With Love and Squalor (2 page)

As Billy pulled Carlo another pint, he started on about Kylie’s dad. Bert was put away for tying a man to a car and dragging him around the Heugh for slapping his sister, that and for driving under-age and without a licence. Family life had cooled the fire in his belly, though Billy saw him as a dormant volcano.

The stories that followed were hardly better news.

Opposite Carlo’s place was the ‘Quick N Eazy’, run by Ray and Jim McMerry. They worked like a tag team when it came to a scrap, the kind that would have had grannies screaming at their sets when wrestling was still taken seriously.

Then there was Kwok or Kwang or whatever his name was at ‘Peking Cuisine’. He was bound to be Bruce Lee or a Triad or both.

No, it wasn’t looking good for Carlo Salvino, not until his fifth whisky gave him inspiration. There was nothing to be scared of.

Who, he asked himself, who outside of the area had ever heard of the town? They didn’t even have a football team. It was a blackhead on the face of a giant and it was about time someone gave it a squeeze.

First he went for the McMerrys. The ‘Quick N Eazy’ had slashed its prices to keep up with him and the Ramsay boys were likely to have paid a visit to them too.

As far as he could see, outside of a good fight and making a few quid, there was only one thing that Ray and Jim cared about. Their cat was pure Russian Blue and worth a few bob. An elegant thing, Carlo imagined she was the sort of creature a pharaoh might have wanted to have with him in his tomb.

Beautiful she may have been, but loyal she was not. It took nothing more than chocolate drops and Catnip to get her to go with him.

Making sure she was safely secured in his laundry basket, Carlo went on to complete the next part of the plan.

Sitting with Kylie’s dad, he could see why she wanted to move. The furniture stank, the carpet was hardly worth the name and the swirls on the wallpaper were making him dizzy. Outside the dirty brown render on the houses made it look like god had puked over every single one of them and the line of satellite dishes made it look like everyone on the street was trying to contact alien beings to get them the hell out of there.

Bert hadn’t switched off the TV as Carlo talked, but at least he turned the sound down.

He listened carefully, his expression remaining unchanged from beginning to end, a cold stare fixed upon Carlo as he talked of love and babies, apologies and marriage.

Speech over, Bert stood and, for a moment, it appeared that he was weighing up the penalty for the dragging of another human being against the satisfaction it would give him to take the bastard outside and tie him to the bumper. Instead, he left the room momentarily and returned with two glasses of vodka.

Without exchanging words, they clinked glasses and downed their drinks simultaneously. There was no ice and it hadn’t been kept in the fridge, but what could one expect at 10 in the morning.

Carlo received a slap on the back that would have knocked anyone under twelve stone flying. They shared vodka after vodka until, by mid afternoon, they were practically old friends.

Job done. With Kylie’s dad on side, the odds had tilted in his favour.

‘The Golden Fry’ didn’t open that day as Carlo toured the bars. Staggering home, he was pleased to see the sign, a colour photo with ‘Lost, Minky. Reward. Ray and Jim @ Quick N Eazy’ written above it.

He considered collecting the cash, but decided to stick to the plan instead.

Three days he waited, watching the McMerrys stew and savouring every moment of their anxiety.

On Tuesday night, Kylie stood with him frying fish, a small diamond ring telling of their engagement. It had only cost a few quid down at the pawnbrokers, but he promised her that they’d get a proper one when they got the chance.

At the end of the evening, Carlo sent Kylie home early then set about his work before the oil cooled. Flicking the fryer back on, he turned out the lights and headed upstairs.

They say that animals can sense when things aren’t right, that they have a sixth sense about imminent danger. It was a load of tosh as far as Carlo could see, the way Minky burrowed cosily into his armpit as if he were the earth mother herself.

He carried her downstairs, put her on the floor and threw her a few fish scraps. She hadn’t chosen it exactly, but as a last meal it seemed to be up to the job.

The batter was in a bucket he’d prepared that afternoon and, before she knew it, so was Minky. She couldn’t get a grip on the smooth plastic walls, scratched at them to get a grip, bit at the hand that held her down, but all to no avail.

Carlo’s rubber gloves protected him well. Grabbing her tail and her scruff he threw her into the fat in one smooth movement. Minky opened her eyes as she sank, the beautiful blue spheres peering out from the white paste that covered her. A few strokes of doggy paddle and it was all over.

To her credit, she went down without a word of complaint and Carlo thought again of Maria in the van.

He fished Minky out, shook off the excess oil and spooned her into a box looking like a cartoon character who’d been in a road accident.

It took hours for the streets to empty and when they did, Carlo crossed the road to deliver his package.

Returning to his shop, he picked up a sledgehammer and gave it a baseball slugger’s swing. Thousands of lines appeared in the window and it bulged out over the pavement.

Something gave in his back as he swung, so he decided that breaking through completely wasn’t necessary. When the McMerrys found their cat and saw ‘The Golden Fry’, they’d put two and two together and the Ramsays wouldn’t have any legs left to stand on.

Unfortunately for Carlo, Ray and Jim had never been much good at arithmetic. It was the way the window looked that gave it away, the fact that it bulged out instead of in. He’d avoided the CCTV cameras, but not fooled the McMerrys; they’d put enough folk through glass to know it was an inside job.

