Friday February 15 th 2008
It’s strange how some things work out. I spent yesterday running over the evening at Martin’s. The highs and lows of working through the puzzle. The resolution that turns out not to be a resolution but yet another puzzle.
I jumped a bus into the city centre and went for a walk, mindful that whoever was after me might know where I now lived and could be following. I kept to the busy parts of town and looked over my shoulder so often I must have looked like some day release patient from the local nut-shop pretending to be a spy on a secret mission.
In between the looks over my shoulder I ran through my head what I knew and decided it was nowhere near enough to make a decision on what to do next.
If Dupree’s demise lay buried in the photos or hidden in the bank account, then better people than myself and Martin were needed. Such people exist and I may have been locked up for fourteen years but my network of contacts has not faded to the point where it is useless. Some of them are dead and some have moved on but there are enough around that could help if I wanted to raise my head above the parapet and call on them.
But therein lies the problem. I haven’t contacted anyone because I want to keep my profile low — very low.
As I walked by the HMV record shop on Argyle St I caught the sound of The Beloved as they threw out the invitation to Lose Yourself In Me. Strange to hear a nineties band blaring out — maybe it was greatest hits season — although post Christmas seemed an odd time if it was.
I like The Beloved — chilled music before the term chilled was hijacked by the dance brigade as post drug come down music. Jon Marsh’s voice always sounded the way I thought people would who only ever breathed out and I mouthed the words — probably adding to the lunatic cover I was building — mouthing, shoulder looks and the dress sense of Wurzel Gummidge — I was your friendly neighborhood fruit bat.
I was a yard past the front door to the store when it hit me. Lose Yourself In Me. It was exactly what I was doing to myself. I’d swapped one prison for another. One with physical bars for one with mental bars. I was free to wander the streets but I had no money, little human contact and soon no roof over my head.
I could see myself down on the river front, lying under the bridge with the other down and outs. I could taste the meths, smell the shit, feel the concrete under my bum. Ice cold in winter — stinking hot in the summer. I could see the spot in Buchanan St where I would squat down and hold out cupped hands waiting for someone to drop ten pence or spit on me.
I stopped walking and listened to the music. What was I doing? I‘d once had a hell of a life and the balls to hold onto it. I was a millionaire. Ok a bent millionaire but I had the cash, the status and, best of all, a future and now I was shuffling around Glasgow in rags. Next I’d start thinking about how long before death makes this all go away.
I focused my thoughts on Dupree and what the bastard had done to me. What was the down side of going after him? What in the hell was he going to do to me that I wasn’t already doing to myself? Kill me. So what! Do nothing and I’d be dead in a year.
I turned and walked into the store and the security guard approached me.
‘Can I help sir?’
I felt my shoulders drop as I started to turn to leave and then I stopped. I turned back and looked him in the eye. I had a couple of inches in height on him but he had a couple of tons of muscle that I would never see.
I did a Michael J Fox and flipped back in time. I dug out a part of me that had been locked away for a long time. I pulled up, from the depths, the way I used to think when someone fronted me up and dropped all the feeling from my eyes. I tipped my head to one side and balled up a fist. I rocked forward on the soles of my feet and closed the distance between me and the security guard. My breath was probably killing him. I lifted my balled up hand and stretched out a finger — touching him lightly on the shoulder.
‘Going to have a look for some CD’s. Is that a fucking problem?’
I saw the fear sprint over his face. I knew the look of old. I lifted my finger higher and touched him on the nose.
‘Is it?’
I dropped my hand and walked into the shop. I knew he wouldn’t shout. It felt good. A long way from being back on track but it felt good.
Maybe I’m not dead.
At least not dead yet.