— It’s drivin ays mental, Terry acknowledges, but anxious to turn his thoughts somewhere else. — How are you daein? Nae word fae the polis or they investigators oan that whisky?
— Those assholes . . . you know, since I screwed up with them, I doubt they have their hearts in it. The broker still has those guys from the agency investigating, but it’s like it’s just vanished into thin air.
A glamorous woman strides into the lobby with catwalk entitlement, and is immediately set upon by fussing staff. Ronnie catches Terry’s deep groan of longing futility. — You need something to take your mind off women.
— Thaire’s nowt that kin take ma mind oaffay burds! That’s the fuckin problem!
— You oughtta come out and hit some balls around with me the next time I go down to North Berwick to practise with that club pro.
— Ah’ve nivir played golf, mate, Terry scoffs, — it’s no ma thing.
— That statement has no goddamn logic, Terry. How y’all know it ain’t for you if you haven’t played it? Ronnie shakes his golf bag then lowers his voice. — Besides, it’s the best sex subsitute known to man. When my second wife left me and was screwing her racquetball instructor – not her tennis instructor or fitness instructor, her goddamn racquetball instructor, how fucking emasculating is that? – Well, I had to be on the links every day. It was the only thing that took my mind off what they were doing together.
Terry is now all ears. — Aye?
— Golf is Zen, Terry. Once you’re on that course, you’ve stepped into another world, where all life’s frustrations and triumphs become totally irrelevant if they aren’t happening right there.
— Ah’m in, Terry says in glum resignation.
— Great – we can hire you a set of clubs down there! Pick me up here tomorrow at nine.
— Can we make it later? Ah’ve got a doaktir’s appointment then.
— Sure . . . Ronnie says, picking up on Terry’s anxiety. — Call me when you’re done. Oh, he grins hopefully. — Listen, Terry, I don’t wanna be seen to be taking advantage of your bad situation, but I was kinda wondering, you couldn’t spot me ole Occupy’s digits, could you? I mean, I’m guessing that you can’t get involved no more, and I gotta confess, I ain’t been able to get that gal out of my head!
— A gentleman never passes round a lady’s number, Terry’s curls swish in reprimand, though he’s massively relieved at the opportunity this presents, — but I’ll pass yours oantae her if ye like, n tell her tae gie ye a bell.
— Of course . . . thanks, Terry.
— Wee bit ay advice. Terry’s voice plummets. — Ye might have a bit ay luck if ye took some interest in her work. Like if ye said ye were keen oan sponsoring one ay her plays at the festival. Costs big bucks tae git a space thaire. Ah mean it’s nowt tae you, but her art is everything tae her.
— Now there’s an idea, Ronnie winks, — you are a sly one!
— Psychology, mate. Terry taps his head and rises. — See ye the morn, and thanks for the blether. It’s helped.
— Any time, buddy! Ronnie sings. — And, Terry, that thing about searching your apartment the other night, you know that was down to Lars, right? I trust you, bro. You’re one of the few people I can trust.
— Nae worries, Terry mumbles as he leaves, thinking, he can go and fuck ehsel, him n Suicide Sal are welcome tae each other. He heads outside and gets into the taxi, driving to Broomhouse.
The scheme has been refurbished since the days he’d hung around there, delivering aerated waters from the back of a lorry. It is still a poor area, but the gardens are now discreetly sectioned of with quality metal fencing. He finds Donna’s place, reasoning she would have gotten the ground-floor flat from the council when she had the kid. As he enters the stair, two thin young guys, one sheepish, the other belligerent, are leaving the premises. Donna sees Terry and is surprised. — Ter . . . Dad, she says, seemingly more for the benefit of the departing boys than him. — See ye, Drew, Pogo, she says, as they skulk off, tracked in their departure by Terry, who steps into the flat. It smells strongly of nappies. Terry’s spirits sink as he enters the front room to find the detritus of a party, or worse, a lifestyle, that is not going to be good for a child. Empty cans, full ashtrays, pipes and discarded wraps lie strewn across a grubby glass coffee table.
— How ye daein? Donna asks.
With her roundish face, and big, oval eyes, she looks so like her mother, Vivian, his second real love, that Terry briefly feels the air being squeezed from his lungs. — No bad. Thought ah’d swing by, he says, suddenly shamed. — See the bairn, ay.
— Right, Donna says, offering him some tea, which he declines. She goes into another room, and comes back, holding the child. — Just got tae change her, she says, her movements tense and jerky.
