Tony Black - Paying For It

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.