I thought, ‘The coward. He’s sent his daughter out to face me, calm me down while he hides from me inside.’
‘I’m having none of this,’ I said. Grabbed the door in my hand and shoved it hard. Halfways to putting the girl on her backside, I stormed in.
Inside I got the shock of my life. More young girls filled the room, all as terrified as the first. They were dressed in little more than rags, old coats that looked like ex-army issue. Each one of them stared up at me and trembled. They held on to each other in desperate fear. Every face a sallow emaciated mess, but their eyes, to a one, sat wide open. They stared, searching for something.
For the life of me, I didn’t know what to do. It looked like a scene from Schindler’s List.
‘What’s going on in here?’ I asked.
No answer. Not one of them dared speak.
I turned to the girl who opened the door, said, ‘What is this? What’s going on?’
She said nothing.
I got angry, it was frustration, the drink. I went over and grabbed her arm, ranted: ‘What the hell’s going on in here, a heap of girls dressed up like Belsen victims, half-starved and packed tighter than sardines — speak to me, would you? Christ, I’m not the enemy!’
She cried and tapped at her chest. In the machine-gun fire of her language, she uttered one word I understood: ‘Latvia’.
I let down her arm, thought, ‘Holy fuck.’
I left the room.
Downstairs I necked huge amounts of whisky. Right from the bottle. I tried to take in what I’d just seen. But my mind filled with visions of the young girls, crying and staring at me like I was their executioner. I knew it would take more than one bottle to erase a memory like that.
I looked around for my cigarettes, spotted them sitting on the windowledge with a book of matches tucked underneath. I sparked up and took a long draw, let the nicotine get deep into my lungs. I felt its calming warmth right away.
Tell me they’re a killer, yeah, but what isn’t? My nerves began to settle down from jangling like Sunday church bells to a susurration that whispered, ‘Get a grip, Gus.’
I sat myself on the ledge and looked to the sky. Night stars, up and at ’em. Felt the religion of my childhood reach out to me. Old prayers said at the bedside returned. When the Presbyterianism raises its head, I know I’m in trouble.
I lowered my eyes, turned back to the earth.
I caught a hint of movement under the street lamp below. A man stood there. I clocked the scene before me, checked my facts, got all the data in order. Yes, a man stood in the street below, watching me.
I turned over the view once more. He smoked a cigarette, looked straight up at me. He saw me stood before him, mirroring his movements. For a moment we made eye contact and at once I knew where I’d seen him before. It was the cube-shaped bloke, the one with the newspaper who watched me with Amy earlier.
I stubbed the tab.
Ran for the door.
12
As I reached the end of the driveway the Cube took off. He ran like a Jawa, all stumpy legs and arms, thrusting away for dear life. I was onto him, ‘Bang to rights’, as they used to say on The Sweeney. He knew I wasn’t hanging about. I followed him like bad luck. He turned round to grab glances at me again and again. His face as red as Hell Boy, cheeks puffed out like bellows. I saw his features clearly now and I wouldn’t forget them.
‘Right, you little prick, I have you,’ I shouted after him.
I lunged out, grabbed him by the collar in a classic Dixon of Dock Green manner, no escaping the long arm of the ‘ Shit! ’
I stumbled. Took the Cube down with me. We rolled about on the wet pavement like pissed-up breakdancers. I managed a lame hold on him, yelled, ‘Give it up!’
He went silent. I heard his breath grow heavy. It faltered with panic and carried a smell of menthol cigarettes.
The Cube wore a leather jacket and in the wetness it got too slippery to hold. ‘Quit your struggling,’ I shouted.
He paid no mind. Then, I took a sharp knee to the plums.
I let out a wail. The Cube seized his chance.
‘Hey! Get back here y’bastard.’
Too late. As he ran from me, I caught a few glimpses of his back in the shadows, and then — nothing.
‘Screw it,’ I said. I stood up and limped back to the hotel.
Inside I threw myself on the bed. The room spun out of control, I couldn’t take it. Once through the ringer was enough. I raised myself and returned to the Johnnie Walker.
I’d thought that doing Col’s digging might bring me some trouble, but now I knew it. Somebody had taken a serious interest in me. I’d my suspicions who, but no clue as to why. I mean, what had I to offer? Nothing. I’d unearthed zip. Christ, most days, I could hardly find my arse with both hands.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, whisky in one hand, a tab in the other. None of it made sense, so I tried not to think. For a long time I’d wanted to be unthinking. That’s what I use the sauce for — shutting out the noise, obviating the pain of existence. I downed more and more whisky until I felt myself slump and then fall.
Dean Martin once said: ‘You’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on.’
I was so drunk I couldn’t even hold on.
I passed out, into brutal dreams.
I woke to my mobi ringing loudly, right at my earhole, croaked: ‘Hello.’
A female voice, crotchety, said, ‘You bastard.’
‘Amy?’
‘I thought we had a date.’
Confusion reigned, then long-term memory kicked in, I tried: ‘A date… well, I don’t know I’d exactly call it that.’
Her voice rose higher, she fumed at me: ‘You utter, utter bastard!’
‘Look, I’m really sorry, Amy — I got caught up in some other things.’
Silence, then a tut, followed closely by a pause. This was gonna cost me, I knew it.
‘You can make it up to me, Gus,’ she said.
‘How?’
‘There’s a bit of a rave up at the students union this weekend.’
I thought, students, I don’t know, said, ‘Students?’
The critical intonation slipped in. Amy obviously picked up on it right away. ‘Gus, I’m a student.’
Her tone carried accusation. Guilt flew in and settled on me once again.
‘Okay, what time?’
‘I’ll call you this time — be ready!’
‘Deal,’ I said, and she hung up.
I put down the phone and wondered if my life would ever be my own again.
The room felt full of dead air. I opened the window, stuck my head out and got a waft of petrol fumes from the street below. God, did I ever need some fresh air in my lungs. This city would be the death of me, Debs had always said that.
I filled the sink with cold water, bathed my face. In the mirror I saw Mac’s haircut was still sitting pretty, it only took a quick run through with a comb.
Got dressed in a beige shirt and Gap khakis. Checked myself out, said, ‘Crikey!’ reminded me of the late Steve Irwin. Pulled off the shirt and went with a white polo.
I felt rough, way rough.
Sparked up a Rothmans and immediately started a major coughing fit that shook my world. Would I venture some coffee? Would I ever.
The Nescafe instant sachets in the little basket seemed to have gone down. I’d need to tap Stalin for more. The thought of him suddenly brought the night before flooding back to me in brilliant Technicolor flashes.
I’d a few bones to pick with him. There was the Nescafe. Then Milo’s eye. And of course, the room full of Latvian girls.
I made a second, weak cup of coffee with the dregs of granules spilled on the tray. Found the contents of a few previously torn-up sachets, tipped those in too.
I wanted to get my head in order before I sought out the cute hoor, as Milo called him. I knew the real answer was skipping out Stalin altogether and going straight to Benny the Bullfrog, but I needed to know more about him and his operation before I risked a foot in his direction.