The infant is a happy, gurgling soul, gripping Terry’s proferred finger with some power. — So this is the famous Kasey, then, he says, instantly contrite at the blandness of his response.
— Aye, Kasey Linn, Donna says. The television is on, and it’s some local golf tournament. Terry sees Iain Renwick competing and is curious to watch it for a moment or two, but Donna evidently isn’t a golf fan, and switches it off with a display of petulance.
They exchange minimal ritual conversation, both of them weighed down by the ton of words to get through, each too exhausted to begin the process of clearing the mountain of emotional debris between them. When Terry goes to leave he slips her two hundred pounds. — Get something for the bairn, he says. He feels a slack grip on the notes.
Driving in from the west side of the city, Terry wonders what Donna might actually spend the money on. Too engrossed in the cars in front of him, avoiding looking at the pavements in case he sees women, he fails to notice the shuffling gait of wee Jonty MacKay, another man lost in thought.
Jonty is thinking that it would be right if he was imprisoned, if God punished him in that way. But when he goes round the back of the station, and heads for the bridge, he sees that there are no police lines ahead, no evidence that any golden body has been recovered: only workmen going about their tasks. The area remains fenced off but Jonty sees the familiar gap and his wiry frame slips through. A few workmen glance at him as he walks to the end of the half-constructed bridge, and looks down to the base of the iron skeleton of the obelisk where Jinty was dumped. However, this section of the frame is now covered by concrete, held together by wooden boxing and drying and setting into another segment of support stanchion. The workies must have just poured the concrete down into the hole, on top of the duvet-covered Jinty. Jonty’s sparrow head twirls back and forth keenly. Instead of elation, he feels a crushing panic. Oh my God, thuv buried ma wee Jinty intae the huge pillar. It’s no fair.
But then he reasons that he’ll be able tae ride a tram, when they finally come, past this place, to see Jinty. It will be like going to visit a grave, but very fast, and without a talking minister. This notion excites him, and his eyes swivel round trying to work out where the station will be situated, and how much time he’ll have to talk to the pillar.
A hard-hatted, overall-clad yellow-vested foreman approaches him. — Ye cannae stey here, mate. Ye need tae git authorisation.
— When’s it the trams ur gaunny be ready?
— Oh . . . naebody really kens that, pal, the foreman says, taking Jonty by the arm and walking him to the exit gate. As he opens it and ushers Jonty out, he taps his metal helmet and points to a sign on the wire-mesh fence. — Yir no allowed in this bit withoot one ay these, n tae git one ay these ye need tae be workin here.
Jonty looks around, a little bemused, then nods slowly and heads down the ripped-up street. The foreman tracks his departure. Another man from the site, who has been observing the exchange, raises an eyebrow. — Boy’s mibbe no aw thaire. Shame, ay.
Jonty continues down Balgreen Road. It’s cold but he doesn’t mind. He likes to draw the frozen air into his lungs, hold it and then exhale with force, seeing if he can make the dragon bre
ath bigger every time. He turns on to Gorgie Road, waving to somebody he thinks he might know who is on the bottom deck of the 22 bus. They turn away. When he gets home the house smells better without Jinty but it isn’t the same. Soon Jonty feels very lonely. When the doorbell suddenly rings he’s both excited and scared.
Through the peephole: a big splash of canary-yellow. It’s Maurice, Jinty’s father. Trembling, Jonty considers pretending that nobody is home, but he realises that he’ll have to face folk eventually. He sucks in a huge breath and opens the door to let Maurice in. — Ah kent it wis you, Maurice. The canary-yellay fleece. Aye.
Maurice seems very upset, dispensing with the pleasantries. — Whaire is she? She’s no phoned, she’s no answerin . . . somethin’s up . . . this is gittin beyond a joke now, Jonty!
— Ah thoat she wis wi you, Maurice, aye, Maurice, wi you . . . Jonty says, and heads into the front room.
Maurice follows in eager pursuit, his thick lenses magnifying his gaze to psychotic proportions. — How would she be wi me?
Jonty now feels closer to prison than ever. He turns to face Maurice’s gaunt, bespectacled face, suddenly envisioning himself sharing a cell with the old jailbird. A half-lie, or a half-truth, spills from his mouth. — Wi fell oot, Maurice, truth be telt, aye, wi hud an argument . . . aye sur, thoat she’d be wi you, she jist went oot n nivir came hame, truth be telt. Thoat she be wi you, Maurice, aye sur, sure ah did.
— What did yis faw oot ower? Maurice asks, his nose twitching under the onslaught of the air’s ripe, dark aroma.
