Loss (21 page)

Hod slapped the table. ‘Count me in.’

I looked at Mac, said, ‘Well?’

He nodded. ‘Aye, fucking right I’m in.’

I TOLD MAC AND HOD to keep their mobiles on and be ready to nash when I called. I didn’t know when the opportunity I needed would present itself, but if it didn’t, I’d have to make it happen. And soon.

As I crossed the road I caught sight of a newsagent’s bill. It screamed at me:
CITY BUSINESSMAN MURDERED
.

Rasher had got his headline.

I went into the shop and picked up the
Hootsman
, read the byline first – old habits die hard. It was one of the new batch of college interns, I didn’t know her. I thanked Christ I was no longer a hack: her intro read like shit. A worn clichéd comma-splice. If I was still holding down a desk, I’d be chucking up in one of its drawers about now.

The paper had obviously very little to go on. They’d run a few inches on the murder in the Meadows earlier but now the police had released Michael’s name and the fact that he was a prominent local businessman. The wannabe reporter speculated wildly about the investigation, great swathes of editorialising that made me wince. But the thrust of the tale was factual. Fitz had given them a bland statement that read: ‘Police are following a definite line of inquiry.’

Thought: Boilerplate. Is there a file they cut and paste this pish from?

No one had bought the mugging-gone-wrong cover story; it had backfired on the force for sure. Fitz knew by now he was going to be taking pelters from the
Hootsman
if he didn’t have a suspect soon, someone in custody, charges laid.

I read on, shaking my head, said, ‘Fucking hell.’

The bloke on the counter looked up, went, ‘You buying that? If you’re no’ then the library’s down the road.’

I folded it up, whacked it down, said, ‘How much is it?’

‘Seventy-five pence.’

I frowned: the cover price went up as the standard of reporting nosedived. Another casualty of our tragic times.

I handed over a quid, got my change thrown at me with a sarcastic ‘Have a nice day.’

The mid-Atlantic drawl was beginning to get on my tits, big time. Someone was going to get slapped in the puss giving me those imported tropes. I turned quickly, headed for the door.

‘Wait a minute,’ the shopkeeper said. I looked around – the place was empty. He called me back.

I turned, said, ‘What you want?’

He bent under the counter and took out a shoebox, removed the lid. ‘Want to buy some cheap razors?’ He held up a pack, obviously knock-off, Gillette Mach 3.

‘How much?’

‘Fiver for ten.’

These things went for three times that. I took a box, passed over the cash, said, ‘Where’d you get them?’

He touched the side of his nose. ‘Ask no questions.’

It seemed policy.

As I got my razors in a brown paper bag, the shopkeeper said, ‘Hang about.’ He dipped under the counter again, produced another shoebox. Inside sat pairs of ladies’ stockings. ‘Want some tights?’

I looked at him. ‘You wha’?’

‘Nylons . . .’

I shook my head. ‘Has the Luftwaffe been back?’

He looked scoobied. ‘Eh?’

I said, ‘Have we reversed all the way to 1944?’

He put the lid on the box, curled his mouth at me.

I left the shop with my newspaper tucked under my arm and my razors shoved to the bottom of my pocket.

Outside a glimmer of sunshine winked through the clouds. It threw me. I felt more comfortable with the grey skies and the freezing-cold winds battering. The hint of warmth made me anxious, as though there was a trick being played. The snow on the roofs had started to melt and every so often it came crashing in great lumps to the street. Drainpipes overflowed and flooded the pavements. I knew if the temperature dropped again it would bring a freeze, folk saying,
It’s like an ice rink out there
.

As I crossed the road to the car, a maroon bus sprayed black slush at me. It splashed on my coat and trousers. I shot a finger at the driver but he missed it, or pretended to. The wetness was seeping through to my legs already.

At the car I expected Usual to be jumping up and down, barking at me. But he was nowhere to be seen. I thought he must be sleeping so I crept up to try and surprise him. He never stirred. As I looked in the window I couldn’t see him at all. My heart rate ramped up, thought: Christ, he’s been taken.

