by Tony Black
‘I–I just have to go.’
‘And when we were becoming such good friends as well.’
‘The best of friends.’
He looked back at me, I caught the blue of his eyes as they shot into me.
‘Look… I’ll be back soon. Real soon. It’s just… well, I guess you could say I’ve a spot of bother to see to.’
‘Can I help?’
I nearly laughed out loud, the look of him.
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I can manage.’
I was out of words. We both were. I felt like I’d let the old boy down, abandoned him to grim fate.
‘Milo, if there’s any trouble from that prick Stalin, I want you to call me, you hear?’ I scribbled down my mobile number on the back of the 7-Eleven receipt and tucked it under a glass at his bedside. ‘You hear me, call — anything at all.’
He stared at the wall. There was nothing more to say. I felt there should be a handshake or, God forbid, a hug. But I just left him alone with his fears, as I carried off my guilt. I deserted him. Had I no spine?
I trudged back to the room and picked up my things, there wasn’t much, it amounted to one bag, my denim jacket and a near empty bottle of Johnnie Walker. I had tabs and matches somewhere too, but bollocks to looking for them.
A sheet of horizontal rain hit me as I opened the door, the insidious Edinburgh type that chases you through the closes, makes you feel like you’ve got a personal rain cloud following. The brewery, in full swing, pumped out an overpowering stench. Mixed with grey skies and I understood why the streets looked so empty — save for one big biffer, stooped over with something behind his back.
‘Dury?’ he said.
He looked a useful pug, the sight of him put me on Defcom-Five.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘What?’
‘Look, fat boy — I only went with your mother ’cos she’s dirty.’ The old Happy Monday’s lyric, first radge thing to come into my head as I squared my shoulders and put the bead on him. ‘And I haven’t got a decent bone in me, so come on and kill me!’
He reached behind him, I grabbed his arm. Swear I sensed a sawn-off, Stanley knife at the least.
‘Try it!’ I said.
‘Jesus! Help! Help! I’m being attacked,’ he roared.
I pulled his arm forward. There was no shooter, just a large red post sack.
‘You’re the postie!’
‘Who did you think I was?’ he bleated, breath heavy.
‘You’re the bloody postie!’ I felt a flood of relief. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I thought-’
‘I don’t care what you thought. I’m only trying to do my job here.’ He shoved a pile of letters at me. I looked at him, feeling my face start to heat up, said, ‘Look, I’m sorry, really… I didn’t mean to-’
He pushed past me, bolted up the drive to Fallingdoon House. He fairly moved, a real ‘Run Forrest, run,’ scene.
At the door he shouted, ‘You’re crazy, do you know that?’ His mail bag swung from side to side, nearly toppling him as he delved for a few stray envelopes that floated out. ‘People like you need locking up!’
I couldn’t fault him there.
‘Sorry again. It’s the lack of uniform! Posties used to wear uniforms.’ I couldn’t keep up with the pace of change. Time was when I knew my postie by name. ‘When did you guys do away with the uniform?’
‘Piss off!’ he snapped.
I took the hint. Jesus, what kind of a life was I living?
I put my collar up as I walked into the rain. Would have liked to spark up but had left my smokes behind.
I looked over my shoulder as I hurried along the London Road. Kids on their way to school eyed me cautiously. They wore blazers and carried satchels — one tradition that hadn’t died out in Edinburgh. To a one the kids looked dour. Put me in mind of myself at their age. I remembered how early we’re all taught to be miserable. How we strangle the idea that life can be anything other than spiritless routine.
On this road I’d be at the Holy Wall for opening. The idea of a morning heart-starter jumped at me, but, I couldn’t see it going down too well with Col. I pulled myself into a shop doorway and fired down some scoosh. I felt like street trash, a jakey, but I badly needed a hit.
I’d barely put the bottle away when a face appeared in the doorway.
‘You coming in?’ said an old woman turning over an ‘open’ sign. I looked above the door, I stood outside a greasy-spoon cafe.
‘Eh… aye, all right then.’
