The Bullet Trick

I started to answer, but Mum put her hand on the small of my back. She should have been a nightclub bouncer. There was no arguing with that steady pressure. I bit back my words and we made our way to the only seats available, two stained chairs set round a table littered with a debris of sandwich wrappers and dirty cups. I slid the tray between the mess.

Suddenly I wanted a pint.

Mum set our cups on the table and started to fill the empty tray with the rubbish. A plastic sandwich pack sprang open and her mouth grew tight as she forced it shut.

'Do you have to pick a fight with everyone you meet?'

I watched her hand the tray to a passing employee with the smoothness of a fly-half passing a rugby ball. One minute the guy was loose-limbed and unburdened, the next he was laden.

'Bad manners annoy me.'

Mum folded a napkin and placed it between the saucer and the cup to soak up the slopped coffee. She rubbed a paper hanky over the spills of the previous customers, then put her carrier bag on the table between the lattes.

'It’s me that’s the pensioner, not you.'

'Aye, sorry.'

She smiled to show me the reprimand was over then reached into her handbag and pulled out an envelope with her address written on it in my handwriting.

'I’d best give you this before I forget.'

'Oh, right.'

I took the envelope from her, feeling the cord that seems to stretch from my guts to my groin tighten.

'You said it was insurance documents.'

'That’s right.'

I slid it into my inside pocket wondering if Montgomery’s envelope would be my insurance or a bait to my downfall.

'Your dad always said you had a good head on you, underneath all the carry-on.'

'Thanks, Mum.'

'I brought you a couple of things.' She unfolded the plastic bag and pulled out a three-pack of navy socks. 'I thought you could probably do with these.'

'Thanks.' I lifted them up trying to look interested in the 80 per cent wool, 20 per cent acrylic mix. 'Great.'

'They were on sale in the Asda. How are you for pants?'

'Fine.'

'I almost bought you some, but I minded the last time I got them you said they were the wrong sort.' I vaguely recalled a set of piping-trimmed Y-fronts I’d be scared to get run over in. 'I brought you this as well.' She handed me a blue shirt still in its cellophane wrapping. 'I got it for your dad, but he never got the chance to wear it.'

It was the kind of shirt that would look good with an off-the-peg from Slaters, a shirt for a nine-to-five man, the kind of shirt I never wore.

'It’ll mebbe be a bit big for you but I thought you could wear it under a jumper.'

I took it in my hand smoothing the slightly brittle cellophane.

'Aye, it’ll be grand in this weather.'

'That’s what I thought. Keep the chill out.'

We sat in silence for a moment. Neither of us touched our coffee.

'I bought it for your dad to wear to Lorna’s wedding, but he went before that came round.'

I bowed my head. Every time there was a crisis Mum would begin to reminisce about my dad’s death, as if reassuring herself with the knowledge that the worst had already happened.

She lifted her teaspoon and began to peel back the skin that had started to form on the top of her drink. 'Almost two pounds each these coffees and we’ve not even touched them.' I lifted my cup and took a sip. 'I almost had him buried in that shirt, but in the end I dressed him in plain white. I don’t know why, blue always suited him better. White just seemed more appropriate for a funeral.'

'There’s no point in fretting over it now. I’ll wear it under a jumper.'

'Aye,' she laid aside the teaspoon and looked me straight on. 'Or mebbe you should keep it in the packet and save it for your own funeral.'

'What’s that meant to mean?'

'Look at the state of you, son.'

'I’m fine.'

'You don’t look it.'

'Well, I am.'

I sat up a little straighter hoping improved posture would convince her. But I knew what she meant. I’d looked in the mirror before I left my room and seen my face puffy from the night before, my skin pale from days spent indoors, my cheeks jowlier than they’d been in Berlin.

'Why are you here, William?'

'That’s a nice question.'

Her face wore the same stern look she’d used to coax the truth from me when I’d been a wee boy.

'You’re not in trouble are you?'

For a second I wished I could tell her everything. The thought almost made me laugh. It was like an urge to put a finger in an electric socket or the impulse to jump under a subway train. I knew it would be fatal but the temptation still beckoned. I took a sip of my coffee, looked her in the eye and said, 'Of course not.'

The straight stare worked no better than when I’d been a kid.

'It’s nothing to do with drugs is it? Your dad was always worried about you being in showbiz. I told him you were a sensible laddie but he said it was high risk for drugs. I mean look at Elvis.'

She smiled at my dad’s folly, agreeing with him all the same.

'It’s not drugs, Mum, honest.'

'Honest?'

She took another sip of her drink, uncertain but wanting to be reassured.

'Honest.' I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. 'You need to keep a clear head in my line.'

'Aye, I suppose so.'

'How’s Bobby?'

Her face brightened.

'He’s grand. Mrs Cowan’s laddie’s going to take him out when he comes in from school.'

'I didn’t know they were letting dogs into school these days.'

It was a poor joke but she did me the grace of laughing.

'You know what I mean. Though mind you, he’s as clever as some folk I’ve met.'

'More intelligent than Mrs Cowan’s laddie that’s for sure.'

'Ach, you’re terrible, William. He’s doing his standard grades now.'

'That’s good.'

I sipped my coffee, pleased the conversation had moved to neutral ground. I should have known better. Mum let me relax, then hit me again with the old verbal one-two.

'Is it a girl, son?'

I kept my voice level.

'There was a girl, Mum, but there isn’t any more.'

She smiled. Romance was a good problem.

We left Starbucks and walked down towards the town. Mum wanted to see where I was staying. I said it was being painted, but promised to take her when the renovations were over. She asked me about the colours the decorators had chosen and I lied my way through an addled spectrum that had her shaking her head. We wandered into Marks & Spencer’s where she clucked at the prices and tried to patch my misery with reduced-price knitwear.

'It’s not my style, Mum.'

'You’re getting too old for style, son. Feel that, it’s lovely wool.'

'I’d never wear it.'

She reluctantly let go of the sleeve of the jumper she’d been holding out for my inspection.

'It’s a nice shade. It’d go well with your complexion.'

I thought it looked the colour of dog sick. But I smiled and said, 'Where do you want to go now?'

She straightened the hooks on the hangers, making sure they were all facing in a uniform direction.

'I still think these are a bargain.'

'Not if they stay in the cupboard.'

'I suppose not.'

Across the racks a smartly dressed shopper stared at us. She looked away as I caught her eye and I wondered if she was the store detective or just a nosy cow with too much time on her hands. I glanced to check Mum’s back was turned then mouthed Fuck you, clear and silent. Mum dug me sharp in the ribs.

'What?'

'You know what. I brought you up better than that.'

'Sorry. She was staring at us.'

'Well, let her stare.' Mum steered me towards the exit. 'And you a bally magician. Did you not know I could see you in the mirror?' She started to laugh. 'Mind she was a nosy torn-faced auld besom.' We were both laughing now. Mum wiped her eyes. 'Honestly, you’ll be the death of me.' She looked the most cheerful she’d been all day. 'Come on,' she handed me her shopper. 'It’s an hour before I need to get the bus. Will I take you for a wee drink?'