8
When it came to fat cheques and the acquiring of same, I’d always been of the view that there was no time to lose. Unfortunately, I hadn’t a lot to go on, only that Billy Paris had told me he was temporarily based in a doss house situated somewhere in Dunfermline.
Working with that scrap of information, I had Grace-Mary phone Fife Council’s social work department and find me the addresses of the various homeless men’s hostels scattered about the town. After a morning spent visiting the places on the list, only one had any record of Billy. It was an establishment reserved for recovering alcoholics. He’d stayed there for a couple of nights, a week or so back, before disappearing without leaving any forwarding address. Perhaps it wasn’t unexpected that, with so many people interested in finding him, Billy would be trying his best not to be found.
I was on my way out when I was waylaid by a scruffy wee guy who looked like he’d not so much fallen off the wagon, as leapt off shouting, ‘Geronimo!’ He was supporting the frame of the door with a shoulder and pushed himself upright as I approached.
‘Got a smoke on you, pal?’ he asked, stepping into my path.
‘Sorry,’ I said, pushing past. ‘That’s the one bad habit I don’t have.’
‘You a gambling man then?’ he asked, trotting after me, shimmying alongside. I thought if I kept walking maybe he’d lose interest after a few yards and go annoy someone else. No such luck. ’Cause I bet I know why you’re here. You’re looking for the big man. That right?’
I slowed and took a sideways glance at him.
‘You’re the lawyer, eh?’ he said.
I stopped. We faced each other. His leathery features creased into a knowing leer. One eye looked at me, the other tried to find me. ‘That’s who you’ve come looking for, isn’t it? The soldier? You’re not the first.’
His breath was a biological weapon and the rest of him smelt faintly of fish. I really hoped it was fish. ‘And you’ve got a tip on where he is, have you?’ I asked, taking a step back.
He shrugged. It was the kind of shrug that came with a price ticket attached.
‘Not much use to me if you’ve given the same tip to those other folk who’ve been here,’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘I’ve never telt a cop nothing, ever.’
‘The cops have been here too?’
‘Twice.’
‘Plain clothes?’
He nodded.
‘Like me then?’
He laughed. ‘Naw, son. Not like you. Like cops.’
‘One have a beard?’
He nodded. ‘English fella.’
‘What about the other?’
‘Wee guy. About my height. Solid. They weren’t happy nobody here would speak to them.’ If his descriptions were anything to go by, it certainly sounded like Christchurch and his sidekick. ‘Naebody kent anything anyhow.’
‘Except you?’
‘That’s right,’ he said, keeping his good eye fixed on me while the other did some scouting about.
Could I trust him? Almost certainly not. Was he the only possible clue as to the whereabouts of Billy Paris? Almost certainly so.
‘Okay, then. Let’s have it,’ I said.
‘Not here.’ He cocked his head further along the street to a pub door where a couple of thirsty-looking types in tracksuits were sharing a cigarette. ‘In there.’
‘Big Billy said you might show up,’ said he of the wandering eye, a few minutes later, knocking back a shot of whisky and chasing it with a slug from a half-pint of lager.
So far all I’d discovered was that my drinking companion’s name was Jim, or Jazza to his friends, amongst whose number I could now count myself: a privilege I felt sure Jazza bestowed on anyone daft enough to buy him alcohol. Jazza had been in the Army with Billy. They’d served for a time together, but mostly got drunk together.
‘So you’re a pal of Billy’s?’ I asked.
‘Who, me?’ Jazza said, as though there was someone else in the pub I was plying with free drink for information on my missing client. ‘Oh, aye. Me and Billy are great buddies. He’s a good man. Best sparky in the Army. Didn’t matter if it was a tank or a Tornado, if it was bust and had wires Billy could sort it for you.’
‘That why they kicked him out?’
Jazza laughed and ran a finger through the condensation on his half-pint glass. ‘That’s a long story.’
One I had no doubt he could spin out all day, providing I kept setting up the drinks.
‘It’ll keep,’ I said. ‘Right now I need to speak to him urgently.’ I waited until he’d made the rest of the beer disappear. ‘Where is he?’
