Down time.
I lay on the bed stacking up my prospects. Didn’t take long to count to zip. I felt a serious need for distraction. I knew by agreeing to help Col I’d put myself in danger of resurrecting some ghosts, but somehow managed to push it to the back of my mind. A friend in need and all that — but was I really being selfless? A pop psychologist inside me wondered: ‘Are there demons you have to confront, Gus Dury?’
Bollocks. If there were demons, they ran the show.
I sparked up a Marlboro red top, as near to a crack pipe as you can buy over the counter, a proper lung-bleeder. I got the Docs loosened off, kicked them on to the floor. I balanced a heavy smoked-glass ashtray on my chest and flicked away at the grey as it mounted on the tab’s end.
Jesus, did I really think I had a chance of tracking down who’d done in Col’s boy? I tried to shut it out, but a quote, Wilde I think, went round and round in my mind: ‘Experience is the name a man gives to his mistakes.’
I had plenty of experience. It flooded back to me now, thick and fast.
I’d held down a top job. Handled the big stories. Had been a name.
‘When does this Dury sleep?’ I’d overheard the paper’s chairman say to the editor once. Mr Bacon, or Rasher, as I called the boss, appeared underwhelmed — as he always did. It made no odds to me, though, because my self-destruct switch had already been flipped. For some of us, it’s never far out of reach.
I had been assigned to a press call at the new parliament building, the half-a-billion-pound fiasco. Some junior government bod stepped forward to talk about immigration, as the whole country became gripped by rabid nationalism. Living in fear of Johnnie Foreigner flooding through the Channel tunnel to steal our jobs. The tweedy arse-wipe Alisdair Cardownie, Assistant Minister for Immigration, jumped right on the vibe of hatred. Talking tough on an emotive issue to boost his profile. I’d seen it a million times before. Truth told, I cared less about the ramblings of another slack-jowled, in-bred son of privilege.
It felt cold out and I fought off a killer hangover: a real shades on a grey day scenario. My snapper, Ronnie, bought me a quarter of Black Bush to steady my nerves, said, ‘Here he comes, you set, Gus?’
I nodded. Tanned most of the bottle in one.
The chauffeur pulled up and some overpaid flunkey ran out like a doorman at Harrods who’s just spotted Elton John getting out the back of a Bentley.
‘Holy shit! Did you see that?’ I said.
‘Steady,’ said Ronnie. He hunkered down and started firing off some shots.
I approached with my Dictaphone outstretched. ‘Minister, could I ask a few questions?’
Banal looks, pointed in my direction.
‘Minister, if you don’t mind?’ I kept it polite, but frustration brewed. I mean, his lot had called us here, it wasn’t for me to do the running. I stepped up a gear, leaned forward. ‘If you don’t mind, Minister, I’d just like to ask about your plans to close down the people smugglers?’
I felt an arm on my chest. Another, with an open palm on the end, thrust in my face. ‘No interviews,’ said the flunkey. I couldn’t see the flunkey’s face, only the junior minister’s hiding behind a group of cling-ons. He wore a satisfied, smug, you-can’t-touch-me look I’d seen before.
‘ What?’ I said.
‘No interviews,’ repeated the flunkey.
‘What do you mean no interviews? It’s a press call for Chrissake!’ I felt close to losing it, big time. And then this little mollycoddled arse-wipe of a minister got my goat. He led it out before me on a bit of rope and kicked it in the bollocks. In the next second he clicked his fingers like Brando in The Freshman and a shower of suited-up grunts manhandled me like crowd controllers.
‘Get your fucking hands off me,’ I shouted.
I felt the blood start to pump inside my head. I saw Ronnie covering his eyes like he didn’t want to look, and then, something clicked. My throat went dry… and I let out a haymaker right.
‘Oh God!’ I heard Ronnie scream.
My punch caught no one but threw me off balance so much that I lunged forward, head first chasing its grand arc. Suddenly the minister loomed before me and, in no time at all, my brow connected cleanly with his nose.
It was the kind of diving header that might have graced the dying moments of a European Cup final. I must have looked fearless. Like some mad pogoing skin out on the lash. But it was totally unintentional.
‘My nose, my nose,’ the minister whined.
People gathered around, said:
‘Tip back your head.’
‘Take this handkerchief.’
‘Put a key down his back.’
Ronnie just about cried. ‘What have you done, Gus?’ he said.
‘It was just a tap. A tap, that’s all it was,’ I said.
I couldn’t believe the fuss. Then the cuffs came out, and I felt the heat of a thousand camera flashes go off.
I made all the evening news broadcasts. A career first. And last. Rasher had my desk cleared while I sat in a cell. I’d left the office for the last time. I had no plans to return.
I stubbed the Marlboro. It lay flat in the ashtray, stray insect legs of tobacco squashed under it. I got to my feet and searched the room.
‘Paper. Where is it?’ I said.
I pulled open a few drawers. Hissed at a Gideon Bible, then: ‘Bingo!’
Hardly the Dorchester on the heading but, never mind, it would have to do. I began to compose a letter to Debs. If she was gonna send me any more mail from her lawyer, she’d better have some facts.