He straightened, put a bead on me. ‘Ah, but your sense of civic duty wouldn’t allow that now, would it?’
I turned away. ‘Fuck this.’
‘Not so fast, Dury.’
I swung back. ‘Look, I have a dog here that’s been shot at with air pellets. I need to take it to a vet.’
Another smirk. ‘Badgers, dogs… You’ll be doing Rolf Harris out a job.’
I moved off.
‘Stop. You’re not going anywhere until I’m well and truly fucking finished with you, Dury… and I mean finished.’
I stood still. I had my back to him now. He walked slowly towards me, then around my right side until he faced me. He said, ‘We have more in common than you think, Dury.’
I wasn’t biting, though he had my full interest. I let it slide. He seemed almost disappointed, went back to the job in hand, said, ‘So, these yobs… descriptions.’
‘I gave your boys the descriptions.’
‘And they were in a car, you say?’
‘Corrado, a white one.’
‘Probably not related.’
‘You seem very sure.’
He raised his brow. ‘I’m a proper detective, fuckface. Don’t even think of questioning my judgement.’
‘Are we done here, Detective?’
‘Oh, I think we’re done, don’t you?’
I nodded, said, ‘Good.’
As I turned he called me: ‘Oh, Dury… don’t be leaving the city any time soon.’
‘You what?’
‘I think you heard.’
As he walked past me he twanged the elastic on his notebook again, tucked it inside his suit. I clocked the lining: purple silk. ‘We may need to talk to you again… so make sure we can get hold of you, nice and easy, eh.’
Chapter 4
The dog squirmed under my coat. I didn’t think he was trying to get comfortable, more like seeking a way to escape the pain of his wounds. I took a look: some of the deeper gashes would need stitching for sure. At a guess I’d say those little fuckers had been at him with some kind of lash before they got started with the airguns.
‘That’s a proper doing-over you’ve had, pal,’ I whispered.
He put those eyes on me again. Heart-melters. If I’d less to worry about, I’d be looking for those yobs, tearing them new arseholes, more than they could make use of.
The sky verged on fully lit now. I saw the blood congealed on my hands. It had dried in dark streaks; under my fingernails it looked black. I tried to rub it away and then, the worst, I got a waft of that smell again.
I couldn’t stop my guts heaving. I’d more in the tank, copped for a barf. It sprayed my Docs. I put my hand to my mouth, but the smell of blood caused another burst. I chucked and chucked until I was left dry-retching. The dog whined and clawed at me.
As I straightened I saw the reporter from the paper arriving. He had a snapper with him who was firing off shots of the scene. Boss Suit had a hand up, but it was all pretence — he looked delighted to have his picture taken.
‘Fucking ponce,’ I muttered.
I stepped into the path down the hill, looked to the road. I could see a set of headlights; turned out to be a Joe Baxi. I knew Mac would be on his way, but I was anxious now for the dog. His breathing had got heavier. He seemed more sluggish. I thought I might be losing him and it punched my heart.
Another set of lights, not a cab this time.
It was Mac. I sighed with relief.
‘About fucking time.’ As he pulled in there was no screech of tyres. He even used indicators. I grabbed the door. ‘You know, you could work for Meals on fucking Wheels.’
‘It’s speed cameras all the way down the road.’
‘Towels… where’s the towels… and the water?’
Mac yanked on the handbrake, leaned forward. ‘Holy buggery… What the hell’s happened to you?’
‘Don’t ask?’
‘Is that blood?’
‘No. It’s creosote… Thought I’d do a few fences while I waited.’
Mac’s eyebrows lifted, then shot down. ‘What’s the fucking Hampden roar here, Gus?’
I patted out a towel on the front seat, got in.
‘Gus?’
The dog’s head popped out of my jacket.
Mac screamed, ‘Fuck me! What’s that?’
‘You never seen a dog before?’
‘Not popping out a man’s chest like fucking John Hurt in Alien I haven’t, no!’
I pushed the dog’s head back under my jacket. ‘Mac, you realise it’s probably not got long to live.’
That registered, a wince stretching out his half-Chelsea smile. Now he gunned it. Tyre-screeching, the lot.
I smacked my brow with the heel of my hand, tried to get into gear. ‘You’ll have to take him to the Vet School, they do emergency cases.’
‘Aye, okay. I’m on it, eh.’
The dog wouldn’t take the water. His head lolled from side to side, his eyes were slits. ‘Better fucking nash, Mac.’
My guts started to churn again with the motion of the car.
‘Don’t you be puking in my motor.’
The stench of blood in the confined space hit me. ‘I feel rough.’
Mac opened the windows. ‘I’ll drop you at the pub… You’re in no state to be seen out anyway.’
Like I could argue with that.
The streets were empty of traffic; we got there in no time. I placed the dog on the seat I’d vacated. He yelped, had a fit of panting then looked up at me. I placed a hand gently on his head, said, ‘Good luck, fella.’
Mac didn’t hang about, tore away leaving tyre marks on the street. I felt better in the open air again. My legs were rubber but I was used to that; could have done with a large one to settle me down.
A jakey was sleeping in the doorway of the Wall. I lifted his collar, told him, ‘Do one.’
Grunts, bit of a grumble. Think I woke him. Asked, ‘Do you need a kick in the arse as well?’
He got the message. Stumbled off, good few bottles of White Lightning rattling around inside him.
I had to get out of these clothes, get in the shower, ease the bruising and swelling I could feel coming up on my face, the raw knuckles and the rest of it.
First things first, though. I flicked the bar lights on, raised a glass. The nearest to hand was a pint mug. Filled it to nearly halfway with Johnnie Walker. The taste came to me like a recurring dream. People watch me at the scoosh and say, ‘You take that like tea.’ They’re wrong, of course: I don’t take tea. Lately, I don’t touch much other than this.
I hit the optic again, swirled a shot in the bottom of the glass. Fired it like a twelve-gauge, then got moving.
I took a few bar towels and nashed through to the gents’ cludgie. The lights blasting off the white tiles stung my eyes, nearly felled me. But it was the smell of rank piss that set my guts heaving.
As I hit the nearest sink I caught sight of my hands. They looked raw as minced meat. I followed the length of my arms, took in my jacket, my shirt. Holy shit: I wore more blood than a slaughterhouse.
