by John Niven
Pauline was experiencing nothing less than a rebirth.
‘How much would the money change your life?’ someone asked.
‘The money?’ Pauline said.
‘The winner’s cheque. Seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’
Pauline felt her jaw twitch.
‘Why weren’t you out there cheering him on today?’ someone else asked.
‘Well…’ Pauline stammered, trying to regain her composure. ‘One of us has to work, you know! But, as a matter of fact, I was just getting ready to head over there right now…’
Lee puffed furiously with trembling hands, blood on the filter and the cigarette smoke searing the cuts and holes in his gums. A small portable TV had been turned on, the screen glowing a brilliant green in the dark room, Rowland Daventry’s gentle commentary burbling incongruously in this terrible space. Ranta was watching the TV. Alec, the Beast and the others were watching Ranta. Ranta turned from the screen and looked at Lee. Lee shifted uncomfortably, the oil slick in his pants cold and terrible now whenever he moved.
Ranta Campbell–a firm believer in the management philosophy of ‘a good plan today is better than a perfect plan tomorrow’–was not much given to confusion. In the world of drug retail and the violence that accompanies it there was usually little grey area: people paid or did not pay. Money was made or lost and reward or retribution followed accordingly. But here he was: confused. No two ways about it.
It may have been a poor choice on Alec’s part to hire the quivering bam sitting before him–they’d get into that later–but, no matter. Lee had failed them. Lee would have to pay. However, Ranta was also prone to the myriad superstitions, the juju and voodoo that afflict the chronic gambler. Would he kill the owner, trainer or close relative of a favoured horse on the eve of a big race?
‘Son,’ Ranta said, ‘do you think yer brother can win this fucking thing?’
Lee swallowed a smoke-flavoured blood clot. ‘S-see since his accident, Ranta, he…he cannae hit a bad shot, so he cannae. Ah swear tae fuck he–’
‘Will he no be wondering why you’re no over there watching him?’
‘Aye, probably.’
‘Come tae fuck, Da,’ Alec said. ‘Let’s just do the cunt.’
Ranta drummed his fingers on the tabletop, thinking.
‘Fuck sake,’ the Beast said. ‘Look at this…’
Ranta turned back to the screen. The camera was tracking a fast-moving putt as it snaked across a green, zeroing in on the hole. The shot cut back to Gary’s face, biting his lip as he watched the ball anxiously. It was the first time Lee had seen his brother on TV. It was an odd sensation. ‘That was Gary Irvine for birdie at eighteen a moment ago,’ Daventry said as the ball slammed into the hole.
‘Ooh ya hoor ye,’ Ranta said.
50
GARY SHYLY TWEAKED HIS VISOR AT THE CHEERING crowd. It had been a hell of a putt all right: thirty feet through about three different breaks. All the more impressive because he’d made it with his golf glove superglued with semen to his left hand. He tossed his ball into the crowd–something else he’d seen them do on TV–as Drew Keel came over and shook his ungloved right hand. ‘Well played, son. You come have a drink with me later on, ya hear?’
‘Thanks, Drew.’
It was unreal. Drew Keel telling him they’d have a drink later, the crowd pressing in, calling his name out, pushing hats and programmes forward for him to sign as the marshals cleared a path towards the marker’s hut for him. Gary picked out the grinning faces on his way–Dr Robertson, Aunt Sadie, Bert. Where was his mum?
In the marker’s hut he tripled-checked his scorecard. It was true enough. He’d shot 68–two birdies, an eagle and no bogeys. Not quite his 65 of yesterday, but still one of the best rounds of the tournament so far.
‘Well played, son,’ the official who ratified his card said. ‘Just you watch. This wind keeps getting up and you might be up there on your own before the end of the day.’
Gary walked out of the hut in a daze, right into April. ‘Well,’ she said, grinning, ‘the man of the moment! Right, you, after your press conference you can give me the first exclusive interview.’
‘Press conference?’ Gary said.
There must have been over a hundred journalists crammed into the media tent. Applause as Gary entered flanked by April and a press officer called Kelly. April looked across the crowded tent and caught Lawson’s eye. He was sitting near the back and sweating profusely. She flashed him a benevolent smile and he mouthed the words ‘fuck you’. Gary was trembling as he scanned the logos on the TV cameras at the front–BBC, NBC, CBS, the Golf Network. Kelly led him onto the stage. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she announced into the microphone, ‘the current clubhouse leader, amateur entrant, Mr Gary Irvine.’