Jazza wiped froth from his top lip with the back of a grimy hand. ‘He said that if his lawyer turned up I was to say you’re not to bother looking for him. He’ll be in touch.’
But I wasn’t to be fobbed off by Billy’s don’t-call-me-I’ll-call-you message. ‘No more information,’ I said, ‘no more drink.’
Jazza sat up straight on his bar stool, palms of his hands facing me, one eye going down the shops, the other coming back with the change. ‘Ah, well now. That’s where it gets a wee bit tricky.’
‘How tricky?’
Even with his dodgy vision the old guy had no problem catching the eye of the barman.
‘Same again, is it?’ asked the man in the apron rhetorically, setting up another hauf an’ a hauf.
I waved away the offer of more ginger beer and took a hold of the wrist that was attached to the hand that was heading for the newly replenished shot glass. ‘Billy Paris,’ I reminded him. ‘Where is he?’
Jazza pulled his arm away. ‘Calm down, will you, son?’ He moistened his lips with his tongue, lifted the whisky glass and sank the contents in a oner, good eye partially closed, the other rolling around like a marble in a saucer. ‘If you’ll recall, I didn’t say I knew exactly where the big man was. Only that I had a tip for you.’
‘Well, I’ve a tip for you,’ I said. ‘That’s your last drink on me.’
‘Don’t be like that,’ he said, once he’d sconed the half-pint.
‘Why not? You’ve told me nothing and you’re drinking like there’s a drought.’
Jazza leaned forward at me, simultaneously crooking a finger at the barman for a refill. ‘How much I drink is my business.’ I doubted very much if he had any other business. He leaned closer, top lip curling. ‘All right?’ he snarled.
I’d pretty much had enough. ‘Don’t bother,’ I said to the barman who had Jazza’s shot-glass poised under an optic. The barman looked at Jazza as though he had any kind of say in the matter. I took two twenties from my back pocket and held one of them in front of Jazza’s face. ‘I’m paying for our drinks with this.’ I held it out to the barman and once he’d taken it, I held the other twenty up in its place. ‘And I’m going to leave this one behind. But only after you’ve told me where Billy is.’
Jazza stared at his empty half-pint glass. The flecks of foam on the inside of the tumbler were drying out nearly as fast as he was. I gave him the time it took for the barman to return with my change to think things over. Nothing. I jumped down from the bar stool and stuffed the coins back into my pocket alongside the other twenty. I was almost at the door when I heard Jazza call to me.
‘He’s got a son.’
I slammed into reverse.
‘Plays football. Big Billy said something about a cup game the boy was playing in. He’s going to watch him.’
I took the other twenty from my pocket, laid it gently on the counter, smoothed it flat with the side of my hand, and said, ‘Tell me more.’
9
Saturday morning I was in Falkirk, not a free-kick from the late-lamented Rosebank distillery. Sunnyside football pitches. Whoever had given the place its name had a sense of humour. When I arrived shortly before kick-off with Malky and Tina in tow, the home team was already there, carrying out some warm-up exercises under the supervision of a coach in a bright red padded anorak. A few minutes later
the away team showed up on the far side of the pitch with a considerable travelling support. There had to be around fifty of them, mums and dads, grannies and grandpas all out to watch their boy run about in the mud chasing a ball. What else was Saturday morning for?
While the coach in the red anorak put the home players through a series of stretches, another, similarly attired, was using a child’s plastic spade to pick up dog shit from the penalty box.
‘Why am I here again?’ Malky asked.
‘I thought that I might try my hand at being a football agent,’ I lied. ‘I’ve been given a tip about a player. Thought you could have a look at him. Tell me if he’s got what it takes. Boys’ football, this is where it all started for you. Do you remember when we used to play?’
‘No,’ Malky flapped his arms, trying to generate some heat. The rain was coming sideways on a chill wind that made no effort to go around us. ‘I remember when I used to play and you used to run around bumping into people.’
