S K Paisley

by Take a Breath (epub)

  “What’s wrong, Lena?”

  She drew her eyes away from the window and breathed deeply. “It’s probably nothing,” she said. “I’ve just had this strange feeling all day that someone is watching me.”

  “What makes you say that?” Paul’s heart thumped in his chest. He instinctively took a step back to behind the floral curtain, out of sight of the street.

  “When I left the bar yesterday after talking to you and Manny, I noticed a man on my way out. I noticed him because his face… it looked like he’d been in some kind of explosion. I saw him again later. Near my flat. And again today, passing the station. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Glasgow’s a small place.”

  Paul pulled her out of view of the window and couldn’t hide the growing concern in his face. “It’s not a coincidence.” He wondered if Terry had seen him entering earlier.

  Lena’s face flushed and her eyes watered.

  “I’m not trying to scare you, Lena. But you’re mixed up in this now. Can you see that?”

  She nodded and suddenly the question of her leaving was answered. “What should I do?”

  Paul nodded to her travel case on the bed. “Terry will be looking for a woman in a red dress. Have you got a change of clothes?”

  She nodded and with little fuss followed his instructions.

  She swapped her dress for trousers and a top, and hid them beneath a beige raincoat, collar up. She trussed her hair up under a black fedora. Paul took her new phone number and told her to go outside directly, keep her head down and get in a taxi straight to his flat. If Terry knew where she lived, it wasn’t safe for her to go back there. He told her to make a list of all the things she needed and he would pick them up from her flat later. Passport, clothes, whatever else she could think of. They exchanged keys. London first, then who knew? Paul would try to sort things with Stacy early the next day and they could be travelling by the afternoon. The rest they could think about later. Once they were at a safe distance, they could go their separate ways. He hoped she wouldn’t.

  When it was time to go, Lena followed him to the door like a shadow. He opened it to send her on her way but she hovered and pressed her hands into the muscles in his arm.

  “Thank you, Paul.”

  “When you get to mine you should try to get some sleep. I don’t know when we’ll have the chance to rest next.”

  She suddenly hugged him close, burying her head in his chest.

  He watched from the window as she appeared in the street below, crossed it and got straight into a taxi. There was no sign of Terry. A few minutes later Paul crept out too and made his way to Limbo for his last night of work.

  As he strode towards the front door to let his bouncers know it was last entry, there was a heaviness to Paul’s step. He contemplated his and Lena’s imminent escape.

  The entrance to Limbo was in an alley. Its blinking lights enticed people up the dark pathway but at this time of night it was all but deserted. The blaring music from the club echoed down the cobbles as he opened the door to go outside.

  The bouncers stepped inside to enjoy some heat before the end of the night, when they would be back monitoring the throng of people pouring out. Paul stood just outside the door, making the most of his brief break. The cold air was biting; it was forecast to snow that night. There was a strange amber glow to the sky that made him think it was close.

  Leaning back against the alley wall, Paul took a long draw on his cigarette. As he exhaled the final puff, the bleached poster on the opposite wall caught his eye. It was advertising a classical concert which had passed two years ago. The font was superimposed over the image of an angel. The ink had faded so you could no longer tell he had once been surrounded by a beautiful blue sky, the brilliant golden wings now an insipid yellow.

  A faint grunt made Paul jump. The silhouette of a man emerged slowly from the end of the alley. His sturdy steps were meandering yet purposeful, his head draped in shadow. Paul watched as he teetered along, supported on buckling legs – two steps forward, one step back – and wondered if there was some device built into drunks that set them in the direction of home. Paul dipped to see the face but it was too dark. The figure hovered a few feet from him, his radar telling him the thoroughfare was not clear. Paul flipped his cigarette off the poster and turned to go back into the club.

