He drank and poured, drank and poured until he couldn’t take any more. His stomach lurched and he vomited into the sink. Wiping the spit from his mouth with the back of his hand, he reached down and turned on the tap. He held his fingers under the flow until they were numb with cold. Then he ran them through his hair and over his sweat-streamed face. He rubbed his eyes with both fists until they smarted and stung. As white dots appeared before him, he placed two steadying hands on the bar and let out a large sob. He knew he had to get out of the upturned bar. In a daze, he began gathering his stuff, switching off lights and machinery.
When he stepped out to switch off the light in the basement, he hovered just inside the door leading downstairs. The quiet drone of the machinery sounded like whispering voices stirring in the chill air. He flicked the light off and banged shut the door, hurriedly leaving the pub, locking in the murmurs and creaks that lingered within its walls.
When Paul told him about Carmichael’s visit, Manny laughed. Paul had been expecting a more concerned response.
“But he says he thinks John’s death wasn’t suicide. Says he’s coming after me.”
Manny sat back in his chair, amused. “C’mon, you’ve got to have thicker skin than that. He’s messing with you. Rattling your cage. Seeing what you’ll give away.” He cocked his head to the side as he shrugged away Paul’s problems.
Paul tried one more time. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be there right now.”
“Well you have to. Trust me.” Manny leaned his elbows on the desk, his hands in the air.
Paul stiffened. “I don’t understand—”
“You don’t need to understand.” Manny cut him off. One hand went up, suspended in the air, the index finger pointing directly at Paul. The conversation was over. Paul swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth.
Manny winked and stood up behind his desk. Paul followed with his eyes as Manny went to the coat stand and lifted off his coat and scarf. When he turned back round to face Paul his mood seemed jovial.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
Paul got up from his chair, a tingle running down his spine as he remembered the last time someone had said those words to him.
There was an hour or so of daylight left. The two men walked abreast, their pace fast but not hurried. Paul was several inches taller than Manny, but Manny had a way of making everyone around him feel small. They walked in silence along Clyde Street, down towards the Saltmarket. Manny marched ahead as they neared the entrance to Glasgow Green.
Paul hesitated momentarily at the threshold of the park. He waited a second or two before he stepped over it, following Manny in.
It was late summer and the leaves were beginning to lose their green to emerging speckles of orange and brown. In the delicate twilight the park was beautiful, but in a short while, when darkness fell, it would invite all the dangers of the night. The Green was well known as a place where men could meet discreetly, but not all encounters were consensual. Thieves, murderers and drunks all roamed there after dark. Paul didn’t want to be there any longer than he had to. He could see Manny breathing deeply, savouring the crisp August air. Together they continued along the path. The sky was purple; a breeze was rustling the fallen leaves. When they were deep in the park Manny sat down on a bench to rest. He offered Paul a cigarette. Paul accepted and moved closer, settling on the bench beside him. As they lit up, Manny stared off into the middle distance.
“When I think back to the night I found you here, it makes me realise how far you’ve come.”
Paul shuddered. His eyes fell to his shoes and to Manny’s booted feet beside them. He waited for Manny to continue.
“There are some legal issues with the ownership. I need to maintain the status quo, avoid any suspicion while I wait for all this to blow over. That’s why I need you there.”
Manny had never spoken so plainly to him before and never about his business.
“The paperwork’s all there. Fortunately John passed on everything to his wife before he decided to go missing. But now is not the time to start harassing the grieving widow. Once she realises all she’s been left with is a heap of debts and a worthless flea pit of a pub, she’ll be knocking on my door. And I’ll be there to give her a generous pension. Take the problem off her hands for a fair price. All women are whores, Paul, never forget that,” he said flatly.
Paul found himself nodding. A contemplative silence followed.
“What happened with John was necessary. You proved yourself, and not just to me.” Manny turned to him. His quiet timbre forced Paul to listen more intently. “We grew up on the same streets, you and me. In my day it was rougher, more physical; you had to be tougher in a way. Take what you wanted with brute force. But it’s a different world now and I see young guys like you… you’ve got different talents. Hard – I’m not saying you’re not – but with other skills too. Skills that I can use. You’re smart, Paul. And I need smart guys. I need you in there, running it. Do you think you can keep it together?”
“Yes,” Paul said and he meant it.
There was the flicker of some kind of life in the black beads that were Manny’s eyes. He put a hand on Paul’s knee and shook it, supportively.
Just days ago, Manny had threatened to kill him, but that fact seemed less important than the help and protection he was offering now, and that he’d given him in the past. Paul could never forget that.
He took one last look around the haunting expanse of the park as the two of them got up to leave.
In the weeks that followed his chat with Manny, Paul threw himself into his work. The more he concentrated on improving The Low Road, the less time he had to dwell on other things.
