‘A kinna funny bastard’n job that,’ Pike said.
Right on the nail that was. Aye, a funny bastard’n job, right enough. Who could take bananas seriously? To prove this Bilko told a cracking joke about a nun and a green banana. You just had to laugh – even Shane was showing his teeth. If only Big Malky would chuck that staring act of his. Mentally, I smote my brow with the heel of my hand. How thick could I get? Instead of seeing my half-bottle as a potential weapon I should’ve been considering its use as a passport. Through the machinations of evil Captain Horace I’d been marooned on a hostile island with four savages – well, maybe ‘savages’ was pitching it a bit strong, although the description was apt for the dingo by the door. What had been expected of me, what they’d been waiting for, was a demonstration of friendliness. In their primitive minds whisky was an equivalent to baubles’n beads – liquid wampum, it was – they awaited its distribution. And, indeed, they would have some – have it all as a matter of fact. Then I’d be free to go on my way.
Tentatively, I held out the bottle to Malky, their chieftain. ‘This magic flask, warmed by many summers; makeum warriors’ hearts heapum brave . . .’ I didn’t come that gumph, of course, but said something more to the point: ‘D’you fancy a drink?’ He plucked the half-bottle from my grasp and hefted it in his meaty palm. ‘Is it the good stuff you have here, Tommy? The auld usquebaugh?’ I wasn’t sure what kind of whisky it was for that wee bastard Horace had got the carry-out while I’d gone cabhunting. I nodded just the same though I expected it’d be cheap rotgut of some mongrel distillery, certainly not the pedigree malt Pike seemed to’ve set his tastebuds on. With a friendly swing to his jowls he got to his feet and began to rip off the paper wrapping. ‘See your vodka,’ he said, ‘no worth a fuck, ne’er it is. Ruskie hair-tonic that’s –’ He stopped mid-sentence. The wrapper had fallen from the bottle which now glittered nakedly in his grasp. ‘Aw, for fucksake,’ Pike growled.
There it was, winking darkly in the light from the table-lamp – Horace’s last laugh: a half-bottle of Dossers’ Drambuie, Scud, Electric Soup, Mortified Wine, Bum’s Beaujolais, Jungle Juice, Embalming Fluid, Paupers’ Plonk – call it what you like, but it was the lowest of the low, the dregs under the dregs, the lousiest insult ever perpetrated against the humble grape. Pike’s immediate reaction was disturbingly mild. Sure, he slammed the half-bottle down on the table with ferocity enough to make the glasses as well as his muckers jump, but apart from muttering, ‘What a diddy!’ he’d done nothing, as yet, about what must’ve seemed a wilful piece of piss-taking on my part. At the very least you would’ve expected’m to have given Shane the opportunity to have a random chomp at my anatomy. In fact, he was acting like the executioner who says solicitously to his victim as he mounts the scaffold to be deconked, ‘Have a care on them steps, Sir, the blood tends to make’em slippery.’ Cuffing beercans from the Dansette record player’s lid, he lifted it and flipped the disc. ‘Mamma, you’ve been on my mind,’ Big John began to growl. Pike stood for a few moments, a morose look on his face, as he stared at the whirling record then, with a surprising gentleness, lowered the player’s lid. He waddled across to the table now to watch a card hand being played out.
Cadge lifted the half-bottle and eyed its label. ‘Makes you fart cartoons this stuff,’ he said to nobody in particular.
‘Bastard!’ Frankie’d been full-housed by Bilko and obviously, wasn’t too happy about it.
Pike rubbed a hand over his shorn skull, making a sinister rasping noise. From the table he seized up a can of lager, punctured it, then offed its contents in a oner. He crushed the empty container before lobbing it at the already overflowing coal-scuttle. He looked grim, unforgiving, like a judge retired to his chambers to consider his sentence. The gamblers took a break from cards. They yawned, they stretched, lit up fags and freshened drinks. I could’ve committed genocide for a cig or a slug of lager, but being under literal house-arrest I reckoned such luxuries would be denied me.
‘Listen,’ Cadge said, ‘much d’you reckon he’s worth?’
‘Who?’
‘Your hippie, here.’
‘Fuckall.’
‘C’mon now,’ Cadge was grinning, ‘that jaicket must’ve set’m back a half-dollar at least. Early Korean by the look of it.’ He waved a hand in my direction. ‘Let’s bet on it.’
‘Bet on it? I widnae fuck’n wet’n it.’
‘No the jaicket – him, the Banana Boy.’
‘What’s he oan aboot?’
