Loss (23 page)

I didn’t want to hear him talk of Michael – it sent blades into me thinking of my brother dealing with this lowlife, said, ‘That’s not the way Davie tells it. He says you were the last one to see him alive.’

McMilne jutted his jaw, little stray cactus spikes came for me. ‘If that was true, he’d still be here. I had nae bother with Michael, sound as a pound, he was . . . And let me tell you this: he was pissy bloody sick ay Davie’s antics as well.’

‘What antics? . . . What was he sick of?’

He spoke fast, frothy spit coming at me: ‘Broon-nosing they fucking foreigners and cunting me around. Michael knew where his bread was buttered. Nice wee drink he got for himself out ay me . . . Now, you tell Davie this is his last fucking chance tae get those trucks back on the road or there’ll be bother.’

I saw I wouldn’t get away with much more cheek before the Undertaker lost it, decided to put me in the ground, but I was cocky. ‘What if I don’t want to be your messenger?’

He laughed – a hacking, throaty birr rose in his windpipe. ‘Dury, I’m no’ giving you a fucking choice . . . See yon rolly bastard, you better get him told to see sense. And when you come back to me, laddie, you better say what I want to hear. Or you’ll find out what I do tae messengers that bring me bad news.’

It felt as if a firework was burning in my head, heat flashing behind my eyes. I knew I was screwed; out of options, said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

USUAL PULLED THROUGH. When I drove him home from the vet’s he curled in my lap, seemed too timid to ride in the passenger seat alone. Debs made a fuss over him; I didn’t want to tell her about the poison, but felt I had to.

‘
Poisoned
?’

‘He was lying on the floor of the car when I came back.’

Debs riled, ‘Gus, what the hell’s going on?’

I tried to make an excuse. ‘The vet said, y’know, it’s the breed, makes some people go a bit mental and try to off them.’ A white lie was one thing but I was making it worse, compounding the sin. I hated bullshitting Debs but what else could I do? I was trying desperately to keep the relationship from falling apart, again.

She didn’t buy it, sparked up: ‘Just poisoned because someone didn’t like the look of him? . . . Och, come off it, Gus.’

I dropped into the couch, sighed. ‘Look, Debs, lay off me . . . I’m sorry, I feel dreadful.’

Something made her reach out to me; she knew I wouldn’t cause the animal any pain. She knew I was in pain myself. She let it go, but she knew I was keeping something from her. I’d definitely got away with less than I was due – if she knew what had really happened, what I’d gotten myself into with the Undertaker, I’d be carrying her bags down the stairs; or maybe sleeping on them myself.

I left Debs to get ready for work. She had the ironing board up and it left no space in our tiny living room for both of us. The smoked-glass table was covered in hair-styling products and the kitchenette was a no-go when she propped up the mirror on the window ledge to do her make-up. I slunk off to the bathroom and ran the taps, then slid the cistern to get to my speed. I’d had some serious insomnia – not a wink of sleep, hours spent staring into the darkness. I knew what I was doing, and I knew how dangerous it was in my fragile state of mind.
If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you
was a line of Nietzsche’s I understood entirely.

I took a wrap of speed and chased it with another two. My tolerance had increased dramatically and tackling three wraps at a go was nothing for me. I’d been getting headaches and stomach cramps but I put that down to my general deterioration. I’d lost all appetite and had more or less stopped eating; the thing that had shocked me most, though, was the bleeding from my gums. I felt like my body was shutting down. Knew my soul wasn’t far behind it.

I slid the cistern back into place, was about to go and grab a smoke when my mobi rang.

‘Yeah.’

It was Mac. ‘What’s happening? We’ve been waiting for the nod on this Radek cunt.’

My plans had changed, for now. ‘Well, I ran into some difficulties.’

‘Such as?’

Did he want to know? I had to keep Mac and Hod informed if they were going to risk their necks for me. ‘I went to see Ronnie McMilne.’

‘You off yer fucking scone?’

‘I’d say so, yeah.’

‘I’d fucking say so too. What prompted that?’

I lowered my voice, checked Debs wasn’t on the other side the door, and told him about the poisoning. ‘I had no choice, it was one of those things.’

‘The red mist.’

