Chapter 11
Felt relieved to be away from the doctor’s questions. As I walked back to the car I rolled the quarter-bottle of Grouse in my hand. My heart was pumping hard. I didn’t know whether I felt exhilarated to have got the session over with, or relieved it hadn’t ended with my being carted away by the men in white coats.
In the car Usual was sitting in the front seat. I moved him aside — wanted to check the glovebox to see if Debs had missed any wraps. No joy; it was empty. I always kept a Shakin’ Stevens ‘Best of’ on the dash — to deter thieves. It had found its way in here so I put it back. Debs had dropped off a couple of new CDs too. I picked them up, turned them over. ‘Leona fucking Lewis… Holy crap, Debs, sure it’s not you that needs to see a shrink!’ The other CD looked more promising, an eighties compilation: ‘Town Called Malice’, ‘Ghost Town’, ‘Golden Brown’. I knew she’d bought this for me. And what had I done? Ruined her surprise.
I felt low.
Put on the CD, tried to listen.
The first track was Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’. I remembered I hadn’t liked it at first, seemed too slick for the Thin White Duke. By the time it had gone to number one, though, I had the thing playing in the house all day long. As I listened to it now I saw the old video of the child finding the red shoes in the desert and dancing. I was taken to a different place:
There’s a baby crying. I’m only eight or so, and I’ve never experienced a child in my home; my new brother cries constantly. I have to turn up Bowie just to drown him out. ‘Let’s Dance’ gets louder. The neighbours bang on the wall. My father shouts. The baby screams on and on. My mother walks the floor patting his back. And then my father, roaring angry, rises and puts his foot through my record player.
I ejected the CD.
I couldn’t listen to it. Dredged up too many memories. Wondered: Is this what a trip to a shrink does for you?
I pointed Usual into the back, pulled on my seatbelt. As I drove to Newhaven I tuned in the radio. The newsreader said there were riots in France at the government’s handling of the country’s economic collapse. I figured we were a ways off riots here: if the Scots had put up with being governed from England for three hundred years, it might take more than a shove.
The dog sniffed on the back seat, tried to lick up some leftover Bonio crumbs. I had forgotten to feed him. I’d been a bit remiss on the walking front too, but he would have to put up with that. I had more pressing matters to attend to.
At the gates of the factory I kept shoatie for Davie Prentice but he didn’t show himself. The place looked to be in full swing, a few snoutcasts out front hanging off tabs but they didn’t stick about like the ones outside pubs. It was a quick drag, then back to work. I saw no sign of Andy the foreman either — he’d need shaking down later. Maybe Ian Kerr’s death would give me some leverage, get him talking. He knew what the set-up in there was, and that was something I was going to have to take a closer look at.
I parked up, told the dog to sit. He watched me as I locked the car door. The sky threatened more snow, but the wind carried only the stench of onions from the burger van. I took a deck at the van. It said ‘Chuck Truck’ on the side in big yellow letters. Thought: More like make-you-fucking-chuck truck.
As I crossed, my Docs slipped on the icy road; wasn’t about to land on my arse, so I calmed it. Steam rose from an aluminium chute at the side of the burger van. As I got closer the bloke inside leaned forward.
‘All right, mate,’ I yelled.
He seemed glad to see me, wide smile and a wave. His jet-black hair looked beyond Brylcreemed, it sat so flat on his head it could have been ironed. ‘Hello, hello,’ he said.
‘Christ, this is some weather.’
The bloke had his sleeves rolled up; a thistle tat on his forearm moved as he rubbed his hands together. ‘Worst winter in twenty years, they say!’
‘I bet they’re right.’ Cupped my hands, blew into them. ‘You gimme a coffee?’ He looked pissed off at that; I figured it was going to take a bigger parting with the readies. I scanned the menu for anything other than a heart attack. ‘What’s that there… Wurst?’
‘Aye… sausage. Got it for the Czechs in there.’ He motioned to the factory. ‘They won’t bloody touch it though.’
‘They won’t?’
‘Nah, bloody bags of them I’ve got. Bought them off a Polish bloke, told me the Czechs would be gantin’ for them.’
‘But no takers, eh?… Sounds like your wurst nightmare.’
He laughed at that. ‘Aye, very good. Very good.’ He dropped off my coffee and I ordered a wurst, just to seal the deal.
‘So, what’s the go with the Czechs?’
He scooped out the long, grey sausage, put it in a styrofoam box, said, ‘You want sauce on that?’ I shook my head. He returned to leaning on the counter, continued, ‘They’re all Czechs in there now… punted the rest.’
‘That sounds rough.’
He mock-laughed. ‘That’s about right — rough.’
I removed the lid from my coffee; a rainbow of oil sat on the surface. ‘I saw a pair of them the other day, looked hardy lads.’
A snort: ‘Fucking crooks.’
‘You wha’?’
He looked down the road, called me closer. ‘I hear they’re all living down in Leith, in the one big hoose… forty or fifty of them, fucking crammed in like rats.’
I played up: ‘Get away.’
‘I shit you not. There’s a bloke runs squads of them about in a big Pajero’ — he raised his thumb to the roof — ‘kind of thing I could use to tow this… No’ cheap. Nice black one it is too, all chromed up and that.’
‘So what’s his game?’ I sipped the coffee; it was shithouse.
‘You tell me, pal. He doesn’t do a day’s work in there, though, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’
This all sounded dodge to me. ‘This bloke, where’s his house?’ The burger man started to clam up, thought I’d went a question too far. Had to distract him again. ‘Chuck us over a Mars as well, eh.’
He turned to the rack. I counted out the cash.
‘Somewhere in Leith’s all I’ve heard,’ he said.
He thinned his eyes, waited for my reaction. I didn’t want to press him. I might need to tap him again and I had the black Pajero to go on anyway. I took the Mars and the wurst, said, ‘Grand coffee, chief. I’ll catch you anon.’
He nodded and grumbled, slunk back in the van and picked up a copy of the Star.
In the car I opened up the box with the wurst; the smell of it made my eyes smart. I pushed it over the back for Usual. He sniffed at it and went to the other side of the seat. ‘What? Not good enough for you?’
He put eyes on me, curled up and pretended to go to sleep.
‘Stick, then.’
Mac stood outside the Wall: he was doing the door. This surprised me. He’d been manager when I had the place.
‘Hod’s got you at the coalface?’
He motioned me in. ‘Aye well, it’s a living and work’s tight.’
I shrugged, said, ‘You got that right.’ I hadn’t seen him since the filth had lifted us at Ian Kerr’s gaff. ‘You get any grief down the nick?’
Mac laughed it up: ‘Fucksake, my record… what you think? Nothing I couldn’t handle, though.’ He led the way indoors. As we went, I felt my Docs sink in the heavy carpet — Hod had gone for the expensive stuff. It didn’t seem to fit with the old Holy Wall I remembered. Our mate Col had run this pub for years: we’d added the ‘Holy’ prefix as a nod to him being deep in his religion. I hoped his beliefs served him where he was now.
‘Well, what do you think?’ said Mac.
I tried to hold back, but couldn’t: ‘It’s a fucking eyesore… like Pimp My Pub.’
Where my picture of dogs playing snooker had once hung, mirror tiles and a matte-black handrail-cum-shelf