As a lad my dad had dragged me along to watch my brother perform. I had stood at the side of countless muddy pitches like this one, trying to understand how Malky could stroll through a game while remaining unfazed and in complete control. There was an inevitability about the way the ball always seemed to end up at his feet, as though he were some kind of soccer black hole and the ball a planet on the event horizon. When I played, for all my charging about, scampering after every loose pass, I only ever seemed to get in a few kicks now and again, and whether that was at the ball or an opposing player was a matter left to fate.
‘If this is an under-fourteens game, how come no one’s spotted him before now?’ Malky asked.
‘He’s the same age you were when The Rose took notice of you,’ I said.
Malky had been scouted as a thirteen-year-old playing Boys’ Club football, moved swiftly to the Junior Leagues with Linlithgow Rose and from there to the big time with Glasgow Rangers’ first team. A meteoric rise brought crashing to earth by one brutal tackle from a German midfielder.
‘That was then,’ he said. ‘This is now.’
I knew what he meant. Times had changed. Nowadays the best players were scouted and signed up while embryos.
The coach in charge of dog faeces removal walked towards us, plastic spade held out in front of him on which lay the solid, brown stool of a dog with a well-balanced diet and an arsehole for an owner.
‘The glamour of the cup, eh?’ Malky said to him as he approached. The coach did a double-take. ‘Malky? Malky Munro?’ He gave my brother a broad smile as he hurled the contents of his spade into the dense undergrowth at the side of the park. ‘What brings you here?’
What or rather who had brought Malky here was me. I needed an excuse to attend an under-fourteens football match and my brother was the perfect decoy. If Billy Paris was doing his best to avoid me, as well as the police, my intention was to catch him unawares, make it look like our meeting was by chance. Malky was a good cover. He could also be called upon for childminding duties if I had to spend some time with Billy alone.
‘Malky’s here to have a look at one of your players,’ I said. ‘The boy Paris.’
The coach took a moment to wipe his spade on the grass. ‘Paris? Nobody in our team by that name.’
‘You sure?’ I asked, starting to think that a certain swivel-eyed ex-soldier might have outflanked me.
‘I’ve been coaching this lot since they were in the Fun Fours. I think I know their names by now.’
‘Paris is his dad’s name,’ I said. ‘Maybe he goes under his mum’s.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Malky said. ‘If he’s as good as Robbie says he is he’ll be a stick-out.’
There was nothing for it but to hang around and see who turfed up.
Tina, who had been putting her wellies through a rigorous puddle test, tugged at my jacket. ‘Dad?’ She tugged again. ‘I need the toilet.’
The coach screwed up his face in sympathy. ‘Nearest toilets are at the changing rooms away across the other side of the parks. The boys usually just...’ he gestured to the undergrowth with the spade.
‘You’ll need to hold on,’ Malky told Tina. ‘It’ll not be long. They only play thirty-five each way at this age.’
The referee arrived. He handed a tattered fluorescent flag to a coach from either side, gathered the players in the centre for a few words of wisdom and, with a short blast from his whistle, the game was underway.
At half-time it was nil-nil, the surface had cut up badly and I thought we might have lost a few of the smaller boys in the trenches. There was still no sign of Billy Paris and Tina was desperate, hopping from welly to welly.
‘You’ll need to take her over to the changing rooms,’ I said to Malky.
‘Why don’t you go?’ he said. ‘I’m the one here on scouting business, remember?’
Someone had to take her, and if I was quick we could make it and be back before the end of the game. I took Tina by the hand and was about to set off when the home team’s coaches came over with a joint request that Malky give the boys a half-time team talk.
‘Just a wee word of encouragement, maybe a tip or two,’ said dog-shit coach, when Malky showed signs of reluctance.
Even though by now Tina was jumping up and down, I simply had to hear this.
