Paying For It gd-1 Read online

  A shake of the head, finger in the collar.

  ‘Shame. It’s a classic. If you had seen it you’d know two things: one, if you move off that seat, I’ll burst you. Two, sometimes nothing’s a pretty cool hand.’

  The Cube looked away. He lowered his head as if he was praying for an end to this insanity. Like I wasn’t?

  I flagged the waiter.

  ‘Stick another in there, mate.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Looked up, had sat there so long there’d been a shift change. The waiter was now a waitress. Though, you’d need a magnifying glass to spot the difference. A hefty she-male with a short back and sides, tie and trousers, builder’s arms, the lot.

  ‘Er, it’s Wild Turkey for me, please.’

  Took a frown. My order got pushed down her ‘to do’ list, took second billing to changing the CD to k.d. lang.

  ‘Here, I think that’s her,’ the Cube’s voice lit up for a moment, then I heard his fear creep in, ‘Who you’re looking for.’

  Nadja knew how to make an entrance. Carrying herself like royalty, she approached the front desk. Two arm-length gloves slapped on the marble. It looked like a nonverbal cue, but one I’d never had cause to decipher. To the concierge, however, it shouted: ‘Action!’ He scurried round to remove Nadja’s coat, bowing and scraping like a coolie in the presence of the Raj.

  ‘Take it to my room,’ she said.

  A near bow. Forelock tugging. ‘Right away!’

  The Cube looked at me, saw we thought the same thing: ‘So this is how the other half lives?’

  I got to my feet. From nowhere the Leither in me rose up. The ghost of Burns reminded me: ‘The rank is but the guinea’s stamp… a man’s a man for a’ that.’

  She took a few steps into the elevator. I followed behind her, then pressed the hold button. The indignant look on her face seemed like incitement to me.

  ‘Take her coat,’ I told the Cube.

  The concierge flustered, ‘Really, I mean…’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ said Nadja. ‘These men are… associates of mine.’

  The doors closed.

  The air inside the elevator felt thick with menace. A tinder-box waiting to explode. I’d happily be the spark.

  ‘Associates?’ I said.

  ‘What is this?’ said Nadja.

  ‘I tried to-’ said the Cube.

  ‘Shut your fucking yap!’ I said.

  I moved towards Nadja. The closer I got, the more I became overpowered by the scent of her perfume. I looked her up and down. She recoiled from me. Guess I didn’t smell quite as good. ‘This, my dear lady, is the moment of truth.’

  I stopped the elevator. Opened the door. ‘Do one!’ I grabbed Nadja’s coat from the Cube, kicked his arse on the way into the hall, he’d served his purpose now. ‘And remember — I wasn’t kidding about the machete.’

  As the elevator began its ascent, I eyeballed Nadja.

  She held herself motionless. Wouldn’t grant me so much as a stare. I felt a queue of my cloth-capped forebears forming behind me. Each one, prodding, demanding I do my bit for the class struggle. I fought them off as long as I could. Even after the caps came off and were trampled under tackity boots, I kept my cool.

  When the elevator stopped Nadja looked through me. Something snapped.

  I hit the door lock. Grabbed her face in my hand, said, ‘Lose the high and mighty pose, lady.’

  She tried to turn away, raised a neatly manicured set of claws to my eyes. In a second my forearm clicked into place, pressing her by the throat to the wall.

  ‘This is the one and only warning you’re going to get. Go down that route and you’ll find out what a perfectly unreconstructed example of maledom I really am.’

  Her face turned white. Even through the layers of expensive panstick I saw I had her beat.

  ‘Now, we are going to walk out of here all nicey, nicey — understand?’

  She couldn’t move, but signalled her compliance with a flutter of long eyelashes.

  I let her go. ‘Don’t test me. That would be a mistake you might not live to regret.’

  27

  I’d only one word for the way I felt about the opulence of Nadja’s room: appalled. I’m a working-class bloke, it’s in the contract.