Inside I shook off the rain, said, ‘We’ll pay for that summer yet!’ I tell you, the Scots have a stock gambit for every occasion.
‘Oh, I know, love — isn’t it dreadful?’ She seemed a nice old dear, salt of the earth, with the tabard to prove it. ‘It’s been like this for days as well, I don’t know when I’m going to get a load of washing oot.’
I smiled, said, ‘Och, maybe you’ll have a lottery win and nip off to the Bahamas.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ She laughed. ‘What can I get you, love?’
‘Coffee, black, please.’
‘Something to eat?’
‘No thanks.’
‘You sure, son? You look like you could do with a square meal. I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil.’
‘Eh, no. Coffee’s fine.’
She gave me a disapproving look, nothing nasty, motherly. It seared through me, reminded me I had some bridges to build in that territory.
The coffee arrived quickly and nearly took my breath away. Strong and hot, how I liked it, but I wanted something a bit more heavy duty. Under the table I took out the scoosh bottle, tipped a good measure in the cap, then poured it in my cup.
Bliss.
‘Great coffee,’ I called out to the waitress.
She smiled as she shuffled off for the back door, the Club king-size in her mouth turned like a rotor blade as she spoke: ‘I do a good roll on sliced sausage as well, son, if ye fancy it.’
‘Eh, no. Coffee’s grand for now, thanks.’
‘Don’t know what you’re missing!’
‘Another day, perhaps.’
I spread out my mail on the table. Felt another pang of, was it guilt? Embarrassment? Probably both. But they soon gave way to the image of the postie yawing up that path, in full flight, with all the grace of a rickety whirligig. ‘He’ll get over it,’ I thought. And sure, now he had a ripper of a story to tell the boys back at the depot.
The mail looked to be all the usual stuff addressed to no one: bank pushing loans; charity cash tap with bribe of a free pen; the latest offer from Branson’s Virgin empire. And one formal-looking envelope addressed to me, Col’s careful handwriting replacing the Wall’s crossed-out address. I tore into it. The thick white paper inside felt expensive on my fingertips.
Dear Gus Dury
Bad start, preferred the old style. What’s wrong with Dear Gus or Dear Mr Dury? These days, I tell you, we want to redesign the whole world from scratch, turn the lot into something trendy. I read on. One line stuck out:
Our client, Ms Deborah Ross seeks — following the recent completion of a trial separation — to instigate formal divorce proceedings.
So, she’d gone back to her old name already.
‘She’s not messing about,’ I thought, as I scrunched the letter into a ball. My fist trembled as I threw it down. My knuckles turned white against the black of the plastic table top.
14
I left a couple of quid by the cup and slid out the door. My self-esteem slid out beneath me. I felt lower than a snake’s belly.
The Arc building hurt my eyes, reminded me how much Edinburgh had changed. If the city had sleepwalked through the planners’ chrome and glass nightmare, this was the wake-up call. Some architect’s Lego-brick piss-take. Painted turquoise.
A line of bills was fly-posted all the way to the foot of the Mile. Some drag act, I thought. Fifty casual glances later I pieced together that it was a Bowie tribute act,
called Larry Stardust.
‘Fuck me drunk!’ I said. The Thin White Duke deserved more respect.
I wandered nowhere in particular. Just trying to clear my thoughts, but it proved difficult. I had too much going on, never a good state of affairs for a drinker.
For a long time I’d been living by Einstein’s dictum: ‘I never think about the future, it comes soon enough.’ But here I was, being forced to do just that. The answers Col wanted wouldn’t just turn up on their own. And neither would Debs’ quickie divorce.
I walked on and on.
Tartan shops blasted teuchter music at every turn. I thought I’d grown immune to it until a Sikh, in a tartan turban, stopped me mid-stride.
‘Would you like to try one, sir?’ His accent was broader than mine, a grin wider than Jack Nicholson’s Joker.
‘Excuse me?’
‘A wee nip?’ he said.
I liked this guy a whole lot.
‘Would I ever.’
A cheap blend, but what did I expect — Dalwhinnie?
