Daisy on the Outer Line

by Ross Sayers

  ‘Ah’ll tell ye whaur ye can dip yer toe.’

  Lydia laughs and jolts hersel back intae life. She shuffles over a chair, tae the next table, whaur the till ladies huv appeared and urr bitchin aboot Manager Michael. Ah used tae huv a hing fur Manager Michael, as it happens, but then he got divorced and suddenly he wisnae so interestin anymair. Assistant Manager Jennifer, however, hus become a lot mair intriguing in the last few months since she got engaged.

  ‘Shots!’ Sam says, slammin his hawn doon on the table then standin up. ‘Come on ye borin fucks, it’s the Christmas night oot and naebdy’s made an absolute erse ae themsels yet, which is, quite frankly, fuckin embarrassin. We’re Boots, fur fuck sake, no Argos.’

  Me and Frances sit in silence. Naebdy’s in the mood fur shots. Well, ah um but ah’m supposed tae be the yin that suggests shots. Ah’m the yin that makes the night memorable. If ah don’t huv that, whit wid they need me fur?

  They don’t.

  Sam sits back doon.

  ‘Borin fucks, man,’ he says, crossin his arms.

  ‘Sam,’ Frances says. ‘Why don’t ye tell Daisy aboot the traffic warden?’

  He looks disinterested and distracted.

  ‘Eh, aye,’ he says. ‘A few weeks back, ah got a parkin ticket while ah wis at work and the warden drew a smiley face in the frost next tae the ticket tae wind me up. It’s really no an excitin story, Frances.’

  Frances shrugs.

  ‘Ah thought it wis funny. Daisy, he wis proper ragin when it happened, it was so funny. Ah hink you were aff that day.’

  Ah nod. Ah hate when a classic moment happens when ah’m no there. That’s why ah dae ma best tae be aroond whenever possible.

  ‘Right, well, how’d the funeral go, Daisy?’ Sam says. ‘Since naebdy else seems tae want tae mention it.’

  ‘Ah wanted tae ask,’ Frances says. ‘But ah’m no gid at that kinda hing.’

  She pits her hawn on my hawn. Her fing’rs urr so pale ae can jist aboot see through them tae the table. Thur’s still a bit ae chipped paint under wan ae ma fing’rnails. Ah couldnae feel it til ah saw it and noo it’s aw a can feel.

  ‘Ah sort ae,’ ah begin, ‘missed it? Ah went tae the efter bit at the pub but Mum threw a fit.’

  They baith nod and play wi thur respective beermats. Ah wisnae gonnae bring up the funeral. It’s no gid Christmas night oot chat. Ah wisnae gonnae bring it up.

  ‘Daisy, ah love ye and aw that,’ Sam says. ‘But ye’re a right dick sometimes.’

  Ah look tae Frances fur an argument against this. She starts rippin up her beermat intae tiny pieces and pingin them aff the table. She looks anywhaur apart fae me.

  ‘Ah’ll take it that ye agree then,’ ah say tae her. ‘Well, fur yer information, people deal wi grief in different ways. Look it up.’

  ‘Aw aye,’ Sam says. ‘Cause you and yer stepda wur that close and ye’re really broken up inside.’

  ‘Ye know we wurnae close so why urr ye hasslin me aboot it?’

  ‘Cause ae yer poor mum, ye clown. Fuck it, so ye wurnae close wi yer stepda, fine. But Daisy, did ye no hink yer mum could’ve been daein wi some support this last week? And at the very least her daughter could’ve gone tae the funeral?’

  Fairytale of New York starts playin and soon thur’s nae point tryin tae hear each other ower the top ae merry folk singin in voices somehow mair slurred than Shane McGowan’s. It’s a sad song that makes folk happy. Ah’ve iways thought thur wis suhin nice aboot that. Shame aboot the f word that everybody seems tae love singin so much though.

  ‘So you and Steven didnae make pals before he…?’ Frances asks.

  Ah shake ma heid and make lines in the condensation on my pint glass wi ma fing’r. Ah draw two D’s. Daisy Douglas. Daredevil. Ah sook ma fing’r.

  ‘When Mum first started seein him,’ ah say. ‘We went tae dinner once or twice, the three ae us. Then he invited me tae a Partick Thistle game and ah said naw. Ah mean, sakes, whit dae ah want tae be watchin that mince fur?’

  ‘And that wis it?’

  ‘Sorry, Frances, but when a guy starts pumpin yer mum after yer da’s left yeese, it’s no really on the top ae yer list tae become best buddies wi him.’

