Tony Black: Paying For It

She rolled up her sleeve. ‘Write your number on there.’

As I wrote I felt suddenly self-conscious, like I was being watched. I shook it off, thought it was probably just nothing but when I raised my head I got a definite eyeball from a man in the street.

He was short, heavy in the build, a cube of a man carrying a three-day growth. As I caught his eye he took a newspaper out of his back pocket and started to read, leaning up against a lamp post, far too casually I thought.

‘Friend of yours?’ I asked Amy.

‘No. Never seen him before. You okay for about five?’

‘I’m good for five,’ I said dipping into Friends speak. I blushed, then said, ‘Er, five o’clock’s fine.’

‘Great. I’ll text you to make sure, but will we say in there?’ She pointed to a Starbucks, one of about fifty that seemed to have sprung up in Edinburgh in the last year or so.

‘Christ, do we have to?’

‘They do good coffee. You’ve not gone all health-nutty in your old age, have you?’

‘That’ll be right — Starbucks it is, then.’

She leant over and gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘It’s really good to see you again, Gus. It’ll be good to talk — you know, clear the air as it were.’ She turned quickly and gave a childish little wave as she went.

When I looked around the man with the newspaper had gone.

I crossed the road at the lights and jumped on a number 11, heading down to Leith. The bus driver looked like a time-warped old Teddy boy with his greasy quiff and a swallow tattooed on his neck. His watch strap had studs in it like a pit bull’s collar. Even though it felt about four below he was in shirt sleeves, and sweated like a pig on speed. Two big purple pools under his arms and a skitter down his back that looked like it’d just been shat out of his duck’s arse. Public transport — no wonder the roads are clogged with cars.

A group of young yobs made a racket on the back seat, cursing strong enough to shame navvies. I gave them a stare. In my younger days an adult gave out a stare on a bus, you shat bricks. To this lot it was incitement.

A hail of little rolled-up newspaper pellets started to make their way in my direction. I turned round and saw old women, too scared to look, sat between us. I felt sorry for them, the old women, but more so the yobs.

I checked round the bus for interfering types. Only one college day-releaser. None likely to hold me back. I stood up and approached the funny boys. A few giggles started up, then their eyes trained on the windows.

I planted my foot on the seat of the ring leader, a pencil-neck with a bleached-in badger stripe circling his barnet, said, ‘See that?’

He smirked out the side of his mouth. ‘Aye, it’s a foot — you’ve another one there, look.’

A peal of laughter burst out from his little crowd of admirers. I cut it short. Grabbed the yob by the ear, forced him to re-examine his response. ‘Take a closer look.’ I pushed his head onto my toe. ‘That boot’s coming between you and your first ride if I hear another crack out of you, geddit?’

He whimpered, but said nothing. So I twisted his ear tighter than a wing nut.

‘Ah, right, right. Sorry mister. Sorry n’all that, eh!’

Kids today. No respect. On my way back to my seat I smiled at one of the old women, said, ‘I blame the parents.’

Got nods all round.

The rest of the journey passed in silence. I felt glad to have the time to gather my thoughts. Mac wasn’t my only source in this town; I still had a few favours due. And some open to persuasion by other means.

As I jumped off the bus a Rasta played Bob Marley. The travelling public weren’t impressed. Too early to be jammin’ — and his voice sounded like a Wookie being molested.

I walked down the maze of bustling streets at this end of the city to a little greasy-spoon cafe I knew. It served up killer bacon and egg rolls, smothered in onions, dripping with brown sauce. If you talked nicely to the old girl behind the counter she’d even trim the fat off the rashers.

I ordered up a bellyful. One roll, heavy on the onions. Coffee, mug of, very sweet. And a pack of Rothmans, for afters.

I took the Sun down from the rack. It looked to be full of nothing but celebrity gossip. Half the pictures, I didn’t even know the people. There was a time when to be in the paper meant something. You’d done something or had a talent. Now, fame — everyone’s at it. You shag a footballer, tug-off a pig, and suddenly the world’s hanging on your every breath. Riches and the whole nine yards to follow.

The waitress came over with my roll. She was near to retirement and world weary. Must have discovered blow-drying at some time in the eighties — her hairstyle wouldn’t have looked out of place on the pages of Smash Hits. She said, ‘It’s all a bloody joke, isn’t it?’

I started to agree, thought she was talking generally, and then she tapped the pages of the Sun. The picture showed Bob Geldof addressing a group of politicians, and, of course, some celebrity un-worthies. He was on the tap for more cash for the developing world.

‘I wonder how many African babies that suit would have immunised?’ said the waitress.

I nodded, tried to appear interested.

She fumed on. ‘I don’t see the likes of him using our lousy health service or hanging out for a pittance of a pension.’

I felt like I’d been trapped in the back of a taxi, listening to some cabbie’s bigoted nonsense. I looked down at my roll. God, I felt hungry.

‘It’s a disgrace.’ She added, ‘Bono — he’s another one. If they’re so bothered about saving the world why don’t they give their money away and come and live like the rest of us!’

‘That would be a bit of a soberer for them,’ I said.

She smiled at me. I saw I’d done enough to humour her.

‘You better eat up, love, that roll will be going cold.’

As she turned away I flattened the newspaper, wiped the base of my cup on its cover. I raised my roll to take a bite, saw the rashers cold and grey within; then in walked plod.

He was bang on cue. ‘Morning, Officer,’ I said.

‘Dury. By the cringe.’ Fitz the Crime’s eyes lit up like polished hubcaps.

‘Can I buy you a pot of the usual?’ I said.

He nodded, sat down, said, ‘What you after?’

‘Oh, and real nice to see you too, Fitz.’

He leant forward, went, ‘Don’t bollocks me, Dury.’

I stood up, called out, ‘A pot of your finest, love.’

I felt a hand pull me back into my seat. I knew Fitz felt anxious, but he’d no need to be. Fitz and myself, we go way back.

‘Jesus, what’s with the animosity? I thought I was in your good books, after — y’know.’

Fitz squirmed, unbuttoned his overcoat, said, ‘Look, Dury, that business is over with.’

He referred to the time I kept his name out the headlines. The filth may be prepared to turn a blind eye to one of its officer’s peccadilloes, but they do tend to draw the line at it appearing in print for all the world to see. Examples have been known to be made in such cases. Fitz, however, merely lost his DI badge. Busted back to buck private as the Americans say.

‘One good turn deserves another, wouldn’t you agree?’ I said.

‘Piss off.’

‘Now, now, Fitz, you never did pay me back.’

‘Aye, and now you’ve nothing on me, Dury, and you’re all washed up.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Aye, it is. Who would take the likes of you seriously?’

He sat back. A contented, smug grin crept up the side of his face. He looked like a lizard after its tongue has snapped an insect. I felt drawn to reaching across the table and smacking seven bells out of him. For years Fitz had been what is commonly called ‘crooked as two left feet’, and he knew it as well.