The police cars’ doors had barely swung open before plod was reaching for me, with a smile on his face.
‘Trust me now, Dury… you are well and truly fucked,’ said McAvoy. He gave a nod to the uniform to cuff me behind my back, then placed a playful slap on my cheek. ‘… Well and truly fucked.’
‘What’s it this time? Let’s see now. You’ve already had me for possession of a bit of puff. Maybe jaywalking?’
‘Droll, Dury, very droll… I think I’ll wait till we get you down the station, though, before I fill you in.’
‘Is that literally? Cos I’m a bit delicate after the last booting.’
He firmed his gaze, pointed to the street, said, ‘Get this clown out my sight.’
I watched Mac being led away too. Could see people appearing at the windows of homes, but nobody came out to help the police get their story straight.
‘Aren’t you going to go house to house?’ I bawled out.
I got a knee in the back for my trouble, thrown in the cart.
I spent my time in the back of the meat wagon wondering what the filth had in mind for me this time. I knew it wouldn’t be pretty. Somehow, all I could think about was how Debs might get dragged into all of this. I didn’t want that. She’d suffered enough. I’d let them throw the book at me, and catch it square in the coupon before I’d let Debs be harmed again.
The booking-in went by in a daze. Handed over: belt, shoelaces, lighter and wallet.
Said, ‘Can I hold on to those?’ nodding at my pack of Marlboro.
Desk sergeant raised a dark eyebrow towards a white mop of hair, said, ‘What do you think?’
He didn’t want my answer to that.
The cell was cold.
For about seven hours the cell was cold while I sat there on my own without so much as a knock at the door. At eight-thirty a uniform brought in a tin tray containing two scoops of mashed potato, a greasy pile of mince and some carrots, diced. I looked at this, said, ‘No afters?’
Uniform pretended to stifle a sneeze, then let rip, spraying the tray. ‘You hungry, are you?’ he said, putting the food on the table before me.
I wanted to say, You filthy pig bastard. What I went with was, ‘No, not so much.’ Rubbed my stomach. ‘Had a good feed before I got here… but thanks for asking.’
He left the mince and tatties. Fucked off.
It took reserves of calm I didn’t know I had to stop me lifting the tray and battering it off the back of his head. I wasn’t for playing games any more. I’d be telling it straight and McAvoy could get as rough as he liked. I had my version of events to play with and it would make better reading in the paper with some police corruption allegations thrown in. Let him deny it. Veritas is an absolute defence.
Another half-hour or so passed. The uniform came back for the tray. I tried him with, ‘Look, is anyone going to come in here to interview me? I’m kinda keen to get this over with.’
‘Shut yer fucking yap!’
‘Is that a no, then?’
He lifted a fist, showed me his bottom row of teeth — grey and jagged; reminded me of a graveyard.
‘Careful — you’ll spill the mince.’
He fucked off again.
I got the message: they were keeping me waiting. I figured on a morning session. Hunkered down on the cold bench. I ached after the dig to my back earlier. I checked it out: bruising up nicely. The hard bench didn’t do me any favours. I turned over. As I lay there, hands tucked behind my neck, I knew this was one of those moments where drink wasn’t going to come and fill the void.
I thought of lots of things: Moosey, the life he had led with Rab and the huge sums of money they’d made from the misery of those poor animals. I thought of the Crawfords’ loss, how they felt for little Chrissy, how they still hurt. I wondered how these two different worlds had collided. How? How did that happen? I knew that in a city of haves and have-nots it was inevitable: the paths must cross sometime. It was all a bloody mess. I thought of Tupac and Gibby, two more casualties, and I thought of Mark Crawford and the role he played in all of it, but I knew there were parts of the puzzle that were still missing.
I wanted to know the score but, barring a miracle now, I wasn’t hopeful.
I felt sweats breaking out along my back. Even though the temperature was plum-clenchingly cold, I had the sweats. I was craving alcohol. On top of the pain in my back it was quite a combination. A night in hell faced me.
I’d read somewhere that Richard Burton, the great Welsh actor, had once gone under the knife for his back. Apparently some fuckwit, jealous of how much Burton could put away and not get drunk, spiked his drink with wood alcohol and he fell down a flight of stairs. Years later, when he needed an operation to repair the damage, as they opened him up his surgeons were shocked to see the entire length of his spine covered in crystallised alcohol. They spent eleven hours scraping it off.
The sweats intensified.
I rolled onto my side. Made no difference.
Oh, shit… I saw a face. Debs.
I knew she wasn’t there. I knew it was the booze calling, like the bats when they came swooping.
‘ Debs?’
Why was I saying her name? I knew she wasn’t there.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I trembled.
‘Oh, fucking hell… Debs.’ I was calling her like a boy calls his mother.
I felt a slap.
I opened my eyes. It was Fitz.
‘Jeez, ye were far gone there, boyo,’ he said.
I sat up. ‘When did you come in?’
‘Just now. I thought, well, here’s what I thought…’ He handed me a bottle — said ‘VB’ on the front.
