Paying For It (24 page)

‘Thought I’d see what all the fuss was about.’

I picked up my Guinness, drained half of it in one go. ‘You disappoint me, I had you down as a man of some taste and discernment.’

‘Bollocks! Did you have any luck?’

I held up the disk.

‘What’s that?’

‘CD or DVD.’

‘And what do you think it’s for?’

‘I don’t know. Will we have a look?’

Col stood up, leaned over my shoulder to stare at the disk. ‘What are you doing?’ I said.

‘Having a look!’

‘You’re having me on.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I meant, on a player. I’m presuming you don’t have one, then.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A CD or a DVD player?’

‘Oh no, no. I’ve a video recorder, but I never use it. The wife used to hire the old films. Howard Keel’s her favourite.’

I was mystified. Drained the rest of my pint. As I did so the phone rang, Col went round the bar to answer it.

‘One minute. It’s for you,’ he said.

‘Me?’ I wondered who would call me at the Wall when I had my mobile. Took the mobi out my pocket, it was still switched off.

‘Will you take it? It’s your sister.’

She had no news I wanted to hear. I got to my feet.

‘Tell her I’ve left.’

‘I can’t do that. I’ve already told her you’re here.’

I buttoned my jacket, pocketed the disk. ‘Not any more.’

HOD HAD THE Clash cranked up full when I arrived. ‘Tommy Gun’ blaring out, felt surprised the neighbours hadn’t complained.

‘You’ll get your door rapped,’ I said.

Hod flared out his chest, took a strongman stance. ‘Who’d mess?’

Took his point.

The place looked spotless as usual. Even the kitchen shone like a show home, every surface gleamed. The shine as the uplighters hit the stainless-steel kettle and toaster set almost hurt my eyes.

‘Do you know what this joint needs?’ I asked him.

‘What’s that?’

‘A man about the house.’

Hod took the opportunity to dip into mince mode. He had it down pat, sorta Dale Winton doing Freddie Starr … Whoa, there’s an image.

‘Oooh you are
awful
,’ said Hod, slapping me on the arm, ‘but I like you!’

We cracked a couple of Stellas and went through to the lounge. Joe Strummer wailed, ‘Someone got murdered, somebody’s dead for ever …’ I got up and turned down the CD.

‘So, the wanderer returns,’ said Hod.

I raised my bottle. ‘Here I am.’

‘
Slàinte
. What’s the story?’

I filled him in on my brush with the law and everything I’d unearthed about Billy’s demise.

Hod listened carefully. ‘What do you think he feeds it on?’

‘What?’

‘Zalinskas – the wolf?’

‘How the fuck would I know? Probably dog food.’

‘You reckon, like, just from Tesco?’

I couldn’t believe this, after all I’d revealed to Hod, the one thing that had provoked any response was Zalinskas’ pet wolf. ‘Definitely not. A man like Zalinskas, with all his cash, he’s doing his shopping at Waitrose.’

Hod coughed into his fist, made a clearing noise in his throat. ‘You wouldn’t be mocking me would you, Gus Dury?’

‘Never.’

We exchanged some childish dead arms, then Hod fell back onto the sofa.

‘Christ, it’s good to get you back in one piece, mate.’

‘Tell me.’

‘You had us worried for a while there. Amy—’ Hod checked himself, sat up.

‘What about, Amy?’

Hod touched his knee nervously, then looked at his open palms. ‘Think you’re going to have to set her straight, Gus.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s totally, I mean totally, sold on you. It’s not fair on the girl.’

I tried to laugh it off. An involuntary reaction.

‘Or fair on you, you sly bastard,’ I said.

‘No. No way. Seriously, Gus. I like her, for sure, but I’m not talking about that. She’s off tapping brassers for bits of gossip in the hope she can impress you. She’s gonna get herself in trouble.’

I sucked at the Stella. ‘I’ll have a word.’

‘Will you?’

‘I just said I would, didn’t I?’

‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ finished up and the CD slowly ejected. I reached over to my jacket, took Billy’s disk out of the pocket.

‘Here, chuck this on,’ I told Hod.

‘What is it?’

‘Billy had it hidden away.’

‘Had quite a bit hidden away our Billy Boy.’

Hod took the disk, popped the plastic wallet open and slotted it into the player.

‘It’s data.’

‘Come again?’

‘It’s for a computer.’

‘Do you have one?’

