It was a restless night. Tossed and turned for hours before I found sleep. Then I woke bolt upright in the darkness, my heart banging harder than a marching band. I’d seen the gutted corpse of Tam Fulton flash before my eyes again. I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever shake the image. Didn’t seem like it.
I got up and paced the flat; had every light blazing. I tanned a few cans, smoked nearly a full pack of Superkings. The only thing that got me back into bed was the prospect of having to navigate the dark stairs to the bar to restock. I wasn’t risking the sight of another corpse coming out the blackness.
Had managed to catch some kip, but not enough, when Hod appeared. ‘You’re cracked, y’know that!’ He fiddled with my books, got bored too easy, turned to the CDs.
‘Well, you know cracks… must have brown-nosed enough of them to get so set up.’
A CD frisbeed at me. I yelled, ‘Jesus, that better not be Lennon!’ I knelt down, picked up the disc. It was Franz Ferdinand. ‘You’re lucky it’s one of yours. Have it back — shite anyway.’
Hod ducked as the CD went his way. It missed, hit the dresser. ‘I mean it, Gus, now you’ve rattled the filth it’s time to shoot the crow.’
‘I couldn’t if I wanted to.’ I climbed over a pile of old clothes, dumped on the floor by Lothian’s finest in their recent investigation of my property. ‘They’ve taken my passport.’
‘Seized it?’
‘Seized, lost, does it matter? Like I’d get far anyway. Have you seen the new street furniture?’
‘Come again?’
I pointed to the window. Hod dipped his head through the curtains, said, ‘What am I looking for?’
‘Red Golf… It’s plod.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘You want a bag of doughnuts for proof? Trust me, I know.’
‘How long’s he been out there?’
‘Since I got out.’
‘So it’s official — you’re a suspect?’
‘Och, I’d say they were taking a serious interest in me.’
Hod released the curtain, paced, tugged at his wispy chin. He said, ‘And under surveillance. This is bad shit.’
I collected a roll-on deodorant from the dresser, looked about for a comb, razor. ‘No kidding.’
‘You’re remarkably chilled for a man who’s being investigated for murder.’
‘What would you like me to do, piss myself? Whine, maybe? Not my style.’
I made Hod’s choice of CD for him. Morrissey wailed out ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’.
‘Gus, man.’
‘ What?’
‘Do you have to?’
‘Do I have to what?’
‘Play that… It’s depressing.’
I put a hand on Hod’s shoulder, squeezed hard. ‘Believe me, mate, in my world, this is pretty fucking far shy of depressing.’
Eyes rolled again. A blank look, then a hand brought up to his chin again. ‘Gus, I was wondering, y’know the therapist that Mac suggested-’
The word put my stomach on spin cycle. ‘Hod, don’t get on that.’
He stopped rubbing his chin — was too Freud a look even for him — clasped both hands together. ‘Sure. Sure. It’s your call totally, but if you’re feeling any pressure, on the purse strings, I could sort out the fees.’
I swung him by the shoulders towards the door. ‘Out!’
‘What? I’m only trying to help. You’ve been so zoned lately, Gus, it might help.’
I shot him a glower as I grabbed for the door handle, watched his arse bump against the corridor wall. ‘Next word I hear about a therapist, I’m up for two murders. Got it?’
A nod. Eyebrows drooped towards the nascent beard.
‘And tell Mac if he starts again, he’ll see a side of me he won’t like either.’
I slammed the door. Bounded back to Morrissey, turned up the volume. Thought: The cheeky bastards.
I knew the therapist was a ruse to get me off the sauce. I’d been drinking the bar dry. Since Mac took over the running of it he’d been watching how much I put away. He didn’t understand the quantity was nothing special. I’d been drinking from morning till night for years. Was I going to change without a reason? Was I buggery.
I set the shower running, collected up my things, took a last glance onto the street. Plod was reading the Daily Star. Copping an eyeful of Candy, 22, from Essex on page three. I thought: You sad fuck. Mouthed, Don’t let me catch you having a tug down there.
The shower was hot. Near boiled the skin off me. Imperial Leather label peeled off the soap, I’d such a lather going. For some reason I was scrubbing at myself like I’d been interned in Bar-L. I wondered if subconsciously I expected to be.
There seemed no end of shit piling up on my doorstep. Of most concern was a visit from one of Rab Hart’s goons. Mac and Hod leaning on me was only making things worse, though.
As I got out of the shower I saw I had Morrissey jammed on repeat. Further along the track, he wailed about giving his valuable time to people who didn’t care if he lived or died. Got my vote. Nodded to the CD player.
I picked up some clothes from the ground: crisp white oxford, newish pair of dark-blue Diesel and a black lambswool cardigan. A few years ago, you wore a cardy, you were borderline care-in-the-community. Now, it was the look. I checked myself in the mirror: the look worked. Seemed to fit my mood.
I grabbed my mobi.
There was a heap of calls I needed to make, but only one pressed. Only one I knew might help my case.
Dialled.
Girl on the switchboard said, ‘Lothian and Borders Police. How may I help you?’
‘Eh, Fitzsimmons, please?’
‘Would that be Detective Sergeant Fitzsimmons?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Connecting you to his line. Thank you.’
I waited, got the feeling I’d missed him, then, ‘Yes?’
Gruff, to say the least.
‘Good morning to you too.’
Bit of edge creeping in now. ‘Who the hell is this?’
‘Oh, I think you know. Shall we say… a friend in need?’
Full-on badass mode hit fast: ‘Are you out your feckin’ mind?’
‘I’d like to meet you.’
‘I don’t believe my feckin’ ears… I have no idea who this is calling and I want to point out wasting police time is a criminal offence. Good day to you, sir.’
The fucker hung up.
I stared at my phone in disbelief. It began to ring. Showed a mobile number.
‘Hello…’
‘Dury, ye have pulled some feckin’ stunts but calling me at my own desk is the limit… Is it the sack you’re after for me?’
I sighed. ‘Yeah, that’s it, I’m that mad.’
‘Dury, get a feckin’ grip, and fast.’
‘Easier said than done in the current state of play. There’s a pair of your little helpers sitting outside my house.’
‘What did you expect — tickets to the Bahamas?’
‘I didn’t expect… Look, it doesn’t matter what I expected, what I need is some information.’
‘Am I feckin’ hearing this?’
‘ What?’
‘Are ye on the tap for police intelligence?’
‘That’s an oxymoron, Fitz.’
Gap on the line. Silence.
I continued: ‘What I want, and what you want, are one and the same here, so before you go all righteous on me just remember your wife’s new-found interest in her lovely garden.’
‘Dury, don’t push it.’
‘See sense, Fitz. I’ll meet you by the National Monument. Off the track enough?’
‘Is this entirely necessary?’
‘Shall we say midday?’
I did the hanging up this time.