At the top of the stairs he remained in the entrance lobby, staring out over the street. The traffic was still busy; a great many pedestrians hurrying along. Rain drizzled but there did not seem to be much of a wind. He zipped up his jerkin and stepped out onto the pavement.
In shop windows the SALE signs were still pasted up although most of the bargains had gone. There was a sports shop. Tammas stopped to look in. Then a hand clapped him on the shoulder. It was Deefy. Heh young yin, he said, how’s it going?
Ah no bad.
Doing alright?
Aye, okay.
That’s the game son.
What about yourself?
Deefy nodded. Then he shrugged: Aye, no bad, got a wee turn this afternoon.
Great.
Aye, a few quid.
Smashing.
I was thinking of going to the dogs. Deefy turned his head, sniffing; he touched the brim of his hat.
The dogs?
Blantyre.
Blantyre?
Deefy nodded. You fancy it like son? I mean tagging along.
Eh. .
It’s no a bad wee gaff. Flapper. Deefy sniffed again and he looked off in the direction of Central Station. Makes a change from Ashfield.
Naw it’s just I’m skint Deefy. Tammas held his hands palms up.
Ah. Deefy nodded. That’s what I’m saying; I got a wee turn this afternoon. You can tag along if you like. Get a bus down Anderson Cross. Fancy it?
Well. . Tammas shrugged and nodded, grinning.
We’ll grab a pint first. Come on. . He led the way into a pub down Hope Street and ordered himself a whisky and a half of heavy, a pint for Tammas. He passed out the cigarettes.
They had to wait quarter of an hour for a bus. When they arrived in Blantyre they headed straight into the first chip shop and Deefy ordered fish suppers, which they ate while walking to the track. And later, just before the betting began on the first race, he gave two £5 notes to Tammas, putting them straight into his hand, tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger.
Tammas said, What’s this?
Deefy shook his head; he held up the evening’s programme, indicating the form figures. No that it’ll do me any fucking good, he said. Last time I was here they gambled a fucking dog from 6’s to evens in the space of about ten fucking seconds and I shoved my tank on the bastard. Stuck up 2nd! You wouldnt fucking believe it son!
I’ll owe you it, replied Tammas.
Another time I’m standing here and there’s this fucking favourite and the vet’s there checking the girths and all that and out comes an announcement: Favourite’s withdrawn, favourite’s withdrawn! And d’you know how? Deefy was shaking his head: Cause the owners couldnt get a fucking punt on the bastard! I’m no kidding ye son; they were there to put their fucking money down but some cunt must’ve blew the whistle and the bookies were no giving more than 3’s on. 3 to 1 on. So what do they fucking do? They turn round and withdraw it! I’m no kidding ye! Warned them off the track right enough — told them no to show their faces ever again.
Hh. Tammas nodded.
Some place! Deefy clapped his hands together, the programme tucked beneath his left elbow, moving his shoulders back and forwards, stamping from foot to foot. Bloody cold, he muttered.
Tammas backed the favourite in the first race and it won. He backed the next two winners also and by the time the betting began on the fourth he had £70. But Deefy had yet to back a winner. Then on the fourth they found they had backed the same runner. Their spectating position was as near plumb to the finishing post as they could manage and they watched the dog win in a photo. My last tenner on it! shouted Deefy. You sure it’s won?
Tammas laughed. Easy. Short head. No danger!
That’s what I thought myself.
When they approached the cluster of bookies they heard one of them calling odds on the outcome of the photograph. There was no dispute about the winner but the bookie was laying 6/4 a short head; 5/2 a neck; 8/1 a half length. Since he was not taking any bets on the winning margin being a head, the bookie was obviously convinced that a head WAS the winning margin. Tammas stared at the price for a moment. Then he cried: Christ sake! and he grabbed the money out of his jeans’ pocket and passed £20 to Deefy shouting: Get it on man! And then rushed up to the bookie: To twenty quid the short head!
The bookie took his money and wiped out the 6/4 immediately. Tammas turned, smiling. Deefy was still standing where he had been previously. Quick! called Tammas.
What?
Quick!
I’m no sure son.
Christ sake!
Deefy was holding the £20 in his hand. There was a rumbling on the loudspeaker and then the winner and placings were announced. The dog had won by a short head. Deefy returned Tammas the £20.
Tammas muttered, Christ sake Deefy.
Deefy shrugged. He sniffed, took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped a mouthful of spit on the ground. He nodded towards the bookie he had placed his bet with and walked to receive his return. Tammas followed him, collecting his winnings from both bookies. When they met up Deefy said: You staying for the next?
How, are you?
Deefy shrugged. Back to Glasgow I think eh?
It’s your decision.
Outside the ground Tammas hailed a taxi. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Tammas had bought a packet of cigarettes and he offered one to Deefy and also passed one through to the driver. And then he added: Look eh. . And he started checking the wad of notes he had. More than £140. He counted £70 and handed it straightaway to Deefy.
Deefy thrust it back to him.
Aw naw Deefy please. Tammas shook his head, holding it to him: You’ve got to take it man honest.
Naw. I dont. Deefy held his hand raised, warding off the bundle of notes.
Please.
It’s your fucking money son no mine.
I was out the game but, till you showed up I mean. . fuck sake Deefy. Half the dough, come on, that’s fair.
Deefy sniffed.
Christ sake I mean I’ve never even been to their fucking track man and I’ve backed four out of four. Plus the photo! Tammas shook his head and he grinned.
Deefy hesitated. Okay then. Halfers. . He put his hand into his own pocket and brought out £28, gave Tammas £14 and accepted the £70 in exchange.
Let us know when you’re going back!
Hh. Deefy frowned. I’ll no be going fucking back. Fucking pitch!
How what’s up?
Naw son I mean I’m no getting at you or fuck all but tell me this: how can a man lay 6/4 when it’s a short head?
Tammas looked at him.
He cant be a bookie son, no a real yin. I mean there isnt any bookie in the whole fucking world would lay that kind of bet.
Ach away man that’s daft. Anyhow, it’s a flapping gaff.
A flapping gaff! I know it’s a flapping gaff. So what but? They’re supposed to be wideys these cunts. That makes it even fucking worse so it does.
Tammas shrugged.
Naw I mean. . Deefy sniffed and he turned slightly, to gaze out the window. I wouldnt go back there again. No me.
Och!
Deefy shook his head. As they approached the city centre he leaned forwards to ask the driver the time.