Paying For It (8 page)

The mail looked to be all the usual stuff addressed to no one: bank pushing loans; charity cash tap with bribe of a free pen; the latest offer from Branson’s Virgin empire. And one formal-looking envelope addressed to me, Col’s careful handwriting replacing the Wall’s crossed-out address. I tore into it. The thick white paper inside felt expensive on my fingertips.

Dear Gus Dury

Bad start, preferred the old style. What’s wrong with Dear Gus or Dear Mr Dury? These days, I tell you, we want to redesign the whole world from scratch, turn the lot into something trendy. I read on. One line stuck out:

Our client, Ms Deborah Ross seeks – following the recent completion of a trial separation – to instigate formal divorce proceedings
.

So, she’d gone back to her old name already.

‘She’s not messing about,’ I thought, as I scrunched the letter into a ball. My fist trembled as I threw it down. My knuckles turned white against the black of the plastic table top.

I LEFT A couple of quid by the cup and slid out the door. My self-esteem slid out beneath me. I felt lower than a snake’s belly.

The Arc building hurt my eyes, reminded me how much Edinburgh had changed. If the city had sleepwalked through the planners’ chrome and glass nightmare, this was the wake-up call. Some architect’s Lego-brick piss-take. Painted turquoise.

A line of bills was fly-posted all the way to the foot of the Mile. Some drag act, I thought. Fifty casual glances later I pieced together that it was a Bowie tribute act, called Larry Stardust.

‘Fuck me drunk!’ I said. The Thin White Duke deserved more respect.

I wandered nowhere in particular. Just trying to clear my thoughts, but it proved difficult. I had too much going on, never a good state of affairs for a drinker.

For a long time I’d been living by Einstein’s dictum: ‘I never think about the future, it comes soon enough.’ But here I was, being forced to do just that. The answers Col wanted wouldn’t just turn up on their own. And neither would Debs’ quickie divorce.

I walked on and on.

Tartan shops blasted teuchter music at every turn. I thought I’d grown immune to it until a Sikh, in a tartan turban, stopped me mid-stride.

‘Would you like to try one, sir?’ His accent was broader than mine, a grin wider than Jack Nicholson’s Joker.

‘Excuse me?’

‘A wee nip?’ he said.

I liked this guy a whole lot.

‘Would I ever.’

A cheap blend, but what did I expect – Dalwhinnie?

‘How is it?’ he said.

‘Hits the spot.’

‘Glad you enjoyed it. Have a nice day, sir.’

I pressed out a smile, a thank you paired with a nod. ‘Have a nice day.’ I wondered when we all became so American? If you’d told me a few years ago I’d be served free scoosh in the street by a Sikh in a tartan turban I’d have been waiting for the punch line. Welcome to the new Scotland.

The nip lifted my mood, restarted the alcohol units I already carried, when my mobi rang. I developed a fit of the shakes and the phone slid from my hands onto the cobbles of the Royal Mile.

‘Oh shit.’

I reached down and picked it up, but I was too late, it had gone to voicemail. The caller ID failed to recognise the number. For a moment I stared at the screen, then a superwoofer blasted out the ‘Skye Boat Song’, and I got moving.

I put the phone back in my pocket. Right away, it began to ring again.

‘Bloody hell.’

This time, I managed to keep hold of it, shouted, ‘Hello!’

‘Gus?’

‘Yes. Who’s this?’

A voice, barely a whisper, said, ‘Gus, it’s Mac.’

‘Mac? Where are you ringing from?’

‘Just about the waist down, son!’ He raised his tone, ‘But that’s not pissing myself laughing, let me tell you!’

‘What’s up?’

‘Your half-arsed attempt at playing Columbo.’

He sounded rattled. ‘Isn’t he dead?’ I said.

‘Aye, and you’re not far behind him!’

‘What? Mac, look, where are you?’

‘I’m in a bloody call box. Do you know how long it is since I’ve said that? Took a bloody age for me to find this bastard. Where are you? We need to talk right a-fucking-way!’

‘Have you got some information for me?’

‘What did I say to you the last time we met? What did I say?’

He sounded highly rattled now.

For the first time I thought to weigh Mac’s advice, but my need to find Billy’s killer overrode any thoughts of danger to myself. Hell, what did I have to get up for anyway? Could maybe solve more than one problem at a time this way. ‘Steer clear – those were the words you used, I think.’

‘I wish you’d bloody well listened!’

‘Look, Mac, what is this?’

