Gross Domestic Product: 26

Chapter 26.

Bryce, it turned out, had some crazy stories and Pete sat there for a good hour or two, lapping them up and laughing. He’d never have thought a man like Tommy Bryce would have been such a history buff but it turned out he knew all sorts of obscure things about some of the world’s most interesting people and times. Pete was also finding being drunk and listening to Tommy’s tales had taken his mind off the craving. It had come back with a vengeance when he found himself in the toilet, taking a piss.

The room was small but spotless, it’s white tiling so gleaming he could practically use it as a mirror. Pete was washing his hands when he heard the almighty explosion from outside. He dashed out from the toilet to see Tommy had gone. Outside, through the window, he spotted a few black cars, upturned and on fire, there were people running away from the scene, some were even screaming. His first thought was terrorism, that the Provos had set off a bomb. He found himself heading towards reception, where the staff and several others crowded the doorway. Pushing through he saw Tommy standing on the stairs between the doorway and street. Tommy was laughing.

Why was Tommy laughing?

Pete craned his neck and a flicker of red laser light twinkled across his retina for a second. Across the road were several black garbed armed police officers tucked down behind a car and aiming their guns at Tommy’s head. Their lasers were dancing around his forehead. For some reason Pete was about to shout “No, wait!” but the guns went off, just as Tommy raised his hand rapidly and the car they were behind rolled over, crushing them. Several bullets hit their target and the back of Tommy’s head burst and spewed blood and brains all over the stairs and the glass door. Pete expected him to fall but Bryce stood where he was, teetering slightly because of the impact.

There was a rain of burning money flittering down amongst this chaos. Millions it seemed were ablaze and being carried by the cold night air. Tommy stepped down the stairs and onto the street. Pete was amazed, how could he still be alive?

Despite protests and physical restraints from concerned hotel staff, Pete walked out through the door. There were bodies strewn about the street. A woman lay unconscious next to one of the street-lights, which illuminated her missing leg and the growing puddle of blood emanating from the torn stump. Her blood looked dark under the orange lights. Movement from the right caught Pete’s eye and he could have sworn he saw Gordon Skinner and others run behind one of the black vans that was still upright and not yet burning.

“Tommy?” Pete asked quietly. “What the fuck is going on?”

Bryce didn’t hear him, couldn’t hear him, half his brain now being spattered over the stairs. Instead the walking corpse kept on walking, making towards an old man in the street who was seriously injured, blood leaking out of the stomach area of his white shirt. He was trying to scrabble away. “Jimmy!” cried a Glaswegian voice. “Fuckin’ move!”

Pete tried to locate it and found it’s source, another old man, well dressed, his silver hair thinning. He was standing next to the van the others had hid behind. The guy on the floor, this Jimmy wasn’t going to make it. Bryce was catching up. Pete wondered what was going to happen next. He watched this Jimmy character wince as he soaked his right hand in blood. The old man was muttering something as he drew a circle of blood right around his body.

Tommy stopped. There was a noise, perhaps a distant rumble of thunder, but it sounded like some growl of rage coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. Pete glanced over to the van again and noticed something bright and gleaming red on the ground next to it. It was the lamp, it was the fucking lamp he’d sold Skinner, no question about it. The old man beside the van shouted something “Yeardley ya cunt, dae somethin’!”

The growl Pete had heard had become a voice, localised around but not coming from Tommy. “You pitiful vermin have no means to stop me!” It boasted.

That wasn’t true, Pete thought, the old guy Jimmy had stopped him with a circle of blood. This was magic shit, no wonder he’d spotted Skinner. Several more shots fired, this time puncturing Tommy’s body. This time he went down.

Spotting the advantage, Jimmy picked himself up with a groan and began running towards the van the best he could. He stopped though when he saw it wobble. The others all scattered from it and Pete could see a few men escape from the back just as the van launched itself about ten feet into the air and went rolling through the night landing a distance from them. They were all exposed now. Skinner was definitely there.

Pete thought it was time he had a word. Which wasn’t the best plan he realised as he passed the corpse of Tommy Bryce. The body started to move, jerk like a puppet, as if something inside it was trying to struggle free. Pete couldn’t take his eyes off it as wisps of some translucent material began to emerge from it, it was impossible looking, like spirals of wet smoke. He was barely aware of someone shouting “Run!”

