I WATCHED AMY TEETER UP the street on vertiginous heels. As she got to the corner, she turned, winked, then took off quick-style, shaking her hips and putting out that peach of an ass. All for show. But, hey, what a show. Somewhere along the track Amy had developed some sense of self-awareness. She’d matured into the kind of chick who was secure enough in herself to laugh at what she was, take the piss, even. I had to hand it to her: she was quite the package. In a lesser mortal there’d be nothing but ego and entitlement. The kind that get tagged ‘hard work’. Amy was above all that, she was all about the fun of it, laughing herself up. She had the right idea… But who was I to say? Christ, morose was my middle name. Lachrymose my last.
I put out for Holyrood, schlepped along by the Cameo and crossed Lothian Road. At the Art School a shower of jakies were supping on Cally Special tins. One of them had a head start, pissed himself and propped head on a lamp post. His buddies were rifling his pockets for coin and snout. Two baggy-jumper-wearing students shuffled past, eyes south, trying hard to ignore the scene. As they reached the steps they legged it, rapid-style, for the swing doors. Once safely inside they shook heads and giggled. The city streets were no more than a source of amusement for them; a wry tear welled in my eye. This would be our artists of the future then… the Tracey Emins and Damien Hirsts. Little middle-class careerists. What happened to conviction? I had heard the Scots genius John Byrne deriding the new wave once. He said art had always been about what was in the heart… but to the new crew it was all about what was in their heads. Were we all so corporate now, I wondered? Was there a vestige of soul left in this city, this world? I’d flunked college. Did it bother me? Did it fuck. This education racket was no loss to me. It was a conveyor belt, processing boardroom fodder. A nice little change of scene for the county set brats; bit of life skill polishing before the gap year in South East Asia, building up the alco-tolerance before hitting the Bundaberg rum. Jesus, wasn’t life sweet. Almost felt a sense of relief for Ben Laird’s passing. Lucky little fucker had managed to skip the entire Lego-bricked road that leads to full-on vacuity.
Was having real difficulty finding a note of sympathy for our Ben. Sure, he was a young lad, a life cut tragically short… but I couldn’t see it in me to feel for him. Going on Amy’s vague description, the boy was hardly one in a million; quite the opposite. He was the worst of a bad type. Yes, he was young, might have matured. But you live in Edinburgh, you watch the fuckwits dragging their knuckles to Murrayfield on match day, you start to question Darwin’s theory of evolution. I could see Ben at thirty, forty even, pissing it up and getting a belt out of Immacing some prop forward’s nads. I didn’t have it in me to feel a shred of loss. Perhaps that was to the good. I needed to keep a level head; past cases I’d let things bottle up, get the better of me. There was a chance I might actually keep the boat steady here. And Christ, didn’t I need that. Didn’t Hod. And Gillian.
The Black Heart was singing in my pocket; took it out, drained a good belt. The fire of it settled my insides. I was ready for more, ready to put the bottle to bed, duck in there beside it and let the world outside go to fuck, but whilst I had one shred of conscience left in me I knew I needed to screw the nut, get on with this.
I schlepped through the Grassmarket, left out the carnage of the Royal Mile at Festival time and headed for the Hootsman newspaper building. There had been a time when my face was known here. There had been a time when many faces were known here, but now the place had turned into a revolving door for school leavers and work experience looking for a first rung on the ladder. They didn’t realise that the first rung was also the last. The game had gone to shit. All those days I spent mourning my loss of career had been wasted; it was always coming down the pike, it seems. The game was bust.
At the chrome and glass frontage, I rocked up. Put on a bit of a swagger, not too much: spelled pisshead in here. Could remember the days when anyone who wasn’t off their face at the five o’clock news conference was treated with suspicion, verging on derision, but these were changed days. The green tea drinkers had taken over.
I hit the intercom, called out to my former boss, Mr Bacon – or as I still liked to call him, Rasher.
Got a blast: ‘Editorial…’
‘Not become a by-product of Advertising yet, then.’
‘Eh, what? That you, Gus?’
I played it cool – needed to get the gate buzzed for me, needed to get up to the newsroom and have a deck about in the files if poss. Gillian Laird’s public fall from grace had been one of those tragic celebrity moments played out in the full glare of the TV cameras and Sunday supplements. Kind of thing I switch off to without so much as a gob in the street; well, maybe a few of those.
‘Aye, aye… look, you got time for a catch-up?’ Holy Christ, ‘catch-up’ – where did I pick up these sayings? The world – and me within it – was becoming way too metrosexual for my liking.
A bit of gruff: ‘Well, if it’s a quick one.’
Played the card: ‘I’d love a quick one.’
Gate buzzed.
I took the elevator; didn’t even think of calling it the lift any more. The language was mangled. Rasher waited at the top floor. He had the same sideburns, heavy on the mutton-chop, that he’d worn since the seventies, and a shirt and tie that looked about the same vintage. There was a gut pressing hard above the belt buckle of his Farah slacks; I’d read somewhere this was a sign of optimism. Apparently wearing the belt over the gut is the opposite, a sign of pessimism.
