THE HOOTSMAN SPLASHED WITH MY story on page one. Rasher even paid me a visit – well, I was hardly mobile.
‘I always knew you had some neck, Dury,’ he joked.
I tapped the neck brace, nodded. Let him think he was the first to crack this one. ‘That’s very good. You should be on the stage,’ I said.
‘Ha-ha… so long as it’s not the one you wrote about in the article!’
The story had caused a stir; I was pleased with that. It had been a long while since I’d had a decent page-one splash. If this was what I had to go through for them though, I wouldn’t give a fuck if it was my last.
Amy appeared, carried in a bowl of chicken soup for me. She sat it down beside the settee. She smiled at Rasher, one of her you’re a man, I can wrap you round my little finger ones. ‘Have you heard any more about the police investigation?’
He grinned back, stray whiskers stiffened on his cheeks. ‘Oh, aye… meant to say. They say the shit’s hit the fan down at Fettes… plod being probed big time. Lot of suspensions… and…’ he paused for dramatic effect, raised an index finger to the ceiling, ‘we had it confirmed this morning: the seventies hanging’s being reopened.’
‘That’s good news.’ I picked up the soup, stirred the spoon about a bit.
‘You don’t look too chuffed,’ said Rasher.
Should I be? I raised an eyebrow, spoke, ‘I’ve been strung up, my neck feels like it’s a foot longer… forgive me if I don’t get up and start turning fucking cartwheels.’
Amy blushed, looked away. There was a moment of dead air in the room. Rasher rose, mumbled his excuses and headed for the door, said, ‘Well, I’m a happy camper… put thirty per cent on the circulation with that story. If you’ve any more like it…’
I stopped stirring, let the spoon clang on the edge of the bowl. ‘I very much fucking doubt it.’
Rasher looked at the door, then turned, gave Amy a peck on the cheek, said, ‘I’ll see you both, then.’
I could barely manage a wave. I was beyond sickened. All those deaths, all that hurt and misery I’d seen on Gillian Laird’s face – it wasn’t about circulation figures for any of them. I felt a deep unease growing in me. I was unhappy being part of the human race.
When Rasher had gone, I sensed beady eyes on me. ‘You didn’t need to be so rude,’ said Amy.
I eased a finger between the brace and my neck. ‘I’m just a bit sick of everyone wanting a piece of me.’ My mind flooded with thoughts of Stevo again; I could still smell the stench of his blood. There was no way I’d ever be able to shake it. There was no way I’d shake any of this; even if I recovered physically, I was going to be scarred. All over. ‘I need out, Amy.’
She tilted her head, looked down her nose at me. ‘What about Hod?… He seems to think you’re both in business.’
I waved a flat palm, cut the air with it. ‘He’s wrong… well and fucking truly wrong.’
‘Have you told him?’
The brace was pinching again. I loosened the Velcro a notch, stretched my jaw. ‘Look, Hod knew from the off this was a one-shot deal. I got him off the ropes with Shaky, he’s in the clear… now he can leave me be.’
Amy flared, ‘He won’t be pleased.’
‘I’m popping more Harry Hills than Pete Doherty here… I have the shakes, nightmares, and a craving for drink that takes twenty-four-seven concentration to ignore. You think I give a shit if he’s pleased or not? He’s a big lad, he’ll get over it!’
Amy came over to the settee, sat down beside me, placed a hand on my arm. ‘Okay. Okay… let’s just get you well, and take it from there.’
She put those heartmelter eyes on me. Despite everything, she made me feel a little gladness in my heart… even if I didn’t deserve her.
I took her hand. Couldn’t help grinning. ‘Rasher’s right about one thing… I’ve some neck.’