Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1)

by Lee Cooper

  Getting sick of the situation, I would sneak out of the house on occasion, nipping round to the pub for a couple pints, some welcome company and conversation with the locals.

  That morning was the end of my three-month probationary period at work, which would see me fully employed with all the usual working benefits, thirty day’s holiday and a fifty-pence pay rise.

  The job was shit, full stop.

  I worked at an industrial wholesaler in Inverurie, stationed in the dispatch section. Monitoring the stock and compiling the data onto the computer-system and taking orders from a Neanderthal of a boss. Once started, they placed me on some courses, fork-lift, manual handling and a pish safety course. It was difficult adjusting from months of unemployment into a Monday to Friday lifestyle. 6.30am-3.30pm. The two grand of blood money I earned from the Skinner fight was put back into the house, but only after a few days of argument with the wife. More educated, and from a better family than me, she had a strict attitude when it came to breaking the law. She seen the money as dirty laundry and didn’t want any ties to it. It took a bit of convincing, but she came round. The debt on the mortgage was paid off and we were now living comfortably again. One thing I couldn’t stand about my job, was taking orders and being made to feel like a school-pupil, especially from the boss who was a complete fud. He treated his job as if he was the President of the United States. He didn’t realise there was more to life than loading trucks and keeping stock. Many days I had to bite my lip and keep my fist in my pocket as he spoke to me like a dim-witted child. I longed for the weekend as soon as the alarm went off on Monday morning.

  I hadn’t seen my pal Tim since dropping me off that day. I missed the cunt. Didn’t have any real friends in Inverurie. Sure, I had neighbours, work-colleagues and people I talked to in the pub, but I could never have conversations with them as I would with Tim. I could speak my mind with him, and we roamed in the same circles since young, tearaway teenagers.

  Texted him from time to time to see what he was up to, or what illegal activity he’d been mixed up in. May couldn’t know of that, banning me from speaking to him, or seeing him. It was hard to take. In May’s eyes it was him, or her. It annoyed me, as I’d just gotten to know the guy again.

  I kept some stories to myself regarding the underbelly of unlicensed boxing. To her, it was obvious Tim was the start and end of it, and in many ways, she was right, he was. But, I never held a grudge on the guy. There wasn't room for a new grudge in my troubled mind. Why waste your effort holding a grudge, unless the grudge had history, like the one I held?

  May and me scraped as much cash as we could manage, for the kids at Christmas.

  I tried my best with her over the festive period, finding out I wasn’t the only person in this house carrying a stubborn streak. Her parents visited for Christmas, bringing lots of welcomed presents for the kids.

  When Jack and Margaret visited, May’s attitude to me changed for the better and it felt as if things were looking up for our relationship, but no, she put on the show for them.

  Her parents were up their own arses. Her stuck-up mum Margaret never liked me, she couldn’t accept her prized daughter married a man like me, or should I say, a man from a family like mine. Fucking cow, looked down her nose, not letting go of that ‘Better than you’ streak to have a decent, human conversation. The only time she would, after a few gin and tonics, the guard would drop and the ‘Lonely at home housewife’ would pour out of the bottle. Seeking the attention from younger men, flirting and becoming very touchy-feely, looking for them to make her feel a young woman again, and willingly, she would let them.

  At the age of fifty-two, Margaret Wood still had her looks. It helped that she wore the best clobber, expensive jewellery and a face-full of lippy and slap, standard cougar get-up. Felt she was upper-class, coming from an above-average rich family and her husband Jack being an over-paid offshore driller. A stereotypical gold-digging housewife, but earned her crust putting up with an arrogant English arse-hole.

  Tolerating Jack did have its benefits for Margaret. Plenty of peace and quiet to get the local handyman round a couple of days a week, and unlimited use of his credit card, plus the luxury of driving around Stonehaven in his brand new Range Rover Sport.

  Jack Wood was a chunky, broad, average height man in his late fifties, already gearing up for retirement. Rich and gullible to his wife’s carry-ons, while he was ‘Freezing his ass off in the North Sea’ as he put it. He was an easy-spending, happy chap that would happily write a big cheque to help us out, but would hold it against me forever, with sly remarks and ‘witty’ comments.

