Gutted (24 page)

The key turned in the lock again. When my mother appeared I got the shock of my life – she looked drawn and pale, close to collapse. But the heart-stopper was her split lip, a cut that looked like she’d been batted one. I put a hand on her face and she started to cry.

‘Mam, what’s this?’

Two yobs in trackies came into the hall, stooped over her. One of them had a five-skinner in his hand, toked away whilst listening to every word I said.

‘Mam, is this Catherine’s boys?’

My mother sobbed, nodded.

I looked at the pair of them. They had dopers’ eyes, ringed in red.

‘Come on, Mam . . . let’s get you upstairs, have a nice lie down.’

She was in pieces, exhausted. I put her into bed, said I’d make her a cup of tea once she’d had some rest.

She smiled, said, ‘They were such lovely laddies . . . once.’

‘Shhh, get your head down. I’ll see you in a while.’

I closed her bedroom door.

It was only once I was in the hall that I realised the last time I’d been in there was to watch my father die.

Should I feel a flicker of sympathy for the man?

Nothing came.

I descended the stairs, slowly.

My heart calmed. Pure anger, white rage, doesn’t pump hard. I’ve felt it many times before and it’s always surprised me by its methodical calm.

At the foot of the stairs I removed my coat.

I OPENED THE
living-room door slowly. Inside,
Chuckle-Vision
blared. I switched the telly off. Put my folded coat on the chair beside the mantel.

‘I was fucking watching that,’ said one of my nephews from the couch; I couldn’t tell which. This lot all sounded the same to me.

‘Not any more you’re not.’

‘Y’what?’

‘Let’s say you’ve lost your privileges.’

The pair laughed, hacking coughs like chucking-out time at the bingo.

I started to take off my watch, roll up my sleeves. Said, ‘How did my mother get that lip?’

‘I don’t fucking know,’ said one.

‘Maybe she walked into a door,’ said the other.

They both laughed, high-fived.

I picked up an ashtray, said, ‘Put that out.’

‘What if I say no? . . . You gonna smack me, eh?’

‘Put it out.’

‘Fuck off . . . You’ll no’ touch me.’ He rose, fronted me. ‘You’re family so you are – you can’t.’

I grabbed his face in my hand. ‘You think that counts for fuck all?’

The other one rose too. ‘Hey, fuck right off! You’re supposed to be our uncle.’

They both laughed, it was all a joke to them.

I said, ‘Let me tell you, blood never protected me from my own father in this house and it’s not going to protect you.’

I saw the swing for my head with the heavy bong about ten minutes before I walked in the room. His reactions were slow. I caught his arm while I still held the other’s face. ‘Now, lads, that’s not very clever.’

I yanked them together. They were weak, emaciated.

I cracked one with a right and his head fired back into the other’s.

Blood gushed from an eye and a nose simultaneously.

‘I told you, you’ve lost all privileges.’

Looks, first to each other, then to me. ‘What you saying?’

‘Do I need to spell it out?’

‘We’re set up here . . .’

‘Not any more you’re not.’

A chest got stuck out, a white baseball cap went back as a headbutt was aimed at me. I saw it in slow-mo. There’s only one way to deal with a nut-job. I dropped my own head; he smacked his nose off the top of my skull, fell to his knees. Blood oozed. His brother tried to raise him.

‘Are you both entirely stupid?’

‘What about our stuff?’

‘I’ll put it all in a bag and chuck it the fuck out . . . You want to argue?’

They turned, walked to the door. I went with them, watched them open up.

They said nothing as they got to the gate. Left it flapping. I called them back. ‘Close it.’

They complied.

I saw the neighbour’s curtains twitching. ‘One last thing . . . I hear either of you have been within a country mile of this place again, I’ll find you.’

Stuttering: ‘And then what?’

I looked that one in the eye, said, ‘If I find you there’s no “and then what”.’

I let my mother sleep for a couple of hours or so. Tried to tidy the place up. Roach dowps scattered everywhere. Found a bag of skunk – pocketed that. The rest I binned. Took down the net curtains, put them in a basin of bleach. It looked like the first time the windows had been open in weeks. With some fresh air the place brightened a bit. Ceiling had turned yellow, though; would need repainting.

When my mother appeared I was stood with a duster in my hand. She laughed, ‘Och, Gus, that’s some picture.’

I raised the duster. ‘Well, glad I can amuse you.’

She came in, sat down, looked about. ‘You have the place lovely.’

I put down the duster, fitted the cap to the Mr Sheen furniture polish. ‘What happened here, Mam?’

She shook her head, looked out the window. ‘I don’t know, Gus . . . They were such nice laddies once.’

I didn’t know what to say. Anything I trotted out would sound like a
Daily Mail
editorial . . . blame the parents, breakdown of society, yob culture. ‘What about Catherine?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why aren’t they with her?’

‘She turned them out . . . Had enough.’

Where the hell had I been? Had I lost touch with my whole family? ‘I don’t understand, Mam . . . If they were so bad their own mother turns them out, why would you pick them up?’

My mother grabbed her wrist, squeezed. ‘You can’t turn your back on your own . . . I might be old-fashioned, but it’s just not what you do.’

I thought of Katrina Crawford – did she have that notion?

‘But Mam, look what they did here.’ I pointed to her lip. ‘Look what they did to you.’

My mother put her face in her hands. I knew I’d pressed her too hard, too soon. I went to her side, placed an arm around her. ‘Hey, never mind, eh.’

She started to shake, sob.

‘Mam, c’mon . . . you did your bit. You can’t change what they’ve become.’

‘Och, Gus, it’s so sad. I feel so responsible for you all.’