On the first day, he’d faced a mutiny – loyalty to John and Sheila. It had been expected. Paul followed Manny’s advice to scalp the first few troublemakers, and the others then fell into line, albeit grudgingly. He made a point of taking up the slack himself until replacements could be found.
Drinking after hours was next to go; free drinks for staff and friends after that. He made sure that everyone was meticulous in recording spillages and beer wasted in drip trays, and he asked Manny to fit two new computerised tills. When money was still going missing he installed a camera behind the bar. More staff left in protest but somehow Paul kept it going. In time he got new workers who neither knew nor cared about the pub’s history. Slowly, the books began to show a small profit, enough for a paint job and the odd piece of furniture.
His first attempts at theme nights failed miserably. There were times he wanted to give up completely. Then he thought about a battle of the bands: he had seen it working in other pubs. Using a former client, he got a good deal at a local recording studio to give as a prize. The old regulars stopped going because of the noise, but bit by bit, through word of mouth, a new crowd started coming. Younger, with more disposable income. The people who played in the bands at the weekend started showing up mid-week; one of them was commissioned to illustrate the walls. Day by day The Low Road took on their character, became their space.
Finally, his decision to let the kitchen staff go was what turned the place around. He used the money to buy in better stock: spirits that didn’t taste of turpentine, real brand mixers. One of the staff suggested they invent their own cocktail. Paul came up with the Moonshiner, a lethal combination of all the cheapest spirits, which he sold in jam jars. It proved popular and slowly the crowds grew larger.
But the better life was going in the pub, the worse things went in his personal life. In The Low Road everything was straightforward; everything outside was so complicated by comparison. At night when he went home he wiped all messages. He no longer wanted to see people. Not Stacy, not even Jack. One night she took the baby and left. There had been tears, he’d tried half-heartedly to stop them, but in his heart he knew it was for the best. This time he didn’t think they would be back.
At night, his only companion was a crushing pain in his chest that never left.
After he’d toasted Lena with champagne in front of her friends, Paul didn’t see her again for the rest of the night. He was needed behind the bar and had been occupied until close. By the time he had the chance to look round, their table was cleared. She and her friends had gone.
It took longer than usual to tidy up. When the bar was finally ready and set up for the next day he was grumpy, exhausted and desperate to get home so he could do what he did every night these days: drink heavily while brooding silently. He was due in for the monthly stock-take the next morning. He waited, finger poised over the light switch, while Mary, the barmaid whose turn it was to help with the tidy-up, did a final check in the toilets.
He tapped his fingers on it once, twice.
The door of the Ladies opened with a whoosh of air.
“Paul!” Mary hung her head out, her teeth gritted in annoyance. “There’s a semi-conscious girl in here.”
Paul groaned. Why was it always on his watch?
A pair of knee-high boots were sticking out from under the cubicle door, the worn leather exposing the plastic inside the heel. He stalked over. She was sitting on the floor, her back against the stall wall, her skirt rolled up around her waist. The top of her purple thong reached just about the waistband of her black tights. Her head was bowed and limp, but he could still see it was Lena.
He bent down on his knees beside her. Pushing her black hair, slick with sweat, from her face, he opened her eyelid. “Lena?”
She moaned and pushed his hand away. “Lena, it’s me. Paul.”
“You know her?” Mary was hovering behind him. “She’s pretty wasted. Do you think a taxi would take her?”
“Not in this state.”
Mary lifted Lena’s purse and went through it while Paul tried to get her conscious. “No address. Should I get the police to pick her up?”
“No.” He placed the back of his hand on her fevered forehead. “Lena, have you taken anything?”
He began to put her in the recovery position. She struggled against him, her arms flailing. Breaking free from his grip, she lunged for the bowl and threw up down the toilet. Paul held her hair back. When she was finished she slumped back against the stall wall. He helped pull her top down where it had rolled up and fixed her skirt.
“Where is everyone, where am I?” Black mascara and eyeliner clogged her watering eyes as she blinked, trying to focus.
“They’ve all left. You’re still in the bar. In the toilet.”
“They all left?” Her lips quivered and she began to cry.
“C’mon, we need to get you up.” He put his hands under her armpits and tried to haul her to her feet. “Lena, did you take anything else?” he asked as he tried to heave her up.
She shook her head.
“Can you stand up?”
She shook her head again but got to her feet after some protesting.
Mary helped take some of the weight. “What’re you going to do with her?” she grumbled as she put one of Lena’s arms over the back of her shoulders, while Paul took the other.
“It’s OK. I know where she lives, I’ll drop her home.”
Mary looked at him dubiously. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I just mean… Drunk girl…”
“For fuck’s sake,” he seethed. “You’d rather leave her with a taxi driver? Just help me get her to my car!”
