I left a couple of quid by the cup and slid out the door. My self-esteem slid out beneath me. I felt lower than a snake’s belly.
The Arc building hurt my eyes, reminded me how much Edinburgh had changed. If the city had sleepwalked through the planners’ chrome and glass nightmare, this was the wake-up call. Some architect’s Lego-brick piss-take. Painted turquoise.
A line of bills was fly-posted all the way to the foot of the Mile. Some drag act, I thought. Fifty casual glances later I pieced together that it was a Bowie tribute act, called Larry Stardust.
‘Fuck me drunk!’ I said. The Thin White Duke deserved more respect.
I wandered nowhere in particular. Just trying to clear my thoughts, but it proved difficult. I had too much going on, never a good state of affairs for a drinker.
For a long time I’d been living by Einstein’s dictum: ‘I never think about the future, it comes soon enough.’ But here I was, being forced to do just that. The answers Col wanted wouldn’t just turn up on their own. And neither would Debs’ quickie divorce.
I walked on and on.
Tartan shops blasted teuchter music at every turn. I thought I’d grown immune to it until a Sikh, in a tartan turban, stopped me mid-stride.
‘Would you like to try one, sir?’ His accent was broader than mine, a grin wider than Jack Nicholson’s Joker.
‘Excuse me?’
‘A wee nip?’ he said.
I liked this guy a whole lot.
‘Would I ever.’
A cheap blend, but what did I expect — Dalwhinnie?
‘How is it?’ he said.
‘Hits the spot.’
‘Glad you enjoyed it. Have a nice day, sir.’
I pressed out a smile, a thank you paired with a nod. ‘Have a nice day.’ I wondered when we all became so American? If you’d told me a few years ago I’d be served free scoosh in the street by a Sikh in a tartan turban I’d have been waiting for the punch line. Welcome to the new Scotland.
The nip lifted my mood, restarted the alcohol units I already carried, when my mobi rang. I developed a fit of the shakes and the phone slid from my hands onto the cobbles of the Royal Mile.
‘Oh shit.’
I reached down and picked it up, but I was too late, it had gone to voicemail. The caller ID failed to recognise the number. For a moment I stared at the screen, then a superwoofer blasted out the ‘Skye Boat Song’, and I got moving.
I put the phone back in my pocket. Right away, it began to ring again.
‘Bloody hell.’
This time, I managed to keep hold of it, shouted, ‘Hello!’
‘Gus?’
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
A voice, barely a whisper, said, ‘Gus, it’s Mac.’
‘Mac? Where are you ringing from?’
‘Just about the waist down, son!’ He raised his tone, ‘But that’s not pissing myself laughing, let me tell you!’
‘What’s up?’
‘Your half-arsed attempt at playing Columbo.’
He sounded rattled. ‘Isn’t he dead?’ I said.
‘Aye, and you’re not far behind him!’
‘What? Mac, look, where are you?’
‘I’m in a bloody call box. Do you know how long it is since I’ve said that? Took a bloody age for me to find this bastard. Where are you? We need to talk right a-fucking-way!’
‘Have you got some information for me?’
‘What did I say to you the last time we met? What did I say?’
He sounded highly rattled now.
For the first time I thought to weigh Mac’s advice, but my need to find Billy’s killer overrode any thoughts of danger to myself. Hell, what did I have to get up for anyway? Could maybe solve more than one problem at a time this way. ‘Steer clear — those were the words you used, I think.’
‘I wish you’d bloody well listened!’
‘Look, Mac, what is this?’
‘What is this? This is me, as your friend, putting my knackers on the block for you again!’
I got a definite bad vibe about this, said, ‘You want to explain?’
‘Well, no, not really. I’d sooner you’d listened the first time. I’d sooner I wasn’t the one being hoicked out my bed in the wee hours by knuckle-breakers telling me to give you a message.’
‘Oh.’
‘Is that it? Oh. Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘Mac, did they… hurt you in any way?’
‘No. But they gave me a pretty bloody graphic description of what they’re capable of in that department.’
‘Stay put. I’ll come over.’
‘No! Will you fuck! I’ll tell you what to do, now, listen up…’