Loss Page 2

  I saw Fitz out the corner of my eye gesturing to a chair. I didn’t move and he wheeled it over to me, tried to cajole me to sit. I lowered myself into the stiff, hard-backed, office-issue plastic and tried to regain composure. I looked up towards the ceiling; the strip lights hurt my eyes. Fitz offered me some water. I shook my head, tried to say ‘No’, but it felt as though someone else was in charge of me, my somatic nervous system in the hands of a puppet master.

  There was a moment, a memory sparking:

  I’m about seven or eight, in the school playground and someone has ran up behind me and slapped my ears like a clash of cymbals. My hearing’s distorted, like being underwater but I’m not, I know where I am. There’s kids everywhere laughing. I’ve seen this happen before, it’s been a craze around the school, slapping ears and watching. I strike out, there’s a face to hand and I feel my knuckle hit bone. We fight, roll about on the ground. I can feel my knees tearing on the tarmac. There’s blood in my mouth from a cut lip. My ears hurt. Everything feels strange to me. Like the world is cruel . . .

  ‘Gus, is there anything . . .?’ I heard Fitz again.

  I found some words: ‘I was just . . .’

  Fitz stared at me but I couldn’t comprehend the expression. He turned to the side, walked out to the water cooler in the hall and filled a cup. He held it out. I watched him but couldn’t take it. He crouched, left it on the floor beside me.

  ‘Gus, I don’t know what to say, it must be an awful shock for ye. I know, I know that.’

  I looked up at him. I hardly recognised the face, my mind was still in the schoolyard. ‘I can see it clear as day, y’know . . . I can actually remember it, where I was, how it felt,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that, son?’

  ‘I could only have been eight at most, I was only young. I’d ripped the knees out my school trousers in a scrap but nobody said a word. Nobody said a thing.’

  I felt Fitz place a hand on my shoulder, ‘I’ll get ye home, Gus. I’ll get a car.’

  ‘It’s the day he was born – Michael – I can remember it as clear as if I was there. I tore the knees out my trousers, but nobody even noticed.’ I started to laugh uncontrollably. The laughter shook me on the chair, I moved up and down with it.

  Fitz left me. ‘I’ll go call a car. Sit tight.’

  I laughed harder. I rocked in the chair, to and fro, the high of a great craic upon me. I was in such mirth I hardly noticed the tears begin to roll down my cheeks. Slowly at first, then faster. I cried for my dead brother, laid before me on a mortuary table. I jumped up. The chair skated behind me on the hard floor as I ran to Michael’s side.

  I clawed back the cloth again. He looked so cold and pale, his lips blue. He wore no expression I’d ever seen on his face before. It hardly seemed like him at all. I touched his hair. It hadn’t changed, sitting high and wavy as he always wore it. I felt my throat convulse, my Adam’s apple rise and fall in quick succession.

  ‘God, Michael, what happened?’ I said. I touched his still, dead face and recoiled at the waxy texture. ‘Why?’

  I saw my tears fall on his face and I wiped them away, straightened myself and felt a breeze of composure blow in. As I looked down at my brother I wanted to lift him up and hold him in my arms, but I knew at once it was futile. This wasn’t Michael. This wasn’t the brother I had grown up with, had fought and argued with, had watched soar far in excess of any pitiful achievement I had attained on this sorry earth. Below me now was merely the vessel that had once held my brother’s spirit. He was gone.

  I pulled the blue-grey cloth over the corpse and stepped back. Leaning onto the table, I felt my breathing return to normal. I wiped at my eyes as I heard the door opening behind me.

  Fitz brought in a cup of coffee. ‘You okay, mate?’ I noticed he avoided eye contact, sparing me the embarrassment of admitting to that crime against manliness – crying.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I took the coffee. ‘Can we get out of here?’

  ‘Sure, I mean, of course.’

  We went through to the adjoining office and I sparked up another Marlboro, offered one to Fitz. The coffee tasted like the standard watered-down office fare, the styrofoam cup giving it the tick of authentic vending machine.

  Fitz spoke: ‘I called in a car. Laurel and Hardy are out at Balerno, a break-in, some bastard’s Christmas ruined.’