Hand extended: ‘Gus, good to see you.’
‘Likewise.’ I played it smooth; had some making up to do. I’d given Rasher a fair old blast at an alcoholic’s intervention he’d hosted for me; could tell he hadn’t forgotten either. But we had some mileage together. I’d handed Rasher more than a few scoops in my day. Washed up as I was, and as beyond help as he obviously saw me, I was still what they call in this game a ‘good operator’. I could bring in the news, and say what you like about the state of play in this outfit, news was still a commodity… among newsmen.
We went through to Rasher’s office, kicking up static from the heavy-duty carpet tiles. I took a seat as he opened the bottom drawer of a large metal filing cabinet – so old school – and brought out a bottle of Teacher’s. Not my favourite drop, but it was wet.
He poured out two styrofoam cups and nodded. I took the cue. Drained a fair whack. Felt my lips cracking as the whisky punched back some of the moisture that the air-con had taken.
‘So, to what do I owe the privilege?’ said Rasher.
I put down the cup, crossed my legs and made a steeple of my fingers above my knee. It was a practised look: canny. Rasher failed to raise an eyebrow. Instead he clocked me head on. I said, ‘I’m working a story.’
‘You are?’
‘Laird kid.’
He looked nonplussed, barely altered his breathing; if he did it was a sigh, ‘Oh, really.’
‘No interest there? You surprise me. I thought Gillian Laird was big news.’
Now an eyebrow went up. ‘Aye, you’re right… was.’
He was trying to say there’d been too much print given to her already, that the public can only stomach so much before it starts rebelling.
‘The lezzing-off’s old news, granted… but this isn’t,’ I said.
Rasher took up his cup, supped, smacked a white tongue off his lips, said, ‘Folk have had enough of her coupon on the front page, Gus. You know how it is.’
What he meant was they’d given her a hard enough time of late; the lawyers had likely urged they ease off.
‘Aye, sure… but this is a new line. I’m telling you, there’s a tale in there that no one’s got to yet.’
‘Go on, then.’
Was that interest? Doubted it. Had seen him more enthusiastic for the Spot the Ball solutions. Christ, they’d went overkill on Gillian’s coming out, understood, but this case was worth looking at; I felt that in my gut. Did that mean I still had the stomach for this racket?
‘She’s convinced the kid was murdered.’
‘We’ve ran that line.’
‘Yeah, but no one’s probing it, no one’s looking into the facts. That’s what I’m on about.’
Rasher stood up, drained his cup. He wasn’t buying. He picked up the bottle of Teacher’s and put it back in the filing cabinet. I watched his every move closely. Could feel my grip slipping, felt played out. Knew I’d failed to impress. He thought I’d wasted his time.
‘Dury, if you have something… say.’
I had squat.
‘Well…’
‘Exactly. Look, it’s hard to ignite public sympathy for some posh brat that got tanked up and stretched his scrawny fucking neck… Nobody cares. Even if you do turn something up, it’s a tough sell.’
There was more to this than he was letting on. I pressed: ‘Okay, what’s the Hampden Roar here – you got a spoiler story?’
Rasher arked up, ‘Shit no… Look, you’ll find out soon enough, suppose. Ben Laird was no good… into all sorts he was.’
‘Like what?’
‘Trust me, everything bar a shit sandwich! He was the campus wide boy, go-to guy for grass and brass.’
Ben was obviously more of a piece of work than I’d thought – even going on Amy’s assessment. Not quite the mummy’s little special, then. ‘How do you know this?’
‘Filth was all over him. Got some fucking record, tell you wide as a gate, that boy. No story there, though, family far too connected, nobody saying a word that doesn’t come through press officers or a fucking lawyer. Trust me, it’s a non-starter… unless.’
I knew what that ‘unless’ meant. I knew every permutation of ‘unless’ he was after. It was scandal, preferably of a sexual nature. If I could crowbar in a tug at the reins of power, maybe some corruption, or any old dirt involving some city figures, I’d be in with a shout.
‘Okay, I hear you. Look, this is early days. I’ve only just took the job, but if you’re prepared to extend me a bit of help…’
Rasher kicked the filing cabinet’s drawer shut with the heel of his cheap plastic shoes. ‘Help?… And what might that translate into?’
I drained my cup then stood. ‘Get one of your copy boys to print me out the scoops on Gillian Laird. Do me a file of interest on Ben and-’
‘Jesus, y’know how fucking short-staffed I am? That’s taking someone off the job for a day or two, Dury.’
I held schtum. He sighed, a loud one. Sparked again, ‘Right, okay… just this once, but I’m promising nothing.’
‘Except a byline.’
‘You need a fucking story for that.’
‘You’ll have your story.’ I felt a latent spark of ambition reignite. Christ, I loved this caper. ‘Count on it.’