Long Way Down (A Gus Dury crime thriller) (5 page)

'Cool. Cool,' he said.

The transaction seemed to have concluded, I watched the
pair head back for the front of the house and ducked behind a decrepit shed; if
it lasted another couple of minutes without blowing away I was in luck.

'Right, well, you know where to come if you need any
more,' said the big biffer.

'Aye, no worries.'

Weasel followed him halfway up the path then waved him
off and returned to his front door with the heavy holdall weighing him down on
one side. The fuckwit still managed to put on a swagger, for the benefit of
no-one but himself, as he yawed back down the path. He was grinning, a wide
toothless rictus as he took the keys from his trackies and started to scrape
the edges of the Yale lock. I let him get the key in the door before I made my
move.

One thing about the Docs, the air-cushioned soles can
come in handy. Save a few fallen rough-casting pebbles getting crushed
underfoot I was stealthy.

The rabbit-punch to the back of Weasel's napper wrapped
his head off the front door so hard that the frame bounced off the facing wall
and swung back with renewed force.

I winced, shook out the sting of knuckle on skull. My
reactions were quick enough to push Weasel's limp jelly-body through the door
and reach for the holdall all at once.

He groaned, rolled over on to his back.

'Weasel!' I heard Barry's voice from the top of the
stairs, then his heavy footfalls as he descended towards me.

If he'd been tooled up, I'd have likely got my head
blown off when I stuck it over the threshold. As it happened the Mossberg-pump
I'd taken from the holdall was the only shooter at the party.

'Hello, Barry my old son,' I said.

* * * *

My old mate stood staring at me with a look of
quiet disbelief that threatened to dip into incredulity.

'Gus ...' said Barry.

I was leaning over Weasel now, tucking an arm under his
oxter, 'Give me a hand with this piece of shit.'

Barry descended the stairs and got round the other side
of Weasel; for a moment, as he stood at the open door, I wondered if he might
bolt. He looked me up and down and seemed to clamp on to his emotions, reached
for Weasel.

I was still holding the gun in my other hand. 'Right,
lift away.'

We got Weasel up the stairs, he was pathetically light.
Nothing but skin and bone — you'd see more meat on a butcher's pencil. In the
front room we dropped him on a filthy sleeping bag that I wouldn't have let a
dog lie on. But this was Weasel we were talking about; it was likely too good
for him. As I straightened my back, gripped hold of the shooter again, I
spotted the Gola bag from Katrina's on the other side of the room.

Weasel rolled over and groaned. I saw he was coming
round, thought about delivering him another whack but Barry caught my
attention. He was collecting a pack of Club from what would have passed for the
windowsill, if the windows weren't boarded up. I offered my lighter and sparked
up as well.

'So, what's the craic?' said Barry.

I huffed. 'There's been precious little fucking craic,
mate ... unless you include the one down the middle of Danny Murray's head they're
seeing to over at the Royal.'

'What?' He looked perplexed, if he was acting he was a
Gielgud.

I drew deep on my cig. 'Are you shitting me? Because if
you are, I can walk out on you now and leave you to Boaby Stevens' pugs if you
like.'

He leaned against the wall, started to scratch his brow.
'This is fucked.'

'You're telling me?'

He looked up, eyes darting beyond me to Weasel who was
groaning again.

I paced towards Barry. 'Look, mate, Danny sent me after
you, I'm guessing because Shakey wanted the rundown on the job you're about to
pull with some of the Emerald Isle's finest.'

He shook his head. 'It was bloody, Kat ... you know
that.'

I walked away, didn't want to record his look when he
started to kick off about that woman. She'd done him enough damage and if the
truth be told, I didn't need a reminder of my own sorry loss on that front. If
the roles were reversed Barry could have been Debs talking about how I'd
screwed her life up on a colossal scale.

'She told me she was clean, you know that?'

I shook my head in disbelief. 'And you went for that?'

'No. Well, I hoped you know. We were making plans, for
when I got out.'

How you made plans with a junkie whose only ambition was
the next fix on the horizon, I'd no clue. 'And what went wrong?'

'She had a house full of crack-heads when I got home. I
had to turf a mob of them on to the street. But she has a mouth you know, it
runs away with her, the junkies were all trying to butter me up about some big
job I was on, she'd fucking blabbed.'

