Paying For It gd-1

by Tony Black

  ‘Oh, it’s a shock all right — but don’t pretend you care about my feelings. You’ll be asking how I’m getting on next.’

  Her hand jerked from the strap, slapped at her thigh. ‘Look, if you’re going to start getting aggressive…’

  ‘You’ll what? Get your lawyer to write me another threatening letter?’

  ‘Okay. I can see there’s not much point in pursuing this.’

  She turned away from me, headed back towards the door. I locked myself down, this wasn’t the way I’d wanted things to be between us. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry, Debs… All this is doing my head in.’

  She looked round, took her hand off the door handle. ‘It’s not easy for me, either.’

  ‘I know, but I’m under a lot of pressure just now.’

  ‘Are you drinking?’

  ‘No. God, no — haven’t touched a drop.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Days.’

  ‘How many — one, two?’

  She had my number. Any more than that would be a new record; then, we might just have something to talk about.

  ‘Does it matter? It’s the fact that I’m cleaning up my act that’s important, surely.’

  Another tut, softer this time, it arrived almost hidden under breath.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No. No. Go on. Tell me what you mean.’

  ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘There’s every point, I want to know what you meant by that tut.’

  ‘Gus, stop this.’

  ‘I won’t — I’ll never get clean. That’s what it means, isn’t it? You’ve no faith in me, Debs, you never fucking have had!’

  ‘Right, that’s it. I’m not going to get drawn into another one of your stupid barnies. I had hoped we could resolve things amicably, but obviously not.’

  ‘Truth hurts too much, huh?’

  ‘That’s it, Gus. I told you the last time: I’ve had it with the rows, the recriminations — I’m not the enemy. I never was.’

  Tut.

  I turned the tables on her. It felt good, for all of a second.

  ‘You pushed me away — just like you push everything else.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘Keep pushing it. You’re going to be left with nothing. Sad and lonely, staring into a bottle of whisky.’ She upped the volume, her voice cracked, ‘How could you think I could watch you do that to yourself?’

  ‘Debs-’

  ‘No, leave it.’ I’d brought her to tears. ‘It’s over and the sooner you realise that the better. For crying out loud, just take a look at yourself. Not for the sake of this fucked-up marriage, for yourself.’

  ‘Debs-’

  ‘We’re finished. I don’t want you to call me again, do you understand?’

  ‘What — why?’

  ‘I mean it. If you’ve any more to say to me, call my lawyer.’

  ‘Debs… Debs…’

  23

  I began to think the days without drink had left me damaged.

  I took myself to a wine bar off Shandwick Place. These joints make me want to chuck. All the suits, designer mostly. Talk of blue-sky thinking and running ideas up the flagpole. Everyone looking so cocky, comfortable. I knew I despised them not only for what they were, but for what they had.

  I could only stomach five minutes in the place. Long enough to drop two triples, and settle my shakes.

  The bus out to the East End seemed slower than usual. Roads clogged up with taxis and teenage cruisers. When I finally made it to Fallingdoon House the whisky had hit in and sleep seemed ready to fall upon me.

  Then I saw the blue lights. Police. Fire. Ambulance.

  It took all my strength, but I managed to sprint the final few hundred yards.

  The place was in disarray. Smoke billowed from a ground-floor window that had been smashed for the firemen to climb through. In the front yard the occupants stood in pyjamas and nighties, shivering and coughing their lungs up.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ I shouted.

  None of them answered, the look of shock on their faces said they knew as much as me.

  I grabbed a cop. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘A fire.’

  ‘Really?’ I kept the no shit Sherlock to myself. ‘Anyone hurt?’

  The copper tipped his head back, looked at me from under the brim of his hat. ‘Do you live here, sir?’

  ‘No. Well, I used to.’

  His head came forward, chased by a frown. ‘Used to?’

  ‘Look my friend lives here. Milo. Is he all right?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. You’ll have to ask the inspector.’

  I left him standing with a thumb casually stuck in his belt, could think of a better place for it but let it slide.

