Paying For It (3 page)

I pressed harder. ‘And what else does Benny do?’

Col had told me that Billy started out driving a van, humping furniture from one gaff to another. It seemed a big jump to hear he’d been running the show. I’d known people to make big jumps in this city before, but generally not from so far down.

‘I do not understand. What is it that you mean?’ said Nadja.

‘Any work that might not be so … above board?’

She shook her head wildly. A loud huff pulled in a few more glances, and then she stood up to leave.

‘I don’t think I can be of any more help to you,’ she said, bringing her heels down hard on the Shandwick’s expensive quarry tiles.

I frowned. Looked down at her seat and motioned, sit. I was ice. God knows where I found this line in cool.

‘I’m gonna need names, numbers and addresses,’ I said. ‘Unless you’d sooner deal with plod.’

IT TURNED OUT Billy collected his wages from an East End kip house run by Benny Zalinskas. I liked the sound of the place, Brigadoon House. But when I checked it out, I found a better name would have been Fallingdoon.

The man on the desk turned out to be a Russian with a thick accent. I smiled and joked with him, then handed over a wodge of cash, said, ‘Tell me when that runs out.’

I’d seen this done on
Miami Blues
and always wanted to try it. Alec Baldwin could make any line sound cool back then before he piled on the pounds, and totally lost it, dumped Kim Basinger.

The cash before me got counted faster than any bank teller’s effort. The Russian’s smile disappeared faster yet. ‘Monday,’ he said.

Now I was in
Miami Blues
, had to fight saying, ‘Get me a girl, Pablo.’

Went with: ‘You jest.’

His eyes widened. I figured he wasn’t kidding. I stayed at the counter for a moment, then carried my bag to the room.

He shouted at my back, ‘No drinking and no drugs on the premises.’

I turned around and gave my best dagger-throwing stare. I knew the words, ‘Know you bloody Scots,’ would be muttered under breath soon. It was one of the side effects of the city’s drive to embrace multiculturalism; we were the minority in some places.

I dumped my bag in the room. I’d been kipping above Col’s bar for the last three months or so. The tiny flat was crammed in above the gents and reeked like the Waverley Steps at chucking out time. My new room looked small, shabby in the extreme, but it seemed like a step up for me.

I checked myself in the mirror: faded denim jacket, slightly more faded 501s, torn at knee, and my crowning glory, cherry Docs, scuffed all to hell. I looked like Jim from
Taxi
, the spaced-out one.

Something needed to give. I’d been getting looks on the street. The kind of loser stares that shout, ‘Get a job, you bum!’ They set me right off. That kinda thing, it hits at the core of me. I knew I needed to smarten up my act.

I splashed water on my face. Ran fingers through my hair. It was so long it sat back without trouble. I needed some serious grooming attention, but fought the urge to begin right away.

I filled up the kettle, one of those jug types. Ripped open a sachet of Nescafé. I felt ready for a caffeine hit. I felt ready for something stronger to tell the truth, but that would have to wait.

The cup barely touched my mouth when the door went. A delicate little knock like a child, or maybe, if my luck was in, a woman. I opened up. In the jamb stood a small old man, hunched over and as frail as lace.

He rubbed at his fingers, said, ‘I hate that, the knocking plays terror on me hands.’

I looked down. His fingers seemed to be folded at right angles. Great bulges of bone stuck out where arthritis twisted its way through them.

‘Howya, I’m Milo,’ he said holding out a hand, bravely, I thought.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ I hardly touched his two most prominent fingers. They felt soft and cold. Skin as smooth as a baby’s, nothing like they looked. ‘I’m Gus,’ I said.

‘I heard you come in, heard the
no drink
speech. Thought you might be from the Old Country. I’m a Limerick man m’self – you?’

‘Eh no, I’m a Leith boy, through and through.’ I caught a deck at the disappointment in the old man’s eyes. He looked lonely. I felt the misery waft out of him, it kicked my heart like Bruce Lee in slow mo. ‘Look, the kettle’s just boiled. Can I get you a coffee?’

‘Have you tea?’

I looked on the tray by the kettle. ‘Eh, no. Sorry.’

‘I’m a tea man really. I’d have taken a sup o’ tea with ye – coffee does my insides great distress.’ He sat himself down by the wall in the room’s only chair. ‘Are ye with the Trust?’

‘The Trust?’

‘Christian Fellowship. They put me up here. It’s a bastard of a place really.’

‘Brigadoon?’

‘Brigadoon my arse! It’s run by Russkies. They’re all over the place hereabouts, it’s like Red Square, I tell ye.’