  He was a simple guy at home. Bought a paper in the morning, walked the dog and jugged a few cans of lager a couple of nights a week. Loved a bit of illegal hunting on estate properties with his shotgun, giving the old guy a sense of feeling young again. A spot of fly-fishing on a Saturday morning wasn’t out the question, either.

  I didn’t mind Jack in small doses, but patience would wear thin with him. I could sink a few beers in his company no problem, until he would boast about working offshore and the big coins he earns.

  All the time I’d known Jack, he had never offered help in any way. Until that boozy Christmas night sitting at the kitchen table, sharing too many beers he offered his hand. “You ever thought about offshore?” Sure I’d thought of it, many times but I hadn’t the money to sort it out, and he knew that.

  “Aye, all the time Jack, but I don’t have the cash or experience to go anywhere.” It was never supposed to sound like a cry for help, but unfortunately it came across like that, making me sound pathetically helpless. Leaning in closer to me by sliding his forearms across the table, he offered his help.

  “Well, I can help if you want it?” Cheeky cunt, basically making me ask for his help, he was. What was he going to do? Write me a cheque, get me a job or make me grovel? The idea of letting him help me and owing him, wasn’t thrilling me. “I could call the office set up an interview for you as a roustabout or roughneck, put you through all the necessary courses to get you on the chopper.”

  OK, this sounds like not a bad situation at all, but I couldn’t get under his grip. I would hear about this for the rest of my days. Sure, I’d be better off and financially sound, but was it worth it? Taking his constant remarks about how he helped out his down-and-out son-in-law get started in the North Sea.

  In all fairness he was trying to help, but in a patronising way.

  We were both well on the way, with a mountain of empty tins sitting on the table and getting on like a house on fire, but the longer I sat at the table that night, the more I wanted to give him a slap.

  Well, it ended up I didn’t need his help. I called him up and said I’d managed to get a start at the wholesalers. It was considerably satisfying for me, but it was a kick in the stones for him, and brushing off his help made my day.

  Chapter 38

  Working Life:

  “So, Mr Marks, your probationary period has finished as from today. We are very pleased with you, perfect attendance, your clock-in times are excellent and I’m told by your manager you're good at your job and you’re getting to grips with the computer-system. We would like to offer you the job on a permanent basis.” Said by the double-chinned specky wholesaler manager Mr Mackenzie, as he leaned back on his leather office-chair, interlocking his fingers, all superior. Seeming to be the most vital man in the company, he was just a puffed-up nonce, oblivious to the only reason I had to work here: to feed my family, and keep a roof over their heads.

  “Thanks, Mr Mackenzie.” I paused, thinking of my long-term future: I could be stuck here forever. “I would be delighted to have the job, thank you.”

  I wasn’t delighted, far from it. Having no interest in getting out my bed when the alarm went off, or walking in and out of here every mundane weekday.

  Thinking of quitting entered my head on a regular basis, this wasn’t the place for me. Being somebody’s mug, somebody to be barked orders at by ar
se-holes. That was the treatment I got at the Mill, and look how that ended up.

  “Good, Joe, that’s good. As from now, your pay will creep up a little and you are allocated twenty-eight day’s holiday for the year, plus the usual bank holidays: Christmas, Boxing Day and New Year. After all, none of us like to work those days, do we?” Glancing up from reading paperwork on his desk, looking over his oval glasses, his double-chin desperate to fold over his buttoned-up office shirt. With his daily sweat patches and skin the colour of over-used chip fat, he was an undesirable man, to say the least. After a little more chit-chat about the benefits of being employed here, I was bored with him.

  “You can go back to work now, Joe. Thanks for your time.”

  Back to work, I tottered back into the dispatch position, longing for the day to end. It was Friday though, a couple of days-off coming up. A couple of days of noisy kids and a mood-swinging wife.

  There wasn’t much I could do right by her any more. There was a constant atmosphere, and it continued to piss me off, my patience and temper about to unravel at times. I did my own thing at home, cracked open a few tins, sat with my feet-up holding my new Sky remote, recently installed. That at least kept me entertained at home.