Pete did not run, he was transfixed by this thing now forming in front of him. It was a whirling shape of some kind of limbs around a centre which was constantly changing. He felt like he was tripping, having a hallucination and wondered if it was the detoxification playing tricks on him. Within seconds the thing was huge and grotesque, its vague arms ever changing as they spun, from dogs legs to tentacles to hands on which each finger was a hand and so on, it all spun by so fast he felt as if the ground beneath him might give way.

In the centre of this travesty a multi-eyed face of breathtaking deformity glared at him and Pete’s mind just seemed to switch off in part. He was barely aware of moving, rummaging his hands through Tommy’s bloody corpse. All around him were screams and shouts, fire and gunfire, flashing lights and sirens, a cacophonous chaos which exaggerated the unreality of the situation.

As if on automatic pilot, he was on his knees, spreading the blood of Bryce around, painting it onto the rubble filled tarmac, around the body he was drawing a triangle, though he could not have said why. There were two voices in him, one vast and terrifying ordered “NO!” the other screaming in desperation, instructed “NOW!”

For a moment he was aware that he was off the ground, seemed to be flying, or thrown across the ruined street. He landed in a pile of metal and melting tyre that affixed itself to his new jumper like burning glue. The pain made him come to his senses just as Skinner and the old man from the side of the van pulled him to his feet. “What the fuck are you doing here, Pete?” Skinner asked.

“Alright Gordon?!” Pete asked bemused and cheerily. He felt high, nervous, even giggly as the two men guided him to the van. He turned back to see the weird thing he thought he’d hallucinated was now still, hovering in the air, trapped inside the triangle he’d painted, like Bryce’s body was its anchor.

Some black haired English guy in a long wool coat looked at him and shook his head smiling. “Nice job.” he said and patted him on the back. “Someone take care of this lad.” he ordered. At once several people were rushing towards Pete, he felt them pull off his jumper. He was being examined for wounds but wasn’t really paying attention, he was too busy watching Skinner, the English guy, who seemed to be called Yeardley and the old man step forward into the street, bold as brass.

The huge writhing gaseous thing, twitched and roiled the air around it, Yeardley, if that was his name, spread his hands out and started saying something, some gibberish Pete couldn’t understand. There was a rumbling thunderous laugh and an echoing roar that said, “You have achieved nothing, nothing!”

After that, the thing vanished, just winked out of existence. A bloke standing next to Pete, a hawkish looking man in his fifties elbowed Pete and said, “Want a fag?”

Pete nodded. “Thanks.” He said as he plucked one from the man’s packet. He grabbed one of the burning notes and lit the cigarette.

The man introduced himself as Willie Boyle and then said “How did you know to bind the fucker?”

“Eh?” Pete asked.

“The triangle, that was quick thinking.” Willie said.

“Oh, aye, dunno, was shitting masel’ to be honest, I’m no’ sure if I was thinkin’ at aw.” Pete admitted, taking a long drag from the cigarette.

Willie laughed. “You saved a lot of lives today, son.”

Pete looked around at the bodies, the burning cars and the general chaos and asked “Whit the fuck actually happened oot here?” as Skinner returned with the two others. Skinner had a huge grin on his face.

“No so daft, eh Pete?” He chuckled.

“Daft Pete?” The old man standing next to him exclaimed. “Daft fuckin’ Pete? The smackheid?”

Pete felt as if he was getting accused of something so stayed quiet. Skinner turned to the old man. “Aye, Alec, me and him go way back.”

The Englishman, Yeardley looked at them suspiciously. “So, you lot know this guy?”

“Aye,” Skinner said proudly. “He’s one of us.”

Yeardley nodded. “You did a good thing today, Pete.”

“Still don’t know what the fuck went doon.” Pete shrugged.

“Well...” Yeardley began.

“Naw mate, stow it, I’m gaun’ back tae ma room.” Pete said. He flicked the cigarette into a pool of bubbling tarmac and headed back towards the hotel.

As he did, he heard Yeardley shout. “We’ve got some questions for you, Pete.”

“Aye, room 313. Come and see me there.” he said, not even turning back to look. He walked through the rubble past Tommy’s ruined bloody corpse, up the blood and brain-stained stairs and past the wide-eyed ghouls still rubber-necking the scene.

