Paying For It gd-1 Page 5

  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.

  12

  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 Nescafe 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 Nescafe. 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.

  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.’

  13

  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?’