Tony Black: Paying For It

I joined him, said, ‘I don’t do dusting, Col.’

Laughter.

We’d lightened the tone. Col tried a weak smile. ‘I have no work for you in that line, but there is something you could do for me.’

He leaned on the bar. His eyes widened, showing their whites, but the dark centres haunted. ‘You know about this kind of thing, don’t you?’

I tried to look away but his eyes left me nowhere to hide.

‘Col, I’m out the game.’

‘But you have the form. This kind of thing’s just your line.’

I knew what he meant, but that felt like another lifetime ago.

I raised my glass, drained it. ‘This is my line now.’

‘Gus, c’mon, you forget I knew you before.’

I knew what before meant right away.

The thing is, I owe Col. Not in a debt sense, just — well — morally. He’s been good to me since my troubles started, a bit like a father figure. Not like my father though. Uh-uh. The mighty Cannis Dury has few to match him. You might say it’s because Col is so unlike my old man that I feel he deserves my respect.

‘I’d like to help, I really would, but what could I do?’

‘Same as before when we had that spot of bother.’

When everything went tits up for me, Col helped out. Some of his employees thought they’d been recruited on two hundred a week and all they could pilfer. He gave me the security gig and a roof over my head. I felt very grateful. Still do.

‘That was a different matter entirely.’ On-site snoop to jumped-up gumshoe looked quite a leap to me. I felt happy enough with our current arrangement — free flat, only a stumble from the bar.

‘Just have a look around in the city, go to your old mates and do some sniffing about.’

‘Hacks have no mates, Col.’

‘You’re no hack — quality you are boyo!’

I laughed. ‘Half right. I’m no hack any more.’

I raised my glass, motioned to the whisky on the shelf. Col fired off a refill, planted it in front of me. His eyes widened again. When I looked in them I saw they’d grown rimmed in red. I saw the worry there. Genuine grief. I knew the territory.

‘No promises,’ I said.

He smiled, and those eyes of his shone like headlamps. ‘It’s a deal. Gus, I could ask no more. You’ve no idea what this means to me. The father-son bond is a very precious thing.’

‘Tell me about it,’ I said.

I don’t know how long I’ve been soaking up dosser life. A year anyway, maybe longer. Most of my time’s been spent at the Holy Wall, listening to Col’s sermons, but never acting on them. He’s funny that way: deep in his religion. It’s like we’re both a world apart, which truth be told, is probably just what I need.

I know his heart’s in the right place. He wants to motivate me, get me back into the life. But I already know I don’t want it. I haven’t the stomach for it. All I want now is a few beers of an evening, plenty of whisky chasers. Some good books would be nice, and maybe a dog. Would have to be a mutt, a real mongrel. Mutts are definitely the most loyal.

‘You can keep the rest — possessions, people, respect,’ I thought as I strolled through the city.

Everywhere the old place was being torn down, brand new glass and chrome apartments going up in place of memories. I just didn’t buy into this new lifestyle thing. I aimed for an anti-lifestyle. Trendy magazines weren’t queuing up to feature my idea of happiness in their glossy pages.

I headed up Abbeyhill in the East End, on my way to Calton Hill. It’s the place they put on all the postcards. Edinburgh — the place to be, huh? City of spires and cobbled streets. Tartan and bagpipes. A culture capital, a gourmet’s delight… don’t get me started: I know the real story.

Now, with most days to myself, I like to take to the high ground and look down. Just watch the place. Think about the time I played a role in the mess, before I fell off the merry-go-round.

Seagulls squawked overhead, threatened to shit on me. I looked up, shouted, ‘Bugger off, would you?’

Bloody vermin. Rats with wings, that’s what they are. Birds and me don’t get on, just ask my soon to be ex-wife.

‘Piss off, vermin,’ I yelled.

An old woman stuck out her bobble-hatted head.

‘Sorry, missus,’ I said. A killer frown fired at me. ‘Sorry, again.’

I slunk off to a bench. Dipped into my mobile mini-bar. It’s very mini — I only carry the basics — quarter bottle of scoosh in a brown paper bag.

I know, I know. A real jakey look with the bag. But I like it. There’s an honesty about it. The first time I bought a quarter bottle and the bloke in Booze and News put it in a brown bag I thought, ‘No way.’ Simply too dero, even for me.

I carried it about, rustling inside my pocket for hours before I could touch it. But when I did, it felt like I’d put on a badge of honour that read: ‘I drink! Get over it!’

A few quick shots settled me down. Always does the trick. Nothing like it for cooling the blood.

I tucked away the scoosh and ferreted for a piece of paper with some details from Col. ‘What am I getting into now?’ I thought. I’d enough to deal with on my own without taking on someone else’s problems. But like they say, I could hardly say no.

The note was written on Basildon Bond. Col’s careful copperplate handwriting listed some of the people I should talk to about Billy. People who knew him before his very public demise.

I scanned the names. ‘Christ, Billy, you were a silly boy, weren’t you?’ I whispered.

The list read like a police round-up. I knew some of old. Mostly, they were small-time crims and hard men. Knuckle breakers and old pugs. I wouldn’t be too keen to drop in on any for a chat.

Some of the names made me think. Made me think I wanted to fire down some more whisky. It’s the drinker’s way: it burns, so you drink and it doesn’t. But this was Col’s gig. The holding-folding in my pocket was for finding his boy’s killer, not pissing up the wall.

I got moving.

Started to roll over what Col had told me.

There was a girl in the picture, her name was Nadja, and she gave Col what the Scots call the bowk. For a placid guy he’d got pretty steamed up at the mention of her. I reckoned her to be a long shot to begin with, but Col supplied a number for her, and I had to start somewhere.

I picked up my mobi. It stank of fags: Benson’s.

‘Hello? Hello there, my name’s Gus Dury.’

Silence.

I heard breathing on the other end of the line.

‘Hello,’ I said again, ‘I was wondering if… Look, is this Nadja? Billy’s father, Col, gave me your number.’

‘This is Nadja.’ The accent sounded thick, Eastern European. She reminded me of the Bond character Onatopp. I hoped she wasn’t going to be as much trouble.

I kept it brief. ‘I wondered if we could meet. I’d like to talk to you about Billy.’

I expected a few tears. Word shuffling at least, but got, ‘I have nothing to say.’

I moved the phone to my other hand. ‘Look, I knew Billy a bit, and I really think-’

She cut me off. ‘That means no-thing to me.’ The phone got shuffled, hand to hand. ‘You are finished, yes?’

I drew in the big guns, showed her I wasn’t messing here. ‘Look, lady, if I’m finished with you already, the filth’s my next stop.’

Silence, again.

I pitched my tone to a whisper, got that edge of menace in there. ‘You hearing me?’

She let that bounce about a bit, then the line fizzed from her end. ‘There is a place, the Shandwick, do you know it?’

A hotel in the New Town, the classier end, green and tweeds territory. ‘Yeah, George Street. Bit outta my league.’

‘Be there at three.’