I wondered what possible reason my mother could find to blame herself for what I’d become.

‘Mam, no. That’s not true. People go their own way. You have to let them make their own mistakes and face the consequences.’

She trembled some more, grabbed her wrist again. I placed a hand over hers, said, ‘C’mon, I’ll make you some tea.’

She smiled, brightened. ‘That would be nice.’

In the kitchen I put the kettle on.

As I stood staring out the back window I felt such an emptiness. There was so much hurt and disappointment in my mother’s eyes. I wanted to have been able to provide her with some happiness. I knew if I’d made more of a success of myself she would have had something to latch on to. The list of people I’d failed and disappointed hung round me now like a darkness.

I poured myself some Black Bush from a half-bottle I carried. Brought my mother her tea; sat down.

‘Thanks, son.’

‘No bother.’

Awkward silence.

‘How’s things going with the writing?’

‘Och, y’know . . . it’s going. Working a story.’

She looked embarrassed. I wanted to say something, anything, just to give her some iota of hope. ‘I saw Deborah again.’

Her eyes lit. ‘You did?’

‘Well, we went for a walk.’

A full-on smile. ‘That’s wonderful . . . I always knew that girl was the right one for you.’

Hell, I’d said too much. But could I take it back? Not ever.

‘Well, it’s early days.’ I was leading my mother astray. My mouth was wandering – what had I said? I just so wanted to give her one thing to feel good about. One good thing that came from me.

‘I’m so pleased, Angus. Really, so pleased.’

I drained my mug, jumped up. ‘Look, Mam, I have a little bit of business to attend to so—’

‘No, you go, son. You have your life to lead.’

‘I’ll come back soon. I’ll mow that lawn when it’s dry. And the ceiling – it’ll need painted again—’

She raised a hand, cut me off: ‘Angus, I don’t need any looking after.’

‘No, Mam. That’s one thing I
will
be doing now. I’ll be keeping a closer eye on you, I promise.’

She smiled sweetly, drew her cardigan around her.

I headed out the door. She followed, waved me off as I passed into the same street I’d known since I was a boy.

The second I saw the Mondeo stuffed with suits I knew I’d made a mistake visiting my mother.

A WHITE POLICE
car, sirens blaring, pulled up behind me and mounted the kerb. The four doors of the Mondeo swung open. A cocky-looking wido fronted me. ‘Get in the car, Dury.’

As he spoke, I recognised him at once. ‘Fuck me, it’s the cludgie cop . . . Never made the dumpster, then?’

I was grabbed from all angles, arms up my back, cuffed. As they threw me in the back of the van I managed a glance at my mother’s window. Thanked God there was no sign of her.

My mind raced. Only the effects of the Black Bush kept me together.

We drove in silence.

At the nick they checked me in.

In a police cell, facing a murder charge – was this really what my life had come to?

I paced.

My heart rate increased.

Nerves shrieked.

If they were hoying me in again, it could mean only one thing: bad news. I tried to play over what Fitz had said. Nothing sparked. Then I remembered something: I’d removed Moosey’s wallet. I’d tried to wipe it clean but if they had my prints that wouldn’t look
good
. I was ninety-nine per cent sure they didn’t. It was the one per cent that put the shits up me.

Adrenaline rushed in.

I felt primed. Fight-or-flight instinct kicking in again. Were flight still an option, I’d be happy to take it. Mac’s advice battered me over the head again.

Scolded myself: Dury, what the fuck were you thinking?

I’d achieved little more than zip with my efforts to find Moosey’s killer. All right, I’d had some issues to wade through, but when did I never? The verdict on my being in a police cell, once again, about to have my arse well and truly caned, was ‘Gus, you fucked up.’

The door swung open.

Uniform, young lad. Chest like a bull on him. He tipped the visor down on his hat and turned up the lights. Thought: Here we go.

Behind him walked in a character straight out of
LA Law
. Did they still make that show? If they didn’t, nobody had told him. Light-grey suit, pale purple shirt and a navy silk tie with white diagonal stripes. If he was conscious of my being in the room, he didn’t let on. I watched him position himself at the table, straighten out his cuffs and run a tanned hand over his head. From where I stood I could see there was some male pattern baldness creeping in, but there’d been some considerable skill applied to compensating for that with the old blow-dryer.

He took a silver pen from his pocket, made a show of pressing the button to release the tip. Said, ‘Sit.’

I stayed put.

He let a good minute drag out before turning to the door pug. Only took a nod. The big lad hollered at me like a staff sergeant going for a squaddie, lunged over and put an arm round my neck. ‘You want me to throw you against the fucking wall?’ he said.

I played it cool. ‘Why? Think I’ll bounce?’

He threw me. My shoulder caught the cell wall. Pain shot down my backbone, then seemed to retrace its steps and settle at the original point of impact.

I felt my whole arm turn to cork. Tried to move it, couldn’t, cradled it with my other arm.

‘Bring him over here.’

A fist in my back. Felt the imprint of every knuckle.

At the table I saw three folders had been laid before me. Two were closed. On top of one sat sheaves of paper.

‘Right, Mr Dury . . . settled down now, have we?’

I rubbed my elbow.

He spoke again, ‘Glad to hear it. Now, I’m quite certain you know why we’ve invited you here today.’

‘Help with your inquiries,’ I tutted.

‘Indeed.’

I leaned forward. ‘Which I am more than happy to do.’

From behind him, the door opened.

I said, ‘DI Johnstone enters the room . . . That’s what they say on
The Bill
isn’t it?’ A wide smile. ‘“For the benefit of the tape”, that’s the other bit.’