I ventured a laugh.

‘Do they look after you, Milo?’

‘They could care less.’ He raised a gnarled thumb over his shoulder. ‘Yon Stalin’s a cute hoor.’

‘
Stalin
?’

‘It’s what I call him – yer man what runs the place, he’s as sour as all get out. Him and the rest. Has roughnecks in and out at all hours. Still, I guess they won’t have me here for much longer.’

‘On the move?’

He laughed like a roar. Went into a hacking cough and had to wipe his eyes. ‘I’m eighty-seven, my next move will be my last, son.’

I smiled. My stomach fluttered when he called me son. ‘You’re wearing well for your years, Milo.’

He started up again, laughing into tears. ‘Jaysus, isn’t that the best yet. You’re a terrible liar, my friend.’

I felt embarrassed. Heat rose on my face. I hoped I hadn’t offended him. I really liked the old boy, said, ‘Don’t they say there’s many a good tune played on an old fiddle, though.’

His eyes sparkled. They matched the coldest of blue, but beyond them I saw he was still a young man. ‘Aren’t ye a ticket, Gus … Gus what is it, now?’

‘Dury.’

‘I’ve enjoyed your company, Gus Dury, but I won’t keep you. Only wanted to stick my head in and say hello.’ He stood up, it seemed to take him an age. And then he made for the door. I grabbed the handle and prised it open for him. He nodded graciously. ‘I knew a Dury once – a Kerry man – have ye roots in Kerry?’

‘No, sorry.’

‘That’s good. Wasn’t he a prick entirely!’

I laughed out and placed a hand delicately on Milo’s back. ‘See you again.’

I watched him shuffle across the hall and struggle with the key in the lock. It dug in my heart like a pick handle, but I knew he’d be too proud to accept any help.

‘I’ll get some tea in,’ I shouted at his back.

He raised a crippled hand above his head in a wave, and then vanished back into his lonely world.

Alone, I lay down on the bed and started to think. Always dangerous territory for a drinker. Wondered would I reach Milo’s age? Never. Dylan Thomas’s last words were: ‘Eighteen whiskies, I think that’s the record.’ He was thirty-nine when he died.

I did the math: it gave me three years to beat Dylan’s best effort.

‘The way I’m going,’ I thought, ‘I probably won’t need that long.’

DOWN TIME.

I lay on the bed stacking up my prospects. Didn’t take long to count to zip. I felt a serious need for distraction. I knew by agreeing to help Col I’d put myself in danger of resurrecting some ghosts, but somehow managed to push it to the back of my mind. A friend in need and all that – but was I really being selfless? A pop psychologist inside me wondered: ‘Are there demons you have to confront, Gus Dury?’

Bollocks. If there were demons, they ran the show.

I sparked up a Marlboro red top, as near to a crack pipe as you can buy over the counter, a proper lung-bleeder. I got the Docs loosened off, kicked them on to the floor. I balanced a heavy smoked-glass ashtray on my chest and flicked away at the grey as it mounted on the tab’s end.

Jesus, did I really think I had a chance of tracking down who’d done in Col’s boy? I tried to shut it out, but a quote, Wilde I think, went round and round in my mind: ‘Experience is the name a man gives to his mistakes.’

I had plenty of experience. It flooded back to me now, thick and fast.

I’d held down a top job. Handled the big stories. Had been a name.

‘When does this Dury sleep?’ I’d overheard the paper’s chairman say to the editor once. Mr Bacon, or Rasher, as I called the boss, appeared underwhelmed – as he always did. It made no odds to me, though, because my self-destruct switch had already been flipped. For some of us, it’s never far out of reach.

I had been assigned to a press call at the new parliament building, the half-a-billion-pound fiasco. Some junior government bod stepped forward to talk about immigration, as the whole country became gripped by rabid nationalism. Living in fear of Johnnie Foreigner flooding through the Channel tunnel to steal our jobs. The tweedy arse-wipe Alisdair Cardownie, Assistant Minister for Immigration, jumped right on the vibe of hatred. Talking tough on an emotive issue to boost his profile. I’d seen it a million times before. Truth told, I cared less about the ramblings of another slack-jowled, in-bred son of privilege.

It felt cold out and I fought off a killer hangover: a real shades on a grey day scenario. My snapper, Ronnie, bought me a quarter of Black Bush to steady my nerves, said, ‘Here he comes, you set, Gus?’

I nodded. Tanned most of the bottle in one.

The chauffeur pulled up and some overpaid flunkey ran out like a doorman at Harrods who’s just spotted Elton John getting out the back of a Bentley.

