14
I left a couple of quid by the cup and slid out the door. My self-esteem slid out beneath me. I felt lower than a snake’s belly.
The Arc building hurt my eyes, reminded me how much Edinburgh had changed. If the city had sleepwalked through the planners’ chrome and glass nightmare, this was the wake-up call. Some architect’s Lego-brick piss-take. Painted turquoise.
A line of bills was fly-posted all the way to the foot of the Mile. Some drag act, I thought. Fifty casual glances later I pieced together that it was a Bowie tribute act, called Larry Stardust.
‘Fuck me drunk!’ I said. The Thin White Duke deserved more respect.
I wandered nowhere in particular. Just trying to clear my thoughts, but it proved difficult. I had too much going on, never a good state of affairs for a drinker.
For a long time I’d been living by Einstein’s dictum: ‘I never think about the future, it comes soon enough.’ But here I was, being forced to do just that. The answers Col wanted wouldn’t just turn up on their own. And neither would Debs’ quickie divorce.
I walked on and on.
Tartan shops blasted teuchter music at every turn. I thought I’d grown immune to it until a Sikh, in a tartan turban, stopped me mid-stride.
‘Would you like to try one, sir?’ His accent was broader than mine, a grin wider than Jack Nicholson’s Joker.
‘Excuse me?’
‘A wee nip?’ he said.
I liked this guy a whole lot.
‘Would I ever.’
A cheap blend, but what did I expect — Dalwhinnie?
‘How is it?’ he said.
‘Hits the spot.’
‘Glad you enjoyed it. Have a nice day, sir.’
I pressed out a smile, a thank you paired with a nod. ‘Have a nice day.’ I wondered when we all became so American? If you’d told me a few years ago I’d be served free scoosh in the street by a Sikh in a tartan turban I’d have been waiting for the punch line. Welcome to the new Scotland.
The nip lifted my mood, restarted the alcohol units I already carried, when my mobi rang. I developed a fit of the shakes and the phone slid from my hands onto the cobbles of the Royal Mile.
‘Oh shit.’
I reached down and picked it up, but I was too late, it had gone to voicemail. The caller ID failed to recognise the number. For a moment I stared at the screen, then a superwoofer blasted out the ‘Skye Boat Song’, and I got moving.
I put the phone back in my pocket. Right away, it began to ring again.
‘Bloody hell.’
This time, I managed to keep hold of it, shouted, ‘Hello!’
‘Gus?’
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
A voice, barely a whisper, said, ‘Gus, it’s Mac.’
‘Mac? Where are you ringing from?’
‘Just about the waist down, son!’ He raised his tone, ‘But that’s not pissing myself laughing, let me tell you!’
‘What’s up?’
‘Your half-arsed attempt at playing Columbo.’
He sounded rattled. ‘Isn’t he dead?’ I said.
‘Aye, and you’re not far behind him!’
‘What? Mac, look, where are you?’
‘I’m in a bloody call box. Do you know how long it is since I’ve said that? Took a bloody age for me to find this bastard. Where are you? We need to talk right a-fucking-way!’
‘Have you got some information for me?’
‘What did I say to you the last time we met? What did I say?’
He sounded highly rattled now.
For the first time I thought to weigh Mac’s advice, but my need to find Billy’s killer overrode any thoughts of danger to myself. Hell, what did I have to get up for anyway? Could maybe solve more than one problem at a time this way. ‘Steer clear — those were the words you used, I think.’
‘I wish you’d bloody well listened!’
‘Look, Mac, what is this?’
‘What is this? This is me, as your friend, putting my knackers on the block for you again!’
I got a definite bad vibe about this, said, ‘You want to explain?’
‘Well, no, not really. I’d sooner you’d listened the first time. I’d sooner I wasn’t the one being hoicked out my bed in the wee hours by knuckle-breakers telling me to give you a message.’
‘Oh.’
‘Is that it? Oh. Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘Mac, did they… hurt you in any way?’
‘No. But they gave me a pretty bloody graphic description of what they’re capable of in that department.’
‘Stay put. I’ll come over.’
‘No! Will you fuck! I’ll tell you what to do, now, listen up…’
15
It was the first game of the season, don’t ask me which season. My old man’s playing days of the seventies and eighties are a time I’ve tried to wipe from my mind. I say tried. If only I could.
There are some moments I’ll never forget.
I’m about six when he comes in with a good bucket in him. I’m watching The Six-Million Dollar Man on telly. Steve Austin has just thrown some gadgie into a brick wall. I’m gripped by the slow-mo action but hit light speed when the mighty Cannis Dury announces himself — don’t want to give him any ideas.
‘Three fuckin’ goals!’ he says.
My mother smiles, rushes out of her seat. I know she’s no idea what he’s talking about, we both spent the afternoon at the park.
‘Well, done!’ she says placing a little kiss on his cheek, rubbing her hand on his back.
‘ Well done?’ The smell of whisky fills the room with the rise of his voice. ‘Is that it? Well- fucking — done? I put three goals past the league champions and I get this kinda shite from you. Look at you! Have you been sitting there all day in your baffies while I’m out running my arse into the ground?’
She shrinks back from him, but it’s too late. The back of his hand knocks her over the coffee table. Her head lands in the fireplace, knocking out the bulbs behind the plastic coals.
‘Get up!’ he roars. He’s taking off his jacket, rolling up his shirt sleeves. ‘Get up you lazy bitch.’
I’m frozen still. I shut my eyes. Will he still see me if I do this?
‘Get up!’ There’s anger pouring from him. His eyes are bulging, burning red, the same colour as my mother’s blood on the white shag pile.
She struggles to her feet. I can see her trying to walk, but her steps are unsteady and she collapses on the couch.
‘Up, up you useless bitch!’ he shouts.
Flecks of spittle are pouring from him, they lash my face. I close my eyes again but I can still hear him yelling, roaring. The smell of whisky makes me feel sick. I’m trying not to move, but I know he’s seen me.
‘What are you looking at?’ he says.
My heart quickens. In a second I’m running. I’m fast, round him and out the door in a flash. I feel the swish of his hand tracing my path, but he’s missed me.
‘Get back here, you wee bastard.’
‘Cannis, no! Leave the laddie,’ says my mother.
‘Shut it!’
There’s another sound — a hard fist connecting with my mother’s face. Then the noise of her collapsing on the floor.
I run to my room and bury my head under the pillows on my bed. But I can still hear the yells.
‘Three goals,’ he’s saying. ‘Three goals… Three goals…’
I’m praying the Scotland call-up will come soon.
Tony Black
Paying For It
I MET MAC at the ‘Big Foot’, the Paolozzi sculpture on Leith Street.
‘You hungry?’ he said.
‘Could eat a horse — and chase the rider!’
‘Aye, well, keep that thought. You might not have such an appetite once you hear what I’ve got to tell you.’
We headed through Picardy Place, past the Sherlock Holmes statue, to the Walk. This part of the city is its schizoid heart. Where the New Town’s rugby shirts and tweed caps give way to scores of tin-pot hard men and Staffies. I spotted three neds with fighting dogs in under a minute. Like the animal makes up for the undernourished frame, the coat-hanger shoulders, the general one-punch demeanour. Still, a merciful lack of shop fronts pushing shortbread and tartan down this way.