Paying For It gd-1

by Tony Black

  Mac shook his head. ‘Gus, I’m not messing about here.’

  I rose to my feet. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Sit down.’ His voice sounded calm now, quiet almost. ‘Look, Gus, this visit I got…’

  I put the bead on him. ‘Spill it.’

  ‘I got a message to pass on to you.’

  I’d strayed into some decidedly dodgy territory, I saw that now. My first thought was Stalin. Next, Nadja. The weak fuck had tipped her off to cover his own arse.

  ‘So let’s hear it.’

  ‘You won’t like it.’

  Another thought entered my head: the Cube. ‘Was this a stocky little shite, smoked Berkeley Menthols?’

  ‘What? No. No fucking way, it was a hard-core thug, bling on his teeth, the lot — Gus, this is all the way from the top. I told you not to mess with this lot. The Bullfrog’s spoken and he wants you to get out. To leave the city — now!’

  ‘No way.’ I had the murder to think about.

  Mac shook his head again, it grated on my nerves. ‘I thought that’s what you’d say… so here.’ He frowned, creased his mouth into a taut wire and pressed the gun into my leg again.

  I needed to know what was going on, and just what the hell I’d gotten myself into. I had tapped into more than just the killing of a young lad who’d got himself into a bit of bother.

  ‘What’s this about? I don’t see how Billy Boy suddenly becomes Billy the Kid overnight.’

  ‘I told you, Gus. I warned you. Didn’t I warn you? Right from the start, I told you — don’t mess with this mob. End of story. You just don’t mess. They’re into more shit than you ever dreamt of.’

  ‘Is my name Horatio?’

  ‘ What?’

  ‘Thanks for the tip, Mac.’

  I got to my feet again, headed for the door.

  ‘Gus — Gus, you bastard, we haven’t got the bill yet!’

  16

  Was it worth the trouble?

  ‘I mean what have you got?’ I asked myself. Knew the answer — zip. I’d been flailing about, sticking my nose in, but had nothing to give Col. Except maybe, another funeral invitation. Real soon.

  I turned into a newsagent’s, bought up some smokes: Camels, the strong ones. Taste of them greeted me like a blessing. Truth be told, I felt ready for a bevvy, at least one or ten. But something, maybe Mac’s warning, kept me walking.

  My mind felt numb. I’d flitted between mental fireworks and virtual catatonia for so long that I wondered, ‘Was I manic?’ Sorry, that’s bi-polar now, isn’t it? I don’t know… didn’t even know how to pronounce Adidas these days.

  ‘It’s a kick up the arse you need!’ The indistinct voice of Scots wisdom hit in.

  The Scots don’t do self-pity. Morbidity, yes. Drunken insensate, to block it all out, yes. But never self-pity. I put it down to the utter blackness of Scottish history. The struggle to get by. The sheer suffering. I mean, how else do you convince a poor nation like this to drag itself up? The myth of dignity in suffering. Shovelling shite, filling your lungs with coal dust, good for your soul? Bollocks. Good for the plutocrats’ bank balances more like.

  Jumped the number 26 bus to the Wall.

  I saw all the regulars propped up inside, got a few nods from the most familiar faces. The one I expected to greet me most enthusiastically, though, was goggle-eyed, staring at the telly.

  ‘Col, how goes it?’

  ‘Shush shush,’ he said, the back of his hand flapping at me.

  ‘Must be good, what’s it, Debbie Does Dallas?’

  Killer look fired on me. Frowns, the works.

  I slunk back, settled myself at the bar. Col turned up the news bulletin, Scotland Today.

  The outside broadcast came from the new parliament building. I shook my head. ‘Bloody waste of money!’

  Chorus of, ‘Aye. Aye. Aye,’ echoed round the bar.

  ‘Did you hear this, mate?’ Some gadgie I’d never seen in my puff approached me, his face a riot of red patches, a drinker’s blue nose. ‘They cannae even heat the thing, bloody spewing oot heat it is! See, they put one of them heat guns on it. Saw the pictures in the paper, what a bloody money pit!’

  ‘Look, can you keep the noise down, please,’ snapped Col.

