— Ah’m oan the case, Tam, he says, rising, — ready for a fill day’s shift!
Jason helps himself to some coffee I made, and a couple of slices of toast.
— So, you’re going to work in the stable, eh? I ask.
— Aye… Tam… yir dad, reckons that I’ve a good wey wi animals. Ah’m cleaning them oot, feeding the hoarses and takin that dug fir walks. Yir faither reckons he needs mair exercise.
This is a double-edged sword. I’m far from happy that I have another weird acquaintance of Lara’s hanging about, without me even being consulted as to who looks after Midnight, but I have to say that I’m delighted at all the time this is going to free up for me!
My dad comes back in, with Ambrose on the chain leash. — Aye, yir a proper Dr Dolittle, Jason. Ah need your skills with animals, son, and he hands poor Ambrose over to him.
— He’s a beauty, Jason says, warily taking the leash. He looks shocked at the wounds in the dog’s face. — What happened tae ehs coupon?
I’m about to say something, but I stop myself, remembering the tacit pact, of which, I suppose, this Jason is now a part. As my mum and Indigo come through, my father repeats the lie.
— A sair yin, Tam, fir the boy, likes, Jason nods.
Mum picks up her coat and takes Indy out to the car to run her up to school in St Andrew’s. I start to head out after them, but I decide to hang around outside the kitchen door.
I hear my father’s voice, low, conspiratorial. — Three-quarters pitbull, one-quarter retriever; a killer with intelligence. You huv tae look eftir him while I’m no aboot. Ah dinnae trust the missus, fuckin shite-for-brains, tae dae tae it right, n ah widnae trust him aroond the wee yin.
— What aboot Jenni?
— She’s no interested, he scoffs dismissively. — Aw she cares about is that scabby auld hoarse ay hers.
— Eh… awright, Tam. Ye mentioned something else last night? this Jason tentatively asks.
— Aye… see how ye go wi this yin first, his voice rises, and I can sense he’s coming back out, so I head into the hallway and slip out the front door. I see Lara coming by on Scarlet Jester. I’d forgotten that we’d arranged to have a session with Fiona La Rue at the stables. — Hi, Lar! I shout, moving over to her. Jason and my father have appeared on the doorstep behind me and are both waving at us or should I say her, then they look at each other, each of them suddenly seeming uncomfortable.
— Hi, Jen! Hello, boys, she smiles, getting down from Scarlet Jester and putting him in the stable beside Midnight and Clifford the pony. Curran the pig scuttles to the back of the pen and they all seem pleased to see each other. Except for poor old Ambrose, whom my father ties miserably to the post outside. Then he goes inside and Jason starts cleaning out the stable. Lara and I talk about the forthcoming Hawick show and after a bit we harness up the horses for a light canter across the field, but Midnight is struggling and can barely break out of a walk. I can tell he’s distressed as he pulls forward, tearing the reins from my grip, which he never usually does. We decide to stay here and Lara calls Fiona La Rue to reschedule. Midnight and I have to watch Lara and Scarlet Jester flying over the small jumps.
I take him outside the stable, keeping on his halter and bridle, and clip him to the posts with the horse ties. Removing the bridle, saddle and saddle pad, I start to groom him. With the hoof pick that hangs on the post by the ties, I do his soles, one by one, taking special care with that sore front left leg. A heavy snort tells me he’s in discomfort, so I leave it. I get the curry-comb and start rubbing in circular motions. He loves this and settles down into a steady rhythmn of breathing, dozing contentedly.
I see Jason come out of the stable, big welly boots covered in horseshit. He looks at me and Midnight and his eyes are bulging out of his head. Then he gives me a strange wave as Lara comes over with Scarlet. — Hello, Jason, she smiles coolly as she dismounts in an easy athletic sweep. — Helping out here?
— Eh, aye. Hiya. Aye, a wee bit ay assistance, he says.
Thankfully, Lara wants to go into town, and we restable the horses and jump into the car. As we depart I look back to see Jason gaping at us open-mouthed and slack-jawed. My dad appears and shouts something at him and he springs to attention.
In the car, I turn to Lara: — It was Monty’s dog that did that to Ambrose, wasn’t it?
— Yes, but he didn’t know it was your dad’s dog at the time.
— What difference would that have made?
— Quite a lot, from what I gather. I think he’s a bit wary of your dad, Lara says, her eyes wide with excitement, — like he’s some kind of gangster.
I roll my eyes in disdain.
Lara seems impressed though. And I recall the satisfying fear that Klepto scumbag displayed when he found out who my father was. — Well, she contends, — it’s better than having a doctor as a dad!
But I think some people in this town have overactive imaginations. — He’s a boring old haulage contractor, I say dismissively, — and he’s too sad and depressing to be scary.
We do a workout at the centre, and then have a coffee. Lara’s self-obsession starts to niggle, and I soon find myself wishing I was alone so I could read the final third of Reluctant Survivor. I’ve got to the bit where the handsome Dr Shaw has kissed Josephine tenderly on the mouth. He becomes aroused by the action, and starts to shower her still body with kisses, eventually performing cunnilingus on her. She wakes up, stunned, shocked and ultimately relieved as an embarrassed Shaw has to tell her everything. It’s just getting really good. Instead I have to listen to Lara going on about this Monty, my stomach churning whenever that Klepto creature’s name is mentioned. I want to tell her, to tell somebody, about that bastard.
When we get back, Lara gets Scarlet and heads off home. Jason’s gone and Dad comes out as I’m putting Midnight back in the stable. — Ah want tae see you compete wi that wee yin wi the bools in the mooth. N that hoarse is fit fir the knacker’s yerd. Eh huds ye back.
I look at him in an angry panic, thinking about what he did to poor Ambrose. — If you ever hurt Midnight…
He extends his palms in a gesture of mock innocence. — Ah ah’m sayin is that we need a proper team, nae lame ducks… or hoarses. Ah mean, look at ma business. At ma place we’re a team. If somebody isnae pillin thir weight, then off they go: right doon the road…
— Midnight stays. He’ll get stronger, I know it.
— Mibbe, my dad says doubtfully, — but think ay what ah said aboot thon gelding.
13.
EXILE ON HIGH STREET
A FIGHTIN DUG, ya hoor, that’s the furry Fife fashion accessory ah’m draggin aroond wi ays doon Main Street n up tae the High Street. Ambrose, they call him. N eh’s no that bad once ye git used tae um; thon nippy wee cunts ootside the chippy gied ays a wide berth whin ah strutted doon the street wi him on the chain, suren they fuckin did!
Cahill obviously thinks the jockeyin backgroond and the coort appearance that the Neebour Watson and me hud on thon hare-coursing rap a couple ay years ago (slipped through the hoor’s fingers as under Scots law ye kin only be prosecuted for poachin) makes ays a bona fide black-economy man ay sport. N whae am ah tae disabuse the hoor ay that notion? Specially whin it’s cash in hand fir me oan top ay the giro, jist fir cleanin oot yon stables n gittin a wee deek at ehs daughter’s tight erse as she pits yon big hoarse through ehs paces. Ah’m waitin fir her tae go ower they wee jumps, but she tells ehs thit ehs leg still isnae up tae it. Eh’s fuckin middle leg surely is, but. Ah couldnae believe masel the other day. Ah wis muckin oot in the stable watchin her groomin the cunt whin eh wis tied up under the canopy. Snooty wee Lara wis gaun ower they fences fir aw they wir worth n ah wis in stalker heaven.