Gutted (6 page)

Hod spoke: ‘You heard right.’

The judge stepped in front of his wife. ‘I’ve had just about enough of this. Get out of my house or I’m calling the police.’

I laughed out, couldn’t help myself. ‘Somehow, Your Honour . . . I think that’s the last thing you’ll be doing.’

ON THE STREET
I sparked up an Embassy, watched Hod come trailing down after me.

He said, ‘Think we got to them?’

I drew deep, said, ‘No chance.’

I moved off. Hod clipped at my heels, yelled, ‘Why not?’

‘Their lot have had centuries of practice.’ As I looked up to the window I could see Katrina Crawford was watching us. I felt a stab of guilt; the woman had suffered enough with the loss of a child. My face must have conveyed my thoughts – she shook her head and turned away.

‘What’s up?’ said Hod.

‘Nothing. Let’s get out of here.’

I lay in bed listening to a bit of synthpop. Oh yeah, there’s still a place for Depeche Mode – if you remember ‘Enjoy the Silence’, you forgive them the last ten years. I had a bottle of gin to the side of the bed, an ashtray balanced on my chest and a pack of Marlboro within grabbing distance. The red tops. Proper lethal. Was the best I could do; nearest I got to therapy.

For some time I’d had a rage on. Long before this corpse-on-the-hill headache; this goes way back. I’d hit the books. Close as I got to an approximation of myself was from Virgil: ‘Impotent
fury
rages powerless and to no purpose.’ That was me. Debs, my ex-wife, put it in simpler terms: ‘You take your life out on the world.’

When I took over my late friend Col’s pub it came with a flat. Not the room I used to have, the one he gave me above the gents’ cludgie whilst I was his doorman, but the apartment he used to share with his wife. There was a stack of books, religious mostly, but also some self-help. I don’t think they were Col’s, I think they belonged to his wife, Bell. She was a shy woman, quiet. One of life’s strugglers. I know the type, because I struggle myself.

Some of us strugglers give in. Bell, I think, not so much lost the will as never had it in the first place. Me, I’m a rager. That’s not a noble stance, it’s stupid. I’m the level below Bell. Her type have the nous to know the fight’s not worth it. Me, I care so little about losing that I welcome the fight with open arms. If it hastens the end, all the better.

The first time I picked up one of Bell’s books, I threw it across the room. There’s that anger again. It had some dumb title like
How To Be Happy
and had a headshot of the author smiling through porcelain veneers into the soft-focus lens. But if you’re a reader, you read, be it cornflake packets or Jean-Paul Sartre. In a dark night of the soul, I got my introduction to this snake-oil psychology. It was full of mantras like ‘Every day and in every way I am getting better and better’. Repeat ten times an hour, on the hour, for a month and the idea is you get the porcelain-veneered, soft-focus look and all’s peachy.

It churned my gut. People making money out of others’ misery. I felt sorry for Bell. Did she buy this? Did she think it was helping? I knew it wouldn’t; it could only make her worse. I knew this because I’ve heard the phrase ‘Get your act together’ so many times. The effect of it – contrary to the intention – is to drive you closer to the abyss. It misses me, though – I’m living in the abyss.

I reached for the gin bottle. Empty.

I raised myself and went downstairs to the bar. For the first time in weeks we had a fair crowd in. Took a stool at the front, twiddled with a beer mat until Mac caught my eye.

‘Want something?’

‘Usual.’

He poured out a Guinness and looked down at me as I fished for the television remote control. I flicked.

Got some groans from around the room.

‘Gus, there’s folk watching that.’

‘What?’

‘
X Factor
. . .’

I scanned the place: they were all old soaks, old enough to remember proper television. I raised my voice: ‘Was anyone watching that shite?’

A chorus of ‘Aye. Aye. Aye.’

‘You jest, surely.’ I flicked back to see Simon Cowell tearing into some utterly deluded bell-end of about sixteen, a Scouser with a swagger you could power a small town on. ‘. . . You’re encouraging this type of moron, you realise.’