  I raised my eyebrows to the gadgie. He slumped off, old nineties tracksuit dragging off him, pint spilling in his trembling hand. Acrylic and alcohol — a bad combination — he put himself in danger of going up like the Hindenburg with his next fag.

  I turned back to the telly. The reporter looked about seventeen. How do they do it? In my day, the telly was a big gig. Went to the best hacks. Trained ones. Not some schoolie that looks like she’d been at her mum’s dressing-up box.

  ‘The protest started outside the parliament with people waving placards…’ she announced.

  Incisive stuff. Top-notch journalism. ‘Oh, bring back John Craven, please. It’s Newsround, surely.’

  The wind picked up at the reporter’s back, I expected to hear a quick, ‘and now back to the studio’ to let in her make-up team. She went on: ‘The protesters are asylum seekers, their families and supporters, who are opposed to the Scottish Executive’s policies…’

  They played some footage, the kind I knew would have news editors salivating. Early-morning raids with police battering down flats in Wester Hailes, the city’s dumping ground for the dispossessed. They planned to turf out the illegals, quick smart.

  They pixelated all the faces of the people being rounded up by plod. My mind played a trick on me, filled in the blanks with the faces I’d seen huddled in misery at Fallingdoon House.

  ‘Joining us now is Minister for Immigration, Alisdair Cardownie, MSP,’ said the reporter.

  ‘Turn this up some more, Col,’ I said.

  ‘Good evening, Polly,’ said Cardownie.

  ‘ Wanker!’ I shouted at the screen.

  ‘Minister, judging by the number of protesters, there seems to be quite a significant opposition to your party’s policies on immigration.’

  He put on a piranha smirk. ‘Well, Polly, let’s put things into perspective, a handful of very vocal protesters does not signify a backlash against the government. Let’s not forget, we are the elected party. And, as the elected representatives of the people, can ipso facto claim some measure of assumed support for our policies.’

  The schoolie looked dumbstruck. Swear a giggle came from her. Capitulation writ large on her peaches and cream complexion.

  ‘But, well, why do you think these people are here, Minister?’

  ‘A good question, Polly. And if I may, eloquently put. One can only assume that the overzealous actions of some rogue police officers has, rightly — I reiterate that point, rightly to my mind — raised the indignation of some sections of the populace.’

  Col bridled. ‘Fucking hypocrite!’ he said.

  I rocked on my heels, taken aback. I had never heard Col make such an outburst. Couldn’t even remember hearing him swear.

  ‘What’s that, Col?’

  He turned to me, eyes wide, said, ‘Well, he’s a politician, isn’t he.’

  I couldn’t read Col’s thoughts, but Cardownie got his goat, I saw that clearly enough.

  ‘Yeah, like I say, a wanker. He’s trying to put the blame on plod. Buck passer.’

  I watched Cardownie smarm his way through the shit-storm with heart-stopping ease. Couldn’t believe anyone bought this. Dredged up an adage from David Hume: ‘Nothing appears more surprising to those who consider human affairs with a philosophical eye, than the ease with which the many are governed by the few.’

  Suddenly, Col’s interest shifted. He reached for the doofer, switched off the telly. ‘Have you any news for me, Gus?’

  I tapped the bar. ‘Have you any booze for me, Col?’

  17

  Col turned to his optics, put a stare on me as he filled a shot glass with Jack Daniel’s. Tennessee’s finest, old-time number seven. Good old Col, he’s got my number.

  ‘Well?�
�� he said, placing the whiskey in front of me.

  ‘Go well with a pint.’After a comment like that, anyone else would have blown it, not Col. Cool as you like, he pulled down a pint glass.

  ‘Guinness?’

  ‘Nice and creamy.’

  I will never tire of watching Col pour a pint of the black stuff. It’s an art. Getting the consistency right is the first tester. Length of wait the next. The head requires a special kind of genius.

  Col put the pint down, leaned on the bar. I knew he was desperate to prise information from me. I was desperate to avoid the subject. I had some details to give him, but I’d plenty more to leave out.

  I avoided his gaze, grabbed up the telly doofer. Doctor Who had started.

  ‘Never the same without Tom Baker.’

  ‘What?’ said Col.