  He heard the steps rush towards him but didn’t see the figure lunge at him. He was knocked into the wall, his face grazing the damp bricks. Two strong arms turned him round and he was hit by the smell of whisky. Carmichael. The inspector’s face was pressed up against Paul’s, his drunken eyes rolling. He began beating Paul over the head with a folded newspaper, making crazy, indistinct noises like the hee-haws of a donkey.

  “Scumbag! Fucking…” Spittle flew from the corners of his mouth. “I thought it was drugs.”

  Paul was surprised the old man had so much speed. He pushed Carmichael forcefully in the chest, hard enough to send him stumbling. The paper fell to the ground and Carmichael tripped over his own feet and landed hard beside it. He rolled onto his back like a beetle, unable to right himself. Hysterical laughter blasted out of Paul as he kicked Carmichael in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He stuck the boot in again. Carmichael rolled about, clutching his swollen belly.

  Behind Paul the door to the club flew open. Two bouncers ran towards him.

  “What happened? What’s going on?”

  Paul spun round. “This pathetic piece of shit fuckin’ ran’n jumped me.” With his temper up, his accent came through thick and guttural. He savoured the aggressive growl of the words.

  The bouncers lifted Carmichael to his feet. His head lolled from side to side between his shoulder blades, which poked up like two lumps. His white hair was dishevelled, feathered around his ears. Paul experienced a small attack of nausea and turned away.

  “Throw him at the end of the alley. And be gentle. When he’s not a drunken retard, he’s polis.”

  “No problem, boss,” one of the bouncers said as the two of them vigorously ushered Carmichael back into the darkness. Paul heard a couple of kicks followed by groans but left them to it, his attention now focused on the crumpled tabloid lying at his feet. He bent down and read the headline.

  Lifting the paper to inspect it further, he read and reread the story until he could make some sense of it.

  When he closed his eyes, a terrifying image settled behind the lids. Ayr beach. Naked grey bloated skin piled on naked grey bloated skin. Limbs intertwined, caked in froth and loam. Dank hair dripping like limp, dead weeds.

  A sickening dread rose inside him. Clutching the paper in his left hand, he charged off into the shadows of the alley, heading for Manny’s pool hall. With his other hand, he felt for the flick-knife resting in the hidden pocket sewn into the tails of his suit jacket.

  The light in Manny’s office was still on, as it often was at that hour on a Saturday night. The only time Paul could count on him being alone. Paul pressed the buzzer. Shuffling from foot to foot, he stared into the camera and imagined Manny watching the grainy, grey image. His heart was racing. Waiting in the cold, dark street, the acrid smell of fish from the nearby mongers still potent from trade earlier in the day, Paul listened closely. Finally he heard footsteps thudding down the stairs, a hand fumbling the lock, the bolts clicking out of place. He took a step back as the door swung open.

  Manny appeared, his face sculpted by shadows, his gold incisor sparkling.

  “Paul. Wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I need to talk to you.” Paul tried to control the tremor in his voice. He moved closer to the door, but Manny was blocking the entrance, looking him up and down. The waning moon shone down on them.

  “I said, we need to talk.” Paul rested his hand on the wall and held his gaze.

  Silently, Manny stepped aside, allowing him to brush past. Paul climbed the stairs to the pool r
oom. The lights were off, the empty bar stools and lonely rows of green tables just visible in the shard of light from Manny’s office. The plastic-coated benches that encircled the room were bare, but still Paul felt like someone was lurking there, in some dark corner.

  Manny’s steps sounded behind him. The office door creaked as Manny opened it; in the wash of orange light his massive shadow engulfed Paul. Turning his back on the cold draughts of the empty pool room, Paul followed him into the office.

  Inside, it was stifling. The heater in the corner shed a fiery glow around the room. Condensation misted the grilled window. Paul could feel his palms starting to sweat.

  “So what is it that’s so important?”