‘There’s nothing else on,’ called out one of the regulars, a stickthin sixty-something with a crater where his nose should be.

‘And there never will be if you keep watching this crap . . . Honestly, you’re like gerbils in a wheel. Don’t you remember when it took talent to be on television?’

The Scouser started to kick off, told Simon he was wrong, he was ‘gonna be bigger than Robbeeee!’

I roared at the telly, ‘Dream on! The biggest cockhead in the music industry slot’s taken for now, pal. Come back in a few years, though – you look the type they’re after.’

I stood up, yelled, ‘Look at these strutting little twats . . . working in Sainsbury’s and thinking they’re the next Ricky
fucking
Martin. We’ve bred a generation of delusional egomaniacs and we wonder why the country’s gone ape!’

I got some stares. Wide-eyed ones. I couldn’t care less, I was just warming up. Said, ‘C’mon, I’m right! It’s a generation in for
massive
disappointment when it wakes up. Christ, they can’t even afford their own homes . . . and they think they’re entitled to be idolised!’

Mac took the doofer off me, put a firm hand on my shoulder, forced me to sit.

‘What’s your problem?’ I said.

‘Gus, just fucking settle.’

‘I’m perfectly settled.’

‘You’re perfectly pissed, and perfectly hyped . . . This hill murder has fucked with your mind.’

‘Bullshit.’

Mac shook his head at me, delivered my pint. ‘You’re ranting at a kid on the television, Gus. What does that tell you?’

I knew exactly what it told me, but I wasn’t admitting anything. ‘I thought this place was bad when Col was behind the bar.’

Mac ran a towel over the countertop, changed tack: ‘I took a call for you earlier . . . Debs.’

I cooled right down. My ex-wife always had that effect; still does. ‘Right, what did she say?’

‘Nothing much – she’ll call back.’

‘No emergency, then?’

‘No, she just asked how you were.’

‘And?’

Mac shrugged.

‘Well, thanks anyway.’

He didn’t respond, looked away.

Silence, then, ‘I’ve been thinking: why don’t you split, Gus?’

‘
What?
Where’s this came from?’

‘I mean, what’s to keep you here? You could go to Spain, catch some rays, maybe all this –’ he leaned forward, tapped the bar – ‘body on the hill malarkey will have passed over by then.’

I tasted my pint, wiped the froth from my top lip. ‘Mac, I can’t do that.’

‘Horseshit! I’d scarper.’ His brows pinched.

‘You what . . .? Why?’

‘You’re fucking daft, Gus. Digging into this is only going to cause you grief.’

My life was grief; why should some more bother me? ‘Let’s just see how it plays.’

Mac stretched the corners of his mouth, displayed his bottom row of teeth. ‘I have a bad feeling about all of this: the law’s involved and Rab Hart and—’

I cut him back: ‘That Jonny prick’s full of crap.’

He turned around. I thought he was going to the till or to grab a bag of nuts, then I felt a hand on my shoulder, saw he was passing the baton. It was Hod. He ordered up a bottle of Stella and nodded to the snug. I picked up my Guinness and followed him.

‘It crossed my mind,’ said Hod, ‘after our last chat, you need to think about what you’re getting into.’

I shook my head, said, ‘Oh, y’think?’

I sparked up another tab. Like I was giving a shit about the smoke ban
now
. Right away, Hod took the cig off me, stubbed it. ‘You don’t need any more aggro.’

‘Got
that
straight.’

‘When you turned up Moosey on the hill, what did the wee pricks do?’

I kept my voice low. Even in the snug I wasn’t being overheard. ‘Here’s the thing: when they saw him for the first time, they were scoobied. Totally stunned. It was as much a surprise to them as it was to me to find a dead fucking body lying in a patch of bushes.’

Mac came over with a tray of drinks, sat down. ‘Where are we at?’ he said.

‘Up Shit Creek.’

I drained my Guinness, took a nip from the tray.

