‘Sounds like interesting stuff.’
‘You’re no’ kidding, but that’s not the half of it.’
‘It’s not?’
‘Not by a long stretch. Turned up something that I think you might be interested in having a wee look at.’
‘From the files?’
A spark of enthusiasm: ‘Aye, from the files… and let me tell you, Dury, you get a link to this wee beauty and there’s a page-one splash with your name on it!’
He had my interest. ‘Go on then, spill the beans.’
‘Uh-uh… Better we meet up for this.’
‘Okay, I’ll come into the office later.’
He pitched his tone lower: ‘Oh fuck no. Got the top brass in today. Heid bummers from down south, got to get the red carpet out.’
I didn’t want to hang about on this. ‘Tomorrow, then?’
A pause, rustle of papers, opening of a desk diary. ‘Friday… can you make the afternoon?’
Would have to do. ‘Aye, okay.’
I hung up.
Spent the rest of the morning on the verge of banging seven shades of shite out of my mobile phone. Had stopped sending texts for some reason – would be close to the built-in obsolescence period, no doubt. Toyed with the idea of complaining to the shop, the service provider… thought better of it. Had long since given up on taking on the capitalist behemoth, better chucking the phone in the bin and buying a new one: that’s what they want after all; resistance is useless. The days where I saw myself wasting precious energy on the phone to Mumbai call centres and filling in customer complaints were long over, life was too short. Mine sure as hell was.
Had holed up in a spit-and-sawdust B &B in the Southside, one of those joints where they house dole moles and immigrants. An Indian bloke was running the shop. Seemed a nice enough sort, but cringing Christ, I wouldn’t like his paper round. I’d been here one night only and had already started counting fights to get myself to sleep. Rough wasn’t the word.
I cracked the seal on a tin of Murphy’s. I’d tanned a score of those bad boys already. Was about to spark up when my mobi rang: wasn’t fully on the way out, then.
Recognised the caller ID straight off. ‘Amy… was trying to text you but-’
‘Spare me, eh.’
There was a note of derision in her voice; she had the tone down cold. Had to admire that, Amy did a nice line in no-messing attitude. I said, ‘No, seriously, got some techno trouble… Mobi isn’t texting out.’
‘Fucksake, Gus… have you checked it’s not full?’
‘
‘Look at the screen. Is there a red icon or something?’
I took a deck, spotted a little red square with an ‘x’ in it. Hadn’t seen that before. ‘Yeah, there is… what’s that about, then?’
Amy laughed. ‘Christ, Gus, get with the programme! Your phone is so shite it only stores a pissy amount of texts… You’ll have to delete some.’
Felt a total dope. Tried to snigger around it; wasn’t happening. ‘Yeah, right… I knew that. Look, to what do I owe the pleasure, Ames?’
Her voice changed, dropped an octave or two. ‘Pleasure… I’m all about the pleasure, Gus.’
‘Yeah, keep it up, see where it gets you.’ Shit, I was flirting now. Where was my head?
‘That a promise?’
Clawed it back: ‘Yeah, whatever… So, you rang.’
A stall, some deep breaths taken. I could hear her juggling the phone with the cupboard doors, cups, kettle. ‘I thought you might like to know that I’ve got a date.’
Felt a twinge in my gut – didn’t know why. If I did, I wouldn’t let on. ‘You have?’
‘Big time.’ She sounded pleased.
‘Amy, I’m very happy for you… but did you think you needed to call and let me know or is there more to this?’
A laugh, sharp exhalation followed. ‘In your fucking dreams, sunshine! I’m calling to let you know I have a date with Danny Gemmill.’
My heart stilled. I let a long silence stretch out on the line. My mind seemed to reboot: was she serious? Couldn’t be for real. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘What?’
‘Gemmill… you’re cracking on to him?… Sure.’
Amy slipped into shit-stopping seriousness. ‘I am as well. Think I’d make that up? Like, why?’
Now my heart kicked up a notch, felt ready to blow. This was Amy I was dealing with after all: there was no telling what the fuck she would pull next. She was off-the-scale scripto at the best of times. ‘Amy, are you off yer fucking dial? Do you even know who you’re messing with here?… Jesus Christ, he’s beyond the borderline psycho range. Gemmill’s a full-on mentaller!’
‘I can handle myself.’
I had to laugh. She didn’t like it – I heard a tut. ‘Look, girl, this guy’s a fucking nut-job – get me? He’s already put me in the hospital. Think he’ll treat you any differently when he finds out what you’re up to?’
‘I said I can handle myself, Gus.’ She was deadly serious.
I lost it: ‘Handle your fucking self! You’re a silly wee lassie! Bloody hell, Amy, there’s no way you’re seeing Gemmill… no fucking way! It’s just not on, not on… you hear me?’ I was ranting so strong, so loud and long, that I’d missed the fact that she’d hung up.
‘Fuck!’ I hit my contacts, dialled her number. Went to voicemail. ‘Amy, look, call me back, eh. We need to talk. I’m not kidding about Danny Gemmill, he’s bad news… Don’t do this, seriously, just don’t do it. I know you’re not a silly wee lassie, you’ll see sense, so just leave this to me now. Please, huh?… I’ll call you later, we’ll go for a bite to eat or something, grab a movie, eh. Okay, Ames, we’ll speak soon, eh. Right, catch you later.’ What was I saying? It was all too much too late. I’d fucked right up.
I hoped she’d see sense, that she’d hear the message and see beyond my sparking up when she’d called. I knew Amy wasn’t the headstrong young girl of just a few years ago – she’d matured. Surely there was no way she’d go through with this. She’d see sense. She’d realise she’d gone too far… least, I hoped she would. I hoped I was right with a lot of my assumptions about Amy. Felt my stomach flutter, muttered, ‘Get a grip, boy.’ Where was my head? What the fuck was I thinking? Amy? Never. There was way too much baggage there.
I took the tin of Murphy’s up to my mouth, slugged deep, stopped for air. Not for long, though. I started to pace. I was all over the fucking shop. Needed to sort myself out. Being holed up in a tenner-a-night kip house with woodchip on the walls and baked-in barf on the carpet had a strangely hypnotic effect on me – or maybe it was the booze – made me think I’d hit my true level.
My mind spiralled, I was seriously worried. Played out the scenario where I called Hod, listened to him blasting me on the trip out to Amy’s. I knew she was a big girl now. But Danny Gemmill, Holy Christ… he was a nut-job. He could seriously hurt her.
I grabbed my coat, headed for the stairs.
The way Amy operated, I knew Gemmill’d have to be fucking superhuman not to spill his guts to her, and more besides. When he found out who she was he’d string her up. What he did to her after that would be prolonged, and painful. I couldn’t bear to think of it.
My mobi went.
Answered: ‘Amy.’
‘You chilled any yet?’
‘Look, I’m only thinking about… y’know, you.’
I heard a sigh. ‘You’re pissed. I can hear it in your voice.’
‘I’m not fucking pissed. Amy, I’m serious… I don’t want you to get hurt.’
‘
‘Aye, Gemmill’s a crazy… you know that.’
A pause on the line, then soft tones. ‘Gus, I’ve been hurt before…’ she let that hang, went, ‘I’m not worried
