Tony Black - Loss

‘Chuck a right here,’ I said.

‘Where to?’ said Hod. ‘Not going to the swan pond, are you?’

‘Fettes.’

Mac jumped in, ‘You going to just walk into the nick with that?’

‘If I give Fitz the choice he’ll only sit on this, play silly buggers… I’m putting it in his hand.’

‘He’s right,’ said Hod. ‘Better not hang on to it.’

I looked into the bag — it was all there. Did I have the necessary to drop my brother’s killer? I knew this was going to bring some action on that front, said, ‘There’s no knowing where things’ll go from here, but Radek’s not going to sit about waiting for a knock from plod. I need to get Fitz moving right away.’

Hod floored it past the Palace of Holyroodhouse, gave his usual one-digit salute to Her Majesty: it was policy. He looked hyped after our result, feeding the wheel quickly, pumping the pedal, and singing, ‘My moustache brings all the girls to the yard, damn right!’

Mac laughed it up. I tried to, but I was still focused on the events ahead. My head was so full of how this might play it felt as if a blow-torch was burning behind my eyes. A siren roared up ahead of us and my jaw firmed. I scanned the road but it was only a paramedic van, racing off to some half-jaked reveller, no doubt.

When we reached Fettes Hod slowed down, stayed within the speed limits. We pulled off Carrington Road onto Fettes Avenue. Outside the nick my hands began to tremble. My mouth was dry and I tasted blood where I’d been worrying my inflamed gums with the tip of my tongue. I needed the police to take this over now, I knew I couldn’t play the Undertaker off the Czechs and stay above the ground for much longer. If Fitz didn’t go for this right away, I didn’t want to think about what came next.

‘You all right?’ said Hod.

‘Aye, aye,’ I snapped back, ‘… fine.’

I got out the truck, closed the door. Mac rolled down the window. ‘Good luck, mate.’

‘Cheers,’ I said. I waved him away. ‘Stay off that ankle.’

I watched them pull out and drive up the road. Hod gave two quick blasts on the horn as they went. I turned to face the station. I held the bag with the gun in one hand and my quarter-bottle of Grouse in the other. I felt the remains of the worn label flaking off under my nails as I went. I was sorely tempted to take a pelt on the scoosh, just one to settle my nerves — I fought it off. I needed to keep it together, more than ever.

At the door I shook myself, took a deep breath and went in.

It was the same dour eyesore of a receptionist. ‘Yes?’ she said.

‘I’d like to see Fitzsimmons.’

She sighed, picked up the phone and directed a chipped red fingernail towards the buttons. She seemed to know who I was. ‘Yes, he’s at the front desk.’ She raised a biro, tapped it on the counter. ‘Okay, I’ll tell him.’

As she replaced the receiver I waited for her response. None came.

‘Well?’ I said.

She gazed up at me, put a lazy eye to work. ‘He’s on the way down.’ She looked through me, indicated the row of plastic chairs beneath the crime awareness posters.

I said, ‘Thank you.’

When Fitz appeared he was eating a sausage roll from a Greggs paper bag; as he shook my hand his fingers felt greasy. He nodded to the room behind the reception desk, lifted the counter and I squeezed past him. As I went, I noticed he had ketchup on his top lip.

We sat down and Fitz scrunched the Greggs bag, took out a white handkerchief and wiped his mouth. ‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure?’ He looked at the sauce on the hankie and cursed.

I handed over the carrier. The gun made a thud on the desk. Fitz glared at me over the bag; for a moment he didn’t move. Slowly, he reached over and looked inside. When he saw the gun he spoke: ‘What the feck is this?’

I played it low-key. ‘I think it’s a murder weapon.’

He closed the bag, ran the back of his fingers over his mouth. He said nothing more for a few seconds, returned to the carrier, peered in and hooked the gun on the end of a pencil. ‘All bagged up?’

‘That’s right.’

He placed the gun on the table. His eyes seemed to have trouble leaving it there. ‘And what’s the rest?’

‘Passports… paperwork.’

I explained as briefly as possible, told him where they came from and that he needed to get Radek hoicked in quickly. Fitz hunched his shoulders and shook his head. He was having difficulty with this turn of events; I’d thought he might.

‘And what do ye expect me to do with this lot?’ he said. ‘Eh, tell me that, Dury… There’s no court in the land would look at it now, the way ye came by it.’

‘What, you haven’t bent the rules before, Fitz?’

He leaned forward, then back again. He seemed to be unsure of his next play. ‘Okay, so… I’ll run it through the boffins.’ He tapped the desk with his forefinger. ‘But I won’t be able to act on it, Dury.’

I stood up. There was ice in my veins. ‘I will. Just tell me who fired the gun, Fitz… And leave the justice to me.’

It was Christmas eve. It didn’t feel like it. I woke in a cold, empty flat. The space where Debs had lain beside me for months was empty. I reached out, touched the other side of the bed; it was as if no one had ever been there. The night before I had tried to fill the gap she’d left by putting her pillow at my back, but I’d removed it — didn’t want to wake up and think she was still there, face yet more disappointment.

I stared at the ceiling, heard movement upstairs. They had a kid that was running around, laughing. She would be excited at the thought of Santa coming later on; it made me think of Michael at that age. I remembered bawling him out then, telling him to shut up as he went on and on about Star Wars figures and whether he’d be getting a Boba Fett or a Gamorrean Guard in his stocking.

The memory was too painful; I tried to replay it the way I would like to have remembered it. I spoke kindly to my younger brother, said there might even be a Millennium Falcon coming his way, but it didn’t work. Any thoughts I held of him, real or otherwise, were now too raw to confront.

I dragged myself up, went through to the bathroom. The flat seemed desolate without the dog running around, wagging his tail, barking at any movement coming from the stairwell. I turned on the taps and the pipes rattled, a thin trickle of water made its way into the sink. I put my hands under and jerked them away — it felt frozen.

I tried to shave with the knock-off razors I’d bought from the dodgy newsagent — they cut my face to bits. I didn’t think I’d used a worse blade; they were obviously not the brand they claimed. I scraped the remainder of my coupon and collected more nicks and abrasions. The sink grew smeared with blood. I dropped the razor in the bin and dabbed my wounds with tissue paper.

As I looked in the mirror I was stunned at how low I’d fallen. My eyes were sunken in my head. It seemed as if they’d been planted in the ground, stamped down. My cheeks were hollow and I had crow’s feet that had crept a further half-inch down my face since the last time I’d looked. I hardly recognised myself any more. I drew further to the mirror and took full stock of the damage: more broken blood vessels had appeared in my eyes and my forehead had fixed itself in a frown. Lines spread left to right across my brow and when I stretched my neck they lengthened. I looked beyond rough.

‘The fuck happened to you, boy?’ I said.

I didn’t know myself.

What had I become?

I remembered hearing someone say that ageing brought with it a surrender of dreams, but an understanding and maturity that compensated for it. If I had held any dreams, I had lost them for sure. But where was my compensation? I was more confused by life than I’d ever been. As I looked at the man I’d become I wanted my understanding. I dipped my head. ‘I want my peace.’