Macrae, Fietch and Warren's offices are on Union Street. I left them, buzzing with energy, wanting to do something. I marched up the road to the side entrance to Central Station, found a phone and rang the Griffin. Bella answered.
'Aye?'
'Bella; it's... ah... Jimmy Hay,' I said, my mood of busy happiness evaporating instantly as I realised I didn't even know what name to use now.
Bella wheezed. 'Aw aye; that Jimmy Hay the Dan Weir?' She laughed bronchially. I was left, stunned and dismayed, unable to tell whether it really was all a big joke to her or she was being deliberately unkind.
'That's right,' I admitted quietly, as Bella's cackles subsided.
'Okay then, Jimmy; ye'll be wantin that boyfriend of mine Ah suppose, aye?'
'Eh?'
'Ma boayfriend.' Bella wheezed and laughed at the same time. 'Haw, heid-the-baw,' I heard her say to somebody else, 'it's that big ugly guy wi the funny hoose.' I closed my eyes, wanted the ground to swallow me up. 'He's just cummin,' Bella said. 'Here he is noo.'
'Aye?' It was McCann.
'McCann?' I said, fearfully.
'Ah, it's yersel, is it?' McCann said.
'Yes,' I said, feeling foolish now, not knowing what to say. Ah; what the hell. 'Are you still talking to me?'
'Ah'm talkin tae ye noo, am Ah no?'
'I know, but are you still talking to me? You know what I mean. Are you mad at me? I mean angry?'
'Course Ah'm angry, but that doesnae mean Ah'm no talkin tae ye.'
'I'm not a real capitalist, McCann; I don't own any shares...'
'Aye, aye. Look; dinnae apologise to me, son; life's too short. Buy us a drink an Ah'll tell ye what a lyin basturt ye are.'
'Right! Stay there!' I said.
'No the noo,' McCann said, exasperated. 'Ah've got tae go fur ma check-up at the infirmary; Ah only came in fur a quick hauf on ma way; Ah wiz pittin on ma coat when ye rang.'
'When'll you be free?'
'Ach, they take ages; might be oors. Ah'll get back when Ah can, but probably no before five.'
'Okay, I'll see you then.'
'Right ye are, then.'
'Oh!' I said. 'McCann; do you know anything about Wee Tommy? I've put a note through his mum's door and told her to use my lawyer; I'll pay.'
I wanted to bite my tongue.
McCann tutted. 'Aye, money talks, eh?' He sighed. 'Naw; I havnae heard any thin more. Ah heard the polis came tae see you, that right, aye?'
'Aye. Look, can you think of any other way of getting in touch with his mum and dad?'
'They might be at his auntie's. Ah'll call in; it's on ma way.'
'What, now?'
'Aye, if ye'll let me aff this fuckin phone...'
('Hi you; swear box!' Bella shouted in the background.)
('Aw, shut up, wumin,' McCann muttered.)
'That'd be great... or I could phone them,' I suggested.
'They're no oan the phone,' McCann said loudly. 'Noo will ye let me go? Ah'll have tae run if Ah'm tae see them an get tae ma appointment. Goodbye.'
'Take a taxi!' I yelled. 'I'll p...'
But he'd rung off.
I stood for a moment, holding the phone and remembering something about names... (The first time I'd met Wee Tommy, in the Griffin, I'd leaned to McCann and muttered, 'He's nearly the size of me; why's he called "Wee"?' and McCann had muttered back, 'His da was called Tommy, tae.' I must have looked puzzled. 'Couldn't they,' I said, 'have called him "Tam" instead?' McCann had just looked at me.)
Names; Wee Tommy... Jumping Jesus, he must have known all the time!
The policemen had asked for me by name. 'Daniel Weir?' they'd asked. That was what they'd said, and it didn't seem to mean anything special to them, I'd have known. But they knew my name, and the only people they seemed to have talked to had been Wee Tommy, his pal at the supermarket, and Wee Tommy's mum. So Wee Tommy must have told them. He'd known, or guessed, who I was.
I left the phone and wandered across the station concourse, grinning. I didn't know what to do next.
The big black electronic noticeboard flashed yellow with changing orders of departures. Intercities to London and Bristol, a slow train to Edinburgh (I didn't even know about that; I thought all the Edinburgh trains left from Queen Street), trains to Stranraer and Ayr and Largs and Wemyss Bay and Gourock ... passing through Paisley.
The next Paisley train was at platform thirteen. It left in five minutes, according to the station clock. They operate something called the Open Station system here now; no ticket checkers at the barrier, you just walk onto a train, and pay the guard when he comes round if you haven't got a ticket.
Fifteen minutes later I was in Paisley, heading for Espedair Street.
Paisley had and hadn't changed. Busier with cars, maybe not quite so busy with people. Newer, brighter, sometimes different shops. A few higher buildings. I walked through the angled sunshine of a December's day, experiencing a strange mixture of elation and... I don't know what to call it; exalted bitterness seems closest. I sang to myself, inside my head, the songs I had heard the previous night, in the hotel, through the wall and through the years, remembering Christine's voice and the taste of her lips, the way she moved on stage and the touch of her body.
I walked and remembered, and I found I was humming a new tune, to the beat of my steps, and heard new words combine to fit the tune. And the words said:
And thought: Ha ha! As I walked to Espedair Street.
Which was a real disappointment, to be honest. They seemed to have knocked a few bits of it down, but I couldn't be sure which bits. It looked less homogeneous than I remembered, more mixed up and unsure of itself. There was a new pizza place just at the Causeyside end; it looked out of place to me, something bright and plasticky from another age, another planet.
Across the other side of Causeyside Street was the Waterloo Bar, where Jean Webb and I had sat that day, twelve years before. It didn't seem to have changed much. I thought of going in for a drink, just for old times' sake, but didn't. I walked down Espedair Street instead, trying to remember which flat had been the Webbs'.
Just an ordinary street; low tenements, more modern low flats (I couldn't even remember if they had been here the last time; the street looked different), semis and detached houses, an old, derelict school, and a new snooker club in an old factory building. I turned around at the far end and started back, oddly deflated.
I tried to recapture the feeling of anticipatory joy I'd experienced that day I'd met Jean, or the sensation of sublimely resigned bliss I'd experienced, seven years later, after visiting her mother, walking down the same street under that stunning sky. Of course no echo of emotion sounded from either occasion.
I walked, humming my new tune, while the words said.
I stood at the traffic lights on Canal Street. There was a man waiting on the other side, looking curiously at me. Suit, coat, briefcase; not the sort of person I'm used to having stare at me. It had been years since somebody recognised me in the street and let me know; an intensely embarrassing experience.