The Bullet Trick

Sylvie said, 'When was the last time you saw your prick, you fat fuck?', just as I shoved the heel of my hand into the centre of his barrel chest. It wasn’t a hard push, but the man was drunk. He staggered backwards, jarring against the table behind us, spilling drinks in a smash of ice and glass undercut by the sudden protests of the drinkers. It looked like he was going to hit the ground, but the fat man’s rolling gait had taught him his centre of gravity and he regained his balance, pitching like a skittle that refuses to go down. The grin was back now, broader than before. Up on stage Sebastian faltered. The man shrugged his shoulders, palms raised upwards to show there was no problem. I righted my fallen chair and he turned back to me, his voice hurt.

'Why fight about a whore? She’s anyone’s for the asking.'

'Not yours.'

He shrugged.

'Enjoy her. She’s a good fuck, for a whore.'

Sylvie sloshed her wine in his face. The fat man shook his head like a Labrador shaking itself free of water after a swim. He put his face close to Sylvie’s and spoke in English for my benefit. 'You best watch out, Sweetheart, word is your boyfriend’s in debt to the wrong men, and my guess is it’s you who’ll have to pay.'

He put a hand on her breast and squeezed.

When I thought about it later I wasn’t sure whether my anger was sparked by the squeeze or because the man had referred to Dix as Sylvie’s boyfriend. But at that moment there were no coherent thoughts in my head, just the blinding red of rage.

I hit him a punch that connected with his jaw and a bolt of pain shot up through my knuckles. The room boomed as Sebastian dropped the mike. I grabbed my injured right hand in my left and the fat man made to get me in a hug. Sylvie started throwing glasses.

One skated across the stage. Its rumbling progress was picked up by Sebastian’s abandoned mike and blasted across the room. The second flew towards the fat man. He ducked, but too slowly to avoid a glancing blow; beer splashed into his eyes and his big hands flew towards them. Sebastian clambered from the stage. Everything seemed to slow except Sylvie. She kept on moving, grabbing her bag and coat, pushing me towards the door.

'Forget it!'

We staggered towards the exit, no one making any move to stop us, except for Sebastian, who was off the stage now, his progress hampered by the patrons. I looked behind me and saw him leap a table, more threatening than a man in women’s underwear should be.

We clattered up the basement steps and out into the street. I followed Sylvie blindly, chasing the sound of her heels until at last I realised there was no one behind us and stopped, leaning forward, hands on knees, taking deep gasps of the night air, wondering if I would ever breathe normally again. Sylvie heard the echo of my footsteps fail. She turned and laughed, then resumed her siren flight, her heels ringing against the pavement. I took a deep draught of air and ran on, realising I was no longer fleeing Sebastian. Sylvie darted away from the main drag, down a darkened alleyway and I followed, caught in the chase.

For a second I thought I’d gone the wrong way. The lane looked deserted. Then Sylvie laughed again and I saw her, hidden in the shelter of a goods entrance. Her smile shone out from the darkness and the fat man’s words flashed through my mind. Her voice was low and teasing.

'You fought for my honour, William.'

'Was it worth saving?'

Her voice dipped an octave.

'Come here and find out.'

I walked slowly down the alley until I was facing her. We stood not touching for a moment then I put my hands gently on her hips and we leaned into a kiss that started gentle and grew deep. I broke the clinch, moving my mouth down to her neck, feeling her hand beneath my jacket, warm against my spine. Sylvie pressed herself into me, digging her hipbone hard against my erection.

I asked, 'What about Dix?'

She stroked her hand down the length of my groin.

'This dick?'

'Your uncle or whoever he is.'

I breathed kisses against her neck, wondering why I was raising objections.

'Don’t worry about Dix. He’s been in trouble before. He’ll get out of it again.'

I wondered what she meant but then her hands moved to my fly, pushing all thoughts away. Her fingers slid inside my trousers, releasing me. I had her dress open down the front now. Her breasts were small and round, soft and firm at the same time. I lowered my mouth and Sylvie arched her back, pushing herself towards me but never letting off the pressure down below. I moved my own hands beneath her dress, pulling at her tights, not caring if I tore them. She whispered, 'Fuck me.' And I steered her against the wall, tugging her knickers down, feeling her soft wetness. I glanced up and saw her pale, smooth face, her mouth slightly open. A shadow hung beneath her cheekbone, the same shade as a bruise.

She looked young and vulnerable, defenceless beneath my rough hands.

Something inside me shifted and Sylvie whispered, 'You OK?'

I whispered, 'Shit.' Sylvie’s hand started to move, trying to revive me, but I knew it was no use. I pushed her away more roughly than I’d intended and she jarred her head against the doorway.

'Sorry.'

My voice grated in the darkness.

'It’s OK.' Sylvie rubbed the back of her head then started to button her dress. 'It happens.'

'Did I hurt you?'

'I’m in for a hangover tomorrow anyway.'

'I didn’t mean to hurt you.'

'Hey, William, it’s OK. It was an accident.'

I looked away and we started straightening our clothing, our awkward modesty at odds with the moments before. There was a sound of voices from the mouth of the alley, a couple of youths walked towards us and I realised the madness of what we’d been about to do. One of them said something to Sylvie as he passed and she answered him back in a short guttural phrase that made me think of Glasgow. I asked, 'What did he say?'

'Nothing.'

'Was he being funny?'

She ignored me, righting her dress. I groped through my scant vocabulary for an insult to throw at them.

'Shitzders.'

The boys looked back over their shoulders shouting something back at us, but not bothering to rise to the insult.

Sylvie’s voice was tired.

'Shitzder? That isn’t even a word.'

'They got the message.'

'I guess they did.'

We were back on the main street now. Glass display cases shone at the edge of the pavement boasting of the fine objects for sale in the adjacent department stores —

handbags, jewellery, shoes, accessories for your accessories — everything shiny, everything expensive. Two disembodied heads on impossibly long necks gazed out from one of the glass cubes, tiny hats teetering on their Marcel waves. Their stares were superior, as if they found the hatless passers-by rather common, too encumbered by flesh. Somewhere across the city I could see the illuminated sign of the Mercedes Benz building rotating slowly in the night sky. Hidden beyond it the half-ruined spire of the bomb-blasted memorial church would be shining out a warning against war.

Up ahead the lights of a taxi rank glowed into view, a row of white Mercs waiting for business. We walked to the top of the line, I opened the door and Sylvie got in.

'Want a lift?'

'No, I’ll walk, sober up a bit before I get to the hotel.'

Sylvie gave me a last kiss, her eyes glassy with tiredness, drink and almost-sex. Her smile shone from the cab’s shadows. 'You gonna be OK?'

'Don’t worry.'

'See you tomorrow?'

I nodded my head then slammed the door, not knowing if she could see my face in the darkness of the street.

Glasgow

NOT SO LONG ago, in the days when Glasgow was shipbuilding capital of the world, particular pubs opened before dawn to kill the drouth of the nightshift. While rich men slept and children rested safe in bed, while mothers readied themselves for the day and posties sorted through their sacks, the nightshift looked at the clock and licked their lips.