Glasgow
I DECIDED TO have my pre-performance drink in a bar beneath the railway arches because it was close to the Panopticon and I couldn’t imagine any of the university buddies Johnny had recruited to help with the show dropping in for a quick one. The pub was tiny and cheap so it was never empty, but I was unprepared for the swarm of people busying it so early in the afternoon. I stood at the top of the small flight of steps leading down into the bar, taking in the press of green, the Celtic shirts and scarves, the shamrocks and Jimmy hats, and realised it was St Patrick’s Day. I hesitated for a second, wondering if the pub could accommodate another drinker, then a fresh group of men arrived and swept me down into the familiar odour of smoke, sweat and beer. I ordered a whisky even though every pint of Guinness came with a shamrock etched into the foam. Someone moved, I slid into a prime spot next to the cigarette machine and placed my drink on the ready-made shelf. St Patrick had chased the snakes out of Ireland. Maybe this was an omen that things would go well. But then it was a holiday to mark his death, so maybe it was a sign that the snakes always won in the end. The old man at the table next to me started to sing, When I was a bachelor, I lived by myself
And I worked at the weaver’s trade;
The only, only thing that I ever done wrong
Was to woo a fair young maid.
I wooed her in the summer-time,
And part of the winter-time too;
He turned and smiled a happy full-on denture smile and some old men joined in.
But the only thing that I ever did wrong
Was to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.
The result was surprisingly melodic, when you considered that it was 2.30 in the afternoon and everyone seemed to be pissed. The aged singer had eyes the colour of forget-menots. They were soft and wet and happy with drink and memories. He cast his gaze around the room.
One night this maid came to my bed
Where I lay fast asleep.
She laid her head upon my chest
And then she began to weep.
'You’re a dirty bugger, Peter,' shouted one of the drinkers. The old man smiled and tipped the heckler a wink, but he kept on singing.
She sighed, she cried, she damn near died.
She said, 'What shall I do?'
So I took her into bed and I covered up her head Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.
Behind my eyes a man covered a woman’s ruined head with a clean white sheet. I put down my drink and went into the gents to splash water on my face. When I returned the song was over and someone had taken my place by the fag machine, but my drink was still there.
The barman squeezed by, collecting empty glasses. He handed the singer a half pint and a nip and said indulgently, 'There’ll be no cut-price pensioner half’n’halfs if you lot get me shut down. Yous know I’ve no got an entertainment licence.'
An old drinker leant over.
'It’s a dog licence he’s needing with a voice like that.'
There was a burst of laughter, then someone on the other side of the room raised their voice and shouted, 'Give us a song, Ann.' The rest of the regulars took up the cry till even the men who’d only come for a St Patrick’s Day bevvy joined in. The young barmaid shook her head shyly, but the drinkers kept up the demand, some of them banging the table with their pint glasses, chorusing Ann, Ann, Ann until the manager hurried back behind the counter and led the girl out in front. There was a call for hush followed by a shushing that threatened to descend into disruption, then the girl raised her face to the ceiling, closed her eyes and started to sing. Everyone else fell silent.
My young love said to me, 'My mother won’t mind And my father won’t slight you for your lack of kind'
And she stepped away from me and this she did say:
'It will not be long, love, till our wedding day.'
Her voice was high and clear and pure. It should have made me think of green rolling hills and the white froth of a waterfall glinting against the sun, but instead I saw Sylvie strapped to the target as I walked towards her, masked in my Young Bones Wilson costume. She seemed to press herself against the board. One of the sparkles in her hair caught the light and a bright prism glanced into my eyes, giving me a quick flash of the whole rainbow spectrum. It was an instant as fast as a bullet, then it was gone and there was just the frightened girl and the faceless audience watching from the dark.
As she stepped away from me and she moved through the fair And fondly I watched her move here and move there And then she turned homeward with one star awake Like the swan in the evening moves over the lake.
I took the bullet from my pocket, gripped it between my finger and thumb and held it high in the air. Dix came out of the blackness, the scarf still hiding his features. He had a second man with him. The man wore a smart black suit over a black shirt and a latex mask of a red fox. The fox’s wide smile was hungry, the eyes that glinted from its head an unnatural green that made me think of the damage a broken beer bottle can do.
The people were saying, no two e’er were wed
But one had a sorrow that never was said
And I smiled as she passed with her goods and her gear, And that was the last that I saw of my dear.
The fox stared at the bullet for an age, turning it over in his hand, holding it close to his eye examining it until I lost track of time. Then at last he took the pen from Dix’s hand and initialled the bullet along its edge, making sure he’d recognise it again. I handed Dix the revolver and he passed it to the fox, who examined it with the same intense thoroughness he’d used on the bullet. Then he gave the gun and bullet directly to me and stared through his green eyes as I placed the bullet into the revolver. That was the difficult moment, the point where I made the switch. And I managed it; I swapped the live bullet for its wax twin and loaded it into the chamber right before his suspicious eyes. He walked away and Sylvie and I were left facing each other in the bright white pool of light, surrounded on all sides by a blackness darker than deep space. I continued my mantra, concentrate, concentrate, concentrate, until her face lost its focus and became just a pale white thing, pressed behind glass, like a dead butterfly with a red marking at its centre.
Last night she came to me, my dead love came in.
So softly she came that her feet made no din
As she laid her hand on me and this she did say,
'It will not be long, love,' til our wedding day.'
The pub broke into a racket of applause, rattling beer glasses and whoops. The barmaid bowed prettily and ducked behind the counter before she could be pressed into an encore. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and took another sip of my whisky. Then something made me look through the crush of bodies to the far end of the room, to where Inspector James Montgomery stood, still and sober amongst the revelry, with his eyes fixed on me.
The ex-policeman gave me a vague smile, the kind you might give a man whose face you recognise but can’t quite place. I kept my own expression neutral and said, 'You’re early.'
'Yeah, well I thought I’d arrive in good time, do a bit of sightseeing. I’ve never been to Scotland before.' He grinned. 'No wonder all you Jocks head down south.' Montgomery shook his head. 'What a dump.'
'Not like the classy joint you had your retirement do in, eh?'