Terry remains silent, but thinks: they dinnae like you either, ya cunt.
The Poof asks Terry about the sauna. Terry informs him that it’s all good, but that Jinty is still missing. — It’s like she’s vanished oaf the face ay the Earth.
— Fuckin hoors. The Poof’s tones briefly fracture, before he adds in more measured timbre, — She wis a good earner. She better no huv went ower tae Power’s place. Track her doon, Terry.
— Ah’ve been oan the lookout, ay, Terry says, glancing out at the rain-lashed car park. He moves one step sideways, opening the automatic doors. Another step back closes them.
— Track her doon, The Poof repeats, adding the ingredient of exasperation. — She’s goat tae learn that ye dinnae jist walk oot on me wi nae fuckin explanation. Ah dinnae dae business that wey.
Maybe it really was time, Terry considers, to stop thinking of Vic as ‘The Poof’. — Okay, Vic, ah’ll dae ma best.
— That’s aw ah kin ask, mate, but if ah ken you that’ll be mair than enough. Loads ay faith in ye, The Poof says ominously, then hangs up.
Terry isn’t easily intimidated by nature. He’s faced down many jealous husbands and boyfriends in his time, crossing men whose destructive passions had driven them to the point of madness. But The Poof, this one-time figure of abject contempt, now places a chill in him, and he allows himself a guilty shiver.
As he lets his foot move to the side, the door opens again. Then, from the corner of his eye, he sees that somebody is watching him. It is a small, thin man, his hair sparse on top, but sticking out prominently at the sides. It is Jinty’s boyfriend, the wee half-brother he’d seen in The Pub With No Name. He is probably in to see the auld cunt upstairs, Terry considers.
Jonty moves over to Terry. He places his foot forward, making the sliding doors open. Then close. Then open. Then he looks up at Terry. — Ye pit yir fit one wey, they open. Ye pit it the other wey, they shut. Aye sur.
— Sound, Terry nods.
Jonty makes the doors open and shut again. From a distance down the hall, a man in a security guard uniform frowns. He moves towards them.
— Open. Shut, Jonty says.
— Better stoap, mate, ay. Here comes the boy.
— Aw, Jonty says. — Will ah leave thum open or shut?
— Shut, says Terry, taking Jonty by the arm and pulling him closer. The security guard stops a few feet away, his thumbs resting in the belted waistband of his flannel trousers. He contemplates them for a second, then turns and heads back to his desk. Terry breaks a sparse smile. — You’re Hank’s wee brar, ay?
— Aye sur, Jonty MacKay! That’s me. Aye sur. Aye. Aye.
— I’m Terry. Terry Lawson. I’m Hank’s big brother, well, big half-brother.
Jonty looks agog at Terry. — Does that mean you’re ma brother n aw?
— Half-brother, aye. But dinnae git too excited, it’s no exactly an exclusive club, ay.
Jonty seems to grow downcast at this consideration. — They ey sais thaire wis others, aye they did. Muh ma n that. Aye sur, aye, aye. Others.
— Plenty, mate. So ye git called MacKay?
— Aye, cause ah changed it, like Hank n Karen, ma brar n sister, whin muh ma went wi Billy MacKay. Aye sur, Billy MacKay. Penicuik. Aye sur. But ah’m really John Lawson.
— Sound, says Terry. — So you’re up tae see him then?
— Aye sur, ah am. Ye gaunny see um?
— Mibbe later, pal, ay.
Jonty nods at this, and prepares to take his leave. — See ye, Terry! See ye, pal!
— Awright, mate, Terry smiles, watching him go.
So Terry waits for Alice, lighting a cigarette from the pack he’d taken from the golf club bar last night, after Ronnie had defeated that sweaty golf pro on the final hole. He’d stopped eight years ago. Thank fuck the doctor said nothing about tobacco and drugs, though it’s probably reasonable to assume that with a serious heart condition, ching, in particular, isn’t a great idea. In the event, realising his weakness, and noting the raptorial gaze of the security guard, he crushes out the cigarette halfway through and, thinking of Jonty, opens the doors, flicking it outside. He makes eyes at the vending machine for the best part of ten minutes, resisting a bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, before his mother appears. Alice looks frail; it is as if Terry is seeing her for the first time, and he feels impelled to take her arm, which she brushes off.
