Paying For It (13 page)

‘But these people – you do not understand. If they knew, they would kill me too.’

‘Knew what?’

She turned away, started to move off. I grabbed her by the arm, stopping her in her tracks. ‘Knew what?’

‘Billy … he was talking about making a lot of money in a hurry, he was on to something.’

‘On to what?’

‘I do not know what, he had some information and I think Zalinskas thought he should not have it.’

I squeezed her wrist. ‘What do you mean, information?’

‘I do not know any more. I promise. I have told you everything. Oh, Mr Dury I promise you, this is all I know.’

I dropped her arm. She sobbed, placing a hand where I had gripped her.

She’d caved. She might still be useful to me, but there was nothing left in the well right now.

‘Wait! Where are you going?’ she yelled out.

I said nothing, walked to the door.

‘Wait! Wait!’ She ran after me, grabbed at my shoulder as I reached for the door handle. ‘I’m scared!’

I unhooked her hand, said, ‘So hire a bodyguard.’

ON GEORGE STREET I noticed that my knuckles were grazed. Told myself: ‘You’ve been running around like a psycho, Gus.’ Didn’t feel too proud of myself. Walked about playing with pop psychology solutions to my ‘life issues’. Christ, sounded like nonsense. Remembered Doddy once said: ‘The trouble with Freud is that he never played the Glasgow Empire on Saturday night after Rangers and Celtic had both lost.’

Now that made sense.

I headed down the Mile, stopped to scratch my head at the concrete and glass fag packet added on to the side of John Knox’s house. Oldest house in Edinburgh, ruined by some wanky architect’s ego. ‘How do they get away with it?’ I thought.

I stared skyward in disgust, when I heard a voice that cut me like a Stanley blade.

‘Hello, Angus.’

I lowered my gaze. ‘Mam.’

She stared at me wide-eyed, a look that said she’d just seen death wakened before her.

‘God, you’re thin, son. Are you well?’

‘Yeah … yeah, I’m fine, Mam.’

‘There’s hardly a pick on you. Are you eating?’

‘Yes, Mam, I’m fine.’

She gathered up her bags, fidgeted before me. Her eyes looked the deepest of blue as she took me in.

‘It’s been a while, son.’

‘It has that.’

‘I saw, whatsisname – the fellah from the pub.’

‘Col. He said you spoke.’ Earned myself another flash of those eyes. ‘I’ve been meaning to … well, you know … what with one thing and another.’

‘He’d have told you that your father’s none too well.’

‘He did.’

She shook her head. Her hair was iron grey now and hollows sat in her cheeks, ‘Yes, he’s not a well man at all.’

I looked away. It felt like the only thing I could do to hide my utter indifference, said, ‘That right?’

‘He can’t leave home. I think he might be, oh, what do you call it? Homophobic.’

I couldn’t laugh. ‘Oh, he’s that all right,’ I said, ‘and other things besides.’

She tucked her handbag on her elbow and reached out to me. ‘It’s good to see you, son.’

I smiled. This was my mother, I’d no quarrel with her. She looked to be in pain at the sight of me. Her own son, who she’d been forced to grab a few moments with in the street.

‘It’s been such a long time, you know,’ she said.

‘I know. I know.’

‘It would be grand to sit down and have a proper chat, but of course you’ll be, likes as not, too busy …’

‘Would you like me to come and see him, Mam?’ I hardly believed I’d said the words.

I’d taken her shopping bags off her and began to call out to a taxi before I knew where I was. Something jabbed at me, goaded me. I’d let her down for so long that I had to do something about it. If I walked away, God, those eyes would have followed me for the rest of my days.

The house smelt stale and damp, like something was rotting beneath the floor. The carpet was worn away and the boards beneath poked through. It was the same carpet I remembered from childhood, my eyes jumped to see it still in place.

‘The scene of so many crimes,’ I thought.

I saw myself, seven or eight, just back from the Boys’ Brigade and settling down to Findus Crispy Pancakes and an episode of
Monkey
. I’d be lost in joy, copying Monkey’s moves and shouting at the screen. Then I’d remember who was coming home. It always started with glances at the clock. Then Mam started to chain smoke. After a while, it didn’t seem like home at all.

We went through to the front room, sat down.

‘Not changed much,’ I said.

‘We’re not millionaires,’ said Mam.

‘I didn’t mean … I mean you have it nice.’

‘It’s how we like it.’

