Paying For It (7 page)

In the hallway I listened at Milo’s door – nothing. No sign of Stalin either. I’d got up early for me but the world looked to be well on with the day.

I took the stairs to the second floor, unsure of what I’d seen the night before. I wouldn’t have put it past myself to have got it wrong completely. Drink, it’ll mess you up that way.

I stumbled on the top step, said, ‘Shit – get a grip, Gus.’

I found simple coordination difficult. But my mind played tricks on me too. It flashed up the faces of those young girls, huddled together, terrified. I imagined what grim fate awaited them. They were only children. What the hell were they doing in there? Where were their parents? My mind raced; the city was no place for them. With the streets awash with deros and criminals, what chance would they have? None, I knew it. They were easy meat. Pure and simple.

I stood outside the door I’d put my shoulder to the night before. It sat slightly open. A thin oblong of sunlight reached out over the floor towards me. I took a deep breath and went for the handle.

As I slowly stepped in, I remembered again the fear I’d created in those faces. God alone knew who they imagined me to be, or why they thought I’d suddenly appeared like that.

Inside I felt like I’d walked into the wrong room. It was empty. The bedding was straightened with great precision. Lamps, towels, kettle – everything neat as ninepins, as my mother would say. Only the window, slightly open, set the curtains dancing like ghosts.

I stood in the centre of the room in silence. I heard my heart beating, the blood circulating quickly in my veins. I put it down to my struggle up the stairs. Then I began to feel out of breath.

My head pounded now, but it wasn’t the usual hangover. I felt rage. Those girls, this room, this whole place …

‘What’s going on?’

I lashed out with my boot and caught the door. It slammed loudly. A cloud of dust rose from above the frame.

I set about opening up drawers, wardrobe doors, bathroom cabinets. I checked them all but found nothing. I saw no trace of anyone ever having stayed there. It looked as innocuous as any other cheap hotel room in any other city. Then I heard a key in the lock.

I turned round to see the door open up. In walked Stalin, he eyed me calmly, then said, ‘Why are you here?’

My fists clenched. I felt ready to beat some answers out of him. ‘I’ll ask the questions. First off, where’re all the Latvian girls that were here last night?’

He stepped into the room. The door closed behind him and he folded his arms.

I said, ‘I’ll ask you again – the girls, where are they?’

He raised a hand, his index finger extended towards me. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

‘Cute hoor,’ I felt a bucket of adrenaline tip into my veins, ‘that’s what you are.’

I lunged towards him and caught him with a jaw breaker of an uppercut. I instantly felt the heat of it in my knuckles. I stood over him where he lay on the floor. ‘Feeling more talkative now?’

He crawled onto his knees and spat. A drool of blood spilled from his mouth. He watched me but said nothing. ‘Someone once told me, never wrestle with pigs in shit. Do you know why?’ I said.

He spat again.

‘Because, you see, they enjoy the shit more than you.’

I kicked him in the head. I saw a flap of skin tear clear of his brow. More blood ran out. Lots this time. Looked like a coat-hanger abortion. He put both hands over his head.

‘Think of me as a pig. You see, I enjoy this shit, I can keep it up for hours.’

I swear he whimpered. I’d expected more of a put up from a Russian. Maybe I was too sold on Arnie in
Red Heat
.

‘The girls, fuckface. What happened to them?’

Finally, spluttering, answers: ‘They’ve gone … gone, taken away.’

‘Where?’

More whimpering, tears. ‘I do not know … I do not.’

I drew back my fist, gritted my teeth, let him think I wanted another hit at his face.

‘They come, they go. I can tell no more. The girls come here and then girls are taken away.’

‘Who takes them?’

He cried now. Full-on tears, just like a nipper. ‘They will kill me.’

Enough already, as the Americans say. I hit him again and opened a welt above his other eye. Not a matching pair, but near enough. He looked woozy, I thought I’d gone too far.

I let him breathe a while.

I filled a glass of water and threw it over him. Then I grabbed his hair in my hand and twisted, real hard.

‘Now, my friend, they – whoever they are – may indeed kill you when they catch up with you, but sure as there’s a hole in your arse, I’ll kill you now if you don’t tell me what I want to know.’

He spilled. ‘A woman, she came for them early – she always come early. Drive them away. I just look after the hotel. It is not my business to know more.’

He was seriously panicked now. His breath grew patchy. I thought he might shit his pants, said, ‘Name?’