Fresh applause as Gary sat down. Cameras flashed and microphone booms wavered and jockeyed for position. Beneath the table his knees were clacking. Jesus, this was worse than any downhill putt. He went to lift one of the bottles of mineral water that had been placed in front of him and noticed how badly his hand was trembling. He put it back, dry-swallowed and folded his hands in front of him.
‘Gary? James Weston, the Independent. How does it feel to be leading the Open?’
‘Er, well, I might only be leading it for a wee while. There’s still quite a few players out there.’
A man in the front row thrust his hand up. ‘Bob Corrigan, the Telegraph,’ he said. ‘How did your nerves hold up out there? You took quite a long comfort break after eleven, were you just steadying yourself?’
‘Umm, aye…that’s right,’ Gary said, scratching his still-gloved left hand. That lemonade, trickling through his skull. Fizzing.
‘David Tollhouse, the Guardian.’ Tollhouse stood up. ‘Was it intimidating playing alongside someone like Drew Keel?’
‘Aye, well, you know, I’d only ever seen Drew on the TV and that, so at first it was a wee bit–baws–aye, but, ye know, after a wee while it was fine. Spunk.’ The last word was uttered quietly, like an afterthought, and went unnoticed in the crowded, noisy tent.
Cameras flashed, more hands went up. People shouted his name, the name of their publications.
‘Do you think you can be the first amateur winner since Bobby Jones?’
‘Will you be turning pro?’
‘Did the conditions work in your favour?’
‘Was local knowledge a factor?’
April noticed he was starting to twitch a little.
‘Are you out of your depth?’
‘What clubs do you use?’
‘What ball?’
Lawson stood up. ‘Donald Lawson, Daily Standard. It’s possible,’ he said, ‘that you’ll be out with Calvin Linklater tomorrow. How does that make you feel?’
‘Obviously it…it’d be a great…’ Gary’s head was fizzing now and his hands were shaking, ‘fat honour. Fat bastard. Fuck! Fucking fat cunt ye! AWOOO!’ He let out the strange yelp and his hand flew to his mouth as a stunned hush fell over the room. Cameramen looked at each other.
Oh no, April thought, moving fast through the crowd to find Kelly.
Tollhouse from the Guardian missed this exchange as he’d been scribbling a note. He looked up smiling and said, ‘I understand your mother was here today. She must be very…’
He tailed off as he realised Gary had stuffed his fist in his mouth and was turning purple.
‘…proud.’
‘AIEEE!’ Gary spat his hand out of his mouth. ‘MAW! AH’VE RODE YER FUCKING MAW! Oooh ya hoor ye! Big-nosed bastard! Sorry! Cunt! Fuck!’ He was going full tilt; the ‘cunt’ as involuntary as a sneeze and the ‘fuck’ in surprise, astonishment and anger at the ‘cunt’.
April grabbed Kelly and shouted, ‘Get him off!’
‘BAWS, TITS, CUNTS YA FUDS!’
Kelly leapt onto the podium. ‘Sorry, everyone! No more questions right now!’ Still the cameras kept rolling as Gary stumbled to his feet. He was singing now.
; ‘TEGS, BEGS AND HAIRY FEGS!’
Kelly placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Please,’ she began.
Gary locked eyes on her cleavage, staring down into her deeply cut blouse. ‘Ahhhhh,’ he began to moan.
‘Let’s just get you–’ Kelly said.
Gary launched himself at her breasts, screaming with maximum urgency, ‘GIE’S A FUCKING DIDDY RIDE, YA BOOT!’
Kelly screamed as she reeled back and fell off the podium. Pandemonium now, chairs clattering over as people got up, cameramen and photographers clambering to get better shots. Shouting, screaming chaos.
‘Ohhh, uhhh,’ Gary was saying now as he scrabbled at his flies. April tried to fight her way through the mob towards the stage, shouting, ‘Gary! Gary! No!’
Stevie walked into the tent through a flap at the side of the stage in time to see Gary stuffing his hand down the front of his trousers.
He ran full tilt onto the stage and hurled himself at him, both of them smashing onto the floor of the podium.
