Gutted (29 page)

I’d read about famous alcoholics; it had become almost an obsession with me. To a one they all said the same thing: ‘I can’t imagine a world without drink, it would be too . . . boring.’

When I hear this I know at once that it’s the addiction talking. Alkies just can’t put up with themselves. To a one they are self-loathing. Days on the dry are endless. Like being locked up with a stranger. A stranger you hate. You drink, and the stranger goes away, leaves you in peace. But more than that, you find another state. Somewhere where you don’t need to scream all day and all night like you were in purgatory being poked in the ribs by the Devil.

Rousseau said: ‘Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.’ Alcohol was my key. It unlocked the chains. It set me free – for a little while.

I was back on the boat before I knew it. Hit the half of Bell’s again; tanned the lot this time. The dog was watching me. Could have sworn he had disapproval on his face.

‘Sorry, boy, got to leave you again.’

I knew I was wrong to stray too far from Hod’s boat. What I needed was something like that scene in
Trainspotting
where Renton locks himself away with the tins of soup, goes cold turkey. I also knew, like Renton, there wasn’t a chance in hell I was doing any cold turkey.

Anyway . . .
what’s for ye’ll no’ go by ye
.

I flagged a Joe Baxi to Sighthill. When I got out I gave the driver a nod, said, ‘Go safe.’

A smile; whole head quivered on his meaty neck.

I could hear trail bikes burning up the park beyond the road. This was the new craze: get a bike and go grabbing handbags. We had them all over the city now, young neds on bikes, could spot them by the bare head. There’d been some bad incidents, folk knocked to the ground and near killed. No one seemed to have any trouble identifying them, except plod. No revenue in it I guess.

I nashed through the streets, over paving flags all cracked to buggery. Round the burning wheelie bins – apparently you can get a buzz off them. I kept my head low this time, avoided any eye contact. Avoided the hails of skag merchants, yelling:

‘You sorted, pal?’

‘What about some jellies?’

‘Bag ay puff?’

Didn’t answer, got:

‘A shooter ye after, big man?’

‘You for a ride? Only top nanny, mind.’

Then:

‘. . .
Well fuck ye
!’

‘. . .
Homo
!’

‘. . .
Fucking bawbag
!’

Was hard to imagine meaner streets. Christ, even I was a tourist here. But if a Corrado skidded into view, I’d be ready for it. Somehow I doubted it, though. Smart money was on that baby being garaged for the foreseeable.

At the boarded-up store I tapped the counter, roused the Sikh. ‘How goes it?’

A ‘like I care about that shit’ stare.

I produced the bottle of Glenfiddich, pushed it through the bars, said, ‘I wanted to say thank you . . . for what you did the other day.’

His face lit up. A huge row of teeth, fair dazzled me. He took the bottle, said, ‘Thank
you
.’

I shrugged. ‘I’m the one giving thanks here, don’t be turning the tables on me. I’m serious: what you did, you probably saved my life.’

A wave of the hand. ‘No, sir, I do the same for anyone.’ He wiped at the bottle with the tips of his fingers. ‘Come, a drink, yes?’

Like I’d say no.

The Sikh called through to the back. A young girl in denims came out, slouched at the till and started to chew on red-liquorice laces.

Out back smelled of strong spices, cooking. Made my mouth water.

He put two china cups down on the table, poured. I waited for him to drink first. He raised his cup, clinked it on mine. All the while he smiled like a cheeky child. At first taste, I could see he approved.

‘I am Rafi.’

‘Gus. Pleased to meet you.’

We shook.

More smiles. Didn’t think his English was up to much more; tried anyway: ‘I wondered, how did you get those little shites off me?’

A laugh. His head shook on his shoulders. ‘Mossberg!’

‘You what?’

In a second he was out of his chair, unfurling a chain from his belt with a bunch of keys on the end. He slid one into the lock of a battered old cabinet, popped the door. As he turned he grasped the barrel on a pump-action shotgun. ‘Mossberg. Best, yes?’