I looked in the back and saw no sign of him, then I went to the driver’s window – it was smeared with blood all along the edge where I had left it open an inch. The blood had dripped down in thick streaks and dried on the glass. I couldn’t get my head around what might have happened.
Fuck
, where was he? I suddenly caught sight of Usual’s back legs sticking out from under the front passenger seat. He lay flat on his belly, a position I’d never seen him in before.

I rooted in my pocket for the keys, my hands trembling as I sprung the lock, opened up.

‘Usual . . . Usual . . . come here, boy.’

He didn’t move.

I wondered if he’d been wounded.

‘Fucking hell, have you been hurt, boy?’

I crouched down, tried to pull him out from under the seat as gently as possible. My mind raced with all kinds of thoughts.

Had he been knifed?

Had he been shot?

Holy shit, someone had got to him.

As I eased the animal off the floor his head fell limply over my arm. He had blood all round the edges of his mouth.

‘Usual, what’s happened to you, boy?’

I tried to rouse him, but he was cold.

I SLAPPED THE DOG ON the back, but got nothing. I put my ear to his nose and felt sure he was breathing, but only just. My mind whirred with dark thoughts. I lifted Usual onto the passenger seat and his mouth dropped open, his tongue flopped over the edge. As I panicked, tried to get my head working, I caught sight of something sticking to the carpet by the door. I reached for it. It was a piece of raw steak, half chewed.

‘You fuckers.’

Someone had fed the poor animal a piece of dodgy meat. I knew at once I had to get him to a vet. The nearest one was a mile away.

‘Hang in, boy . . . we’ll get you help.’

I slammed the door and over-revved the engine so much that a cloud of smoke came flooding from the back of the car. The tyres spun on the slippery road as I gunned the gas pedal hard. I saw people pointing at me as I clipped the kerb with my back wheel but I didn’t care. I had the car up to sixty on Easter Road and took the junction in a handbrake turn. The Punto skidded into London Road, near taking out the traffic lights. An old giffer on the pedestrian crossing raised his shopping bag and mouthed abuse.

I took the bus lane and flashed my lights at anyone else who got the same idea. I had one hand on the steering wheel and the other on Usual’s back. ‘Hang in, boy. Hang in.’

My mind filled with all I had been through with this dog: I had rescued him from a shower of yobs who’d been torturing him on Corstorphine Hill. They had tied him to a tree, were firing air-rifle pellets at him when I stepped in. A frenzied dash to the vet had been called for then. He’d survived his ordeal; I hoped he would be as lucky again. There had never been a more devoted dog than Usual. He had grown into our little household and he worshipped Debs. She would be devastated if anything happened to him.
Fuck
, she would never forgive me.

I was sweating now, my brows collecting beads of moisture. I had my mouth set in a grimace as I raced through the gears, getting to the box junction at the Carphone Warehouse. The lights turned red but I ran them. A Volvo came out from the stadium road and I was inches from its massive front bumper. The driver braked suddenly, brought the Volv’ to a halt. I flew past him; as I did, he regained some composure and pummelled the horn.

The dog didn’t look as if he was travelling well. His tongue had changed colour, seemed to have drained of blood. I patted his back, but he didn’t so much as murmur. I was losing hope, I sensed the dog slipping away from me.

‘Come on, boyo. Don’t you be leaving me. Come on, come on.’

I spun the wheel through my hands, it burned my palms. I hit a traffic island and the back end fishtailed out of control. I had to countermand the steering to get the car to right itself. The front end lurched at a parked car and there was a millisecond of impending damage before I got the bastard under control. I ramped up the revs again and the car lurched to the other side of the road. An oncoming motorist pulled out of the way, but we clipped wing mirrors.

‘Fuck it.’

The Punto’s mirror was hanging off. Banged on the side of the door.

In my rear-view I saw the driver of the other car stop. He opened his door and stood in the road, roaring at me. Like I gave a shit.

I had two streets to go. I took the car over the edge of the dropped kerb at the corner shop and rolled in neutral, then I had to slam on the anchors.

‘Bollocks!’

There were roadworks.

Two fat builders in high-visibility coats directed a reversing dumper truck. The other side of the street was filled with a pile of stone chippings. The road was blocked. I gripped at the wheel. Smacked my fists off the dash. What the fuck was I to do? I punched the steering wheel and the horn belted out.