Mac took a sip of beer. ‘I still say split. It’s the best option. You’ve got the filth rattled, you’ve noised up a judge and you’re forgetting Rab Hart’s gonna have something to say when he sees your wee piece in the paper, Gus.’

Hod started to nod agreement, stroking the stubble on his chin to add some gravitas. ‘Mac’s right – in your boots, I’d nash.’

I stood up. Could have driven a Panzer through their idea, but went with: ‘This is pointless. If you’ve no sound suggestions, I’ll paddle my own canoe.’

‘Mind, the water’s choppy in Shit Creek,’ said Mac.

MY STORY APPEARED
. Rasher made good on his promise of the front-page byline. There was a photo next to my name – I hardly recognised myself. Hoped nobody else would.

I was wrong.

Phone went: ‘Hello, Mam.’

‘Angus, what happened to your face?’

‘My face?’

I could hear her taking breath. She said, ‘I saw you in the paper. You could plant potatoes in those hollows . . . You’re not eating properly.’

Not a mention of the corpse, the case. I shrugged. ‘Well, y’know, I’m a busy guy, Mam.’

She didn’t buy it; maybe she hadn’t read the story at all. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while, Angus.’

‘Sorry, Mam, I’ve been meaning to—’

‘Well, you’re a busy man, like you say. Can’t expect you to keep up with my every move.’

I felt a wince. Flutters in my stomach. What could I say to that?

I didn’t get a chance. She said, ‘Are you back at the paper now, then?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘I can still remember the days when we’d see you in a coat and
tie
. . . Seems a long time ago now, since you had the job and Deborah and . . . I’m sorry, son, my mouth’s running away; I just don’t think.’

‘Mam, it’s okay.’ I moved the talk along, went for enquiring after my sister and brother, said, ‘And how’s Catherine and Michael?’

‘Well. Both well.’

‘Good. Good. That’s, er, good.’ God, what else could I say? I felt myself involuntarily looking at the clock.

‘Anyway, I’m glad to catch you, son . . . I’ve been meaning to ask you about something.’

‘What’s that?’

She paused, another deep breath, said, ‘I wanted to ask you . . . how you might feel about me selling off some of your dad’s trophies and medals.’

I didn’t know how to feel. They were something I never looked at. But, brute that he was, I felt we’d all played a part in earning those trophies – my brother and me, sister too – with beatings and scoldings. My mother earned her share in a million and one more painful ways. I saw her face in my mind: it was a road map of lines and hurt. How could I object to anything she asked of me? I’d been little or no use to the woman, ever. And the way things looked I saw no change on that front. Certainly no good change. Maybe worse was an option, though.

I said, ‘Mam, whatever you want to do is fine by me . . . whatever makes you happy.’

Her voice trembled. ‘Oh, Gus, if only.’

‘Come on, Mam.’

She started to cry. ‘You must think I’m just a silly old fool.’

‘Mam, you’re nothing of the kind.’

I heard her reaching for tissues to dab her eyes. ‘Well, don’t you mind me, Gus.’

‘Mam, there’s no way I’m gonna stop minding you.’

‘No, seriously. Here’s me bawling away and you have your own problems to deal with . . . You’re a grown man with a life to lead
and
I have no right putting my cares on you. I’m sorry, son. Can you ever forgive me?’

I said, ‘Mam, if there’s anything I can—’

She cut me off: ‘I am absolutely fine, it’s just . . . well, just seeing you in the paper set me back and thinking about the trophies, it made me . . .’

She struggled for the words.

‘Mam, no need to explain. I know fine. Whatever you do, just take care.’

She said goodbye and hung up.

I put down the phone. There was a book nearby: Knut Hamsun’s
Hunger
. I fingered the pages. I always carry a book; something my father never understood. His learning came from an altogether different world. Our worlds were always destined to collide. What was God thinking giving a hard man like him a bookish little nyaff like me for a son? I knew that was the question he’d asked himself all his life. On his deathbed he was still asking it, but just sounding it differently. I knew I wasn’t ready to forgive my father for those years. Would I ever be?