Paying For It Read online

  I stared at myself some more. I looked rough as guts and only half as welcoming. I thought, ‘I wouldn’t like to bump into myself on a dark night.’

  My hair looked too long and I had the bloated Jim Morrison, Paris ’71 look about me – the way he looked on four packs of Marlboro and a couple of bottles of brandy a day.

  I kept hearing ‘The End’. Round and round in my head, ‘This is the e-e-end’. After a power of drink I passed out. Came to with bats swooping me. My hands shook so badly I missed with every swipe at them. But they soon left. They never last long. And anyway, it’s the buzzards you really need to worry about.

  I glanced up at the barman; he polished a pint glass, arm rested on his gut. He’d missed my blackout and I didn’t want to stay for him to catch the next one. I got up to leave.

  In the daylight outside, I squinted. The sun started to creep through the clouds. I stumbled into the touristy centre of the city. Kilted mannequins strayed from every shop front and cutesy Greyfriars Bobby dogs begged to be picked up and drop-kicked into touch.

  ‘Enough’s enough,’ I thought. ‘Get me back to the East End and some blue-collar bliss.’

  The Scott Monument looked black against the skyline, casting a shadow toward the tightly packed tenements of the Old Town. A breeze brought up the city smog, blew it down Princes Street. Diesel fumes, strong enough to taste, swirled about. The only thing that knocks out those babies is the brewery fumes. I thanked Christ for their absence.

  I felt no joy to be this deep in the heart of a chocolate box. A crippling embarrassment crept up on me, and I pulled up my collar. All very Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory – but who was I kidding?

  ‘The way you look, Dury, your own mother would be lucky to pick you,’ I told myself.

  On the pavement an American tourist stopped me. He looked like he’d just walked from the pages of a Ralph Lauren catalogue. All veneered teeth and spray-on tan. Hitting fifty, but fighting it. He smarmed at me; I expected to be asked something as dumb and inane as all Americans ask when they stop you on Princes Street. Something like: ‘Can you tell me how to get to Rabbi Burns’ synagogue?’

  I tried a side step. Tourist was light on his feet, obviously working out too. He jumped before me and produced a Groucho Marx style cigar. ‘Have you a match, buddy?’ he said.

  I looked him in the eye and hit him with: ‘Not since Errol Flynn died!’

  He stepped back to let me pass. As I walked off, I glanced round to catch him put his mouth into an O and remove the cigar, stupefied.

  Some people are so easy to set straight. But something told me Nadja might not be such a pushover.

  THE SHANDWICK LOOKED plush. Billy’s girl obviously had a taste for the finer things in life. I’d passed the place many times but had never been in. I’d promised Debs to visit as a treat one of these days, but that seemed like a long time ago, before we started communicating through lawyers.

  Col had given me a description of Nadja, he said she looked classy, but was ‘A little gold-digger’. Straight away, I saw he was wrong on one count, either that or Col and I had different ideas of class.

  She had the standard footballer’s wife look: peroxide blonde, shag-me boots, what the Scots call ‘All fur coat and nae knickers’.

  I took a chair at her table on the back veranda and introduced myself. ‘I’m Gus Dury,’ I said.

  ‘Should the name mean something to me?’ said Nadja, as she pinched her lips into a little red cupid’s bow. ‘Very cute,’ I thought.

  I hit back. ‘Maybe once.’ I mean, who was I? A nobody? Well, yes, but she didn’t need to know that.

  She paused, lit a cigarette, Dunhill, asked, ‘Why are you here, Mr Dury?’

  Starting early, eh? I matched her with: ‘I think we both know why.’

  A smooth blue trail of smoke left her lips as the waiter arrived, with a menu as thick as the phonebook.

  ‘Will you be having lunch with us, sir?’

  I had to do a double take. Couldn’t remember being called that for a long time. ‘Eh, no.’ Wasn’t planning to stay long. ‘Nothing, thanks.’ I felt ready to drink the place dry, but kept focused.

  Nadja raised her heavily mascaraed eyes. ‘Bring him a tea … Earl Grey.’

  She waved him off, I stuck my hand in front of him. ‘Better make it an Earl Brown, pal!’

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’

  ‘I don’t do tea. I’ll settle for hot chocolate, though.’

  Nadja shooed the waiter away with an impatient flurry of her carefully manicured mitts. ‘Who sent you?’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, no can do. Client confidentiality.’ It felt good taking the reins. ‘I need to know a few things like, for a kick-off, when did you last see Billy – features intact?’ What the hell, she didn’t seem to need pussy footing around.

  ‘I have no idea,’ she snapped. She looked rattled, puffed briskly on her Dunhill, ‘Maybe it is three weeks.’

  ‘That’s a long time. What did the police say to that?’

  Her expression hardened at the mention of the filth, but her voice somehow managed to soften, ‘Business quite often took Billy away for long periods of time.’

  Business. The last time I clapped eyes on the lad his business was collecting football stickers and looking for swaps. He’d barely hit twenty. Now I know this is a moneyed old town and people can rise faster than Basil’s hackles, but something didn’t quite square with the Billy I knew.

  ‘What business?’ I said.

  She looked away, avoiding eye contact. She took a brief glance at her watch and a flash of tongue came out to moisten her lips. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘You’ve already used that one.’ I wasn’t buying it a second time.

  Nadja leaned forward, drew deeply on the Dunhill, and then flung back her carefully layered blonde hair as she wet her lips again.

  ‘Mr Dury, I understand perfectly that you have a job to do,’ she smiled at me, showing off a set of teeth that seemed far too white and far too straight to be this far from LA, ‘but could you keep me out of your … investigation?’ She whispered her last word with a pout.

  I had her pegged.

  ‘That’ll never happen,’ I snarled. The words sounded just as harsh as I’d hoped they would. I even managed a rasping, throaty little alkie’s cough at the end, just to ram home how immune I was to her charms. ‘You’re out, plod’s in – that’s the deal, and believe me, I’m a lot easier to get on with.’

  She quickly stubbed out the cigarette. It snapped off at the filter. She started firing out words at me: ‘He worked for a man called Benny Zalinskas. He has some properties that Billy looked after. You know, keeping tenants happy, that kind of thing. He took care of Benny’s business. Now, is there anything else you need to know? Or can I let you get on with … whatever.’ She threw herself back in the chair, arms raised to the ceiling in exasperation. It seemed an overly theatrical gesture for these genteel surroundings; Edinburgh ladies who lunch don’t generally raise more than a pinkie in company.

  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.