‘What is this? This is me, as your friend, putting my knackers on the block for you again!’

I got a definite bad vibe about this, said, ‘You want to explain?’

‘Well, no, not really. I’d sooner you’d listened the first time. I’d sooner I wasn’t the one being hoicked out my bed in the wee hours by knuckle-breakers telling me to give you a message.’

‘Oh.’

‘Is that it?
Oh
. Is that all you’ve got to say?’

‘Mac, did they … hurt you in any way?’

‘No. But they gave me a pretty bloody graphic description of what they’re capable of in that department.’

‘Stay put. I’ll come over.’

‘No! Will you fuck! I’ll tell you what to do, now, listen up …’

IT WAS THE first game of the season, don’t ask me which season. My old man’s playing days of the seventies and eighties are a time I’ve tried to wipe from my mind. I say tried. If only I could.

There are some moments I’ll never forget.

I’m about six when he comes in with a good bucket in him. I’m watching
The Six-Million Dollar Man
on telly. Steve Austin has just thrown some gadgie into a brick wall. I’m gripped by the slow-mo action but hit light speed when the mighty Cannis Dury announces himself – don’t want to give him any ideas.

‘Three fuckin’ goals!’ he says.

My mother smiles, rushes out of her seat. I know she’s no idea what he’s talking about, we both spent the afternoon at the park.

‘Well, done!’ she says placing a little kiss on his cheek, rubbing her hand on his back.

‘
Well done
?’ The smell of whisky fills the room with the rise of his voice. ‘Is that it? Well-
fucking
-done? I put three goals past the league champions and I get this kinda shite from you. Look at you! Have you been sitting there all day in your baffies while I’m out running my arse into the ground?’

She shrinks back from him, but it’s too late. The back of his hand knocks her over the coffee table. Her head lands in the fireplace, knocking out the bulbs behind the plastic coals.

‘Get up!’ he roars. He’s taking off his jacket, rolling up his shirt sleeves. ‘Get up you lazy bitch.’

I’m frozen still. I shut my eyes. Will he still see me if I do this?

‘Get up!’ There’s anger pouring from him. His eyes are bulging, burning red, the same colour as my mother’s blood on the white shag pile.

She struggles to her feet. I can see her trying to walk, but her steps are unsteady and she collapses on the couch.

‘Up, up you useless bitch!’ he shouts.

Flecks of spittle are pouring from him, they lash my face. I close my eyes again but I can still hear him yelling, roaring. The smell of whisky makes me feel sick. I’m trying not to move, but I know he’s seen me.

‘What are you looking at?’ he says.

My heart quickens. In a second I’m running. I’m fast, round him and out the door in a flash. I feel the swish of his hand tracing my path, but he’s missed me.

‘Get back here, you wee bastard.’

‘Cannis, no! Leave the laddie,’ says my mother.

‘Shut it!’

There’s another sound – a hard fist connecting with my mother’s face. Then the noise of her collapsing on the floor.

I run to my room and bury my head under the pillows on my bed. But I can still hear the yells.

‘Three goals,’ he’s saying. ‘Three goals … Three goals …’

I’m praying the Scotland call-up will come soon.

I MET MAC at the ‘Big Foot’, the Paolozzi sculpture on Leith Street.

‘You hungry?’ he said.

‘Could eat a horse – and chase the rider!’

‘Aye, well, keep that thought. You might not have such an appetite once you hear what I’ve got to tell you.’

We headed through Picardy Place, past the Sherlock Holmes statue, to the Walk. This part of the city is its schizoid heart. Where the New Town’s rugby shirts and tweed caps give way to scores of tin-pot hard men and Staffies. I spotted three neds with fighting dogs in under a minute. Like the animal makes up for the undernourished frame, the coat-hanger shoulders, the general one-punch demeanour. Still, a merciful lack of shop fronts pushing shortbread and tartan down this way.

As we walked, Mac kept shtum. His front teeth nibbled on his lower lip.

‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’

‘After.’

‘After what?’

‘After.’

I took his response for what it was, Scots for ‘Don’t fucking bother me right now.’

I saw Mac the Knife was on edge. I knew the signs. The Weejie stride was in place, chest out, in a dead heat with the spacehopper guttage.

What worried me, though, was the way he kept looking from side to side, and occasionally, over his shoulder. It wasn’t fear. Not with Mac. This guy was a Bonnie Fechtir, take on all comers. It looked like serious caution, the act of an ex-crim who didn’t want to go straight back inside.