The doors swish open as two girls walk into the hospital. Even through the erection-crushing bromide pills they’ve given him, Terry can feel a root insinuating. To Alice’s surprise, he turns away to face the wall.
— There was this funny wee guy up there, Alice says, her mouth puckering in distaste, — he kept peeking in through the window, but he wouldnae come in.
Terry nods as they walk across the car park in a dull drizzle of rain. — Aye, ah saw him earlier. Wee Jonty’s his name. Another yin ay they bastards that auld cunt knocked oot eftir eh ditched you!
Alice cringes visibly as Terry opens the cab door for her. She climbs in and he gets into his seat, starting up the engine and pulling away. He is lost in a single thought: I WILL NEVER HAVE A DECENT RIDE AGAIN. It is some time before he even hears his mother’s voice. — Terry! Ah’m talking to you! Ye no even gaunny ask how eh is?
— Ye telt ays that the cunt’s dyin, so ah’m assuming still shite.
This has the desired effect of stopping Alice in her tracks, but the way she wilts into the unforgiving cab upholstery induces a spasm of guilt in Terry. His mother sadly ponders, — It disnae look like it’ll be long now.
Terry can’t spare a single beat of empathy or regret for Henry. The extent of his hatred for the man, even now, shocks him. He is more than happy to drop Alice back at Sighthill. As she gets out the cab, the rain now stopped but the sky still overcast with black cloud, Alice says sheepishly, — Donna wants tae go in and see him. Tae show him Kasey Linn.
— What? Terry’s head cranes round. — She doesnae even ken the bastard! Now she’s takin her bairn in tae see him?
— She barely kens her faither, so ye cannae blame her wantin tae know her grandfaither, Alice says quietly, her tone crestfallen rather than confrontational, so Terry sucks down a breath and starts the cab, pulling off without saying goodbye and driving right back into town.
The rain’s come on again, now falling in whipping sheets as Terry sets the wiper to work, cheerlessly negotiating the tired city-centre traffic. Having juggled multiple relationships for years, enduring all the myriad hassles, he believed that life without sexual encounters would at least become more straightforward. However, if anything, it seems to be getting more complex than ever, but without the telling pay-off. He decides to head back down to Leith and the sauna.
When he arrives, Kelvin is on the desk. Terry finds it impossible to look into those pinched, shrew-like eyes without the words TAXING CHEAT flashing into his brain. Although Kelvin had never called him, they’d swapped phone numbers as tired business protocol, and he’d punched his digits in under that designation. — Still nae sign ay Jinty? Terry mechanistically enquires.
— Naw, n Vic isnae chuffed, Kevin slyly trills. — He liked tae go a wee bit voodoo oan that scrubber, he volunteers, as Terry keeps his stare trained on him. — Bit ye could check oot that boozer in George Street, the one she goes tae every Setirday night. That Business Bar.
— Right, Terry nods, — ah ken the boy that owns it.
He immediately realises that he shouldn’t have disclosed that information, as it sets off a series of scamming gymnastics in Kelvin’s eyes that would be visible from space.
Then Sara-Ann phones, and Terry picks up to a storm of accusation. — Where are you? Where have you been?
He moves across the reception area, out of Kelvin’s earshot. — Busy, eh.
— I’ll bet! Sara-Ann roars. — You never think about one single soul other than yourself!
Terry is about to disclose his medical condition, but checks himself. A couple of girls are
hanging around on the settees, talking and drinking coffee. Besides, rule number one: tell them fuck all. — Ah wis takin muh ma tae visit ma faither in the hoaspital, then helpin a pal look for this lassie in ehs work. He raises his voice to open out his motives. — She’s gone missin.
There follows a short silence on the line, which Terry takes as indicative of some kind of penitence. Then it is followed by a reaching, — When can I see you?
— Ah’ll gie ye a bell the morn. No bein wide, but I’m up tae ma eyes in it right now.
— Make sure you phone me! I need to see you!
A couple of days ago, Terry thought of Sara-Ann as a beautiful woman, feeling exalted in her company. Now that he can’t shag her, all he can see is hassle and need.
30
IN GOD WE TRUST – PART 3
THE UNUSUAL SILENCE on the ride out to Musselburgh – other than Terry’s thin breathing and the ticking over of the engine – is starting to bug the shit outta me. I’m back on my phone, scrolling emails as I look out the window at the sunlight flickering through the threadbare trees. Maybe just a little sign that God ain’t quite given up on this place yet.
