Paying For It (6 page)

I cracked the last can when the door went.

It was Milo. ‘Howya.’

He had his head bowed, when he looked up I saw he carried a massive shiner. Bruno got off lighter from Tyson. I felt furious, immediately gripped with rage.

‘What happened?’

‘Arrah, it’s nothing.’

‘Milo, it’s more than nothing. Have you had it seen to?’ The eye bulged to the size of an egg, angry blood vessels had burst inside.

‘Go way outta that, it’s just a scratch.’

‘What happened?’

‘I … er … well it’s embarrassing, really. I walked into a door.’

I don’t know whether the drink or my instinctive trust of him let me believe this, but I bought it straight away. I watched him shuffle into my room and slowly lower himself down in a chair.

‘Have ye tea yet?’

‘Eh, no. Sorry, it’s on my list. I’ve had a bit of a full day.’

‘No matter. You have the telly, mine is still broke, can I watch with you?’

‘Sure you can. Go ahead.’

River City
polluted the airwaves.

‘Bloody shite,’ said Milo. ‘Can’t watch this, can you?’

‘Never have.’

Milo flicked, settled on a doco, something about the Beats. Some dated footage showed Jack Kerouac reading from
On the Road
. He looked old and wasted. Alcohol oozed from his every pore.

Like most of my generation I’d read his books, once or twice, some more than that. There was a time when the whole Beat thing meant something to me. I swore it spoke to me, but not now.

I couldn’t quite pin it down but somewhere in the last few years I’d lost all sense of idealism. The thought of cruising across the States with a bunch of dropouts seemed nothing more than a trip to me now. Not worth bothering about. And, no shit, I didn’t have the energy.

After the doco, Milo muttered, ‘You know, I’ve a notion to go and read that book.’

‘I wouldn’t bother.’

‘You’ve read it then,
On the Road
.’

‘I could tell you more about it than they’re letting on. For starters, he didn’t write it in three weeks flat the way they tell it. Oh no, there was about ten years’ worth of rewrites before it made its way into print. But they like to keep quiet about that.’

‘Ah, it removes some of the mystery the way you tell it.’

‘No mystery, just plain old hype – gotta keep those tills ringing.’

‘My, you’re a cynic, Gus Dury. It’s a cynic ye are.’

‘I won’t deny it.’

I broke the seal on the Johnnie Walker. ‘Can I tempt you?’

‘My stomach would never take it. ’Tis a terrible affliction I have these latter years.’

I thought, ‘That’s all the more for me then.’

‘Sure I can’t tempt you with even a small one – could water it down.’

‘No thanks. I’m sure you’ll manage fine on your own. Gus, do you mind me asking – how do you know all this stuff, are ye an educated man?’

‘God, no. I just know books. I’m a reader for my sins. Since I was a boy, I’ve been bookish and solitary, scared the hell out of my father so it did.’

‘Ah, ’tis the best time to start. I used to be a terror for the books m’self, until the old eyes went. Sure isn’t the only education of any worth one that’s burned in by lantern light!’

I nodded. ‘I’ve always been a reader.’

Milo dropped his voice. ‘And … have you always been a drinker?’

I didn’t mind the question. After a few scoops I would talk the leg off an iron pot. And it mattered not an iota what I talked about.

‘Can’t say always, though maybe it was there at the back of me waiting to surface.’

‘Most times there’s a reason for it.’

‘I’ve a million of those.’

Milo laughed. ‘Jaysus, Gus, you’re a rare character. Quite a combination, the reader and the drinker.’

‘Just your average saloon bar Socrates.’

‘Oh, you’re above that.’ He stood up slowly and let out a little laugh. ‘We’ll have to talk more another night.’

‘If you like,’ I said.

Milo tried to straighten himself but remained hunched over. ‘Well, I’m obliged to you for letting me watch your television. ’Tis grand to have a bit of company of an evening as well.’

I took him to the door, saw him safely into his room. I swore sleep was already upon him, it scalded my heart to see his exhaustion.

I felt far from tired myself; my mind raced. There was a lot of stuff spinning about in there. The talk of childhood topped the bill. I’ve nothing but a pile of desperate memories left over from this time, which in darker moments will haunt me. It’s always the way of it. The darker things look, the more I remember.

