Read Online Last Orders (a Gus Dury crime thriller) by Tony Black - Free Book Online
Authors: Tony Black
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Praise for the Gus Dury
series by Tony Black:
'Tony Black is the latest of the seemingly unending
stream of good Scottish crime writers who have in common the ability to portray
vividly the underbelly of Scottish inner-city criminality ... The dialogue
fizzes and the whole is suffused with black humour'
-The Times
'Tony Black's first novel hits the ground running,
combining a sympathetic ear for the surreal dialogue of the dispossessed with a
portrait of the belly of a city painted in the blackest of humour'
-The Guardian
'If you're a fan of the Ian Rankins, Denise Minas
and Irvine Welshes of this world, this is most certainly one for you'
-The Scotsman
'The enigmatic Dury continues to be the punk rocker
of the Scottish crime scene — anarchic, rebellious and never afraid to shove
his Doc Martens where they're not wanted'
-Daily Record
'As washed-up private detectives go, Gus Dury is
compelling — he's as hard as any criminal and twice as self-destructive'
-London Evening
Standard
'Ripping, gutsy prose and a witty wreck of a
protagonist makes this another exceptionally compelling, bright and even
original thriller'
-Daily Mirror
'Tony Black is my favourite British crime writer and
Gus Dury the genre's most interesting protagonist. Like his previous books,
Loss has the power, style and street swagger that makes most of his
contemporaries a little bland by comparison'
-Irvine Welsh,
author of Trainspotting
'Tony Black has written two of the finest crime
novels to come out of the UK in the past twenty years and I'm willing to bet
that in twenty years, Paying for It and Gutted will be in the top
ten of any crime list. But now comes Loss ... Phew-oh ... It's like
having yer ass kicked and yer heart shrived simultaneously. What a privilege to
watch a master writer achieve everything you'd hoped for and then some'
-Ken Bruen, author
of London Boulevard
'Powerful, focused, and intense ... and then it gets
better. Get your money down early on this young man — he's dead serious and
deadly accurate'
-Andrew Vachss,
author of Hard Candy
Last Orders
a Gus Dury story
by Tony Black
'We spend our lives in flight from all that is
painful and real.'
-Paul Sayer, The God Child
I thought I'd seen it all. Maybe that's why I couldn't
bring myself to open my eyes. I was lying in bed at my Easter Road flat-cum-kip
house when I heard the postie rattle the slot and drop some mail onto the mat
below. I had a thought to test one eye on the clock but then routine, the old
leveller, kicked in. The days of posties showing before 2 p.m. in this city
were well over so the only question kicking me out of bed during daylight hours
was who the fuck could be interested in writing to me?
I shifted onto my side, provoked an ear-splitting cough
that sent knives stabbing at my lower back. My first thought was to reach for a
smoke, but I could see the soft-pack of Marlboros crumpled on the floor by the
scuffed foot of the dresser. I was all out of luck again.
It was cold. I felt the chill from the loose,
condensation-wet windowpanes on my bare shoulders. A shiver passed through me —
my mother would have said someone was walking over my grave and the way my
chest felt I wouldn't have argued the toss; I could already be in it.
I was rubbing the outside of my arms, trying to suggest
some warmth into my pasty-white Scottish limbs as I caught sight of a mirror to
mirror reflection. My heart started as I imagined the image was of someone else
in the room with me. When sense returned I realised the door to the wardrobe
had my back on display as I clocked myself in the dresser mirror. I was shocked
by how prominent the gnarled length of my spine looked, sticking out at sharp
angles, like a bust bike-chain lying twisted in the gutter. I turned and took
in the toast-rack chest and the full hit of high-ribs exposed like tiger's
stripes down my sides.
'Jesus, Dury ...' I mouthed towards the gaunt, coughing
cadaver in front of me.
series by Tony Black:
'Tony Black is the latest of the seemingly unending
stream of good Scottish crime writers who have in common the ability to portray
vividly the underbelly of Scottish inner-city criminality ... The dialogue
fizzes and the whole is suffused with black humour'
-The Times
'Tony Black's first novel hits the ground running,
combining a sympathetic ear for the surreal dialogue of the dispossessed with a
portrait of the belly of a city painted in the blackest of humour'
-The Guardian
'If you're a fan of the Ian Rankins, Denise Minas
and Irvine Welshes of this world, this is most certainly one for you'
-The Scotsman
'The enigmatic Dury continues to be the punk rocker
of the Scottish crime scene — anarchic, rebellious and never afraid to shove
his Doc Martens where they're not wanted'
-Daily Record
'As washed-up private detectives go, Gus Dury is
compelling — he's as hard as any criminal and twice as self-destructive'
-London Evening
Standard
'Ripping, gutsy prose and a witty wreck of a
protagonist makes this another exceptionally compelling, bright and even
original thriller'
-Daily Mirror
'Tony Black is my favourite British crime writer and
Gus Dury the genre's most interesting protagonist. Like his previous books,
Loss has the power, style and street swagger that makes most of his
contemporaries a little bland by comparison'
-Irvine Welsh,
author of Trainspotting
'Tony Black has written two of the finest crime
novels to come out of the UK in the past twenty years and I'm willing to bet
that in twenty years, Paying for It and Gutted will be in the top
ten of any crime list. But now comes Loss ... Phew-oh ... It's like
having yer ass kicked and yer heart shrived simultaneously. What a privilege to
watch a master writer achieve everything you'd hoped for and then some'
-Ken Bruen, author
of London Boulevard
'Powerful, focused, and intense ... and then it gets
better. Get your money down early on this young man — he's dead serious and
deadly accurate'
-Andrew Vachss,
author of Hard Candy
Last Orders
a Gus Dury story
by Tony Black
'We spend our lives in flight from all that is
painful and real.'
-Paul Sayer, The God Child
I thought I'd seen it all. Maybe that's why I couldn't
bring myself to open my eyes. I was lying in bed at my Easter Road flat-cum-kip
house when I heard the postie rattle the slot and drop some mail onto the mat
below. I had a thought to test one eye on the clock but then routine, the old
leveller, kicked in. The days of posties showing before 2 p.m. in this city
were well over so the only question kicking me out of bed during daylight hours
was who the fuck could be interested in writing to me?
I shifted onto my side, provoked an ear-splitting cough
that sent knives stabbing at my lower back. My first thought was to reach for a
smoke, but I could see the soft-pack of Marlboros crumpled on the floor by the
scuffed foot of the dresser. I was all out of luck again.
It was cold. I felt the chill from the loose,
condensation-wet windowpanes on my bare shoulders. A shiver passed through me —
my mother would have said someone was walking over my grave and the way my
chest felt I wouldn't have argued the toss; I could already be in it.
I was rubbing the outside of my arms, trying to suggest
some warmth into my pasty-white Scottish limbs as I caught sight of a mirror to
mirror reflection. My heart started as I imagined the image was of someone else
in the room with me. When sense returned I realised the door to the wardrobe
had my back on display as I clocked myself in the dresser mirror. I was shocked
by how prominent the gnarled length of my spine looked, sticking out at sharp
angles, like a bust bike-chain lying twisted in the gutter. I turned and took
in the toast-rack chest and the full hit of high-ribs exposed like tiger's
stripes down my sides.
'Jesus, Dury ...' I mouthed towards the gaunt, coughing
cadaver in front of me.
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