Gutted (16 page)

Finished, I waited for a response.

None came.

I looked at the phone. The time and date flashed beside the battery charge level. She’d hung up.

Said, ‘Och, shit.’

I knew I’d blown it. The situation with Debs was worse than I’d thought. I felt panic. If Jonny Johnstone could work such a number on someone like Debs, someone with her head screwed on, someone who actually knew me, someone who shared history with me, then I was seriously up to my neck in the brown stuff.

I put the phone in my pocket. Tipped back my head. The cloud covering the sun had been joined by more. Great black jobs. A wind began to blow. Cold one. The sky was turning purplish at its edges. Threatened rain.

I KNEW I
should call Debs back, say sorry, but I couldn’t. I scrolled my phone’s contacts and hovered over the green call key again and again but it just wouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen. It seemed beyond senseless after all we’d been through together. But so much of that was getting to me now. Kept flooding back . . .

The priest started it, but now everyone’s at it. Seems the whole city knows. Wherever we go people stop, stare, shake heads.

‘What’s your problem?’ I say, but Debs wants none of it. My blood’s curdling, but she looks the other way. Even when the fag dowps are thrown at us in the street and the name-calling starts.

‘Leave it, Gus, just leave it . . . It’ll be over soon.’

‘No way, Deborah, I’m not having it. What right have they got? We’ve done nothing wrong . . . we’ve broken no law.’

I wonder, how long will this last? How long will it be before I am locked up for banjoing someone, or worse? But Debs sails high, holds her head up. I’ve never admired another soul more. She floats above all the scorn and hate.

Only one thing, the sight of young children pulled to their mothers, gets to her. Brings tears when she remembers, at night, when we’re alone.

The bigger kids calling out names she handles, even lets me kick
the
arse of any who are old enough to know better. But then it all gets too much, even for her, when the word DAMNED is scrawled on our doorstep.

‘It’s too much, Gus. It’s all too much,’ she says.

‘It’s just kids messing,’ I say, but she’s buying none of it.

‘No, it’s what they think of us now. We’re nothing; we don’t exist.’ She goes out, gets on her knees. The whole street can see. It’s what they want. She rubs and rubs at the step with her coat sleeve.

‘Stop, Debs. Come away in.’ A crowd forms to watch as her tears fall on the step and get smeared into the jagged letters. ‘Debs, you’re only putting on a show,’ I say.

‘Is that what you think I am now?’ she says. ‘A show?’

‘No, Debs.’ She’s better than all of them; she’s borne the taunts with dignity until now. It’s scalding my heart to see her brought to her knees before them. What have they done to her? She was once so full of life, more full of it than anyone. It strikes me deep to see her this way, but I think no less of her for it, only more. She is worth more than I deserve.

‘You’re ashamed of me as well, aren’t you?’ she says.

‘No. No . . . Now stop!’ I grab her arm. ‘This is what they want – to see you broken.’

She pulls away. ‘Well, let them look.’ Debs keeps rubbing. Her coat sleeve wears to a hole, her palm bleeds on the step as she forces it back and forth, back and forth. ‘Let them see me broken if that’s what they want. Are they happy?’ She turns to them, yells, ‘Are you happy now?’

I put my arms under her and lift her back indoors. She screams out, ‘No! No!’

‘Debs, it’ll be over soon, like you say.’

‘No. Gus, no . . . it will never be over,’ she wails. Tears roll over her face and then she buries her head in her bloodied and blackened hands. Her sobbing is silent, like all the noise is located deep inside her, wrapped up in her pain, unable to get out. When she removes her hands and tips back her head I look at her face, smeared in
blood
and dirt, and wonder what to do. Her mouth’s open, she’s trying to wail but is unable. Her screams stay trapped in her. She seems hollow, like there’s nothing left but the deepest misery inside. And I know it will never leave her.

I CLOSED MY
eyes.

Tried to think.

Wasn’t happening.

Then I heard, ‘Dury.’

The last thing you want to see when you’re lying with your head tipped over the back of a park bench is a man with a scarf covering his face. Mirror shades and shoulders wide enough to block out the sky.

