Loss (28 page)

I stood up. There was ice in my veins. ‘I will. Just tell me who fired the gun, Fitz . . . And leave the justice to me.’

IT WAS CHRISTMAS EVE. It didn’t feel like it. I woke in a cold, empty flat. The space where Debs had lain beside me for months was empty. I reached out, touched the other side of the bed; it was as if no one had ever been there. The night before I had tried to fill the gap she’d left by putting her pillow at my back, but I’d removed it – didn’t want to wake up and think she was still there, face yet more disappointment.

I stared at the ceiling, heard movement upstairs. They had a kid that was running around, laughing. She would be excited at the thought of Santa coming later on; it made me think of Michael at that age. I remembered bawling him out then, telling him to shut up as he went on and on about
Star Wars
figures and whether he’d be getting a Boba Fett or a Gamorrean Guard in his stocking.

The memory was too painful; I tried to replay it the way I would like to have remembered it. I spoke kindly to my younger brother, said there might even be a
Millennium Falcon
coming his way, but it didn’t work. Any thoughts I held of him, real or otherwise, were now too raw to confront.

I dragged myself up, went through to the bathroom. The flat seemed desolate without the dog running around, wagging his tail, barking at any movement coming from the stairwell. I turned on the taps and the pipes rattled, a thin trickle of water made its way into the sink. I put my hands under and jerked them away – it felt frozen.

I tried to shave with the knock-off razors I’d bought from the dodgy newsagent – they cut my face to bits. I didn’t think I’d used a worse blade; they were obviously not the brand they claimed. I scraped the remainder of my coupon and collected more nicks and abrasions. The sink grew smeared with blood. I dropped the razor in the bin and dabbed my wounds with tissue paper.

As I looked in the mirror I was stunned at how low I’d fallen. My eyes were sunken in my head. It seemed as if they’d been planted in the ground, stamped down. My cheeks were hollow and I had crow’s feet that had crept a further half-inch down my face since the last time I’d looked. I hardly recognised myself any more. I drew further to the mirror and took full stock of the damage: more broken blood vessels had appeared in my eyes and my forehead had fixed itself in a frown. Lines spread left to right across my brow and when I stretched my neck they lengthened. I looked beyond rough.

‘The fuck happened to you, boy?’ I said.

I didn’t know myself.

What had I become?

I remembered hearing someone say that ageing brought with it a surrender of dreams, but an understanding and maturity that compensated for it. If I had held any dreams, I had lost them for sure. But where was my compensation? I was more confused by life than I’d ever been. As I looked at the man I’d become I wanted my understanding. I dipped my head. ‘I want my peace.’

I fired up the shower, got it as hot as possible without removing skin and stood below the battering jets. The steam rose and filled the small bathroom and after a few minutes I felt its worth as my aching head began to ease.

Debs had removed all her shampoos and products and I had to make do with only a dried-out old sliver of soap but I persevered, scrubbed myself and hoped I would clean away more than the grime. I let the water soothe me some more, must have been under it for all of twenty minutes before I hauled myself back to the bedroom.

I dressed in a white T-shirt and a clean pair of Diesel jeans that had been bought for me by Debs. As I combed back my hair I spied the padded envelope from Fitz that I’d placed on top of the wardrobe. I took it down and went through to the living room.

I laid the little package on the smoked-glass coffee table and went into the kitchenette. As I boiled the kettle, I sparked up a Marlboro. The envelope stared back at me; I knew what was inside and I needed to face it. The kettle pinged.

I took my mug of Red Mountain and sat down. As I dowped my tab in the ashtray, I heard a key turning in the front-door lock.

‘
Debs
?’ I called out, stunned.

She came through to the living room with her Bagpuss keyring out in front of her. ‘Hi,’ she said. There was no sign of the suitcase.

‘You’re back . . .’

She shook her head. ‘No, not quite . . .’ She pointed to the dog’s cupboard. ‘Usual’s not settled at Susan’s, I thought I’d pick up some of his toys.’

It seemed a lame excuse; she was checking on me. It was a spot-raid to see if I was back on the sauce.

‘I see.’

She flinched, squeezed at the keyring, then shoved it in her pocket. Her eyes settled on the padded envelope. ‘What’s that?’