  Inside the house the walls were blackened. The floor squelched underfoot from the gallons of water that had been pumped in to put out the fire. It was impossible to say where the fire had been, but then I heard voices coming from Milo’s room. I took off, sliding on the wet carpet and collecting black streaks of soot down my arms and hands as I tried to steady myself.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ said a trench coat, bald head and beaten-up features falling in behind.

  ‘Dury. My friend lives here.’

  He eyed me up and down. ‘No one lives here. Not any more.’

  ‘Come again?’

  He turned away from me, spoke to one of the uniforms. As I stared at the back of his bald head I felt ready to rabbit-punch him through the wall.

  ‘What do you mean, no one lives here any more?’

  Trench coat flicked his head at the uniform and then turned to face me. He stuck his hands in his pockets as he started to speak, ‘Look at that.’

  His eyes pointed to a pile of empty bottles in the corner of the room; they were blackened and burned.

  ‘Empties, so what?’

  ‘No one lives here any more, because the old dosser who stayed in this room got tanked up on cheapo Vladivar and burnt himself the fuck alive!’

  I felt suddenly drained of blood. My mouth dried up and a deadbolt twisted in my stomach.

  ‘You see… that’s the danger of smoking and drinking.’ He pointed to a pile of charred mess in the corner, I could vaguely make out the iron bedstead where Milo laid his head every night, was that heap all that remained of him?

  ‘Fucking silly old bastard,’ he said.

  ‘No. No! You’ve made a mistake. He didn’t drink, and he sure as hell didn’t smoke!’

  I walked over to the broken window and grabbed for air. Outside the spinning lights of the fire engines slapped me senseless. I felt my knees weaken, I steadied myself on the ledge and prepared to fall.

  ‘Mistake — bullshit. It’s a no-brainer, seen it a million times before: some old jakey starts drinking to the old days, thinking he can still put it away and then — whoof! Probably didn’t feel a thing.’

  I turned round too fast, the room spun with me. ‘No! You’ve got it wrong. This is murder! He called me to say there was something going on.’

  ‘Murder? Don’t make me laugh!’

  I ran over and grabbed him by the lapels. ‘I’m telling you — you’ve got to look into this properly.’

  The jokey tone dropped from the trench coat’s voice. ‘Who the hell are you to be telling me my job?’ As he spoke my arms got knocked into the air. It was just enough to set me off balance and drop me on the wet, soot-blackened floor.

  ‘This is an open and shut case — the old jakey set himself alight after drinking all that shit. And by the smell of your breath, son, you could do with watching how much you’re putting away.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘But fuck all. Get your arse out of my sight before I run you in for getting on my nerves. Now move it!’

  24

  For the second time in less than a week I slung my bag onto my back and prepared to take up a new residenc
e. Felt a strange sense of deja vu out in the open. Couldn’t place it. Had myself convinced Milo’s ghost followed me around. Felt as good as a ghost myself.

  I got an urge to turn around, and as I did so, saw I’d been off the mark, again.

  The Cube stood across the road from me. He hid himself behind a Daily Record, but I’d have known that boxy frame anywhere.

  ‘Right, you bastard,’ I thought, ‘this time you’ve had it.’ Billy’s death wasn’t the only one I had to reckon with now; I’d be having some answers from this bastard.

  I took off slowly. Sauntering pace. Right the way to Princes Street. I wanted to turn around, eyeball the Cube, but I knew better.

  At Waterstone’s, the first one on the main drag, I stood and stared in the window. I tried to get a view of the crowds in the reflection. Too hard to make anyone out, except a jakey wrapped up like Sherpa Tenzing. With his hand out, a blanket in the other flapped about as he tried some freestyling.

  I said, ‘Hey, Flavour Flav, come here.’

  The jakey moved towards me. He looked to be one more purple tin away from sleeping in his own piss.

  ‘Awright there, mister — price of a cuppa tea?’

  I put my hand in my pocket, his whole head followed the movement.

  ‘Right,’ I said producing a five spot, ‘this is yours if you can help me out.’

  ‘Aw, for fucksake,’ he said.