  ‘The Doctor — to me he’s still Tom Baker, they can never replace him. Like Bond, you know, everyone has their Bond. It’s a moment in time, a peak of interest, when the character first comes alive for you.’

  Col returned to the Guinness. Worked on the final third of the pint. Minutes later he thunked down the glass. The shamrock drawn in the creamy head shuddered over the edge in the wake of his frustration.

  ‘Thanks, Col,’ I said. The taste danced on my lips. A joy like no other.

  I knew I’d delayed the inevitable long enough.

  ‘Shall we, er, move to the snug?’

  Three quick nods, a wipe of the bar, and Col led the way.

  The snug was empty. At night time, you fight for a seat here. This time of the day, though, was for hardcore drinkers. The lonely looking for company. The dole moles.

  The Wall felt like home, the snug, like my front room. Each name carved in the wood panelling as familiar as a family photo. The crushed and worn seat cushions were — what’s the word? — cosy. You couldn’t recreate the feel of this place with a million quid. Pubs like this, they need to evolve.

  I drained my JD, fired right in. ‘There’s some… progress.’

  ‘ Uh-huh.’

  ‘I don’t know how to put this, Col, so I’m just going to tell it straight.’

  Col’s expression tightened. I traced the fine lines around his eyes, they crossed his cheekbones like girders on the Forth Bridge. ‘I wouldn’t want you to soft-soap me, Gus.’

  ‘All right, but if you feel the need to, just stop me.’

  ‘I won’t!’

  Took a breath, dived right in. ‘Look, Col, I think Billy was involved with some very shady people.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I’ve known for some time that that boy was no angel. If it wasn’t for his mother-’ Col broke off suddenly. ‘Well, what have you to tell me?’

  ‘The outfit he worked for are a heavy-duty Russian firm. We’re not just talking about wee boys twoking car stereos here, Col.’

  ‘What line are they in?’

  I nearly laughed, he made it sound like we were two salesmen, bumping into each other in a Little Chef on the M8.

  ‘I can’t be sure of anything at this stage, but, and I think I’m only scratching the surface here, they look like people smugglers.’ I took a deep breath. ‘No, worse, it’s young girls they’re bringing in.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Hazard a guess.’

  Col sat back in his chair. A pious look crossed his face. I wondered if he weighed what I said against his religion. I didn’t think the good book had a section that read: ‘Thou shalt not smuggle thy poor European neighbours.’ But what did I know about that?

  ‘It’s Nadja, isn’t it?’ said Col.

  I nodded.

  ‘I knew she was bad for him right from the start. I saw she was no good. I told him, Gus. I did.’

  I couldn’t muster the words. Col reeked hurt. There was nothing to be gained by telling him about the threat on my life. I didn’t want to worry him, or worse, freak him out completely. I wasn’t going to have Col pull me off the job. More than ever I felt the weight of duty pressing on me. The man looked ready to crumble into pieces.

  ‘I just can’t believe my Billy was involved.’

  ‘Col…’ He wasn’t listening to me.

  ‘I just, I just can’t believe it.’ He looked into me. ‘Not my boy, not my son.’

  ‘We don’t know he was involved.’

  ‘Oh he was.’ Col sounded certain. ‘I just need to know why.’

  I wanted to tell him I’d do my best to find out; but I knew anything I said would sound trite. Went with, ‘How’s the wife coping?’

  ‘She has her moments, y’know. I don’t think she’ll ever be the same. There’s nothing I can do about that now.’

  ‘Are you looking after her?’ I’d blurted it out all wrong. Christ, why did you say that, Gus?

  Col’s eyes shone like match tips. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I didn’t mean…’

  ‘I know, I know. You’re a good man, Gus. I can’t tell you how much I- how much we both appreciate what you’re doing.’

  ‘I was just-’

  He raised a hand. ‘Look, there’s no need. I want you to have no doubt about the debt I owe you for this. There is no one else can give me… closure.’

  Closure. What was that? Jeez, I wanted a smoke.

  ‘This smoking ban’s a bastard, isn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, sorry, you want a cigarette. Shall we go outside?’

  ‘No, I’ll go upstairs. I need to pack anyway.’

  ‘Pack?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll be moving out for a while.’

