The croupier called, “No more bets.” Beside them the ball clicked into a space. They both looked towards it. She’d won. He hadn’t. With perfectly manicured hands she cashed in her chips and collected her winnings before leaving the table. Paul watched her climb the broad staircase, drawing her hand along the polished brass rail. He noticed how she wore her dress as comfortably as her own skin. There was no fussing and tugging as there was with other women. She looked back for a moment, found him, then turned and continued up the stairs.
Paul waited a few moments before following her up. He climbed the flight of red-carpeted steps to the landing where the stairs diverged; he took the ones to the right, just as she had. The upstairs lounge was empty apart from a small group sitting round a table nursing drinks, and a bored-looking waiter slouched behind the bar. Through a set of glass doors at the far side of the lounge a poker game was going on. Paul looked around for Lena. It took him a while to spot her outside on the balcony, leaning against the railing.
As he opened the door to go outside a gush of cold air blew into the warm casino. The night was chilly, his jacket little comfort. Lena didn’t look round as he came out but he could tell she knew it was him. There was no one else on the balcony. Moving in beside her, he rested his elbows on the railing next to hers, close enough to feel the warmth of her body. Lena’s bare shoulders quivered in the icy breeze that was coming off the river. She stared off into the distance.
“Glasgow city skyline – none finer.” Paul’s voice broke the silence. “And what’s on the menu tonight? If we look down to the right we have one of Glasgow’s specials: a tramp peeing. Just slightly off to the left we have couple number one throwing punches; a rare delicacy, these unique fighting creatures are specially bred and cultivated for that extra zing. Up to our far left we have a First Bus delight – Irn-Bru bottle through the window; and from the frozen selection we can offer you tits-and-arse tart for the finer palate. Don’t you just love it?”
The hint of a smile flitted across her face. He took off his jacket and offered it to her. She didn’t take it so he placed it around her shoulders. Together they looked out over the black water studded with amber crystals that twinkled in the moonlight; no hint of the dangerous currents that raged underneath.
“I searched everywhere for you.” He looked sideways at her, finding it easier to stare at the dark seduction of the water; her eyes two scorching embers beside him.
“My mum said you’d been round,” she finally answered.
His eyes fell on the diamond necklace delicately clasped round her slender neck and he wondered vaguely if it was real. “That Jason’s a fucking prick.” A spray of spittle came out and he awkwardly licked his lips dry as he looked up at her, her cheeks a sanguine blush against her coffee-coloured skin.
“Yeah, he is,” she said tiredly.
Paul tried to take her hand but she pulled it away, suppressing a shudder.
“Not now, Paul. Not here.”
He watched as the hurt in her face was quickly replaced by something else, something he couldn’t quite place but that made him squirm, at first with shame and then with anger. “Well, when?” Wisps of white cloud formed when he spoke, the sound carrying thinly in the night air. “Are you just going to disappear again?”
She took his jacket from her shoulders and pushed it into his hands.
“Lena?”
He stared as she turned on her heel, opened the door and went back inside. Through the glass he could see her almost gliding across the upstairs lounge. He hesitated a moment then sprang from the railing and went after her, swishing through the door. He reached her at the stairs.
“Lena, don’t walk away from me, please.” He placed a conciliatory hand on her shoulder, her skin like velvet.
The heads of the small group nursing drinks turned towards them.
She shrugged him off and began to descend the staircase, only making it a few steps before she stopped, hovered and turned back to him, her face an accusation staring up at him.
“It’s too late, Paul. It’s just too late.”
He began fishing for his pen in the inside pocket of his jacket. Alongside it his fingers edged a rectangular card. Hastily he pulled it out and, meeting her on the step, leaned on the brass banister and started to write. “My new address. Phone number. Any day, any night. Please. I need to talk to you.”
He finished the semi-legible scrawl and handed it to her.