Now more than ever, he needed a hit. He took the elevator up to the third floor went into his room and slammed the door shut. “Whit a fuckin’ night.” he said. He walked over to the bed, rummaged through his bags and found the little box with his works in it. There was a few grains left in his bag, enough for one more fix. He felt the need scrabbling inside him and then thought of Tommy and shook his head. He took the bag, the needle and spoon into the toilet and emptied the lot into the bowl, then flushed the lot. “Fuck it.” he said and walked back into the main room, the least he could do was have a joint.

About half an hour later there was a knock at the door. It was Skinner. He was holding a suitcase. “You left this in Tommy’s room,” he stated, winking.

Pete was confused but was not as daft as him nickname might imply. “I wondered where that had got to. Thanks Gordo.” he said, taking the case. As he did Yeardley pushed past Skinner.

“So, are you ready to answer some questions now?” He asked.

“Aboot whit?” Pete sighed.

“Don’t play funny buggers, lad. You know exactly what I mean.” Yeardley said, the man looked tired and impatient.

“Awright, keep yer hair on, for fuck sake. Whit d’ye want to know?” Pete asked.

“What are you doing here?” Yeardley asked.

“I came doon tae London tae get aff heroin, I made a few quid so I decided tae start a new life in Portugal.” Pete explained.

“And Bryce?”

“Bumped intae the cunt at reception this mornin’. We wur huvin’ a few drinks an’ then I went tae the bog an’ all hell broke loose.”

“So you didn’t know he was a host of that thing?” Yeardley asked.

“Look pal, I’m no even sure whit the fuck happened oot there, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

The bloke Skinner had called Alec said, “See, I telt ye, he’s a junkie, he’s clueless.”

Yeardley frowned. “So you don’t know these men?”

“I know Gordon, we grew up in the same toon, no seen him fur years.” Pete shrugged.

Yeardley nodded, as if Pete had answered the questions exactly the way he thought he would. “Fine. So, you’re a hero Pete, but here’s the thing, we can’t have people knowing about what actually happened out there so...”

“Let me guess.” Pete interrupted. “It was the Provos, right?”

Yeardley smiled. “Spot on. I’ll need you to sign some papers.”

“Whit dae I get oot it?” Pete asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“As you said, I’m a hero, right? Surely some reward is in order?”

Yeardley’s eyes screwed up. “Not as daft as your name would imply, eh?”

“Ach, chill man, I’m no efter much. I need a passport, then I’m gone.”

“A passport?” Yeardley asked.

“Aye, I don’t have a birth certificate or anythin’.” Pete explained

“I see, well that’s not an issue. I can have one for you within 48 hours.” Yeardley said.

“Cushty! I’ll stay here, eh?” Pete said.

“Fine. On behalf of her Majesty’s Government, I’d like to thank you for your deeds. You have no idea how dangerous that situation could have been.” Yeardley said, offering his hand

“Nae bother.” Pete said, shaking it. His bemused look causing Skinner and Alec to laugh.

“Gie the boy some peace Yeardley, he’s been through a lot.” Alec said, giving a wink to Pete.

“Yes. Right, you two, lets get this tidied up, eh?” Yeardley said.

“Aye, good luck Pete.” Alec said.

“See you later, you madman.” Skinner said and slapped him on the shoulder.

As they turned, Pete thought of something. “Haud oan a second.”

They paused and turned. “Where did aw that burnin’ cash come fae?”

Alec took the question. “Bryce’s car, he’d millions stashed in his boot.”

“Bastard. Wish I could have knocked his motor and bolted.” Pete said, laughing.

The others laughed along with him as they walked away. Pete closed the door and then looked at the suitcase. He already had an idea what was in it, given that Bryce’s millions were already burning to ash on the street outside, but he opened it excitedly. Inside it was filled with bundles of fifty pound notes. Each bundle was a thousand, twelve down, twenty across, four deep. Just shy of a million quid. He’d need to put that in a bank, which was fine, once he got his passport. Pete emptied the money onto the bed and laughed as he rolled around in it. He even fell asleep on the pile.