‘Gus, for fucksake, does the Pope wear a funny hat?’

Hod left the room. Returned with a Sony Vaio. I should have known better than to ask, the man had a breadmaker in the kitchen for crying out loud.

‘Is there a gadget you don’t own?’ I said.

‘Oh yes, there’s one I can think of.’ He made a buzzing noise, vibrating his Stella bottle in my face.

‘You surprise me. Thought that would have been right up your alley!’

‘Ha-ha. It was, until your mother borrowed it!’

The old dis your mother joke struck a chord, I didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that I’d been ignoring my mam’s pleas to visit my dying father.

I grabbed the laptop. ‘Let’s get this booted up.’

Hod seemed unfazed, left me to it while he went for some more Stella and some munchies, a bag of Doritos and some salsa dip.

‘Nice,’ I said.

‘You’ll like it. Though I think Pringles might have been a better option.’

‘Hod, I’m not talking about the fucking crisps. Check it out.’

The disk showed a video taken with what looked like a good-quality camera set in the corner of a room. Footage from Zalinskas’ club’s camera; though the image was anything but the kind of thing normally shown on
Crimewatch
.

‘Social Security style,’ said Hod.

‘What?’

The picture was clear, a brasser straddling some geezer on a double bed. All the scene missed was some dodgy electronic organ music and it could have been sold as a tug movie.

‘Like I say … Social Security style.’ Hod pointed to the screen, mirrored the see-saw motion with his finger.

‘I don’t get you?’

‘Well, you see, Gus, this is what you call Social Security style because the girl’s getting the
full benefit
.’

He was right about one thing. She was only a girl, no more than fifteen, and at that I was being generous. The face of the guy underneath was harder to make out.

‘Can we forward this?’

‘Oh yeah.’

Hod’s first effort put the video into reverse. ‘Och, hang on … here we go.’

In no time the girl jumped off, moved away to get dressed. Then we saw the guy’s face clearly. My heart tripped.

‘He looks familiar,’ said Hod.

‘I’m not surprised.’

Hod turned to face me, slit his eyes. ‘Why’s that?’

‘He’s on the telly every other night.’

Hod grabbed the screen, leaned in close and creased his nose, the look was concentration. ‘Who is it?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘No … I mean, yes, I recognise him, but I can’t place the face. Who is it?’

I took up the laptop, pointed, could hardly believe I was about to say the words, ‘That’s our Minister for Immigration – the Right Honourable Alisdair Cardownie.’

I OPENED THE doors to the balcony. Fired up a Marlboro. Hod followed with two fresh bottles of Stella. Neither of us said anything, just stared out at the city, lit up like a fair. A taxi sounded its horn below and two young girls ran out from the flats across the street. The clack of their heels drowned out their giggles as they tried to dodge puddles.

‘Look at them,’ said Hod.

‘Just daft wee lassies.’

‘That’s it, though – so they should be.’

I knew what he was trying to say, I didn’t need to hear the exact words. The girls looked little older than the one we’d just seen with Cardownie. They had their whole lives in front of them, and every right to enjoy them. Somehow they no longer seemed half as annoying as the rest of their age group.

‘So what now, Gus?’

Quite a question. I wondered myself. I didn’t buy it that Billy had been working to the same set of principles as myself and Hod. I sure as hell knew that Col didn’t have a good word to say for his son. Billy had planned to take off; he wasn’t thinking about blowing the whistle, shutting the operation down. He wanted to make his pile and shove off, probably take some new skills to another manor and put them to good use. I felt sick to my stomach with everything I had seen: with Nadja, Billy, Zalinskas and all his outfit. But more than any of them Cardownie sickened me.

‘Do you remember how I lost my job, Hod?’

‘Which one?’

‘The last one. Only one I’d ever had worth shit.’

‘The sauce, wasn’t it?’

‘Okay, well you could say that. But the actual incident which caused me to get the boot.’

‘Oh yeah. The night you were on the news, you nutted a politician.’

‘Not hard enough.’

Hod turned from the view, put his elbows on the rail. ‘It wasn’t him, was it?’

‘The very same.’

‘Gus, I’d say you have a score to settle.’

‘Fuck that. It’s in the past now. I wouldn’t want that job back as a gift.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. Are you trying to say something, Hod?’

‘Me? No, never. So what are you going to do?’