  I shot him a glower. ‘I can sympathise.’

  ‘Ah, now, I’m sorry . . . I wasn’t thinking. Look, I’ve called you first, Gus . . . thought you might want to break it to his wife. I’m being a bit fast and loose with the procedure but, well, rules are made to be bent at times like this.’

  I nodded my head. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Okay, as ye say . . . we’ll need to, likes as not, talk to her, ’tis Jayne I believe . . . But we can do that later.’

  I clawed an ashtray from him, flicked the cigarette filter with my thumbnail. ‘What the fuck happened, Fitz?’

  He sipped his coffee, swallowed. ‘Don’t ye be worrying about that now. Get home to Debs and get yerself a bit rest.’

  I shook my head. The very thought set a bomb off in my gut. ‘No chance.’

  Fitz gave a nervous cough into his fist. ‘I’m just suggesting you take it a bit easy for now, till you get over the shock. It’s a terrible, terrible shock you’ve just had, Gus.’

  I stubbed my tab. It was barely smoked past the halfway mark and it snapped in two before I could get the tip extinguished. I left it smouldering, said, ‘Now listen up, Fitz, my brother is lying on a fucking slab because some bastard put a bullet in him – do you think I’m going to go home and make a nice mug of Horlicks, try to get some kip? Fuck that! I’ll be tearing down this shithole of a city till I find who put him there and then . . . then God save them.’

  Fitz showed me his palms, waved me calm. I turned away from him, paced the room. I felt like a caged beast. I was ready to run into the street and start interrogating the first person I put eyes on. My anger was off the dial.

  ‘You have to leave this to the force,’ said Fitz.

  I almost laughed at the suggestion. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  A sigh, followed by a sharp intake of breath: ‘I’m only saying, you can’t go taking matters into your own hands, Dury. That would be . . . counterproductive.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘We want to find his killer . . . Let the investigation run its course.’

  ‘Spare me the corporate speak, eh.’

  Fitz moved behind the desk, picked up the phone to enquire about the car, blasted someone on the switchboard, told them to get their finger out their arse. I watched him put out his tab, extinguish mine too, then take another sip from his hip flask. He looked on edge, nervy. Didn’t want to be asked for any more favours.

  ‘What can you tell me?’ I said.

  He snapped, ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Come on, this is me you’re talking to.’

  ‘You’re a fucking hack, Dury . . . I can’t tell you a bloody thing.’

  I leaned on the desk, hovered over him. ‘Fitz, that’s my brother through there. I know you don’t need reminding of that.’

  He looked away, gnawed on his lower lip.

  I went on, pushed his buttons – ones I knew worked: ‘Fitz, you have family.’

  He drew back his gaze, drumming his fingers on the black folder in front of him. ‘Just what do you want to know?’

  I lowered my tone, kept it businesslike. ‘What have you got?’

  Fitz opened the folder. His face was impassive as he scanned the contents. ‘We have very little to go on; it’s early days.’

  ‘Well, let me know what you have.’

  He spoke slowly: ‘We found him on the Meadows. A single bullet wound. His wallet was empty . . . Looks like a mugging gone wrong.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Who alerted you?’

  He went back to the folder, ‘Anonymous caller.’

 
; ‘Male or female?’

  Another sigh. ‘Male.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . We haven’t even interviewed anyone yet.’

  I wasn’t for easing up any. ‘Do you have the shooter?’

  ‘No, no weapon.’

  ‘Any witness statements, forensics, clues?’

  Fitz slammed the file shut, said, ‘Look, Dury, I know it’s your brother lying there, but I can’t magic up a case-solved stamp out of thin air. We want the killer as much as you.’

  ‘No you don’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No one wants this fucker as much as me, Fitz.’ I started to fasten my Crombie.

  ‘Now where are you going?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Wait for the car, man . . . It’s four-below outside.’

  ‘I need to cool down anyway.’

  ‘You’ll feckin’ freeze, man – are ye mental?’