  My head was pounding that day, I had no interest in being at work. There was a big order to complete and a truck to load before I could switch off for the weekend. Mr Mackenzie decided he was donning the work-gear for the afternoon and joined the rest of the staff, barking unnecessary orders out, making my headache worse. I ached for that feeling of freedom for the weekend.

  Once home, I slipped my trainers off at the door, and sank into the comfort of the sofa.

  I couldn't be arsed with the family coming home frying my head, and decided to go for a pint.

  Taking my phone out my pocket, searching for the contact, Brian. I had told May that Brian was a fellow work-mate. It was Tim. I wondered what he was up to. Keeping in touch by sending Whatsapp messages to each other, May saw his name pop up on the screen from time to time, so best she thought it was somebody else. It would only cause more arguing, knowing I was still in touch with him.

  “Alright, mate. How’s it going?”

  “Not bad, Joe. What’s the crack?”

  “Nae much. What you up to?” Hoping he had a thirst for pints and a good catch up, I missed the scruffy cunt.

  “Fuck all, not long woke up, late night.”

  “How about telling me about it over a few pints.”

  “Aye, why not? Where you thinking?”

  “Fountain?” I didn’t quite know why that sprung out as we both stayed in different towns, but we had to meet somewhere. I hadn’t been in there since I was on my ten week bender after Mom died, so many years ago.

  “Sounds dangerous. I’m up for it, I’ll grab a shower and meet you there. You bussing it?”

  “Aye, afraid so. I better jump in the shower before May gets home. Meet you there, ‘en?”

  Chapter 39

  Paranoia:

  The Fountain was a proper man's establishment. Dull, with no natural light flooding in, full of good crack and boisterous punters. Owned by Margaret Williamson, the landlady. She ran the pub for the past eight years, and made you feel like part of the furniture.

  Her hard-work and attitude made the place what it was. We all respected her. Losing her husband five years ago to throat cancer, the bar became her whole life.

  In her fifties, her face showed her hard life. But, she always dressed her best, taking pride in her appearance and had that sarcastic Aberdonian humour which entertained the locals.

  The main bar never changed over the years, with vintage, eighties décor. Paneled wooden walls, scattered with framed paintings of alcohol and newspaper cuttings of the great Granite City and AFC, Aberdeen Football Club.

  The wall just inside the entrance displayed photos of locals from the surrounding areas of Woodside and Tilly. The same people packed the bar that night.

  “Another pint, Tim?” We were situated around the near side of the u-shaped bar that dominated the room, close to the pool table. The jukebox blaring classic rock, pub filled with workers desperate not to go home, still in their scruffy working clothes. Tim was playing a cagey game of pool with Micky MacDonald.

  “Make mine a dram.” Tim was a whisky man, loved an expensive, peaty malt and loved it even more when he didn’t have to pay for it.

  Pennies were prisoners with Tim. I’m sure he had one of those safes hidden under the carpet, carved into the floorboards of his house, somewhere. Locked up with a number of safety features to stop anyone like him breaking in.

  “Micky, you for one?” I shouted, him in mid-shot as he stared down his stick, his chin sliding back and forth, lining it up like a pro, causing him to miss the crucial black, playing for a dram.

  Banging the tip of the cue over the table, he returned my shout with a lingering look of disgust. I struggled to contain my laughter.

  “Fuck me. Joe, you prick!” Micky MacDonald, a leery character, oozed jail-time. In and out like a yo-yo over the years.

  He had a nervous twitch and slabs of paranoia. Always skittish, and on edge. Ready to erupt in argument with anyone who offered a serious confrontation, which was a common trait in an Aberdonian. His shifty demeanour came from years of watching his back in the nick and care-homes, where you had to sleep with your eyes open

  That afternoon was the first time I had met him, and we grew to know each other really well over the next few months, under circumstances I couldn’t predict.

  “Sorry, Micky. I’ll get you a drammy for that.” Holding my hand in the air in a gesture of apology.

