Long Way Down (A Gus Dury crime thriller) Read Online Free PDF Page A

gagging. I sat up and swung my legs over the
edge of the bed.
    My Levis looked too far away, hanging on the back of a
chair on the other side of the room. I pushed myself on to my feet and made the
pilgrimage over the manky carpet, picking up a freshly-folded white T-shirt and
a black V-neck from the laundry bag. Inside ten I was in the neighbourhood of
respectable — if unshaven, red-eyed and a gut-rasping cough are your idea of
respectable.
    I clocked my boots beside the coffee table in the living
room but my stomach was too tender to contemplate bending over to lace them up;
I sparked another red-top and gazed upwards as the bulb became submerged in
swirling blue plumes.
    'Fucking hell, Barry ...'
    I had a day.
    24 little hours.
    Hardly any time to find him before the statute of
limitations ran out on Danny Murray's patience. The thought of Shakey's
unctuous errand boy calling the shots riled me but at least I'd managed to
inveigle some proper information out of him. Midday tomorrow would be too late,
he'd said. And that had to be because the Irish mob were planning their job
then. If Barry went ahead I knew the consequences and they didn't bear thinking
about. Vivisection with a rusty corkscrew was likely one of the nicer options
on the cards.
    I dowped my cig, reached for my cherry Docs.
    The heavy footwear were a struggle to lace but once in
place the bouncing soles felt the part. I picked up the rest of my fags,
slotted the Camels in beside the Marlboros and made for the door.
    It was cold out, but only a smirry rain that could be
fended off by turning the collar up on my Crombie. I headed back up Easter
Road, passed the Manna House and the posh offie, then on to the first London
Road bus stop. I checked the real-time message board for the next bus to Porty,
said, 'Ten minutes ...'
    I waited the ten minutes.
    Waited to see the final countdown turn to 'due' but the
bus didn't arrive. The timer changed back to fifteen minutes instead.
    'Fuck me drunk ...' I shook my head, took hands from my
pockets and waved palms either side of my head.
    'Those buses, son ...' I turned round on the sound of
that word. My heart stung when I heard someone call me 'son'. I still couldn't
fathom whether it was because I wanted to be someone's son, or didn't want to
be the one person's son that I was.
    An old bloke in a tweed cap, his nose a riot of burst
blood vessels, joined me in shaking heads, said, 'As much bloody use as tits on
a bull!'
    He had their number. 'Lothian buses are a joke.'
    'They try to blame the tram works.'
    'Well they've axed enough of the service to pay for
them.'
    He shook his head. 'Aye. And if they ever get the
bastards running, they'll blame them for taking more buses off the roads.'
    I had a sense this conversation could go in circles all
day, I clamped it down. Looked the other way. As I glanced over to the
laundrette, I found myself wondering about the Polish girl from the night
before; I don't know why, perhaps it was the unusual kindness. Had I even said
thanks properly?
    She wasn't there. I could only see the old witch, the
Dot Cotton, loading a drier from a yellow plastic laundry basket. She wore a
shiny tabard with pale blue checks and two pockets on the front. She reminded
me of the battle-scarred cleaners who used to hoover around my desk at The
Hootsman, grunting and moaning about the state of the place as an eternal
Woodbine dropped ash on my in-tray.
    The bus ride out to Porty was the usual trial of
screaming and shouting care-in-the-community patients with backing vocals from
noisy schoolchildren on the doss. There was a time in my life when I'd have
hollered a few notes in their direction myself, but not now. The older I got,
the more appealing the path of least resistance became. Could it be I was
actually maturing enough to pick my battles carefully. Surely not.
    The main access door to Katrina's block of flats was
being held open by the postie for a pram-face mum with a screaming toddler on
one