  The carpet felt so soft that it added an extra layer to the air-cushioned soles of my Docs. But I couldn’t feel comfortable here. I’d no place in my life for gilt mirrors and walnut marquetry. Tried to tot-up the cost of furnishing a room like this. Couldn’t do it — had seen nothing like it in the Argos catalogue. All I did know, I’d need several lifetimes to afford one cabriole leg of the table Nadja treated like a piece of MFI flat-pack.

  ‘I need a cigarette,’ she said, slamming the drawer shut.

  She seemed on edge — just how I wanted her.

  I let her hang. Wandered about the place. Caught sight of a Peploe on one of the walls.

  ‘You don’t like the picture, Mr Dury?’ said Nadja. She’d found some tabs, lit up and blew smoke in my direction.

  ‘Not my style.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I’m more a “tennis player scratching her arse” kinda guy.’

  She winced, found me coarse. I wasn’t the type she usually dealt with. Thought, ‘Tough shit.’ She’d just have to get used to roughing it with the proles for a while.

  ‘Do you plan to take me prisoner in my own suite, Mr Dury?’

  I’d a mind to do much worse. A man had been killed, a man I’d got close to. The image of Milo’s burned remains stabbed me, called for revenge, and the anger inside me wasn’t choosy who paid.

  ‘You really are quite a piece of work, aren’t you, Nadja?’ I said.

  She hesitated, stalled with her cigarette halfway to her mouth. ‘I’m quite sure I do not know what it is you mean.’

  I walked over to the drinks cabinet, poured out a large Courvoisier, swirled it around in the bottom of the glass. When I turned round, Nadja had lowered herself onto the chaise. She crossed her long legs delicately in my direction. ‘Please, give me one.’

  I sighed. ‘Sorry, but I’ve come out without my white gloves.’

  She looked confused, but undeterred. Shot me a smile.

  ‘Let’s get something straight from the off,’ I said. ‘That kind of shit isn’t going to cut any ice with me.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  I fired down the brandy, said, ‘I don’t do fuckstruck.’

  Her act slipped away. She sat forward, elbows on knees. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I seem to remember telling you what I wanted some time ago.’

  ‘And…’

  ‘Here we are again.’ I reloaded with brandy.

  ‘Look, Mr Dury, when a man, a how do you say… private investigator, comes to ask the questions about my personal life I have little to say.’

  I drained the glass, held it in my hand, some weight in these crystal jobs. As it hit the wall the noise came like gunshot.

  ‘Okay — Okay,’ said Nadja. ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know. I just had to be sure who you were before I could speak.’

  ‘And your little helper, he filled you in?’

  ‘I wanted to know who you were working for. I couldn’t trust that you might be from them.’

  ‘ Them?’

  ‘From Zalinskas.’

  She fell to bits. Head in hands. Tears. The works.

  I moved a chair in front of her, turned it around, sat down.

  ‘I know about the Latvian girls. My friend found out too — and they murdered him.’

  ‘Yes. Yes…’

  ‘You and the Bullfrog, you’re in it together.’

  ‘No — Yes. With Billy. It was his job.’

  ‘Billy brought in the girls?’

  ‘Yes. But, there were many things he did that I did not know of.’

  I reached out, lifted up her head. ‘Such as?’

  ‘I do not know. Really, there were some things Billy wouldn’t eve
n speak to me about.’

  I remembered Col’s words, about Billy being close to making his pile. I wasn’t buying that Nadja didn’t have more to give.

  ‘And Zalinskas, he knew all about Billy’s… activities?’

  Nadja looked towards the window, placed a curl of hair behind her ear. She shook her head.

  ‘I see.’ Now we were getting somewhere. ‘So Billy was branching out on his own?’

  She stood up, pressed down the sides of her skirt.

  ‘Mr Dury, I shouldn’t be telling you of this — any of it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It will put me in danger.’

  I stood up quickly, knocking over the chair. ‘You’re already in danger, don’t forget that.’

  ‘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.’

  28

  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.

  29

  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.