What You Pay For

by Claire Askew

  I lowered myself down to the edge of the grave, and sat there, my legs swinging into the gap. If I stretched down, I could brush the top of the plastic wrapping with my wet, numbed toes. I felt dizzy and unhinged, my heart beating faster than I thought was possible.

  I knew I ought to do something, say something. What happens at funerals? I found myself humming a tune that Maw used to sing around the house – what was that? I droned away at it, until a few words came back to me, and I sang.

  ‘And we’ll all go together – to pluck wild mountain thyme all among the blooming heather . . .’

  A Scottish song. Vyshnya probably wouldn’t have known it. I felt stupid. I remember wishing I knew some prayers, some right things to say when you bury someone. All I could remember was the Lord’s Prayer from school: after all these years, I could recite it without thinking, like the alphabet, or my own phone number. I said it, spluttering tears on ‘forgive us our trespasses’. Could I be forgiven for Vyshnya’s death? Dear God: I have done what is unforgivable.

  There was proper light now, though the sun wasn’t quite up: the world was no longer shades of grey. The traffic noise was louder, the planes more frequent. No cars had passed down the little access road yet, but I knew farmers got up early. And I still had tasks to do.

  It was easier to fill the grave than it had been to dig it. I’d left the shovel leaning against the car, so initially I just got on my knees beside the pile of soil, and used my arms and body to shove it back into the hole in huge mounds. I went back to the Range Rover only when it was nearly filled, to retrieve the spade and finish things off. I caught a glimpse of myself in the dark glass of the car window as I approached. Still shirtless, I was clothed in mud, twigs, the old bones of leaves. I realised too late that I’d thrown my sweater on to the pile as I’d done the digging. It was now buried along with Vyshnya.

  I tidied the gravesite. The soil was obviously disturbed, but I made it flat. I stamped it down, and then swept it over with the ends of a fallen branch. I found as much in the way of twigs and leaf litter as I could. I scattered the packed earth, and hoped that some grass would grow.

  ‘Goodbye, Vyshnya,’ I said, and once again, because no amount would ever be enough, I added, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Birch had heard three sirens, and three panda cars had come. It was 2.45 a.m., and she could only imagine the stir that blue flashing lights and sirens on the Portobello prom at such an hour would cause.

  The doors and windows were all open now, to clear the gas: she’d had Charlie find the switch by the meter and disable it. Then Charlie had gone out into the back garden, not wanting to stay in the room with Jones – whose face was beginning to turn purple, making Birch wonder what her own was doing – and Fenton, who seemed unable to prevent himself from snarling insults.

  ‘I fuckin’ helped you, kid,’ he’d said. ‘I fuckin’ nearly ended yer da.’

  Birch had looked over at Charlie then, and the alarm must have shown on her face, because Charlie blushed.

  ‘Sorry, Nella,’ he’d said. ‘It’s a long story.’

  From the living room, Birch watched her brother.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he’d called back, as he picked his way over the littered bottles by the door, ‘I won’t run away again.’

  She believed him.

  Now he stood, framed by the doorway, on her weedy little patio. He’d turned the kitchen light on, and its glow illuminated a long stripe of flagstones, grass, the foot of the shed. His shadow hung in that stripe, like something spilled.

  ‘Marm?’

  A female uniform poked her head around the front door, and, seeing Birch in the living room, stepped inside.

  ‘She’s here, boys,’ she said, over her shoulder.

  It was PC Park. Birch had worked with her a few times. She was a petite, compact woman with a core of steel, Birch had learned. Nothing fazed her.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Park said, as she moved into the living room.

  Birch could feel that her face was swollen: below one eye, she could see an indistinct mound of cheek, where a blow had been landed and the flesh had risen and purpled. Her nose had bled, she was fairly sure, and her teeth felt swimmy and loose. She was cradling her hurt, left arm with her good one, as it eased the pain a little. She hadn’t yet looked in a mirror.

  ‘Well, Park,’ Birch said, ‘am I glad to see you.’

  Park’s partner, a very tall, thin male officer, followed her in. For a fleeting second, Birch imagined the two of them on patrol together, how funny they must look walking side by side. Then the other two pairs appeared: four male constables, all of whom seemed impossibly young to Birch. They were pale from what she assumed was the tail-end of their night-shift rotation.