‘BASSSTTARRD!’ Gary screamed as Stevie began repeatedly punching him in the face as the cameras flashed.
‘It’s. For. Your. Own.’ Stevie was timing each word with a punch. ‘Fucking. Good!’ Six blows until Gary passed out, his head lolling over to one side. Breathing hard, Stevie looked up at the assembled media of the entire world. He absolutely had to say it.
‘OK, folks,’ he panted. ‘Nothing to see here…’
51
GARY WOKE UP WITH A LIGHT HEADACHE–A SOFT, regular throb behind the right eye–and a woozy, washed-out memory of something bad happening; like a nasty hangover. His jaw hurt. His left eye socket too. He lay there for a moment with his eyes closed, trying to remember what had happened and where he was, gradually becoming aware of another presence in the darkened room, the smell of something familiar, fresh and lemony. He opened his eyes and sat up a little, his headache giving a ticklish throb in the process, and saw that April was sitting on the other bed watching over him. ‘Hi,’ she said, smiling.
‘Where am I?’ Gary asked thickly as he tried to sit up.
‘They’ve given you a room here in the Marine. It was nearer. Easy.’ April moved over and gently pushed him back onto the bed. ‘Don’t try to get up. Stevie’s gone to get Dr Robertson.’
‘Dr Robertson? Why? What–ow!’ His jaw ached when he opened his mouth too wide. ‘What happened?’
‘You don’t remember anything?’ April said.
‘Ah, I was in the media tent answering questions…’
‘Mmm. Then?’
‘Then…I woke up here. What happened?’
She told him.
Gary lay there silently.
‘Would you like some tea?’ April asked gently.
When she got no response she crossed the room and busied herself with the hotel tea things: the plastic mini-kettle in contrasting shades of beige, the plastic pots of milk and cream, the single tea bags on their strings. ‘I think we’ve managed to calm it all down,’ April said, her back to him. ‘But I wouldn’t look at tomorrow’s papers if I were you. And I’d steer clear of the Internet for a–’ She became aware of a noise above the rattle of the cups and saucers and turned round. Gary was crying.
Crying? He was destroyed.
‘Hey, come on,’ April said, sitting back down beside him on the narrow single bed. ‘You can’t help it.’ She put her arm around him as he continued to sob, his head in his hands.
‘I…I…I…’ Gary said, trying to start a sentence but, like a five-year-old who has suffered a great injustice, unable to get the words out for the racking sobs. ‘I…I’M A FREAK!’ he blurted through a fresh, hot squirt of tears.
‘No you’re not. You’ve got a…a neurological condition.’
‘I am!’
‘Come on,’ she cuddled him. ‘Deep breaths.’
‘At first I…I thought it was great. The accident.’ He got his breathing under control and began to speak evenly. ‘Playing golf the way I could. But now…the Tourette’s, the fucking Klu-Kluver-Bucy. I mean, April, I tried to wank off in front of hundreds of people!’
Actually, April thought, factoring in live TV feeds and the footage that was surely being uploaded onto YouTube as they spoke, it was probably more like millions. She twisted around so she could look at him. He was lower than her, looking up at her anxiously and expectantly, the way he sometimes looked up into the air after a slightly mistimed swing. April traced her pinkie around the indent in his right temple, beneath it the damaged artery, the bleeding that had brought them both here. She moved her other hand up his spine, placed it on the back of his neck and pulled his face towards her. Their lips met and she kissed him, softly at first, then a little harder, taking his top lip between her teeth. The erection in Gary’s pants–which was near constant now–somehow managed to increase in intensity, then, suddenly, he was pulling away from her.
‘I can’t, April.’
‘Eh?’ April was surprised at how hard she was breathing.
Gary held up his left hand, the fat gold band.
‘It wouldn’t be fair to Pauline.’
‘But…she left you, didn’t she?’
‘Sorry, I really like you, but…I’ve got to try and make my marriage work.’
Wow. Do they still make you? April wondered.
A sharp knock at the door. ‘That’ll be Stevie,’ April said. ‘Here.’ She handed him a box of tissues from the bedside table before shouting ‘Come in’ towards the door.
‘Surprise!’ Pauline said, beaming as she put her head around the door. Her beaming continued for exactly as long as it took for her to register that there was a girl–a young, attractive girl–sitting on the bed next to Gary.
‘Pauline!’ Gary said nasally through a wad of tissues.