  Frances disnae seem impressed. But her hame life is so peachy, how wid she know anyhin aboot whit ah’ve been through? She got the lot. Mum, Dad, sister, even wan ae they long-haired dugs that disnae bark and fetches the paper fur ye. They can get thigether and spend days jist bein a happy family and naebdy argues or gets on each other’s nerves or brings up that time Daisy fell doon the stairs and spewed hauf digested steak pie on the new wallpaper.

  ‘It’s no like youse wid’ve liked him either,’ ah say tae the pair ae them. ‘He was aw ‘that’s gay’, ‘that’s bent’, whenever he didnae like suhin. That’s whit he wis like.’

  ‘Let’s leave it,’ Sam says. ‘It’s done noo anyway.’

  The Pogues reach the final stretch ae the song, whaur the violins play and get louder and swirl aroond yer nut and make ye glad tae be alive. Hauf the pub sways and tries no tae fall ower.

  It’s done noo anyway.

  8

  Aw the counter women huv left tae go tae Tingle whaur the drinks urr cheaper and the men urr younger. John and Tommy fae the backshift stand in the other part ae the bar, faces lit up fae the festive light ae the puggy.

  Ah’m aboot three quarters cut when ah come back fae the loo and find Frances and Sam urnae at the table anymair. First chance they get, they slink oot and leave me on ma ain. They must still be in here somewhaur, surely.

  Ma jaiket’s still on ma seat at the table. Ah lift it and the vultures swoop. Three folk rush the table and a wife nearby steals a chair fur her pal.

  Ah bump along the crowds at the bar, lookin fur somebdy tae stand wi until ah find Frances or Sam. Ah gravitate tae a group ae girls, sporty lookin and uniformly happy and giggly.

  We’re beltin oot that Christmas tune. Ye know the wan. The wan aboot…eh…huvin a gid time and bein happy and that. Ye know the wan.

  ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’ the tall brunette yin asks.

  Ah shove it under her nose. So she can hoover up the Venom smell. So she can huv her life changed.

  ‘Try it,’ ah tell her.

  She hus a sip. Her face screws up. It’s no fur everyone ah suppose. Ah look ower at Frances and Sam again. Ah’m no sure exactly how long ah’ve been standin wi these lassies.

  ‘That’s ma pals there,’ ah tell the gurls.

  Frances and Sam sit at a small table near the windae. Ah did try tae join briefly but left again cause thur’s an atmosphere. Frances said ah should spend Christmas at ma mum’s and ah telt her tae mind her ain business. Hence the atmosphere.

  ‘Why aren’t you sitting with them?’ ma new pal asks me.

  ‘Cause ah’m standin here wi you,’ ah say. ‘How dae aw you gurls know each other?’

  ‘We play hockey at Glasgow,’ she says.

  ‘Aw lit ice skating?’

  ‘Regular hockey.’

  ‘Aw. Well, that’s still awright.’

  Ah hink aboot pullin this lassie. Somebdy’s got tae dae suhin tae liven up this Christmas night oot. Ah hink aboot pullin her close. Ah hink aboot pullin her... on the mooth. Ye’ll niver believe who Daisy pulled on the night oot. But then whit if she wanted me tae come back tae hers? Whit wid ah dae then?

  ‘Whit position urr ye?’ ah ask.

  Frances and Sam appear by ma side. They look lit ma weans that want tae go hame. Jaikets on and buttoned. But Mum’s still huvin wan ae her grown-up chats wi wan ae her grown-up pals.

  ‘That’s us headin,’ Sam says.

  Ah kiss him on the foreheid. His makeup’s mair obvious when he’s sweaty lit noo. Ah let him borrow ma foundation sometimes and in return he gets me ma lunch fae Greggs when we’re on shift thiget
her.

  ‘Let me know ye get in awright,’ ah tell him. ‘And get an Uber. Don’t be waitin in that taxi rank at Central, it’ll be chaos the night.’

  Sam turns and makes eye contact wi Frances. They’ve clearly discussed whit they wur gonnae say tae me afore they pit thur jaikets on. They’ve planned it aw oot.

  ‘Ah’m meetin ma pal at Firewater,’ Sam says. ‘But Frances…’

  ‘Ah’m goin doon tae the taxi rank,’ she says. ‘Come and chum me doon?’

  She’s wantin her bed and so that’s ma night done then. That’s no fair. Ah’m no huvin that. Cannae jist finish Christmas lit that.

  ‘Ah’m stayin,’ ah say. ‘Ah’m awright. Ah’m gonnae stay.’

  Sam sighs lit he knew whit wis comin. Frances stares at the flair.

  ‘Please, Daisy,’ Frances says. ‘Everybody’s away. Ah don’t want tae go on ma ain.’