  ‘Jesus.’ One of the men whistled as he approached Birch.

  ‘Well, quite,’ she said. ‘All the handiwork of these two.’

  She nodded towards Fenton and Jones, who were staring intently at the wrecked gas fire, apparently refusing to acknowledge that the room was suddenly very, very full of policemen.

  ‘I’ve read them their rights already,’ Birch said.

  Park was looking at Jones. ‘Ambulance is on its way,’ she said. ‘You, er – really gave as good as you got, didn’t you?’

  Birch flushed. ‘Most of that,’ she said, ‘wasn’t me. My brother was here, thank goodness. That’s his doing.’

  As if on cue, Charlie turned and paced back into the living room.

  ‘Folks,’ Birch said, gesturing awkwardly, ‘this is my brother, Charlie Birch.’

  She saw the name ring a bell with Park’s partner, who she guessed was the oldest of the six constables.

  ‘He’ll be coming in with you too.’ Birch’s voice shook as she said it.

  ‘As . . . a witness?’ Park asked. One of her eyebrows was raised.

  I suppose I did just shop him for assault, Birch thought.

  ‘Yes and no,’ Birch said. ‘I’m going to follow you all, and things will become clear at the station.’

  One of the male constables found some initiative. ‘Right,’ he said. He stepped round the side of the sofa and nudged Jones on the arm. ‘Can you get up, son?’

  Jones said nothing, but stuck his elbow out to be helped. Two of the constables hauled him upright.

  ‘No station for you,’ the officer went on, ‘till we get you cleaned up. Ambulance is just round the corner. I reckon you could use some fresh air.’

  Jones shrugged. The two policemen flanked him, and began to march him slowly, wincing, out into the hallway.

  Park was eyeing Fenton’s head injury: the one Charlie had inflicted with the silver-topped cane. The top of his bald head was smeared with dried-on blood, but to Birch’s eye, the wound didn’t look like it needed to be stitched.

  ‘Does this one need a medic, too, do you reckon, marm?’

  Fenton looked up at Park for the first time, and curled his lip. ‘Fuck off, you ching-chong bitch.’

  Birch took a sharp inward breath, but before she had a chance to react further, Park’s tall, gangly partner had crossed the room and was dragging Fenton up off the sofa.

  ‘I don’t think so, mate,’ he said, bringing Fenton upright. Fenton slid his eyes over to Park again.

  ‘Hey!’ the male officer barked, snapping Fenton’s gaze back to him. ‘We’d have absolutely no problem lining you up for a racial hatred charge as well, pal, so don’t even try it.’

  Fenton shrugged one shoulder out of the man’s hands. ‘Dinnae touch me,’ he said. ‘Pig scum.’

  Birch saw Park roll her eyes.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no thanks to the medic, then,’ she said. ‘Lads, let’s get him in the car.’

  Park’s partner led Fenton out, still gripping his left shoulder. One of the other officers followed. Birch noticed Fenton wasn’t walking all that well: the ladder had twisted his ankle. Good. He wouldn’t try to make a run for it, then.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Birch asked, but Park just shrugged.
r />   ‘Happens a lot,’ she said. ‘It sucks, but you get past it.’

  Birch nodded. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  Park only shrugged again. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘But it’s all good. I’ve got Amy. She gets it.’

  One male uniform remained in the room. He was looking at Charlie: his bloodied hands and clothes, his tattoos.

  ‘Marm, your – brother?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Birch said. ‘I haven’t done the necessary there, yet, have I, Charlie? But I will.’

  Another set of blue flashing lights joined the panda cars outside: the room’s weird discotheque intensified. Park’s partner stuck his head back in through the front door.

  ‘That’s the ambulance here,’ he said. ‘Paramedic motorcycle, too.’

  He disappeared again.

  ‘You really ought to get checked,’ Park said. ‘Is that arm broken?’

  Birch glanced down: she looked as though she were carrying an invisible baby. Pain pulsed through at regular intervals. ‘I guess it might be,’ she said, ‘yeah.’

  Park lifted her hand, gesturing to her remaining male colleague.

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ Birch cut in. ‘I’ll get all this seen to shortly. I just . . .’ She glanced at Charlie. ‘Will you both give us a minute?’

