‘I mean it, stay away.’
‘And what do I tell Billy’s family? I got scared off so your boy’s murderer is just gonna be left to walk the streets. No can do, Mac. I owe his father answers.’
Mac threw up his hands once again, said, ‘You’re done.’
‘Come again?’
‘That’ll be five fifty.’
‘But what about the beard?’
8
On the way out Mac’s door I bumped into someone I’d been meaning to call.
‘I might have guessed you’d be headed in there. Is this the on trend clientele Mac’s going for?’
‘Bollocks to that, he owes me big time. Who you think splashed for the decor?’
‘Decor — Christ, you’re getting la-de-fucking-da, Hod.’
A smile. Laughs.
‘It’s business speak. You know me.’
‘Aye, into everything bar a shit sandwich.’
‘That’s about right — anyway, what about that room I offered you?’
Hod was an old, old friend. One I’d kind of let slide, since letting things slide became my way of life. To his credit, he’d kept up, even offered to dig me out of a few holes.
‘Yeah, I’m all for it. Just give me a couple of days to get sorted and I’ll bell you.’
‘No worries.’
Hod turned, swaggered through Mac’s door like John Wayne, testing the hinges. Mac waved me off again, I wasn’t done with him, but he was a slow burner. I knew I’d have to let him think I really needed him before he’d come up with the goods. If I was lucky, I’d sown enough seeds. Mac’s type love to be useful, just can’t help themselves.
I took a stroll down Princes Street. One messed-up main drag if ever there was one. They say the tills ring up more moolah here than any other street in Scotland. That’s no mean feat, especially when you consider there’s only shops on one side of the road. On the other, there’s a gigantic medieval castle complete with cannons and crumbling battlements. There’s a stretch of grass at the foot of it that we call the Gardens. Its 24-7 soundtrack is the skirl of bagpipes; strictly for the city-breakers.
I stuck to the right side of the road. The place seemed to be awash with trendy types. Everyone looked the same — I just don’t get fifty-somethings dressing like beat boys. No matter how trendy it becomes, I won’t be carrying a manbag; I won’t be wearing shoes that curl up like Ali Baba’s slippers; and the day you see me in a hoodie and Kappa cap, I’m on my way to put a gun to my head.
Still, my look played on my mind. After a few brews I cared less, but now I had people to impress. I checked myself in Currys shop window. Sorry, Currys. digital. Sure that dot makes all the difference to the paying public. Mac had done a beast of a job with my barnet, cropped to the wood but with a little weight on top. I looked halfway to respectable.
As I stared, something caught my eye inside the shop. A face I recognised appeared on the wall of television screens. I went inside to catch the verbals, it turned out to be a man I knew well. The Right Honourable Alisdair Cardownie MSP.
He banged on about stemming the tide of illegal immigration. I raised a laugh. Couldn’t help but remember the time he was hardly able to stem the tide of his own nosebleed.
A title flashed up below his name, ‘Minister for Immigration’. So he’d moved on then, landed the top job. A shudder jolted through me. Since our last meeting, I’d taken the opposite direction on the career ladder.
A voice from nowhere, a thick Geordie accent, suddenly landed within earshot, ‘Is it a flatscreen you’re after, sir?’
I turned round to see an acne-covered yoof. A mess of angry red plooks shone on his nose, so much gel slapped on his head he looked like the victim of a water-bombing prank.
‘What?’
‘The Sharp’s our top seller. Is it for your living room?’
He started to fiddle with a little control panel hidden in the side of the telly. ‘It’s a great picture. I can really recommend the Sharp. I’ve got one myself. I bought it when they first came out and no one could believe the picture quality, it’s so, sharp, I suppose. Would you like me to get one from the back?’
‘Whoa now, catch your breath there… Mark.’ I flicked his name tag. ‘Can’t a man look in this shop?’
He smiled. Showed off a row of grey teeth in need of severe grouting and repointing. I saw my accent had him beat.
In this city there’s two types of shop assistant: the demonic home-grown variety and the deeply confused imported ones, like young Mark. You see, the sucking-up gene — a necessity of the salesman’s trade — missed the Scots entirely. We don’t do pleasant. Perhaps that’s why, most of the time, the man with the tag’s a southerner.
The yoof sized me up, went for a catch-all. ‘You won’t find much better than the Sharp in this range, sir. But if you were looking to go to the next level, we have- sir, sir!’
I left him standing.
Shop workers like young Mark just won’t get off your case these days. Despite the fact I was obviously talking Mandarin to a satsuma, he was still gonna try and flog me a telly. A curt turn on the heels is the only language they understand. Was a time when ‘Just browsing’ got shot of them. Now it’s like they’re trained by the Japanese military. A whole generation on a mission. And taking no prisoners. How the likes of my dear old mother deals with them I’ll never know. She has the patience of Job, Christ she needed it with my family, but things like patience and manners are a weakness you can’t afford to show nowadays. Leastwise some butt-munch will walk all over you, and try to sell you a flatscreen telly.
I felt riled.
My temper spiked, to tell the truth. I’d purchases to make, couldn’t expect to be taken seriously looking like Jim from Taxi, but I wasn’t spending any of Col’s hard earned on the high street.
I took my makeover down market, found a charity store, Save the Children. Bought up a pinstripe jacket, black 501s (very black) and a blue shirt with French collar.
I tried the lot on and looked the ticket. Bit like Paul Weller in his Jam days but updated for the twenty-first century.
I caught the old dear behind the counter smiling at me and laughed.
‘What you need’s a nice tie to go with it,’ she said.
She’d a drawer full of them, great florid numbers and a few tartans thrown in.
‘Eh, no thanks. I don’t do ties.’
‘Shame. I like a man in a tie.’
She looked morose, like she might go tearful on me at any minute.
‘My Maurice always used to wear a tie,’ she said, ‘every day of his life, he wore a tie.’
Christ, now I felt bad. ‘Okay, pick me out a tie — a nice one mind. I’m relying on your judgement and good taste to win the day for me.’
She smiled like a hyena and avidly rummaged among the ties. She picked out a horrendous turquoise and lavender swirl-effect number. It looked a real seventies kipper too. Totally bust the look.
‘Perfect,’ I said.
‘You think so?’
‘I love it. You couldn’t have done any better. Those colours are just grand.’
‘I’m glad you like it. It’ll match the pinstripes.’ She held it up to my new jacket.
‘Well, wrap it up then,’ I said.
A shake of the head. ‘Och no, you have to put it on and let me see it with the outfit.’
I felt an involuntary wince creep onto my face. I chased it off with a broad grin. ‘Right-oh.’