I heard my father’s voice rise, the clang of smashed crockery, my mother’s cries.

I hit the drink some more.

Started to think about that black eye of Milo’s. I’d my suspicions it came from Stalin or one of his lot, and decided to go and find him. Knocked on doors about the hostel. Didn’t feel in any condition to do much but, given half a chance, was ready to bury the bastard.

On the middle floors I got the trace of a foreign voice, it sounded Russian or something like it.

I banged on the door. ‘Open up.’

No answer. Put my shoulder to the top panel. It didn’t move, but pain shot through my arm and down my back like I’d been hit by lightning.

‘Come on, I know you’re in there, open this fucking door or I’m coming through it.’

I kicked out. The noise brought heads bobbing out all down the hallway.

‘Sorry – domestic dispute,’ I told them. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

I geared myself up for one mighty last charge when suddenly a little gap appeared in the door. A girl, no more than fourteen, peered out. Looked to all the world as terrified as a small animal in a snare.

I thought, ‘The coward. He’s sent his daughter out to face me, calm me down while he hides from me inside.’

‘I’m having none of this,’ I said. Grabbed the door in my hand and shoved it hard. Halfways to putting the girl on her backside, I stormed in.

Inside I got the shock of my life. More young girls filled the room, all as terrified as the first. They were dressed in little more than rags, old coats that looked like ex-army issue. Each one of them stared up at me and trembled. They held on to each other in desperate fear. Every face a sallow emaciated mess, but their eyes, to a one, sat wide open. They stared, searching for something.

For the life of me, I didn’t know what to do. It looked like a scene from
Schindler’s List
.

‘What’s going on in here?’ I asked.

No answer. Not one of them dared speak.

I turned to the girl who opened the door, said, ‘What is this? What’s going on?’

She said nothing.

I got angry, it was frustration, the drink. I went over and grabbed her arm, ranted: ‘What the hell’s going on in here, a heap of girls dressed up like Belsen victims, half-starved and packed tighter than sardines – speak to me, would you?
Christ
, I’m not the enemy!’

She cried and tapped at her chest. In the machine-gun fire of her language, she uttered one word I understood: ‘Latvia’.

I let down her arm, thought, ‘Holy fuck.’

I left the room.

Downstairs I necked huge amounts of whisky. Right from the bottle. I tried to take in what I’d just seen. But my mind filled with visions of the young girls, crying and staring at me like I was their executioner. I knew it would take more than one bottle to erase a memory like that.

I looked around for my cigarettes, spotted them sitting on the windowledge with a book of matches tucked underneath. I sparked up and took a long draw, let the nicotine get deep into my lungs. I felt its calming warmth right away.

Tell me they’re a killer, yeah, but what isn’t? My nerves began to settle down from jangling like Sunday church bells to a susurration that whispered, ‘Get a grip, Gus.’

I sat myself on the ledge and looked to the sky. Night stars, up and at ’em. Felt the religion of my childhood reach out to me. Old prayers said at the bedside returned. When the Presbyterianism raises its head, I know I’m in trouble.

I lowered my eyes, turned back to the earth.

I caught a hint of movement under the street lamp below. A man stood there. I clocked the scene before me, checked my facts, got all the data in order. Yes, a man stood in the street below, watching me.

I turned over the view once more. He smoked a cigarette, looked straight up at me. He saw me stood before him, mirroring his movements. For a moment we made eye contact and at once I knew where I’d seen him before. It was the cube-shaped bloke, the one with the newspaper who watched me with Amy earlier.

I stubbed the tab.

Ran for the door.

AS I REACHED the end of the driveway the Cube took off. He ran like a Jawa, all stumpy legs and arms, thrusting away for dear life. I was onto him, ‘Bang to rights’, as they used to say on
The Sweeney
. He knew I wasn’t hanging about. I followed him like bad luck. He turned round to grab glances at me again and again. His face as red as Hell Boy, cheeks puffed out like bellows. I saw his features clearly now and I wouldn’t forget them.

‘Right, you little prick, I have you,’ I shouted after him.

I lunged out, grabbed him by the collar in a classic
Dixon of Dock Green
manner, no escaping the long arm of the—

‘
Shit!
’

I stumbled. Took the Cube down with me. We rolled about on the wet pavement like pissed-up breakdancers. I managed a lame hold on him, yelled, ‘Give it up!’