I told her, ‘I’m just building up the courage to open it.’

‘Oh, Gus . . . I’m . . .’

I didn’t want her sympathy. I didn’t want her to come back because she felt sorry for me. I ripped open the envelope. It was as I’d thought. Little plastic bags containing watch, wedding ring, car keys, a few pounds in coin, an empty wallet and a Nokia mobile with the screen smashed.

‘Not much, is it?’ I said.

Debs came over and put her arm around me. ‘I’m sorry, Gus. I really am.’

‘For what?’

She sighed, removed her arm, scratched at the palm of her hand. ‘I went to see Jayne, she’s all over the place . . . Dusting and scrubbing.’

‘I know. It’s her way of coping, I suppose.’

Debs raised her head. Her finger traced the line of her eyebrow. ‘She’s worried about Alice . . .’

I wondered what my niece had been up to now. I told Debs about the drinking and the message from Fitz.

‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Did you talk to her?’

‘I tried, yeah, her phone keeps going to voicemail.’

Debs shook her head. ‘Phones are, like, so last century for teenagers . . . You need to leave a message on her Bebo.’

I was scoobied. ‘Her what?’

‘Bebo page . . . Social-networking site. It’s like Facebook for kids.’

I didn’t go anywhere near those sites, but I’d need to be a resident of Jupiter not to have heard of them, way the media obsessed over them. ‘Right, okay . . . I’ll do that.’

Debs eased back the corners of her mouth. It was a weak smile that I didn’t want to try to decipher. She stood up, walked over to the dog’s cupboard and took out Usual’s favourite plastic hotdog toy. I watched her fill a bag. As I peered over she tucked her hair behind her ear; the movement was all hers, so Debs – the familiarity of it stung me.

I stood up, walked over to her and placed my hand on the bag. ‘This is stupid, Debs . . . Why don’t you come home?’

She looked into me, sucked in her lips, and turned away. I thought she might cry.

‘Debs?’

A hand went up to my mouth. ‘Don’t, Gus . . . Don’t ask me that. It’s not fair.’

I didn’t know what she meant. ‘What? . . . I mean, why?’

She stepped back from me. She tied a knot in the top of the carrier bag, tugged it tight, spoke firmly: ‘I know you won’t stop, I know you’ll go on and on until you get an answer and I know I’ve no right to get in the way of that, but I can’t watch you do this to yourself any more . . . I just can’t.’

I put my hand out, touched her fingers. ‘Debs, come home.’

She jerked away from me. ‘No, Gus . . . Do you know what it’s like for me? I sit here and I wonder if there’s going to be a call or a knock at the door telling me you’ve went the same way as Michael . . .’ I put my arms round her, she pushed me away. ‘No. I won’t do it . . . I won’t wait for you to be killed, Gus.’

Debs elbowed her way past me, made for the door.

I called after her, ‘Debs . . . Debs . . .’ I darted into the hall; she was opening the door. I slammed the heel of my hand on it.

‘Gus, let me go.’

‘Debs, please . . .’

She pulled at the handle. ‘Let me go.’

‘Debs . . .’

The door edged open an inch. ‘Let me go!’

‘I’m sorry, Debs . . .’

She struggled with the handle, hauled back. Tears fell from her eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Debs . . .
I’m sorry
.’

I stepped away.

As the door slammed, I pressed my back to it. The wood was cold against my T-shirt. I slumped all the way to the floor. A chill draught blew just above the carpet as I curled over and held my head in my hands.

I LAY HUNCHED UP ON THE floor until the draught from the stair started to freeze my spine. I knew I had to go on, hauled myself to my feet; but I knew also Debs wouldn’t be coming back. I’d hurt her again, perhaps more than I ever had. Her face had tensed at the thought of my grief and I knew she felt deeply for me, but she couldn’t help me. That was her revelation – Debs had sensed there was nothing she could do for me, because there was nothing I could do for myself. I had brought my demons to the relationship once more, and they had defeated us both.

I took the quarter-bottle of Grouse from my Crombie and walked through to the living room. I sat down and unscrewed the cap, placed the bottle in front of me. I smelled the whisky working its way to my nostrils; the mere scent of it triggered a sensation in my brain. I felt the wonder of it putting my thoughts to sleep already. I smiled, laughed. One sip and I’d have a legion of help to beat back those demons.

