Tony Black - Paying For It

‘Ah, ’tis the best time to start. I used to be a terror for the books m’self, until the old eyes went. Sure isn’t the only education of any worth one that’s burned in by lantern light!’

I nodded. ‘I’ve always been a reader.’

Milo dropped his voice. ‘And… have you always been a drinker?’

I didn’t mind the question. After a few scoops I would talk the leg off an iron pot. And it mattered not an iota what I talked about.

‘Can’t say always, though maybe it was there at the back of me waiting to surface.’

‘Most times there’s a reason for it.’

‘I’ve a million of those.’

Milo laughed. ‘Jaysus, Gus, you’re a rare character. Quite a combination, the reader and the drinker.’

‘Just your average saloon bar Socrates.’

‘Oh, you’re above that.’ He stood up slowly and let out a little laugh. ‘We’ll have to talk more another night.’

‘If you like,’ I said.

Milo tried to straighten himself but remained hunched over. ‘Well, I’m obliged to you for letting me watch your television. ’Tis grand to have a bit of company of an evening as well.’

I took him to the door, saw him safely into his room. I swore sleep was already upon him, it scalded my heart to see his exhaustion.

I felt far from tired myself; my mind raced. There was a lot of stuff spinning about in there. The talk of childhood topped the bill. I’ve nothing but a pile of desperate memories left over from this time, which in darker moments will haunt me. It’s always the way of it. The darker things look, the more I remember.

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.

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.