Gutted (27 page)

I heard pages turning, then, ‘Not a one.’

‘Tell me you jest.’

‘Would I ever?’

I didn’t answer.

On a hunch I wondered if Mark Crawford was connected, said, ‘What about Ann Street?’

‘You kidding? Fuck no, there’s none in Ann Street.’ He changed tone, seemed almost smug. ‘By the way, I hear that was a fine performance ye pulled off earlier.’

‘Which one?’

‘Would be the whole thing.’ A laugh. ‘Haven’t ye McAvoy running about with a face like a Halloween cake!’

‘That would be bad, right?’

Laughter. Uproarious. ‘Oh, feck yes, Dury . . . Did ye ever, when ye were a chiseller, catch a wasp in a bottle? Well, isn’t that the
spit
of his like this afternoon, man. I’d say ye had him rattled! Rattled indeed, no mistake.’

I thanked Fitz for the 3D image, even though it was well and truly the last thing I wanted to hear right now.

‘Well, Dury, I will tell ye this: McAvoy is no man to cross . . .’

‘You said that already.’

‘From what I’m hearing about him now, I didn’t know the half of it.’

‘Go on.’

‘No danger . . . not on the line. We’ll talk soon.’

He hung up.

We were pulling off the last road from civilisation, into the badlands.

‘Where to?’ asked Hod.

I pointed to a shop. Outside there was a girl, must have been no more than fifteen. She wore a bright pink boob tube and a black leather mini. Her face was aflame with acne, still visible through layer upon layer of slap.

‘You sure?’

‘Oh, yeah. You better take off too.’

‘You what?’

‘I mean it, fuck off home. I want peace from you. Prepare yourself for the pit fight. Conserve your energy.’

He shook his head. ‘Right, okay.’

Hod revved the engine, clocked the girl walking over.

I joked, ‘Your luck’s in, you might have company.’

He wound down the window, hollered, ‘Fuck off, you! Now. Back the way you came.’

The girl raised a single digit, fired it at Hod.

I had to smile as I saw him furiously wind up the window, mutter, ‘Dirty hoor.’

I ROCKED UP
to the shop. Well, it sold stuff; similarities to any other shop I knew ended there. The outside was secured with hardboard and tin sheets. Above the door, razor wire. Inside you’d have to go back in time to Stalinist Russia to get the full flavour. The joint averaged three items to a shelf. Behind a barred-up counter, an old Sikh eyed me with suspicion. I don’t believe he thought I was a shoplifter, more like lost.

‘How goes it?’

No reply.

‘Wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for a few lads, one with a flashy motor, a Corrado.’

Still no reply.

‘Do you speak English?’

A sigh, nod.

‘Great, we’re making progress.’ I heard someone scuttle in through the door behind me. ‘Like I say, I’m after these boys . . . You see, I need them to help me out with a bit of a problem.’

A young girl shoved a bag of dog biscuits under the bars, asked for twenty Berkeley. The Sikh put the lot in a bag, sorted out some change. Never opened his mouth.

The girl stared straight at me. She had a split lip and the biggest
eyebrow
piercing I’d ever seen. Under her arm was a white poodle, struggling for dear life.

‘Can I help you, love?’ I said.

She spazzed her mouth at me, said, ‘You’re fuckin’ radge.’

‘Yeah, and nice to meet you too.’ I turned to the Sikh. ‘This car, have you seen it?’ I was losing the rag now, slipping quickly beyond frustration. ‘It’s white and it has these really unusual wheels, they’re gold mags, y’know, like alloys.’

The girl slammed the door and the Sikh turned away from me. Went to sit in the corner of his little cage, topped a Mr Men mug up with Grant’s.

I leaned over, yelled, ‘Thank you, much appreciated.’ I didn’t envy the guy his job, or, by the kip of him, his life. I knew Sikhs were supposed to stay on the dry bus, but I suppose out here that was just too tall an order. I turned, gave him a wave, and headed for the door.

The first thing to hit me on the outside was the revving of a seriously high-powered engine. The next was the girl from the shop jumping into a Corrado and throwing the poodle on the back seat. After that something like a baseball bat took the legs off me and I fell to the ground, copping kicks and punches at all angles.

‘Can you hear me, Mr Dury?’

I heard the voice, but didn’t recognise it. I opened my eyes and latched on to an indistinct set of features, some burst blood vessels on the nose, heavy bags under the eyes.

‘Mr Dury, are you with us?’

The paramedic sat me up. Someone else put a red blanket around my shoulders. My head throbbed; I saw some blood on the pavement.

‘Quite a doing you got . . . You’re lucky Mr Singh stepped in.’

I looked over the paramedic’s shoulder. The old Sikh was returning to his shop. ‘Him?’

‘Oh aye – saw them off, then called us.’ He reached in his bag, took out a vial. ‘Now, tip your head back. This might sting a bit.’

‘Ahh, Jesus Christ.’ I jumped back, rocked the ambulance on its wheels.

‘I told you it would hurt.’ A wipe with cotton wool, some gauze attached to my head. ‘That’s going to need stitching. Come on, let’s get you in the back of the vehicle.’

‘Eh, no, I’ll be fine.’

‘You will not, you’re bleeding from a head wound and you’ll need a scan as well as those stitches.’

‘Trust me, I’m fine.’

I stood up, felt a bit woozy. Immediately slid back down the side of the ambulance.

‘Mr Dury, you’re in no condition to—’

‘Where did you get my name from?’

The paramedic handed me my wallet, said, ‘I’d be more careful around here, you know.’

‘Careful’s my middle name. Look, thanks for the patch-up, but I’m fine, really.’

He knelt down, prised open my eyelids and switched on a little torch, ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

‘Two . . . just like Churchill.’

