R.I.P Robbie Silva (2 page)

'What about your mates?' I said.

'Who?'

I nodded to the pair she'd just left standing at the bar. They looked away when they saw there was some attention on them.

She laughed. 'That's my
half
-brother and my old man ...'

'Keep you on a tight leash, do they?'

She arked up a bit at that, turned tail and headed for the door. As she went she clocked me over her shoulder, nodded follow. I downed the last of my Tennent's (I know, I know – but I'll be fucked if I'm drinking that Hun piss McEwan's) and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

When I think about it now, I must have looked a wee bit too keen on the prospect ahead of me because Gail started to laugh as she went, her shoulders bobbing up and down so much that she lost her footing and staggered into a table ... funny creatures, women.

The
BMW
started first time.

Nice
set of wheels. Always loved the
se
Beemers, but I was thinking this was a hell of a lot of car for a girl of her age and station
...
though I really hadn't a scoobie about her station at this stage. She looked all right, I mean dressed all right and all that, she could have been working in some office, one of the Standard Lifers or what have you, but this was the middle of the day. She was no dole mole that was for sure so she must have been collecting a wedge somewhere, somehow. There's a few of that sort in Edinburgh – strangers to a day's work – though mainly they're English students doing a masters in daytime telly and hand-shandies at mammy and daddy's expense. Chuggers, town's full of them.

'
Nice motor,
'
I said.

'
It's a fucking h
eap!' She flicked her hair back, those dark-blonde curls making waves
over her shoulders
.
She didn't seem overly interested in anything I had to say; seemed like she was already decided on me without having sussed me out much at all. Or maybe she had; thing I found out about Gail later was, she liked her split decisions. I watched her turn the key in the ignition and then she went,
'I'm hungry, let's eat.'

She t
ook
us
to Maccy Dees on
London Road
.
I felt like a lottery winner driving down the road in a flash Beemer with a fit bit
.
The fun factory seemed a long way away. The road that had led there was even further away, forgotten, wiped out. I wanted to be spotted by some of the old crew – Jamie Dees or Whitey or Fanny Bass – anyone that knew me, just to have them turn head and give them a wee bit of something to yak about in the pub later on. I'd have got a blast out of that back then; showing off. Boys are all about showing off.

'Wha
t you
want?' said
Gail
.

I was a bit low on the green folding stuff, had been lifted with a wad of Jimmy Denners and forty Regal but came out with two-bob and a fag-coupon. Fucking screws. All thieving bastards, I tell you. If they're not introducing you to the slippery steps, they're rifling your pockets for snout and coin. Said,
'I'm
all right
, thanks.'

'Not even a Coke?'
she promptly produced a stack that would have settled a small nation's debts, said, 'Sure? ... It's on me.'

I smiled,
'Maybe a Coke,
then
.'

She ordered herself a Big Mac, sprung for the 'Go Large' option when asked. As she leaned over she exposed her lower back above her
hot-pants
... how did she stay in shape and eat
like that
?
Something wasn't right there ... was she for real? Was any of this?

On the way out the gates of Saughton I was as flat as a tack: expecting a long stretch of sofa surfing, maybe hawking my arse for a labouring job on some new rabbit-hutch housing site in Midlothian or somewhere if I was lucky, but here I was in a flashy motor with this Gail bit and ... well, it was beyond the beyonds.

We drove to
Holyrood Park, pulled up next to the swan pond
.
Tourists were taking pictures, scores of them headed for Arthur's Seat in a long shaky ant-line
.
I shook my head. Some things never changed about Edinburgh; some things changed all the time ... like the Hibs managers. My mind wandered onto the current back-four; game these days was all about defence. A hoor of a business.

Gail
devoured the burger and fries, then set about washing it all down with the Coke. She
touched
her chin as
a few droplets
of
Coke dribbled down.
I could count the number of words I'd had out of her by this stage on my fingers and toes. I was waiting for some kind of a breakthrough, bit of proper chatter, y'know, a groundbreaker, but then she said,
'
I think we should have a word with our friend ...
'

'Our
friend
?'

S
he
took the lid off the Coke cup
,
sucked the drips out of the straw, then
took out an ice cube,
said,
'
Jambo prick that wouldn't serve you.
'

I looked at her. She was pouting, sucking back the ice cube.

'He's had his ...'

She let the ice thin a bit more, then swallowed. 'Nope, he's not.'

I played along, lifted the top of my jacket, exposed the Webley's handle. 'I have his shooter.'

Gail's eyes widened; they were dark pools, intense. She reached a hand over and took out the gun. I watched her hold it in her hand, play with it. It looked too heavy for her, lolling from side to side in her grip; but the power-trip seemed to make her happy. 'I have an idea,' she said.

'Oh, aye.' I wasn't sure I liked the sound of this, but there was something about watching her pat the shooter off her St Tropez-tanned thighs that had me wondering how bad could things really be.

'
You just stick with me ... I'll show you a thing or two!
'
I didn't doubt it.
She lifted the gun, kissed the stalk.

I
nside I
liked two things: watching
Hibs
hump Hearts;
and the other,
well, it was a more solitary affair
...
Gail
climbed over the
gear-stick
, popping
another
ice-cube in her mouth.

'
Mmh-hmh,
' she said,
p
as
s
ing the cube from her mouth to mine.

'It's broad daylight,' I said.

