Tony Black - Long Time Dead

‘Right, Joey Boy… you and me are gonna have a bit of a chat here.’

He fidgeted in his chair; the castors beneath him squeaked. He held schtum. Gave him this: he had marbles, knew when to keep his trap shut. There was nothing he could come up with that was going to dig him out with me. I had him pegged as up to his nuts in Ben Laird’s death and I wasn’t letting up on him. The sheer look of this streak of piss was enough to have me gantin’ for his scalp; fact I had him on the back foot was all a bonus.

I eased back – felt like a leopard with a gazelle – ready to cane some big-time arse. ‘Yeah, make yourself comfortable, Joey… I’ll be taking my time here.’

He got jumpy, arked up, ‘Look, I have plenty to be getting on with… without this.’

I laughed in his face. ‘Trust me, laddo, you’ll have fuck all else to be getting on with for the foreseeable.’ I put the bead on him. Caught his eye; my own was steel, but he blinked and looked away to the bookshelves. Thought to tell him there were no answers there for him; he could keep his learning. Way I was playing it, there was no Dummies guide could help him. I kept it zipped, though, let him squirm a bit, wonder what in the name of fuck I was playing at.

I strolled over to the window, stared out, removed a pack of Rothmans and sparked up. ‘Quite a spot you have here,’ I said. I turned head in time to see Calder shrug. Of course he had no idea how nice a spot this was, he’d known nothing else; slogging in a call centre or wheeling tyres at Kwik Fit wasn’t ever on the cards for this arsewipe. I drew deep on my tab, felt a heavy craving for something a bit stronger. My throat constricted with every twinge of desire. I was suddenly in the ballpark of hallucinations; don’t know where the feeling came from but it welled up in me, sent tremors through my bones. I wanted to shake myself, step outside my body, but there was nowhere to run. I was trapped. My hands started to tremble. I took a nervous glance at Calder – he was staring at his shoes, had seen nothing. The moment had passed off without incident, but I knew there was going to be a time when I wouldn’t be so lucky.

I spat, ‘Is this fucking office dry or what?’

‘I don’t… you mean alcohol?’

‘What do you think? The middle classes not offer their guests a drop?’

He raised himself from the creaky chair, crossed the rugged boards to a little wooden cabinet. ‘I actually don’t drink myself.’

Great surprise indeed. ‘Yeah, well, I do.’

That got me a glower. The balls on him.

The bottle of Glenfiddich was a fair age – had seen the logo updated at least once since it was last on the shelves – but it was still three-quarters full. He poured out two fingers’ worth… Felt the frown creeping up my face. ‘Jesus, wet the glass, would you!’

He poured in some more, smirked. If he thought this was the moral high ground he’d been clambering for, he was sorely mistaken. I was here to talk about a young lad’s death… not my predilections and peccadilloes.

I grabbed the glass, said, ‘Cop on, Joey… it’s not me on trial.’

‘I don’t believe I am either.’

I slugged deep. ‘Yeah well, not yet anyway.’

Pushing past him, I went over to the cabinet and retrieved the bottle to top up my glass. I was a bit overenthusiastic: my hand trembled as the whisky reached the brim and tipped over. I clawed it back, took a good pelt and prodded Louis Bolton back to his chair. He was far too malleable; even in my condition I could see this. There was no way I should be pushing him about so easily. It unsettled me. He was hiding something, deffo. Only the guy’s social skills were so sub- Rain Man that he didn’t know how to conceal it. He was conforming to type: the real world was out there, beyond the quadrangle… not somewhere Joey Boy often set foot. This was either going to be very easy, or next door to impossible. I knew if I pushed this loser too hard that he was going to cave, completely fold on me, and that would be it: no more from him.

The whisky settled my cravings, put my gut back a notch or two on the cement-mixer setting it had adopted earlier. I was functioning. Yep, that was the word, heard it all the time, I was a functioning alcoholic . Only, I knew it. I figured those jakeys on the street didn’t have a scooby the nick they were in; I had that going for me, I had the nous to know I was fucked. F. Scott Fitzgerald described a first-rate intelligence as the ability to keep two seemingly opposed thoughts in your head at the same time; never really sussed what he meant, until now. By God, I knew there were conflicting emotions and thoughts flying around inside me: I had the case to be getting on with, Hod to be dragged from the shit, and my insides crying to be put out of their misery, finished off… and, also in the pot, the deep knowledge that something wasn’t right here. That there were people, people I didn’t like much, covering up.

I had no pretensions to a first-rate intelligence as Fitzgerald described it – fuck, if I did, I wouldn’t be in this kip – but I knew where he was coming from. I screwed the nut, tight.

‘Okay, Joe, let’s start in the low gears, eh?’

His eyes widened. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand.’

‘I think the phrase is… take it from the top.’

‘You’re talking about Benjamin.’

I managed a wry smile. ‘That’s right, tell me about the night Ben… died.’

He eased himself back in the chair; the castors squealed out. The noise seemed to unsettle him, forced his palms together. He laced fingers, unlaced them, then wrung his hands out. ‘I wasn’t here, of course.’

‘Of course…’

His eyes came up to meet mine. ‘I mean I don’t live on campus.’

I nodded, trying to appear calm, reassuring. ‘Go on.’

He sighed. ‘There was a call in the night, can’t even remember who it was from… one of the security staff. They said the police were here and wanted to speak to someone.’

I kept my tone calm. ‘That would be you.’

‘Yes, well… someone had to.’

‘Go on.’

‘I came down and there was a phalanx…’ he drew a line in the air, ‘a wall…’

Was on my mind to say I know what a bloody phalanx is , but went with, ‘The police?’

‘Yes, they’d sealed off the route to the Grand Hall.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s where they… found him.’

‘And then… what?’

‘Well, nothing… that was it, really. They told me there’d been a death, they had a name, and I identified him as one of the student body.’

Sounded very clinical, if not perfunctory. Could just be plod jumping to conclusions, looking for a quick wrap-up, but then again, none of this looked good for them… or the uni, the city, anyone. Lifting the carpet and sweeping it all under was never more appealing. Said, ‘No one questioned you?’

Calder looked as though he’d been hit with a brick, ‘Good God, no… Why would they…? What do you mean?’

I finished my drink, reloaded, moved round to the front of the desk, eased myself down. ‘A young lad was found dead… hanging from the rafters. You’d think questions would be asked… of someone.’

He got out of the chair. ‘Are you implying…?’

I wasn’t implying anything. Wondered where the theatrics had sprung from. I pulled it back. ‘Sit down, Joe… we’re only talking here. A boy has died, smack bang in the middle of your manor. I’m guessing you’d like some answers as much as me… as much as his mother.’

The mention of Gillian put some steel in his spine. He found some reserves of cool. ‘Yes, of course… it must be very difficult for the family.’

It seemed a cold thing to say, like it was the first time it had even crossed his mind. ‘The woman has lost a son… she’s finding it a bit more than difficult. She doesn’t think Ben’s hanging was as straightforward as the police and you want to believe… She wants answers.’