by philip boyle
‘Excuse me. Sorry. Were you here last night? The party? Do you remember the party?’ She looked at him blankly, as if she wasn’t paid to answer stupid questions. He let her go. Eddie walked to the stage, looking for a sign, something to show that she’d been here, that he had been. Why the fuck was that important? They’d both been here, there was no doubting that. It was what happened afterward that mattered. Past the stage to a door at the back, he pushed through it. It led to just another corridor in this maze of a hotel. There was a door open, a cleaner cleaning, through the gap Eddie saw a chair, a dressing table, a mirror with joke cardboard showbiz lights stuck haphazardly around it. He approached the woman, older than the other, a truck driver body and hair on her upper lip.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, conscious of him lurking. She spoke English, of a kind at least.
‘The woman who used this room last night. She was the singer at the
party. Do you remember her?’
‘No.’ She turned her back on him, back to her work. Eddie moved
into the room, forcing her to turn and face him.
‘Please. Do you remember her or not?’
‘I wasn’t here last night. Not my shift.’
‘Can you tell me who was here last night?’
The woman’s face softened, put her cloths down. ‘Come,’ she said
and he followed.
Eddie sat in a deep chair in the lobby, facing a young sweet girl who looked like she was in trouble. He tried to look, sound kind, but she cowered at every word.
‘I served you drink, I remember. Lot of drink.’
‘Did I keep ordering a lot of drink?’ He wasn’t sure why he asked that question. He had promised himself that he would behave for Edie. It was her he was there for, not to drink. He had started the evening with every intention of just having a couple. There was no reason could he think of that would make him drink so much. He wouldn’t do that to her, would he?
‘The man. The man told me to keep drink on your table.’ ‘What? What man?’
‘He gave me money. Before. Outside. Said he was friend. Wants you
to enjoy yourself. No worries. So tells me to give whatever you want.’ ‘What man? What was his name?’
She shook her head, her English was tough enough to understand as it
was. Tough for her to speak so much. Dredging oil from the barren desert floor. He had an idea. He stood up, smiled at her and offered his hand. ‘Can you come with me for a second? Just back to the room. Please.’ She came reluctantly, looking back at reception, at the manager, fearing for her job, her life.
The function room was almost functional again. As if the night before had never happened. He gestured to the tables. ‘Where was this man sitting? The man? What table was he at?’ She moved carefully, as if through a mine field. She stood by a table and he realized how pointless it all was if he couldn’t remember himself. A table full of men. Men who didn’t belong. At the wrong party.
There was a man, Eddie… passing by… passing by your table… an ordinary man… there, gone, there, it would come back later.
He had to leave the room, he was past check-out time, they’d probably charge him money he didn’t have. What could he say to them? ‘I’ve lost her. I came here with my partner and I’m checking out without her. Don’t I get a discount for that?’ He didn’t want to leave. In case she came back. If he left without her she would never find him again. he searched each and every room again, every crevice, crack in the wall, the gap caused by the open bathroom window. No note, no message, no text, no call, no sign of struggle, no blood, no torn clothes, no fallen earring, no broken chain, no false nails, no lipstick smears, no stains, no anything.
No… no.
‘No!’ Eddie screamed five years of unspoken hurt, the trained torment of hiding all.
Pity. He was happy to play the card now. Stone-faced manager called Stone with a heart. Yes, he remembered Edie. ‘I was so busy last night, don’t remember seeing her afterwards. I was all over the place. I was in the room briefly. She’s a good singer though. So you’ve lost her, eh? You were a little lost yourself last night.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing. You were clearly unwell when you left here.’
‘You saw me?’
‘Yes. Saw your friends carry you out. You don’t remember?’ ‘Would I be asking I did? What friends?’
‘I don’t understand. Surely you know your friends.’
‘I was here with her, with Edie, that’s all. I have no friends here. I
don’t know anyone here. Tell me what happened.’
‘It was late, not sure of the time. Two men helped you out of the
hotel. You were a bit under the weather.’
