Gutted

Chapter 40

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.