‘Yeah. Kinda.’
18
On the way upstairs, I passed a picture hanging in the hall that grabbed my attention. ‘Cannis Dury, Scottish Cup Final 1978’, it said on the frame. How had I missed this? I stared at the photo for a full minute. He’d just scored. None of the Ryan Giggs making a lasso of his shirt. Was barely a glimmer of recognition in his eye. The only reason I knew he’d scored was that he had the ball under his arm. Back to the centre line, more work to do. No messing. That’s how he played.
My father had a rep as a studs first sweeper; shouted himself silent every game. Would have made Vinnie Jones look like a shandy drinker. I once met one of his old adversaries, who summed him up in one word: ‘Fierce.’ I’d never been able to better that.
I turned the picture to face the wall.
I had the key to the flat in my hand as my mobile started ringing.
‘Hello?’
‘Ah, ’tis your bold self!’
‘Milo?’
‘Who did ye think it was? There’s not many have the brogue as thick as me, not since Dave Allen passed, anyway.’
I gave a little laugh. ‘It’s good to hear from you.’
‘Bollocks, isn’t it the life of Riley you’ll be living, not a care in the world, lest of all for an old pot-walloper like m’self.’
He had me, but I couldn’t disguise how glad I was to hear his voice. ‘So how are you, buddy?’
A hacking cough, chased by peals of laughter. ‘Oh, grand, grand. Doctors reckon I’ve weeks ahead of me!’
His patter sounded tremendous for the age of him and the life he led. I couldn’t admire him more. ‘Stop, you’re killing me!’
‘I’ll stop now, I will. To be serious for a second, Gus…’ Milo’s voice dropped to the pits of him, his words came like tremors to my ears, ‘I was wondering, well, hoping really, if you could oblige me-’
I cut him off. ‘Name it, Milo.’
‘Well it’s — you’ll think I’m such an old fool.’
‘Never.’ He had me concerned, he began to sound so fearful. ‘What is it?’
‘If you had some time free, Gus, would you ever be able to pay me a little visit?’
‘Sure I would. God, Milo, it would be a pleasure. Didn’t I say I’d be round soon enough?’
‘No, Gus, you misunderstand. I don’t mean a social visit.’
‘What?’
I heard him shuffle the phone from hand to hand, then his voice sank to barely a whisper, ‘There are some very strange things afoot here.’
‘You’ll have to speak up, I can hardly hear you.’
More shuffling of the phone, then, ‘Some very young women, pale as ghosts they were, and-’ He stopped dead.
‘Milo? Milo, you still there?’
‘I can’t really say any more — it’s the cute hoor.’
‘Gotcha. Stalin’s about?’
‘Ahem, yes, that’s right.’
My mind flipped back to Milo’s black eye. ‘I swear, if that bastard has laid a finger on you-’
‘No, Gus, sure I’m fine — right as rain!’
I sensed he overstated things, he sounded clearly distressed by something. ‘I’ll be round right away.’
‘No! Jaysus, would ye ever listen? Amn’t I fine? All I’m saying is I’d like to get your considered opinion on something.’ He had started to choose his words too carefully for my liking, I could tell he feared they might land him in trouble. ‘When ye have a moment, just drop by. I will look out for you. Goodbye for now.’
He hung up before I could say another word.
19
The door to my flat sat open. Right away, I thought it looked like the result of a blackout. Couldn’t remember leaving the latch off, but hey, there’s a lot of things I’ve lost to the drink. Inside I jolted: I’d have remembered this, surely.
The flat looked like a war zone. Bed thrown arseways. Mattress to the wall. Table, missing its legs, lay in bits under a pile of debris.
‘C’mon, Gus — think.’ It was no good. If I’d any part in this, it had left me.
My mind flipped into cartwheels.
I waded through the broken plates and torn cushions that covered the floor. Newspapers scattered to the four winds alongside a busted set of venetian blinds. My own cuttings, all my top scoops, ripped to bits. Every picture frame kicked cockeyed.
I did a circuit, picking up bits and pieces as I went. Was beginning to think this wasn’t me. Much too comprehensive a going over for a start. I wouldn’t have had the energy.
I pushed the door closed and saw it. Scrawled in foot-high lettering, ‘GET OUT!’
Neat, almost stencilled, in block capitals. I went closer, looked like a magi-marker. ‘What’s wrong with the old spray can?’ I wondered.
I did another lap of the joint. It all looked very strange. A textbook turnover for sure. But who would do this? It wasn’t gangster style. They’d have torched the place, or done my knees. Hadn’t Benny the Bullfrog already given me one warning through Mac? A second would be verging on weakness. Either Zalinskas had turned soft, which I doubted, or someone else was also on my case.
A rap on the door stuck a needle in me. I turned quickly, grabbed up a broken table leg. A makeshift club, not quite the regulation baseball bat, but close enough to be in the ball park. I gripped tight, slapped the end of it into my open palm. Got set to knock seven bells out of all comers.
I walked to the door, called out, ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me. Who do you think it is?’
‘Col, just a minute.’ I wasn’t about to let him see the state of the place. He had enough to worry about without this adding to his woes.
‘I’ve brought you a wee bit of lunch.’
Heard a tray rattle. Shit. He wanted in.
‘Eh, could you leave it outside? I’m just getting into the shower.’
A long pause, then I heard the tray rattle again.
‘Suit yourself. But don’t let it get cold. It’s mince and stovies, thought you looked like you could do with a bit of fattening up.’
Another one, what was this?
I stuck my fingers down the sides of my jeans. They were 32s and loose. Maybe I’d missed the odd meal. Weight is a national obsession in Scotland, no one likes to see a skelf. In Edinburgh, since we got the tag ‘Aids Capital of Europe’, being a bit skelky wasn’t a good look.
I waited till I heard Col’s footsteps on the stairs, then I got the tray. Polished off the stovies in no time. Began to feel contented within myself, sat back and loosened off my top button. Then I remembered I wasn’t staying. ‘Don’t get too comfortable, Gus,’ I told myself.
It didn’t take long to straighten out the flat. I picked up the cushions, put away the rest of the wreckage and hung a calendar over the warning notice.
I took out an old Lotto kit bag that I used for the gym when I was health conscious, employed, married… stable. Filled it with a few essentials from the wardrobe and a handful of books from the shelves. Some Hemingway and Steinbeck, to escape Edinburgh, and some Nietzsche to put my feet back on the ground.
In the bar, I caught Col’s eye as he finished serving a punter. I saw he’d taken down the picture of my father and propped it against a box of smoky bacon crisps.
He caught me staring. ‘I meant to take that down ages ago,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Gus… but what with one thing and another, I must have forgotten.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘No. No. I know you told me to bin the lot of them after… Well, I just missed that one.’
‘Col, it’s your pub. I’ve no right to tell you what you can put on the wall.’
A long silence stretched between us. Col turned an open hand to the pumps. I shook my head.
‘You must loathe the man,’ he said.
‘Got that right.’
‘He’s your father.’
‘And…?’
‘Whatever he’s done, nothing changes that, surely.’
I shot him a glower, then stared over his head to the line of mixers.
‘I am only saying, Gus. Whatever he’s done, could you not forgive him?’
I took my hands out of my pockets, reached down for the kit bag and swiftly lifted it from the bar stool before me.