Tony Black - Paying For It

‘You have me! I’m here for you. Look, whatever the problem is, there’s nothing I won’t try to fix.’

I heard the heavy call-box receiver go down. My mind spun, my stomach followed it faster than getaway tyres. I ran to the other side of the room and picked up my jacket. My smokes fell from the pocket but I didn’t stop to pick them up as I went to the door.

I yanked the handle and my heart rate suddenly dropped to nothing.

A face I hardly recognised stood in the hallway.

‘Hello, Gus.’

‘Debs! What are you doing here?’

A lengthy silence followed, laid down a huge gap between us. This was crazy, we were still man and wife.

‘How did you find me?’

‘I went to your flat. Col said you were here.’

Good old Col, I had called to let him know where I was, but I could have done without her knowing I lived this way. Not exactly an advert for stability.

‘I got your letter,’ I said.

‘That’s good.’

‘So, you’re not messing about then, your lawyer’s pushed the button.’

There it was, that gap again.

‘Look, Gus, you knew this was coming. I told you.’

‘I thought there might have been a bit more… discussion.’

A tut.

‘We’ve done all the talking.’

I turned away, shook my head. ‘Oh, have we now? You’ve decided. Deborah’s made her mind up and that’s all there is to it. If that’s the case, then why are you here?’

A loud sigh, she shifted a hand to the bag strap over her shoulder, fiddled nervously with it. ‘I see this might be a bit of a shock to you, Gus.’

‘Oh, it’s a shock all right — but don’t pretend you care about my feelings. You’ll be asking how I’m getting on next.’

Her hand jerked from the strap, slapped at her thigh. ‘Look, if you’re going to start getting aggressive…’

‘You’ll what? Get your lawyer to write me another threatening letter?’

‘Okay. I can see there’s not much point in pursuing this.’

She turned away from me, headed back towards the door. I locked myself down, this wasn’t the way I’d wanted things to be between us. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry, Debs… All this is doing my head in.’

She looked round, took her hand off the door handle. ‘It’s not easy for me, either.’

‘I know, but I’m under a lot of pressure just now.’

‘Are you drinking?’

‘No. God, no — haven’t touched a drop.’

‘For how long?’

‘Days.’

‘How many — one, two?’

She had my number. Any more than that would be a new record; then, we might just have something to talk about.

‘Does it matter? It’s the fact that I’m cleaning up my act that’s important, surely.’

Another tut, softer this time, it arrived almost hidden under breath.

‘What does that mean?’ I said.

‘Nothing.’

‘No. No. Go on. Tell me what you mean.’

‘There’s no point.’

‘There’s every point, I want to know what you meant by that tut.’

‘Gus, stop this.’

‘I won’t — I’ll never get clean. That’s what it means, isn’t it? You’ve no faith in me, Debs, you never fucking have had!’

‘Right, that’s it. I’m not going to get drawn into another one of your stupid barnies. I had hoped we could resolve things amicably, but obviously not.’

‘Truth hurts too much, huh?’

‘That’s it, Gus. I told you the last time: I’ve had it with the rows, the recriminations — I’m not the enemy. I never was.’

Tut.

I turned the tables on her. It felt good, for all of a second.

‘You pushed me away — just like you push everything else.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘Keep pushing it. You’re going to be left with nothing. Sad and lonely, staring into a bottle of whisky.’ She upped the volume, her voice cracked, ‘How could you think I could watch you do that to yourself?’

‘Debs-’

‘No, leave it.’ I’d brought her to tears. ‘It’s over and the sooner you realise that the better. For crying out loud, just take a look at yourself. Not for the sake of this fucked-up marriage, for yourself.’

‘Debs-’

‘We’re finished. I don’t want you to call me again, do you understand?’

‘What — why?’

‘I mean it. If you’ve any more to say to me, call my lawyer.’

‘Debs… Debs…’

I began to think the days without drink had left me damaged.

I took myself to a wine bar off Shandwick Place. These joints make me want to chuck. All the suits, designer mostly. Talk of blue-sky thinking and running ideas up the flagpole. Everyone looking so cocky, comfortable. I knew I despised them not only for what they were, but for what they had.

I could only stomach five minutes in the place. Long enough to drop two triples, and settle my shakes.

The bus out to the East End seemed slower than usual. Roads clogged up with taxis and teenage cruisers. When I finally made it to Fallingdoon House the whisky had hit in and sleep seemed ready to fall upon me.

Then I saw the blue lights. Police. Fire. Ambulance.

It took all my strength, but I managed to sprint the final few hundred yards.

The place was in disarray. Smoke billowed from a ground-floor window that had been smashed for the firemen to climb through. In the front yard the occupants stood in pyjamas and nighties, shivering and coughing their lungs up.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ I shouted.

None of them answered, the look of shock on their faces said they knew as much as me.

I grabbed a cop. ‘What’s happened?’

‘A fire.’

‘Really?’ I kept the no shit Sherlock to myself. ‘Anyone hurt?’

The copper tipped his head back, looked at me from under the brim of his hat. ‘Do you live here, sir?’

‘No. Well, I used to.’

His head came forward, chased by a frown. ‘Used to?’

‘Look my friend lives here. Milo. Is he all right?’

‘I’ve no idea. You’ll have to ask the inspector.’

I left him standing with a thumb casually stuck in his belt, could think of a better place for it but let it slide.

Inside the house the walls were blackened. The floor squelched underfoot from the gallons of water that had been pumped in to put out the fire. It was impossible to say where the fire had been, but then I heard voices coming from Milo’s room. I took off, sliding on the wet carpet and collecting black streaks of soot down my arms and hands as I tried to steady myself.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Who the fuck are you?’ said a trench coat, bald head and beaten-up features falling in behind.

‘Dury. My friend lives here.’

He eyed me up and down. ‘No one lives here. Not any more.’

‘Come again?’

He turned away from me, spoke to one of the uniforms. As I stared at the back of his bald head I felt ready to rabbit-punch him through the wall.

‘What do you mean, no one lives here any more?’

Trench coat flicked his head at the uniform and then turned to face me. He stuck his hands in his pockets as he started to speak, ‘Look at that.’

His eyes pointed to a pile of empty bottles in the corner of the room; they were blackened and burned.

‘Empties, so what?’

‘No one lives here any more, because the old dosser who stayed in this room got tanked up on cheapo Vladivar and burnt himself the fuck alive!’

I felt suddenly drained of blood. My mouth dried up and a deadbolt twisted in my stomach.

‘You see… that’s the danger of smoking and drinking.’ He pointed to a pile of charred mess in the corner, I could vaguely make out the iron bedstead where Milo laid his head every night, was that heap all that remained of him?