‘I … I … I do not know.’

‘Somehow, I don’t believe you.’

I lifted him on to his feet. He screamed as I pulled him towards the door by his long greasy hair. ‘Maybe we’ll pay a little visit to the roof top, must be some sights so high up. How would you like that?’

‘Okay, okay … Her name is Nadja. I know nothing more. Nadja, that is all.’

I threw him onto the bed. He curled up like a beaten dog. The sight of him repulsed me. I saw how Billy had ascended the ranks so quickly if this was the piss-weak standard of Russian gangster he worked alongside.

‘She’s a tall blonde, yeah?’

‘Yes.’

I took out a tab, lit it. The bitch, she’d held out on me.

I walked over to face Stalin. I crouched down and blew smoke in his face. ‘If I find you’re messing with me, I’ll come back and cut out your kidneys.’

He looked away and his lip curled up like a spoilt child’s. Then came more whimpering.

I grabbed his jaw and turned his eyes to me, said, ‘This is separate.’

‘What?’ Fear latched onto him again. ‘What …? What …?’

‘Call it payback …’

I put my fist in his face, I heard the crack of bone and knew his nose had gone. He was out cold.

‘For Milo.’

I TOOK MYSELF back to the room. I needed to clear right out. My hands shook. Put it down to the sauce, but had a fear it might be something else.

I made time for a full Scottish breakfast: large Alka-Seltzer and two aspirin. Heard Dennis Hopper’s immortal words racing around in my mind, ‘Alcohol, there’s no drug like it to take you so high … and drop you back down so low.’

My head spun, the hangover ramped up the revs. I had to find time to think, room to manoeuvre.

I ran into the street, over to the 7-Eleven. Grabbed two packs of tea – the good stuff, Twinings – and hoofed it back to Fallingdoon House.

‘Milo? Are you up yet?’ I stood in the hallway and banged on the door, all the while looking up the stairs for signs of Stalin.

‘Milo? Are you …?’

The lock turned and, slowly, the door widened to all of an inch.

‘Ah, ’tis yourself,’ said Milo. ‘Come in, Mr Dury.’

Milo’s movements seemed slower than usual. I saw his feet exposed, blue and gnarled on the cold floorboards. It nearly put my heart out.

‘My, aren’t we the early bird this morning. ’Tis, ’tis … ’tis the early bird ye are.’ He seemed to hover above the bed, his sparrow-thin wrists looked like they might snap on contact with the soft mattress.

It took Milo for ever to lower himself; when he finally made it the pain drove two tractor tracks across his brow.

‘I’ve brought this for you,’ I said.

‘Ah, Jaysus … ye shouldn’t have.’ Milo stretched, as near to a lunge as he was able. ‘I’ll get a pot boiling for some tay.’

‘No –’ I flagged him to sit, ‘– I can’t stop, Milo.’

‘I thought as much.’ He looked up towards the cross above his bed, a large wooden effigy of Christ was in place, suffering for all our sins. ‘Ye look, can I say it, a bit disturbed – Is it trouble yeer in?’

‘I-I just have to go.’

‘And when we were becoming such good friends as well.’

‘The best of friends.’

He looked back at me, I caught the blue of his eyes as they shot into me.

‘Look … I’ll be back soon. Real soon. It’s just … well, I guess you could say I’ve a spot of bother to see to.’

‘Can I help?’

I nearly laughed out loud, the look of him.

‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I can manage.’

I was out of words. We both were. I felt like I’d let the old boy down, abandoned him to grim fate.

‘Milo, if there’s any trouble from that prick Stalin, I want you to call me, you hear?’ I scribbled down my mobile number on the back of the 7-Eleven receipt and tucked it under a glass at his bedside. ‘You hear me, call – anything at all.’

He stared at the wall. There was nothing more to say. I felt there should be a handshake or, God forbid, a hug. But I just left him alone with his fears, as I carried off my guilt. I deserted him. Had I no spine?

I trudged back to the room and picked up my things, there wasn’t much, it amounted to one bag, my denim jacket and a near empty bottle of Johnnie Walker. I had tabs and matches somewhere too, but bollocks to looking for them.

A sheet of horizontal rain hit me as I opened the door, the insidious Edinburgh type that chases you through the closes, makes you feel like you’ve got a personal rain cloud following. The brewery, in full swing, pumped out an overpowering stench. Mixed with grey skies and I understood why the streets looked so empty – save for one big biffer, stooped over with something behind his back.

