by John Niven
Two: in between shots Gary’s Tourette’s had become constant and low-grade, a ceaseless mantra of soft, breakneck swearing peppered here and there with actual conversation relating to what was going on around him. A sample conversation from the third hole went like this:
Stevie: ‘I reckon you’re probably looking at seven-iron. Maybe even a six.’
Gary: ‘Titscuntfuckbawsyahoor. Wind. Pishflaps. Fuck! Sorry! Smokemafuckindobber. Probably make it–cuntcuntfucktitsflapsfannyflaps–with a seven. Hoor.’
Three: Gary was playing like a dream.
A lob wedge from the side of the first green so perfectly struck that when the ball spun towards the hole it was like watching a piece of film being played backwards. A stinging four-iron at the second that appeared to brake in mid-air before dropping softly to within ten feet of the flag. And he was sinking every putt in sight.
Three birdies in the first four holes.
Linklater–perhaps figuring that as long he kept within striking distance then Gary was bound to fall apart under the pressure sooner or later–wasn’t trying anything spectacular and made four safe solid pars. The net result: here they were on the fifth with Gary three strokes ahead of the world number one.
‘And I don’t think anyone was expecting this,’ Daventry said as the TV showed the two players sizing up their shots.
‘No, Rowland,’ Torrent agreed, ‘I think the consensus was that the pressure would be far too much and that this young man’s incredible streak of, well, you don’t want to call it luck–he’s playing some incredible golf–but whatever you want to call it, I think a lot of people thought that today would probably be where it ran out. Not so.’
‘And let’s not forget that there’s still a lot of other players out there,’ Daventry said. ‘You’ve got Rodriguez and Torsten Lathe both on a couple under. Honeydew III there or thereabouts. It’s by no means a two-horse race yet.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Torrent agreed, ‘but I think, as far as the people here are concerned, this is the only match on the course.’
‘The only game in town,’ Daventry said enigmatically.
‘Eh?’
‘Solitaire. You know the old song?’
‘Sing it for us then, Rowland.’
‘I’ll sing it for you later. In the bar. After we’ve had a wee drink. A few wee drams.’ Blood all over Scotland came to the boil as Daventry went into his terrible faux-Glaswegian accent.
Meanwhile, down in the crowd, Gary’s gallery could not believe their good fortune. ‘Aww God, hen,’ Cathy said to April, ‘ah cannae believe he’s playing so well with all these folk watching, so ah cannae.’
‘I know,’ April said. She was beginning, for the first time, to allow herself to believe that he could win. Although, watching from a distance of nearly a hundred yards, she was worried about him. Apart from when he was actually swinging the club his mouth was now constantly in motion.
Ranta was watching Gary–taking a few lazy practice swings with his pitching wedge now–with the pure current unique to the inveterate gambler crackling through his veins. He was making calculations. If he won the fucking thing? At the odds Ranta had got? He’d be taking Frank and maybe Big Benny with him when he went to collect his winnings, that was for fucking sure. ‘Come tae fuck, son,’ Ranta whispered as Gary assumed his stance.
Pauline was making calculations too. The winner’s cheque, plus the endorsements, plus the appearance fees, plus the book deals, advertising…although she was worried about the constant, demented mantra he seemed to be emitting. How long could she put up with that? Well, she reasoned, it only takes money to make money. A couple of million well invested? You could probably double it in a few years. She could live with some swearing, gibbering lunatic for a few years. Maybe it wouldn’t be too…
She broke out of her reverie as the crowd gasped and craned her neck to try and follow the ball. A moment where it was invisible, white lost against white somewhere high in the air, then–whump! There it was, bouncing slap in the middle of the green again as the crowd went bananas, everyone cheering and jumping up and down, thousands of Scottish voices singing ‘here we go here we go here we go’ as Gary waved shyly, wiping his clubhead against the sole of his shoe as he continued to mutter whatever he was muttering.
Pauline found herself hugging Cathy, April even, all of them laughing and jumping up and down. ‘Go on, son!’ Cathy shouted as they started trying to move off, their little group being sucked along in the slipstream of the great crowd. Suddenly Pauline felt a sharp tugging at her sleeve. She spun round and found herself eyeball to eyeball with Findlay Masterson. His face was scratched, his shirt was ripped and he had sand in his hair. Even though his jaws were clamped so ferociously together that it looked like his teeth might explode in a glassy shower, Pauline could smell the whisky on his breath.