The next morning he went down to get a quick breakfast when one of the reception staff stopped him and started to speak. A tall lass, pale and freckled, she smiled when she said. “The managers wanted me to tell you that they were very impressed by your bravery and said you can keep the room as long as you need it, complimentary, and with their thanks.”

“Aw man, that’s brilliant.” Pete exclaimed. There were perks to being a hero he realised.

Just then a young Asian man, with short tidy hair and beard and thick glasses walked over and said “Are you Mr Bryce?”

“You’ll be Abdullah Al-Jabar, right?” Pete said.

“Yes, I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Bryce.”

“Haud yer horses pal, I’m no’ Bryce. Bryce died in the explosion last night.” Pete said.

The young man frowned. “I see, my commiserations on your loss.”

“It’s fine, we didnae know each other that well.” Pete said.

Al-Jabar nodded. “Very well, I’ll take up no more of your time.”

He walked away, Pete felt a rumble in his stomach, one he had not felt in a long time, he wondered whether it meant he was hungry or he was going to shit himself. Both were likely. He decided to go back upstairs and order some room service, since the hotel was paying.

Epilogue.

It was the end of April of 1990 and blazing hot. Pete’s bar faced onto the beach and although he didn’t have to work, having hired staff, he found himself spending most days popping in for a few hours, after a workout at the gym. The two lads he’d hired, Paul and Milo, were ex-pat kids, both of whom had originally come from Leeds. They were good lads and he treated them well, plus they spent, like he did, most of the day getting eyefuls of hot young women in bikinis. A perk of the job. At night they’d get into their pants, but Pete wasn’t that young or spirited and was happy with his girl, Sarah, a one time holiday rep from Edinburgh who’d stayed and opened a pharmacy with another woman who’d once owned a hotel.

He was talking to Milo about a track on the stereo, something called a huge pulsating brain or something, by a band called “The Orb”. He’d never heard music like it before and was really impressed by it. It certainly worked well with the beach atmosphere, a relaxed, trance-like groove borrowing heavily from Pink Floyd and Minnie Ripperton. The customers all seemed to dig it too, and the place was busy, though perhaps that was as much to do with the ferocious mid-day sun as it was the music.

Life was good. It was as dreamy as the music, Pete still felt like any minute he’d wake up in that filthy squat with Brian, in that grey cancer of a city he’d lived in most of his life, but the longer he’d stayed in Portugal the less he worried about it. All around him too the world was changing for the better. Thatcher had gone, the Berlin wall had come down. the South African apartheid was crumbling. They’d even put a new telescope, The Hubble, into space to look out at the universe. It felt like the dawn of a new age, an age of love and peace and goodwill to all men, as if the time of Empires and monsters was at an end. Pete had never felt so healthy, so positive, so human.

He turned to look at the busy pub and noticed, at the bar, a young man waiting to be served, a young man he recognised, an Asian lad, with tidy dark hair and beard and thick glasses. The young man seemed to recognise him too.

“Abdullah Al-Jabar, right?” Pete asked.

“Yes, where is it I know you from?” Abdullah asked.

“A month or so back, you came into the hotel, you thought I was Tommy Bryce.” Pete explained.

The young man’s eyes widened. “Aaah! Yes, the terrorist who blew himself up.”

“That’s the one. What are you doing here in Portugal?” Pete asked.

“A short holiday before I return home.” Abdullah said.

“Kuwait, right?” Pete asked.

The young man seemed pleased that he knew. “Yes, you’ve been?”

“Never had the chance, sorry. Bryce told me you came from there, we were having drinks that night.” Pete said.

“I see. It’s a beautiful country.” Abdullah said.

“I’m sure it is.” Pete said.

“I have often wondered why Bryce would want to meet, given he was a member of the IRA.” Abdullah said.

“Can’t help you on that, really.” Pete said. “Though he did say that something about that Iraqi guy, Saddam somethin’ was doin’ an oil deal with China in order to stop paying Kuwait for somethin’. I wasn’t really listening.”

“Abdullah’s eyes widened. “Really, now that is interesting.”

“Aye well don’t quote me on that, don’t really want tae start a diplomatic incident, eh?” Pete laughed.

Abdullah gave a perfunctory smile and said. “My lips are sealed.”

“Good lad, so, what can I get you?” Pete asked.