Wrecked, page 2
‘Let’s talk tomorrow, Gus,’ said Terry.
I put down the phone and flicked off the telly. Was heading for bed when my mobi pinged back at me. It was a text from Hod.
—You up and about?
—Barely. Long day.
—I heard. Just coming back from gym, you about for five?
—Yeah, suppose so. But just five. Shattered.
Fair play to Hod, at least he texted before dropping in, or calling, at the witching hour. That was the difference between friends and bosses. It seemed like I was totting up more complaints about Terry by the day.
The sound of knocking on the door came like a road crew had rocked up. I lunged, swung open the door. ‘Fucksake, you trying to wake up the whole stair?’
‘Too loud?’ said Hod.
‘Worse than Vanessa Feltz’s wardrobe, mate.’ I ushered him in.
‘Shit, I should tone it down.’ He helped himself to a bottle of Beck’s from the fridge. He knew I kept them there, not to drink, but to test my willpower. I figured if I could keep alcohol under my own roof, and still avoid it, then I could keep the demon at bay. At least that was my thinking, I’d tried everything else so I might as well give it a shot. So far, it seemed to be working; I was dry as a pie.
‘I ran into Bruce today,’ said Hod, settling down on my sofa and stretching out his legs, exposing hairy ankles beneath his joggers.
‘Bruce, you mean Windae Willis?’ Bruce was the latest name that had been conferred upon Peter Willis, a former school friend of ours whose first job had been a window cleaner, hence the original tag of Windae Willis. The moniker had worn out at some stage, obviously after the release of Die Hard, and he’d been called Bruce ever since.
‘The very same,’ said Hod, sucking down the Beck’s.
‘And?…I mean, I’m sure there’s a reason for you coming round after midnight, other than to raid my fridge.’
He sat up, ‘Yeah. He was asking about you, he wanted to know if you were still, y’know, in the biz?’
‘You know I’m not.’
‘Well, I know you’re sick of Terry and June.’
‘Jayne. Though it’s a fair match on other fronts.’
‘So, are you?’
I started to feel a little more awake than I had five minutes ago. Perhaps it had something to do with putting two and two together on Hod. I’d known him for years, and he was a big-time adrenaline junkie. What really got Hod excited, more than anything else, was tagging along on my jobs. Officially, he liked to claim he was there to assist but the real reason was that he liked nothing more than a good pagger.
‘What the hell are you up to, Hod?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You can’t kid a kidder. C’mon, what’s Bruce been saying to you?’
Hod put down his beer and laced his fingers together in front of him, it looked like he was constructing a point to focus his thoughts on. ‘Well, I don’t hear from Bruce that often, as you know.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘So, it was a bit of a shock to see him waiting for me outside the gym. I never even recognised him, he had to clothesline me to get my attention.’
‘He turned up at the gym?’
‘Yeah. I mean, he obviously knew he’d get me there. Said he’d seen me going in and out a few times, he lives down in Newhaven, at the new flats on the shore.’
I didn’t know where Hod was going, but I had a few alarm bells ringing. ‘Okay. So what did he want?’
Hod unclasped his fingers and sat back in the sofa, ‘Well, he said he’d given your name to a friend of his who was looking for someone like you.’
‘Wait a minute. Would this be a car dealer down at Newhaven by any chance?’
Hod reached for his beer, ‘No idea, he never said.’
I watched Hod fire down the remainder of the Beck’s and sink further into the sofa. ‘Don’t get comfortable,’ I stood up, fully aware of the purpose of Hod’s visit now. ‘I’m about to crash out, gonna hit the hay.’
Hod rose to face me. ‘So, are you back in action? Because if so…’
‘No, mate. I’m not back in action. I have a job already. And to be honest, after your previous sojourns into the role you’d be the last man I’d be asking to ride point.’
‘Oh, come on. That’s unfair.’