— Ah caught her doon that The Pub Wi Nae Name oan the night ay that Bawbag. She wis in the lavvies, wi this other laddie. Daein funny stuff up the nose. Aye sur, funny stuff up the nose.
— Drugs? Maurice’s eyes bulge, reminding Jonty of the snake in The Jungle Book. — Jesus Christ. He flops down on the couch, immediately forced to regret his cavalier abandonment, as a shot spring rips into his buttock. He shuffles his weight in irritation. — Well, she nivir took that oaffay me. Nivir! Ah kent she wis funny wi the fellys, but ah nivir suspected drugs. Thought we’d brought her up wi mair sense than that . . .
— Aye sur, funny stuff up the hooter, she did, aye, she did . . . Jonty confesses with a heavy heart, feeling like he’s betraying Jinty with this disclosure. He eases himself on to the couch beside Maurice.
— Ma Veronica, God rest her soul, she wis nivir like that, Maurice contends, his moistening eyes adding another glassy layer behind his specs. — No wi drugs, no wi men. He fixes Jonty in a challenging gaze. — She wis pure oan oor weddin night, ye ken.
— Like Jesus?
— Better thin Jesus! Maurice scowls. — Like Jesus’s fuckin ma! Like the Virgin Mary, nivir touched by a man!
Jonty is totally enthralled by this notion. — Did that make you feel like God, like oan yir weddin night n that, Maurice? Bet ye it did!
Maurice bristles with repressed violence, staring harshly at Jonty. Decides that he’s too innocent to be taking the piss. — Yir an awfay laddie . . . and he puts his hand on Jonty’s shoulder. Then he looks at him with tears in his eyes. — Ah suppose it did, Jonty. Aye, that’s how it did make ays feel.
— That must huv been double barry.
Maurice nods and takes a cigarette out of a gold case. The cigarette case is a personal signature and is very important to Maurice. He believes that Scotland’s smokers were guilty of self-sabotage, bringing the ban on themselves by looking like cheap jakeys, tawdry fag packets crushed into their pockets. How much time and effort did it take to load a cigarette case? Life was about perceptions. He lights up a Malboro, pushing his long, greasy grey hair out of his bespectacled eyes. The way his locks fall forward again reminds Jonty of a Highland cow, or more likely, he thinks, with his big yellow teeth, a Shetland pony. Maurice sweeps them away again. — Huv ye spoke tae her? Ma wee Jinty?
— Naw, ah try tae phone but it just keeps ringin. Tae be honest wi ye, Maurice, ah think mibbe she kin see it’s me but, so she’s no answerin, no pickin it up, aye sur, no pickin it up. Aye. Aye.
Maurice shakes his head. — Naw, it’s no that, cause she’s no pickin up for me either. He brandishes his own phone. Jonty feels Jinty’s phone in the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms, rubbing against his own one. — So what else wir yis arguin aboot? Maurice looks at Jonty through one measuring eye. — Apart fae the cocaine drugs and the felly doon The Pub Wi Nae Name?
— It wis money, Maurice, Jonty says, inspired.
— Aye, it’s tight, right enough. When wis it no, but?
— That’s right, Maurice, when wis it no!
Then the phone goes off in Jonty’s tracksuit bottoms pocket. But he has two phones, his and Jinty’s, both of which play ‘Hearts, Hearts, Glorious Hearts’.
— Ye no gaunny fuckin answer that?
Jonty gets to his feet and picks out the ringing phone. He is sure that he’s put Jinty’s on vibrate. But out comes her one, distinguished from his maroon device by its pink Earl of Rosebery case. He swallows hard, lets it ring.
— Answer yir bloody phone! It might be hur, at a phone boax or summit! Maurice’s eyes blaze.
So Jonty answers it, carefully walking across the room to the window. He presses it close to his ear. — Is that you, Jinty? It’s Angie! Whaire ye been, Jinty? Is that you? Jonty remains silent and clicks it off.
— Whae wis that? Maurice comments as he scrolls through the contacts list on his own phone.
— Wrong number, Jonty responds, — well, but, no a wrong number, sur, but ken one ay they yins, when they try tae sell ye insurance?
— Fuckin pain in the erse, Maurice grumbles, still fiddling around with his own device, but now more absent-mindedly. He looks up at his daughter’s lover. — Ah’ve nae money, Jonty. But ye ken that, n Jinty kens it tae. Ah’d help oot if ah could, but ah’m t-toilin masel. See they fuckin rid bills? Pey one cunt oaf, another cunt wants mair right away. Maurice shakes his head.