Somehow, when I see a gun like this, I pinch my lips. ‘That’s some piece. I’m guessing that’ll do the trick.’

He smiled, beamed wide. ‘No talkie. No talkie, Mr Gus.’ He wagged a finger at me. ‘Rafi, no papers.’

I couldn’t help but laugh. He laughed with me, poured another cup of whisky.

For an hour we sat, finished the bottle.

‘You eat with us, Mr Gus.’

‘I’d love to, Rafi . . . love to, just love to, mate.’ I was feeling a bit tanked, the good stuff mixing with the codeine tabs I’d swallowed earlier on an empty stomach. ‘But my wife would disapprove of me imposing on your family.’

‘A wife, yes. Good. Good.’

‘Sorry, I meant ex-wife.’

‘Ah, ex-wife, not good.’

‘You got that bang to rights. Let me tell you about the
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
. . .’

He knew the song, surprised me, joined in:

‘
D-i-v-o-r-c-e
. . .’ We raised the roof, clutching each other, peals of laughter flooding out of us when the door was flung open and an old woman in a sari pushed in, blasted Rafi with some heavy-duty home language. For that stuff you don’t need the lingo, it’s the same the world over. He shrank before me, lowered his head. I followed his lead. When she left, slamming the door behind her, I stood up.

‘Time to boost . . .’ I had to meet Hod and make our venture out to the pit fight. ‘I’ve enjoyed your company, Rafi, but I must nash.’

The headlight smile came back on. Handshake. ‘Always my pleasure, Mr Gus! Any time, any time.’

As he grasped my hand tightly, I had a thought, said, ‘Rafi, y’know, if it wouldn’t be stretching the friendship too much, there is one thing you could do for me . . .’

HAD SOME RAIN
. left the streets looking washed. In this town that’s something. The council was wrestling with a ‘budget black hole’, according to the papers. Never ceased to amaze me: any other city you visit in the world, they manage to empty the bins, tend the parks, clean the streets. Edinburgh, unless there’re developer kickbacks or a massive tourism pay-off, forget it. Daily the population gets one in the coal-hole from the mob in the City Chambers. Really boils my piss. Such a scenic town. A World Heritage city. But in reality, just a jam pot for the few with their hands on the levers.

I jumped into the nearest newsagent’s. Ordered: ‘Twenty, nah, make that forty Rothmans.’

They had a collection of bottles behind the counter, up on the shelf. Lambrusco on offer, great fluorescent orange star stuck to the side saying £1.99. Wasn’t tempted. But after starting on the whisky with Rafi at Sighthill, I wasn’t stopping. Said, ‘Oh and chuck in a couple of quarter-bottles of that.’

I pointed to the vodka. Was overtaking scoosh in the convenience stores now; the first choice of our influx of Polish immigrants.

The newsagent put the bottles before me. I looked at the label – name I’d never heard of. Pocketed them. On the street I stood waiting for Hod, wrestled the cellophane off my tabs, sparked up.

The smoke cancelled out the smell of dampness rising from the paving flags. It was like an old memory being shoved to the back of my mind: dampness, wet, rain . . . When I look back these are the background images in every scene. My life has been lived in the tones of Van Gogh’s early paintings, grey and greyer. The few moments of colour all involved Debs; but she featured in a lot of the grey days too.

I had a Mossberg pump under my Crombie that Rafi had sold to me; kept a firm hand on the barrel. As I schlepped over the road, the shooter rammed into my ribs with every step. Knew it pulled my coat south. I felt lopsided, but in this rain, who was looking?

I wasn’t messing about. End of.

The night was cold. Dark clouds gathering at the edges of a red sky. As I waited at the roadside I powered through my Rothmans King Size. The sharpness of the air seemed to take the hit out of the cigarette so I stubbed it. For some reason I thought of Debs again. It was on nights like this we’d begun to bond. Freezing half to death on park benches, sharing ten Regal on a roundabout in some skanky playground.

The reverie was soon interrupted as Hod’s car screeched up; a yell, ‘Get in.’