He wasn’t wrong. ‘Aye, that’s it.’

He asked what I’d got out of McMilne and I gave him a brief rundown. He made the same assessment as I had – we could see all the pieces at the end of the kaleidoscope, but none of them were moving into shape.

‘This isn’t a help, it’s no’ good news,’ said Mac.

‘I know, I know.’

‘In fact, Gus, I’d say it’s actually fucked things right up.’

He was keen to get moving, to act. I had to wrestle him to the ground on that: ‘Look, just fucking well hang fire, eh. You’ll get the chance to use your hammer, but I have to sort some shit out first.’

A pause.

Mac’s breathing grew heavy; he was pumped, I could tell. ‘Right, okay. I hear you. Just don’t leave it too long, yeah? These things have a habit of slipping away from you if you don’t seize the moment.’

I heard Debs move from the hall to the bedroom. I dropped my voice, said, ‘I’ll have to go.’

Hung up, opened the door.

Debs stood outside the bathroom with the hairdryer in her hand. She tested: ‘Were you on the phone?’

‘Yeah, yeah . . . It was Mac banging on about the footy transfers.’

She squinted at me, knew I was bullshitting her once more. I saw she had me sussed – I was up to no good, doing exactly what she’d begged me not to – she just hadn’t made up her mind how to react. Once she got a handle on how she felt about my behaviour, I was in the shit. I could feel the pressure building in my skull.

I played for a distraction, said, ‘That dryer bust again? It’ll be the fuse, electrics in this place are . . . shocking.’

She tried to smile, mocked, ‘Har-har.’

I felt a blast of speed-fired optimism – had I won her round? Said, ‘I’ll get a screwdriver.’

Debs followed me through to the living room. I dropped in the chair and started to open up the plug, took out the burned fuse.

‘Everything all right?’ she said.

‘Yeah, fine.’

‘You sure?’

I looked up at her, tried to steer the talk off the rocks. ‘Well, you’ll need a new fuse.’

She poked me in the shoulder. ‘I’m not talking about that.’

‘
I know
,’ I snapped. My temper ramped up: ‘Debs, everything’s fine.’

She started to twirl her wet hair in her fingers. ‘You’re not . . . y’know, thinking about . . .’

‘Drinking? . . .
Fuck no
.’

‘Okay. Okay.’ She turned away from me and went to the kitchenette, retrieved a comb from the windowsill. As she parted her hair she spoke: ‘Do you have another appointment with Dr Naughton soon?’

Shit, I’d forgotten about that. ‘Yeah, today as it happens.’

Debs leaned over, let her hair fall over her face and combed from the nape of her neck; she looked left to right and repeated the motion. ‘Will you call me, let me know how it goes?’

I closed up the plug, tried it in the wall. The hairdryer blew hot air. ‘Is that really necessary?’ I sounded tetchy. ‘I mean, I’m going, isn’t that enough? . . . Do you have to check up on me?’

The dog heard the sound of the hairdryer and stirred in his basket. Debs knelt down, patted him on the head, placed a kiss on his nose. ‘I’m not checking up. I just thought you might want to talk it through.’

I shook my head, carved the air with my hand. My heart was quickening as the speed raced through me. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, Debs. I’m going to the shrink and that’s enough as far as I’m concerned.’

She made a moue with her mouth, wondered where the outburst had come from, spat out, ‘Okay, fine.’

My pulse raced. I knew I was barking at her because I resented giving over my time to a pretence when I should be hunting my brother’s killer. I didn’t want to be told I needed to change any more. I didn’t want to be moulded any more, or have the worst of me cut out so Debs could find the confidence to stay with me. I knew I needed to change, but that didn’t alter the fact that I wanted her to accept me as a whole person. I needed to let her see this, make her understand how tired I was, but I was losing control now. It seemed like just a matter of time until things exploded between us and I couldn’t take the pressure that was building – I needed to release it.

‘Don’t give me the fucking cold shoulder, Debs. I’ve said I’m going, haven’t I?’

She stood up. Usual watched her movement as she came over and snatched the hairdryer from my hand. ‘I was only trying to help.’