‘Right, boys,’ Malky began, as the team huddled around him, drinking isotonic drinks and stuffing their faces with Jaffa cakes. ‘You’re going to get nowhere against this mob if you keep hitting it down the middle. You need to stretch the game, get the ball out wide and put in a few crosses. Even if you don’t score, you’ll maybe get a corner-kick. And as for corners...’ Malky was warming to the task. ‘What’s wrong with you? Scared to mess up your hair?’ He reached out and ruffled the hair of the nearest player. ‘Head the ball! Listen, it’s blowing a gale and the corners are only reaching the front post, so you need to get there first, in front of the defender. Here’s what to do.’ He hunkered down, beckoning the boys in closer. As a unit they shuffled forward, like co-conspirators. It was the only time that day I’d noticed them operating as a team. ‘Stand behind your marker. Let him think he’s got you covered then, just as the corner is being taken, stamp on his foot, nip in front of him and, bang!’ Malky put his two fists in front of his chest and mimed a header. ‘One-nil.’
‘Does that really work?’ asked one of the players, a skinny, blonde-haired boy who looked like a header would snap him in two.
‘Not every time,’ Malky conceded, ‘but, even if you don’t score, the defender will probably lamp you one. You’ll get a penalty and he’ll get sent off. It’s win-win. Just make sure the ref doesn’t catch you.’
The coaches cast sidelong glances at each other.
Malky wasn’t finished. ‘Another good move to try is—’
Time for me to step in. ‘Don’t listen to him, boys,’ I cobbled together a laugh. ‘Malky’s just kidding you on. You only need to remember one thing, try hard and definitely no stamping. Just go out and enjoy yourselves. Isn’t that right, Malky?’
‘That’s three things,’ I heard one boy pipe up as I pulled my brother away.
‘Right, Alex Ferguson,’ I said. ‘You’ve done enough damage. You can take Tina to the loo. I’ve got things to do here.’
‘But—’
I gave him a shove. ‘Stamp on your opponent’s foot? You should be ashamed of yourself.’
Protesting that winning was what it was all about, Malky eventually allowed me to usher him in the direction of the changing rooms with Tina leading the way. The game restarted and there was no sign of any goals, Billy Paris, or his possibly fictitious son by the time I saw my brother and daughter returning via the neighbouring rugby pitches, trudging through the mud and driving rain like the Grande Armée’s retreat from Moscow.
During their absence I had been looking around for Billy by strolling up and down the touchline, engaging fellow spectators in conversation, hoping for some kind of lead on my missing client. I was all set
to call it a day when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see a small woman in a big green coat, the hood trimmed with fake fur.
‘You here to watch my boy?’ she asked, looking up at me.
‘Depends,’ I said. ‘I’m here to see Billy Paris’s son.’
She stretched out an arm and a gloved hand appeared from a furry cuff to point at a well-built lad, taking up position in the away team’s goalmouth, while one of his team mates, the blond-haired boy, tee’d up a free-kick about thirty yards out. ‘That’s him. He’s the team captain,’ she added, in case I hadn’t spied the yellow arm band with a bold black C on it.
‘Good player,’ I said. ‘Big and strong. Like his dad.’
‘Billy’s not here,’ she replied, quickly and a trifle too defensively.
‘Do you know where he is?’
She looked at me narrowly.
‘I’m his lawyer,’ I explained.
‘Me and Billy don’t speak much. I only see him at matches sometimes.’
‘He’s not here today, though?’
‘A lot of games have been called off lately ’cause of the weather. Maybe he thought this one would be too.’
‘Should have been,’ I said.
She pulled the hood of her coat closer to her face, holding the sides tightly to her cheeks. ‘It’s all these dads. Things were always worse back in the day, when they were playing. Every time the ref blows for a foul all you hear is, it’s a man’s game. Men. They forget it’s a man’s game being played by wee laddies.’
The blond boy took the kick. It barely made it into the penalty box, and a defender sclaffed it clear for a corner.
‘Well, if you do see Billy, will you let him know I need to speak to him urgently?’
She sniffed, non-committally.
‘Do you know who that is?’ I asked, tilting my head at my brother, who with Tina by his side was squelching down the touchline towards us. ‘That’s my brother, Malky Munro. You might have heard of him. Ex-Rangers and Scotland. He’s got his own radio show. Knows everyone who’s anyone in football. If he puts the word out on your son there’ll be scouts flocking to see the boy. Isn’t that right, Malky?’
Present Tense Page 5
