Tony Black - Gutted

I couldn’t stop my guts heaving. I’d more in the tank, copped for a barf. It sprayed my Docs. I put my hand to my mouth, but the smell of blood caused another burst. I chucked and chucked until I was left dry-retching. The dog whined and clawed at me.

As I straightened I saw the reporter from the paper arriving. He had a snapper with him who was firing off shots of the scene. Boss Suit had a hand up, but it was all pretence — he looked delighted to have his picture taken.

‘Fucking ponce,’ I muttered.

I stepped into the path down the hill, looked to the road. I could see a set of headlights; turned out to be a Joe Baxi. I knew Mac would be on his way, but I was anxious now for the dog. His breathing had got heavier. He seemed more sluggish. I thought I might be losing him and it punched my heart.

Another set of lights, not a cab this time.

It was Mac. I sighed with relief.

‘About fucking time.’ As he pulled in there was no screech of tyres. He even used indicators. I grabbed the door. ‘You know, you could work for Meals on fucking Wheels.’

‘It’s speed cameras all the way down the road.’

‘Towels… where’s the towels… and the water?’

Mac yanked on the handbrake, leaned forward. ‘Holy buggery… What the hell’s happened to you?’

‘Don’t ask?’

‘Is that blood?’

‘No. It’s creosote… Thought I’d do a few fences while I waited.’

Mac’s eyebrows lifted, then shot down. ‘What’s the fucking Hampden roar here, Gus?’

I patted out a towel on the front seat, got in.

‘Gus?’

The dog’s head popped out of my jacket.

Mac screamed, ‘Fuck me! What’s that?’

‘You never seen a dog before?’

‘Not popping out a man’s chest like fucking John Hurt in Alien I haven’t, no!’

I pushed the dog’s head back under my jacket. ‘Mac, you realise it’s probably not got long to live.’

That registered, a wince stretching out his half-Chelsea smile. Now he gunned it. Tyre-screeching, the lot.

I smacked my brow with the heel of my hand, tried to get into gear. ‘You’ll have to take him to the Vet School, they do emergency cases.’

‘Aye, okay. I’m on it, eh.’

The dog wouldn’t take the water. His head lolled from side to side, his eyes were slits. ‘Better fucking nash, Mac.’

My guts started to churn again with the motion of the car.

‘Don’t you be puking in my motor.’

The stench of blood in the confined space hit me. ‘I feel rough.’

Mac opened the windows. ‘I’ll drop you at the pub… You’re in no state to be seen out anyway.’

Like I could argue with that.

The streets were empty of traffic; we got there in no time. I placed the dog on the seat I’d vacated. He yelped, had a fit of panting then looked up at me. I placed a hand gently on his head, said, ‘Good luck, fella.’

Mac didn’t hang about, tore away leaving tyre marks on the street. I felt better in the open air again. My legs were rubber but I was used to that; could have done with a large one to settle me down.

A jakey was sleeping in the doorway of the Wall. I lifted his collar, told him, ‘Do one.’

Grunts, bit of a grumble. Think I woke him. Asked, ‘Do you need a kick in the arse as well?’

He got the message. Stumbled off, good few bottles of White Lightning rattling around inside him.

I had to get out of these clothes, get in the shower, ease the bruising and swelling I could feel coming up on my face, the raw knuckles and the rest of it.

First things first, though. I flicked the bar lights on, raised a glass. The nearest to hand was a pint mug. Filled it to nearly halfway with Johnnie Walker. The taste came to me like a recurring dream. People watch me at the scoosh and say, ‘You take that like tea.’ They’re wrong, of course: I don’t take tea. Lately, I don’t touch much other than this.

I hit the optic again, swirled a shot in the bottom of the glass. Fired it like a twelve-gauge, then got moving.

I took a few bar towels and nashed through to the gents’ cludgie. The lights blasting off the white tiles stung my eyes, nearly felled me. But it was the smell of rank piss that set my guts heaving.

As I hit the nearest sink I caught sight of my hands. They looked raw as minced meat. I followed the length of my arms, took in my jacket, my shirt. Holy shit: I wore more blood than a slaughterhouse.

The thought of the corpse on the hill rose, and I wanted to get tanked up, immediately. That’s how I do business: problem rears its head — drown it.

I got the gear off, started to fill the sink. My hands trembled. I needed another drink.

I grabbed soap, dooked the bar towels. It was cheap soap, took a while to work up a lather, but we got there. The blood went from black to red as the soap foamed. I dropped the bar in the sink, got to scrubbing. In a minute or two, the blood was merely pink streaks. I pulled the plug, ran my hands under the gushing taps.

Couldn’t say I’d scrubbed up like they do on ER, but I was in the ballpark. I didn’t want dead-guy blood on me; call me picky.

I caught a glance at myself in the mirror. From somewhere, the phrase death warmed up hit me. My skin looked grey, hollows in my cheeks like Peter Cushing. I could see past the fact that I needed a shave, a haircut, some serious dietary attention, but the man before me was someone I didn’t recognise.

‘Who or what the fuck is haunting you, Gus Dury?’

‘Tits up’ might describe my life. What shocked me was the way I seemed to be projecting this to the world.

I touched my face. When did my skin get so leathery? When I was a kid, Clint Eastwood had skin like this. What had happened to me? I didn’t want to look, but something held my gaze where it was.

I had black rings under my eyes. When I was a hack, back in the day, my wife — scrub that, ex-wife, I recently got the papers to prove it — would say I had panda eyes when I worked too late. I wonder what she’d make of these jobs? The predominant colour was red, where it should be white, few specks of yellow creeping in.

‘Quite a look, buddy,’ I said into the mirror. ‘You make touchline Alex Ferguson look a picture of health.’

I turned away. Just as Debs had. We’d tried to patch up our marriage recently, had made a trip to Ireland with high hopes, but my self-destruction had terrified her; she said that she couldn’t watch me ‘doing myself in slowly’. I knew I couldn’t change, but I also knew I couldn’t put Debs through any more hurt. I’d done enough of that.

I lifted my pile of clothes, took them up to my flat and dumped them in the laundry.

I showered, hot as I could take it for near on an hour. Got dressed in a pair of Levi’s, frayed and faded, white T-shirt, and a black cardigan from Markies. Looked like a jazz musician, said, ‘Not nice!’

My problem was footwear. My Docs were wasted, caked in blood and dirt. I was down to an old pair of Converse All Stars. There were holes at the edges. I could hear my mother say, ‘They’ve seen better days.’ I thought, Haven’t we all?

I went back down to the bar, grabbed a pack of B amp;H off the shelf, sparked up. The blue smoke was a comfort. Since the ban, pubs don’t quite have the same appeal, the same… atmosphere.

I took time over a pint of Guinness. Less time over the chaser; it became more of a starter.

I was verging on comfortable — there’s something about a good wash and clean clothes that can make you feel like a new man — when in walked Mac. Straight away, he reminded me I inhabited a world of shit.

‘You all right?’ he said.

‘Och, you know… usual.’

‘Fair to fucked.’

‘Sounds about right… The dog, how’d it go?’