‘Is it? Do I list the arrests? The floggings? The misadventures? Or, how about, the seedy run-ins with gangsters, multiple thugs, hot-heads, men with guns! The list goes on, Hod, you’re a walking disaster and about as useful a wingman as fucking Cheech is to Chong.’
‘Okay, no worries.’ He moved for the door.
I was surprised how well my talk had went, but maybe I’d gone too far. ‘You mean that’s it? No put up? No argument? Just, “Okay”?’
‘Gus, I think we both know we’re getting a little too old for this racket. You’re probably right, we should avoid all excitement at our age.’
I laughed him up. ‘Yeah, and reverse psychology won’t work either, mate.’
‘As you say, Gus.’
‘Don’t wind me up, Hod. I’m not falling for your Jedi mind tricks…’
‘I know. And I’m in full agreement.’ He opened the door, walked into the stairwell and turned round, raising his index finger towards the ceiling. ‘Gus, sorry to have bothered you, I’ll let you get some sleep.’
He’d overdone it now, said, ‘Fuck off.’
‘I’m going.’
‘And, I’m not taking on a job, even if it’s for a friend of Bruce’s.’
‘I hear you.’
‘I mean it. Get going.’
‘I’m gone already.’
I slammed the door behind him, but could still hear Hod mumbling to himself as he headed down the hall towards the front door.
I’m eight, no more.
I know that because I can hear my baby brother crying.
My mam is crying too, sobbing. I know it’s worse than that, though. The sobbing hides the screams she’s trying to hold back, hold inside her. There’s fear there too, I can feel it inside me as well.
I’m on my knees in the back garden. It’s a nice day, sunny. The sky’s a shade of blue I hardly recognise, it’s the colour of holiday brochures and cowboy films from America. The sky looks strange above my head, like it doesn’t belong, doesn’t go with the sounds of crying and screaming and the intimidating bellow of my father’s voice.
‘Give me it!’ he yells. ‘Hand it fucking over or I won’t be responsible for my actions.’
He always says that. But it doesn’t mean anything. Even at eight I know what he’s responsible for.
I start to dig in the ground with my fingers. My nails break the hard-packed soil after a while but it’s brittle and dry. My fingertips get sore, the earth pushes its way under my nails and soon they start to bleed. The pain becomes unbearable but I can’t stop.
‘What have you done with it?’ I hear my father yell again. His voice is growing frantic. I know when he gets like that it cannot last. Someone always gets in the way of his anger, sacrifices themselves for the rest of us.
‘I’ll fucking hammer you!’ He strikes my mother and she screams alongside my brother Michael, the babe in her arms.
I stop digging and freeze. For a moment I can’t draw breath, my heart beats so hard I can feel it in my chest and I think it will soon jump out of my mouth and into the hole below.
I look down. My pathetic scratchings have barely moved the topsoil. I reach down for the jam jar full of pennies beside my handiwork. The pennies are for the baby’s christening, it’s all mam has talked about since she came home from the hospital with the baby. And now he wants those pennies for drink.
‘Run, Angus!’ I hear my mum, she’s nearer, I turn and see her at the backdoor. My father is pushing past her, a great scowl cutting his brows like a battle wound.
‘Stay put!’ he tells me, his voice so full of threat I can hardly move. But, I do.
I turn from him, back to the ground, and snatch up the pennies. They feel cold inside their glass shell but my hot hands throb around them. For a moment I wonder what to do, do I run for the gate? Do I try to make it over the wall?
‘Gus…’ he shouts, I know he senses my desire to run. I clasp the pennies tighter, hide them under my jumper.
‘Gus…’ I hear his steps now. I know if I run I will save the pennies for Michael’s christening but I also know he will take it out on Mam and the others.
‘Gus…’ I hear his voice ringing in my ears, he’s so close I can feel the ground trembling beneath me. My hands start to tremble too and then I feel it spread all over.
There’s a loud pop as the jam jar slips to the ground. The pennies clatter and wheeze over the jagged shards of glass and the flat of the soil. For a moment I watch the sight in a kind of slow state of disbelief, did it really happen? I know it did when I hear my father’s roar.