  ‘And ah don’t want tae stay oot on my ain either,’ ah say. ‘So why don’t ye jist stay oot wi me?’

  She twists her fing’r in a buttonhole in her jaiket so tight the blood pulses at the tip.

  ‘Jist be safe,’ she says. ‘Let me know ye’re awright later.’

  Sam pits his arm aroond her and they leave. The front door opens. Freezin air and the smell ae smoke hover at the entrance lit an unwelcome guest afore disappearin.

  ‘Bye then!’ ah say. ‘Ah’ll see yeese the morra ah suppose. Ah’m openin up by the way. Ye’re welcome.’

  Folk urr lookin at me again. A drunk lassie makin a scene on the Christmas night oot, there’s wan fur the bingo cairds. Ah peel a length ae tinsel fae under the bar and wrap it roond ma shooders.

  ‘Hink they can spoil ma night,’ ah say tae naebdy.

  9

  The hockey lassies. They’ve tightened thur circle. Probably saw the drama wi Frances and Sam. Probably hink ah’m trouble. Ah squeeze back inside.

  ‘Glasgow Hockey team!’ ah announce ‘We’re daein bombs. Ah’m buyin us six Jägers and six Skittle bombs.’

  ‘Actually,’ ma pal, the tall yin says. ‘We’re calling it a night.’

  ‘Noooo,’ ah say. ‘Whit’s yer name?’

  ‘Julia,’ she says.

  ‘Listen, Jules. You girls huv got tae stay oot. This is oor Christmas night oot mind. Efter this, that’s it. Whit’s thur tae look forward tae efter this? This is whit wis keepin us aw goin. We’ll aw need tae go back tae the real world efter tonight.’

  Another hockey lassie steps in front ae me. She’s a redhead. Dyed. Bet she wishes she hud the real hing lit me.

  ‘We’ve got a game tomorrow,’ this lassie says. ‘And we don’t know you. Can you leave us alone, please?’

  East 17’s playin noo. Thur tellin me tae stay, when every other yin in here wants me tae go. Well, ah know who ah trust. Ah trust East 17. When huv they ever let me doon afore?

  ‘Stay,’ ah whisper.

  The hockey gurls quickly finish thur drinks and gather thur giant bags. A few whack me as they struggle wi them through the pub and oot the door.

  ‘Good luck the morra, girls,’ ah say. ‘Jules, you’re the star player, MVP. Can ah get yer Snapchat?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ she says.

  She extends her arm and says bye wi her middle fing’r. Me and the rest ae the pub stare. They suppress laughter.

  ‘Good yin, Jules,’ ah say as the door shuts. ‘Very clever.’

  Ma jaiket’s still at the last table Frances and Sam wur sat at. They wur meant tae keep an eye on it fur me. Ah point tae it, under the erse ae some guy. He lifts a cheek and ah slide it oot. It’s warm tae the touch.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ ah say tae the table.

  ‘Jist you get home safe, hen,’ the man who wis sittin on ma jaiket says.

  Thur’s mair room in Jacksons noo. Folk huv left fur hame or cheaper pubs or the clubs. Ah’m due another alcohol. Ah find masel at the bar.

  ‘Barkeep,’ ah proclaim. ‘Barkeep.’

  Ma phone buzzes. Message fae Frances. Ah squint at the preview. ‘daisy can u pls meet me at…’

  ‘Hullo,’ says the barman.

  He’s handsome. He throws a towel ower his shooder which is likely covered in millions ae wee germs and it ruins the sexy look he’s goin fur.

  ‘I shall have a Manhattan,’ ah say, wi a New York accent.

  ‘Naw, ye’ll no,’ he says.

  ‘Aye ah will. Ah don’t hink you know how pubs work, mate. Ah say a drink and you pour it fur me. Is this yer first shift?’

  ‘Ye’ve hud too much awready. Time tae go hame.’

  Ah look aroond the pub again. Everyone’s avoidin lookin at me. But ah bet they’ll look as soon as ma back’s turnt. Everyone’s yer pal in Glasgow until thur no.

  ‘Ah’d like tae speak tae the manager,’ ah tell the boy.

  ‘Ah um the manager.’

  ‘Fuck off, you’re fourteen.’

  He makes tae come roond the bar and get me. Ah hink aboot standin ma groond tae see whit happens. But then ah shite it and step back.

  ‘Right, fine,’ ah say. ‘Let me finish ma drink.’

  The pub jist aboot still hus an atmosphere. Folk urr still huvin a gid time. Glittery Christmas trees sit here and there. Fairy lights urr strung in not-so-easy tae reach places. It’s Christmas so folk urr oot. Even the yins that don’t usually go oot urr oot. And folk urr hinkin thoughts lit ah iways thought that John guy wis a dick but he’s actually awright. Christmas nights oot. They bring folk thigether. But then Monday comes and everyone falls apart again.