He looked deranged.
‘Fin—’ she began.
55
HE’D STORMED OUT OF THE HOUSE–TELLING LEANNE he had to go into the office–and driven straight to the Hospitality Inn, scene of so many pleasantly obscene memories. He started on the pints of heavy, his rage increasing as he leafed through the complimentary Sunday papers spread out on one of the coffee tables.
Gary, Pauline, Gary’s mum, Pauline, Gary.
He upgraded to single malt as the barman turned the TV on and together they watched the coverage from Troon: the enormous crowds, Calvin Linklater and Pauline’s fucking husband. ‘No real, eh?’ the barman said pleasantly. ‘The boy lives just round the corner.’
‘Aye,’ Masterson said, gagging as he knocked back his double and signalled for another.
The whisky was still burning in his throat when he peeled out of the car park and pointed the nose of the Mercedes towards Troon.
By this time the whole town was basically an NCP and the closest he could get was the seaside hamlet of Barassie, a few miles along the coast. He parked there and–pausing only to pick up a four-pack of vagrant-strength lager from a newsagent’s–walked furiously back into Troon, drinking all the way.
On arrival at the golf course he was told very politely that the course was filled to capacity and no further admissions were possible. Masterson produced his wallet and offered the clown on the gate one hundred pounds in cash. When this was declined he increased it to five hundred. This too was declined. Masterson unbuckled his Rolex and added it to the negotiations. He used the expression ‘come tae fuck, ya cunt’.
Realising that alcohol rather than golf fanaticism was at work here, the clown called over two security guards and a few seconds later Masterson was trudging away from the course back towards Barassie. After paying another visit to the same newsagent’s he found himself stumbling along the beach, uncapping another golden tube of loony soup and finding that they were starting to go down surprisingly well. He discarded his jacket, basking in the hot sun as he slouched through the sand towards the golf course once more. He was certainly feeling no pain when he scrambled up through the high dunes, cutting his face and hands on the sharp-edged, clawing grass. Very little pain as he crawled under the barbed-wire fence separating the course from the beach, ripping his shirt open in the process and finally stumbling hiccuping onto the outer perimeter of the course.
Masterson had now walked nearly ten miles in the summer heat while consuming roughly thirty-two units of alcohol.
Thankfully the press of the crowd was so great that Pauline and Masterson were quickly yards away from everyone else, over by some gorse bushes, off the heaving pathway.
‘Fin—’ Pauline tried again.
‘Shut it, ya fucking hoor,’ Masterson said, cutting her off. ‘So this is yer fucking game, is it? The minute ye think he might be ontae the big time suddenly he’s no such a bad deal and auld muggins here can get himself tae fuck, eh? Eh, ya fucking boot, ye?’ Masterson had only ever put a little money between himself and the animal that grew up on Wilton Terrace. It had just taken a few drinks and the right circumstances for the an
imal to come snarling back.
‘Please keep your voice down!’ Pauline hissed. Everyone passing by was looking at the dishevelled, drunken madman shouting at the attractive, well-dressed woman. ‘It’s not like that at all.’
‘Oh aye, whit’s it fucking like then?’
‘I just thought…’ Pauline said, thinking, whispering now, ‘if he won, I might, um, get some of it in the divorce. For us.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Yes.’
Masterson thought for a minute. Or rather, lager-spangled voices shouted at each other in his head for a minute. Finally he spoke.
‘YOU’RE A LYING FUCKING HOOR!’ he screamed, spraying beery flecks of saliva all over her. ‘AFTER WHIT A WIS GAUNY DAE FUR YOU! FOR US! I–’
Pauline slapped him.
It took Masterson a couple of seconds to fully register this outrage, but, when he had, he grabbed her by the lapels and reared back to headbutt Pauline in the face.
Someone grabbed his hair from behind, stopping his forehead from beginning its forward-and-down trajectory, and suddenly a face was very close to his. ‘Findlay,’ a voice said quietly in his ear as the fist gripped the hair at the nape of his neck harder, ‘there’s no need for this now, is there?’