  ‘But why? Where will you go?’

  ‘I need to lie low for a time, Col. Don’t worry, it’s nothing to worry about. I just need to put a bit of distance between myself and this life for a while.’

  ‘Are you in trouble, Gus?’

  ‘No. God no. I just need to keep a bit of a low profile right now, if I’m to get close to this mob.’

  ‘I see. You’re going under cover.’

  Under cover. Please. Saw myself on a stake-out with a bag of doughnuts.

  ‘Yeah. Kinda.’

  18

  On the way upstairs, I passed a picture hanging in the hall that grabbed my attention. ‘Cannis Dury, Scottish Cup Final 1978’, it said on the frame. How had I missed this? I stared at the photo for a full minute. He’d just scored. None of the Ryan Giggs making a lasso of his shirt. Was barely a glimmer of recognition in his eye. The only reason I knew he’d scored was that he had the ball under his arm. Back to the centre line, more work to do. No messing. That’s how he played.

  My father had a rep as a studs first sweeper; shouted himself silent every game. Would have made Vinnie Jones look like a shandy drinker. I once met one of his old adversaries, who summed him up in one word: ‘Fierce.’ I’d never been able to better that.

  I turned the picture to face the wall.

  I had the key to the flat in my hand as my mobile started ringing.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ah, ’tis your bold self!’

  ‘Milo?’

  ‘Who did ye think it was? There’s not many have the brogue as thick as me, not since Dave Allen passed, anyway.’

  I gave a little laugh. ‘It’s good to hear from you.’

  ‘Bollocks, isn’t it the life of Riley you’ll be living, not a care in the world, lest of all for an old pot-walloper like m’self.’

  He had me, but I couldn’t disguise how glad I was to hear his voice. ‘So how are you, buddy?’

  A hacking cough, chased by peals of laughter. ‘Oh, grand, grand. Doctors reckon I’ve weeks ahead of me!’

  His patter sounded tremendous for the age of him and the life he led. I couldn’t admire him more. ‘Stop, you’re killing me!’

  ‘I’ll stop now, I will. To be serious for a second, Gus…’ Milo’s voice dropped to the pits of him, his words came like tremors to my ears, ‘I was wondering, well, hoping really, if you could oblige me-’

  I cut him off. ‘Name it, Milo
.’

  ‘Well it’s — you’ll think I’m such an old fool.’

  ‘Never.’ He had me concerned, he began to sound so fearful. ‘What is it?’

  ‘If you had some time free, Gus, would you ever be able to pay me a little visit?’

  ‘Sure I would. God, Milo, it would be a pleasure. Didn’t I say I’d be round soon enough?’

  ‘No, Gus, you misunderstand. I don’t mean a social visit.’

  ‘What?’

  I heard him shuffle the phone from hand to hand, then his voice sank to barely a whisper, ‘There are some very strange things afoot here.’

  ‘You’ll have to speak up, I can hardly hear you.’

  More shuffling of the phone, then, ‘Some very young women, pale as ghosts they were, and-’ He stopped dead.

  ‘Milo? Milo, you still there?’

  ‘I can’t really say any more — it’s the cute hoor.’

  ‘Gotcha. Stalin’s about?’

  ‘Ahem, yes, that’s right.’

  My mind flipped back to Milo’s black eye. ‘I swear, if that bastard has laid a finger on you-’

  ‘No, Gus, sure I’m fine — right as rain!’

  I sensed he overstated things, he sounded clearly distressed by something. ‘I’ll be round right away.’

  ‘No! Jaysus, would ye ever listen? Amn’t I fine? All I’m saying is I’d like to get your considered opinion on something.’ He had started to choose his words too carefully for my liking, I could tell he feared they might land him in trouble. ‘When ye have a moment, just drop by. I will look out for you. Goodbye for now.’

  He hung up before I could say another word.

  19

  The door to my flat sat open. Right away, I thought it looked like the result of a blackout. Couldn’t remember leaving the latch off, but hey, there’s a lot of things I’ve lost to the drink. Inside I jolted: I’d have remembered this, surely.

  The flat looked like a war zone. Bed thrown arseways. Mattress to the wall. Table, missing its legs, lay in bits under a pile of debris.