You didn't need to join the dots to see how Shakey got
hold of the information. 'So what then?'

'I just split. Didn't even take my gear, sent Weasel
round for that. I'm finished with her, Gus ... truly.'

I looked over my shoulder towards Weasel; his hair was
stuck to his forehead where I'd flattened him against the wall.

'And this job?' I said.

He shrugged, looked away.

I fronted up. 'Barry ... the job?'

He still couldn't look at me. 'Well, y'know, I'm
committed now.'

He fucking needed to be committed. 'They're Irish, power
lunatics you do know that?'

'Of course I do, why do you think I'm going ahead with
it? Once you're in they're worse than the Foreign Legion, I'd get my head in a
poke if I backed out.'

I felt my adrenalin spike. Fight or flight, whatever. I
wasn't taking any chances with my chosen course of action. 'Oh, you're backing
out, Barry ...'

Now he fronted up, squared shoulders and put the bead on
me. 'Oh, aye, who says?

I poked the shooter in his chest, 'In the words of
Napoleon Dynamite — a frickin' twelve-gauge!'

He stepped back. 'Gus, now wait a minute, you don't
understand who you're dealing with here.'

I looked at my watch, time was getting tight. I didn't
want to be around when the Bedford van packed with brick-shithouses pulled up.
Gun or no gun, I didn't rate my chances. I took out my phone, scrolled the
contacts.

'So, just who are we dealing with here?' I said as the
line started to ring.

'What? ... Wait a minute, who are you calling?'

'I'll ask the questions, Barry ... Now I want names and
I want the full story on this job including the exact where and when.'

He grunted, near spat. 'You're off your fucking head.'

'No, I'm as sane as they come. But I know a man who is
as complete a radge as you're ever likely to meet.' The line connected. 'Hello,
Mac, I've a favour to ask ...'

* * * *

I sent Weasel on his way once I was assured he
was a third wheel in the overall scheme of things and then I sat listening to
Barry's sorry sob story about how the Irish took him under their wing in
Saughton. They'd heard all about Barry keeping schtum on the counter jump and
taking a twelve-stretch. They had this thing about informers over there, liked
a man who could hold his tongue. The way he told it, they really rated him, but
I wasn't so sure. The Irish were all over this city now, but it wasn't their
city. It was Barry's, however, and that had its uses, especially where the
local faces were concerned.

'Barry, you must have known Shakey would ark up,' I
said.

'Of course, I'm not thick.'

I resisted the obvious reply. 'Well why get involved in
a job in his fucking backyard?'

He took a last draw on his cig, stubbed it. 'I told you,
I had plans, I was going to take the money and run.'

'With Kat?'

He looked away. 'Yeah, with Kat.'

'Well that's not going to happen now, so why am I
babysitting you?'

He stood up, 'Look, they're a serious outfit ... you don't
just walk off on them.'

I knew what he was saying and it made sense to me. But
he was deluding himself if he thought that the Irish lads would offer him any
cover when Shakey got hold of him. It struck me as fairly obvious that Barry
had carved out a life for himself that he was wholly unsuited to. There were
reasons for that, wrong turns and so on, but he didn't have any chances left,
save the slim hope I offered him now.

I reached into my pocket and removed the envelope from
inside the Racing Post, chucked it towards him. 'Take that.'

He caught the package, looked inside. 'Gus, what's this?'

'Just a few quid ... for you to get yourself set up in a
new town.'

A car's horn sounded from beyond the cooncil curtains
and Barry stuck an eye to the gap in the wood. 'It's a wee white van ... A
burly fella's getting out.'

'That'll be Mac,' I said.

'Mac the fucking Knife?'

I nodded, as I stood up to face him I could sense Barry's
apprehension. He was lost, confused and ready to place himself in the hands of
his maker. For want of that option, I stepped in, 'Look, take the money and get
far away.'

'But ...'

I flagged him down. 'No buts, Barry. You're getting in
that car with Mac.'

Three loud thuds clattered on the door. Barry's eyes
widened.

The door's hinges sung out, 'Hello ...' It was Mac. His
footsteps sounded on the stairs.

'Gus, I don't know ...'

