– Surely no Ray . . . seems such a nice young felly . . . Gus says bewildered. I sense doubt through his antagonism. Time to hit hard.
– Listen Gus, whaire’s Ray Lennox the now? Ehs no in here drinkin wi us, is eh? Naw. I’ll wager three tae one, naw, make that four tae one on, that he’ll be drinkin wi they silly wee lassies in some fuckin wine bar up the toon, just like eh wis eftir that fuckin course . . .
– But that’s up tae thaim . . . thir young and they dinnae want tae be doon here wi the likes ay us . . .
– . . . Yes Gus, fair do’s and good luck tae the boy. I hope he rides them both, I hope they make a fuckin sandwich oot ay him, one slice white, one slice yellay n young Lennox in the fuckin middle.
– Yir an awfay man Bruce, Gus chuckles.
– But the thing is, who dae ye think’ll be the main topic ay conversation during this touching little tête-a-tête? You and I. The silly cunts who make the snowballs and also fling them.
– Hmmm, Gus says thoughtfully, – ah ken what yir gittin at. Ye think our Young Mister Lennox is running with the hounds and hunting with the hares?
– He’s hunting the fuckin hounds, as far as I can see, as long as he’s no fuckin well running off at the mooth as he tends tae dae.
– I’ll keep a beady on that wee cunt, Gus nods, touching his eyeball.
Thank fuck it’s Lodge night the night. We down our drinks and head out to Stockbridge. The roads are slippy as the surface has frozen over. We see a lumbering taxi trying to turn slowly down a sidestreet but sliding on the ice and scraping its bodywork against a lamp post. As it comes to rest the irate spastic of a driver springs out and inspects the damage. – Jesus fuck . . . he snaps, then truculently yanks open the door of his taxi.
I nod to Gus. The cunts inside are getting out. This one’ll do us up tae Shrubhill.
A lassie’s getting out of the taxi. Quite a young lassie. Or she’s trying to get out of the taxi. The torn-faced cunt of a taxi driver is not helping her, he’s just holding the door and impatiently asking her if she’s alright. The lassie has one of her legs in a plaster and she’s attempting to get up and at the same time position the crutches on that treacherous icy surface.
It’s just like . . . fuckin hell . . .
I move over swiftly and I’ve got a hold of her. – Can you manage? Here, let me . . .
– Thanks . . .
I’m helping her to her feet and Gus has got the crutches positioned and we get her on to the pavement. The scent of her perfume is filling my nostrils. I’m up against her and I can feel her soft warmth. I could just hold her like this, forever.
God, I remember . . . it was so long ago . . .
Then it happens; a stiffening inside my flannels and y’s and I have to adopt the old bent-double last-dance-at-the-disco posture to conceal it.
– Are you going far . . . the pavement’s very slippy.
– Naw, I’m just in that stair there, she points over to the stair door.
– I’ll give you a hand over, I smile, taking her arm.
– Thanks very much . . . that’s very kind of you, she says as we reach her door.
– No problem. Can you manage up the stairs? I want her to say no, come up with me, come up and have some coffee, leave auld muppet-faced Gus to his silly masonic shite, come up with me and hold me in your arms like you used to . . .
. . . but it’s not. Those were different times.
– I’m fine now, honest. Thanks again, she smiles.
– Alright then . . .
It isn’t her. It could never be. But I wished with all my heart that it was.
Ha!
Bullshit! I wished with all my heart I could get another pint!
– C’moan Gus, time for the lodge. I’m fed up wi helping spastics on duty withoot daein it in social hours n aw. I pile into the taxi.
– Ye awright Bruce? Ye seem upset, Gus says, looking straight at me, as he gets in.
– I will be awright once I get to where we’re meant tae be going. I shout at the driver, – The Edinburgh Masonic Club, at Shrubhill, driver. Next to the bus depot.
We cruise through the frozen streets in silence.
Coarse Briefings
Up the club, the lads are all raring to go as it’s a big induction night. The would-be new recruits look nervous, as they well might. There’s a couple of baby polis to be done, as well as some other young cunts; I don’t know where they come from.
I’m already feeling a wee bit pished as I’ve eaten nothing, so I decide to hold back a bit until all the boring stuff is over, then I’ll get myself charged up for our little specialist club’s activities.
fuckin throbbing. It was one fuckin mad session up the masonic last night, especially with Bladesey, the daft wee cunt. He’ll be as embarrassed as fuck this morning. My guts are greasy and the spice content of my burps and my heartburn is telling me that a strong curry got into the mix some way along the line.
I shuffle some papers on my desk, examining the witness statements again. They all saw fuck all of course. Sylvia Freeman and Estelle Davidson. The two rides we’ve interviewed in connection with the topped nigger. They were in the club that night awright. Must be game if they were there on a midweek evening. It’s fuckin annoying but I cannae think what they looked like in detail, other than that they were rides. That’s the problem, when you think of a bird you fancy, it’s the clathes that come first, usually a dress or a top or something like that, when what you want is erse, tits, eyes, mooth, hair, etcetera. I mean, you arenae gaunny go intae Chelsea Girl or Next or River Island and have a wank over a load ay tops or pairs ay troosers or skirts hingin oan a rack, are you? No unless you’re some sad cunt like my wee mate Bladesey. Anyway, I’ll pull in these wee slags for some of the special Bruce Robertson interrogation. If ayy nighteengaahhle could seeng like yooo
Bored shitless here.
I shuffle the papers for a bit longer but the images of Sylvia and Estelle don’t form in my head so I bell Bladesey at his work.
– Extension four-zero-one-seven, Cliff Blades speaking. How can I help you?
– You can stop talking in that poofy English accent for a start.
– Oh, hello Bruce. How are you?
– Right as rain Bladesey boy, I reply, as a wave of nausea crashes through my body and my hand starts to shake uncontrollably on the receiver. I want to go home. I want my bed. – It takes a wee bitty mair than a few wee nippy sweeties tae knock old Bruce Robertson out of his stride. I kid you not, my sweet, sweet friend.
– I must confess, I’m actually feeling rather rough. Came within an ace of phoning in sick. Actually I would have done as well if Bunty hadn’t been at home today. I think I’d rather be at work than face her in this condition.
– What about the night, you and me, straight back on the pish! No surrender to the IRA!
– Eh, I don’t know about that Robbo . . . I’ve actually go . . .
– C’mon Blades-ay-ay! The Blazer. The night.
– Well . . . you see, it’s Bunty. She’s a little . . .
– Tell ye what Bladesey, she’s walking aw ower ye. That’s why she’s treating yelike shite, cause she can. The Blazer then.
– Well, alright. But I can only come for a couple.
– That’s my boy! You’ve got bottle Brother Blades. Nine bells at the Blazer!
– Right . . .
– You were in some state last night, I tell him.
– Yes, I’m afraid I can’t really remember much about it . . .
– Very convenient Mister Blades, very convenient.