I opened the door. ‘Fuck me, it’s Chewbacca!’ I sat down and buckled up. All the while trying to disguise the shooter. He wouldn’t approve.

‘What’s with the faraway look?’ said Hod.

‘No look.’

‘Bollocks . . . Is it Debs?’

Jesus, did it still show? ‘No, no way.’

‘C’mon, you can’t kid me, I was your best man, remember. I know that look.’

I took out my smokes again. Sparked another one. ‘I saw her earlier,’ I said.

‘And?’

‘She told me Jonny Johnstone has it set in his mind that I’m going down.’

Hod pulled around a red Micra, waved a hand to let out a bus. ‘Hasn’t she been speaking up for you? Can’t she set this arsehole straight? I mean, she should be our inside track here, no?’

I wound down the window, flicked ash. ‘Hod, she’s not my wife any more. She doesn’t owe me anything and besides . . .’

I trailed off mid-sentence but Hod was listening, a gap appearing in the fuzz of his face. ‘Besides what?’

‘I think she’d be too frightened to speak up for me. Not because she’s shitting it from J. J., but because she wouldn’t want to rattle him any more. Like Fitz said, the man has a boner for me.’

Hod fired up: ‘I thought plod was supposed to be professional about these things. Fucksake, what’s his problem? I just don’t get this.’

‘Jonny Boy’s young and insecure, Hod. That’s what it boils down to. He wants to obliterate Debs’s past, completely own her – with this murder case he’s found the perfect way to do it . . . And there’s more to it. He’s up to some kind of shit I can’t quite get a handle on.’

‘But how? He’s off the case.’

‘Bollocks to that. McAvoy’s working the case for him: a man desperate for a collar, any collar – what a gift!’

‘Bad boys stick together.’

I frowned. ‘I’m not sure about that. I mean, I don’t know how much McAvoy is interested in J. J. as a partner, even a junior one. The pair struck me as both a little too self-interested to get along . . . D’you know what I mean?’

Hod revved the engine, dropped a gear; in second he beat the lights. He didn’t need to answer my question, I could see he understood where I was coming from – the pair would cut each other’s throats to get ahead.

‘Anyway, things might change tonight,’ said Hod.

I had my doubts but I was willing to give it a go. ‘You think the wee bastard with the Corrado will be there?’

‘There’s every chance. They don’t put these sort of gigs on every night of the week.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Look, be positive . . .’

I saw Bell’s books again – reran ‘Techniques for positive visualisation’.

‘Positive – that’s horseshit. You’ll be telling me to keep my fingers crossed next.’

‘Gus, we have a chance here, slim as it might be, to track down the little fucker that killed Tupac, maybe even link him up to Mark Crawford. Let’s not balls it up is all I’m saying.’

‘Okay. Okay.’ The point was taken. Stay off the sauce. Keep the head. Don’t, under any circumstances, lose it.

‘At the very least we get to see that slimy fucker Sid in action. Keep a close eye on him – whoever he’s mixing it with might be useful to us.’

I took a grip on the shooter. I had a handful of cartridges in each pocket of my Crombie. Felt comforting. Like insurance.

‘And anyway, it’s not the end of the world if we don’t grab us a gimpy boy tonight,’ said Hod.

‘How come?’

‘Well, we have some leads now, right?’

‘
We
?’ I wasn’t getting this Hod seeing himself as my partner business one iota.

‘Yeah, well, I’m on the team, right?’

‘Hod, there is no fucking team . . . there’s me versus the world. I wouldn’t be opting for a side so quick if I were you.’

Hod pelted the accelerator, hit the bypass. ‘C’mon, don’t mark me for a wuss – I’m in, all right.’

An artic pulled out from a slip road. Hod had to floor it to get past.

‘Hod, watch the road, eh?’

‘Gus, my man, relax there. With me on the team you have an extra pair of hands, eyes, and that’s not to mention my brain and brawn.’

I laughed. ‘You put it like that . . .’

‘How else would I put it?’

‘Well, there’s no question you can be a help. What I’m having trouble with is the whole babysitting aspect.’