56
A FEW HUNDRED YARDS AWAY, ON THE SIXTH GREEN, Stevie was worried. Not about the putt–the approach shot had landed in exactly the right spot, leaving them a pretty straight, nicely uphill putt–but about the escalation in volume Gary seemed to be undergoing. The occasional word was now leaping out of the bubbling mantra at considerably more than a whisper. They were standing off to the side of the green while Linklater lined up his putt, a tricky, thirty-foot, left-to-right number.
‘Aye, putt, ya cunt,’ Gary said. ‘Bawsbawsfudspunkhoor-ERSE!-flapsfuck! OW!’ Linklater and Snakes glared over, then resumed examining the line of the putt.
‘Easy,’ Stevie whispered.
‘Ah cannae–fuckcunts–ow!–help it–cunt–Stevie.’ Gary was stuffing his fist in his mouth, biting down hard on his knuckles. But it was no use. He spat his fist out and screamed ‘PRICK!’ at Linklater. People gasped. Linklater threw his arms up in the air, abandoned his putt and approached the marshal. Stevie put his head in his hands.
‘Well,’ Rowland Daventry said on-air, ‘we can’t hear it from up here, but it seems that Mr Irvine, I’m not quite sure, but…Linklater is speaking to an official. Extraordinary.’
Two R&A officials were walking towards them now; a tall, thin Englishman called Dawkins and a short, fat Scotsman called Morton. ‘Just keep your mouth shut,’ Stevie said. ‘Unnghh,’ Gary said, chewing on knuckles.
‘Mr Irvine,’ Dawkins said, ‘we simply cannot tolerate this behaviour. We cannot allow a competitor to insult another player during his pre-shot routine.’
‘He’s not insulting him specifically. It’s just an aspect of his condition,’ Stevie said.
Across the green Linklater stood with hands on hips. Thousands of spectators looked on.
‘If,’ Dawkins said, addressing Gary directly, ‘there are any further outbursts of this nature I am afraid we will have no choice but to disqualify you. Do you understand?’
‘Urrr…aye,’ Gary said, before quickly adding, ‘prick! ooh ya cunt! Fuck! Sorry! Skinny English prick ye. Sorry!’
‘Are you telling me,’ Morton said to Stevie, ‘that isn’t specific?’
‘It’s an aspect of his–’ Stevie began.
‘Prick. Wank. Sorry! Cunt fat wank. Sorry! AIEEE!’
‘Condition.’ Stevie clamped a hand over Gary’s mouth. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘Mmmff. Uhnn,’ Gary said.
Dawkins and Morton marched off and Stevie took Gary over to the side of the green. ‘Right, listen, please calm down for fuck’s sake. Just try and control yourself for five minutes. I’ve got an idea.’
Gary nodded miserably, fist stuffed back in his mouth, while Linklater got on with his putt. Stevie ran over to one of the BBC camera positions. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said to the cameraman, ‘I’ve a wee bit of an emergency. You wouldn’t be able to help me out with something, would you?’
Ranta let Masterson go. People were looking. ‘I mean, there’s a golf game going on here, Findlay,’ he said.
‘Fuck your fucking game. If you hadnae fucked things up ah widnae be in this mess. Where’s ma fucking money?’
‘What money?’ Pauline said.
Ranta sighed and stepped towards Masterson. ‘Seeing as we go back a long way, Findlay, ah’m gonnae do ye a favour and have Frank here drive ye home. And ah told ye–you’ll get yer money back, right? But if ah wis you ah’d be very careful about what ah said in future.’
‘Fuck off. Do ye think ah’m scared o’–’
The Beast’s massive hand fell on Masterson’s shoulder.
‘Come on, pal,’ he said, ‘ye can sleep it aff in the car…’
‘See you later, Findlay,’ Ranta said. He turned and jogged up the path, fighting his way back into the crowd, towards where wild cheering was indicating that something important had just happened.