  Manny leaned against his desk, facing Paul, his hand resting near a half-drunk mug of coffee. Paul’s eyes fell briefly on the framed photograph of Manny’s wife. It captured her well – attractive, confident – and would have been convincing if Paul hadn’t recognised the same forced loyalty that he himself displayed. Beside Manny’s wife sat their two daughters. Paul had never met them; to him they were almost mythical creatures, ephemeral abstracts in a photograph, with their pearly white smiles and perfectly groomed hair. Manny had once told Paul that if his daughters ever brought home a scruff like him, he’d break his legs. Paul was only good enough for Manny to toy with. Manny’s daughters wouldn’t dance in one of his clubs, wouldn’t lie doped on a bed in one of his brothels, getting fucked by strangers.

  Or wash up on a beach somewhere.

  Paul threw the newspaper onto the desk, the front page facing upwards.

  Manny glanced at it, not even a hint of acknowledgement. “What’s this?”

  “It’s the cargo. The one I told you about the other day.”

  Manny looked at him blankly. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You dumped them – so you wouldn’t get caught.”

  Manny’s dead black eyes stared at him.

  Paul pointed a finger in Manny’s chest. “You knew when I said in the club the other night—”

  Manny slapped his finger away, bunched the front of Paul’s shirt with his fist and pulled him in close. Paul could feel the heat of Manny’s breath. With his free hand Manny patted Paul’s chest. Paul realised he was searching for a wire. Satisfied there wasn’t one, Manny pushed him away. Paul stumbled but caught his balance.

  “So what if I did?” Manny began to pace back and forth. “Do you think it’s easy what I do – being the boss? You stand there and judge me? You! The runt from the streets!” He ran his hand through his silver-flecked dark hair, leaving it standing up in two points behind his ears. His customary measured whisper had become a roar that reverberated around the room. “I make the difficult decisions no one else will. I do what it takes. It wasn’t me that made this happen. I didn’t want it this way.”

  “They are dead, Manny. Eight women are dead.” Paul’s thumping heart felt like it was about to crack through his ribs.

  “A lot more than that, my son.” Manny stopped pacing. “There’s always a price; it’s always at the expense of others.”

  Paul tried to picture himself and Lena together – blue skies, the rush of the sea – but the image distorted into bulging alabaster eyes, glazed and cracked like antique ceramic, threads of blood pumping through them, squeezing out. The sputtering cries of the drowned women rang in his head.

  “Just because I understand, that doesn’t make me the bad one.” Manny’s words were slow and considered again now. “Just because I don’t sit around in my tidy house, choosing to see just enough so that I can live with myself, letting someone else get their hands dirty. I bear the responsibility for all of you. But there’s blood on all of our hands. All of our choices count.”

  “I can’t do it anymore,” Paul pleaded. “You know you can trust me. I won’t say anything to anyone. But I’m finished. I have to go.”

  Manny stood squarely in front of the door. Under his dark gaze, Paul found himself rooted to the spot. He wondered why he’d never noticed how ugly Manny was before. How spittle gathered at the corner of his lips when he spoke; that his teeth were brown and rotting and his eyes were empty. Hideous. He’d never considered what it must be like to wake up in the morning and have those eyes staring back from the mirror. The thought made him nauseous.

  “Get away from the door, Manny,” Paul said weakly.

  Manny’s mouth turned down in a mean smirk. “No.”

  Paul could suddenly feel the weight of the knife buried in the back of his jacket. “I’m trying to be reasonable, Manny.”

  “Reasonable?” Manny laughed. “How about a couple of quid for the slut to fuck Dario. Call it a belated birthday present. Does that sound reasonable?”

  Manny took a step closer. Paul backed away, not taking his eyes off him.

  “I thought you were a fighter,” Manny sneered, his hands bunching into fists. “A player. Never took you for a pussy, Paul.”

  The light flickered and Paul became aware of the incessant buzzing from above. “Get back, Manny.”

  Manny shoved his shoulder with the heel of his hand. Paul stopped backing away and stood his ground.

  “That’s what happens to pussies, Paul. Is that what you are? A pussy? Is that what you want? A lifetime of rolling over? Think you can protect your family, being a pussy?”

