Gutted (12 page)

The sight of the gallery, every time, reminds me that my father’s in there. Larger than life. Living on. As if I ever needed a reminder. On his deathbed he begged my forgiveness, but it made no difference.

An old woman caught me staring at the spires and turrets. ‘Are you going in?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I think it’s a disgrace!’ She shook her head. A baby-blue bobble on her tam-o’-shanter rolled from side to side. ‘An absolute disgrace.’

I had no idea what she was on about, said, ‘You’re right . . . disgraceful.’

‘When I think of the paintings they have in there . . . kings and queens, done by masters, too.’

I tried to get an inkling of where she was going with this, spotted a banner, a sculpted six-pack and a tranche of female thigh on it. The current exhibition was on naked celebrities.

‘This is just typical,’ I said. ‘We’re celebrity obsessed . . . It’s like
Hello!
magazine in oils.’

The oldie smiled. ‘You’re a man of some sense.’

‘Some would say . . . a cynic.’

A heart-stopping smile. ‘They’d be wrong, so they would.’

I took the compliment, smiled back. ‘Well, I don’t know about the price of everything but I do know the value of nothing.’

And did I ever. Nothing was my current score in the game of life.

I traipsed on, passed the Sherlock Holmes statue outside Arthur Conan Doyle’s birthplace, crossed over to Greenside Place and onto London Road, then schlepped down all the way to the Holy Wall.

I realised I’d forgotten my key.

Rapped on the door.

Nothing.

Another rap, louder.

Heard movement, bit of shuffling, then a ‘Shit’ and a ‘Fucksake’.

When the lock turned in the door I saw one bleary eye pushed into the gap. ‘Who is it?’

‘Me, the one with his name above the door.’

‘Gus . . . bloody hellfire, get in!’

Mac opened up. He stood in the daylight wearing a pair of budgie-smugglers, bright yellow ones. A ‘Makin’ Bacon’ T-shirt maintained his modesty from the waist up.

I shielded my eyes. ‘Get some clothes on. Your skanky arse is the last thing I want to see.’

He slapped his butt cheeks, called out, ‘What you on about? I’m a fine figure of a man.’

‘Aye, if the figure’s zero . . . a big round one.’

‘Och, get yerself hunted.’

As he shut the door I saw plod had been at work. The pub had been turned over, drawers lying out, cupboard doors open, smashed glass everywhere. I was surprised they hadn’t had the floorboards up.

‘Holy shit,’ I blurted, ‘we’ve had company, then . . .’

Mac frowned, pulled a checked dressing gown over himself, said, ‘You could say that. Not any company I’d like to see, though . . .
Bastards
left the place in some kip, haven’t they? It’s like Steptoe’s yard now.’

As we moved into the bar area I stopped in my tracks. Loud barking greeted us. It lasted all of a few seconds until the dog came running through from the next room, started to jump at me, clawing and pawing.

Mac said, ‘Better give him a hello, Gus.’

I walked around the love-fest. ‘What, and encourage him? Uh-uh.’

‘But he doesn’t carry on like that with anyone else. Fair puts the shits up the punters, let me tell you.’

‘Are you going soft, Mac? Why’s he still here?’

‘Can’t just chuck him on the scrapheap, Gus . . . Where’s your heart?’

I knew exactly where it was. ‘Pretty fucking well buried.’

Mac knelt, started to ruffle the dog’s ears, clapped his back. ‘Bollocks! I know you, you’ll come round to this wee one. Be bezzie mates, so you will.’

I saw the dog had kept his bandage on. ‘When did you say his stitches come out?’

‘At least a week. Vet said it’s a deep wound. Might take longer.’

‘Well, in the meantime, who do you have to kill to get a drink around here?’

‘
Och
. . . bad word choice, pal. No’ the subject for humour right now.’

I let that slide. Stating the obvious wasn’t my thing.

As I sat at the bar, the dog settled at my feet.

‘What can I get you?’

‘Usual.’

The dog looked up, put his chops on my foot.