Bilko shrugged and riffled the card pack. But Pike was listening. The table creaked as he leaned on it.
Cadge explained, ‘We lay bets on how much dough we think he’s got on’m. Whoever guesses right, or nearest to, lifts the lolly.’
‘Much?’
‘Fiver?’
‘Tenner,’ said Bilko.
‘Awright for you – you’ve been raking it in.’
‘Chook-chook-chook-chook . . .’
‘Okay, a tenner it is.’
‘Where’s a pen?’
‘Up my arse!’
‘Handy for your brains, then.’
Pike sat down. The bet seemed to interest him. My opinion wasn’t sought. ‘Tenner each in the pot, then,’ Pike said, setting himself up as Rulesmaster. ‘A spot-on guess lifts double the kitty; nearest guess takes the pot as it stands, but, if there’re two winners . . .’
‘How’d that come aboot?’ Cadge asked.
‘What?’
‘Two winners?’
Pike shook his head, ‘What’ve you got atween they ears, fuck’n custard? Look, if the wino’s got a fiver on’m and you guess four’n half sheets and I’m in for five quid ten, then you’ve –’
‘Oh, aye, I get ye noo.’
It was high time I wasn’t there. Tactics: make a breenge for the door, pulling off jacket as I did so: throw jacket over the cur’s head; apply heavy footwork to its ribcage; open door; off through the lobby at the speed of Spanish diarrhoea.
Cautiously, I began to inch down my jacket’s zipper.
‘There’ll be two guesses apiece,’ Pike declared, further refining the rules.
‘Two guesses?’ Cadge queried. ‘How come?’
‘Let’s get on wae the bloody thing,’ Frankie was getting impatient. Stiletto-thin he was, his flesh taut to the bone. Of the four men seated around the table he looked the one most likely to come up with some sadistic way of giving me a hard time. My zipper was almost halfway open by now.
Pike tapped the pen on a scrap of paper. ‘Who’s first then?’
There was one consolation, they weren’t drawing lots to see who’d get first kick at my cheenies – not yet, anyhow.
‘Two quid, two’n a tanner, and two quid five’n a tanner,’ said Bilko.
‘You’ve got to be really skint tae bevvy the scud,’ Cadge reasoned. ‘I’ll go for a quid’n tuppence, and one quid, three bob.’
Pike wrote it down.
Frankie fingered his wee tash. ‘Two pounds, twelve’n a tanner, and two quid thirteen.’
Pike repeated this then scribbled in onto the paper. ‘Right, that leaves me.’ He considered for a moment then, his mind made up, said, ‘I’m for seven’n a tanner, and eight bob, dead.’ Having written down his choices, Pike lifted the paper. ‘I’ll read out the guesses, so there’ll be no grumpin later.’ He did this, then tipping the contents of an ashtray into an empty tinfoil holder, he shoved the ashtray nearer the edge of the table. With a twist of his head he signalled for me to join them. ‘Right, winemopper,’ he said, ‘get your arse ower here.’ This was my chance to make a run for it, but the thought of the wolf’s teeth ripping chunks off my flesh made me lose the bottle. Tamely, I rose and crossed to the table. Pike indicated the ashtray. ‘Right, stick your tank in there.’ Noting my frown, he grinned, then encouragingly added, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll maybe let you have it back again.’
Cadge snickered. ‘Be a honker if the bastard’s no got a light.’
I was
tempted to tell them all to get stuffed but thought the better of it. ‘Dignity’s an expensive shroud,’ Ma Clay used to say, a homily that always baffled me, but I think that I was finally getting her drift. ‘When it’s springtime in Alaska,’ Big Johnny was singing, ‘It’s forty below . . .’ I reached into my jeans pockets. The fearsome four craned forward as I began to dump my loot in the ashtray: first a wrinkled pound note; then a creased ten bob note; followed by some silver and some coppers – total amount £2. 7s. 7½d.
‘I’m fuckt, already,’ Cadge groaned. ‘You tae, Malky.’
Pike said nothing.
I rummaged through my jacket pockets but there was no more bread. ‘That’s me,’ I said.
‘Hippie bastard!’ Frankie scowled as he lost out to Bilko who was already punching the air in jubilation. Pike shrugged, then his chair crackled as he leaned back on it. I’d’ve preferred the big man to’ve won; it might’ve put him in a better frame of mind. The lack of reprisal for the whisky-into-wine business still bothered me. Frankie, naturally, would’ve preferred Frankie to’ve won. A sore loser he was, for as Bilko reached across to scoop in the pot he placed a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Hold it. How’d we know he’s coughed up the lot?’