  The male officer turned, and headed out into the hallway almost as Birch spoke. Park, meanwhile, hung back, looking at Charlie. Birch remembered: her brother looked like a radge these days.

  ‘You’ll be okay?’

  Birch tried to smile. Her jaw hurt. ‘Just fine,’ she said. ‘We’ll be out in two shakes, promise.’

  Park nodded, and walked to the hallway, eyeing Charlie all the way. Birch saw her take up a sort of sentry position outside the open front door.

  Suddenly overtaken by exhaustion, Birch sank onto the couch. The adrenalin was gone now: everything hurt, and her throat felt as though it had been sandblasted from the inside. Blood congealed on her lips. She found herself wishing for a Zopiclone tablet, right then: that just-turn-it-all-off feeling.

  ‘Come and sit with me,’ she said. Charlie flopped down on the couch. They were quiet for a moment.

  ‘This is it, then,’ Birch said.

  Beside her, Charlie seemed to have deflated. He looked flat, beaten.

  ‘You were right,’ he said, after a moment.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘When we fought, the other night, before I went. You said you thought I’d killed people.’

  ‘Charlie, I—’

  ‘You were right. I have. Well . . . not people. But a person.’

  Birch blinked. She shouldn’t be shocked: you predicted this, Helen. But she was.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A woman I knew. Just a few weeks ago. It was what made me turn informant on Solomon, after all these years. I couldn’t carry on. Fucked me up, to be honest – I hadn’t caught a single decent night of sleep in those few weeks, hadn’t laughed, even, since it happened. Not till I got here.’

  Birch watched Charlie. His forehead had creased into a deep frown.

  ‘I didn’t feel safe here,’ he said, ‘because I knew they’d come eventually. But . . . it felt like such a relief. To see you again. To feel like maybe I could start to be okay again. To come home, you know?’

  Birch nodded. ‘I know, honey,’ she said. She didn’t have any idea, but it was the right thing to say.

  ‘I was so fucking naïve,’ he went on. ‘About everything. I should have run from the start. Fourteen years ago, I could have walked into any polis station that first night, told them I was in trouble, and it might all have been fine. I didn’t. Then I had chances, over and over again, to get out, and I never took them. I know that, now. I know I had chances. You were right, I did. I was too much of a fucking coward. Even when I finally did it – when I finally talked to that Glasgow polis – I was too much of a selfish bastard to just do it. I still thought I could get immunity. I thought it was like in the movies. Like I could just walk away after.’ He turned to look at Birch, and his face was wet.

  ‘I’ve been so selfish,’ he said. ‘I’ve been such a total fucking brat about everything. I put you in danger – look at you, I got you properly beat up – because I was still clinging to the idea that I could be absolved. Like I deserve to be! I’ve done so many bad things. I’ve watched other people do so many bad things. I let Vyshnya get beat up by Solomon, let her get raped, and then I killed her.’

  His whole body was heaving beside her.

  ‘I felt like he made me,’ he said, ‘but he didn’t. I could have turned the gun on him and ended it all. I could have killed him in front of her and then she’d have got her wish. The others would have killed her anyway, and me too, but at least I would have dealt with him. With Solomon. At least he wouldn’t be walking around now, enjoying his fucking life. Vyshnya deserved that. And I was too fucking scared.’

  Birch’s head swam. Only about a third of what Charlie was saying really made any sense. Carefully, she laid her bad left arm down on her lap, and put the good one around his shoulders.

  ‘Charlie,’ she said. But there was nothing else. Words failed her.

  ‘Send the boys in, to his house.’ Charlie had sucked in a long breath and now seemed more alert, as though he’d surfaced from the deep water of his memories. ‘Get a warrant, or whatever. He’s got this kitchen in the basement. That’s where I killed her. I cleaned up, but you’ve got . . . I dunno, forensics. You’ll find something.’

  He was gasping, as though he wanted to cry but wasn’t letting himself.

  ‘There’s a field,’ he went on, ‘it’s a way out of town towards – fuck, I don’t know, but I could find it again for you. At the bottom corner there’s a wood, and there are birch trees at the edge. Silver birch trees, with the white trunks. The ground is all disturbed there. That’s where I buried her. Deep as I could, but you’ll find her. She’s wrapped in bin bags. The cause of death is a bullet to the head, but she’d broken her arm as well. She’d lost a lot of blood.’

