Free Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) by Tony Black

pissing it up and getting a belt out of Immacing some prop forward’s nads. I didn’t have it in me to feel a shred of loss. Perhaps that was to the good. I needed to keep a level head; past cases I’d let things bottle up, get the better of me. There was a chance I might actually keep the boat steady here. And Christ, didn’t I need that. Didn’t Hod. And Gillian.
    The Black Heart was singing in my pocket; took it out, drained a good belt. The fire of it settled my insides. I was ready for more, ready to put the bottle to bed, duck in there beside it and let the world outside go to fuck, but whilst I had one shred of conscience left in me I knew I needed to screw the nut, get on with this.
    I schlepped through the Grassmarket, left out the carnage of the Royal Mile at Festival time and headed for the Hootsman newspaper building. There had been a time when my face was known here. There had been a time when many faces were known here, but now the place had turned into a revolving door for school leavers and work experience looking for a first rung on the ladder. They didn’t realise that the first rung was also the last. The game had gone to shit. All those days I spent mourning my loss of career had been wasted; it was always coming down the pike, it seems. The game was bust.
    At the chrome and glass frontage, I rocked up. Put on a bit of a swagger, not too much: spelled pisshead in here. Could remember the days when anyone who wasn’t off their face at the five o’clock news conference was treated with suspicion, verging on derision, but these were changed days. The green tea drinkers had taken over.
    I hit the intercom, called out to my former boss, Mr Bacon – or as I still liked to call him, Rasher.
    Got a blast: ‘Editorial …’
    ‘Not become a by-product of Advertising yet, then.’
    ‘Eh, what? That you, Gus?’
    I played it cool – needed to get the gate buzzed for me, needed to get up to the newsroom and have a deck about in the files if poss. Gillian Laird’s public fall from grace had been one of those tragic celebrity moments played out in the full glare of the TV cameras and Sunday supplements. Kind of thing I switch off to without so much as a gob in the street; well, maybe a few of those.
    ‘Aye, aye … look, you got time for a catch-up?’ Holy Christ, ‘catch-up’ – where did I pick up these sayings? The world – and me within it – was becoming way too metrosexual for my liking.
    A bit of gruff: ‘Well, if it’s a quick one.’
    Played the card: ‘I’d love a quick one.’
    Gate buzzed.
    I took the elevator; didn’t even think of calling it the lift any more. The language was mangled. Rasher waited at the top floor. He had the same sideburns, heavy on the mutton-chop, that he’d worn since the seventies, and a shirt and tie that looked about thesame vintage. There was a gut pressing hard above the belt buckle of his Farah slacks; I’d read somewhere this was a sign of optimism. Apparently wearing the belt over the gut is the opposite, a sign of pessimism.
    Hand extended: ‘Gus, good to see you.’
    ‘Likewise.’ I played it smooth; had some making up to do. I’d given Rasher a fair old blast at an alcoholic’s intervention he’d hosted for me; could tell he hadn’t forgotten either. But we had some mileage together. I’d handed Rasher more than a few scoops in my day. Washed up as I was, and as beyond help as he obviously saw me, I was still what they call in this game a ‘good operator’. I could bring in the news, and say what you like about the state of play in this outfit, news was still a commodity … among newsmen.
    We went through to Rasher’s office, kicking up static from the heavy-duty carpet tiles. I took a seat as he opened the bottom drawer of a large metal filing cabinet – so old school – and brought out a bottle of Teacher’s. Not my favourite drop, but it was wet.
    He poured out two styrofoam cups and nodded. I took the cue. Drained a fair whack.