Tony Black - Paying For It

‘Fucking silly old bastard,’ he said.

‘No. No! You’ve made a mistake. He didn’t drink, and he sure as hell didn’t smoke!’

I walked over to the broken window and grabbed for air. Outside the spinning lights of the fire engines slapped me senseless. I felt my knees weaken, I steadied myself on the ledge and prepared to fall.

‘Mistake — bullshit. It’s a no-brainer, seen it a million times before: some old jakey starts drinking to the old days, thinking he can still put it away and then — whoof! Probably didn’t feel a thing.’

I turned round too fast, the room spun with me. ‘No! You’ve got it wrong. This is murder! He called me to say there was something going on.’

‘Murder? Don’t make me laugh!’

I ran over and grabbed him by the lapels. ‘I’m telling you — you’ve got to look into this properly.’

The jokey tone dropped from the trench coat’s voice. ‘Who the hell are you to be telling me my job?’ As he spoke my arms got knocked into the air. It was just enough to set me off balance and drop me on the wet, soot-blackened floor.

‘This is an open and shut case — the old jakey set himself alight after drinking all that shit. And by the smell of your breath, son, you could do with watching how much you’re putting away.’

‘But-’

‘But fuck all. Get your arse out of my sight before I run you in for getting on my nerves. Now move it!’

For the second time in less than a week I slung my bag onto my back and prepared to take up a new residence. Felt a strange sense of deja vu out in the open. Couldn’t place it. Had myself convinced Milo’s ghost followed me around. Felt as good as a ghost myself.

I got an urge to turn around, and as I did so, saw I’d been off the mark, again.

The Cube stood across the road from me. He hid himself behind a Daily Record, but I’d have known that boxy frame anywhere.

‘Right, you bastard,’ I thought, ‘this time you’ve had it.’ Billy’s death wasn’t the only one I had to reckon with now; I’d be having some answers from this bastard.

I took off slowly. Sauntering pace. Right the way to Princes Street. I wanted to turn around, eyeball the Cube, but I knew better.

At Waterstone’s, the first one on the main drag, I stood and stared in the window. I tried to get a view of the crowds in the reflection. Too hard to make anyone out, except a jakey wrapped up like Sherpa Tenzing. With his hand out, a blanket in the other flapped about as he tried some freestyling.

I said, ‘Hey, Flavour Flav, come here.’

The jakey moved towards me. He looked to be one more purple tin away from sleeping in his own piss.

‘Awright there, mister — price of a cuppa tea?’

I put my hand in my pocket, his whole head followed the movement.

‘Right,’ I said producing a five spot, ‘this is yours if you can help me out.’

‘Aw, for fucksake,’ he said.

‘Cool the beans. I only want you to tell me if there’s a bloke with a copy of the Daily Record still standing over my shoulder?’

The jakey smiled. Showing a row of teeth with more gaps than a comb, looked like he’d been flossing with rope.

‘Eh, aye,’ he said. Then put his hand out.

‘Not so fast. What’s he look like?’

The jakey frowned. He grew agitated, but I saw he tasted that Tennent’s Super already. I stepped in front of him. ‘Make it look good too — don’t want him to sus what I’m up to.’

A nod. Tap on the side of the nose. And another swatch at those teeth.

‘Eh, he’s a fat wee bastard!’

‘What’s he wearing?’

‘Pair of trews and some manky auld leather.’

‘That’s my man!’

I handed over the fiver — he took the money and ran.

I set off in the opposite direction. Crossed at the lights. Took the path round the Gardens. Got halfway along when the one o’clock gun sounded at the castle.

At the Mound I shot up the steps to the Old Town. My heart thumped like a road drill. The sweat on my brow dripped in my eyes. I felt way out of shape. Not up to this. I hoped the Cube felt worse.

‘Just keep up, Mr Cube,’ I whispered, ‘just keep up.’

At the top of the High Street, by the statue of David Hume, I spotted him skulking on the edge of the Lawnmarket, right where the scaffold once stood for public hangings. He’d no clue how close to a lynching he was himself.

I had him pegged: out of breath, fanning his chops with the pages of his paper.

I headed down the Royal Mile. Picked up my pace, worked through a stitch. I took a turn onto Cockburn Street. Just about heard the Cube panting at my back. My legs ached as I put in for a last spurt.

Head down, I tanked it up the steps of Fleshmarket Close.

At the top, I slumped. Back to the wall.

My chest wheezed. ‘I am so, so shagged.’

I watched, moved into an empty shop front, and waited.

The Cube looked close to a coronary. He struggled to find the strength to drag his pudgy frame up another step. But, all credit to the man, he persisted.

As my breathing returned to normal, I felt an uncontrollable urge for nicotine. Sparked up a tab and drew deep. I relaxed at once. Flung back my head and waited.

On the final steps the Cube coughed and choked like a nag on the way to the glue factory.

As the top of his head came into view I stepped out in front of him. He hunched over, looked up, and I blew smoke in his face. ‘Ta dah!’ I said. ‘And as if by magic, the shopkeeper suddenly appeared.’

The Cube made to run.

He hobbled back down the steps, on his bandy legs, arms flailing. I let him open a dozen paces between us before I stubbed my tab and reached out to collar him.

‘I think it’s time you and I had a little chat,’ I said, as I latched onto his throat.

He tried to speak, ‘I–I-I…’

‘Catch your breath, fuckhead, you’ve a lot of explaining to do.’ I grabbed his paper, ‘And you won’t be needing the Daily Ranger!’

In the winding streets of the Old Town, it’s never hard to find an empty vennel. Very few people stray from the well-trodden paths. I pushed the Cube through a set of rusty gates into a dark courtyard. A stack of mouldy crates fell with him as he tried to scramble to safety.

‘No escape this time,’ I said.

His eyes darted from left to right. I saw him toy with the idea of balling a fist. I didn’t give him a chance. My right connected like a car crash. If pain was a target on his face, I’d hit the bullseye. Blood oozed from nose and mouth. He dropped like a telegraph pole in high wind. Soundless. Sprawled out on the ground, motionless.

‘Is that it?’ I thought.

A one-punch job.

I grabbed the collar of his mangy leather and sat him on his fat arse. He lolled woozily, but responded to a slap.

‘Now, there’s plenty more where that came from.’ I felt fierce, I knew the territory. It didn’t matter whether I was acting up, or it was real, either way, the Cube shat bricks.

‘Spill,’ I told him.

‘What? What? I was just…’

Wrong answer. I drew up my elbow, the dumbfuck followed it. He caught a mouthful of bone.

‘I can honestly say, I’ve never heard a grown man scream before.’

He spat blood, his face turned into a mask of agony.

‘Are they tears?’ I said. ‘Are you crying?’

He said something, but I couldn’t make a word of it.

I stepped back, lit a tab. I wondered if I’d gone too far. This guy looked to be in the wrong line.

As I knelt down beside him, he flinched.

‘Okay. Maybe you’ve had enough — you ready to talk?’

He nodded feverishly. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’

‘Good.’