*

The diesel engine coughed into action.

Carlo had ridden behind it six times one summer’s day when his dad was still alive. Chris and Jack had loved it, the circular tour of the farm, throwing badly aimed nuggets of food at sheep, donkeys and llamas. Nursery rhymes cheered the passengers, taking their minds off the fumes.

That visit was expensive. This one was going to cost him an arm and a leg. His left wrist and ankle had been cuffed to one of the rails. As he felt the train approach, the vibrations tickling his flesh and rattling his bones, he stretched out the rest of his body like a starfish and turned his face away.

He pictured the time they were there last, the four of them standing by the ostriches, his dad holding out a scoop full of seed. The things had stretched their necks out so far and with such zeal that they’d practically taken his hand off. How they’d laughed, him and the boys, at the way his dad had dropped the whole lot and jumped back three paces at a speed that might be expected of one thirty years younger.

The drivers of the train felt the bump under the wheels and gave a quick toot in celebration. The whistle and the scream were heard by the night staff at the brewery and the insomniacs of Dunbar alike.

Before leaving, Ray and Jim broke into the small animal shed and shone their torch from one enclosure to the next.

“We’ll try one of these this time, eh?” Ray said, stepping over the board and getting in amongst the rabbits.

“Aye. Let’s have the black and white yen,” Jim said.

Ray picked it out by the ears, handed him over to his brother and the two men set off for home, talking gently to their new pet every step of the way.

Fisher Of Men

Dee. Four days in Paris and still a virgin. Tried the trick with Victor Noir at Pere Lachaise. Judging by the shine of his crotch am definitely not the first.  Hope it worked for the others. Left a kiss for Oscar and a cigarette for Jim. Fingers crossed. Love you lots, Lisa xxx

I’d been looking forward to the holiday since January when Dee and I made a pact as our New Year’s resolution. No matter how delicious the blokes we dated, ignoring whatever itches we got, we’d save ourselves for a couple of dishy Frenchmen, let them take us all the way and all the way back again.

Almost blew it with Robert after the prom. Even when I told him Aunt Flo was visiting he didn’t stop. Only took his hand from under my dress when I mentioned getting blood on the car’s upholstery. After that he didn’t even want to kiss.

Dee stopped dating altogether.

Sitting on the café terrace writing postcards, I missed her terribly. If she hadn’t broken her femur while schooling one of her horses, she’d have been sitting right next to me soaking up the atmosphere and helping me keep an eye on every man who stepped into range.

She’d have loved watching the passers by as they were caught unawares by the over-watered window-box on the other side of the Rue Beaurepaire.

I really owed it to her to get my knickers off as soon as I could, and at Chez Prune I could practically smell the testosterone mingling with the heat and the aromas of coffee and tobacco.

The nicest looking customer wouldn’t have been out of place on display at the Louvre. Only problem was that he was busy. Kept stroking his girlfriend as if leaving her alone for more than a few seconds would cause her to spontaneously combust.

Behind me a group of students were setting the world to rights. Words poured from their mouths like they were in competition, their voices lyrical as the water of a fountain. The things they said, it was more like someone pissing into the gutter.

“Course I wouldn’t kick her out of bed, but look at those calves. If my dad shaved his legs they’d look better than that.”

“And those shoulders. Perhaps she works in the fields.”

“Or milking cows.”

“Still, she’s not bad for an American.

“We’ll see. If nothing better comes along…”

Dee would have sorted them out right away. Me, I was going to take my time. Wrote another card instead.

Mom. You were right about French men. All the charm’s on the surface, like frogs turned into princes. There are some nice English girls at the hotel. Tomorrow they’re taking me to the Orangerie and for lunch. Jet lag gone. Eating the vitamins you packed. Next week Rome. How exciting. L xxx

If it hadn’t been for the waiter, I might have been upset about what the boys were saying.

He hadn’t stopped watching me since I’d arrived, even when he was serving other customers. When I couldn’t see him I could sense him checking me out, felt my body blush under the cotton dress I’d chosen for the evening, the pink one you can see through when the sun’s bright.

He wasn’t traditionally handsome, but had one of those interesting Parisian faces - deep set eyes and a bent nose that suggested he’d seen a bit of life and knew how to kick back when it gave him a knock. I liked him.

When he ran out of things to do, he came to lean on the post-box to smoke and watch me write. 

After his third cigarette, he disappeared inside for a moment then arrived back at my table with another glass of kir.

“On the house,” he said, his accent making me tingle. “And now,” he winked at someone inside, “it’s time to bring some romance to the evening.”

Above us strings of bulbs lit up in an array of colours, bright against the dusk, just like Eiffel’s tower.

I smiled at him in appreciation, dealt Dee’s card to the top of the pile and turned it sideways. Picking up my pen I wrote:

post script - am wearing lucky pants.

When the lights came on, I’d pretty much decided. The waiter could take me after his shift, show me some of the ropes he obviously knew so well.

I smiled at him again to let him know and headed into the cafe to the bathroom to check myself over.

As I stood, I bent over right in front of those sewer-mouthed boys. Let my dress fall open while they watched. Shut them up for the first time in an hour. I was pleased that I’d decided against my lucky bra after my shower.