  ‘Cool the beans. I only want you to tell me if there’s a bloke with a copy of the Daily Record still standing over my shoulder?’

  The jakey smiled. Showing a row of teeth with more gaps than a comb, looked like he’d been flossing with rope.

  ‘Eh, aye,’ he said. Then put his hand out.

  ‘Not so fast. What’s he look like?’

  The jakey frowned. He grew agitated, but I saw he tasted that Tennent’s Super already. I stepped in front of him. ‘Make it look good too — don’t want him to sus what I’m up to.’

  A nod. Tap on the side of the nose. And another swatch at those teeth.

  ‘Eh, he’s a fat wee bastard!’

  ‘What’s he wearing?’

  ‘Pair of trews and some manky auld leather.’

  ‘That’s my man!’

  I handed over the fiver — he took the money and ran.

  I set off in the opposite direction. Crossed at the lights. Took the path round the Gardens. Got halfway along when the one o’clock gun sounded at the castle.

  At the Mound I shot up the steps to the Old Town. My heart thumped like a road drill. The sweat on my brow dripped in my eyes. I felt way out of shape. Not up to this. I hoped the Cube felt worse.

  ‘Just keep up, Mr Cube,’ I whispered, ‘just keep up.’

  At the top of the High Street, by the statue of David Hume, I spotted him skulking on the edge of the Lawnmarket, right where the scaffold once stood for public hangings. He’d no clue how close to a lynching he was himself.

  I had him pegged: out of breath, fanning his chops with the pages of his paper.

  I headed down the Royal Mile. Picked up my pace, worked through a stitch. I took a turn onto Cockburn Street. Just about heard the Cube panting at my back. My legs ached as I put in for a last spurt.

  Head down, I tanked it up the steps of Fleshmarket Close.

  At the top, I slumped. Back to the wall.

  My chest wheezed. ‘I am so, so shagged.’

  I watched, moved into an empty shop front, and waited.

  The Cube looked close to a coronary. He struggled to find the strength to drag his pudgy frame up another step. But, all credit to the man, he persisted.

  As my breathing returned to normal, I felt an uncontrollable urge for nicotine. Sparked up a tab and drew deep. I relaxed at once. Flung back my head and waited.

  On the final steps the Cube coughed and choked like a nag on the way to the glue factory.

  As the top of his head came into view I stepped out in front of him. He hunched over, looked up, and I blew smoke in his face. ‘Ta dah!’ I said. ‘And as if by magic, the shopkeeper suddenly appeared.’

  25

  The Cube made to run.

  He hobbled back down the steps, on his bandy legs, arms flailing. I let him open a dozen paces between us before I stubbed my tab and reached out to collar him.

  ‘I think it’s time you and I had a little chat,’ I said, as I latched onto his throat.

  He tried to speak, ‘I–I-I…’

  ‘Catch your breath, fuckhead, you’ve a lot of explaining to do.’ I grabbed his paper, ‘And you won’t be needing the Daily Ranger!’

  In the winding streets of the Old Town, it’s never hard to find an empty vennel. Very few people stray from the well-trodden paths. I pushed the Cube through a set of rusty gates into a dark courtyard. A stack of mouldy crates fell with him as he tried to scramble to safety.

  ‘No escape this time,’ I said.

  His eyes darted from left to right. I saw him toy with the idea of balling a fist. I didn’t give him a chance. My right connected like a car crash. If pain was a target on his face, I’d hit the bullseye. Blood oozed from nose and mouth. He dropped like a telegraph pole in high wind. Soundless. Sprawled out on the ground, motionless.

  ‘Is that it?’ I thought.

  A one-punch job.

  I grabbed the collar of his mangy leather and sat him on his fat arse. He lolled woozily, but responded to a slap.

  ‘Now, there’s plenty more where that came from.’ I felt fierce, I knew the territory. It didn’t matter whether I was acting up, or it was real, either way, the Cube shat bricks.

  ‘Spill,’ I told him.

  ‘What? What? I was just…’

  Wrong answer. I drew up my elbow, the dumbfuck followed it. He caught a mouthful of bone.