  There was only one answer to that. I pulled up my collar. Fitz stood as I opened the door. I said, ‘Don’t want you to think I’d try pulling any favours on this, Fitz.’

  ‘Dury . . .’

  ‘No, I gave you your get-out. We’re quits.’

  ‘Dury, would ye ever just listen? Please, man, leave it to us.’

  I put a serious eye on him. ‘My brother’s been murdered, Fitz . . . I’m not letting anyone else settle that score.’

  Chapter 3

  I SET OFF FOR HOME. The snow had started to settle and the streets felt slippy underfoot. I toyed with the idea of a night bus, but I didn’t want to be around anyone else; I wondered how I would react to seeing Debs.

  My brother had a family, a wife and daughter. Just how do you tell a teenage girl her father has been murdered? It would wreck her. They would both want for nothing: Michael had his own business, was set up as they say, but that was little consolation. I looked up the street. Flats above the shops were kitted out with Christmas trees and little fairy lights. A glowing sleigh, waving Santa inside, shone down from a window. I couldn’t look at it.

  The snow grew heavier, great mounds of it gathering on the street. I started to shiver. Felt the quarter-bottle of Grouse in my pocket. It hung there like an invitation to an alternative Christmas. Go on, down it! Block out the whole lot, wake up some other time. Sometime when the hurt has passed.

  I held the bottleneck tight, knew I had more reason than ever to stay sober.

  Memories of my brother flashed into my mind, but I tried to drown them. There would be a time to remember him, but now wasn’t it. Now was the time to stay focused, to keep my thoughts straight. A roar was building in the pit of my gut that would see me through, but as I reached my own doorstep my heartbeat ramped.

  I got inside the flat and kicked the snow off my Docs, brushing the sleeves of my jacket. My hands felt numb with cold as I fitted the key on its hook. The dog jumped up, clawed at me.

  ‘Get down, boy . . . come on, calm down.’

  Debs spoke: ‘He’s been sitting at that door like Greyfriars Bobby since you left.’ She was in her dressing gown; I guessed she had been since I left.

  ‘You stayed up.’

  She came towards me, leaned on the wall. ‘I didn’t know if I was going to have to come down and bail you out or what.’

  ‘No danger of that.’ I brushed past her, went to hang up my Crombie.

  ‘Gus . . . what’s up?’

  ‘Go back to bed . . . You’ll be wrecked in the morning.’

  She followed me through to the living room. ‘I won’t get any sleep after that call. What’s going on?’

  I moved to the kitchenette, opened the fridge, took out a can of Coke. ‘You better go and sit down.’

  I kept my voice calm, laid it all out. Debs took the news as I expected; I put my arms round her as she started to sob. ‘Gus, I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . . I was thinking the worst, but not this.’

  I knew what she meant. She’d thought I was in trouble with the police again – we were still at a fragile stage in our reconciliation. I said, ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘I only saw Jayne and Alice last week . . . Gus, they’ll be in bits.’

  ‘I know.’

  She pushed away. ‘Your mother, Gus . . . Oh my God, what about her?’

  I felt a kick to my heart at the thought of more pain for my mother, after all she’d been through; it didn’t seem so long since my father’s death. I tried to calm Debs down, stroked her hair, made her take a seat; she only started to sob harder. I went into the bedroom to grab some tissues. She said, ‘I just can’t believe this. I mean, why? It just doesn’t make sense. What did the police say?’

  I tutted. ‘Mugging . . . it’s the default solution. And utter shite.’

  Debs scrunched up the tissue, I went to get her another. When I returned she looked puzzled. ‘What the hell was he doing in the Meadows at night?’

  I stood up, turned away from her. I didn’t want Debs to see the anger I felt rising on my face.

  ‘Gus . . .’

  ‘There’s a lot of unanswered questions.’ I turned round, caught her look of utter stupefaction, her mouth twisted on the verge of tears once more. I knelt down before her, said, ‘Someone must’ve had a reason to put that bullet into Michael.’

  I wanted her to throw her arms around me, show me support, but she didn’t. Debs jumped out of the chair and let out a wail: ‘No. No. That’s not what I want to hear. No, Gus . . .’ I watched her eyes light up, their whites huge above the redness caused by her tears. ‘You promised me there’d be no more of this.’

