Long Time Dead

Chapter 3

THANK CHRIST IT WAS SUMMERTIME – the place was as cold as a witch’s tit. For luxury apartment in Edinburgh, read: flung-up-in-five-minutes new-build. Bit of a view. Maybe some chrome on the balcony. If the estate agents were being honest they’d describe it as fucking shonky. Might make reference to plasterboard walls so thin you can hear your neighbours taking a piss and maybe a wanky Shaker-style kitchen from Ikea that’s the latest must-have on the ideal home front. If I’d seen one of these low-on-style, soulless shitholes, I’d seen a hundred. They were, as a whole, the boldest metaphor for what this city of ersatz culture had become. The architectural equivalent of gonorrhoea, only spreading faster among the Pinot Grigio-drinking smart set. Trendy yuppies – can’t get enough of them.

I’d kipped at Hod’s gaff before, been a guest more times than I cared to remember… but never once did it look like this. As we entered the hallway my Docs clumped heavily on the exposed floorboards. I say boards – can you call chipboard slabs floorboards? The walls were bare, the light fittings had been removed, the one concession to homeliness was a cheapo Argos slim phone, sitting disconsolately on the ground with its cord twisted and kinked into all angles.

Hod held schtum, closed the door behind us and motioned me to the living room. The carpets had been lifted in here too, every stick of furniture had been removed. On the wall where the plasma had hung was no more than a depressing oblong outline that looked as though it had been drawn in charcoal on the wallpaper. Hod caught me staring open-mouthed and turned away. He took off his jacket and flung it on the fireplace. The fireplace had once been in the wall; now it was on the floor, no doubt on its way to the car boot sale.

‘Hod, what the fuck has happened here?’ I said.

He stalled. ‘Want a coffee?’

‘Do you even have coffee?’

‘Erm… actually, no.’

Hod walked the long steps to the kitchen door, opened it, pointed in. The kitchen had been stripped.

‘Where’s your kitchen, man?’

He put his hands behind his head, ruffled his hair a bit then threw them up with a great exhalation of breath. ‘Gone to the yard.’

‘Come again?’

‘Flogged it… Was Italian marble – needed the wonga.’

I felt my hand rising to my forehead, don’t know why; is it the universal symbol for disbelief? Hod had been the one safe port in my stormy existence. He was successful in a way most people can only dream of. He was stable. Sorted. Had a Nectar card, for Chrissake. This was off the scale.

I walked towards him. ‘Hod, mate, time to spill the beans.’

That sigh again. Huge chestful of air departed. ‘I got into a bit of a rut there with the pub…’

This I did not want to hear. The Holy Wall had been bequeathed to me by our mutual friend Col. With all the business acumen of Del Boy I’d promptly set about running it into the ground… Then Hod had stepped in.

‘I knew I should never have let you buy me out-’

Hod sparked up, ‘It’s not what you think. It’s, well, finances were stretched across the whole business.’

‘Bedsitland by the Sea… Thought the student digs were doing all right.’

‘Were… look, the long and short of it is I ran out of credit with the bank and…’

I saw where this was going. ‘Went to Shaky.’

‘No, no… not really.’

This was promising. Maybe he might get to keep one hand; a few fingers, anyway. ‘Go on.’

‘I went on a bit of a spree. Actually, went a bit high-roller for a while there.’

‘Shaky doesn’t touch casinos. How did he get in the picture?’

Hod’s head fell back, landing on the jamb of the door. He looked out towards the Forth. ‘It’s a bad debt. Shaky buys bad debts… Willie Gallagher from the casino sold Shaky my debt.’

‘The cunt.’

‘Oh, aye… he’s that.’

‘Did he not give you any time to pay?’

Hod raised palms. ‘Few weeks, days… Everyone’s short of poppy, need to get cash flows moving. Can’t blame him for that.’

‘But Shaky. Fucksake, Hod, man’s a mad bastard.’