  ‘I can honestly say, I’ve never heard a grown man scream before.’

  He spat blood, his face turned into a mask of agony.

  ‘Are they tears?’ I said. ‘Are you crying?’

  He said something, but I couldn’t make a word of it.

  I stepped back, lit a tab. I wondered if I’d gone too far. This guy looked to be in the wrong line.

  As I knelt down beside him, he flinched.

  ‘Okay. Maybe you’ve had enough — you ready to talk?’

  He nodded feverishly. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  I drew on my tab, blew into the tip. Little orange sparks flew. Then I held it like a dart, close to his eye.

  ‘Now, I am warning you, one word of a lie and you’ll need a white stick and a Labrador to get out of here — understand?’

  ‘Yes! God, yes! I’ll tell you all you want to know, just leave me alone. God, you’re insane!’

  Too easy. Was I really this menacing? I’d need to hit some serious psychological tomes for the answer to that.

  ‘Why are you following me?’

  ‘It’s a job — I’m on a job.’

  ‘You’re an investigator?’

  ‘Aye!’ He ferreted in his jacket, for his wallet. ‘Look — look,’ he said. He produced a stack of cards. Cheap printouts, poor quality. They all read Private Investigator. The address said Gorgie. He ran the show from a cold-water flat. Whoever hired him either worked to a budget or didn’t know shit.

  ‘Not exactly bloody Magnum PI are you?’

  ‘I do all right.’

  ‘Mate, believe me, you’re far from fucking all right.’ I pressed my knee in his back and grabbed a handful of hair. ‘Now, who hired you?’

  ‘Arghh… I can’t.’

  I tightened my grip, dug my knee into his shoulder blades. Felt the pressure mounting on my kneecap as he let out a scream.

  ‘Okay — just let me go.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘I don’t have a name, she didn’t give me a name.’

  ‘ She?’

  ‘Aye. A woman, Russian — sounds it anyway. She just told me to follow you and report back to her at the Shandwick.’

  Nadja. I didn’t ne
ed to know any more.

  ‘On your feet.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get on your fucking feet, now!’

  He stood up; brushed at his backside. The way he looked, blood smeared on his face, hair sticking up like a duck’s arse, he needn’t have bothered.

  ‘What are you going to do with me now?’ he said.

  I sooked the final draw out my tab and flicked the dowp into the alley. ‘I’ll ask the questions. Now, walk.’

  ‘Where — where are we going?’

  I prodded him in the back and pushed him into the close. ‘To see your employer. I’ve words to have with Nadja.’

  ‘But… why do you need me? Surely, I’m no use to you now.’

  I held up one of his cheap cards, said, ‘See that? I know where you live.’ The Cube’s eyes widened, like he’d been anally probed. ‘One more word from you about leaving the party, I’ll be on your doorstep with a machete. Am I making myself clear?’

  Nods. Thick and fast.

  ‘Glad we understand each other. Now move your lardy fucking arse.’

  26

  I hit the bar with brass-knuckles. Wild Turkey. Pale ale. Burst of tequila slammers. Mixing like this, not a worry to me. Once, the volume of drink seemed all that mattered. As my alcoholism progressed, a different strategy became necessary.

  That’s the way it is with me. Swear, other alkies will tell you the same thing. It’s not the drink. It’s not the feeling, the taste, the debauchery. It’s what Graham Greene called the battle against boredom. The need to escape yourself. After a while, any pressure from the outside world begs for the journey.

  ‘Do you really need me here?’ said the Cube. He watched me carefully. His shifty eyes took in the glass in my hand, then darted off to the exit.

  ‘What we have here is a failure to communicate.’

  ‘What?’ said the Cube.

  ‘Some men you just can’t reach, so you get what we had here.’

  ‘I don’t… What?’

  ‘It’s the way he wants it. Well, he gets it and I don’t like it any more than you.’

  The Cube sat back in his seat, slowly his tongue appeared on his lips.

  ‘You’ve never seen Cool Hand Luke, have you?’ I said.