‘Why would I leave the hotel? I was staying here. With her.’ Manager Stone shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Guests come and go. I don’t
know. Sorry.’
‘Sorry,’ Eddie repeated. The bill paid, he realized he had nowhere to
go. Go home, without her?
He took himself and his bag to a chair in the lobby. Felt the manager’s
eyes on him.
Wait. Wait for an hour, maybe two. Bound to hear something by then.
The manager had materialized beside him.
‘Is there anything I can get you?’
‘Yeah. Coffee. Thanks.’
‘No problem. Listen, if you are that concerned, maybe you should call
the police.’
‘I’ll give it an hour or so. Maybe then.’
‘Well, I’ll be here all day if you need any help.’
‘Thanks.’
The police. What a story he could tell. And they’d tell him another
one. The same one the manager would tell them. She’d left him. That
simple. Should have seen him last night. Had to be carried out, couldn’t
stand. And where the hell was he going? No wonder she left him. Don’t
blame her, having to live with that. And what was his story anyway? Well,
officer, it’s like this.
It’s like this:
I’m a broken down nobody. A boxer bum. Been drifting for years,
bouncing doors to backstreet bare knuckle brawls. Second chances, third
chances, had them all, spent them all. I met her drunk, lost her drunk, all
fair in love and war. I dreamed of love, all the things I couldn’t have,
didn’t deserve. Broke her heart, broke my promises, raised my fist and
almost killed a waste of a girl. The funny part is, they pay me, all the
money in the world, to leave, escape, I can’t fucking believe, I think
somehow that deep deep, down God knows I’m good, that I’ve suffered
enough so he lets me catch a break. I have a dream. I’ll find her, find her
one last time, carry her off. But. But it was all just a joke. The joke was on
me. The joke was me. And she played along. She was some performer after
all, better than I even imagined her to be. So here we all are. I’m waiting.
Waiting for something that will never come. The fight’s over. So, officer, what do you think so far? I’m a nobody, I have nothing, yet I believed they were following me, tailing me, isn’t that the word? That I was that important, they had men everywhere. For me. For little old me. Eddie
fucking Brogan or as I was known in the ring, Eddie Broken.
He waited in the lobby of the hotel until the afternoon light started
fading. Drank coffee until it seeped out of his pores. After a while the staff
were hardly aware of his presence. He became a shadow in the corner, a
trick of the light. In the dwindling day he felt it cut against him. the one
thing they’d left him, the only thing they hadn’t stolen. He shifted in the
armchair and the letter didn’t bother him anymore.
Eddie Brogan.
&nb
sp; Broken.
The boxer who once dreamed of love.
CHAPTER 20
Frankie Noon in Edinburgh Hesitate, hallucinate, he skipped from toe to toe, wanted to piss and couldn’t make the decision that might save his life. Sun bleached late afternoon streets, the weary rushing home, rushing to the pub, running to meet, running late, behind, always behind. Through the haze of three pints Eddie watched them and shuddered with fear and envy. He had taken drink to calm him down, thinking it would make the decision easier, actually there was no decision at all. The police station was there, across the street, all he had to do was walk in, sit down, tell his story. And they would believe him, eventually, because it was true. It was crazy and it was true.
The fog hadn’t lifted for two weeks. He kept for waiting for somebody to explain it all to him. Eddie had spent his whole life waiting for someone to explain it to him. Forty odd years waiting for his life to begin until he realized that it was already half gone. Nothing changed just because you wanted it to. Action, reaction, consequence, move on, take the hit. Two weeks, back in Edinburgh, back in the hotel kitchens again, thankful now that he hadn’t pissed this one away at least. They hardly seemed to notice he’d been gone. There were no friends down there, most of the others didn’t speak his language. Heads, hearts bowed, trying not to be seen or heard, just paid. No one to tell his tale to, no one to call, no one to meet to pour out his heart. She hadn’t left him, that was certain, some things you just knew. And he waited for something that he knew now would never come. The house was the past now, too big, a lost hope. Tommy, landlord, manager of disappearing acts, reacted with indifference to what Eddie had to tell him. Tommy had heard, seen worse. Acts came and went, Edie had let him down once before, not her fault of course and he had come to her rescue, to their rescue, gave her the gig, gave them the house. And it was obvious what he thought, what they all thought, what the police would think. She’d left him.