  ‘Ah wid jist like tae announce,’ ah announce loudly tae the pub. ‘That ah wish yeese aw a very merry Christmas! Tae wan and aw! And tae every prick a gid night! Haud yer loved ones close, folks. Cause soon they’ll be gone. And December’ll be January afore ye know it.’

  Ah toast ma drink, steppin forward on tae a slippery bit ae flair. Ma leg scoots oot ae control. Ma back hits the deck. The Venom splashes aw ower ma dress. Sticky greenness creeps intae the folds ae ma neck. The ceilin above me spins.

  10

  The barman helps me tae ma feet. He lets go as soon as ah’m up so he disnae get sticky himsel. Ah mumble a thanks and make ma way tae the door.

  ‘Thank god fur that,’ somebdy says.

  Laughter erupts in the pub. It’s gid when ye see somebdy gettin whit they deserve, eh? Youse shid’ve seen this lassie in Jacksons the other night. Cunted it. She really deserved it. We were aw so relieved when she left.

  Ah step ootside.

  ‘You gonnae be awright gettin hame?’ says the barman.

  He peeks fae behind the door. The booze on ma skin stings as the cauld night air sweeps across me. Ah pull up ma bra and wipe ma face dry wi ma sleeve.

  ‘Hame,’ ah say. ‘Ah don’t huv wan these days.’

  ‘Whit?’

  ‘Ah’ll be fine.’

  The door closes ower. It’s so cauld oot here that the smokers look lit thur giein serious thoughts tae quittin awthigether.

  Further doon, across the road, folk in fancy claithes gather ootside the Hilton hotel. They probably work fur wan ae they big banks. Probably huv mair money than sense. Ma mum used tae hawn me a fifty pence fur ma pocket money then go that’s you got mair money than sense noo. She’s no done that in a long time.

  Ah check ma phone. 11.25pm. Mair messages fae Frances appear. There’s polis roaming about but I can’t tell what… The preview runs oot.

  Twenty-five past eleven. Ah’m sure ah can still make the last subway if ah get on at Cowcaddens.

  Ah’m steamin though. Ye iways hear aboot drunk folk fallin on tae the tracks. That could end up bein me. God, whit if that happened. Ah tie up ma sticky hair and start joggin towards the station.

  Ah pass a barber’s and a phone shop next tae Jacksons. Ma wobbly legs run in and oot ae the bike lane and doon a sharp hi
ll. Ma shoes batter aff the groond and echo fur miles aroond. Ah’m nearly at the bottom when ah clip ma ain heel and fly forward.

  ‘Ya fucker.’

  Fortunately, ma face breaks ma fall. Ah scrape along the groond, ma knees and ma palms in agony. Ma vision’s blurred and ah shake ma heid til ah only see wan ae everyhin again.

  It looks lit thur’s somebdy in the shadows. They hide insteid ae helpin me. Ah scrape maself aff the groond and wipe the blood fae ma lips. Ah spit and brush dirt fae ma dress. Scraped hawns and knees lit a toddler.

  Haudin ma side, ah go intae the underpass. The lights urr blindin. Graffiti flashes past me as ah stumble through the artificial light. At the bottom, a strip ae blue light leads the way.

  The shutters urnae doon on the Cowcaddens station yet. The wee auld man in the booth hus his back turnt. The display shows INNER APPROACHING and ah hear the rumble ae the train far below.

  Ah’ve nae time fur a ticket so ah jump the barrier. At least, ah try tae jump the barrier, but ma leg gets caught. Ah chuck ma bag towards the escalator then launch aw ma weight ower the side. Ah land sticky side up, a bit winded.

  ‘Ho!’ a voice comes. ‘Get back here!’

  ‘Ah’ll pay at Hillhead!’ ah shout and run fur the escalator.

  Ah don’t look back tae see if he’s followin me. Ah scurry doon the movin steps and the platform comes intae view, a few flights ae stairs under the real world.

  Wi a big jump, ah land on the platform and rush fur the nearest carriage door. It’s too late, ah know that awready. The door closes in ma face. Ah bang ma open palms against the plexiglass and the folk inside the subway car avoid lookin at me. The driver shrugs and ducks back intae his wee control room.

  The roar and whirl ae the train leavin the station blows me aff balance. Ah let masel sit doon cross-legged on the thin strip ae platform separatin the inner and outer lines. A faint, far aff rumble signals the last inner circle train turnin towards St George’s Cross. The display above ma heid updates. NO FURTHER TRAINS.