I’d trouble adjusting to the picture, he was upside down from my perspective. I spun round, sat upright to front the source of the voice.

‘What in the wide world of—’

The scarf moved as he spoke. ‘Did you expect me to meet you out in the open, in the full glare of the world?’

‘With you, Fitz, I never know what to expect.’

He was dressed head to toe in black. With the shades he looked like Roy Orbison, said, ‘Don’t tell me . . . you drove all night?’

‘What?’

‘To get to me?’

‘You’re bollix mad, Dury!’

Like I’d give him any argument.

Fitz removed his scarf, sat. He took out some smokes, Lambert &
Butler
. As he sparked up, he looked out at the city. ‘I’d no idea you got such a view from up here.’

‘You’re not telling me this is your first time on Calton Hill?’

‘Och no, been up here once or twice of a night, mainly chasing off junkies shooting up, or some young heller with a bottle of Mad Dog in him who’s decided to have a go at the school hog-beast . . . Always turns nasty, that one.’

I was shocked Fitz had only been up the hill on police business. This was the spot on all the postcards, for Chrissake, said, ‘You never did the tourist bit when you first got here?’

He put his pale eyes on me, turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘Gus, I was an economic migrant back then. I had no feckin’ time or money for fannying about on tour buses and the like. Jeez, would ye ever get real there.’

I took the blast as it was intended. Moved on. ‘So, what have you got for me, Fitz?’

He turned sideways on the bench, an arm curled around my back. ‘Lesser men, in your boots, would get a good fong in the arse.’

‘That sounds uncomfortable –’ I made a show of removing his arm – ‘and very definitely not my kinda thing.’

‘Feck off, Dury, don’t be trying to paint me as a spunk-farter, even in jest.’

I got the impression I was noising Fitz up here, so eased off, took out one of my own tabs. I was back on the Mayfair, sound expensive, but the cheapest tabs on the shelf.

Fitz lit me up.

I said, ‘Look, I don’t expect the file of anything, I’m just—’

A laugh, ‘I’m feckin’ well glad to hear it because ye have more chance of me joining yon Naked Rambler for a tour round the old country, with a feckin’ fridge ’n’all!’

‘But I do need some help here, Fitz.’ I put just enough edge in my tone to let him know I wasn’t going to be fucked over.

He lunged at me, pointed his cigarette like a dart. ‘You have no idea how things are stacking up in that station.’ He turned, shook his head violently. ‘No idea!’

For the second time I eased off. ‘Then tell me.’

Fitz jumped to his feet. I was surprised he could move so quickly for a big fella. He was animated now, flicked the barely lit cig onto the ground and leaned over me like some mad puppeteer. ‘For a kick-off, Dury, let’s just say Jonny Johnstone is well ahead of the game.’

I didn’t want to hear this. I told him as much, ‘What do you mean?’

Head shake.

‘J. J., smart little fecker that he is, has relinquished the case.’

‘You what?’

‘Right after your little chat. Said he only
unearthed
your relationship with his fiancée during the interview.’

I was relieved, but intrigued, said, ‘And this puts me where?’

Fitz laid a foot on the bench, crossed his hands. ‘Deeper in the shit.’

This was definitely not what I wanted to hear.

He explained Jonny’s aim was a quick confession, that he probably thought he could use the leverage he had with Debs to put pressure on me, force me to crack. It seems my reputation as a hothead went before me. The plan, however, hadn’t so much backfired as, well, not gone off at all.

Fitz said, ‘It was a risky strategy, Gus, but that’s him – a risk taker, a high-wire operator.’

‘I don’t see how it’s worse for me to have Jonny off my back, though.’

‘Because, Dury . . .’ Fitz stepped away, put out his arms, spread-eagle, ‘now McAvoy’s on the job.’

The name meant nothing. I ran it through my mind again. Nah, only McAvoy I got was the bloke who tried to buy Celtic with Bono and Jim Kerr about ten years ago. Sure as hell wasn’t him.

I said, ‘Who the fuck’s McAvoy?’

