S K Paisley

by Take a Breath (epub)

  “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” Carmichael looked around him in feigned disgust. “Not much. It’s like a whore’s bedroom.” He poked his finger in Paul’s shoulder and came close enough so that Paul could smell the drink on his breath. “I just wanted to remind you I’ve still got my eye on you.”

  In the background, Paul could see the bouncer looking over. He waved him back, signalling that he had the situation under control. The night had passed without a scene. He didn’t want to start one now.

  “You’ve given your message, so you can drink up and get going,” he said.

  Carmichael held up his half-finished pint and inspected it in the light, scrunching his lips with distaste. “Difficult to swallow.” He placed it down on the bar. “Maybe I’ll try again when the new lot take over. I take it John’s wife was fleeced in the sale?”

  Paul was struggling to show restraint. “What sale?”

  Carmichael’s face lit up. “So you’re not in the loop? Munroe and you not as close as I thought. Ah well.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Maybe it’s time you had a word with your boss. Looks like you’ll be out of a job tomorrow,” he taunted. “He’s got you where he wants you. Bent over a barrel, from what I can see.” He noted Paul’s shocked expression and smirked. “That wiped the smile off that smug face of yours.”

  Paul grabbed Carmichael’s pint and poured it down the nearby sink. “Drinking-up time’s over.”

  He walked away to take the tills downstairs and by the time he returned, Carmichael was gone.

  Paul dialled Manny’s number but it went straight to voicemail. Soldiering on, he made sure that empty glasses were cleared from tables and final customers politely pushed through the doors. When the last one was gone, Paul gathered his staff together and gave them a round of applause. There was no doubt they had pulled it off with style, no denying the night was a runaway success. He handed out free passes for a nightclub in town, with tokens for free drinks, and let them head off; he would finish the cleaning-up himself. A few were disappointed when he told them he’d catch up with them later. One of the barmaids, who’d long been making sheep’s eyes at him, used Lena’s absence as an excuse to openly flirt. But he couldn’t be persuaded. Sending them off on a high note, he decided the news that they might all soon be unemployed could wait till tomorrow.

  He remained there alone, mourning his beautiful bar. What should have been a jubilant celebration for him became a funeral wake. He took a bottle of Cristal from the fridge, the one he’d been planning to open with Lena, and popped the cork. The creamy bubbles overflowed into his single flute. He tried phoning Lena again. He tried phoning Manny. Both went straight to voicemail. Feeling utterly deflated, he pulled down the front shutter, locking out the world.

  He didn’t hear Manny let himself in the back door and only knew he was in the bar when the door from the cellar flew open behind him. He swung round to the sight of Manny stepping up the last stair, sharply dressed in fitted pin-stripes, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.” Paul sank into his seat and gritted his teeth. The bottle of Cristal was half-finished and his stomach was beginning to churn from the acidity.

  Manny dangled his set of keys. “No problems tonight?” He walked across the floor to the bar, like he owned the place.

  Paul watched him bitterly. “Usual opening-night hitches. Nothing major.”

  “So why are you not out celebrating?” Manny went behind the bar and poured himself a malt whisky from one of the most expensive bottles.

  Without the restraint of full sobriety, Paul glared at him, unable to hide his anger.

  Manny took a swig and then closed his eyes, savouring it. When he opened them and Paul was still staring at him, he stopped and put his glass down on the granite bar-top. “Is something wrong?”

  “Is it true you’re selling the place?”

  Manny smiled. “When I missed your call, I thought—”

  “Is it true?”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I’ve been in negotiations for a week or so now. Sealed the deal tonight.” He came out from behind the bar and rested his elbows behind him on the counter.

  “So why didn’t you tell me?” Paul got up out of his seat and came towards him, stopping a yard or two away. “After all the work I put in—”

  “You were well paid for your work.”

  Paul could see Manny wasn’t going to be reasonable, but then he never was. He choked with hatred for the man.

