Gutted by Tony Black Page B

caper.’
    I sighed. ‘You think this was how Col imagined it would play out?’
    ‘What you mean?’
    ‘The bar . . .’
    ‘He left the bar to you, Gus. He wanted you to have it.’
    ‘Mac, he left the bar to his wife.’
    ‘He couldn’t have seen she’d cark it inside a month.’
    ‘It’s playing on my mind.’
    Mac leaned forward, balanced on one arse cheek as he reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet. ‘I’m gonna give you something.’ He ferreted about for a card, pulled it out and laid it on the table.
    ‘What’s that?’ I said.
    His eyes drooped; he seemed ashamed. ‘I, eh, when I got out the jail they put me on this course to get my shit together.’
    I looked at the card. ‘Mac, this is a head-shrinker.’
    ‘No. Therapist – different.’
    I tapped the name. ‘Mac, let me get this straight: you want me to get my head tested?’ Something simmered in me – anger.
    ‘She can help you. She helped me. There’s no shame in it.’
    ‘Mac, there’s no anything in it . . . It’s all psychobabble!’
    He put a glower on me. ‘Gus, you’ve took me all wrong here.’
    I tipped back a chair, jerked it out. Legs scratched across the bar floor as I sat down.
    Mac went on: ‘You’ve been through a lot lately with the divorce, the death of your old fella . . . I was talking to Hod and we’re both concerned.’
    ‘Concerned my arse! The pair of you have been jangling, that’s all this is. What is it? I’m not doing my bit in the bar? Or am I drinking too much of the profits? Fuck me, Mac, since when did you and Hod go all bleeding-heart and Oprah on me?’
    I was in a rage, out of control. Wrecking-ball mad. Off the dial.
    I stood up again, knocked over the chair. I had the card in my hand and shoved it in Mac’s top pocket. He didn’t so much as flinch as I waved the back of my hand at him.
    I took up my pint of Guinness, drained it.
    There was one hell of an atmosphere in the room. There’s a phrase – cut the air with a knife .
    I kept my gaze on him, waited for a response. None came. You get to my age, live the life I have, you think you’ve seen every reaction in the book. This I had not. Mac stood up, took the deepest breath, held it, and walked away from me. As the door swung behind him I was alone with my troubles.
    I felt confused. Had I shocked him so much? Surely not. This was Mac the Knife we were talking about, hardy Glasgow chib merchant. Was my take on life, the situation, so off-whack?
    As I watched the door shut itself, I suddenly sussed the look: it was despair. Utter despair was what Mac felt for me now. Something twisted inside me, a pang. It wasn’t physical, but emotional.
    I felt my gaze fall. My head drooped.
    Where my eyes rested I saw two others staring back at me. Slowly, the dog came closer, crouched at my feet and stretched out two paws.
    I said, ‘We’re having a time of it, boy.’
    His tail wagged. It didn’t seem like the right response.
    ‘It gets worse . . .’ I turned to see Mac back standing in the doorway. ‘I was going to leave this till the morning, but I thought I better not.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘You had a visit . . . Rab Hart wants you to go and see him in Saughton.’

Chapter 17
     
    IT WAS A restless night. Tossed and turned for hours before I found sleep. Then I woke bolt upright in the darkness, my heart banging harder than a marching band. I’d seen the gutted corpse of Tam Fulton flash before my eyes again. I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever shake the image. Didn’t seem like it.
    I got up and paced the flat; had every light blazing. I tanned a few cans, smoked nearly a full pack of Superkings. The only thing that got me back into bed was the prospect of having to navigate the dark stairs to the bar to restock. I wasn’t risking the sight of another corpse coming out the blackness.
    Had managed to catch some kip, but not enough, when Hod appeared. ‘You’re cracked, y’know that!’ He fiddled with my books, got