‘Hi!’ April said, trying not to get up too quickly.
‘Hello,’ Pauline said, her initial smile now replaced by one that was brittle and terrible to witness.
‘This is April,’ Gary said. He tried to get up, then he thought better of it. ‘She writes for the Daily Standard. We were just doing an interview.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ April said, coming over and extending her hand. Pauline held it limply for two seconds before letting it drop and moving towards Gary. ‘I went to the golf course, they told me what happened, where you were. Darling, are you OK?’ She stood over him and put a hand on his brow.
‘Aye, ah’m fine. Just a wee headache.’
‘Excuse me,’ Pauline said, turning round, ‘Avril,’
‘April.’
‘Sorry–April–I really need to talk to my husband.’
‘Oh, of course,’ April said. ‘I’d better get on. I have a deadline. I’ll see you later, Gary, OK?’
‘OK. Thanks, April.’
‘Deadline,’ Pauline said sourly the second the door was closed. ‘She fancies herself, doesn’t she?’
‘She’s nice enough,’ Gary said ultra casually. ‘Anyway, how come you’re–’ Just then an enormous groan went up from the golf course across the road.
‘What was that?’ Pauline asked.
‘Sounds like someone just missed a putt,’ Gary said.
Pauline sat down on the bed next to him. ‘Oh Gary, I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you too,’ Gary said as Pauline moved closer to him. He felt his blood give an involuntary groinwards lurch. His physical attraction to Pauline had been with him for so long now it was hard-wired. Reflexive. ‘But what about all those things you said. What’s changed?’
Pauline took his hand before she spoke. ‘I have. I think we…we’d been together for so long. Since we were kids really, I…’ She’d worked hard on this speech on the drive over. ‘I just felt a wee bit trapped. And I didn’t cope very well with your accident. I’m sorry.’ She was actually managing to well up.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ Gary said. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been hard for you.’
‘But it’s been hard for you too,’ she said, sliding i
n. Kissing him hard now, her hand going to his fly.
‘Ah…’ Gary said as Pauline started to unzip him. He was just about to enjoy the cool air of the room upon the hot, caged beast when suddenly the door was bursting open and a breathless Stevie was standing there. Gary and Pauline sprang apart.
‘Hello, Stevie,’ Pauline said.
The mortal enemies eyed each other coolly, Pauline thinking, Yeah, I wonder what you’ve been saying about me the past couple of weeks? Well, I’m back, pal. So you better get used to the idea. Stevie, in his turn, was thinking, Interesting timing, Pauline.
‘Sorry to interrupt this touching reunion,’ Stevie said, scoring a quick first point, ‘but ah thought ye’d like tae know that Calvin Linklater just bogeyed the eighteenth.’
‘What does that mean?’ Pauline said.
‘It means,’ Stevie said, ‘that laughing boy here is now tied for the lead with the world number one going into the last day of the Open.’
‘But that means–’ Gary began.
‘Correct,’ Stevie said, cutting him off. ‘You’re playing with him tomorrow.’
THE FINAL DAY OF THE OPEN CHAMPIONSHIP
52
LEE TOOK THE TICKET RANTA HANDED HIM AND MOVED through the turnstiles, Ranta in front of him, his huge shoulders blocking out the morning sun, and Frank and Alec behind him. The queues to get in were already long: with the fine weather and all the local interest in Gary the R&A were predicating enormous crowds.
Ranta turned when they were all safely onto the course and the four men formed a tight huddle. ‘Right,’ Ranta said quietly, ‘here’s the fucking script: you–’ he nodded to Lee–‘are gonnae let yer brother know that you’re here and that everything’s hunky-dory. Frank’ll go wi ye.’ Ranta looked at his watch. ‘We’ve got a good wee while until he tees off so me and Alec are gonnae go and get some scran intae us. Ah’m fucking Hank so ah um. Now, Lee son, in case ye get any daft ideas aboot maybe slipping aff intae the crowd and daeing a runner oan us, just think for once in yer life. Do ye really want us paying another visit tae yer wife and weans? Or yer maw? Awfy nice woman. Ah was watching yer brother wi her yesterday so ah wis. Would be a shame if she hud a wee accident. Like, fur instance, Frank here cutting her paps aff so ah kin make a set o’ fucking earmuffs out o’ them. Eh?’