His car was parked on the side street next to The Low Road so they didn’t have far to walk. Town was busy, there were people all around, but no one paid any attention to the pair carrying the profoundly drunk girl. Mary helped him get Lena in the front seat. Paul slammed shut the passenger door and marched round to his side.
“OK, goodnight then!” Mary yelled as he jumped in.
“Goodnight.” He didn’t offer her a lift home or thank her for her help. Out of the rear passenger window he watched her storm off and felt an immediate sting of regret. He could make it up to her tomorrow, let her leave early. As he put the keys in the ignition, his thoughts returned to Lena. He activated the passenger window until it was fully open. Cool air blew into the car, rousing her from her stupor.
Flicking on his headlights, he checked his blind spot and pulled out.
“Lena, I don’t let anyone smoke, drink or eat in this car. So I’m not going to let anyone throw up either. OK? That’s what the window’s for.”
She nodded. They drove in silence until they completed the short journey to his flat. He found a space near his front door. As soon as he switched off the engine, she threw the door open and vomited into the street. He left her to it for a few minutes. It seemed to sober her up a little and when she stood up she was able to walk on her own to his front door.
His flat was on the ground floor so they didn’t have many steps to climb. He’d been there for about six months, since his split with Stacy, but Lena was his first visitor. He hadn’t even got around to emptying all the boxes yet. They were spread out on the hall floor, essential items having been dug out and left beside them in small pools of ordered chaos.
Paul switched on the living-room light and they tripped over to the couch in the corner. A large television and overstuffed beanbag not yet moulded for comfort were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. He sat Lena down while he rummaged through the boxes in the hall, looking for spare sheets. When he came back in, it pained him to see her already asleep, her hair and face stuck to the fresh leather. He pulled off her boots, threw a cover over her and forced a towel beneath her head.
After checking her breathing, which seemed fine, he finally made it to the kitchen and poured himself a four-finger measure of vodka with just enough flat cola to colour it brown. Taking the bottle of vodka with him, he went back into the living room and flopped onto the solid beanbag, which collided with his body like a Mitre football. Eventually, with persistence and hard elbows, he found a comfortable position and lay back, quietly ruminating while drinking his vodka, soothed by the methodical rhythm of her gentle breathing.
A few hours later, when the alarm buzzed him awake, soggy and sore and feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all, he found Lena lying in the same position on his couch. She groaned into her cover until he switched off the alarm, but she didn’t wake. The towel was lying on the floor.
The hiss of the kettle as Paul made his morning coffee didn’t stir her and nor did the clatter of drawers and doors as he showered and dressed. Before he left, he wrote a short note explaining where she was and left it beside the bowl with a half-empty box of paracetamol and a mug of water. He didn’t love the idea of leaving her alone in his flat, but what was the worst that could happen? She’d find out how empty his life was? That, or leave a fag lit and burn the house down.
The pub was mercifully quiet and the day passed without incident. The staff sensed his irritability and moved around him warily. At nine o’clock, he handed over to the team leader without ceremony and started for home.
It was dark by the time he pulled into his street. He wasn’t expecting her to still be there, but from the end of the path he could see that the lights were on in his flat, the curtains drawn. He approached with apprehension. Slowly, he opened the door.
The first things he noticed were his boxes arranged neatly in one corner and above them her freshly washed top drying over the hall radiator. He went into the living room and found the clothes horse out, the sheet and towel she had used the night before hanging over it. He felt a stab of annoyance that he couldn’t quite explain. In the bathroom the toilet flushed, the snib clicked and the door opened. Lena came into the living room, her hair wet, wearing one of his jumpers.
She jumped when she saw him, then crumpled with breathless laughter, her hand clenched in front of her chest. “Paul! I didn’t hear you come in!”
“Hi.” His eyes fell on his top.
“Don’t worry, we’ve all been there.” He looked around dubiously. “Make yourself at home.”
She continued with artificial playfulness. “I tidied up a little.”
“So I see. You didn’t have to do that.” He sat on the couch and stretched his legs.
“I like your flat.”
He nodded.
She came over and perched on the arm of the couch. “I don’t see any toys. Where’s the baby?”
Paul exhaled loudly. “He’s living with his mum.”
“Aw…” She cocked her head to one side in an exaggerated gesture of sympathy.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She moved onto the couch beside him. “Your bar is great. It’s really good to see you doing so well.”
He smiled uneasily.
“You seemed annoyed.”
“No, I’m just tired. I didn’t get much sleep.”
“Are you sure? You seem grumpy.”
He looked at her and frowned. Her over-familiarity was setting off alarm bells. “What do you expect? I found you in a toilet. I had to take you to my home, lie you on my couch, covered in sick. I was up half the night trying to make sure you didn’t choke to death.”
She moved closer to him, her hand moving up his arm. “I said sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”
S K Paisley Page 11
