Read Online Last Orders (a Gus Dury crime thriller) by Tony Black - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tony Black
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'I've seen more fat on a chip.'
I reached for the Wranglers hanging on the chair's back
and slotted myself into them. They felt loose, the old leather belt settling on
the last notch. I couldn't face the prospect of catching another glimpse of
myself, so covered up fast with an old Nike hoodie and headed for the door.
There had been a time, back in the day, when I had a dog
that would have been wagging his tail at the sight of me. The thought of the
rescue dog I'd christened Usual — a name he picked up at the pub — dug
at my heart. My ex-wife had claimed him; said I wasn't fit to look after
myself, never mind an animal. I couldn't argue with that.
There were two letters on the mat. I opted first for the
manila oblong that spelled business-post, or worse, a bill. I liked to get bad
news out the way. I ripped into the top and tore out the white letter; an NHS
logo was the first thing to grip me. It wasn't a demand for cash, I was relieved
at that, but I could afford this demand less:
'Blah, blah ...' I read, 'requests your attendance at
the Hypertension Clinic.'
My blood pressure was through the roof. The result of a
damaged liver and a scarred heart. Apparently, the letter stated, I needed
bi-monthly checks at the clinic to make sure I wasn't going to cark it.
'Christ, no ...'
I scrunched the paper in my hand. If there was one thing
in the world I couldn't handle it was hospitals. I had too many bad memories of
seeing the ones I had loved there; and they weren't out-weighed by the good
memories of seeing the ones I definitely didn't love going there, usually at
speed.
I threw the ball of the letter at the wall, it bounced
back and rolled its way down the carpet towards the bedroom.
'Fucking Hypertension Clinic ...'
The second missive was a mystery. It was the same shape
as the first, but a long white envelope this time. I checked the franking over
the stamp and recognised it came from East Ayrshire.
'Burns Country ...' I was scoobied, knew not a soul
there.
I tore in. The letter inside was on cream paper, thick
and water-marked, obviously expensive. The hand looked careful, not quite
copperplate but in the ball-park.
I felt my pulse quicken as I read. Don't know why, maybe
it was something about the tone. If I had to go for a tag, I'd say:
reverential.
The opener was a Dear Mr Dury — couldn't say I
liked that. When I see the honorific in there, I start thinking someone's
confused me with my father. The bold Cannis Dury was no man to be confused
with.
I read on:
I hope you will forgive the impertinence of my
enquiry but your name was forwarded to me as a man who may be able to assist in
my most desperate hour ...
I rolled eyes to the ceiling. It was the Help me
Obi-Wan, you're my only hope line again. This was happening more and more
now. My reputation going before me. I'd been a good hack, handled some big
stories but that was behind me. How I got lumbered with the investigator for
hire rep was something I couldn't work out. Life was funny that way, though.
Man plans, God laughs.
... I will, of course, meet all necessary expenses
and you will not find me ungenerous in this regard. I shall spare you the
formality of details at this juncture and await your telephone call at my
Edinburgh Hotel.
He was staying at The Balmoral. The only place in town
that stationed a fawning, kilted, Glengarry-wearing twat on the door. 24-7 this
stereotypical shortbread-tin evacuee tugged forelock for the likes of Sean
Connery and the dour millionairess who wrote about that bloody boy wizard.
'Elegant slumming, it has to be said.'
I looked at the cream-coloured paper once more, felt
confused enough to scratch my head but resisted. I didn't know whether to be
petrified by the haughty tone or flattered by the potential Wonka ticket in my
mitt.
I drew a still breath, exhaled. The interior of the flat
was so cold I could see the white cloud escaping my lungs.
The telephone number for The Balmoral was written beside
the
I reached for the Wranglers hanging on the chair's back
and slotted myself into them. They felt loose, the old leather belt settling on
the last notch. I couldn't face the prospect of catching another glimpse of
myself, so covered up fast with an old Nike hoodie and headed for the door.
There had been a time, back in the day, when I had a dog
that would have been wagging his tail at the sight of me. The thought of the
rescue dog I'd christened Usual — a name he picked up at the pub — dug
at my heart. My ex-wife had claimed him; said I wasn't fit to look after
myself, never mind an animal. I couldn't argue with that.
There were two letters on the mat. I opted first for the
manila oblong that spelled business-post, or worse, a bill. I liked to get bad
news out the way. I ripped into the top and tore out the white letter; an NHS
logo was the first thing to grip me. It wasn't a demand for cash, I was relieved
at that, but I could afford this demand less:
'Blah, blah ...' I read, 'requests your attendance at
the Hypertension Clinic.'
My blood pressure was through the roof. The result of a
damaged liver and a scarred heart. Apparently, the letter stated, I needed
bi-monthly checks at the clinic to make sure I wasn't going to cark it.
'Christ, no ...'
I scrunched the paper in my hand. If there was one thing
in the world I couldn't handle it was hospitals. I had too many bad memories of
seeing the ones I had loved there; and they weren't out-weighed by the good
memories of seeing the ones I definitely didn't love going there, usually at
speed.
I threw the ball of the letter at the wall, it bounced
back and rolled its way down the carpet towards the bedroom.
'Fucking Hypertension Clinic ...'
The second missive was a mystery. It was the same shape
as the first, but a long white envelope this time. I checked the franking over
the stamp and recognised it came from East Ayrshire.
'Burns Country ...' I was scoobied, knew not a soul
there.
I tore in. The letter inside was on cream paper, thick
and water-marked, obviously expensive. The hand looked careful, not quite
copperplate but in the ball-park.
I felt my pulse quicken as I read. Don't know why, maybe
it was something about the tone. If I had to go for a tag, I'd say:
reverential.
The opener was a Dear Mr Dury — couldn't say I
liked that. When I see the honorific in there, I start thinking someone's
confused me with my father. The bold Cannis Dury was no man to be confused
with.
I read on:
I hope you will forgive the impertinence of my
enquiry but your name was forwarded to me as a man who may be able to assist in
my most desperate hour ...
I rolled eyes to the ceiling. It was the Help me
Obi-Wan, you're my only hope line again. This was happening more and more
now. My reputation going before me. I'd been a good hack, handled some big
stories but that was behind me. How I got lumbered with the investigator for
hire rep was something I couldn't work out. Life was funny that way, though.
Man plans, God laughs.
... I will, of course, meet all necessary expenses
and you will not find me ungenerous in this regard. I shall spare you the
formality of details at this juncture and await your telephone call at my
Edinburgh Hotel.
He was staying at The Balmoral. The only place in town
that stationed a fawning, kilted, Glengarry-wearing twat on the door. 24-7 this
stereotypical shortbread-tin evacuee tugged forelock for the likes of Sean
Connery and the dour millionairess who wrote about that bloody boy wizard.
'Elegant slumming, it has to be said.'
I looked at the cream-coloured paper once more, felt
confused enough to scratch my head but resisted. I didn't know whether to be
petrified by the haughty tone or flattered by the potential Wonka ticket in my
mitt.
I drew a still breath, exhaled. The interior of the flat
was so cold I could see the white cloud escaping my lungs.
The telephone number for The Balmoral was written beside
the