Paying For It (11 page)

‘Milo, are you okay?’

‘Yes. I’m okay.’

‘Are you sure about that? You sound tired.’

‘Gus, I must be very frank with you—’ He broke off, coughing and spluttering like he’d hit his death rattle.

‘Milo? You still there?’

‘Yes, I-I made the fatal mistake of travelling from home in the pissing rain, ’tis lashing!’

‘What was wrong with the pay phone in the hallway?’

A long silence. I could hear him wheezing, breath a difficulty.

‘Gus … I saw something very strange back there.’

I felt the muscles in my face twitch. ‘The girls – is this about the girls, Milo? Look, I saw them too, and I’m all fired up to get to the bottom of it.’

‘’Tis depravity I saw. God, can I even say it?’ His voice sounded flat of emotion; the words he usually packed with humour and meaning escaped him.

‘Have you been hurt … threatened?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Not exactly! Jesus, stay put. I’ll be over right away.’

‘No, Gus, please no.’

I could hear tears coming from him now.

‘Milo?’

‘Please, please. Don’t come, not now.’

‘What’s up?’

‘I’m sorry, I was wrong to call. I was wrong to involve you … only, haven’t I no one else?’

His tears came faster. I could hear him croaking and trying hard to hold back the flow of hurt that came out of him.

‘You have me! I’m here for you. Look, whatever the problem is, there’s nothing I won’t try to fix.’

I heard the heavy call-box receiver go down. My mind spun, my stomach followed it faster than getaway tyres. I ran to the other side of the room and picked up my jacket. My smokes fell from the pocket but I didn’t stop to pick them up as I went to the door.

I yanked the handle and my heart rate suddenly dropped to nothing.

A face I hardly recognised stood in the hallway.

‘Hello, Gus.’

‘Debs! What are you doing here?’

A LENGTHY SILENCE followed, laid down a huge gap between us. This was crazy, we were still man and wife.

‘How did you find me?’

‘I went to your flat. Col said you were here.’

Good old Col, I had called to let him know where I was, but I could have done without her knowing I lived this way. Not exactly an advert for stability.

‘I got your letter,’ I said.

‘That’s good.’

‘So, you’re not messing about then, your lawyer’s pushed the button.’

There it was, that gap again.

‘Look, Gus, you knew this was coming. I told you.’

‘I thought there might have been a bit more … discussion.’

A tut.

‘We’ve done all the talking.’

I turned away, shook my head. ‘Oh, have we now? You’ve decided. Deborah’s made her mind up and that’s all there is to it. If that’s the case, then why are you here?’

A loud sigh, she shifted a hand to the bag strap over her shoulder, fiddled nervously with it. ‘I see this might be a bit of a shock to you, Gus.’

‘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 …’

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!’

FOR THE SECOND time in less than a week I slung my bag onto my back and prepared to take up a new residence. Felt a strange sense of déjà 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.