It didn't seem to bother her, not in the slightest.

* * * *

There was a Bon Jovi CD stuck in the Beemer's player.

'Bon-
fucking
-Jovi?' I said.

'It's my prick brother's –
half
-brother! One of Daddy's fuck-ups, anyway ... he's no taste in music, or anything else ... Daddy couldn't get the CD out the player. He lost the head every time he drove it after that ... so, that's why I got this car.'

I double-blinked. 'Hang about ... never heard of garages, with mechanics, folk that fix these things?'

The idea had her scoobied, seemed a stupid suggestion.

'Daddy has heaps of cars ... he isn't bothered.'

An old phrase hit me –
man alive
– said, 'Okay, whatever.' It fairly twisted my melon that someone would turn over a motor to their daughter because they couldn't be bothered having the fucking CD player fixed but I quickly sussed there must have been more to it; was Gail bullshitting me? There was certainly more to this girl than met the eye ... but what did meet the eye wasn't half bad so I let it slide.

We headed back out through the city centre, hit the Corstorphine Road. Gail fumbled for a pack of smokes, sparked up. I took one, opened the window and had a hit on the red Marlboro. The clear white trail that escaped the window had me smiling at the thought of my new-found freedom. Did I really want to take any risks with that? Christ, life was a risk ... and short too, experience over the last few years had taught me that. Perhaps it had made me a bit reckless as well. I mean, what was it all about, eh? When I think about being banged up and my Old Man ... and Jody, well, I try not to think about that. It's easier to just say
fuck it
...

'So, this Jambo ... what's your problem with him?'

I got a look, those eyes again ...

'It's personal.'

I tapped the dash, 'Hey, if we're about to stand the cunt over ... we can get a wee bit personal.'

She smiled, placed a hand on my thigh. 'He caught me fucking round the back of his shop.'

'Wha–
?'

'On the crates round there.'

I took a draw on the tab. 'And ...'

'He, like, took it kind of personal.'

She needed further prompting. I raised brows, said, 'Called the filth?'

'Not exactly.' She looked at me, those black eyes sunk further than I thought possible. She was seriously ratted with this guy; I knew the territory. 'He threatened to tell my Dad ... if I didn't suck him off.'

I didn't know what to say. For some reason the thought actually upset me. For the first time since I'd met Gail, I wondered if there might just be some depth to this girl, something beyond the hot-pants and the St Tropez tan. She wasn't all surface. I felt myself draw closer to her. I don't know why, it was just one of those things.

Some people you meet don't mean a thing to you. Seriously, you couldn't care if they lived or died. And others, they strike a chord. I don't know what it is, they remind you of something or someone maybe. There's a connection, like when you were a kid and you spent every day with your best mate who wore the same clothes as you, swapped footy stickers with you and got upset at the thought of you ever moving away. Yeah, I felt myself draw closer to Gail; I also felt myself draw closer to beating the living crap out of this fat fucking Jambo.

* * * *

I'm not saying there was no doubts. No way. I had plenty. But, y'know what, there's a point where I just switch off to all that – the wee voice of reason. One that tells you,
hey Jed man, calm your jets
! This isn't a new thing with me; it's been brewing, in my make-up you might say, for a few years.

I had this square-peg psychiatrist bloke come round when I was in the pound and he asked if there was anything that made me angry, called them
triggers
. I'd never really thought that deeply about it before so I said I supposed there was but this wasn't enough for the cunt.

He asked me what they were, had me making a list ... actually fucking writing them down. Well, at first, the list was pretty short, things like, when Jimmy Hill called David Narey's goal against Brazil a toe-poke and just the sheer sight of Charlie Nicholas on the telly or in the paper. But, naw, that wasn't good enough for him.

He made me add to the list. Wanted personal things. I started with some shite about the way every bus in Edinburgh is a number 26 and that's fine if you're going to the top of the Walk, but when you're wanting to get to the Southside for a quiet jar with the boys it's a right pisser. He didn't buy that, asked me to delve deeper.

I wasn't into it. He could see that but that didn't bother him; he was on a fucking mission; you get square-pegs like that.

So, I told him about this time I was heading home through the Grassmarket late at night. It was after seeing Liverpool hump Newcastle on the big screen. There's nothing like watching fat Geordies crying, so it had turned into an all-nighter. It was well gone chucking out time when I spotted this young lassie puking herself inside out in the street. There was these two biffers trying to hold her up. She was just a young lassie, a schoolie likely, and this pair were holding her arms – one carried her stilettos – and letting her chuck but they were laughing and nodding at each other as they did it.

They got her straightened up and started walking her down the road. I watched her pull her arm away and say she was going for a taxi but this pair of cockheads were having none of it, nodding and laughing away to each other. I saw where it was going and I knew it was none of my business but for some reason I started following them, slowly like.

The lassie was all over the fucking road, limping and leaning into walls. She could barely stand and this pair were copping sly gropes at her arse and tits but she was just too rubber to even notice. Then they headed her up a close, one of those dark vennels, the go-nowhere ones you get all over the Old Town.

I felt my heart beating faster as I retold this story to the square-peg; I remembered my blood was pounding in my head when I got round the wall of that close and saw the pair of biffers wrestling with the young lassie. One had her skirt up over her head and the other was holding her wrists. Her head was jerking about like a puppy in a sack before she passed out.