‘Dury?’ he said.

He looked a useful pug, the sight of him put me on Defcom-Five.

‘What’s it to you?’

‘What?’

‘Look, fat boy – I only went with your mother ’cos she’s dirty.’ The old Happy Monday’s lyric, first radge thing to come into my head as I squared my shoulders and put the bead on him. ‘And I haven’t got a decent bone in me, so come on and kill me!’

He reached behind him, I grabbed his arm. Swear I sensed a sawn-off, Stanley knife at the least.

‘Try it!’ I said.

‘Jesus! Help! Help! I’m being attacked,’ he roared.

I pulled his arm forward. There was no shooter, just a large red post sack.

‘You’re the postie!’

‘Who did you think I was?’ he bleated, breath heavy.

‘You’re the bloody postie!’ I felt a flood of relief. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I thought—’

‘I don’t care what you thought. I’m only trying to do my job here.’ He shoved a pile of letters at me. I looked at him, feeling my face start to heat up, said, ‘Look, I’m sorry, really … I didn’t mean to—’

He pushed past me, bolted up the drive to Fallingdoon House. He fairly moved, a real ‘Run Forrest, run,’ scene.

At the door he shouted, ‘You’re crazy, do you know that?’ His mail bag swung from side to side, nearly toppling him as he delved for a few stray envelopes that floated out. ‘People like you need locking up!’

I couldn’t fault him there.

‘Sorry again. It’s the lack of uniform! Posties used to wear uniforms.’ I couldn’t keep up with the pace of change. Time was when I knew my postie by name. ‘When did you guys do away with the uniform?’

‘Piss off!’ he snapped.

I took the hint. Jesus, what kind of a life was I living?

I put my collar up as I walked into the rain. Would have liked to spark up but had left my smokes behind.

I looked over my shoulder as I hurried along the London Road. Kids on their way to school eyed me cautiously. They wore blazers and carried satchels – one tradition that hadn’t died out in Edinburgh. To a one the kids looked dour. Put me in mind of myself at their age. I remembered how early we’re all taught to be miserable. How we strangle the idea that life can be anything other than spiritless routine.

On this road I’d be at the Holy Wall for opening. The idea of a morning heart-starter jumped at me, but, I couldn’t see it going down too well with Col. I pulled myself into a shop doorway and fired down some scoosh. I felt like street trash, a jakey, but I badly needed a hit.

I’d barely put the bottle away when a face appeared in the doorway.

‘You coming in?’ said an old woman turning over an ‘open’ sign. I looked above the door, I stood outside a greasy-spoon café.

‘Eh … aye, all right then.’

Inside I shook off the rain, said, ‘We’ll pay for that summer yet!’ I tell you, the Scots have a stock gambit for every occasion.

‘Oh, I know, love – isn’t it dreadful?’ She seemed a nice old dear, salt of the earth, with the tabard to prove it. ‘It’s been like this for days as well, I don’t know when I’m going to get a load of washing oot.’

I smiled, said, ‘Och, maybe you’ll have a lottery win and nip off to the Bahamas.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ She laughed. ‘What can I get you, love?’

‘Coffee, black, please.’

‘Something to eat?’

‘No thanks.’

‘You sure, son? You look like you could do with a square meal. I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil.’

‘Eh, no. Coffee’s fine.’

She gave me a disapproving look, nothing nasty, motherly. It seared through me, reminded me I had some bridges to build in that territory.

The coffee arrived quickly and nearly took my breath away. Strong and hot, how I liked it, but I wanted something a bit more heavy duty. Under the table I took out the scoosh bottle, tipped a good measure in the cap, then poured it in my cup.

Bliss
.

‘Great coffee,’ I called out to the waitress.

She smiled as she shuffled off for the back door, the Club king-size in her mouth turned like a rotor blade as she spoke: ‘I do a good roll on sliced sausage as well, son, if ye fancy it.’

‘Eh, no. Coffee’s grand for now, thanks.’

‘Don’t know what you’re missing!’

‘Another day, perhaps.’

I spread out my mail on the table. Felt another pang of, was it guilt? Embarrassment? Probably both. But they soon gave way to the image of the postie yawing up that path, in full flight, with all the grace of a rickety whirligig. ‘He’ll get over it,’ I thought. And sure, now he had a ripper of a story to tell the boys back at the depot.