Tony Black - Paying For It

‘Cut its throat, hear me, cut it! Cut it, now!’

I stand with my father’s razor in my hand. I’m motionless. I know I’m disobeying and what that means. But I can’t harm the animal.

The razor slips to the floor; there’s a sharp pain in the front of my head when it falls. I realise I’ve been struck by my father. I lie on the floor beside the razor and when I see him reach for it I fill with panic.

As I get up I feel the cold flap of skin where his knuckle struck bone. There’s blood running from my head, going into my eyes and mouth.

I feel no pain as I watch my father run the open steel across the lamb’s throat. The squealing reaches a higher pitch for a second and then blood chokes its mouth and spills over its flesh into the sink.

I watch the blood pour from the dying animal. Its black eyes are still staring into the heart of me. As I watch the blood flowing, I feel like it’s mine, like the blood I can taste in my mouth from the wound my father made.

A drool of saliva stuck me to the arm of the couch. Sweat lashed off my body. I ached all over. ‘Christ, where am I?’

For a moment I thought I replayed the heady, early stages of alcoholism. Days when I greeted every morning in strange new surroundings. But I knew I was past those now. It takes a serious effort to negotiate a kip for the night. My times at the bar had long since been devoted to more serious matters.

I stood up, tried to straighten my back. Hunched over like Yoda, I said, ‘Soon will I rest. Yes, for ever sleep. Earned it I have.’

I realised where I was. Recognised the wooden star clock above the fireplace. Red bulbs twirled behind the black plastic coals, someone had been in to turn on the fire.

I looked around. Felt shocked to find myself here, facing a trophy cabinet full of my father’s sporting achievements. When I was a kid, my friends would come around to stare at them for what seemed like hours. It gave me bags of kudos on the street. They didn’t know the real cost of those trophies.

I heard movement in the kitchen. Plates and cups being laid out on the table. When I went in, my mother stood at the stove stirring some porridge. A vast pot bubbled away.

‘Oh, you’re awake, son.’

‘Good morning, Mam.’

‘Did you sleep okay?’

‘Yeah, I slept just fine,’ I lied. ‘Bit stiff, but got a few hours, you know.’

‘Can’t be too comfy on that couch. You should have went up to your bed… Tea?’

‘Eh, no. Have you any coffee?’

‘Sorry, son. Nobody drinks it since you went. I could nip next door. What time is it?’

I looked at my watch. ‘Just after nine.’

‘Aye, that’s early enough, Dot will be up and about. Hang on, I’ll get some coffee next door.’

‘No, Mam, there’s no need. I’ll take whatever’s going.’

‘Och, no. Sit yourself down, son.’ She beamed, looked delighted to have me home. It seemed to be a real treat for her. She acted like an excited child.

I asked myself how I could ever have denied her this.

As my mother put on a headscarf to nip out the back door she said, ‘Will you go in and see your dad?’

‘Eh, I don’t know.’

‘He’s not eaten yet. You could take him in some breakfast.’

‘Mam, I-’

‘Oh, never mind, son. It’s no matter. If he shouts though, go in.’

‘Does he know I’m here?’

‘Yes. I told him last night. He’s fair over the moon.’ She left, showering me with smiles.

What had I done? I’d no right to be playing with her emotions like this. I knew if I laid eyes on my old man — weak heart or not — I’d be liable to lamp him. I’d stored up a hail of misery for my mother by coming here and the thought wounded me.

I fired up a tab. The smoke filled the kitchen in an instant. I opened up a window, tried to encourage it out into the yard. As I leant over I caught sight of myself in the mirror. It had hung on the kitchen wall since I was too short to see into it. Now, I had to crouch to see myself. I looked rough as all guts. Red rings round my eyes, three days of growth. I needed serious attention.

‘Gus, just take a look at yourself.’ That’s what Debs had said to me. I looked, stared, but I saw nothing. Well, nothing I wanted to see.

‘Ella!’ I heard a roar from upstairs.

It had been years since I’d heard that roar, but it hadn’t changed much.

‘Ella. Ella.’

What was he calling for this time? Another drink? Helping off the floor? A pot to piss in?

‘Ella.’ The roar came again, followed by a thump on the floor. Then another. Three or four in quick succession.

‘Shut your hole…’ I said. I felt my voice trail off. I didn’t want to alert him to the fact I stood in his kitchen.

More thuds. ‘Ella! For the love of Christ, where are you woman?’

‘That’s it. I’m outta here.’

I stubbed my tab in the sink. Ran the tap to clear the ash down the plug hole, and dropped the dowp in the bin.

‘Ella. Ella.’ He roared from upstairs as I put on my jacket. I was doing up the buttons when my mother walked in.

‘Angus? Where are you going?’

‘I’m sorry, Mam.’

She stood open-mouthed, holding up a jar of Red Mountain. ‘But I’ve got your coffee.’

I wanted to go to her, curl her up in my arms. But I couldn’t.

‘ Ella — Ella.’

‘I have to go.’

She put down the jar, got into a panic.

‘Your dad… have you been up to him?’

‘No, Mam. I can’t do that.’

She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, son.’

‘I’m sorry, Mam. I have to go.’

I turned away, went for the door.

Grabbed the Evening News. The front page splash was a police raid on a house full of illegal immigrants. I’d read the story a couple of times before it struck me why it seemed so unusual. They’d raided Marchmont. The price tags on houses there carry a long row of Bobby De Niros. I saw we were now talking big business in this racket.

I dipped into R.S. McColls, asked for a pack of Mayfair. Cheapest tabs on the shelf. Yellow-finger specials. I was on a Presbyterian guilt trip, aware I was the only smoker left in Scotland still buying fags from reputable retailers. Christ, what had become of this country? When Joe Public starts buying daily essentials like tabs on the black market, we’re in trouble. Was like the war years.

Sparked up outside. Wasn’t a bad smoke. But knew I’d wake up tomorrow reeking like pub curtains.

I felt a cold snap coming. Suited me fine, took the edge off the craving. And I needed my wits about me if I was gonna press Fitz the Crime for anything useful. Since Milo’s killing, I needed him more than ever.

I’d been besieged by nightmares. They played like this: I’m back at the Fallingdoon House, flames everywhere, and screams… young girls crying their hearts out. I burst through the door, hold out my hand.

‘Come on! Quick, give me your hand,’ I say.

The flames lap all around us, but the girls look like they did the night I saw them, pale-grey ghosts. Half starved, frightened. They recoil from me.

‘Come on! Give me your hand,’ I roar.

I rush into the room, flames lap at the walls, all around thick black smoke chokes us.

‘Christ, I’m not the enemy!’ I say. ‘I’m not the enemy.’

The girls run screaming, huddle in the corner, terrified.

Suddenly, I feel a tap on my shoulder and I turn. It’s Milo, but he’s changed. His face is battered to a bloody pulp. Two dark sockets sit where his eyes should be. As he begins to speak, I see flames creeping up his coat tails.

‘Milo, Milo you’re on fire!’ I call out.

I slap at the flames, try to push them back. The heat is intense now, the palms of my hands smoulder in agony.