Mac spoke: ‘So, the nick . . . what happened?’

‘Can I get a pint down me first?’

Mac thinned his eyes. It was enough. ‘Better we get it sorted right off, Gus. You know they had me in as well.’

I shuffled on my bar stool. The dog jumped up as I lurched
across
to grab a fresh pack of Bensons. Said, ‘Yeah, they mentioned it.’

‘Aye, yon Jonny ponce has your card marked . . . Fuck knows what he thought he was gonna get out of me.’

‘There’s fifty Gs missing of Rab Hart’s and he thinks I took it.’

‘Shitballs.’ Mac laid down a pint of Guinness. It looked just like I’d imagined it in the cell, moist jewels glistening on the glass. I picked it up, quaffed through to the halfway line in a oner.

I nodded, said, ‘Man, that tastes good.’

‘Gus.’ He didn’t need to say any more than that. It was a prompt: his tone told me there was a pressing need to crack on and solve this case, to get my knackers out the vice.

‘I know. Believe me, Mac, I’m on to it . . . soon as I get this down me.’

I took the wrapping off my smokes, sparked up. Said, ‘What about you? When they hoicked you in.’

He laid an ashtray in front of me, said, ‘Was a heavy session.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’ His tone changed. ‘What you asking me?’

I flicked ash off my cigarette, said, ‘Did they ask about my state of mind? I know that’s been a big concern of yours lately.’

‘If you think I would shit on you with the filth then we can’t be the friends I thought we were.’

‘Mac,’ I shut him down, ‘I’m not saying that. Get that straight. Okay?’

A nod. Shoulders pulled back. Hard man on the defensive. ‘It just sounded like, y’know . . .’

‘Cool the beans . . . I just need to know what they asked you.’

He turned, hit the optics for a hefty tequila, put a glaze of water on it, said, ‘I told them . . . well, er, I did mention we were in some financial strife here at the pub.’

Great.

‘Did they put a threat on you?’

He screwed up his face. ‘Gus, this is the filth . . . Of course they dug up some dirt, threatened this, that.’

I crushed the cellophane from the fag packet in my hand, said, ‘Y’know, they have nothing . . . but they’re gonna go digging for more dirt.’

Another shrug. ‘So what?’

‘This Jonny fucker’s all over me like a cheap suit . . . That suggestion you gave me earlier about splitting, might be a wise move for yourself now if you know what I mean.’

He grabbed the cellophane from me, binned it. Mac put his hands on my shoulders. ‘Gus, pal . . . I’m going nowhere! You understand? I’m sticking with you on this. You’ll beat this.’

I removed his hands, stood up. ‘I know what you think you’re doing but what you have to understand is this: myself, I couldn’t give two fucks about; dragging you down with me is a whole other ball game.’

Mac lit a tab, cupped it in his hand prison-yard style and blew on the tip. We’d been through some scrapes, but none like this. He moved across the floor, went to sit at a table. ‘Can’t expect them to be pleased with you down the nick after that last caper.’

I sighed. ‘You think this was how Col imagined it would play out?’

‘What you mean?’

‘The bar . . .’

‘He left the bar to you, Gus. He wanted you to have it.’

‘Mac, he left the bar to his wife.’

‘He couldn’t have seen she’d cark it inside a month.’

‘It’s playing on my mind.’

Mac leaned forward, balanced on one arse cheek as he reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet. ‘I’m gonna give you something.’ He ferreted about for a card, pulled it out and laid it on the table.

‘What’s that?’ I said.

His eyes drooped; he seemed ashamed. ‘I, eh, when I got out the jail they put me on this course to get my shit together.’

I looked at the card. ‘Mac, this is a head-shrinker.’

‘No. Therapist – different.’

I tapped the name. ‘Mac, let me get this straight: you want me to get my head tested?’ Something simmered in me – anger.

‘She can help you. She helped me. There’s no shame in it.’

‘Mac, there’s no anything in it . . . It’s all psychobabble!’