Gone. Right under his drunken eyes. Maybe she had seen that. From the stage, mid-song, lifted her eyes to the back of the room, saw him slumped, saw the glasses where he found his real comfort, saw the future, saw the disappointment, saw the lack of everything she would need. And she’d gone. Maybe Tommy knew, the cause of his indifference, because he knew, what they all knew. She’d rather suffer without him, she could no longer look after him, she had herself to think about. So, she had looked up, through the haze of gin and brandy and sweat and foul breaths of that party audience who hardly saw her that night. Edie would have looked out for the one person she might rightly have thought would be looking, listening, the one person. And that one person was unconscious, slumped, beyond indifferent. Imagine the shock of that to her. After everything. Why leave a note or word or a sign of any kind when that one person would be in no state to receive it? In his first days back they were his first and last thoughts.
And then. Drizzling dizzying rain, on Calton Hill walking among the ruins, cold, hours to kill before he had to work, afraid to drink, tired of coffee, his phone rang. He answered but could hear nothing but static. He moved around, trying to get a better signal but the voice on the other end was no more distinct. The number was private. He ended it reluctantly, waited impatiently for a follow up call. But it never came. A thought followed him down the hill, inarticulate, unclear. The city was spread like a grey blanket beneath him. Past the Scotsman hotel and the whole other universe that existed inside. He couldn’t help looking, at the clean cut cloth of the uniformed man at the door and the silk suits that escaped inside. Even the steps leading to the entrance were carpeted, inside was dark, welcoming, rich, impenetrable. But Eddie clearly saw the familiar figure of Frankie Noon.
What the hell was all this? Edinburgh had suddenly become the refuge of all his former friends and enemies. Something crooked in the air that had led them all here? He couldn’t countenance the idea that they were all here because of him. And yet. The evidence pointed only in that direction. He started walking up the red steps, trying not to catch the eye, the ire of the guard at the palace door. He made it or almost made it to the edge of the dark calm, he had a toe inside the hotel, it was definitely Frankie. Tall, elegant grey suit, he looked well, he laughed at something his smaller companion whispered in his ear. Eddie was about to call out to him when there was a gloved hand on his shoulder.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ Eddie made a point of looking down at the intruding gloved hand.
‘I just saw someone I know. I need to have a word with him. Is that okay?’
‘Of course, sir. I wasn’t trying to be hostile.’ He smiled, seemed genuine and Eddie felt apologetic straight away although he said nothing. The hand was removed and Eddie was free to go. He looked back inside the hotel and Frankie was gone. Something made Eddie pull back. He suddenly felt uncomfortable, retreated down the carpet steps, back to the street, to his world. What had he planned to say anyway? Frankie would probably not have appreciated the unheralded appearance of a man he had sent away. Later, Eddie thought.
The job was infinitely more depressing knowing there was nothing to go home to. The house was too big for him alone and nothing in it belonged to him. They hadn’t lived there long enough to make anything out of it. So he slept fitfully, eagerly awaiting the daylight and the chance to get out of the house. Then he filled long hours until work, with little enough money to make those hours in any way pleasurable. Every woman, of any shape and size, caught his attention, he saw her in all of them and none in the end were even close. And it would hit him, always, in the aftermath of another spurious sighting, that even was she here, free, it would be unlikely that she would be walking with such hale hearty energy. That night, Glasgow, that must have taken everything she had. She should, would have needed two days in bed to recover. So. So? He thought it through, inside out and still it made no sense. So, wherever she went, wherever she was, she wasn’t alone.