She stood up. Left me to check on him.

‘He’s sound asleep. I’d wake him for his soup, but I think it might be better to let him rest.’

I knew I should ask what, exactly, was wrong with him. But the words wouldn’t come. Somehow, my mother seemed to sense this.

‘It’s his heart, Angus. He’s not a well man at all.’

‘You said.’ It came out harsher than I’d meant, backtracked. ‘I remember he’d some strength.’

My mother’s lips quivered, she seemed so gentle. Just as I remembered her, but a shadow of frailty stalked her now. ‘His heart is very weak – it’s a terrible strain for him to move about.’

‘And you, Mam? How are you coping?’

‘I’m fine. I’m fine.’ She stood up again, brushed down her skirt front. ‘Will you have a bite to eat? Oh, say yes, I won’t have you fading away under my own roof.’

‘Yes. Okay then, I will.’

My mother thought she was feeding the five thousand. Eggs, bacon and chips. Real chips, crinkle cut, and deep-fried in Echo. I’d been so long away from home cooking that one taste of it and I lapsed into ecstasy. She brought out some fresh rolls from the baker’s, proper Scotch morning rolls, I piled on the chips and smothered the lot in brown sauce.

‘Will you take a drop of stout, Angus?’

‘If you’ve any in.’

My mother returned from the kitchen smiling, a can and a pint tankard on a tray.

‘Sweetheart stout. God, do they still make this?’

‘I used to let you have a sip of that at New Year when you were a laddie. I remember you loved it.’

‘I did that.’

The stout tasted like memories. I downed six in under an hour and gently passed out. Around ten I woke to find my mother loosening off my laces.

‘I thought to let you sleep, son. I hope that’s okay.’

‘Och, sure. Leave those boots, Mam, I’ll get them myself.’

‘As you are,’ she stepped away. ‘I brought you a blanket, I was going to put it over you, but if you’re awake you could go up to your old bed if you like.’

‘I’m not ready for moving back in, Mam.’

She looked away, embarrassed.

I said, ‘Why don’t you just leave the blanket? I’ll pitch down on the couch.’

A smile. ‘Grand. I’ll leave you to get settled then.’

‘See you in the morning, Mam.’

She closed the living-room door softly. I felt trapped, but I knew I’d done some good and that made me feel better.

I settled down again. This definitely wasn’t part of any plan of mine. I should have been staying with my old friend Hod by now.

Called him up.

‘About that room offer … gonna have to put it on hold.’

‘No problem. You clicked?’

‘God, no. Back home.’

‘At the auld dear’s! Christ, things must be rough, Gus. Are you sure you wouldn’t sooner stay here?’

‘It’s only tonight. I bumped into her on the Mile, she persuaded me I needed fattening up.’

‘Well, don’t sweat it. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Cheers, mate.’

Thought I’d struggle to find sleep again, so I switched on the telly.

Channel Four had on a round-up of Bush-isms. A lookalike did the States’ dumbest fuck to a T: ‘The French don’t have a word for entrepreneur.’ Loved that.
Spitting Image
used to joke about Reagan’s brain being missing. Christ knows what they’d have done with this mentalist.

I flicked for a while. Found a rerun of the
Jeremy Kyle Show
.

‘Puffed-up little prick,’ I muttered to myself.

Took great delight in zapping the fucker – if only I’d three-thousand volts handy.

I dug down for the night.

GOD KNOWS I’VE tried to shut this stuff out. But it’s a losing battle.

I must be eight or nine. It’s the middle of the night and he’s home roaring the house down after match day. I’ve a brother now, baby Michael. He’s crying in his mother’s arms, but I stay quiet in my bed.

My father roars, ‘Gus, raise yourself.’

There’s the noise of furniture being moved about, knocked over. Then there’s the sound of my father’s heavy boots and curses chasing round the house.

‘I told you to get out of that fucking bed.’

I’m lifted by my hair from beneath the blankets. I’m terrified. My father’s face is scarlet, his hair wet to his brow.

‘Down them stairs,’ he shouts at me.

In the living room there’s scarcely a stick of furniture or picture on the walls that isn’t disturbed. Then I see the cause of the ruckus flash before me like a ghost.

My father’s earned another gift from one of the men in the Steamboat pub. He’s always being given things, says it’s a great advertisement to have the mighty Cannis Dury as a fan of your tyres or your shoes or your bacon.

