She watched me do up the tie and rang up my total on the till. I got change from twenty sheets.
‘Thanks, then. I’ll be seeing you,’ I said, trying to appear truly grateful.
Outside I gave a wave. Turned and nearly knocked a young girl off her feet.
‘Gus!’ she said. She stared at the tie. ‘Nice neckwear. Very… retro.’
9
Back in the day, when I had a name, I’d occasionally agree to take on keen youngsters looking for work experience. I’d a test, got the idea from Rabbitte, the band manager in The Commitments, asked: ‘Who are your influences?’
Any mention of Pilger, they got shown the door.
Amy, on the other hand, came up with this ripper: ‘Lois Lane!’
I thought she must have imagination or at least ambition. All she did have, however, was a burning desire to find her Superman. In the end she got shown the door. An Ubermensch, I wasn’t. But in those days she was jail bait, and I was very married. The girl before me now had, how can I put it, developed.
I pulled off the tie. Felt fortunate to be standing beside a bin, said, ‘It wasn’t my idea.’
Amy laughed. ‘Hello Gus — you look great.’ She gave me a smile. One of those welcoming, from the heart jobs. It made me melt.
‘Thanks. You’re a great liar.’
The headlight smile came on again. She gave off an air of total calm. I wondered if this was really the same Amy who had once been walked out the office by a security guard after a foot-stamping display of undying love for me before the entire newsroom.
‘I’m on my way to a lecture,’ she said, ‘but it would be nice to, you know, catch up over coffee some time.’
‘You’re a student, then.’
‘Sorta — it’s art school.’
It sounded just the thing for Amy, put her excess energy to use. ‘Art, wow… you look so focused now.’
A laugh. ‘Changed days, eh?’
‘No, I didn’t mean… I wasn’t trying to have a go.’
She reached over, touched my arm. ‘Gus, I know. I’m only messing.’
‘Sorry.’
‘So, coffee then?’
I hesitated, then thought, why not? I had little else in my life. ‘Okay. Great.’
She rummaged in a huge bag and produced what looked to be a complicated phone, said, ‘Can I beam you?’
‘Come again?’
‘Have you got Bluetooth?’
‘God no! I’ve a pen.’
She rolled up her sleeve. ‘Write your number on there.’
As I wrote I felt suddenly self-conscious, like I was being watched. I shook it off, thought it was probably just nothing but when I raised my head I got a definite eyeball from a man in the street.
He was short, heavy in the build, a cube of a man carrying a three-day growth. As I caught his eye he took a newspaper out of his back pocket and started to read, leaning up against a lamp post, far too casually I thought.
‘Friend of yours?’ I asked Amy.
‘No. Never seen him before. You okay for about five?’
‘I’m good for five,’ I said dipping into Friends speak. I blushed, then said, ‘Er, five o’clock’s fine.’
‘Great. I’ll text you to make sure, but will we say in there?’ She pointed to a Starbucks, one of about fifty that seemed to have sprung up in Edinburgh in the last year or so.
‘Christ, do we have to?’
‘They do good coffee. You’ve not gone all health-nutty in your old age, have you?’
‘That’ll be right — Starbucks it is, then.’
She leant over and gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘It’s really good to see you again, Gus. It’ll be good to talk — you know, clear the air as it were.’ She turned quickly and gave a childish little wave as she went.
When I looked around the man with the newspaper had gone.
10
I crossed the road at the lights and jumped on a number 11, heading down to Leith. The bus driver looked like a time-warped old Teddy boy with his greasy quiff and a swallow tattooed on his neck. His watch strap had studs in it like a pit bull’s collar. Even though it felt about four below he was in shirt sleeves, and sweated like a pig on speed. Two big purple pools under his arms and a skitter down his back that looked like it’d just been shat out of his duck’s arse. Public transport — no wonder the roads are clogged with cars.
A group of young yobs made a racket on the back seat, cursing strong enough to shame navvies. I gave them a stare. In my younger days an adult gave out a stare on a bus, you shat bricks. To this lot it was incitement.
A hail of little rolled-up newspaper pellets started to make their way in my direction. I turned round and saw old women, too scared to look, sat between us. I felt sorry for them, the old women, but more so the yobs.
I checked round the bus for interfering types. Only one college day-releaser. None likely to hold me back. I stood up and approached the funny boys. A few giggles started up, then their eyes trained on the windows.
I planted my foot on the seat of the ring leader, a pencil-neck with a bleached-in badger stripe circling his barnet, said, ‘See that?’
He smirked out the side of his mouth. ‘Aye, it’s a foot — you’ve another one there, look.’
A peal of laughter burst out from his little crowd of admirers. I cut it short. Grabbed the yob by the ear, forced him to re-examine his response. ‘Take a closer look.’ I pushed his head onto my toe. ‘That boot’s coming between you and your first ride if I hear another crack out of you, geddit?’
He whimpered, but said nothing. So I twisted his ear tighter than a wing nut.
‘Ah, right, right. Sorry mister. Sorry n’all that, eh!’
Kids today. No respect. On my way back to my seat I smiled at one of the old women, said, ‘I blame the parents.’
Got nods all round.
The rest of the journey passed in silence. I felt glad to have the time to gather my thoughts. Mac wasn’t my only source in this town; I still had a few favours due. And some open to persuasion by other means.
As I jumped off the bus a Rasta played Bob Marley. The travelling public weren’t impressed. Too early to be jammin’ — and his voice sounded like a Wookie being molested.
I walked down the maze of bustling streets at this end of the city to a little greasy-spoon cafe I knew. It served up killer bacon and egg rolls, smothered in onions, dripping with brown sauce. If you talked nicely to the old girl behind the counter she’d even trim the fat off the rashers.
I ordered up a bellyful. One roll, heavy on the onions. Coffee, mug of, very sweet. And a pack of Rothmans, for afters.
I took the Sun down from the rack. It looked to be full of nothing but celebrity gossip. Half the pictures, I didn’t even know the people. There was a time when to be in the paper meant something. You’d done something or had a talent. Now, fame — everyone’s at it. You shag a footballer, tug-off a pig, and suddenly the world’s hanging on your every breath. Riches and the whole nine yards to follow.
The waitress came over with my roll. She was near to retirement and world weary. Must have discovered blow-drying at some time in the eighties — her hairstyle wouldn’t have looked out of place on the pages of Smash
