Tony Black - Long Time Dead

‘Gus, Gus, it’s me, Hod!’

A slap across my face. Beads of sweat fell from my fringe. My eyes smarted. I couldn’t breathe. I was panicked, kicking out with my feet, flailing arms like a lunatic.

‘Gus, get a grip!’ Hod roared. His hand on my shoulder shook me into submission. In an instant everything seemed still, becalmed. My vision returned, the room was bright again. I could see the whisky bottle in Hod’s grasp; snatched it up.

I twisted the cap in my mouth and spat it out. My teeth stung but the sweet smell of whisky took away the pain. I felt my dry, dead body coming back to life; at the throat at first, then in my chest and the pit of my stomach. Clarity, a moment like no other. My head began to still. My hands stopped flapping. I began to settle. I could feel my heart beating; it was a strange sensation, otherworldly. But I was alive. And that was something.

Hod helped me up, took me to rest on the window ledge.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘What for?’

That was a stupid question if ever I’d heard one. ‘Look, I know you’re in a bad way here, mate… I’m not saying I’m doing any better – Christ, worse probably – but I’ve got yer back.’

Hod pressed out a weak smile. ‘Thanks.’

He eased himself off the window ledge, took out some papers from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘I got this drawn up.’

Looked like a contract, same lettering as on the cards was on the headed notepaper. Gus Dury, Private Investigator .

‘Oh, Christ.’

‘Gus, we need to do this right. We need to let this Laird woman see we mean business.’

I read the contract; it was a straightforward terms of engagement. He was hitting her for £400 a day, plus expenses.

‘Jesus, aiming high, are you not?’

‘She wants the best… The best charge.’

‘I thought there was a reward?’

‘There is, we have to show her we mean business, though.’ Hod spun on his heels, broke into a trot as he headed for the bedroom. He returned with a large Oxfam bag in his arms. He opened it up, fished out a tweed jacket.

‘Here, get this on.’

‘You’re kidding!’

He shook his head. ‘Do I look like I’m fucking kidding?… I spent my last fifty sheets on this. Put it on, Gus, it’ll help you look the part.’

‘No way! I don’t do tweed!’

‘Why not?’

‘For the same reason I don’t buy Happy Meals – not my style.’

Hod lifted up the jacket, showed me the arms. ‘Get it on, Gus… You’re not going to meet Gillian Laird looking like some washed-up fucking jakey.’

‘Hod, think it’ll take more than a new bit of Harris to pull that off.’

His look of defeat said it all.

THERE ARE SOME PARTS OF the city I feel more comfortable in than others. I like Leith – I’m working class, it’s in the contract. Drop me in the East End, up the Hibs park, even on match day, I can feel at home. But take me to the tourist-thronged Old Town, or the New Town with its wanky style centre, I feel ready to chuck.

We have hills in Edinburgh like you wouldn’t believe. Climb any one of them and you can look down on the shambles of cobbles and spires with something close to wonder. The place looks the dog’s. Pretty, even. But appearances can be deceptive.

‘This it?’

It was one of the Georgian crescents off Palmerston Place, serious-wedge territory. The estate agents needed special sales signs to fit all the Bobby De Niros on.

Hod hoofed it to the front door, clocked the number, checked his little notebook, said, ‘We’ve landed.’

‘Thank Christ.’ The schlep from the bus stop had near ended me. ‘We need to get some wheels, Hod.’

‘Yeah, yeah… Mac has the van. I’ll call him later.’

Mac too, another nutter on the job: could things get any worse? I shuddered to think. Wondered what I was getting myself into. Doorstepping high-profile Scottish acting royalty, a matter of days after the death of a child, didn’t seem any plan I wanted to be part of. Especially dressed in tweed, looking like the fucking Man from the Pru, and with Hod clutching a contract in his mitt. It wasn’t me. None of this gumshoe caper was me. What the fuck was I playing at? I’d been hoyed along on another one of Hod’s hare-brained ideas, buoyed by his enthusiasm, his unremitting optimism that I knew was founded on squat. Zilch. He was up for this because he could think of nothing else. He was mad for it because he was fucking mad. But someone needed to sort him out – someone needed to pull his arse out of the fire. Didn’t look like anyone else was stepping up to the job. Was gonna have to be me.

‘Hod… mate, look, are you sure this is wise?’

‘ Wha’ ?’

‘I mean, she’s not gonna button up the back. She’ll see through us, man.’

He dipped his head, rested his chin on his barrel chest. ‘Gus, trust me.’

That was a laugh – I seemed to remember hearing that a few times before… usually preceding some kind of catastrophe: a door slammed in my face; good kicking; Debs packing a bag.

‘Hod, I just think-’

He slayed that move by pressing the doorbell. Loud theatrical chimes sounded; three, maybe four little dogs yapped behind the glass.

A dark figure loomed, rattling keys.

Hod spoke: ‘Remember, Gus, I need this… we need this.’

Did I need reminding?

‘Shut the fuck up, eh.’

The door edged an inch, caught on a chain, closed again.

‘Seriously, Gus… screw the nut. Now .’

As the door opened a ginger Pomeranian snapped at my ankles, then two other indeterminate bundles followed, barking and generally throwing a shit fit. Felt my ‘please, God’ face forming. Swept it aside. There was a bigger picture here: Shaky’s name had been put up – Hod’s card was marked.

Hod fronted the man in black, grey-haired and stiff-collared. Did people still have butlers these days? Holyfuckingshitballs. I was appalled how the other half lived. A few soap operas, slot in the Big Brother house, all the usual piss and wind generated by Hello! and OK! and suddenly you’re living the Upstairs, Downstairs life. Not for the first time, I wanted to throw.

Hod spoke, ‘Good morning. I’d like to speak with the lady of the house.’

Couldn’t help it, had to laugh. Muttered, ‘Lady of the house…’

Hod slit his eyes at me, put his hands behind his back and squared his stance. ‘Is Gillian Laird at home?’

The suited gadgie turned up an eyebrow, was as close to incitement as I’d seen; screamed derision. I had this little arse-licker pegged as an adept in the art of greasy pole climbing. Would have been a shit-shoveller before ascending the stairs to the big hoose.

He peered down his nose, chipped, ‘And you might be?’

I’d be fucked if I was pandering to this prick.

Easing past Hod, I fronted him. ‘Look, bonny lad, we’re here to speak to the organ grinder, not the monkey. Go and get herself, there’s a good chap.’

That got his goat. His thin lips parted for a moment, revealing falsies that needed longer in the Steradent cup. He said, ‘If you don’t have an appointment, I can’t-’

Enough was enough. I dipped into the pocket of the tweed, handed him one of Hod’s newly printed cards. It took all my strength to stop myself posting it in his mush. ‘You might want to tell her this can’t wait.’

Jeeves took the card, made a face as if the poker in his arse had just twitched, then invited us to wait in the corridor.

The dogs followed us in, barking and yapping all to fuck. It hurt my head so much I wanted to put fingers in my ears but they soon lost interest in us, started to calm. Hod was less relaxed. It unsettled me to see him so desperate, so unlike the Hod I knew. He’d always been so confident, so cocksure of himself. It was as though I was watching him dwindle before my eyes.