Fitz had been waiting for me to ask, still leaning over me like a praying mantis. He got his bite, said, ‘McAvoy’s silk. He’s the kind of cop Jonny Boy would like to be, but can only dream of.
With
him leading the case, you’re dealing with one hard, smart bastard.’

My guts twisted involuntarily. The thought of Jonny Johnstone on my case was suddenly not such a bad deal.

I said, ‘Shit.’

‘You’re dealing with the best now, Dury.’

I’d never seen Fitz so impressed with anyone. I felt tempted to ask what this guy had done to float his boat, but I knew I needed all the friends I could muster, said, ‘Well, at least it can’t get any worse now.’

Uproarious laughter, ‘Ha! You think?’

‘Och, fuck me . . . what now?’

Fitz clapped his hands together. ‘McAvoy taught young J. J. all he knows. He’s like his . . . prodigy.’

‘Protégé.’

‘Yeah, whatever . . . Thing is, my worry is Jonny Boy’s still gonna be feeding in to the case, unofficially of course, but feeding in nonetheless. He can likely be more of a menace off the case than on it.’

I had nothing to say to this. It was the kind of cruel blow I’d come to expect from life, but it stung like a bastard all the same. I brought out a quarter-bottle of Glenlivet, took a good hit on it.

‘Ah, the very stuff,’ said Fitz. He wet his lips as I passed over the bottle, took a swig. ‘Oh, yes . . .’tis a fine drop ye have there, Dury. Fine indeed. Not sparing any expense.’

I grabbed it back, belted it. Fitz watched, waiting for another slug, but I put it to my mouth and drained it.

‘Man, that’s a thirst for ye . . . Have ye always pelted it like yon?’

I stood up, walked the bottle over to the bin, said, ‘You’re a long time dead.’ This phrase is one hundred per cent proof Scots. Only a race like ours could come up with it. Its meaning is interchangeable with ‘Fuck it’.

I lolled back over to the bench. Sat down. Fitz joined me. His
little
piece of street theatre over, he calmed, said, ‘So what’s your plan, Dury?’

I knew exactly what I needed to do. I needed to get myself off the hook. Finding a cast-iron alibi for my movements on the night of 15 May,
understood
, was next door to impossible. More than ever, I needed to find Moosey’s real killer. It wasn’t about righting a wrong or restarting my stalled career any more; it was about avoiding being ass-fucked by Jonny Boy and this McAvoy character. I was beginning to wonder why I hadn’t followed Mac and Hod’s advice to split sooner.

‘Well . . . what’s it to be?’ Fitz pressed.

‘First off, tell me all they’ve got.’

‘A wino.’

‘Y’what?’

Fitz reached in his pocket, pulled out a little black notebook, read out, ‘Male, of indeterminate age, possibly late seventies, goes by the name of Tupac.’

Was he shitting me? ‘Tupac?’

He let me hang for a moment, till he was sure he had my full attention. ‘He’s a fucking tramp. He carries a pack on his back and one on his front, it’s what they call him.’

‘A paraffin lamp, with two packs . . . Brilliant.’

Fitz tucked away his notebook. ‘I can tell you this: yer Tupac fella there saved your bacon on the line-up. He as good as lives on Corstorphine Hill and he’s the man that spotted someone with Moosey on the night.’

‘Did he now.’

‘I’ll tell ye, he’s nobody’s fool either . . . J. J. plied the old soak with Buckfast all night before that line-up and he still never did as he was told.’

I liked the sound of this Tupac already. ‘A true gentleman of the road.’

Fitz tied his scarf round his neck, said, ‘More likely angling for a feckin’ barrel of the stuff. His type are always after something for feckin’ nowt.’ He stood up. ‘Right, I’m offski.’

I was still digesting this information, planning my next move. I almost forgot I had one more task for Fitz. I put up a hand. ‘Before you go, can you check something for me?’

A glower. Bite of lower lip. The saggy jowls started to tremble as Fitz stoked himself for another display of dramatics. ‘Dury, yer pushing yer feckin’ luck.’