Lena took the card, turning it over in her hand. Paul watched her thumb etch the embossed gold lettering: The Pink Pussy Cat. She inspected the curvaceous blonde scantily clad in pink lingerie. Manny had given him a bundle of free passes to hand out at Limbo and one had made its way into his own pocket. He was a single man now.
She turned the card around in her hand, his address facing up.
“Please call. Even if it’s just to let me know you’re alright.”
She looked back at the card. “Don’t you know…” Paul watched her slip the card into her bag. “I always land on my feet.”
“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you,” a voice called from the half landing. They both looked towards it. Paul saw that it came from a man in his late thirties or early forties; tall, dressed in a smart dinner suit, his thinning hair neatly trimmed. He had a strong, educated Scottish accent – the clear, over-enunciated voice of someone who spent time out of the country and had to make himself understood by foreigners. The voice of a man with soft, clean hands and clipped nasal hair.
Lena began walking towards him and Paul watched from over the banister as they embraced. “I just needed some fresh air,” she said, still within earshot of Paul. Her hand massaged the man’s arm.
He looked over at Paul, unsure of what he had interrupted. “Is everything OK?”
Lena wiped away a tear from her eye. “The cold made my eyes water.”
Paul remained motionless as in front of him Lena’s demeanour changed. She was suddenly all cool elegance and practised charm, her words accentless, very much a mature woman rather than the girl she really was.
“Well, I’ve got a taxi booked. We’d better get a move on.” Coolly, he looked up at Paul once more, then ushered Lena down the stairs.
As Paul watched them disappear, the sight of the man’s tanned hand stroking her bare arms, a white circle on the left-hand ring finger where a wedding band had been recently removed, brought on a bout of almost overwhelming nausea.
He retreated to the bar and ordered a neat vodka from the slouching barman. He downed it in one and ordered another. He chased that one with a beer then ordered another. The night was no longer young but he was just getting started. He continued for another hour until finally he tipped the barman what was left of his chips, grateful that he’d poured the drinks and asked no questions.
It was still dark out as Paul set off for home, the wind biting as he staggered along the Broomielaw. He kept the river to his left, occasionally glancing up at the wall of futuristic titanium-coloured office blocks on his right, now emptied for the weekend. The road was well lit until it passed under the motorway bridge, but then it became steadily darker. The Clyde was still just visible alongside him, but across the way, grey buildings awaiting demolition loomed out of weed-strewn wastelands.
The road was empty of traffic so he walked down the centre of it, not always in a straight line, but heading in the direction of home. Dressed in his suit, with his expensive watch, he was a perfect target for muggers. He walked with a certain swagger, almost hoping someone would try something, relishing the thought. He primed himself, not letting his guard down for a moment, a solitary figure on the dark road. His steps loud in the quiet night.
Eventually the road curved round and in the distance he saw the reassuring black lines of the old Finnieston Crane. He was close to home. The new development of riverside condos that housed his apartment stood a few h
undred yards ahead of him. There was a tense moment as he passed a line of brown-leaved trees, their branches leaving dark shadows, but he reached his front door undisturbed. Drunkenly reaching for his keys, he fobbed himself in through the security entrance.
The foyer was still freshly painted, the air rich with the smell of pomegranate. Bowls of potpourri rested beside vases of luscious green shoots that reached to just below the ceiling, secured in pebbles. A CCTV camera pointed at the lift. Paul stared into it while he waited. It seemed that everywhere you turned in Glasgow there was a cheeky purple lens winking at you. Another one met him inside the lift and followed him to his stop on the seventh floor. He walked along the quiet corridor: no sign of life. He wasn’t sure he had neighbours; at least, he’d never seen any. A lot of flats in the development had yet to be sold. He liked the emptiness and hoped it would stay that way.
Opening his front door, he went in without switching on the lights. The large open-plan space felt vast, the generous square footage giving it an airy feel. The flat still smelled new. Kicking the door shut with his heel, he tripped over to the kitchen area, barely out of its plastic wrapping, and extracted a bottle of vodka from the fridge. A dark mood descended.
