Long Way Down (A Gus Dury crime thriller) (4 page)

'Fucking hell, Barry ...'

I had a day.

24 little hours.

Hardly any time to find him before the statute of
limitations ran out on Danny Murray's patience. The thought of Shakey's
unctuous errand boy calling the shots riled me but at least I'd managed to
inveigle some proper information out of him. Midday tomorrow would be too late,
he'd said. And that had to be because the Irish mob were planning their job
then. If Barry went ahead I knew the consequences and they didn't bear thinking
about. Vivisection with a rusty corkscrew was likely one of the nicer options
on the cards.

I dowped my cig, reached for my cherry Docs.

The heavy footwear were a struggle to lace but once in
place the bouncing soles felt the part. I picked up the rest of my fags,
slotted the Camels in beside the Marlboros and made for the door.

It was cold out, but only a smirry rain that could be
fended off by turning the collar up on my Crombie. I headed back up Easter
Road, passed the Manna House and the posh offie, then on to the first London
Road bus stop. I checked the real-time message board for the next bus to Porty,
said, 'Ten minutes ...'

I waited the ten minutes.

Waited to see the final countdown turn to 'due' but the
bus didn't arrive. The timer changed back to fifteen minutes instead.

'Fuck me drunk ...' I shook my head, took hands from my
pockets and waved palms either side of my head.

'Those buses, son ...' I turned round on the sound of
that word. My heart stung when I heard someone call me 'son'. I still couldn't
fathom whether it was because I wanted to be someone's son, or didn't want to
be the one person's son that I was.

An old bloke in a tweed cap, his nose a riot of burst
blood vessels, joined me in shaking heads, said, 'As much bloody use as tits on
a bull!'

He had their number. 'Lothian buses are a joke.'

'They try to blame the tram works.'

'Well they've axed enough of the service to pay for
them.'

He shook his head. 'Aye. And if they ever get the
bastards running, they'll blame them for taking more buses off the roads.'

I had a sense this conversation could go in circles all
day, I clamped it down. Looked the other way. As I glanced over to the
laundrette, I found myself wondering about the Polish girl from the night
before; I don't know why, perhaps it was the unusual kindness. Had I even said
thanks properly?

She wasn't there. I could only see the old witch, the
Dot Cotton, loading a drier from a yellow plastic laundry basket. She wore a
shiny tabard with pale blue checks and two pockets on the front. She reminded
me of the battle-scarred cleaners who used to hoover around my desk at The
Hootsman, grunting and moaning about the state of the place as an eternal
Woodbine dropped ash on my in-tray.

The bus ride out to Porty was the usual trial of
screaming and shouting care-in-the-community patients with backing vocals from
noisy schoolchildren on the doss. There was a time in my life when I'd have
hollered a few notes in their direction myself, but not now. The older I got,
the more appealing the path of least resistance became. Could it be I was
actually maturing enough to pick my battles carefully. Surely not.

The main access door to Katrina's block of flats was
being held open by the postie for a pram-face mum with a screaming toddler on
one hip and a fluorescent buggy with mag-wheels by the other. I kept my
distance just long enough for the melee to pass and then I jogged for the slow
closing door and took the steps.

I picked out the smell of piss and sickly-sweet Buckfast
mingling on the grimy stairwell. Some of the young crew had been in to tag the
walls since my last visit, and despite being a respecter of the creative urge
that I am, I couldn't help but think their efforts sucked balls. Right into a
hernia.

I clattered up the last step and battered on Katrina's
door.

There was no movement beyond.

I ramped up the thuds with the heel of my hand.

Now some stirring. The sound of a plate sliding into the
skirting, a knife and fork joining in.

I heard a light switch going on.

Then the bolt turned in the door.

I was given an inch of exposure to the flat. It was more
than enough. I pressed my shoulder to the wood and my inch became a mile.

Katrina took a few seconds to register her disgust. 'Hey,
what you playing at?'

I walked through to the front room. The place was in
darkness. I pulled open the curtains and the grey Scottish skies brought a
familiar dim pallor to the proceedings.

Katrina slumped in the door's jamb. 'I told you Barry's
not here.'