Terry must be about the only asshole I’ve never wanted to fire. Why? is the question that bugs me all the way out to the course. I run a business, and the first thing I wanna check is any employee’s résumé. I’m the star (the cocksucking, motherfucking STAR) of a TV show, where I repeatedly stress the same goddamn thing. So why did I hire Terry, some bum from a project, when I know nothing about him? I guess because he wants nothing from me. I guess because he said no. But he’s my fucking driver, and he orders me around! I take shit from this asshole that I ain’t taken from anybody!
God, give me the power to resist this strangely charismatic corkscrew-headed asshole and his crappy ghetto drugs . . .
But hell, I gotta admit that I hate to see him crushed like this. There must be something I can do to cheer him up. I get a sudden inspiration. — You know, Terry, when I conclude this piece of business and obtain the second and third Bowcullen Trinity bottles, you and I are gonna open one of them, and we are gonna have a big drink from it!
— Aye, Terry says drearily, like I’ve suggested he lives off food stamps for ever, — but you said that the three bottles together were the investment. The big value was in the Trinity, and that two on their ain wirnae worth a sook.
I’m wondering what in hell’s name a ‘sook’ is – probably some Scarish name for a pound or ‘half a quid’ as those assholes put it.
— Hell yeah, but life is to be lived! If I obtain two, they can be the investment. I just let it be known that the third has been consumed. Then the demand for the two existing ones should become even bigger, once we concoct some bullshit story for the media of why we had to drink the third! C’mon! Let’s nail that motherfucker as a goddamn celebration!
Terry doesn’t seem too elated. — You’re countin your chickens, Ronnie, you’ve only got one bottle as things stand. Ye shouldnae take things for granted.
— Sack that loser talk, Terry. Think positive and take life’s prizes! It’s a foregone conclusion. I play off a five handicap, he’s a seven, and I’ve golfed head-to-head six times with that Dutch asshole, and won five of them! C’mon, buddy, think about it, a one-hundred-thousand-dollar bottle of Skatch, the most expensive whisky in the whole wide world ever, and we are gonna be drinking that sonofabitch . . . I’ll bet you’re excited, huh?
— Cannae wait.
I’m trying to work out what this goddamn mood swing is all about. — That lil thing you’re sweet on been bustin your balls, huh? Ole Occupy? Hell, don’t worry about that shit! What was it you said about buses and broads, right?
Terry’s chewing on his bottom lip, like he’s fixing to say something, but opts to let it pass. We pull up in the parking lot and go to get a drink in the clubhouse. We opted for Musselburgh, as Muirfield is a little too well known. The hallway leading to the bar is dark and narrow. At the end there’s a radiance that hints at light without necessarily promising it. The Skatch seem to have embraced the outside darkness in their architecture and design, which throws up dark corners evoking concealed recesses, but also in the character of its people: full of hidden, bleak chambers. The broker, Milroy, comes in and joins us. He’s a worried-looking undertaker-like dude, close-cut receding hairline and the nervous grey eyes of a trauma victim expecting more shit-kicking pain to come down on his ass. The motherfucker deserving of real agony, though, is that asshole Mortimer, who still hasn’t shown up with the Skatch.
I call him, and he says he’s just left Edinboro airport as his flight from London was delayed. Third World bullshit!
I call Lars to tell him this and he ain’t happy, but he feels better when I suggest a game of golf. He and his henchman, whom Terry shakes hands with, arrive a little while later. Lars says he’s been working on his game and he wants to surprise me when we play off for the Skatch, so he’d rather go round with his own guy, this blond Nazi goon with the laser-blue eyes that seem to be perpetually looking for something to destroy. We let them go ahead, while Milroy and I decide to play each other. Terry’s caddying, or talking sneakily on his cellphone, probably to pussy, maybe even sweet lil Miss Occupy, as the game progresses.
Mortimer eventually arrives, wearing an overcoat and leather gloves, carrying the whisky in an ordinary duffel bag, as I instructed. He makes to open his mouth, but I decide that asshole’s penance will be to come round the course with me. Fuck his stiff Yankee ass! Well, he obliges, but he has that expression on his face, like he’s been rode long and put away wet.