I turned away from her, punched out at the open door. The hinges shrieked, then dust rose from the door frame and along the skirting. As I looked at my knuckles Debs shook her head. She said nothing as she turned away from me and started to dry her hair. The tension in the small flat had become too much to take. I stormed into the hall and snatched down my coat.

‘Fuck this for a life,’ I yelled.

The quarter-bottle of Grouse in my pocket cracked off my hip as I threw the coat on.

I HADN’T LANDED IN THE street and ripped the knees out my trousers while sober since I was a boy. Since the day Michael was born. The sensation of dropping to the ground felt familiar enough, like the direction of my life speeded up to a few milliseconds, but the collapse stung my pride. I’d come down like a meteor. For some reason, an image of my father flashed. Was it the thought of my brother, going back to the past? I don’t know, but I saw my father hacking the legs off a gangly winger when he was playing in the reserves. It must have been one of his final matches; he carried a bit of a paunch then, but had lost none of his ferocity. I remembered the tackle had got him sent off, effing and blinding at the ref as he went. The winger’s ankle had broken. I could see his face torn by pain as I raised myself, brushed off the wet, black slush and the white snow from my trousers.

An old woman stood back from her tartan shopping trolley. ‘Are you all right, son?’

I felt such a fool, heat rose on my cheeks. ‘I am, yeah.’

‘You took an awful clatter.’ She had a woolly hat pulled down over her brows, stray white curls escaping its edges as she pointed to my legs. ‘You’ve cut the knees out your trousers!’

I tried to laugh it off. ‘I’ve done worse to myself.’

‘Wait there, son.’ She went back to her trolley and reached in a hand. She removed a little paper bag – it had the name of the chemist shop down the road on it. She struggled in her gloves to open it, said, ‘I’ve got some Germolene . . . It’ll take the sting out.’

As I watched the old woman I felt like taking her up in my arms and blessing her kindness. It seemed surreal to me, in this world, that there were still people with any compassion for others. I said, ‘There’s no need, dear. It’s very kind of you, but really, I’m fine.’

She seemed to freeze in the street. I watched her breath escape beneath her dentures, but she didn’t say another word. I wondered if I’d offended her, if I’d broken some protocol that had been instilled in her long before I was born; the thought wounded me.

‘Thank you,’ I said. It seemed so trite. ‘Mind how you go on those pavements.’ I smiled at her as I went. She stood holding the little paper bag, unmoving.

At the end of the road I turned back and saw her shuffling up the street, trailing the trolley behind her like a child with a teddy bear. What I wanted to know, as I stared at her on the frozen path, was who would look after
her
?

As I walked, my father followed.

I couldn’t shake the memory I’d dislodged.

The reserves drew a fair crowd then. Cannis Dury was still a big name, even though his World Cup outing had faded in Scotland’s collective memory. I tried to recall if Michael had been at the game, but I couldn’t. I’d blocked him out. I was used to memories of my father flooding back to me unbidden, but I didn’t want these heartscalds to be confused with any recollections I had stored of my brother.

I clutched the quarter-bottle of Grouse in my pocket again, played with the seal. I had just about worried the label away; it no longer felt smooth, it was coarse on my fingertips. I tried to still my jittering hand – had this become some kind of obsessive compulsion? It was like a nervous tick, a disorder. I pulled my hand from the bottle. It sank to the bottom of my pocket and lay still. I schlepped all the way to the Mile. At Parliament Square a crowd of shivering Japanese tourists spat on the Heart of Midlothian: they’d obviously been told this was an existing tradition at the site of the old Tolbooth. I thought, these days, it was more likely to get them arrested.

I felt low as I walked. My thoughts lit on my father again, then, inevitably, my brother. I hoped I was getting closer to finding his murderer, but I was also getting deeper into the shit by the day. I’d pushed Debs away too, and I knew she couldn’t take much more; the real question was how much more could I take?

Dr Naughton’s receptionist greeted me with a cheery hello and directed me to a chair in the waiting area to the side of her desk. Two piles of
National Geographic
lay on the table but I still didn’t have the urge to read anything. As I sat, I heard the door from my therapist’s room open. She was ushering out a patient. The woman looked like a librarian or a schoolteacher; some of the teachers I’d had were walking wounded – I wondered if I’d fallen into this category now.

My palms began to sweat as the doctor called me in.