I hit my pint, strolled back to the other side of the bar. Raised a shot glass to the Grouse optic. ‘Hang about… the wee dog’s soft — not exactly fighting material.’
‘Practice!’ snapped Hod. ‘They rob dogs like that to give the fighters a bit of practice.’
I winced at the thought. Moosey had a house full of wee dogs. Were they all just there to be ripped apart to train the fight dogs?
My head dipped; I jerked it back. ‘I need to talk to some of our wee dog-torturing pals.’
Chapter 11
We had sunshine again, So I took a schlep through Holyrood Park, slugging on a bottle of scoosh. The place was awash with kites, cheapo tennis kits, and the worst — disposable barbecues. Knew I’d be wading through their remains for weeks to come. Although if they were going to get cleared up anywhere in the city it was within spitting distance of the queen’s bedroom.
An ant-trail of tourists headed for Arthur’s Seat. Once was a time, on a day like today, I might have joined them, especially with a bottle in my pocket. But the place held bad memories for me now. Col had got me into this investigating business after his son had been murdered up there. That was the city I knew, pretty fucking far from the cobbled streets and sweeping spires in the brochures.
At the traffic lights, where the tourist route takes up the streams of walkers, I spotted an act of full-on nuttery in progress. A young couple, each pushing a child’s buggy, were about to attempt the hill. Okay, the buggies looked the business — mag wheels, brakes, the lot — but the path was fly-up-a-windowpane stuff. Maybe I’d missed something; it would be an exercise craze, no doubt.
I was strolling because I’d some time to kill before I had to meet Debs in the West End. I can’t say I was looking forward to it. With my ex-wife there always was, and always would be, an agenda. If Debs was calling me out to sit down over coffee, you could be assured there’d be a crisis, just past, or just looming. And in one way or another yours truly would have a part to play in it all.
My ex is one of the unfulfilled. Aren’t we all? But with Debs it has a realness about it you can touch. A quality of utter despair permeates her, day in, day out. Those books, the self-help jobs, they’d say there was some masochistic attraction, some denial on one or both of our parts that forced the usual ‘two negatives repel’ ruling to be ignored. Whatever, we were bad for each other, that was the deal. No matter how you dressed it up, no matter how much either of us had tried to make it work, it didn’t. End of story. That our past was the stuff of horror stories didn’t help.
I took the route through to the Grassmarket, along Holyrood Road. At the foot of St Mary’s Street there are two jakey dens. On a bad day, drivers at the crossroads get the added challenge of navigating Omega cider bottles. Today, it was all clear.
A new Holiday Inn was going up, another chrome-and-glass eyesore. This time in the grounds of St Patrick’s Church: let’s get that history put in place, tucked away. Concrete, can’t get enough of it round here.
I shuffled through the area we call the Pubic Triangle: skin bars and brassers all the way along to Lothian Road. For this neck of town, think Student Central. Have I a Paul Calf attitude to them? Have I ever. Day I see a student paying for a bag of chips with a cheque, I’ll dispense a lesson he won’t forget.
The walking bit wasn’t for me. I jumped in a Joe Baxi. Turned out I had my times wrong anyway; I was running about half an hour late. Hoped Debs would believe my ‘on the way’ text message and hang fire.
Taxi driver said, ‘You’ll get an on-the-spot fine if you don’t put on the seat belt.’
‘What?’
‘It’s the new law — fines for not wearing the belts.’
Was I in the mood for this? Clue: no. ‘City’s full of radge ideas.’
I saw eyes appear in the rear-view mirror. ‘Y’see, that’s what I get for trying to do you a favour — nothing but abuse!’
‘ Abuse? I only said-’
‘Yeah, well, don’t… or you’ll be fucking walking.’
It was a classic ‘It’s my ball and I’ll say who’s playing’ statement. Got my goat. ‘It’s your empire, pal. You make the rules.’
A screech of the brakes.
‘Do I look like I’m taking the fucking piss, boy? Always the same with you fucking winos.’
What was with this guy? He had the full-on kebab-meat complexion, about to tip me on the street for answering back. I felt my blood surge. ‘You sound like you’re full of shit, is what you sound like.. Why don’t you try throwing me out of your fucking cab?’
‘ You what?’
I fired a hand through the cash slot, grabbed his ear and pulled his head into the Perspex. The cab shook with the thud of it.
‘Hearing better now?’ I said.
He slunk back, cowered against the wheel, then grabbed up the radio.
I got out.
Had to catch the bus on the slow route. By the time I got to the caf in the West End, Debs seethed.
‘I’m sorry, I ran into some transport difficulties.’
She said nothing — always a bad sign. I ignored it, asked if we should order.
The waitress came. I said, ‘Two coffees.’
She asked, ‘What kind of coffee?’
‘Oh, Christ, this rigmarole… Brown ones.’
Debs crossed her legs, smiled sweetly at the waitress, said, ‘Two lattes, please.’
The waitress left. There was a sign up in the shop, balloons either side of it read: HAPPY 21ST SHONA. I felt a pang of guilt for loading her with grief on her birthday. She looked a good kid. Cute. Might even have had class underneath the sunbed tan and the home-do streaks. Just knew that ten years from now she’d be living in a scheme, saddled with five kids of her own and a part-time husband who once had a Suzuki but now had nothing but convictions to his name.
Morbid? You bet. That’s how it is. I had no other way to see it. What else did these girls have to look forward to? Marrying the next Wayne Rooney? Christ, those ones I felt even more sorry for.
Debs wasn’t for thawing. ‘That’s some whisky breath you have.’
I felt sweat form on my top lip. Touched the bottle of scoosh stashed in my inside pocket. ‘Debs, look, I’m really sorry for keeping you waiting, but I don’t remember telling you I’d jacked the booze.’
‘I just thought you might, well… I saw your story and I thought you might be clean again.’
Not exactly the reaction I wanted, but what did I expect? Flags? Bunting? I held schtum.
The waitress brought the coffees, laid them down gently. I tried to smile, paper things over. With Debs too. ‘You look well.’
‘You look like shite.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Does that bother you?’
‘What?’
‘What I think?’
‘Not really. Maybe once it did.’
‘Gus, there are people who do care about you.’
The coffee was too hot; I put it down. ‘I know.’
‘Well, why do you keep throwing their concern back at them?’
‘I didn’t ask for their concern.’
Debs crossed her legs the other way, stared out into the street, said, ‘I’m getting married again.’
I felt my heart stop. My blood surged. ‘ What?’
‘I wanted you to hear it from me, not from Mac or Hod or whoever.’
My nerves shrieked; I didn’t know what to think. ‘They know already?’