‘How is it?’ he said.
‘Hits the spot.’
‘Glad you enjoyed it. Have a nice day, sir.’
I pressed out a smile, a thank you paired with a nod. ‘Have a nice day.’ I wondered when we all became so American? If you’d told me a few years ago I’d be served free scoosh in the street by a Sikh in a tartan turban I’d have been waiting for the punch line. Welcome to the new Scotland.
The nip lifted my mood, restarted the alcohol units I already carried, when my mobi rang. I developed a fit of the shakes and the phone slid from my hands onto the cobbles of the Royal Mile.
‘Oh shit.’
I reached down and picked it up, but I was too late, it had gone to voicemail. The caller ID failed to recognise the number. For a moment I stared at the screen, then a superwoofer blasted out the ‘Skye Boat Song’, and I got moving.
I put the phone back in my pocket. Right away, it began to ring again.
‘Bloody hell.’
This time, I managed to keep hold of it, shouted, ‘Hello!’
‘Gus?’
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
A voice, barely a whisper, said, ‘Gus, it’s Mac.’
‘Mac? Where are you ringing from?’
‘Just about the waist down, son!’ He raised his tone, ‘But that’s not pissing myself laughing, let me tell you!’
‘What’s up?’
‘Your half-arsed attempt at playing Columbo.’
He sounded rattled. ‘Isn’t he dead?’ I said.
‘Aye, and you’re not far behind him!’
‘What? Mac, look, where are you?’
‘I’m in a bloody call box. Do you know how long it is since I’ve said that? Took a bloody age for me to find this bastard. Where are you? We need to talk right a-fucking-way!’
‘Have you got some information for me?’
‘What did I say to you the last time we met? What did I say?’
He sounded highly rattled now.
For the first time I thought to weigh Mac’s advice, but my need to find Billy’s killer overrode any thoughts of danger to myself. Hell, what did I have to get up for anyway? Could maybe solve more than one problem at a time this way. ‘Steer clear — those were the words you used, I think.’
‘I wish you’d bloody well listened!’
‘Look, Mac, what is this?’
‘What is this? This is me, as your friend, putting my knackers on the block for you again!’
I got a definite bad vibe about this, said, ‘You want to explain?’
‘Well, no, not really. I’d sooner you’d listened the first time. I’d sooner I wasn’t the one being hoicked out my bed in the wee hours by knuckle-breakers telling me to give you a message.’
‘Oh.’
‘Is that it? Oh. Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘Mac, did they… hurt you in any way?’
‘No. But they gave me a pretty bloody graphic description of what they’re capable of in that department.’
‘Stay put. I’ll come over.’
‘No! Will you fuck! I’ll tell you what to do, now, listen up…’
15
It was the first game of the season, don’t ask me which season. My old man’s playing days of the seventies and eighties are a time I’ve tried to wipe from my mind. I say tried. If only I could.
There are some moments I’ll never forget.
I’m about six when he comes in with a good bucket in him. I’m watching The Six-Million Dollar Man on telly. Steve Austin has just thrown some gadgie into a brick wall. I’m gripped by the slow-mo action but hit light speed when the mighty Cannis Dury announces himself — don’t want to give him any ideas.
‘Three fuckin’ goals!’ he says.
My mother smiles, rushes out of her seat. I know she’s no idea what he’s talking about, we both spent the afternoon at the park.
‘Well, done!’ she says placing a little kiss on his cheek, rubbing her hand on his back.
‘ Well done?’ The smell of whisky fills the room with the rise of his voice. ‘Is that it? Well- fucking — done? I put three goals past the league champions and I get this kinda shite from you. Look at you! Have you been sitting there all day in your baffies while I’m out running my arse into the ground?’
She shrinks back from him, but it’s too late. The back of his hand knocks her over the coffee table. Her head lands in the fireplace, knocking out the bulbs behind the plastic coals.
‘Get up!’ he roars. He’s taking off his jacket, rolling up his shirt sleeves. ‘Get up you lazy bitch.’