‘Dury, you piece of shit . . .’

After all Debs had done, after all her efforts, here I was.

I picked up the bottle.

My hands trembled as I brought the rim to my lips.

‘You fucking loser,’ I laughed out. The glass edge touched a tooth, I felt the whisky vapour rising into my throat. And I froze. My mind seemed to hurtle down another path.

‘No.’

I put down the bottle, stared at it and screwed the cap back on. I knew that one sip would have thrown me on the flames. One sip would have undone all Debs had put herself through for me. One sip would have let my brother’s killer off.

I straightened myself. Got up and grabbed my mobi from the mantel.

Dialled.

‘Fitz, what the fuck’s happening?’

He latched on to my tone. ‘Calm down, Dury, there’s a limit to what I can do.’

‘Limit . . . I gave you the gun, what have you done with it?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Would ye feckin’ watch what you’re saying, Dury . . .’ Fitz dropped to a whisper, ‘The boffins say the shooter’s a match . . . but.’

I clenched my teeth, felt my pulse racing. ‘But what? . . . I need a name, Fitz. Just give me a fucking name.’

A pause, his voice rose again: ‘We don’t have the prints tied up yet.’

He was bullshitting me, I smelled it. ‘I want the name, Fitz.’

He locked me down: ‘Dury, I want you to listen to me very carefully. There are things about this case you have no idea of, no idea!’

I went back at him, ‘That’s why I’ve come to you. Don’t brush me off, Fitz.’

He paused again. I heard him shuffle forward in his seat. ‘Look, we’ve busted the house in Leith . . . We’ve got Radek in the cells. There’s a warrant for murder out on him in the Czech Republic . . . He won’t be going anywhere.’

If he was telling me this, he knew Radek wasn’t our man as well as I did. Fitz wouldn’t be slow in slapping a murder charge down. ‘What about Davie Prentice? . . . What about the Undertaker?’

‘Dury, would ye ever feckin’ listen to me? . . . We are on top of it. Let us do our work.’

‘And let me do mine. I’ll call back soon, I want to know whose dabs are on that Webley, Fitz, and I’m not fucking around.’

I threw my phone at the couch. Cursed Fitz.

He was holding out on me and I knew it. I needed to get moving before he dragged someone in; if he got to them before I did, chances were I’d be watching my brother’s killer grinning at the cameras on the
Six O’clock News
, after receiving a slap on the wrist. I had proper justice in mind for the fucker.

I paced the flat, sparked up a Marlboro. The place seemed so empty again without Debs. Her words kept singing in my ears. I heard every one of them like they were being replayed to me on a tape recorder. I knew what she meant; I was out of control. Nothing could stop this rig smashing into the wall. I wouldn’t let up until I’d squeezed the life out of Michael’s killer.

I thought of my mother’s struggles to raise Michael, how she had taken the news of his savage beating by my father all those years ago. I thought of Catherine and of Jayne and of Alice. Little Alice, whom Debs and I had held in our arms the night she was born. My niece had been robbed of her father. Michael had tried so hard to be the kind of father we never had, and it had all been for nothing.

I couldn’t focus any more. My thoughts sprang one way then the other. I remembered what Debs had said about minding out for Alice and I booted up the computer. The internet connection was slow, almost dial-up speed; I cursed the service provider and slapped the monitor in frustration.

‘Fucking piece of shit!’

My Yahoo homepage was full of doom-laden news about business collapses, house prices nosediving, car lots full of unsold motors and the Prime Minister, as ever, proclaiming he was doing everything in his power to stabilise the fallout. I wanted to spit, but I clicked away from his smug coupon instead.

I had no idea of the web address so I Googled Alice Dury and Bebo together. The search threw up a page of responses, but Alice’s name and page sat top of the list.

I double-clicked.

The page took a while to load – seemed to be a lot of photographs – but then Alice’s photo appeared, a yellow smiley face and a few lines of biog beside it.

I grinned, said, ‘Hello, Alice . . . found you.’

The site had a stack of puerile comments from schoolfriends, all accompanied by thumbnail pictures of them taken on mobile phones. To a one they looked half-cut. Teenagers know how to party these days; in my time, I was always the most pished in the room.