'Oh shit,' I said.
'Yes,' McCann said, rapping the table with one hand.
'Oh, dear God, dear holy shit.' I buried my head in my hands. I brought it out and looked up at McCann. 'How did we get away with... ? oh no... no... no...' I buried my head in my hands again. McCann laughed; Tommy laughed. I think Bella laughed. I wasn't too sure I couldn't hear the dog laugh.
The M8 motorway plunges straight through Glasgow; it loops round the northern extent of the city centre and swoops down between the centre and West End, before curving over the Clyde via the Kingston Bridge and completing the bottom half of its S shaped journey through the city by curving west for Paisley and Greenock. It destroyed a great deal, but the city survived nevertheless, and it was left with what's probably the fastest city-centre to airport car journey in Europe.
But there were planning errors, bits where they left slip-roads that don't connect with anything, exits that end in earth banks, forks in the elevated section that only go one way; the other ends in mid air. One of these little motorway follies consists of a third level of roadway, just north of the Sauchiehall Street flyover. The elevated roadway crosses the motorway beneath, but doesn't go anywhere; it's only as long as the motorway is wide, and stuck up in the air all by itself. At some point, the town planners must have thought they could use the stubby relic as a pedestrian footbridge, because there are wide steps at the North Street end. However, these are fenced off, and there are no matching steps at the Newton Street end, so that idea must have fallen through.
This useless flyover is protected from the attentions of children and idiots by sheer concrete legs, overhangs, and those black steel gates across the North Street steps. None of which, it turned out, had stopped me. I'd climbed over the gates and danced on the plant-choked road surface, God knows how far above the motorway traffic. Did a strip. According to McCann I dropped or threw about half my clothes over the edge, trying to hit passing trucks and so distribute my clothing around the country — or even the world — on the tops of containers... I just hoped I'd thrown the trainers down and not left them up there; how many people in this city wear one size eleven and one size twelve? At least I knew now why my feet had been so dirty in the shower this morning.
Then a police car had pulled up at the steps, and McCann had shouted to me to get away. I'd dreeped (suspended myself over the drop by my fingers and then let go) into the bushes at the Newton Street end, and run off, dripping and cackling, into the night.
I'm a crazy man. I admit it. I try to act responsibly, but ever now and again I totally surprise myself and just go haywire.
It's the drink that does it, I swear.
'Who's this guy Tumbler that's comin tae see ye anyhow, eh?' McCann said later, when the three of us were sitting in St Jute's;
they were sampling some Hungarian brandy and washing it down with Bud. I was still being good, on orange juice and fizzy spring water. I froze when McCann mentioned — well, more or less mentioned — Tumber's name.
I must have said something about Rick when I was drunk last night. This was something I'd always worried about; getting drunk and giving the whole game away to somebody like McCann; letting them know I was this immensely, disgustingly rich rock star. McCann wouldn't be my friend any more; I have about a million times too much capital to play with. Wee Tommy would resent the fact I'd been the driving force behind one of those glitteringly narcissistic, monolithic seventies' rock groups ... and both would resent the fact I'd lied to them. I wish I hadn't, but... well, it's too late now.
What had I said? I tried to think of something that might fit.
When in doubt, tell something close to the truth. 'He's from the record company that put out your man's songs,' I told McCann. 'Why, what was I saying about him?' I was distracted from McCann by the sight of Wee Tommy's dog loping slowly past the end of the pew carrying something in his mouth that looked like one of my trainers.
'Ye were goantae park the bulldozer on his Porsche.'
Oh, God. I bet I said 'my bulldozer', too. I gave a little laugh.
'Did I say that?' I took a nice long drink of Bud. Tommy belched. Chewing noises came from the north transept. 'Well,' I said, 'he's coming to have a look round, so... I'm just hoping he doesn't find anything... he doesn't like.'
'What,' Tommy said, 'like five hundred empty Budweiser bottles in the bulldozer?'
'Well... no, I was told I could have the drink, but... I don't know. I suppose I'm just resentin anybody coming to check up on me...' I shrugged, took another long slug. I wondered how I was doing. 'Not to worry. He's not coming until... aahm ... the twenty-first, I think he said.'
'Izzy cumin up for Christmas, like?' Tommy said.
'No, just the day, I think.'
'So he'll no bring his car then?' McCann said.
'Probably fly,' I agreed.
'Take ye a while tae get the 'dozer tae the airport,' McCann said helpfully. 'Better start noo.'
'Forget the bulldozer. No licence for it anyway, and it's lefthand drive. Maybe I'll just clean the place up a bit and make him a cup of tea.'
'Ye'll need tae hire a skip tae clear the empties.'
'Aye, right enough.' I cleared my throat and turned to look in the direction of the north transept, where the chewing noises had ceased, to be replaced by what sounded like canine vomiting. Tommy looked over too, briefly. The dog had bought its round in the Griffin, and kept pace with us for the next hour or so. Bella even let Tommy take it to the gents with him; his uncle had trained it to pee into toilet gutters. We'd all had some food, but the dog had turned its nose up at the plate of pie and beans I'd bought him. 'He's on a high fibre diet these days,' Tommy had explained.
'Beans are high fibre.'
'Aye, but there's too much sugar in the sauce, like.'
'Spoilt brat,' I'd told the dog, then divided the pie and beans up between the three of us. We'd come back to the folly when the dog's money ran out. The hound walked straight but kept stopping at lamp posts, and tried to pick a fight with a great dane on Bath Street. Tommy didn't have a lead for the beast, so it was a matter of forming a defensive wall between the snarling great dane (and its terrified lady owner) and the crouching, quietly growling TB. Suddenly I knew how footballers felt facing a direct free kick. I kept my hands over my crotch.
When we got to St Jute's I suggested the dog might want another drink too. 'Oh.' Tommy shook his head. 'Ah don't know if he's really developed a taste for these continental lagers. Ye don't have any stout at all, dae ye?'
'No.'
'Ach well, try him on the Bud then.' TB liked Bud. He was drinking it faster than McCann, who's no slowcoach himself. Of course, TB wasn't having to cope with brandy chasers as well. We'd left him in the kitchen, standing over a Tupperware bowl I'd poured three bottles into. I wondered if he'd eaten my trainer.
'So we better no come round on the twenty-first, then, naw?' McCann said. I nodded.
'Better not to. But it'll be all right. I can handle it.'
'Fair enough, pal.' McCann finished another glass of brandy, belched, then lit a fag. I refilled the brandy glasses then went for a pee. On the way back, I passed the hi-fi gear stacked at the front of the pulpit. I'd left a Tom Waites record lying on the turntable: I thought I noticed something on it. I went over to look. It was a pale splatter of pigeon shit. I looked up at the nave roof, thinking about shotguns.
When I got back, Tommy was sitting at the end of the pew, scratching TB behind the ears. The dog was swaying slightly and looking at McCann's cigarette. I wondered if it smoked. Probably didn't like tipped. 'Think we could fix the dug up wi some food?' Tommy asked. 'Ah think it's gettin hungry. Wid that be possible, maybe, aye?'