I grabbed his jaw and turned his eyes to me, said, ‘This is separate.’
‘What?’ Fear latched onto him again. ‘What…? What…?’
‘Call it payback…’
I put my fist in his face, I heard the crack of bone and knew his nose had gone. He was out cold.
‘For Milo.’
13
I took myself back to the room. I needed to clear right out. My hands shook. Put it down to the sauce, but had a fear it might be something else.
I made time for a full Scottish breakfast: large Alka-Seltzer and two aspirin. Heard Dennis Hopper’s immortal words racing around in my mind, ‘Alcohol, there’s no drug like it to take you so high… and drop you back down so low.’
My head spun, the hangover ramped up the revs. I had to find time to think, room to manoeuvre.
I ran into the street, over to the 7-Eleven. Grabbed two packs of tea — the good stuff, Twinings — and hoofed it back to Fallingdoon House.
‘Milo? Are you up yet?’ I stood in the hallway and banged on the door, all the while looking up the stairs for signs of Stalin.
‘Milo? Are you…?’
The lock turned and, slowly, the door widened to all of an inch.
‘Ah, ’tis yourself,’ said Milo. ‘Come in, Mr Dury.’
Milo’s movements seemed slower than usual. I saw his feet exposed, blue and gnarled on the cold floorboards. It nearly put my heart out.
‘My, aren’t we the early bird this morning. ’Tis, ’tis… ’tis the early bird ye are.’ He seemed to hover above the bed, his sparrow-thin wrists looked like they might snap on contact with the soft mattress.
It took Milo for ever to lower himself; when he finally made it the pain drove two tractor tracks across his brow.
‘I’ve brought this for you,’ I said.
‘Ah, Jaysus… ye shouldn’t have.’ Milo stretched, as near to a lunge as he was able. ‘I’ll get a pot boiling for some tay.’
‘No — ’ I flagged him to sit, ‘- I can’t stop, Milo.’
‘I thought as much.’ He looked up towards the cross above his bed, a large wooden effigy of Christ was in place, suffering for all our sins. ‘Ye look, can I say it, a bit disturbed — Is it trouble yeer in?’
‘I–I just have to go.’
‘And when we were becoming such good friends as well.’
‘The best of friends.’
He looked back at me, I caught the blue of his eyes as they shot into me.
‘Look… I’ll be back soon. Real soon. It’s just… well, I guess you could say I’ve a spot of bother to see to.’
‘Can I help?’
I nearly laughed out loud, the look of him.
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I can manage.’
I was out of words. We both were. I felt like I’d let the old boy down, abandoned him to grim fate.
‘Milo, if there’s any trouble from that prick Stalin, I want you to call me, you hear?’ I scribbled down my mobile number on the back of the 7-Eleven receipt and tucked it under a glass at his bedside. ‘You hear me, call — anything at all.’
He stared at the wall. There was nothing more to say. I felt there should be a handshake or, God forbid, a hug. But I just left him alone with his fears, as I carried off my guilt. I deserted him. Had I no spine?
I trudged back to the room and picked up my things, there wasn’t much, it amounted to one bag, my denim jacket and a near empty bottle of Johnnie Walker. I had tabs and matches somewhere too, but bollocks to looking for them.
A sheet of horizontal rain hit me as I opened the door, the insidious Edinburgh type that chases you through the closes, makes you feel like you’ve got a personal rain cloud following. The brewery, in full swing, pumped out an overpowering stench. Mixed with grey skies and I understood why the streets looked so empty — save for one big biffer, stooped over with something behind his back.
‘Dury?’ he said.
He looked a useful pug, the sight of him put me on Defcom-Five.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘What?’
‘Look, fat boy — I only went with your mother ’cos she’s dirty.’ The old Happy Monday’s lyric, first radge thing to come into my head as I squared my shoulders and put the bead on him. ‘And I haven’t got a decent bone in me, so come on and kill me!’
He reached behind him, I grabbed his arm. Swear I sensed a sawn-off, Stanley knife at the least.
‘Try it!’ I said.
‘Jesus! Help! Help! I’m being attacked,’ he roared.
I pulled his arm forward. There was no shooter, just a large red post sack.
‘You’re the postie!’
‘Who did you think I was?’ he bleated, breath heavy.
‘You’re the bloody postie!’ I felt a flood of relief. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I thought-’
‘I don’t care what you thought. I’m only trying to do my job here.’ He shoved a pile of letters at me. I looked at him, feeling my face start to heat up, said, ‘Look, I’m sorry, really… I didn’t mean to-’
He pushed past me, bolted up the drive to Fallingdoon House. He fairly moved, a real ‘Run Forrest, run,’ scene.
At the door he shouted, ‘You’re crazy, do you know that?’ His mail bag swung from side to side, nearly toppling him as he delved for a few stray envelopes that floated out. ‘People like you need locking up!’
I couldn’t fault him there.
‘Sorry again. It’s the lack of uniform! Posties used to wear uniforms.’ I couldn’t keep up with the pace of change. Time was when I knew my postie by name. ‘When did you guys do away with the uniform?’
‘Piss off!’ he snapped.
I took the hint. Jesus, what kind of a life was I living?
I put my collar up as I walked into the rain. Would have liked to spark up but had left my smokes behind.
I looked over my shoulder as I hurried along the London Road. Kids on their way to school eyed me cautiously. They wore blazers and carried satchels — one tradition that hadn’t died out in Edinburgh. To a one the kids looked dour. Put me in mind of myself at their age. I remembered how early we’re all taught to be miserable. How we strangle the idea that life can be anything other than spiritless routine.
On this road I’d be at the Holy Wall for opening. The idea of a morning heart-starter jumped at me, but, I couldn’t see it going down too well with Col. I pulled myself into a shop doorway and fired down some scoosh. I felt like street trash, a jakey, but I badly needed a hit.
I’d barely put the bottle away when a face appeared in the doorway.
‘You coming in?’ said an old woman turning over an ‘open’ sign. I looked above the door, I stood outside a greasy-spoon cafe.
‘Eh… aye, all right then.’
Inside I shook off the rain, said, ‘We’ll pay for that summer yet!’ I tell you, the Scots have a stock gambit for every occasion.
‘Oh, I know, love — isn’t it dreadful?’ She seemed a nice old dear, salt of the earth, with the tabard to prove it. ‘It’s been like this for days as well, I don’t know when I’m going to get a load of washing oot.’
