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.’
25
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.’
I drew on my tab, blew into the tip. Little orange sparks flew. Then I held it like a dart, close to his eye.
‘Now, I am warning you, one word of a lie and you’ll need a white stick and a Labrador to get out of here — understand?’
‘Yes! God, yes! I’ll tell you all you want to know, just leave me alone. God, you’re insane!’
Too easy. Was I really this menacing? I’d need to hit some serious psychological tomes for the answer to that.
‘Why are you following me?’
‘It’s a job — I’m on a job.’
‘You’re an investigator?’
‘Aye!’ He ferreted in his jacket, for his wallet. ‘Look — look,’ he said. He produced a stack of cards. Cheap printouts, poor quality. They all read Private Investigator. The address said Gorgie. He ran the show from a cold-water flat. Whoever hired him either worked to a budget or didn’t know shit.
‘Not exactly bloody Magnum PI are you?’
‘I do all right.’
‘Mate, believe me, you’re far from fucking all right.’ I pressed my knee in his back and grabbed a handful of hair. ‘Now, who hired you?’
‘Arghh… I can’t.’
I tightened my grip, dug my knee into his shoulder blades. Felt the pressure mounting on my kneecap as he let out a scream.
‘Okay — just let me go.’
‘Name?’
‘I don’t have a name, she didn’t give me a name.’
‘ She?’
‘Aye. A woman, Russian — sounds it anyway. She just told me to follow you and report back to her at the Shandwick.’
Nadja. I didn’t need to know any more.
‘On your feet.’
‘What?’
‘Get on your fucking feet, now!’
He stood up; brushed at his backside. The way he looked, blood smeared on his face, hair sticking up like a duck’s arse, he needn’t have bothered.
‘What are you going to do with me now?’ he said.
I sooked the final draw out my tab and flicked the dowp into the alley. ‘I’ll ask the questions. Now, walk.’
‘Where — where are we going?’
I prodded him in the back and pushed him into the close. ‘To see your employer. I’ve words to have with Nadja.’
‘But… why do you need me? Surely, I’m no use to you now.’
I held up one of his cheap cards, said, ‘See that? I know where you live.’ The Cube’s eyes widened, like he’d been anally probed. ‘One more word from you about leaving the party, I’ll be on your doorstep with a machete. Am I making myself clear?’
Nods. Thick and fast.
‘Glad we understand each other. Now move your lardy fucking arse.’
26
I hit the bar with brass-knuckles. Wild Turkey. Pale ale. Burst of tequila slammers. Mixing like this, not a worry to me. Once, the volume of drink seemed all that mattered. As my alcoholism progressed, a different strategy became necessary.
That’s the way it is with me. Swear, other alkies will tell you the same thing. It’s not the drink. It’s not the feeling, the taste, the debauchery. It’s what Graham Greene called the battle against boredom. The need to escape yourself. After a while, any pressure from the outside world begs for the journey.
‘Do you really need me here?’ said the Cube. He watched me carefully. His shifty eyes took in the glass in my hand, then darted off to the exit.
‘What we have here is a failure to communicate.’
‘What?’ said the Cube.
‘Some men you just can’t reach, so you get what we had here.’
‘I don’t… What?’
‘It’s the way he wants it. Well, he gets it and I don’t like it any more than you.’
The Cube sat back in his seat, slowly his tongue appeared on his lips.
‘You’ve never seen Cool Hand Luke, have you?’ I said.
A shake of the head, finger in the collar.
‘Shame. It’s a classic. If you had seen it you’d know two things: one, if you move off that seat, I’ll burst you. Two, sometimes nothing’s a pretty cool hand.’
The Cube looked away. He lowered his head as if he was praying for an end to this insanity. Like I wasn’t?
I flagged the waiter.
‘Stick another in there, mate.’
‘Excuse me?’
Looked up, had sat there so long there’d been a shift change. The waiter was now a waitress. Though, you’d need a magnifying glass to spot the difference. A hefty she-male with a short back and sides, tie and trousers, builder’s arms, the lot.
‘Er, it’s Wild Turkey for me, please.’
Took a frown. My order got pushed down her ‘to do’ list, took second billing to changing the CD to k.d. lang.
‘Here, I think that’s her,’ the Cube’s voice lit up for a moment, then I heard his fear creep in, ‘Who you’re looking for.’
Nadja knew how to make an entrance. Carrying herself like royalty, she approached the front desk. Two arm-length gloves slapped on the marble. It looked like a nonverbal cue, but one I’d never had cause to decipher. To the concierge, however, it shouted: ‘Action!’ He scurried round to remove Nadja’s coat, bowing and scraping like a coolie in the presence of the Raj.