I tried a few doors, more for effect than anything else.
The rooms were all empty.

'I can see that, Katrina ...'

'Well fuck off then.'

'Tut-tut ... terrible language.' I walked over to the
spot where the Gola bag had sat yesterday, the blue shag-pile carpet displayed
a familiar depression. 'I hope you're not going to make me swear, Katrina ...
do you know why?'

'Why?'

I pinned back my mouth. 'Because I only swear when I
lose my temper ... I'd hate to lose my temper with you, Katrina.'

She looked at me through drooping eyelids. If there was
a thought distilling behind them it deserted her. She opted for the same old. 'He's
not here.'

'No, I can see that ... and neither is his bag.'

She put a hand to her mouth. Her chin became dimpled
like a lemon. 'I threw it out ...'

I jumped at her. Pinned her scrawny neck to the wall
with my forearm and stared into her eyes. 'Now you have crossed the fucking
line, girl ... If you know what's good for you, and give half of a shit what's good
for Barry you'll tell me where the hell he is now!'

Her eyes dimmed.

I roared again. 'Now!'

'He's not here ... he's not here.'

'That's not what I fucking asked you ... I want to know
where he is?'

She started to whimper, struggling for breath. 'I don't
know.'

'Then tell me this, Kat ... what was Weasel doing here
yesterday?'

'I don't know ...'

I pressed my arm harder against her throat. 'Wrong
answer!'

She coughed. 'He just brought me round a score ...'

'And took the bag for Barry?'

She didn't answer.

'I'm only going to ask you once more, then I'll snap
your fucking junkie neck, Katrina. Don't think for a second I won't, there's no
love lost between us and I know Barry would be better off without you ...'

'Aye, okay ... He took the bag.'

'Where?'

'Weasel's flat ... in Craigmillar.'

I stepped back and let her grab for air. She folded like
a hinge before me, coughing and spewing. I didn't want to know how much grief
this pathetic excuse for a human being had caused Barry.

'Get me the address ... now.'

* * * *

Walking cleared the head. Walking in Edinburgh, battered
by gales and likely as not rain in stair-rods, washed the head right out. After
leaving Katrina's flat I took to the high street in Portobello and bought a
thank-you for the laundry girl. It was nothing much, just a CD. But it set me
in mind of earlier days; I couldn't say happier ones.

Myself and Debs had never worked out; the reasons too
multifarious to go into. But she was still there with me — never far from the
back of my mind. She was like my conscience and my caution rolled into one. If
I was left to my own devices I'd be six-foot under by now. That voice though,
that shrill, pedantic whine that she always berated me with at the worst of
times was never far away. I could hear it now as I turned the CD into my
pocket.

'What the hell are you playing at, Gus?' that's what she
said.

I wasn't playing at anything. The Game of Life had long
since ceased to be of any amusement to me.

I was just going with the flow.

Rolling with the punches.

Maybe I'd be lucky and get some sense knocked into me.
Sure as shooting this business with Barry wasn't going to end without a few
tasty blows being struck. If past form was anything to go by, then I'd be on
the receiving end. The thought gored me, made me feel even more pity for Barry.
He'd had it tough enough without having friends like me.

It seemed every shop in the street was selling cute and
cuddly pandas. Their sad eyes dug at me. I couldn't see past the fact that they
were captive beasts. There was something unsettling about a city getting so
excited about having the animals locked up in the zoo. Was I the only one who
saw how miserable they really were? Keeping them behind bars wasn't helping
them — it was helping us. It made us feel a little bit better about having
ballsed up the entire planet. In Paris during the war they ate all the animals
in their zoo — that shows what they really thought of them.

From the pandas my mind latched back on to Barry's
plight: it seemed like he was actually better off behind bars. He'd gone from
the big house to the shit house in one fell swoop. Try as I might, I just
couldn't get my head around his drop. It had been gradual, a slow steering
towards the long way down but he'd hit rock bottom now. Nietzsche said you
needed to strike the lowest depths before you could bounce back, but Barry wasn't
bouncing anywhere from his dark pit of despair. Not unless it was back inside,
or worse yet, into Shakey's hands.