  ‘Debs . . .’

  She was hysterical, ranting, screaming at me, ‘I’m not going to watch you get yourself killed too!’

  ‘Debs . . .’

  ‘No . . . you promised!’ She lowered her head and held her face in her hands.

  I touched the back of her neck. She cut my hand away.

  The intensity of Debs’s reaction wasn’t unexpected. I knew where she was coming from, sympathised even. The last thing I wanted was for this to come between us, but then I didn’t want any of this.

  In recent months I had found a route back to normality, something Michael always managed to locate with little or no effort. I didn’t want to lose it, though I felt my new-found happiness starting to buckle now. Debs had got up early and locked herself in the bathroom. I heard her snivelling inside, but left her be. I wanted her to understand I couldn’t just let my brother’s murder go, but now wasn’t the time to tell her.

  I tweaked the dog’s ear, then put on my Crombie. The car keys hung by the door. The rank smell in the stair had got worse – I held my breath again on the way down. Outside the street looked whitewashed by snow. It was too early for footprints, or to see the roads turned to slush. Everywhere lay silent and still beneath the pure-white blanket. I felt the cold seize me, go for my chest. I fastened my coat and raised the collar.

  As I trudged down towards the car the grey sky suddenly turned to a black mass. A vast group of starlings swirled into view, cutting treacherous angles as they darted in first one, then another direction. I watched the darkness form and dissemble then re-form again. Nature amazed me; I felt sure I was of its lowest order.

  The windscreen of Debs’s Punto was frozen over. I cleared it with the scraper, but then the engine refused to turn over. Automatic choke chugged a bit; when it bit, the tyres spun on the road. I dropped into second to give more traction to the hill start. Got a break at the lights and took a steady pace on the quiet roads all the way to the Grange.

  My brother and his family stayed in Edinburgh’s millionaires’ row. A house round here was said to have set you back the best part of three mill until recently. After the banks crashed and demand plummeted, it wiped a third off the valuation. As I reached their home, I checked for any signs of movement. I rolled down the car window and sparked up a Marlboro. Got about two drags in when I saw a bloke appear from round the side of the house, dragging a wheelie bin behind him. He looked about six-two, early
twenties, with a shaved head and broad shoulders. He clocked me sitting in the motor and frowned. I got out.

  ‘I can help you?’ He had an Eastern European accent. We had so many in the city now that it was hardly worth noting.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  I nodded to the house. ‘That’s my brother’s place . . . What are you doing there?’

  He scrunched his brow at me and turned away. I followed him up the path, saw he had a bit of a limp. He turned back to look at me twice in quick succession before he speeded to a hop, got to the gate and slammed it behind him.

  I tried the handle – it held fast. ‘Hey, open up.’ I banged on the gate, yelled at him, ‘Get back here.’

  As I stared through the slats, Jayne appeared in her dressing gown. She hovered on the back step for a moment, then bawled: ‘Who’s there?’

  I set her right: ‘Jayne . . . Jayne. It’s me – Gus.’

  She dipped her head, ran down the path and opened the gate. ‘Gus, what are you doing here?’

  Now I wondered if I should have left this to Fitz, fought the urge to hug her, smiled. ‘I think we should go inside.’

  The kitchen was vast. A huge oak table in the corner overflowed with plates and cups. The stranger was emptying the dishwasher. I squinted, nodded in his direction.

  Jayne said, ‘That’s Vilem . . . He’s our lodger.’

  The bloke barely acknowledged me, save a slight once-over in my direction. His manner noised me up. ‘You’ve got a lodger . . . Since when?’

  Jayne sat down at the table, took a cigarette from a pack of Consulate menthols, lit it. She hadn’t smoked for years, since Alice was born. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, these are straitened times, Gus.’

  Sitting in this house, in this area, it was the last thing I expected to hear. Vilem clattered the dishwasher closed, flicked a switch and gave me one more long stare before limping out the door. I kept my tone low. ‘A lodger, Jayne. Are you in that much strife?’