57
LINKLATER STRODE ON AHEAD TO THE NEXT TEE, HEAD down, ignoring the outstretched hands of the fans behind the ropes, furious that his birdie putt had lipped out. Snakes followed him, then, bringing up the rear, Gary and Stevie. While Gary was not unhappy with his performance on the last green–his uphill ten-footer for birdie had rattled straight into the middle of the cup, taking him to a four-stroke lead–he too, and for very different reasons, was trying to ignore the smiles, shouts and stares of the fans.
He had a large strip of silver tape plastered across his mouth.
Stevie had used a golf tee to punch four small holes along the middle of the strip of tape, where his lips met, so Gary could breath through his mouth, but he could make no sound beyond muffled ‘mmmgghhs’ and ‘unhhhhs’.
‘Well,’ Daventry said, ‘I’ve seen it all now.’
‘Mmmmfff,’ Gary grunted as they walked onto the next tee–straight into Dawkins and Morton. Dawkins had his hands on his hips and was shaking his head slowly from side to side. He looked very angry. Morton was thumbing frantically through a copy of The Rules of Golf. ‘He can’t play like that!’ Dawkins said.
‘Why not?’ Stevie said.
‘Because…’ Dawkins turned to Morton.
‘It’s…’ Morton said.
‘Mnnngggh,’ Gary said.
‘It’s a bit of tape,’ Stevie said. ‘And there’s absolutely nothing in that book that says anything about not being allowed to have a bit of tape over your face.’
‘Ah!’ Morton said, stopping triumphantly at a page. ‘It constitutes a distraction to other players.’
‘Does it fuck,’ Stevie said reasonably.
‘Piss off!’ came a shout from the crowd.
‘Leave him alone!’ came another.
‘Mr Linklater,’ Dawkins said, turning away, ignoring the voices as Linklater walked over from the other side of the tee, ‘if you deem…this–’ he pronounced the word with maximum distaste as he gestured to Gary–‘distracting…’
Linklater looked at Gary, at the fat strip of tape, at his lowered, shameful eyes, the eyes of Ben after he had expansively urinated on the living-room carpet. A long moment of silence then Linklater started to grin. ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘long as you’re not shouting at me, you wear what you like.’ The crowd around the tee box burst into applause and cheering.
‘B-but…surely…’ Dawkins said.
‘Come on, let’s play some golf,’ Linklater said, gesturing towards the tee box. ‘Your honour.’
‘Mnngghh. Uhnnnn,’ Gary said.
‘He says thank you,’ Stevie said as he passed Gary the driver.
Pauline rejoined the huddle just in time to see Gary hit a perfect drive. ‘Wha…what’s that on his face?’ she asked beneath the roar of approval that followed the shot.
‘Stevie did it, it’s tae help wi his…Turret’s syndrome,’ Cat
hy said.
‘Christ,’ Pauline said, ‘he looks ridiculous.’
Lee turned round in front of them and Pauline smiled at him. Lee did not smile back. As soon he’d seen her arguing with that guy with the massive tache, he’d figured it all out.
The tache guy was that carpet guy whose adverts were on the telly.
The same guy from the family photo in the bathroom the other night.
Pauline–the fucking dirty hoor.
A little way off in the crowd, Ranta’s hands were beginning to shake. He had to fight hard to keep from visualising his winnings. Cannae be doing that yet. Fucking jinx it.
His mobile began to vibrate in his pocket. Jesus fuck–whit now? He slipped it out and looked at the screen–‘FINDLAY HOME’. Christ, Frank must have got the foot down if he was home already. Probably starting to sober up, calling to apologise. Ranta thumbed the button. ‘Aye?’ he said gruffly.
‘Mr Campbell?’ a woman’s voice said. ‘Mr Ranta Campbell?’
‘Er, aye. Who’s this?’
‘It’s Leanne Masterson.’
Ranta moved away from the ropes, deeper into the crowd, his eyebrows going up as he listened, pressing the phone harder against his ear.
At the thirteenth, a par four of just over 465 yards, the match turned into the wind as the run of homeward-bound holes began. Both players had smashed their drives into the middle of the undulating fairway and still found themselves facing 200-yard approach shots, with Linklater’s ball slightly behind Gary’s.
Linklater rubbed his chin. The pin was on the back of an elevated green, a club more than usual in normal circumstances. With this wind getting up? Two clubs? Maybe more.