The broker Milroy sure ain’t too bad, playing off a 10 handicap, but there’s a couple of assholes behind us, and at every tee they’re making comments about us being too slow. One guy has dark, greasy hair and a pinched face and he’s constantly blinking, like some subterranean creature unaccustomed to even this meagre light. The other asshole, chunkier, brown hair, is almost immobile, but his eyes move slyly in his head. They both stink of lowlife and trouble. Then at the ninth hole, a narrow fairway, surrounded by thick trees, just as I’m about to tee off, the gaunt-faced prick shouts to me that they wanna go first!
— What? I can’t believe my ears.
— You have to wait your turn in line, Mortimer says.
The cretin ignores Mortimer and stares at me. — Youse boys are too fuckin slow. Ridic.
— You’ll wait your goddamn turn! Who the hell do you assholes think you are?
— Fuck you, ya Yank cunt, greasy locks says, and he jumps forward and pushes his face into mine! He made minimal contact, but it was contact, so, thinking litigation, I stagger back, bending and holding my nose, like I see those faggot soccer players do on TV.
— Asshole! You see what he did? You all see that?
— You are in serious legal trouble, Mortimer barks, coming to my aid, helping me straighten up. So does Milroy, who asks if my nose is broken.
— I hardly touched him, the perpetrator shouts. — No contact!
Then Terry springs forward. — Ah’ll show ye fuckin contact, ya cunt, and he grabs the putting iron and drives it right into the greasy-headed perpetrator’s shin!
The jerk-off screams out and falls to the ground. — Ya bastirt . . . yuv broke ma fuckin leg, he screams, looking up at us.
— Brek yir skull next time, ya fuckin wide cunt, Terry glares down at him. The perp’s better-built buddy is standing there, balling and unballing his hands. — You wantin this wrapped roond yir fuckin puss? Terry says.
— Nup, the brown-haired asshole says and starts backing the fuck off!
I’m shaking off Mortimer’s attentions, and pointing at the perp, whose friend is helping him away. — You attacked us, and I am gonna sue your asses!
— He hit ma mate! The perp’s buddy points at Terry.
— This was self-defence, you goddamn motherfucking white-trash assholes!
— Aye, git tae fuck, ya muppets, goan! Terry shouts, wielding the putter. So the g
uys take their stuff and head off, the limping asshole supported by his buddy.
— Thanks, Terry. I nod to Mortimer. — We gotta call the police –
— Naw, leave it, Terry says. — Remember, ye keep the polis oot ay everything. Fuck sakes, Ronnie, yir meant tae be a rebel, a fuckin outlaw, no some privileged Ivy League cunt, and he looks at Mortimer, who has to eat that one up!
Terry’s got me kinda thinking there. — I guess, but he –
— You’re okay, the boy wis jist showin oaf and tryin tae intimidate ye. If eh’d wanted tae really nut ye eh could’ve. He’s in a far worse state thin you.
— I’m loath to admit it, but he’s right, Mortimer says. — You’ve had some bad publicity with the police here, Ron. We don’t want anything else that might compromise the East Lothian deal.
I’m looking at the asshole limping away with his buddy. Then I fix Terry in a big grin. — You sure fucked up those assholes! Dammit, Terry, you’re a pretty wild fellah!
— Mair ay a lover than a fighter, Ronnie, or at least ah wis. But ah’ve eywis believed in the one decisive blow. Ask thum a wee question: lit thum fuck off or git serious.
— Wow . . . I track those no-good project-bums heading behind the trees, making for the clubhouse and parking lot. — What if they got serious?
— Then it’s ambulance time, Terry laughs, — usually for me, likes. Hud a bit ay a rep as a hard cunt, back in the day, likes. Ken how ah got it?
— I guess through taking no shit?
— Nup. A myth.
— By having bad-ass associates?
— Now we’re getting somewhere. That was a big part ay it: knowing whae tae befriend. But most of all, it was by pickin ma opponents carefully. Terry glances up towards the clubhouse. The assholes are now outta sight. — These boys were gaunny dae nowt: could tell by lookin at them.
— Picking your battles is always good advice, and I look witheringly at Mortimer as Lars and his buddy, who witnessed the commotion from way over on the eleventh, are heading towards us.