  “What?” Manny said. “Just because you put some work into a place, you own it? You don’t, Paul. I do. Or I did. Now I have a seven-figure sum in my back pocket.”

  Paul’s temper flared, his body shaking with rage. “You know what? Fuck this! I quit. I don’t work for you anymore.” He headed for the cellar door.

  Manny called him back. “You’re going nowhere, son.”

  Paul pivoted on his heels, energised, the taste of a fight in his mouth. “You can’t stop me.”

  Manny’s laughter stoked his temper. “I thought this might happen if I let you get too carried away. Getting big ideas. What’re you going to do, run out into the night? And do what, panhandle for a living?”

  “I’ll go out on my own. Start my own place.” Paul couldn’t believe how simple it sounded. Why he’d never seriously considered it before.

  “Not in this town you won’t.”

  “Somewhere else,” Paul said defiantly.

  “And how are you going to do that?” Manny stepped towards him. Paul kept the door in sight. “There’s a world of difference between owning a bar and managing one, Paul. No running to me for handouts every time you want to do up the place. A schemie with a record. No qualifications, no references, dependents – you think the bank’s going to help you? The council? I’ve heard it’s hard to get a licence. You need a bit of influence, some friends in your back pocket, that kind of thing. No, son, not without my contacts, my collateral, my reputation at your back. You’re nothing without me.”

  Paul was backing away. “Then I’ll be nothing. I’ll go somewhere and I’ll serve coffee for a living. I don’t need your money.”

  “I’d find you.”

  Manny paused to let the full weight of the threat sink in. Paul was locked to the spot. A gust of wind blew up from the cellar, prickling the back of his neck.

  “No, I think it’s good for you to stay where you are.” Manny drew even closer. Paul could feel his resolve dissolving. “I’ve already got something lined up for you.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “Yes you will.”

  Paul was sweating around the collar, his earlier energy waning. The lights glared too brightly in his eyes. The glass glistened in Manny’s hand.

  “Because I know of a certain shallow grave, with a certain body, and a certain sealed bag with a pile of bloodstained clothes inside.” Manny backed him against the wall. “You look like you want to hit me, Paul.”

  He did want to. He wanted to floor him. Hit him in the face. Knock his teeth out. Kick him to the ground, have him beg for mercy.

  “Do you, Paul? Are you going to fight me?”

  Paul raised his fists. Manny moved closer.

  “I like it when you fight me.”

  Manny’s lifeless eyes were black, flat like a shark’s. Paul’s fists slowly unclenched.

  Manny sneered. “I didn’t think so.”

  He threw the glass against the wall above Paul’s head. The smash rang loudly in Paul’s ear, whisky and glass poured down on him. A punch struck Paul square in the stomach and he doubled over, gasping for air, his eyes focusing on Manny’s boots circling beneath him. Manny grasped him with both hands and pulled him over to the nearest table, knocking down chairs on the way. Paul struggled against him but the wind had been knocked out o
f him. Another blow from Manny, this time to the face, stunned him. Manny forced him over the table, his arms stretched out flat, his cheek pressed against it. As he unbuckled Paul’s trousers, Paul, half conscious, felt his body surrender. Sometimes it was easier not to react. He heard Manny undo his own zip. He tried to turn round, but Manny held his head in place.

  Manny spat onto his hand and used it as lubricant. Paul looked around the disordered bar. Under the white glare of the cleaning light he could see all the stains and scars as clear as they had always been. He hadn’t covered them at all. All the refurbishment in the world couldn’t get rid of them.

  At the moment of entry Paul winced then forced himself motionless, trying to relax his muscles, his eyes shut tight. Manny’s thighs began pounding against him, his cock piercing again, again. He could hear Manny’s breath tearing out behind him, Paul holding his, wishing it to be over. The pleasant tingling in his stomach wanting it to last.