I’m frozen still. I shut my eyes. Will he still see me if I do this?
‘Get up!’ There’s anger pouring from him. His eyes are bulging, burning red, the same colour as my mother’s blood on the white shag pile.
She struggles to her feet. I can see her trying to walk, but her steps are unsteady and she collapses on the couch.
‘Up, up you useless bitch!’ he shouts.
Flecks of spittle are pouring from him, they lash my face. I close my eyes again but I can still hear him yelling, roaring. The smell of whisky makes me feel sick. I’m trying not to move, but I know he’s seen me.
‘What are you looking at?’ he says.
My heart quickens. In a second I’m running. I’m fast, round him and out the door in a flash. I feel the swish of his hand tracing my path, but he’s missed me.
‘Get back here, you wee bastard.’
‘Cannis, no! Leave the laddie,’ says my mother.
‘Shut it!’
There’s another sound — a hard fist connecting with my mother’s face. Then the noise of her collapsing on the floor.
I run to my room and bury my head under the pillows on my bed. But I can still hear the yells.
‘Three goals,’ he’s saying. ‘Three goals… Three goals…’
I’m praying the Scotland call-up will come soon.
Tony Black
Paying For It
I MET MAC at the ‘Big Foot’, the Paolozzi sculpture on Leith Street.
‘You hungry?’ he said.
‘Could eat a horse — and chase the rider!’
‘Aye, well, keep that thought. You might not have such an appetite once you hear what I’ve got to tell you.’
We headed through Picardy Place, past the Sherlock Holmes statue, to the Walk. This part of the city is its schizoid heart. Where the New Town’s rugby shirts and tweed caps give way to scores of tin-pot hard men and Staffies. I spotted three neds with fighting dogs in under a minute. Like the animal makes up for the undernourished frame, the coat-hanger shoulders, the general one-punch demeanour. Still, a merciful lack of shop fronts pushing shortbread and tartan down this way.
As we walked, Mac kept shtum. His front teeth nibbled on his lower lip.
‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’
‘After.’
‘After what?’
‘After.’
I saw Mac the Knife was on edge. I knew the signs. The Weejie stride was in place, chest out, in a dead heat with the spacehopper guttage.
What worried me, though, was the way he kept looking from side to side, and occasionally, over his shoulder. It wasn’t fear. Not with Mac. This guy was a Bonnie Fechtir, take on all comers. It looked like serious caution, the act of an ex-crim who didn’t want to go straight back inside.
Mac picked out a greasy spoon with an old barber’s pole outside. Minimal attention to decor, less yet to the cleaning, I felt my Docs sliding on the oily linoleum. I was all for budget dining, but this place screamed ‘salmonella to go’.
‘Mac, are you sure about this joint?’
‘What?’
‘It’s a bit rough, is it not?’
His lip curled, downward. ‘Maybe you’d prefer the Shandwick.’
I pulled out an orange vinyl chair, tipped the covering of crumbs onto the floor.
‘Aye, sit doon,’ said Mac.
‘What is this?’
‘Eat!’
The waitress came, a hard-faced fifty-something. Running to retirement and dour as heartache. A phiz of ruined features, the rewards of a lifetime spent struggling for nothing.
I ordered up two eggs on toast. Smothered them in brown sauce and vinegar. Washed the lot down with coffee. In here I felt no shame filling the cup with the last of my scoosh.
‘You still hitting that?’ said Mac.
‘Lecture time?’
‘Stuff’ll be the end of you!’
I drank deep. ‘Trouble with the rest of the world is they’re two drinks behind!’
‘Bogart.’
‘Bang on.’ Felt he’d thawed, said, ‘Have you something to say to me, Mac?’
He sat back in his chair. Leaned forward. Sat back again.
I prompted: ‘ Mac?’
‘Okay. Okay…’ He reached below the table, took something from his belt. ‘I want you to have this.’
I felt something touch my knee. Looked down to see a shooter, Browning 9mm, the type Canoe Reeves packed in The Matrix. Until now, that was the closest I’d come to one. ‘Fuck that!’