A frown, unimpressed. ‘The cut needs stitched, there’s no way round that. You leave it, you’ll have a nasty scar.’

‘Nasty I can live with. Just patch me up and let me get out your way. I’m sure you’ve more deserving cases to get to.’

He shook his head, reached in his bag again. ‘This is only a butterfly clip. It’ll close the wound, but like I say, it’ll scar.’

‘Go for it.’

The procedure didn’t take too long. Finished up with a bandage around my head.

Paramedic asked, ‘Can you stand?’

‘Yeah, no trouble.’

‘Then we’ll take you home.’

My legs felt rubber, but I got moving, said, ‘Just a minute – want to say thanks to the shopkeeper.’

A hand on my arm. ‘Mr Dury, send him a card. You’re going home, or to hospital.’

The road back to Hod’s boat seemed bumpy, but the codeine
tabs
took the edge off. Was feeling pretty raw after my second doing-over in the last twenty-four hours. Wondered if I would last the next. I knew Mac and Hod would have some sage advice for me too; just couldn’t wait to hear it.

Despite evidence to the contrary, I thought I’d had a lucky escape. Another five minutes under the cosh and I’d be taking my meals through a straw for the foreseeable. Then again, given my current diet, maybe I could manage that.

‘Is this the place?’ yelled the driver.

‘Yeah, right out front’s fine.’

The wheels came to a halt and then the back door slid open.

‘Careful now. You don’t want to be doing too much,’ said the paramedic.

‘I’m fine, really.’

‘Well, let’s get you inside.’

‘Look, would you stop fussing? I can take it from here.’

Had the ‘some people’ stare sent my way. It wasn’t that I was ungrateful for the help, I just hate fussing. I thanked the paramedic again, went inside.

The boat seemed empty until Usual shot out from under the bunk. I’d grown used to him jumping up and down every time I walked through the door but he was going ballistic with excitement. I could have done with more pain relief but had to settle for a bottle of 100 Pipers.

I lay in the bunk slipping in and out of sleep. The usual dreams – or should that be nightmares – came. Moosey’s corpse appeared, then Debs on our wedding day.

I rose. My head hurt worse than any hangover but as I started to think about what Jonny had said outside the nick regarding Debs, my heart hurt even more.

WAS I DREAMING?
I didn’t think so; this had
happened
, surely. Were I asleep, it would be a nightmare . . .

Debs takes down the pictures of the little yellow hippos. She packs away the cuddly Barney toy, the Elmo from
Sesame Street
and the two-foot-long Doggie Daddy.

I don’t like to watch.

I don’t know what to say.

She seems so composed. There’s an ‘at work’ look about her. I feel it’s wrong. There should be some emotion, surely. But what do I know? I’m a man. This is women’s business.

There’re two boxes on the floor, one pink, one blue. ‘We’ll get one of each,’ she told me only a week ago in another of our jaunts to John Lewis. ‘You never know!’

Now she uses them to pack all this stuff away. She takes down the little blue dresses, the hand-knitted cardigans we seemed to get so many of. The news was such a joy to everyone.

‘Debs is carrying,’ Hod said. He bear-hugged me. ‘God, that’s smashing.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know . . . we’re made up.’

Of course we were made up. It took us ten years to get to this level. Ten years to get over the thing we would sooner never think
about
. We just never realised the two events – one so sad and one so happy – could be intertwined. How could they be?

I watch Debs fold more little clothes. The little booties look like Christmas tree decorations. One box is full. She puts the little empty picture frames on top of it, turns to me, says, ‘Can you take that down to the garage?’

I nod, lift up the box.

I want to speak now. I hear a voice prodding me:
Say something to her, say something to her. This behaviour isn’t natural; she’s in shock
.

But I say nothing.

I take the box away. In the doorway, I turn. She’s almost filled the second box; a little yellow bath, no bigger than our kitchen basin, is being filled up too.

I walk away.

In the garage I can’t bear to look at what I’ve carried down there. I shove it up against a stack of old tyres. It looks so out of place with the mower and power tools sitting nearby. I’ll take it to the charity shop, I tell myself. I want to go straight away, get the next box, fill the car. But I don’t. I stay in the garage. I stay in the garage and smoke a succession of cigarettes. Lighting each new one with the tip of the last. Only when the pack runs out do I go back inside.

The place is quiet. Eerily so.

The television is on low,
Antiques Roadshow
’s familiar tune playing. I walk into the room, hoping to see Debs. But she’s not there.

I go through to the kitchen. It’s empty. The bedroom too.

I know the only place left is the spare room, but I don’t want to go back in there. She’ll have packed up the place. Stripped the walls and cupboards. It will be a different room now. It’s not that I want to remember it how it was, how we set it up. No, I want to forget that. I want to forget it all. Pretend it was never there in the first place.

But I can’t.

I hear Debs crying and I know I have to go to her.

I try to edge the door open but there’s something wrong. The door’s blocked.

‘Debs, what’s up, sweetheart?’ I push the door again, but it’s still blocked. ‘Debs, babes, I can’t get in . . .’ I push harder. In panic, I wonder what she’s done to herself.

The door gives way and I see her lying on the floor.

I rush to her side. She’s tipped out all the stuff from the boxes. All the stuff she so carefully packed.

‘Debs, what is it? What’s wrong?’ It’s a stupid thing to say, I know it. But what else can I say? There’s no instruction manual for this kind of thing.

I kneel by her side and place a hand on her back. She trembles. I remember the time she trembled on our wedding day and it sends a shard of ice into my heart.

‘Debs, please . . . don’t do this.’

She’s completely lost to me. I wonder: Does she even know I’m here?

I try to rub her back, calm her. She still trembles and then she turns over and curls up like a small child. She looks so helpless, so frail. I feel every shiver that passes through her.