‘What’s this?’
‘Beer, lager I think. I got it over the road. ’Tis all they had, ’tis a deli really… I think it’s Australian.’
I looked at the label: V ICTORIA B ITTER.
‘It tastes all right, but have you not got something stronger?’
‘Get that down you first.’
I drained the bottle, wiped my mouth. Passed it back, said, ‘Done.’
Fitz delved in his pocket, brought out a half-bottle of Grouse, some tabs — Regal, and a lighter. ‘Fill yer boots, boyo.’
I ripped into the low-flying birdie, drenched my throat. Tasted like paradise. I kept two-fingers in the bottle; sparked up a tab. ‘Fuck, these are the proper lung-bleeders, Fitz.’
He shrugged. ‘How they treating you?’
I couldn’t help but laugh — like I was staying at the Hilton. ‘Oh fine, thanks for asking… Jacuzzi’s a bit cold, though.’
Fitz pulled over a chair, sat by the bunk. He took a tab from the pack, lit himself up from my tip. ‘It’s the end of the road now.’
I took back my cigarette. ‘Y’think?’
Fitz drew deep on the tab, looked at the ash forming, blew on it. ‘You know they’ll throw the book at ye.’
I’d expect any less? ‘You sound confident.’
Fitz fidgeted, tapped at his watch. ‘Well, there’s something you ought to know, Gus.’
I was reclined on my elbow but pushed myself up. He never called me by my first name. ‘And what would that be?’
He drew on the Regal. Deep lines formed in the edges of his eyes. ‘Jonny Johnstone and McAvoy are taking salary from Rab Hart.’
I knew about J. J. but McAvoy was only a suspicion. I played him, ‘You’re a bit late coming to me with this.’
The tab again, a deeper drag. ‘What did you expect? You want me to grass on my own? I’m a fucking Irishman, I can’t do that.’
I didn’t buy the patriotic bullshit. Fitz was filth, if he was shitting on Jonny Johnstone and McAvoy then he was working an angle. ‘Then why are you now?’
He threw down the cigarette, stamped it underfoot. ‘Fuck off, Dury. You think I have some grand play lined up?… Do me a favour.’
‘That’s exactly what I have been doing all along, isn’t it?… Stirring up shit for that pair was like a fucking godsend to you, wasn’t it? What the fuck’s your angle here, Fitz? You better spill it now or it’s blood I’ll be spilling and you know I’m good for it.’
It was all stage pacing, improv. Fitz had information to lay on me; he just didn’t want to make me think he was giving it out for free. I’d worked him enough. ‘Okay, well, you listen up here and remember I never told you any of this.’ He moved towards me, pulled the whisky bottle from my hand and took the last belt. Said, ‘McAvoy is in deep with Rab.’
‘How deep?’
‘As deep as it gets, but that’s not the issue here.’
‘Then what is?’
‘Judge Crawford.’
The name wasn’t one I expected to hear spoken in the same breath as Rab Hart and McAvoy. This stalled my thought process; I went onto auto. ‘The judge?’
Fitz turned to face me. I was close enough to see the cracked veins in his red cheeks. ‘Look, Crawford is hearing Rab Hart’s appeal, don’t you get it? Fuck me, Dury, don’t you fucking get it?’
I rose, walked to the other end of the cell. My head hurt with the possibilities. I couldn’t fathom what Fitz was telling me. Somehow my thought processes had seized up.
‘Don’t you fucking get it yet?’ said Fitz.
I flagged him quiet. ‘I get it. I get it.’
‘Johnstone and McAvoy have been taking Rab’s cash for months, years even, but this is a whole other payday for them.’
My cigarette had burnt down to the filter. A long grey slew of ash fell to the floor. I dropped the filter after it. ‘They’re working me to get Mark Crawford off the hook.’
Fitz slapped his palms on his heavy thighs, stood up to face me in the narrow cell. As I looked at him I didn’t know where my mind was. I felt lost in some rage, some bitterness, some misdirected hatred… He was nearest to hand, so copping for all of it.
Fitz spoke, ‘I did my best for you, Dury.’
Still he played me. ‘Anything you did for me, Fitz, was either to put the boot into McAvoy and Jonny Boy or to keep me from blowing the whistle on how you came by some of your previous collars, so don’t come acting the big benevolent with me. You’re filth, like the fucking rest of them.’
He straightened himself, pulled at the belt loops on his trousers and fastened his coat. His face flushed red, the whites of his eyes glowing with rage. He held out a hand for the cigarette packet. ‘Come on, then, get that over. I’ll be on my way.’
As he walked to the cell door, Fitz turned briskly. ‘One more thing, Dury…’
‘What?’
‘That’s us even.’
‘Fuck off, Fitz.’
‘No way, laddie. I want to hear you say it.’
I walked over to him, said, ‘We will never be even, Fitz… but if it makes you feel better, we’ll call it quits.’
As he walked out of the cell, he spoke in a near whisper: ‘And you are well and truly on your own now, boyo.’