it all in. Keep the count high, and the contents on board. But somewhere along the line the rules of the game had changed. The tank still held the same amount of grog, more sometimes, but it was as though the cap leaked. Sometimes the contents made their way to the surface.
Embarrassingly, I remembered a rare guilt-ridden trip to Alcoholics Anonymous. I’d listened to a corpulent, bearded middle manager who’d clearly been to the brink and back explain how the sauce had caused his ‘interior plumbing to become exterior’. He was ruddy-cheeked as he painted this picture of the dire consequences of his drinking and how it manifested itself in him having to strap a polythene bag to his ankle to catch his own piss. A chill had passed down my spinal chord; I’d put a gun to my own head before I hit that low.
‘By fuck I would…’ I’d mouthed the words before I realised I had company.