  Paul felt Manny finish as he did too. Manny patted him on the back, out of breath as if he’d just completed a race, resting momentarily on Paul. When he stepped away, Paul pulled his trousers up, panting. He flopped to the floor, leaning against the booth. Manny sat down beside him. He reached out and put his hand on Paul’s face, not roughly, not gently. “What do you do to me?” he said, his jaw locked in a furious smile.

  At that moment, out of the corner of his eye, Paul saw something flutter behind the cellar door. Before he could move, it swung open and Lena stood there, hand over her mouth. Through her fingers, she mumbled, “What’s going on, Paul?”

  Manny answered. “What’s it look like, you silly tart?”

  Her eyes searched Paul’s face. “Paul?”

  He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eye. Still dazed and sick with shame, there was nothing he could say. The room was deathly quiet, as if all life in the world had been extinguished with one strong breath. Manny let out a burst of laughter.

  Lena fled the room before Paul could make it to his feet.

  “Lena!” He chased after her. “LENA! Come back. Please!”

  But she was already through the door, into the night.

  Paul sat sullenly in the car as Manny dropped him home, not openly complaining for fear of what it might stir. He got out quietly, saying nothing, shutting the car door carefully so as not to made a noise. He barely had the strength to make it to his front door. The lights were still on. It gave him hope as he walked in surrender up the path, his body still in pain. Letting himself in, he took tentative steps, listening for some hint of sound in the silence that met him. Straight away it was clear there was something different about the place. He walked from room to room more than once just to make sure she wasn’t there.

  He checked in drawers and cupboards, the shower shelf in the bathroom. All her stuff was gone. Lena had cleared out. He had no idea where she would go.

  Sitting on the bed, in shock, unable to fully grasp what was happening, he saw the shoebox sitting on the pillow, the one they’d argued about the week before. It was the only thing she appeared to have left behind. Reaching over, he took off the lid. There was no longer money inside; instead there was a smaller box, wrapped neatly in brown paper. Carefully, he slipped his fingers under the Sellotape and lifted up the flaps. The wrapping came off to reveal another box. This one had the word Rolex written in gold on the front. Inside lay a beautiful crystal-faced watch on a polished steel band. She must have been planning to surprise him at the after-party. He turned it over. On the back there was an inscription: To Paul. All my love always, best friend. I love you. Lena

  *

  Strapped to Annie’s chair, Paul looked down at his left wrist. The watch was just visible beneath the circles of hemp rope around it. The warders had given it back to him when he left prison. He’d thought about selling it – he needed the money – but he couldn’t bring himself to go through with it.

  It was painful now to look back. Remembering their hopes and dreams. Their lives together, ahead of them. Those small, special moments, growing steadily less tangible, swirling and floating like wisps of cloud. Each one as delicate and short-lived as a snowflake.

  Afterwards all he was left with was the anger and bitterness of words spoken that could never be taken back, the hurt of insults thrown and selfish acts, betrayals, that would smart and sting for a lifetime. And worst of all, regret. The smothering, consuming regret.

  He wore the watch now like a shackle around his wrist.

  “She saw me and Manny… together,” he said to Annie and waited for her reaction.

  “You and Manny together doing what?”

  She looked at him with dawning realisation, not sure whether to believe him or spit on him.

  “I wouldn’t go telling anyone else about it. People have been killed for less.” He shook his head as if to rid it of the memory.

  “But you told me you loved her.” She spoke in accusation.

  “I did.” His hands clenched and unclenched. “But with me and Manny, it was complicated.”

  “Complicated how? You loved him too?”

  “No.” He pondered the absurd duality. “I hated him.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Seventeen years ago

  It was quiet on Glasgow Green, the din of traffic from the nearby street absorbed by the tall, frost-laced trees. Silver moonlight shone through the spindly branches, casting ragged dagger shapes on the dark ground. Paul stood, hat pulled down, hood up, jacket zipped to the neck, trying to stave off the icy wind coming off the River Clyde. One hand was buried deep in his pocket while the other, numb and red, held a shaking cigarette, the glowing ember a ruby speck in the gloom. He’d hoarded the cigarette all day, not wanting to smoke it too early and leave himself disappointed. He had to wait for the perfect moment, for when he needed it most, when he needed his mind and body to be in freefall, to calm his nerves for what he was about to do.