‘Holy shit! Did you see that?’ I said.

‘Steady,’ said Ronnie. He hunkered down and started firing off some shots.

I approached with my Dictaphone outstretched. ‘Minister, could I ask a few questions?’

Banal looks, pointed in my direction.

‘Minister, if you don’t mind?’ I kept it polite, but frustration brewed. I mean, his lot had called us here, it wasn’t for me to do the running. I stepped up a gear, leaned forward. ‘If you don’t mind, Minister, I’d just like to ask about your plans to close down the people smugglers?’

I felt an arm on my chest. Another, with an open palm on the end, thrust in my face. ‘No interviews,’ said the flunkey. I couldn’t see the flunkey’s face, only the junior minister’s hiding behind a group of cling-ons. He wore a satisfied, smug, you-can’t-touch-me look I’d seen before.

‘
What
?’ I said.

‘No interviews,’ repeated the flunkey.

‘What do you mean no interviews? It’s a press call for Chrissake!’ I felt close to losing it, big time. And then this little mollycoddled arse-wipe of a minister got my goat. He led it out before me on a bit of rope and kicked it in the bollocks. In the next second he clicked his fingers like Brando in
The Freshman
and a shower of suited-up grunts manhandled me like crowd controllers.

‘Get your fucking hands off me,’ I shouted.

I felt the blood start to pump inside my head. I saw Ronnie covering his eyes like he didn’t want to look, and then, something clicked. My throat went dry … and I let out a haymaker right.

‘Oh God!’ I heard Ronnie scream.

My punch caught no one but threw me off balance so much that I lunged forward, head first chasing its grand arc. Suddenly the minister loomed before me and, in no time at all, my brow connected cleanly with his nose.

It was the kind of diving header that might have graced the dying moments of a European Cup final. I must have looked fearless. Like some mad pogoing skin out on the lash. But it was totally unintentional.

‘My nose, my nose,’ the minister whined.

People gathered around, said:

‘Tip back your head.’

‘Take this handkerchief.’

‘Put a key down his back.’

Ronnie just about cried. ‘What have you done, Gus?’ he said.

‘It was just a tap. A tap, that’s all it was,’ I said.

I couldn’t believe the fuss. Then the cuffs came out, and I felt the heat of a thousand camera flashes go off.

I made all the evening news broadcasts. A career first. And last. Rasher had my desk cleared while I sat in a cell. I’d left the office for the last time. I had no plans to return.

I stubbed the Marlboro. It lay flat in the ashtray, stray insect legs of tobacco squashed under it. I got to my feet and searched the room.

‘Paper. Where is it?’ I said.

I pulled open a few drawers. Hissed at a Gideon Bible, then: ‘Bingo!’

Hardly the Dorchester on the heading but, never mind, it would have to do. I began to compose a letter to Debs. If she was gonna send me any more mail from her lawyer, she’d better have some facts.

I AWOKE WITH a start, loud Irish curses filled the air all around me. I heard a thud, then another. For a moment I thought I’d returned to my childhood, my father after me with his razor strop, then reality flooded in.

‘It’s fucked entirely, man, have ye not the sense God gave ye?’ Milo’s voice berated all hell out of somebody. I reached for my 501s. They felt soft, smooth as velvet after a thousand visits to the laundrette. I rushed in with my big toe and caught a hole in the knee, stretched a tear near halfway down the leg, said, ‘Christ on a bike!’ This was all I needed; I’d a busy day ahead.

When I looked down the hallway I saw straight into Milo’s little world. ‘Can I get you a hammer?’ I said.

‘Ah, Mr Dury, it’s your bold self.’ His face lit up like a Chinese lantern. ‘And how are we this grand morning?’

‘I’d be better for a bit of sleep, to tell you the truth.’

‘Sleep, bollocks. A youngster like ye should be up and about, availing yourself of all the wonders of this fine morn.’

Another thud sounded behind him, Milo turned back towards the source of it. ‘Walloping’s not going to mend the thing! Would ye ever fecking listen?’ He shook his head, turned back to me, raised eyes aloft, said, ‘Eejit.’

‘Trouble?’

‘Telly’s on the blink. Yon Russki thinks kicking the shite out of it’s the answer – I tell you, it’s Stalingrad all over!’

I laughed and gave Milo an understanding nod, then turned back to my room. As I closed the door I heard him cheer. I’m sure Anne Robinson blasted a contestant on
The Weakest Link
for all of a millisecond, before banging on the TV resumed.