Tony Black - Paying For It

I’d barely put the bottle away when a face appeared in the doorway.

‘You coming in?’ said an old woman turning over an ‘open’ sign. I looked above the door, I stood outside a greasy-spoon cafe.

‘Eh… aye, all right then.’

Inside I shook off the rain, said, ‘We’ll pay for that summer yet!’ I tell you, the Scots have a stock gambit for every occasion.

‘Oh, I know, love — isn’t it dreadful?’ She seemed a nice old dear, salt of the earth, with the tabard to prove it. ‘It’s been like this for days as well, I don’t know when I’m going to get a load of washing oot.’

I smiled, said, ‘Och, maybe you’ll have a lottery win and nip off to the Bahamas.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ She laughed. ‘What can I get you, love?’

‘Coffee, black, please.’

‘Something to eat?’

‘No thanks.’

‘You sure, son? You look like you could do with a square meal. I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil.’

‘Eh, no. Coffee’s fine.’

She gave me a disapproving look, nothing nasty, motherly. It seared through me, reminded me I had some bridges to build in that territory.

The coffee arrived quickly and nearly took my breath away. Strong and hot, how I liked it, but I wanted something a bit more heavy duty. Under the table I took out the scoosh bottle, tipped a good measure in the cap, then poured it in my cup.

Bliss.

‘Great coffee,’ I called out to the waitress.

She smiled as she shuffled off for the back door, the Club king-size in her mouth turned like a rotor blade as she spoke: ‘I do a good roll on sliced sausage as well, son, if ye fancy it.’

‘Eh, no. Coffee’s grand for now, thanks.’

‘Don’t know what you’re missing!’

‘Another day, perhaps.’

I spread out my mail on the table. Felt another pang of, was it guilt? Embarrassment? Probably both. But they soon gave way to the image of the postie yawing up that path, in full flight, with all the grace of a rickety whirligig. ‘He’ll get over it,’ I thought. And sure, now he had a ripper of a story to tell the boys back at the depot.

The mail looked to be all the usual stuff addressed to no one: bank pushing loans; charity cash tap with bribe of a free pen; the latest offer from Branson’s Virgin empire. And one formal-looking envelope addressed to me, Col’s careful handwriting replacing the Wall’s crossed-out address. I tore into it. The thick white paper inside felt expensive on my fingertips.

Dear Gus Dury

Bad start, preferred the old style. What’s wrong with Dear Gus or Dear Mr Dury? These days, I tell you, we want to redesign the whole world from scratch, turn the lot into something trendy. I read on. One line stuck out:

Our client, Ms Deborah Ross seeks — following the recent completion of a trial separation — to instigate formal divorce proceedings.

So, she’d gone back to her old name already.

‘She’s not messing about,’ I thought, as I scrunched the letter into a ball. My fist trembled as I threw it down. My knuckles turned white against the black of the plastic table top.

I left a couple of quid by the cup and slid out the door. My self-esteem slid out beneath me. I felt lower than a snake’s belly.

The Arc building hurt my eyes, reminded me how much Edinburgh had changed. If the city had sleepwalked through the planners’ chrome and glass nightmare, this was the wake-up call. Some architect’s Lego-brick piss-take. Painted turquoise.

A line of bills was fly-posted all the way to the foot of the Mile. Some drag act, I thought. Fifty casual glances later I pieced together that it was a Bowie tribute act, called Larry Stardust.

‘Fuck me drunk!’ I said. The Thin White Duke deserved more respect.

I wandered nowhere in particular. Just trying to clear my thoughts, but it proved difficult. I had too much going on, never a good state of affairs for a drinker.

For a long time I’d been living by Einstein’s dictum: ‘I never think about the future, it comes soon enough.’ But here I was, being forced to do just that. The answers Col wanted wouldn’t just turn up on their own. And neither would Debs’ quickie divorce.

I walked on and on.

Tartan shops blasted teuchter music at every turn. I thought I’d grown immune to it until a Sikh, in a tartan turban, stopped me mid-stride.

‘Would you like to try one, sir?’ His accent was broader than mine, a grin wider than Jack Nicholson’s Joker.

‘Excuse me?’

‘A wee nip?’ he said.

I liked this guy a whole lot.

‘Would I ever.’

A cheap blend, but what did I expect — Dalwhinnie?

‘How is it?’ he said.

‘Hits the spot.’

‘Glad you enjoyed it. Have a nice day, sir.’

I pressed out a smile, a thank you paired with a nod. ‘Have a nice day.’ I wondered when we all became so American? If you’d told me a few years ago I’d be served free scoosh in the street by a Sikh in a tartan turban I’d have been waiting for the punch line. Welcome to the new Scotland.

The nip lifted my mood, restarted the alcohol units I already carried, when my mobi rang. I developed a fit of the shakes and the phone slid from my hands onto the cobbles of the Royal Mile.

‘Oh shit.’

I reached down and picked it up, but I was too late, it had gone to voicemail. The caller ID failed to recognise the number. For a moment I stared at the screen, then a superwoofer blasted out the ‘Skye Boat Song’, and I got moving.

I put the phone back in my pocket. Right away, it began to ring again.

‘Bloody hell.’

This time, I managed to keep hold of it, shouted, ‘Hello!’

‘Gus?’

‘Yes. Who’s this?’

A voice, barely a whisper, said, ‘Gus, it’s Mac.’

‘Mac? Where are you ringing from?’

‘Just about the waist down, son!’ He raised his tone, ‘But that’s not pissing myself laughing, let me tell you!’

‘What’s up?’

‘Your half-arsed attempt at playing Columbo.’

He sounded rattled. ‘Isn’t he dead?’ I said.

‘Aye, and you’re not far behind him!’

‘What? Mac, look, where are you?’

‘I’m in a bloody call box. Do you know how long it is since I’ve said that? Took a bloody age for me to find this bastard. Where are you? We need to talk right a-fucking-way!’

‘Have you got some information for me?’

‘What did I say to you the last time we met? What did I say?’

He sounded highly rattled now.

For the first time I thought to weigh Mac’s advice, but my need to find Billy’s killer overrode any thoughts of danger to myself. Hell, what did I have to get up for anyway? Could maybe solve more than one problem at a time this way. ‘Steer clear — those were the words you used, I think.’

‘I wish you’d bloody well listened!’

‘Look, Mac, what is this?’

‘What is this? This is me, as your friend, putting my knackers on the block for you again!’

I got a definite bad vibe about this, said, ‘You want to explain?’

‘Well, no, not really. I’d sooner you’d listened the first time. I’d sooner I wasn’t the one being hoicked out my bed in the wee hours by knuckle-breakers telling me to give you a message.’

‘Oh.’

‘Is that it? Oh. Is that all you’ve got to say?’

‘Mac, did they… hurt you in any way?’

‘No. But they gave me a pretty bloody graphic description of what they’re capable of in that department.’

‘Stay put. I’ll come over.’

‘No! Will you fuck! I’ll tell you what to do, now, listen up…’

It was the first game of the season, don’t ask me which season. My old man’s playing days of the seventies and eighties are a time I’ve tried to wipe from my mind. I say tried. If only I could.