‘Gus…’
‘Gus…’
‘Gus…’
‘—What?’ I was bolt upright in bed. The sweat streaming off me as I kicked back the duvet and leaped to my feet.
Shakes. I slapped my arms to try and wake myself. But, something worse, I was spooked.
I flicked on the light and looked around, wondering if I really was alone.
I got back into bed. But I kept the light on. And why wouldn’t I? When I can still hear my father’s voice ringing in my ears, calling my name.
Chapter 3
My bed felt uncomfortable as I woke—got up and headed for the kitchen. I’d been told to avoid coffee, whilst coming off the sauce, because it could trigger another addiction. It didn’t take much to sell me on the idea, given I was usually revved up without the caffeine. So, tea it was.
The skyline beyond the window was a jagged grey smear, bearing down on the horizon. The picture was near drained of all colour, like the classic Lowry view with miserable matchstick men and women. Why did I stay here? There were other parts of the world with sunshine and blue skies, just what was it keeping me in Edinburgh? I seemed to be asking myself that more and more now. A change was coming.
The nightmares were another new worry for me to puzzle over. They’d first cropped up, infrequently, about a month ago but had started to intensify now. I thought I was coping with them at first, brushing them aside, but last night’s one was a new low. A vivid, haunting reminder of the worst times of my life. My father’s brutality stalked me not just for the hurt he caused me, but for the wounds I’d watched him inflict on others.
‘Gus…’ I could still hear his voice in my ears. The heavy timbre, the raw roar I remembered him using on the football pitch. It was like a warning siren that had been installed in me all those years ago; it didn’t matter how long it had been since I last heard it, the fear it lit was still the same.
When they buried my father I thought I’d chucked all the thoughts I had of him in the casket. I’d been through enough by that stage, trying to figure out just what his problem had been. The conclusion I came to was far from a definitive answer but it sufficed, it was: who gives a fuck? Rattling those thoughts around inside me had solved nothing then and I doubted they’d solve anything now.
I put the cup in the sink and made a start on the day. I showered and dressed in a new pair of grey 501s, a black T-shirt and a matching black hoodie with a red Nike swoosh at the breast. I was booting up the laptop to see what fresh bollocks Terry had sent me work-wise when the landline rang.
‘You up and about, then?’ It was Hod.
‘Isn’t that self-evident?’ After last night’s chat, I should have predicted round two wouldn’t be far away.
‘Just checking.’ I heard some shuffling at the other end of the line, then, ‘So, what are you up to today?’
‘I’m about to check my workload, then I’m picking up my car from the garage at noon.’
‘Want a lift?’
I thought about the offer for a moment, it would be a distraction from work, which was probably just what I needed. ‘That would be grand…cheers, Hod.’
‘Right. Sorted. I’ll see you about twelve, then.’
He hung up, sounding almost perky, which didn’t ring true for Hod at all. Since getting his building firm running again he’d gone from workaholic to total slacker almost overnight. He was a typical type-A personality—always looking for his next Everest but once he’d climbed it the crash to earth could be brutal.
My inbox had a heap of stories from Terry for rewrite, they were all garbage—just celebrity gossip. Ed fucking Sheeran had a new album out—I bet it sounded just like the last one and had all the heart of a styrofoam cup.
I also had a stack of press releases written by school-leavers that would once have required me to spend hours on the phone fact-checking. Fortunately, no one cared these days whether your facts were right or wrong. We lived in the post-truth era and the public were happy enough to stay anaesthetised by any slop you put in front of them. Who was I to buck the system? I made a ‘to do’ list of the day’s workload and did what everyone else does before lifting a finger nowadays—checked Facebook.
Truth told, I bloody hated Faceache, with a passion. But it documented a sort of societal atrophy that didn’t make me feel so bad about my own steady decline. It was like the worst of train wreck television, I mean, who gave two fucks what your lunch looked like or whether you had a new integrated dishwasher? It had turned us into mouth-breathing morons, all looking for anything to distract from the painful process of thought. Because these days, thought really was the one thing you wanted to avoid.