He went silent. I heard his breath grow heavy. It faltered with panic and carried a smell of menthol cigarettes.

The Cube wore a leather jacket and in the wetness it got too slippery to hold. ‘Quit your struggling,’ I shouted.

He paid no mind. Then, I took a sharp knee to the plums.

I let out a wail. The Cube seized his chance.

‘Hey! Get back here y’bastard.’

Too late. As he ran from me, I caught a few glimpses of his back in the shadows, and then – nothing.

‘Screw it,’ I said. I stood up and limped back to the hotel.

Inside I threw myself on the bed. The room spun out of control, I couldn’t take it. Once through the ringer was enough. I raised myself and returned to the Johnnie Walker.

I’d thought that doing Col’s digging might bring me some trouble, but now I knew it. Somebody had taken a serious interest in me. I’d my suspicions who, but no clue as to why. I mean, what had I to offer? Nothing. I’d unearthed zip. Christ, most days, I could hardly find my arse with both hands.

I sat cross-legged on the floor, whisky in one hand, a tab in the other. None of it made sense, so I tried not to think. For a long time I’d wanted to be unthinking. That’s what I use the sauce for – shutting out the noise, obviating the pain of existence. I downed more and more whisky until I felt myself slump and then fall.

Dean Martin once said: ‘You’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on.’

I was so drunk I couldn’t even hold on.

I passed out, into brutal dreams.

I woke to my mobi ringing loudly, right at my earhole, croaked: ‘Hello.’

A female voice, crotchety, said, ‘You bastard.’

‘Amy?’

‘I thought we had a date.’

Confusion reigned, then long-term memory kicked in, I tried: ‘A date … well, I don’t know I’d exactly call it that.’

Her voice rose higher, she fumed at me: ‘You utter, utter bastard!’

‘Look, I’m really sorry, Amy – I got caught up in some other things.’

Silence, then a tut, followed closely by a pause. This was gonna cost me, I knew it.

‘You can make it up to me, Gus,’ she said.

‘How?’

‘There’s a bit of a rave up at the students union this weekend.’

I thought,
students
, I don’t know, said, ‘Students?’

The critical intonation slipped in. Amy obviously picked up on it right away. ‘Gus, I’m a
student
.’

Her tone carried accusation. Guilt flew in and settled on me once again.

‘Okay, what time?’

‘I’ll call you this time – be ready!’

‘Deal,’ I said, and she hung up.

I put down the phone and wondered if my life would ever be my own again.

The room felt full of dead air. I opened the window, stuck my head out and got a waft of petrol fumes from the street below. God, did I ever need some fresh air in my lungs. This city would be the death of me, Debs had always said that.

I filled the sink with cold water, bathed my face. In the mirror I saw Mac’s haircut was still sitting pretty, it only took a quick run through with a comb.

Got dressed in a beige shirt and Gap khakis. Checked myself out, said, ‘Crikey!’ reminded me of the late Steve Irwin. Pulled off the shirt and went with a white polo.

I felt rough, way rough.

Sparked up a Rothmans and immediately started a major coughing fit that shook my world. Would I venture some coffee? Would I ever.

The Nescafé instant sachets in the little basket seemed to have gone down. I’d need to tap Stalin for more. The thought of him suddenly brought the night before flooding back to me in brilliant Technicolor flashes.

I’d a few bones to pick with him. There was the Nescafé. Then Milo’s eye. And of course, the room full of Latvian girls.

I made a second, weak cup of coffee with the dregs of granules spilled on the tray. Found the contents of a few previously torn-up sachets, tipped those in too.

I wanted to get my head in order before I sought out the cute hoor, as Milo called him. I knew the real answer was skipping out Stalin altogether and going straight to Benny the Bullfrog, but I needed to know more about him and his operation before I risked a foot in his direction.

Sure, questions needed to be asked, but without a bit of leverage I’d be as well keeping them to myself. I had a feeling that going to Zalinskas’ lair unprepared would mean coming out feet first.

I stubbed the tab on the sole of my boot – the ashtray seemed to have gone walkabout. I hoped the cleaner might pick up on this and leave me another one.

It was a painful experience lacing up the Docs. My guts turned over; thought I might heave. It passed. I made a note to shop for some loafers, anything without laces.