I flagged a Joe Baxi and the driver in the Nigerian
footy shirt tapped in the Craigmillar address on his TomTom.

'Cheers, mate ... and quick as you like, eh.'

I checked my mobi for messages: zip. Unless you call a
text from my mate Hod with a link to Frankie Boyle's Twitter account a message.
It seemed the Pope had made his first tweet and the bold Mr Boyle had taken his
chance to address the pontiff directly about abusive priests. I smiled
inwardly; there was something about the direct approach, about speaking the
truth to power that I liked a whole lot.

The taxi pulled over at the foot of the street like I'd
told him. I passed the fare through the hole in the safety glass and stepped
out.

The rain had stopped.

That was something.

The address that Katrina had given me for Weasel was a
boarded-up council flat — the affectionately termed cooncil curtains. The whole
street was a tip. Awash with rubbish that had attracted a couple of scavenging
dogs: they eyed me like competition for a lick at the Lean Cuisine container
they'd liberated.

'Grow sense, dogs ...'

They growled.

I stamped a Doc on the road and they took off, paving
the way for a feral gull to swoop down on the salvage.

I was in no rush to crash Weasel's gaff so I sparked up
a cig and took myself to the sheltered side of the street where I could watch
the goings on from the lee of another derelict building. I was two draws in to
my red-top when my mobi rang.

'Mac ... what is it?'

'I'm glad I found you.' His voice was gruff.

'Sounds ominous.'

He took a sharp intake of breath. 'I just had word that
your friend is not in a good way ...'

My mind spooled with images of a bloody and battered
Barry. 'What?'

'Danny Murray's been done over.'

Relief washed over me. 'Dan the Man ... fuck me, I
thought you meant Barry.'

A tut. 'Yeah, well, the only reason Barry's not being
fitted for a cement overcoat I'd say is because he's managed to duck under the
radar ... but that can't last.'

I was lining up my reply as a stocky figure started
walking down the path towards Weasel's flat. I ducked into the ruin as the pug
in trademark black leather stepped up to the door and slapped the rain from his
shaven head. I couldn't help but notice the hefty holdall in his other hand had
a suspicious shape.

I dropped my voice. 'Look, I have that under control.'

'Are you out your fucking tree, Dury? ... You want to
drop this, now. Didn't you hear me? Danny's up on bricks at the Royal and your
time's running out.'

I kept my gaze on the big biffer, as he walked to the
back of the property and looked up to the back windows. When he headed back the
door opened again and Weasel's skanky arse scurried out into view. They seemed
to have some business to do but Weasel wanted it kept away from his door.

'Yeah, look, thanks for the tip, mate,' I told Mac. 'But
I have this under control.'

He loaded in the panic. 'Where are you, Gus?'

There was no avoiding the concern in his voice, he'd had
a change of heart, this whole situation had suddenly got serious enough for Mac
the Knife to get involved.

'No dice, Mac.'

I clicked off. And started out for the other side of the
street.

* * * *

The dogs were back at the split rubbish sacks,
fighting over what looked like the remains of a chicken chow mein. The tinfoil
container was being torn between their chops, spilling milky yellow fluid laced
with rancid rice over the street. I made my way round them quietly and quickly
and slipped on to the pathway leading round Weasel's home.

The building was small, inconsequential. It could have
been any one of a million Scottish maisonettes like it. The only distinguishing
feature was the crumbling rough-casting that exposed the brick beneath. The
pebbles from the wall crunched beneath my Docs as I paced towards the backyard.

The pug had the bag open, Weasel staring in.

'Aye, sound,' he said.

'Course it's sound.' The pug was a wido off the schemes,
rough and likely useful, I didn't rate my chances.

Weasel stuffed a hand into the back pocket of his
trackies and produced a bundle of notes. He charged his coat hanger shoulders
as he stepped back and waved for the pug to count it.

'No need to count it, son ... You're not that daft, eh!'

The pug grabbed Weasel's jaw in his hand and shook. The
little streak of piss stood there like a schoolboy being stood over for his
dinner money and took the effrontery like it was due to him.