  Charlie’s eyes had gone distant again, remembering.

  ‘The bone was sticking up out of the skin,’ he said. ‘I buried my sweater with her, too, by accident. And some cloths from the kitchen. Towels and stuff. Her blood was on them, and . . .’ He faded out, as though he’d run low on breath.

  ‘And a tie,’ he said quietly. ‘A tie that belonged to Solomon. He was wearing it that night. You’ll find that there, too.’

  Birch squeezed his shoulder, pulling him in a little closer.

  ‘That’s good, honey,’ she said. ‘That’s hard evidence. If we can find her, that’ll give us a good enough reason to arrest Solomon again. We can hold him while you talk to my colleagues. We’ll interview him again. If you give all that information again, as a proper statement, we’ll be able to put him back in a cell. And if you tell us everything you know, and you stand up and say it in court, we’ll be able to leave him there. Hopefully for the rest of his life.’

  Charlie nodded.

  ‘I have to tell you,’ she said, ‘you’re facing time inside. I think you know that.’

  Charlie was still nodding.

  ‘But,’ she added, ‘I know a really, really good lawyer . . . and I sense he’s about to ditch out of his current case.’

  She couldn’t help but smile. Charlie noticed and, to her surprise, smiled back.

  ‘Sounds good,’ he said.

  ‘Marm?’

  Park had stuck her head back into the living room.

  Birch turned her head. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘almost with you.’

  Park nodded, and ducked out again. Charlie was still looking at Birch, though his smile had faded. His mouth had become a hard, serious line.

  ‘I’m ready,’ he said.

  Birch nodded, blinked back tears, and gave his shoulder a final squeeze. Then she slung her good arm onto the back of the sofa, and used it to steady herself as she stood.

  ‘Charlie Birch,’ she said, ‘I am arresting you
for participating in the criminal activities of an organised crime group. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  I walked down Solomon’s driveway that morning, and I thought about Abdul’s room. I thought about his Quran verses, the way those cards might leave a dark square on the paint if they were ever taken down. I thought about his gun, the one I had used to kill Vyshnya, now cleaned up and lying on the bedside table, harmless-looking in the early morning sun. Lighter, by one round. I felt light myself, walking down that drive: light-headed from the deed I’d done and the work that followed it, empty, sick, as though I might float away. There was nothing to stop me disappearing. No one to miss me if I did.

  I passed the spot where Vyshnya had thrown herself at the car. On the gravel, there was a spill of blood, and two thick, twisty marks where the wheels had skidded through to the dirt below the stones. As I walked, I texted Toad back at last.

  The plan was blown, I wrote. I am okay, but Vyshnya is dead.

  I thought for a moment, and then added, I’m sorry.

  The walk to the road seemed endless, and I waited to be picked off: Ez with a sniper rifle, somewhere in the trees. But when I rounded the final bend, I saw the electronic gates standing open. I waited for them to slam closed in my face – they’d let me believe I’d got away before they struck – but no. I walked through. I stood on the side of the road, my overnight bag in my hand. Cars passed: cars filled with ordinary people who had ordinary lives. It was just after 9 a.m.: these folk might be on their way to work, or heading home having dropped their kids at the school gates. These people, I felt, were good: they were nurses and postmen and physiotherapists, people who lived clean, moral lives. I felt like they could see that I was drenched in someone else’s blood: that when they looked at me, they saw a degenerate, a thug, a man who’d been okay with beating his own father, murdering his so-called friend. I’d been surrounded by others like me for too long, and the compass that spun inside me was fucked. Abdul had seemed like a good guy. Izz had, too. And Toad. I didn’t even want to think about Toad’s inherent good-or-bad-ness: my surrogate father, my mentor-in-crime. I felt like I’d woken up from a fourteen-year nightmare, and the reality I’d entered was suddenly, somehow, worse. My head buzzed with it. Who was I? Who the fuck had I become? I needed to do something. I’d have to think about what. But I had to get out, and I had the thought, even if it kills me. It made me shiver, but yes, it was time. In fact, it was long, long overdue.