The builders looked at me, mouthed something between themselves, then got back to work.

I looked at the dog: he lay lifeless. His body had slid towards the door when I hit the brakes, his face shoved up against the armrest. I put a hand on him – he felt cold, his nose dry.

‘Oh Christ, Usual!’

I jerked my hand from him and reached for the door. I ran round to the passenger side and yanked it open. Usual’s head flopped as the door’s support was taken from him. I leaned over, put my arms under his still body and picked him up. As I held him close, I reached for the raw steak that sat on the floor, shoved it in my coat pocket and ran.

I tanked it down the slush-filled streets.

I felt my steps give way on the slippery surface but I kept up a good pace. As I rounded the corner I fell, landed on one knee but held on to the dog. As I looked down his head lolled like a rag doll’s. I put my hand under the base of his skull, supported him. The vet’s surgery was in sight.

Normally, parked cars were lined up out front, and all the way down the street, but today there were none to be seen.

‘Oh, fucking hell . . . Don’t be closed on me.’

I chanked it as fast as I could for the last fifty yards. I thought my heart might let out. My lungs shrieked; I cursed myself for smoking so much.

‘Come on, be open. Be fucking open!’

There were no signs of life at the vet’s. It was nearly holiday time – had they shut up early?

‘Oh, Jesus . . .’

As I got closer to the door, sliding and cursing as I went, I suddenly saw a sight that fired hope in me – lights burning on a Christmas tree.

I rounded the path, grabbed the door handle. It opened – I gasped in relief.

Inside I got hit with the smell of disinfectant and dog food. I brushed past a man with a cat carrier in the foyer and took a noticeboard down with me. A woman on the reception desk looked as though I’d cracked it over her head.

‘Hey, hey, what you playing at?’ she yelped at me.

I shouldered customers out of the way; there was more yelping.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ I gasped, short of breath.

Some tutting was added to the cacophony.

As I reached the desk, I panted, completely out of breath. My heart was bursting. I was dizzy with exertion and fear. ‘My dog . . . My dog . . .’

The receptionist was indignant. ‘You’ve just pushed through the queue!’

I was ready to lamp her, but she caught sight of Usual in my arms and her tone changed immediately.

‘Oh my God, is this a road accident? . . . Has he been hit by a car?’

I shook my head, rummaged in my pocket. ‘It’s this . . .
this
.’

She looked scoobied, had no idea what I was giving her.

I shook the steak – blood dripped from it. ‘It’s meat, someone’s fed him this.’

Her brain clicked to
on
. She pushed back her chair. The wheels cut into the floorboards as she called out to the vet, ‘Bob, Bob . . . There’s a dog here been poisoned.’

The vet came running through, tucking a thermometer in his shirt pocket. He didn’t look at me; all I saw was the top of his bald and freckled head as he poked and prodded at Usual. He picked up the meat and sniffed it, shook his head, then lifted the dog. I watched him jog through to the surgery, calling out instructions to a girl who appeared wearing a green gown and gloves.

I was still gasping for air as the receptionist placed a hand on my arm, said, ‘Are you okay there?’

She seemed absorbed by me. I patted the back of the hand she placed on my arm, muttered, ‘I think so, yes . . . Do you reckon he’ll be all right?’

She had dark eyes; they stared up at me as she spoke. ‘You should go and get a seat.’

‘But, but I-I . . .’ I gripped on to her hand.

She pulled it away from me. ‘He’s in the best place now.’

It sounded like the kind of thing she’d said to a million people before. I wanted more than that, but I moved back, said, ‘Thank you.’

When I sat down in one of the practice’s plastic chairs, I sensed everyone turning towards me. I tried not to make any eye contact; knew full well that would only be an invitation to have them talk to me, and I was in no mood for chat.

I stared at my boots, let my heart rate reach a normal level again. I felt my breath returning but the blood still pumped hard in me.

I knew who had done this to Usual.

I could see the face on that parka-wearing pug as he fed the meat through the open window. I had both fists gripped. I’d fucking well feed him through a window when I got my hands on him. I didn’t care if he was one of the Undertaker’s boys, I’d do him. And I’d do him proper.