With difficulty, putting the bottle under his armpit, a glass in his hand, he pulled down the handles of the French doors, one at a time, and opened them wide. He hovered for a few moments, breathing in the night air, gazing at his waterfront view, little more than a blur to his eyes. But the couch beckoned. He stumbled back towards it, hitting his shin on the coffee table, banging the bottle dangerously onto its glass top. His heart weighed heavily in his chest. After searching for so long, he had finally found her, only to lose her all over again.
The glass was drained. Hot tears ran down his cheek. Fear and anger flushed through his system like rancid bile. He’d let her slip through his fingers. She’d cringed from his touch. Paul reached for the bottle, desperate to finish, terrified he would run out. He filled his glass until it was almost overflowing, drank it and poured again. His kidneys ached. Vomit rose in his throat but he choked it back. He put the filled glass to his lips but nausea rose again. He knew he couldn’t get it down and thumped it onto the table. Taking the half-empty bottle, he rolled it back and forth in his hand for a second before getting to his feet. With force, he hurled it against the wall. He heard the crunch as it smashed. Heard the crunch of John’s skull again as the bat smashed into it. Saw Manny’s smile as he swung. The heavy sole of his boot as he lay on the ground. Fragmented images of what she must have seen came and went: him and Manny together on the ground.
Razor-sharp shards littered the room, glistening in the moonlight, the alcohol forming streaks across the polished hardwood flooring. Paul tried to cry but it came out in strangled heaves. He felt the darkness take hold inside, rotting him from the inside out. He had to stop it. Had to let it out. Falling to his knees, he half slid, half crawled towards the broken glass. Reaching for the nearest piece, he grabbed it up and slowly drew it along his forearm. The sudden and sharp pain was sweet relief. Blood drained from his arm along with his energy and he dropped on to his back. Shadows danced around the tall walls and high ceiling, dark shapes transforming before his eyes.
The room was almost light when he was roused from his fitful sleep by the sound of knocking. His heart was beating furiously in his chest, his head swirling. He was lying on the same spot, blood smeared on his arm and the floor. Glass strewn in all directions. The room was cold, the balcony doors still wide open.
The knocking continued and he realised it was coming from his front door.
“Fuck off!” His slurred words rang out into the pre-dawn.
There was a momentary pause, then the knocking started again.
Paul groaned. With an effort to coordinate body and limbs, he struggled to his feet, nursing his sore arm. He took a few moments to right himself before cursing his way to the front door.
Through the dome-shaped spy hole he saw the distorted figure of Lena. “Shit.” His head made a dense thud as he banged it against the wood with more force than he’d intended. With his good arm he reached down and unlocked the door.
She was dressed in the same floor-length cocktail dress she’d been wearing earlier, each strand of hair still perfectly placed. She had her clutch bag in one hand, a folded-up suit carrier in the other. He noticed with a stab of annoyance that her eyes were puffy from crying.
“What do you want?” His voice was hoarse from sleep, his tongue soggy with alcohol; the bitter taste and smell emanating from his pores was making him nauseous. A piercing pain had settled at the front of his head and the light from the hallway was burning his eyes.
“Can I come in?”
“What’re you doing here?”
“You asked me to come.”
Paul, disorientated, took a step back. She walked past him into the entranceway. He shuffled behind her to lock the door, putting on the chain.
“Did I wake you? Paul, it’s cold in here.”
Stumbling back to the couch, leaving her where she stood, he could see her taking in the chaotic state of the room. Next she took in his own dishevelled appearance. Without saying anything, he sat brooding in the silence, listening to the sound of her breath.
Her eyes reflected the grey half-light like two marbles. It took her a few moments to notice the wound. She gasped. “Paul, what happened here? You’ve cut yourself.”