He put a glower on me. ‘Gus, you’ve took me all wrong here.’

I tipped back a chair, jerked it out. Legs scratched across the bar floor as I sat down.

Mac went on: ‘You’ve been through a lot lately with the divorce, the death of your old fella . . . I was talking to Hod and we’re both concerned.’

‘Concerned my arse! The pair of you have been jangling, that’s all this is. What is it? I’m not doing my bit in the bar? Or am I drinking too much of the profits? Fuck me, Mac, since when did you and Hod go all bleeding-heart and Oprah on me?’

I was in a rage, out of control. Wrecking-ball mad. Off the dial.

I stood up again, knocked over the chair. I had the card in my hand and shoved it in Mac’s top pocket. He didn’t so much as flinch as I waved the back of my hand at him.

I took up my pint of Guinness, drained it.

There was one hell of an atmosphere in the room. There’s a phrase –
cut the air with a knife
.

I kept my gaze on him, waited for a response. None came. You get to my age, live the life I have, you think you’ve seen every reaction in the book. This I had not. Mac stood up, took the deepest breath, held it, and walked away from me. As the door swung behind him I was alone with my troubles.

I felt confused. Had I shocked him so much? Surely not. This was Mac the Knife we were talking about, hardy Glasgow chib merchant. Was my take on life, the situation, so off-whack?

As I watched the door shut itself, I suddenly sussed the look: it was despair. Utter despair was what Mac felt for me now. Something twisted inside me, a pang. It wasn’t physical, but emotional.

I felt my gaze fall. My head drooped.

Where my eyes rested I saw two others staring back at me. Slowly, the dog came closer, crouched at my feet and stretched out two paws.

I said, ‘We’re having a time of it, boy.’

His tail wagged. It didn’t seem like the right response.

‘It gets worse . . .’ I turned to see Mac back standing in the doorway. ‘I was going to leave this till the morning, but I thought I better not.’

‘What is it?’

‘You had a visit . . . Rab Hart wants you to go and see him in Saughton.’

IT WAS A
restless night. Tossed and turned for hours before I found sleep. Then I woke bolt upright in the darkness, my heart banging harder than a marching band. I’d seen the gutted corpse of Tam Fulton flash before my eyes again. I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever shake the image. Didn’t seem like it.

I got up and paced the flat; had every light blazing. I tanned a few cans, smoked nearly a full pack of Superkings. The only thing that got me back into bed was the prospect of having to navigate the dark stairs to the bar to restock. I wasn’t risking the sight of another corpse coming out the blackness.

Had managed to catch some kip, but not enough, when Hod appeared. ‘You’re cracked, y’know that!’ He fiddled with my books, got bored too easy, turned to the CDs.

‘Well, you know cracks . . . must have brown-nosed enough of them to get so set up.’

A CD frisbeed at me. I yelled, ‘Jesus, that better not be Lennon!’ I knelt down, picked up the disc. It was Franz Ferdinand. ‘You’re lucky it’s one of yours. Have it back – shite anyway.’

Hod ducked as the CD went his way. It missed, hit the dresser. ‘I mean it, Gus, now you’ve rattled the filth it’s time to shoot the crow.’

‘I couldn’t if I wanted to.’ I climbed over a pile of old clothes,
dumped
on the floor by Lothian’s finest in their recent investigation of my property. ‘They’ve taken my passport.’

‘Seized it?’

‘Seized, lost, does it matter? Like I’d get far anyway. Have you seen the new street furniture?’

‘Come again?’

I pointed to the window. Hod dipped his head through the curtains, said, ‘What am I looking for?’

‘Red Golf . . . It’s plod.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘You want a bag of doughnuts for proof? Trust me, I know.’

‘How long’s he been out there?’

‘Since I got out.’

‘So it’s official – you’re a suspect?’

‘Och, I’d say they were taking a serious interest in me.’

Hod released the curtain, paced, tugged at his wispy chin. He said, ‘And under surveillance. This is bad shit.’