  “Fuckin’ right you will, cheeky bastard.” Tim finished off the game with an easy pot on the black, snickering away at Micky, who was taking an adult hissy-fit, turning himself around in mini-circles, poking his head in and out, cursing “Fuckin’ wankers! You cunts!”

  “Aye, well-played anyway, Micky. We'll have a rematch later.” Tim stuck his hand out, but Micky brushed it aside comically and headed to the toilet.

  Micky was a wee nimble guy at five foot five, but exuberant, full of life and high as a kite most days. His runty frame and sloppy clothes made him look quite harmless, but soon as I spent ten minutes in his company, I saw something chilling about him.

  His ‘Desperate Dan’ chin and beady eyes told me he was the sort that could tear you apart just by dragging his fingernails across your cheeks, if he had to. The kind that would take a chunk out of your ear, if he felt it necessary.

  You knew exactly where you stood with Micky. Most would give him a wide berth, but I took to him straight away. We had a mutual respect for one another. Cut from the same cloth, Tim as well, we all were.

  Tim and Micky were like Burke and Hare, with their sticky-fingered midnight runs. Their activity was never talked about in public, keeping their criminal operation working at full capacity, without unwelcome heat from the filth, or busy-bodies.

  Not sure how much the locals knew or rumoured about their antics, but they were respected, left alone by the youth of the pub, and were well-liked by the older clientele.

  That night, the young team started to overrun the back of the pub, but kept their distance. They got rowdier as every hour passed, feeding the jukebox, more often than not heavy rock, or punk music. The pub had a hard-core image, sometimes you had to yell from your gut to get a conversation going.

  Getting close to 10 o’clock, I realised there were seven missed calls from May. We were all pretty drunk. Tim getting irritated with the racket spewing from the youths, hovering at the rear of the pub.

  Micky was a breath away from dishing out a hiding to a random guy who constantly thrashed everyone at pool. Billy, a suave asshole, dressed in light, cream-coloured chinos and a tight-fit shirt, showing off his athletic upper-body. Light-brown skin with a bald head, he thought he was the boy.

  Moved around like butter wouldn’t melt, swinging his cue round his fingers in a kind of karate style. A b
right, gold chain gleaming on his chest, and swaggering around with his pointy brown shoes, well out of place in this joint.

  He would be more suited to the west end of Aberdeen, with the stuck-up oil-tycoons. This was a working man’s joint. Only here to win drinks, and the odd game for money.

  Taking advantage of his natural gift with a stick, thinking he was The Fountain’s version of Paul Newman. He’d been on the table for the past two hours, beating Micky five times. The handshake after each game came unwelcomed, like the smirk from the outsider. He had no class about winning, cocky as fuck, and to my knowledge, no one knew him in here.

  “Fucking prick, this cunt.” Micky uttered to me, sitting a couple of metres away from the table.

  Minced on a cocktail of cocaine and vodka, every passing minute sent him closer to the edge. Paranoid after snorting a gram of coke, his beady eyes blatantly burning a hole into the outsider, arms crossed and fists tight, the inevitable coming

  The poor bastard didn’t have a clue what the inevitable would be. Micky’s fifty wing was on the table, he waited with patience.

  Racking up the next game, one ball at a time, softly placed into the triangle, half-open bloodshot eyes lazily stared across the table. Engrossed on his phone, Billy blatantly ignored Micky.

  He ambled over, sniffing the leftover mixture of coke and bogeys running from his reddened nose, perching a coin under his thumbnail. I think he knew exactly how much pain he was prepared to inflict on this poor bastard that night. Guess he'd had enough by this point, coke and the relentless supply of vodka controlled his actions. It was inevitable he was approaching the breach stage.

  “Heads or tails, brother?” Asking quite politely. Billy, the stupid cunt, ignored Micky and kept texting on his phone. Me and Tim watched, both quite content to see this big-headed twat get a slap.

  “He’s going to do him here, just watch.” Tim slurred.

  “What the fuck is he away to do?” We knew there was a plan ticking over in Micky’s head, he hadn’t spoken for the last half-hour, downing nips, glued to his bar-stool, glaring in Billy’s direction, itching to pull the cue from his hand and wrap it around his neck.