He watched her scramble back to the front door to the light switch. The explosion of light when she flipped it on left him momentarily blinded. He shaded his eyes. Slowly the blurred figure in front of him came into focus.
She rushed to the kitchen, picked up a fresh towel and ran it under the tap.
“Just leave it, it’s nothing,” he growled scratchily. The blood had stopped flowing, the wound a crispy purple line on his arm. He spied the glass of vodka on the table in front of him. Taking it in his hand, he dripped some onto his arm, the sting long and deep. The rest he poured down his throat.
Lena stood in front of him aghast, the damp towel in her hands. He snatched it from her and started to rub the blood from the surrounding area as she watched in silence.
The broken bottle of vodka lay between them.
“Where’s your necklace?” Her hand moved to her neck and Paul sneered.
“How did you…?” She didn’t finish the sentence.
“A present for his wife?” He wondered how she’d got through the security entrance. But then Lena never did need a key. Doors just opened for her.
She shrugged. “I got to wear it first.”
His head nodded, his jaw set bitterly. As he tried to stay focused on her, Manny’s words rang through his mind. All women are whores.
“Do you want me to go, Paul?”
“I don’t know. Can I afford for you to stay?”
He watched her face contort; hurt, sad. She did it well. But he didn’t believe it for a second. Not this time.
“Paul?”
“Did you at least shower tonight after you fucked your old man?”
She gave a small gasp, her voice raised. “I came because I needed a friend.”
Paul watched her with loathing. “What is it this time? Some boyfriend need battering?” The words bubbled out of him in varying degrees of coherence. “Sugar daddy’s not leaving his wife for you?”
The anger was building inside him, fuelled by an overwhelming hatred towards her, for the expression on her face. The same one as before, the one that made him feel worthless. Earlier he hadn’t been able to place it. But now he recognised it. Disgust. It was disgust she felt towards him.
“Whores. All women are whores,” he spat, his voice breaking.
“You’re drunk, Paul. I’m leaving.”
She walked towards the door, her high heels clicking on the floor.
He started to get off the couch.
“Friend? Is that what I am to you now?” He was up on his feet and swaying. “Friend cos I’m a bender? Is that all I am, a bender friend?”
He steadied himself against the arm of the couch. “Seriously, you think I’m a poof or something? Some fucking rent boy that can be fucked and used?”
Lena picked up her pace and moved at speed towards the door.
Paul stumbled after her, drunken slurs escaping his mouth. “Want me to show you I’m not a fucking gay boy? Want me to show you?”
He banged into the kitchen counter, knocking over a vase. It crashed to the floor.
Lena screamed and lunged for the door, desperately trying to unlock it. “Stay away from me, Paul!” she yelled, her voice shrill with terror. “Stay away!”
Paul watched as she curled, shrinking, against the door, her brown eyes dilated with fear. It stopped him in his tracks. Even in his drunken stupor he was able to see what he was doing to her. He stood back in shame. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, Lena. I’m sorry.”
She cowered even closer to the door. He knelt down beside her and tried to hug her, but she fought him, hissing and scratching, wriggling in his arms.
“Lena, I’m not going to hurt you!”
She kicked and screamed until all the energy was out of her. Her body slowly became limp. He felt her heaving, sobbing against his chest. Her arms squeezed around his body.
When he awoke later in the morning, she was lying beside him in bed, staring at him. His good arm was around her. His head was aching. He had only a vague recollection of the night before; the last remnants of anger evaporated in the light of day. Her fingers traced the shape of his face. As he came to consciousness, she moved his arm and got up. She closed the door of the en-suite behind her.
A few minutes later Paul heard the sound of water rushing in the shower. He lay in bed, still drowsy and half drunk, willing the room to stop spinning.
He listened as the shower switched off and she moved about in the bathroom. When she came back into the bedroom she was dressed in a neat black suit, with polished heels and a crisp white shirt. Her hair was damp, her make-up was perfect.
S K Paisley Page 18