I pointed out towards the city. ‘Look out there, so much going on. So many people, all trying to screw each other over. Do you think it’s possible to plan anything?’

‘Hannibal thought it was.’

I looked at Hod, it was the first time I’d ever heard him even approach something approximating sense, learning.

‘Crossing the Alps?’

‘Must have missed that one.’

‘What one?’

‘When they were in the Alps – The A-Team.’

‘Christ, you’re talking about
that
Hannibal.’

‘Yeah. “I love it when a plan comes together!” Who did you think I was talking about?’

I shook my head at him, wanted to say ‘I pity the fool’, but went for ‘Never mind.’

I turned to go inside.

Hod followed and put his beer bottle down on the table. He left the room, came back carrying a container about the size of a shoebox.

‘Eh, Gus, I don’t suppose there’s a good time to do this, so I’ll just let you have it now.’

I looked at the box he was holding out to me. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s from the funeral … your friend’s ashes.’

My breathing slowed, then quickened. ‘Milo.’

‘I, eh, don’t know … should I say something?’

‘It’s okay.’ I reached out, shook his hand. ‘Thanks for doing that, Hod.’

He turned away again, sat.

‘Was it a good … do?’

‘We did what you said, gave him a proper send off.’

‘Was there any … family?’ It was a stupid question. I realised at once I wouldn’t be holding Milo’s ashes if his family had shown up.

Hod shook his head. ‘Just myself and Amy … a chick from social work.’

It sounded a sombre affair. Not something to circle on your calendar. But, God, the guilt. I’d been the only person this man knew at the end of his life and I hadn’t even made his funeral.

‘You all right, Gus?’

‘Yeah, oh yeah – just a bit, you know, gutted.’

‘Amy was in floods. She said she never even met the guy but, well, it was a funeral, wasn’t it?’

‘She’s got a sensitive soul.’

‘You’re right there.’

Hod had an eye on me for a reaction.

‘I know. I know. I’ll have to let her down gently.’

I COULDN’T SLEEP, spent the night reading
The Legend of the Holy Drinker
. Its author, Joseph Roth, a chronic alcoholic who drank himself to death in Paris at the age of forty-four.

I’d always loved this book, even before I was a drinker, never a holy one. It’s about a jakey called Andreas who hits on, the worst of things for any drinker, a run of luck.

In the translator’s note at the back of my edition it reads: ‘It is clear that Roth for some time had been running out of reasons to remain alive.’

When a line like this strikes a chord, you know you’re in trouble.

I read on: ‘He advanced a sophisticated argument that while drink shortened his life in the medium term, in the short term it kept him alive – and he worked hard at testing its logic.’

Lately, I’d been crippled by hangovers. Time was, when I could wake up the next day, shake off the night before and start again. Now, only one word described the way I felt: deteriorated.

Heard John Lennon doing ‘Living on borrowed time … without a thought to tomorrow.’

Phone went.

I sat up in bed, answered before checking the caller ID.

‘Hello, Gus.’

Shocked.

‘Mam … hello.’

Her voice sounded weaker than ever, she sounded frail. ‘I know you’re very busy, son, but I had to call. I’m sorry to disturb you again.’

Her words sent my heart into spasm. ‘No, Mam, don’t apologise, I’ve been meaning to call, I have.’ It was a lie, but I’d got used to those recently.

‘I know Catherine told you about—’

‘Is he no better, Mam?’

‘Oh, Gus …’

‘Mam?’

A groan, actual pain. ‘Gus, he won’t last another day, the doctor says it’s a miracle he’s still with us. Oh, son, he’s holding on for you, he’s holding on for your visit. If you would only … Oh, Gus. Oh son …’

‘Mam, please.’

‘I know, I’ve no right to ask. I’m sorry.’

‘Mam.’

‘No. I shouldn’t have called. You have your reasons. I’m sorry, son. I’ll leave you be.’

‘Mam, I’ll come. Tell him I’ll come.’ Had I said this? Had I ever. Where was my head at?

I dressed in black cords, nearing on grey at the knees. I looked for a white shirt, had to settle for a white T-shirt. Topped the look off with a navy lambswool V-neck. I’d been reckless with the washing instructions and the jumper had tightened round the shoulders. I pulled at the neck, heard a tear.

‘Och, Christ on a crutch!’

The neckband came away in my hand. I tossed it, put on a red Pringle instead. It fitted like a dream, no substitute for quality.