  Manny shoved him again, more forcefully. Paul pressed the butt of his head against Manny’s.

  “You stay away from them,” Paul growled.

  “That son of yours?” Manny whispered, so close Paul could smell his canine breath. “Think he’ll grow up to be as big a pussy as his father? Do you think when I check on him in a few years he’ll be as big a disappointment to me as you are? Do you think he’ll be looking for a real man to show him the ways of the world? Or maybe some cock-munching like his old man?”

  Paul threw a swift right hook. It connected with the side of Manny’s head, but he barely flinched. Teeth bared, Manny’s hands went up and coiled tightly around Paul’s throat. He squeezed, pressing his thumb into Paul’s windpipe.

  “I’ll break your neck before I let you leave.”

  Paul struggled against him but Manny’s grip was too strong.

  “I’ll break your son’s neck.”

  Manny pressed harder. Blood pumped into Paul’s face, his temples bulged.

  Manny’s eyes stared steadily into his. “I found you. I own you. I’ll never let you go.”

  White lights began to flash and Paul could feel the life slipping out of him, could feel his pulse grow weaker and weaker.

  There was no alternative. Manny wouldn’t allow it. Manny, who had taken him off the streets, given him a chance when nobody else would.

  “Understand?”

  Paul nodded.

  Manny shook him by the neck. “Understand!”

  Paul’s eyes rolled in his head and slowly closed.

  Manny let go and Paul fell to his knees, gasping for air, the bitter taste of blood and defeat in his mouth. Manny paced around him, his boot soles thudding. He was talking, but Paul couldn’t hear the words over his own hacking and wheezing.

  The boots stopped and Manny stood in silence above him. The coughing slowly subsided and Paul began to breathe again.

  “OK?” Manny said, looking down at him.

  Paul massaged his throat with his hand.

  “I said, are you OK?”

  Paul took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes,” he rasped.

  Manny reached down and with two hands hauled Paul to his feet. Paul propped himself unsteadily against the wall. He turned his head away.

  “I hate having to hurt you.” Manny placed a hand on Paul’s face and turned it back towards him. “But all this talk of you leaving… It’s over. I don’t want to hear it again.”

  Paul nodded, cautiously reaching back inside his jack
et, Manny’s hand still locked on his chin.

  “I need to know you understand how it works.”

  Paul’s jaw set stiffly, his brow knitted in a frown. He nodded again. Manny moved his hand up through Paul’s hair, put his arm around him, pulled his head down into his chest.

  Paul’s hand clasped around the handle of the knife. A second later he plunged it into Manny’s stomach, up to the hilt. Paul yanked it out and stabbed it in again, this time into Manny’s lower ribs. He packed power behind it. Heard a crunch of bone. Blood spurted over his hand, onto the floor.

  Manny looked at him in wide-eyed surprise. Then he fell against Paul, his eyes closing. Paul spat on his body before running down the stairs and out into the street.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Light snow started to fall as Paul left the pool hall. The streets were quiet. Without meeting a single soul, Paul weaved through darkness and shadows and found his way down to the riverside. Adrenaline had kicked in and he struggled to control the violent shaking. He threw the knife into the Clyde, then wiped what he could of the crusted blood off his hands and threw the jacket in too, also covered in Manny’s blood. Only a thin shirt now protected him against the numbing cold. His breath hung in the air in front of him.

  From there he started for home, a brisk twenty-minute walk away. He could make it in less if he ran, but running attracted attention and that was the last thing he wanted. The clock on his phone read 2 a.m. It would be dark for another five or six hours, which was to his advantage.

  As he walked, he scrolled down his contacts with his bloodstained thumb. Stacy. He pressed the call button. It seemed to ring forever. But on the tenth ring she picked up, her voice slurred from sleep.

  “Paul?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Where are you?

  “At home. Why? It’s late. You’ll wake Jack.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “Fuck off! What’s it to do with you?”