On his break, he climbed the stairs, to the cool comfort of the bar. Sat in a corner, the bar was empty tonight, it was empty most nights now, as were most of the rooms. A glass of iced water on the table in front of him. Phone to his ear.
‘Yes, I’d like to speak one of your guests, Mr. Noon. Frank Noon?’ Stay calm, normal, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He waited for the negative reply, no guest of that name, but instead.
‘Hold on a moment please.’
Longest moment in history. What was he going to say? Best not to think, it wasn’t his strongest suit.
‘Hello?’ A clear Irish, lilting accent, cautious, curious.
‘Frankie? It’s Eddie. Eddie Brogan.’ Another longest moment. Pause, pause he waited for the line to go dead. But he heard his breath, heard something else in the background, voices, maybe the TV, maybe.
‘How did you know I was here?’ He was definitely not pleased to hear from him.
‘I was walking by the hotel today, just happened to see you.’
‘What can I do for you, Eddie?’
‘Can I see you? For a few minutes?’
‘As I said, what can I do for you? I’m busy.’
Out-thought, out of his comfort zone, out of his fucking mind, Eddie had determined to play it gently. ‘I did what you told me, Frankie. I left. I took your money gratefully and I left as you asked me. You know about the money, don’t you?’ He waited for a replay but nothing but slow breaths. ‘They took the money. All of it. At the airport. Why, Frankie?’
Nothing and the anger rose in Eddie like a hurricane. ‘Why?’ he screamed into the phone and the line went dead. Scowled, howled, the storm rose and fell with weary resignation. Back down to the kitchens below, where for the rest of the shift he swore at everyone, swore at the broken plates. Swore vengeance. Against who?
Flaming orange mists ascended like the rotten perfume of time from the castle battlements. High above from his own vantage point in the thirdfloor bookshop café, Eddie scanned the sacred plains of Edinburgh below, magnificent, scummy, foul, resonant, mesmerizing. For want of something
to occupy his time he grabbed a book from the nearest shelf, settled back into a soft chair, in the brilliant light of the window and vowed to come here every day at this time. The book was The Falls by Rankin. Foul deeds of the city where he presently resided, not exactly what he wanted or needed. But he started reading, the sun warmed him, the coffee soothed him, the real city outside looked beautiful at this very moment. The nonreader read and his prejudices fell away as he lost himself in the song of the writing, the rhythm of the words. His phone lay on the table in front of him, on vibrate, ready, he glanced up now and again, checked for messages from Frankie, the same Frankie who didn’t want to talk to him anymore. Darkness, deep down deeds of the soul that led to murder, Rankin took Eddie on a tour of the underbelly without him ever having to leave the confines of his comfortable café chair.
He dozed, dreamed, woke sweating, wiped saliva from the edge of his mouth, took the glare of a middle-aged well-preserved woman who could only find a seat beside him. He was going to apologise, engage in polite conversation but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. It was early afternoon, Jesus, where had the time gone? The book was three-quarters read, it came flooding back, the idea, he took up the book again, as if just holding it would renew his earlier fervour. It was only a book, with fictional courage, a place where hopes and dreams were realized. The woman’s perfume was intense, like incense in a church. He remembered his communion for a moment, came back to him in a flash. The little man in his white suit, embarrassed, dragged from the house of God to the houses of hellish relatives who dropped coins like Judas in his tiny palm. And his father, smiling in public, hair slicked sweet, caressing my mother, then home and the whip of his hand rained down on the boy for some minor indiscretion that Eddie couldn’t recall. The woman beside him spilled some of her coffee on the pages of her new book. ‘Oh,’ she said, and he wondered what obscenities were careering through her mind. He somehow liked her a little more for her manners. He picked up his book again and tried to re-engage with it again but it didn’t happen. A part of him knew he would never finish it. He thought he knew how it would end anyway. Still, the idea he had gleamed from the book was with him again. It wasn’t an original idea but something he should have done straight away. The thought of the time he had wasted drove a stake through his heart. She’s gone.