I scrolled away, emptying great lumps of my life into the process. Time I’d never get back. Time that could have been better spent doing just about anything other than sitting in a room, on my own, pretending to be social. There was one nugget of good news I did manage to unearth in the process, though. U2 had cancelled a concert due to Bono’s sore throat. Anything that shut that gobshite’s yap for a few minutes was worth celebrating in my book. I may even have smiled at the screen.
The banging on my door meant one of only two things, either Desperate Dan was in town or Hod had arrived. I looked at the clock and sighed at the amount of time I’d wasted in Zuckerberg’s alternative reality. I rose and headed for the door, snatching my Crombie from the peg as I went.
‘To what do I owe this honour, Hod?’ I said.
‘What else am I going to do all day, rattle about the house?’
Was glad Hod’s Bedsit-land by the Sea empire was back to top form—restarting the housing market Ponzi with quantitative easing was a truly beautiful thing. I was less welcoming of the fact that it meant Hod was now hanging around my door like a fifteen year old trying to persuade me to duck out for a fly fag every five minutes. ‘I have a job to do, y’know.’
‘That job’s a carry on and you know it.’
‘Terry and June, as you call them, pay my wages, mate.’
‘There’s other ways to earn a crust.’
‘Is this you picking up where you left off last night? Because if it is, my answer is still the same.’
Hod pointed the key at the Hilux, the blinkers flashed. On the way to Newhaven I kept a lit tab dangling from the window and tried to avoid chatter. Hod seemed antsy, like he was hoping to use the enclosed space to torture me into submission. I was scanning Leith Walk when I clocked on to a familiar figure.
‘Holy shit!’
‘What is it?’ Hod turned towards me, the traffic had slowed to a halt.
‘Over there.’ I pointed to a shapely form, outside The Bed Shed, pushing a pram.
‘Is that Amy?’ said Hod, his voice rising towards a shrill disbelief.
There was no mistaking her, very few matched her in the looks department, especially from this angle. ‘It’s her all right.’
Hod pressed the horn and waved. I slapped down his arm. ‘Fucking pack that in!’
‘Sorry.’ He tipped his head towards Amy, ‘She didn’t see me. Look, she’s going in the big bed shop.’
I watched her negotiate the door with the giant pram, an old Silver Cross number, she struggled a bit but eventually a salesman came over and helped her out. It didn’t look a comfortable process for her—truth told, I don’t think I’d ever seen Amy look so bloody miserable in all my life. I wanted to jump out and give her a hand but something told me she wouldn’t thank me, that I’d only be adding to her woes. As Amy got inside the store and turned her back on the street, the traffic started to ease again.
Hod put the truck into gear. We were past the Foot of the Walk and through the lights onto Great Junction Street before he spoke again.
‘You okay, mate?’
‘Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Well, it’s just, you’ve gone a bit quiet.’
I flicked my tab out the window and sparked up another one. Something was irritating me about how keen Hod had been to flag down Amy. ‘Did you know she had a nipper?’
‘Gus, does it matter now?’
‘Well, yes actually, because I’d like to know if my friends are lying to me.’
‘I wasn’t lying.’
‘Well what do you call it? You obviously knew my ex had a child. Is she married now, or what?’
‘Gus, I’m gonna pull over.’
Hod parked outside a greasy spoon caff, a rain-worn chalkboard outside yelled bacon rolls for £1.50. Neither of us needed to discuss Hod’s choice—the laminated menu in the window told us that the place suited us both perfectly. Inside our PVC chairs wheezed with the weight of us, a comforting sound that yelled “home turf”. I opted for tea and potato scones and watched a waitress in a powder-blue tabard, a face battered beyond her bad fifties, slouch off without a single word being spoken to us.
Hod was the first to break the hallowed silence. ‘Mac met Amy in town a while back…she was still carrying then. He got the whole story or thereabouts but he asked me not to tell you.’