Got a soul-deep stare, ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

I dug in my pocket for my smokes, lit up. Kip of the place, didn’t think there was any need to ask first. ‘So you’ve sold all your stuff?’

Nods. ‘Everything… pub’s gone too.’

That was a belt; Col would be spinning in his grave. ‘What about the flat?’

He reached into a cardboard box at his feet, pulled out a stack of letters from the bank, all printed in red. ‘Already started repossession proceedings. Matter of time before the locks are changed and I’m flung out.’

This was not good. It was hard to see a man of Hod’s stature felled like this. I had come to rely on him as one of the few constants in my life. Hod was the man I could have been if I’d got my shit together. Held down a job. Held on to my marriage. Holy fuck, I was hurting for him. I needed a drink, more than ever.

‘I’ve got to whet my thrapple, mate… Been too long on the dry bus.’

Hod arked up, ‘Are you off yer nut?’

‘Whoa-whoa…’ was I the one up to my sack in shit here? Well, yes, but that wasn’t stopping me playing the heavy hand. I needed a drink desperately now. ‘I’ll take no lectures from Porty’s answer to Stig of the fucking Dump.’

He marched over to the other side of the room, dragged out another cardboard box. It was full of cartons of UHT milk and packets of Complan, the build-up drink. ‘This is all you’ll be drinking, Gus!’ He picked up the box, started ripping into the contents.

‘Complan… What the…? Are you serious?’

‘Need to build you up, Gus, it’s part of the plan!’

‘What fucking plan?’ I wasn’t having this. I didn’t want any more looking after. I’d had enough of that from Debs, and look how that had ended – her walking out, leaving me nothing, not even the dog. The thought stung, but I knew she was better off without me.

‘Here, look, it’s strawberry. Who doesn’t like strawberry milk-shake? Get it down you, come on… You’ll be well on the mend after a few of these shakes.’

‘Hod, I have enough shakes as it is!’ I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘Have you no Grouse?’

He walked forward, thrust the glass tumbler into my hand. ‘Drink!’

‘No!’

‘Do I have to hold your nose and pour it down your throat?’

‘You could fucking try…’

He did.

Hod’s strength seemed superhuman to me; I couldn’t even muster a struggle. When my pathetic put-up was over, I had a frothy mouthful of milkshake left, which I spat at him. Didn’t have the power to put any force in it, though: the lot leapt in a low arc for a millisecond before landing on my shirtfront.

Hod laughed. ‘That’s piss weak, Dury.’

‘Fuck off.’ Pink bubbles came out my nostrils.

He went off again: ‘Piss weak…’

I pulled myself together, tried to land a punch on his arm but my wrist collapsed behind my fist and I ended up shrieking like a schoolgirl, shaking out the pain of it. ‘Ahh, Christ.’

‘Look, cool the beans, Gus. I have a plan.’

This I did not want to hear. All Hod’s plans, with few exceptions, had seen me setting up shop on Shit Street. They invariably involved broken bones, time inside, and a bundle of regrets.

‘I don’t want to hear it.’

‘Shut up.’ He strolled out the room, returned with a manila envelope. There seemed to be something bulky inside.

‘I hope that’s dosh.’

Wide smiles. ‘Good as!’ He chucked me the envelope.

As I ripped into the contents, I couldn’t believe what he had handed me.

‘Tell me this is a joke.’

‘Joke?’ Hod crossed his brows. ‘Fuck no… this is our only hope.’

I put my hand in the envelope and took out one of the small white cards that read, Gus Dury, Private Investigator. I put it back, said, ‘You have to be kidding.’

‘No way. This is primo.’

I held up the cards. ‘Hod, tell me, how many packets of Bazooka Joes did you need to save for these?’

He looked wounded, stood rolling on the balls of his feet. ‘I thought they would help with the case… y’know, the actress, Gillian Laird. She’s paying top poppy, I thought-’

‘No, Hod, you didn’t fucking think… My days of running after rainbows are well and truly over. Check the nick of me – I’m done, Hod. And that’s my final word on it… Done.’