Jonty does too, because he thinks Maurice isn’t wrong. — Yir no wrong, Maurice, aye sur, truth be telt, yir no wrong!
— Wimmin. Maurice rolls his eyes up into his head, and for a brief few moments, under the lenses and the light, he appears to Jonty as the dead daughter he stuck in the hole, so much so that her lover lets out a gasp. — Ah’m no sayin thit Jinty’s easy, Jonty. Maurice fails to register Jonty’s desolation. — She wisnae an easy lassie growin up. His face creases into a sad smile. — Ye ken, ah’m surprised she stuck wi you fir that long. Thought she’d jist take the pish oot ay ye, like she did wi other laddies. Aw aye, thaire wis others awright, n plenty ay thum tae, Jonty! Maurice fixes Jonty in his layered gaze. — Ah’m no speakin oot ay turn here, am ah, Jonty? You ken the score but! Ye sais so yirsel! Yir argument! The other laddie! The Pub Wi Nae Name!
But Jonty doesn’t want to hear this, no he does not. — Naw, Maurice, yir right tae speak yir mind, aye sur, aye sur, speak yir mind, aye sur . . . he says distractedly, as he sits back on the couch beside Maurice.
— Is thaire another felly? N ah’m no jist talkin aboot some bam wi a bit ay cocaine in his poakit! Is that whit ye urnae tellin ays? Maurice’s sectioned gobstopper eyes mesmerise Jonty. — She’ll be shacked up wi somebody else now! Takin thaim fir a mug! Am ah right?
Jonty’s brain is spinning, but all that escapes is a dark mutter. — Pub Wi Nae Name . . . it’s no a guid place. Naw sur, it is not.
— You said it, Jonty! That Jake telt everybody eh’d rather go tae the fuckin jail before eh’d enforce the smoking ban in ehs pub. Eh joined EROSS, the fuckin loat! Hud ehs picture in the fuckin News! Then, as soon as they brings it in, eh flings me oot for huvin a puff! Goes, ‘It’s ma livelihood,’ and Maurice’s face flares in rage. — That bastard stabbed Scotland’s smokers in the back!
— Stabbed . . .
— Aye, ah go in thaire sometimes, n ah dinnae say nowt. Ah jist sit in the corner n look at him, n silently judge him, Jonty. Judge him on behalf ay aw ay Scotland’s tobacco users. Fuckin hypo
crite!
— Judge . . .
— But you nivir judge ma wee Jinty, n ah like that. Aye, yir loyal tae hur, n ah do like that, Jonty, Maurice repeats, seeming to stand up out of the couch, but only to shuffle close to Jonty, resting his hand back on his shoulder. — Ah dinnae ken what she’s telt ye aboot hersel, behind closed doors n aw that, but ah suppose her past is her ain affair.
— Ain affair, Jonty gasps softly, his own hand caressing his chin, as he stares off into space.
— Aye, thaire wis plenty ay thum before you. Maurice’s eyebrows crawl out from behind the top of his lenses, and up his forehead.
Jonty feels he should respond but he doesn’t know how. He thinks of Jinty, first pink, then blue, then gold.
Maurice sharply squeezes his shoulder. The arthritic paralysis in that hand makes it feel and look like the talons of a predatory bird. — N they aw hud a loat mair gumption thin you. He briefly looks to the floor and shakes his head. — Ah blame masel for that. Ah used tae tell hur, ‘Find a felly wi gumption.’ But a felly wi gumption wid soon see right through her . . . He looks up at Jonty then bursts into tears. — Whaire’s ma wee princess, Jonty? Whaire’s ma wee Jinty?
Now Jonty has his arm around Maurice. — Thaire . . . Maurice . . . take it easy . . . aye . . . easy . . ..
Maurice winds his arm round Jonty’s thin waist from the back and says, — Ah’m that lonely, Jonty . . . nae Veronica . . . n now nae wee Jinty . . . ye ken what ah mean?
— Aye . . .
— You’ll be lonely yirsel, Jonty boy. You’ll be missin her n aw, he moans in a low voice, but his eyes are busy, searching for a reaction. Jonty, cold and confused, doesn’t react when he feels Maurice’s thumb slip inside the back of his tracksuit bottoms, rubbing at him.
— Aye . . . Jonty looks at the side of Maurice’s face, the inside of his nose, which is all wee red spider’s legs. He has the sense that something bad is going to happen, but feels that he deserves it.
— Stuck wi jist each other, eh, mate!