Bilko half smiled. ‘Come off it Frankie.’
Frankie appealed to Pike. ‘I say he should turn oot his pockets so’s we know it’s above board.’
‘Fuckall difference to me,’ Cadge said as he began another nostril finger patrol.
Pike nodded his massive head. ‘Aye, Frankie’s got a point.’ He scowled at me. Hing oot your linings jugheid.’
I began to shell out the contents of my pockets, placing them one by one on the table: a comb, a biro, a hankie, a ciggie-lighter that needed a flint, fags, matches, a catarrh inhaler, an unopened packet of Spangles, a shirt button, house keys, a small screwdriver, a pocket knife, and, from the inner pocket of my jacket, a paperback on the life of Pirandello. I indicated that I was through but Frankie remained unconvinced. He came around the table then seizing my jacket by its lapels yanked it open. His hand jabbed into the emptiness of my inner pocket then he spotted my ‘last ditch’ or ‘poison-pill’ hole. ‘What’s in there?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’
He prodded at it. ‘You’re a liar. There’s something in –’ He yanked down the diagonal zip then delved his fingers into the tiny aperture. They came out bearing something that pried gasps from the others and had my asshole semaphoring maydays; dangling from its chain, light winking from its gold-plated surfaces, was Paddy Cullen’s crucifix. With what looked like a genuine shudder of revulsion Frankie rid himself of the thing, tossing it down amongst the banknotes, cans, bottles and tinfoil crap. ‘What d’you know,’ Frankie said, ‘we’ve got oorselves a Tarrier!’
If looks could kill I would’ve been dead already. It didn’t take yon wee Dutch dandy riding his white charger on the dresser to endorse what I already knew, their brutal glares were enough for that, as were their arm tattoos – these bears were militant Prods, no-surrender merchants hooked into history by a shared party line the number of which was 1690. Pike, hands folded on the table, began his address to the jury: ‘To think I nearly let the dug chew aff his cherries, as well.’ He shook his head. ‘Could’ve pizined itself.’ The others laughed. Bilko gathered in his winnings, separating the notes according to value into different piles. Frankie howked amongst the beercans in the corner, tossing empties aside until he came upon a full one. He sauntered back to his place at the table. Cadge’s search of his nostrils continued.
Shaking his head as he stared down at the crucifix, Pike went on: ‘You can see noo how he’s such a tit – heid’s full of green cheese.’ I was about to interrupt him, but thought the better of it. No point in claiming my Proddy origins; Proddies didn’t wear ‘Vatican Brooches’. Useless to suggest that I was an exception: I wouldn’t have believed a word of it, myself.
‘Tell you something,’ Pike said to me, ‘You’re only the second Fenian to’ve stepped intae this hoose’n twenty years. A young bead-rattler it was, made the same mistake as yersel.’ He nodded. ‘Aye, we posted’m back tae Dublin, a wee bit at a time, so we did.’ Although his fellow Proddies grinned their eyes remained hostile. Pike lifted the half-bottle of wine. ‘Too bad,’ he said, ‘you canni take this tae Hell wae ye. It’ll be fuckn perishin doon there, what wae Popes, Bishops, and Parish priests warmin their fat arses at the Fire.’ He winked at the smirking Cadge. ‘Away ben and fetch faither’s pisspot. If he’s used it so much the better.’
Cadge needed no prompting. In a matter of seconds he was on his feet and scurrying to the door. The cur which’d been whining restlessly loosed a loud bark but a command from Pike made it slink to one side so that Cadge could pass. My mind had been made up for me: as soon as Cadge returned I would have to go for broke. The dog’d be a bit distracted by the door opening and I – The escape plan, scarcely conceived, had the skids put under it, for suddenly Cadge, preceded by a suffocating cloud of acrid smoke, came breenging in like an imp from Hell, bawling at the top of his voice: ‘Malky! Malky! It’s your faither – he’s set his fuck’n room on fire!’