'Don't even think about it, Barry. Just do it.'

The living-room door opened and Mac stepped in. He stood
with his feet splayed and shoulders back, his broad chest seemed to be filling
the room with threatening rays. Barry looked at him, then back to me. If there
was a doubt in his mind that Mac was a man to be messed with it evaporated on
first sight.

'Alright, Gus,' said Mac. 'This him?' He tipped his head
in Barry's direction, Mac managed to make him look like something he'd just
stepped in.

'Take him south, no stops, and don't let him out your
sight,' I said handing over the shooter. 'And ditch that on your way home.'

Mac trousered the pump-action. 'How far south?'

'Far enough that he can't get back in a hurry.'

Mac nodded. 'I'll take him to fucking Brighton.'

Barry rolled his gaze towards the ceiling. 'Oh, Jesus.'

'Well he's not going to help you,' said Mac stretching a
hand out towards Barry's shirtfront.

* * * *

Hospitals set me off. Too many bad memories. The
familiar smells, the disinfectant, the industrial floor-polish; they all just
stick painful pins in me. I walked to the front desk and took directions from a
sister called Agnes who had hair like a crash-helmet, there was a tin of
lacquer somewhere sitting empty that was to blame. Still, she smiled widely
enough and that was something to be grateful for in Edinburgh these days.

I followed the signs to Danny Murray's ward and hoped I
wasn't going to be greeted with too much of an eyesore. Shakey had a reputation
for being thorough. It was just Danny's bad luck that he was the one who had
been sent to find Barry — but then the Romans would have killed the messenger
so maybe his luck was in.

The ward was split into a series of private rooms,
almost cell-like; he must have loved that. I turned the handle and went in.

'Hello, Danny,' I said.

He looked at the brown paper bag in my hand. 'I hope
that's wet.'

'Grapes, actually.'

He looked away. I spotted the monitor at his bedside and
the drip attached to his hand. His head was bandaged tightly but there was
little or nothing the medical staff could do with the bruising and cuts on his
face.

I pulled out a chair as Danny directed the remote
control to the small television in the corner. Jeremy Brett as Holmes faded to
black on the screen.

There was an uneasy silence for a moment or two and then
Danny spoke, 'What are you doing here?'

I sighed. 'What are any of us doing here, mate?'

He shook his head. 'Bloody riddles.'

I offered the grapes, they were refused. I placed the
bag on the bedside table. 'I thought you'd like to know that I found Barry ...
like you asked.'

He huffed. 'Fat lot of good it's going to do me now.'

The plastic chair was stiff, I eased my back further
into it. 'Fat lot it was going to do you in any case.'

He turned, a wince crossed his face. 'What the hell are
you on about, Dury?'

'You didn't want Barry, or should I say Shakey didn't
want Barry ... it was what he had you were after.'

Danny looked away, held firm.

I leaned forward a little, lowered my voice. 'The job,
Danny, you were after the details of the job.'

He turned to face me. 'And?'

I grinned all over him. 'Don't worry, I have all the
details for you.' I fished in my pocket for the piece of paper where I'd
written down the particulars of a horse trader called McCarthy with a property
in the wilds of Midlothian.

Danny pressed himself forward in the bed, the stiff
white linen creased. 'They're turning over a fucking stables, are you kidding
me?'

I shook my head. 'McCarthy sells all over the place, it's
all cash too, they reckon he's holding three-quarters of a mill' at any one
time.'

A pained smile crossed Danny's face, 'Aye, bet he's
selling to all those bloody Irish tinkers!' He leaned towards the bedside
cabinet and retrieved his mobi. 'Christ, Shakey will love this ... hates horsey
types at the best. All those fucking wax jackets and wellies ...'

I let him dial the number and headed for the door.

At the jamb I turned. 'Put in a good word for Barry, eh.'

Danny nodded, then started to tell his tale.

* * * *

It was getting dark when I jumped off the number
26 on London Road. A black lab shook itself and showered me with the water on
its coat. It was that time of night when people started to rush about. The end
of the day. Time to be home. You could be jostled, elbowed, knocked on your
arse if you weren't careful. I trudged into the Booze and News store and picked
up a copy of The Hootsman; there would be nothing in it but old habits die
hard.