  Three minutes and it was gone, the warm rush fading with the slow intrusion of hunger, anticipation and the damp smell of foliage. He was sixteen and all he wanted was a bed, a decent meal and something to ease the pain.

  His eyes turned to the pathway, the darkness looming like a cold breath on his shoulder. Endless days waiting for night, endless nights waiting for day.

  A figure appeared from the shadows, moonlit. Showtime, thought Paul. He watched the man walk towards him: head bowed beneath a cap, collar turned up, middle-aged, medium height, casual clothes, neither expensive nor cheap. For a brief second it seemed that he might walk past but at the last moment he looked up, a coy smile on his face, just visible in the gloom. Paul prepared himself for action. Flashing a quick glance over the man’s shoulder to the bushes where his friend Paddy was crouched, he raked the ground with his foot.

  “You got a light?” the man asked.

  “You got a cigarette?”

  The man reached for his packet and offered Paul one. Paul lit the cigarettes and for a short time they smoked in silence.

  Up close, Paul was able to measure him more closely. The man was shorter than him but his posture was upright, commanding more space than was necessary. Paul was tall for his age, but slight. The man’s stocky build made him more imposing than he first appeared.

  “Looking for someone?”

  “I’m not here for the fresh air, son.”

  “Hundred quid. Money up front.” Paul closed in on him, reeling him in but ready to run if things turned ugly.

  “Fifty.” The man’s eyes looked Paul up and down. Paul clocked the wedding band as the man reached out his hand and placed it on the nape of Paul’s neck. “And you swallow.”

  He tried to focus on the man’s face but couldn’t help shooting another quick glance beyond him to the shifting shadow coming towards them. That, and the slightest tremble in the air as the weapon was wielded was all it took to alert the man. He flinched, cigarette dropped,
and the pipe that was supposed to crash into his skull instead smashed into his shoulder.

  Like a bear, the man lunged at Paddy, knocking him to the ground, the pipe bouncing into the bushes. Paul leaped on the man’s back, trying to bring him down, but the man was strong and threw him to the ground with a sharp thud. Prone on the damp grass, Paul watched as the man stomped full force on Paddy’s groin. Then, with blood on his lips, he turned to Paul, bounding towards him, his grey hair wild.

  Paul tried to get up, to run. But there was no chance of escape. Grabbing him by both arms, the man smashed his head into the bridge of Paul’s nose. Paul heard a crunch and his neck jerked back. There was shouting and then running, fading footsteps pounding on the concrete. Through a film of blood, Paul saw his friend disappearing down the path and into the night. The rabid snarls of the man intensified as his face slowly appeared above Paul, nostrils flared, side teeth bared. A boot connected with Paul’s face again and again. It took some time before everything fell into darkness.

  He woke up to the smell of disinfectant, a flickering strip light above him, the machine beside him beeping. He tried to speak but couldn’t; his jaw had been wired shut. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, his teeth ragged. All movement was restricted by the tight white sheets that hemmed him in. His right leg hovered above him, in traction. There was so much pain it was impossible to tell where it was coming from. He managed a low moan. A nurse’s feet padded towards him; her fingers checked his pulse and the clear liquid she injected into the drip slowly dissolved the pain.

  His first few days in intensive care passed in a drug-addled blur. His body functioned with the aid of machines. At night he woke up screaming. The doctor said it was to be expected. An attack of that nature.

  There was a shadow of the man’s boot on his brain.

  Images came back to him in shuddering flashes: the man’s snarling face, Paddy running into the night. Abandoned and alone. Trapped with a monster. Given the chance, would he have done the same? Probably. Hot tears formed behind his eyes.