Much smoke and much confusion. Chairs toppling, the dog going bananas as the men rushed the door. Shouts, curses, coughing now from the lobby. With the smoke all but levering my lungs into my throat I snatched up my belongings from the table not, amazingly enough, forgetting Paddy’s crucifix. I crammed the stuff into my pocket then got down on the floor and elbowed my way to the door. When I got there I took a deep breath of the dwindling fresh air remaining at this low level, got to my feet and sprang into the mêlée of bodies, thick smoke and heat in the lobby. Catching just a glimpse of the inferno that raged in the bedroom I cannoned into somebody – Cadge, I think – stomped on Shane’s balls and as it yowled hideously I stomped even harder on an accordian, though, on later reflection I suppose it must’ve been the moggie, then I went barrelling towards the open door. Brushing aside Bilko who was bent double and coughing his guts up I burst through onto the landing. With my lungs well’n truly kippered, tears pouring down my face I immediately took a flying header over the refuse bucket, almost giving my right arm a new hinge as I decked it. I was on my feet in an instant, and went hammering down the stairs, three at a time, pelted the length of the close, then with snow fizzing around my busy feet I blistered along the pavement, charging, I hoped, in the general direction of Saracen Cross and a taxi.
Almost halfway around a tenement corner I pulled myself up sharply then back-tracked. Trying my best to suppress my cough and at the same time struggling to get a few molecules of oxygen down into my vulcanised lungs I dodged into a darkened closemouth. My old ticker was racing fit to bust as I made my way to the close’s rear exit, but escape via this route was barred by a massive puddle. Still trying to convince my lungs that breathing was possible just so long as they unknotted themselves, I coughed my way to the entrance once more.
Their voices could be heard now, and the soft pounding of their feet. If any of the approaching group had spotted me, then my tea was out. It was either a Possil hunting party returning from a foray, or a tribe from a neighbouring territory on the look out for local scalps. Some luck at last! They didn’t come my way but headed straight on. I peered after them from my dark refuge. About a dozen or so braves, bunched together, they ran in easy loping strides. All of them were probably tooled-up. Only when they were well on their way did my lungs start to pick up on old habits like processing air. I granted them the encouragement of a few deep grinding coughs and from all over the place, dogs began to bark in sympathy. I moved off rapidly. I’d had quite enough of four-legged fiends for one night.
On a main thoroughfare, near a fish’n chip shop, drawn by the sound of female screams, I saw a crowd gathering around something on the slushy pavement. Holding my gowping arm, and still coughing like a pit pony, I crossed to peer over the shoulders of the onlookers. A bloodstained youth lay calmly on his back, totally u
nconcerned by the shrill keening of the girl who knelt by him and of the attempts of a railwayman to render firstaid. ‘Give’m room for chrissake,’ a man ordered, and the circle of rubbernecks relaxed for a moment or so but soon grew tight again.
From somewhere in our midst the shocked voice of a woman rang out: ‘Aye, a gang of boys did it. Stabbed’m and ran doon yon street there . . .’ Then, another voice: ‘Here’s the ambulance now. Naw, it’s no – it’s a fire brigade.’ ‘Stand back!’ a man shouted. ‘Give’m air!’ and on the fringe of the crowd, a wee Glesca punter with a pinched cigarette and the mark of the dosshouse on’m, was saying with a shaking head, ‘He’s had aw the air he’ll be needing, that fella . . .’
24
HOW’S IT POSSIBLE that I could be having a chinwag with a gabby cabby about the unlikelihood of Glasgow Rangers FC taking the League flag this season when, only a short while before, I’d been party to the torching of a pensioner’s pad? Okay, I’d given him the matches in all innocence but that didn’t let me off the hook. For instance, why hadn’t I when I was legging it down the stairs from Pike’s place hammered on several doors to raise the alarm? Hadn’t I also ignored, at a later stage of my flight, a telephone kiosk which just might’ve been operable enough to summon the fire brigade? Worse, hadn’t I taken time out to do some rubbernecking, maybe even secretly relishing the sight of somebody more down on their luck than I was? I’ve no doubt that my excessive attachment to this bundle of bones of which I at present hold the sole tenancy turned my head in a direction contrary to my civic duty. May I also at this juncture ask for a petty crime to be taken into consideration. I regret (no, I do not regret) that such was my haste in removing myself from that scene of personal and quite unwarranted humiliation that I, inadvertantly (no, quite deliberately), scooped from the table some banknotes that were not my own – a few only, certainly not sufficient to compensate me for the harassment I suffered at the hands of that vile quartet. I can see now, in fact, what a fool I was not to leave that table with my pockets brimming over with bluebacks. ‘Be ever alert,’ M. Sartre says, ‘for the Destiny Leap may open like a chasm at your feet at a moment not of your own choosing,’ or, as a less well-known philosopher, Vic Rudge, put it, ‘There are nae fuck’n pockets in a shroud, Tam, grab all you can when you can!’
Swing Hammer Swing! Page 20