This time the gift is a lively young lamb. It’s come home with a rope round its neck, but is none too happy to see it tightened.

‘Grab it up, boy,’ yells my father. There’s no need. It jumps into my arms the moment it sees me.

The rope is wrapped round its little snout. When I loosen it, the lamb grabs for breath.

Cannis is rolling drunk, knocking a lampshade about face. ‘Good – now follow me, we have a job of work to be done.’

I follow him to the kitchen. He steadies himself over the sink, reaches for his razor strop. The sight of the strop being taken makes my heart gallop. But not for myself, I’ve felt its lashes too many times, I’m wondering what my father plans for the lamb.

The little creature seems to sense it too. It squirms in my arms.

‘Hold that bastard steady,’ roars my father.

‘What’ll you do? What’ll you do to it?’ I say.

‘I’ll cut its throat, what d’ye think?’ He grabs the lamb and hangs it over the sink by its back legs. It struggles and squeals. My father has to use both hands to keep from losing it again. All the while the lamb looks at me. Great black eyes, staring.

‘Angus, boy, get my razor, you’ll have to do it!’

‘No.’ I say. I don’t believe I’ve uttered the word.

‘What do you mean, no? You
will
do it. The razor now, cut this bastard’s throat before it has me on my back.’

I look at the lamb, upturned and struggling in my father’s great hands. Its black eyes plead again. He takes down the razor, hands it to me, and then there’s an almighty struggle as though the lamb knows it’s on its own. The squeals are the sound of terror. I feel them reaching into me.

‘Cut its throat, hear me, cut it! Cut it, now!’

I stand with my father’s razor in my hand. I’m motionless. I know I’m disobeying and what that means. But I can’t harm the animal.

The razor slips to the floor; there’s a sharp pain in the front of my head when it falls. I realise I’ve been struck by my father. I lie on the floor beside the razor and when I see him reach for it I fill with panic.

As I get up I feel the cold flap of skin where his knuckle struck bone. There’s blood running from my head, going into my eyes and mouth.

I feel no pain as I watch my father run the open steel across the lamb’s throat. The squealing reaches a higher pitch for a second and then blood chokes its mouth and spills over its flesh into the sink.

I watch the blood pour from the dying animal. Its black eyes are still staring into the heart of me. As I watch the blood flowing, I feel like it’s mine, like the blood I can taste in my mouth from the wound my father made.

A DROOL OF saliva stuck me to the arm of the couch. Sweat lashed off my body. I ached all over. ‘Christ, where am I?’

For a moment I thought I replayed the heady, early stages of alcoholism. Days when I greeted every morning in strange new surroundings. But I knew I was past those now. It takes a serious effort to negotiate a kip for the night. My times at the bar had long since been devoted to more serious matters.

I stood up, tried to straighten my back. Hunched over like Yoda, I said, ‘Soon will I rest. Yes, for ever sleep. Earned it I have.’

I realised where I was. Recognised the wooden star clock above the fireplace. Red bulbs twirled behind the black plastic coals, someone had been in to turn on the fire.

I looked around. Felt shocked to find myself here, facing a trophy cabinet full of my father’s sporting achievements. When I was a kid, my friends would come around to stare at them for what seemed like hours. It gave me bags of kudos on the street. They didn’t know the real cost of those trophies.

I heard movement in the kitchen. Plates and cups being laid out on the table. When I went in, my mother stood at the stove stirring some porridge. A vast pot bubbled away.

‘Oh, you’re awake, son.’

‘Good morning, Mam.’

‘Did you sleep okay?’

‘Yeah, I slept just fine,’ I lied. ‘Bit stiff, but got a few hours, you know.’

‘Can’t be too comfy on that couch. You should have went up to your bed … Tea?’

‘Eh, no. Have you any coffee?’

‘Sorry, son. Nobody drinks it since you went. I could nip next door. What time is it?’

I looked at my watch. ‘Just after nine.’

‘Aye, that’s early enough, Dot will be up and about. Hang on, I’ll get some coffee next door.’

‘No, Mam, there’s no need. I’ll take whatever’s going.’

‘Och, no. Sit yourself down, son.’ She beamed, looked delighted to have me home. It seemed to be a real treat for her. She acted like an excited child.

I asked myself how I could ever have denied her this.

As my mother put on a headscarf to nip out the back door she said, ‘Will you go in and see your dad?’

‘Eh, I don’t know.’