Mac picked out a greasy spoon with an old barber’s pole outside. Minimal attention to decor, less yet to the cleaning, I felt my Docs sliding on the oily linoleum. I was all for budget dining, but this place screamed ‘salmonella to go’.

‘Mac, are you sure about this joint?’

‘What?’

‘It’s a bit rough, is it not?’

His lip curled, downward. ‘Maybe you’d prefer the Shandwick.’

I pulled out an orange vinyl chair, tipped the covering of crumbs onto the floor.

‘Aye, sit doon,’ said Mac.

‘What is this?’

‘Eat!’

The waitress came, a hard-faced fifty-something. Running to retirement and dour as heartache. A phiz of ruined features, the rewards of a lifetime spent struggling for nothing.

I ordered up two eggs on toast. Smothered them in brown sauce and vinegar. Washed the lot down with coffee. In here I felt no shame filling the cup with the last of my scoosh.

‘You still hitting that?’ said Mac.

‘Lecture time?’

‘Stuff’ll be the end of you!’

I drank deep. ‘Trouble with the rest of the world is they’re two drinks behind!’

‘Bogart.’

‘Bang on.’ Felt he’d thawed, said, ‘Have you something to say to me, Mac?’

He sat back in his chair. Leaned forward. Sat back again.

I prompted: ‘
Mac
?’

‘Okay. Okay …’ He reached below the table, took something from his belt. ‘I want you to have this.’

I felt something touch my knee. Looked down to see a shooter, Browning 9mm, the type Canoe Reeves packed in
The Matrix
. Until now, that was the closest I’d come to one. ‘Fuck that!’

Mac shook his head. ‘Gus, I’m not messing about here.’

I rose to my feet. ‘Forget it.’

‘Sit down.’ His voice sounded calm now, quiet almost. ‘Look, Gus, this visit I got …’

I put the bead on him. ‘Spill it.’

‘I got a message to pass on to you.’

I’d strayed into some decidedly dodgy territory, I saw that now. My first thought was Stalin. Next, Nadja. The weak fuck had tipped her off to cover his own arse.

‘So let’s hear it.’

‘You won’t like it.’

Another thought entered my head: the Cube. ‘Was this a stocky little shite, smoked Berkeley Menthols?’

‘What? No. No fucking way, it was a hard-core thug, bling on his teeth, the lot – Gus, this is all the way from the top. I told you not to mess with this lot. The Bullfrog’s spoken and he wants you to get out. To leave the city – now!’

‘No way.’ I had the murder to think about.

Mac shook his head again, it grated on my nerves. ‘I thought that’s what you’d say … so here.’ He frowned, creased his mouth into a taut wire and pressed the gun into my leg again.

I needed to know what was going on, and just what the hell I’d gotten myself into. I had tapped into more than just the killing of a young lad who’d got himself into a bit of bother.

‘What’s this about? I don’t see how Billy Boy suddenly becomes Billy the Kid overnight.’

‘I told you, Gus. I warned you. Didn’t I warn you? Right from the start, I told you – don’t mess with this mob. End of story. You just don’t mess. They’re into more shit than you ever dreamt of.’

‘Is my name Horatio?’

‘
What
?’

‘Thanks for the tip, Mac.’

I got to my feet again, headed for the door.

‘Gus – Gus, you bastard, we haven’t got the bill yet!’

WAS IT WORTH the trouble?

‘I mean what have you got?’ I asked myself. Knew the answer – zip. I’d been flailing about, sticking my nose in, but had nothing to give Col. Except maybe, another funeral invitation. Real soon.

I turned into a newsagent’s, bought up some smokes: Camels, the strong ones. Taste of them greeted me like a blessing. Truth be told, I felt ready for a bevvy, at least one or ten. But something, maybe Mac’s warning, kept me walking.

My mind felt numb. I’d flitted between mental fireworks and virtual catatonia for so long that I wondered, ‘Was I manic?’ Sorry, that’s bi-polar now, isn’t it? I don’t know … didn’t even know how to pronounce Adidas these days.

‘It’s a kick up the arse you need!’ The indistinct voice of Scots wisdom hit in.

The Scots don’t do self-pity. Morbidity, yes. Drunken insensate, to block it all out, yes. But never self-pity. I put it down to the utter blackness of Scottish history. The struggle to get by. The sheer suffering. I mean, how else do you convince a poor nation like this to drag itself up? The myth of dignity in suffering. Shovelling shite, filling your lungs with coal dust, good for your soul? Bollocks. Good for the plutocrats’ bank balances more like.