Scratch (9 page)

 
‘So you’re a
Hibs
fan now?’ I said, glad of the interruption.

‘I am if they’re beating your mob.’

‘Quite right, Terence. Loyalty is a very transient commodity.’ Simon took a draught from his pint and emerged with a white foam moustache, which his tongue greedily wiped from his top lip. He smiled that smile at me, again.

Thankfully the second half got underway then. Many ‘f’ words, ‘c’ words and ‘that referee’s a blind bastard’ words were happily, yet angrily, exchanged.
Hibs
won 2-1.

At full-time the atmosphere in Kelly’s was subdued. Well, mostly. Terry and Simon were delighted, and their exuberant hugging and dancing like twats began to draw antagonistic looks from the regulars.

‘Time to go, guys.’ I ushered them out the door before they provoked a
hooliganistic
hoo-hah.

‘Where to now, lads?’ Simon had one elbow perched on Terry’s shoulder and was swaying gently.

‘One more in Stube?’ Terry said, with a look I knew meant one wouldn’t be anything like enough.

‘Lead on, young Terence,’ Simon said. ‘Onward, James.’

I did as I was told.

Three pints later, I felt remarkably sober.

‘You understand, Terence,’ Simon was saying, ‘he didn’t
learn
it, he created it.’

‘Wow, that’s pretty huge.’ Terry was drunk enough to be almost as fascinated by Bruce Lee as Simon.

‘His philosophy was based on the power of water.’

‘Water? That’s rubbish.’ I was bored and thought I’d spice things up a bit.

‘Oh, do you think so, James?’ Simon rounded on me.

‘Well, yes.’

‘Tell me, have you ever jumped in a river, or put your hand under a running tap?’

‘The tap thing, yes,’ I admitted.

‘And did the water stop moving; did it cease to flow?’ Simon arched his eyebrows and nodded.

‘No, Simon. No it did not.’

‘Correct, James, it simply found another path to its destination.’ Apparently satisfied with his argument, Simon turned back to Terry. ‘What’s the point of blocking then punching, when you can do both at the same time? Tell me that, Terence, tell me
that
.’

‘Makes perfect sense to me, Simon.’ Terry was clearly having a Mr Miyagi moment, and looked on in awe as Simon demonstrated his point by thrusting his left arm out quickly to the side, fist clenched, almost braining a guy squeezing past with a tray of drinks.

‘It’s all about control, Terence.’ Simon appeared oblivious as the poor boy with the tray flinched and hurried away.

My attention wandered, and I was randomly checking out other people in the pub trying to decide if they were as enlightened as I had recently become when I heard Terry say: ‘So you’ve actually studied the moves?’

‘Well, Terence, I’m not a master of the art,’ Simon replied. ‘But let’s just say I know enough to make damned sure anyone who hurts me or mine will certainly live to regret it.’

My attention stopped wandering.

Simon held me in his gaze. ‘I never lie, James, so believe me when I say this.’ I gulped as Simon paused before going on. ‘Life will get much easier if, and only if, you add three
Drambuies
to the next round.’

***

‘I seem to recall laughing a bit more than you did,’ Terry said, finishing his coffee.

‘Aye well, he can be a bit intimidating, too.’ I tried not to blush.

‘Anyway, we’ve got something we need to discuss,’ Terry said.

‘We do? What’s that?’

‘Your leaving night.’

Chapter 8

The Basement had been bought and sold numerous times since I worked there. It was called Chico’s and offered free salsa lessons with your sangria for a while, though it didn’t take long for the owners to realise that mixing cheap wine and fruit juice with extended bouts of vigorous jigging-about led to a hell of a clean-up job at the end of the night. After that, someone tried to turn it into a place for the beautiful people, calling it Benson’s and charging seven quid for a gin and tonic. This being
Glasgow
, that lasted all of five months before the receivers were called in.

There were a few more attempts by various optimists to get the place to turn a profit, but I’d stopped paying attention years ago. It therefore came as a surprise when Terry told me that, not only had it reverted to its original name, but The Basement’s lease had been bought by none other than Sammy Sutherland, the guy who first hired me. As soon as I heard this, the venue for my leaving do was decided.

My last day at Combined Utilities should probably have conjured mixed feelings. I’d spent two years at that desk, with those people; I even liked some of them. All I actually felt was relief when it hit
five o’clock
. I could not wait for that part of my life to be over. I had no idea what was going to happen next - that was the point.

‘Are you all weepy, then?’ Terry asked as we wandered towards The Basement, a dozen or so colleagues trailing dutifully behind.

‘If you don’t know the answer to that you don’t know me very well, mate.’

‘Not about leaving that place, you twat. I’m talking about the flat.’

I had accepted an offer and was moving out that weekend. ‘Yeah, a bit I suppose.’

We arrived at the corner of St Vincent Street and Union Street. It wasn’t on my usual route to the bus stop and, despite having worked less than a thousand yards away for the past couple of years, I hadn’t passed this spot for ages.

It was as though twelve years had disappeared. Not literally obviously, I wasn’t mental, but the black, wrought-iron archway with the lantern on top framing the stone stairway was an almost exact copy of the one that used to be there all those years ago.

I wasn’t sure if it was nostalgia for the place and its associations or just that I had forgotten how lethally steep these stairs were, but I actually felt a little light-headed as we descended and approached the heavy wooden door.

Now for the real test
, I thought, as I grasped the iron handle and pushed the door open. ‘Hah!’ I declared as I heard the loud creak of the hinges that had, back in the day, warned us to put out our fags because there were customers on the way. How the hell had Sammy managed to replicate that?

‘Are you all right?’ Terry asked. ‘You look like Richard
Dreyfuss
at the end of Close Encounters.’

‘Hmm?’ I was too busy smiling to answer properly. It was identical, all of it. The same orange lighting, so dull it seemed almost smoky; the same scuffed wooden floors and bars; the same motley assortment of wobbly-looking tables and chairs; the same beige, Artex-covered walls adorned with the same eclectic collection of old photos and bric-a-brac. Christ, it
smelled
musty; did they actually have a spray for that now? There was even a beat-up old piano in the corner by the toilets, reminding me of my tragic drunken attempts to serenade Paula Fraser by playing
If I Had a Hammer
on its predecessor during more than one staff drinks session.

It was a bloody masterpiece. It was also empty, but for two bored looking staff standing either side of the bar-hatch, playing cards.

‘See if you can find a table,’ Terry said. ‘There might be one in the corner if you’re quick. I’ll get the beers in.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I said, rolling my eyes. The only times I had ever seen this place so quiet was when the doors were locked. I assumed word hadn’t got round yet.

As the rest of our colleagues followed us in and their banal but animated conversation filled the air, the pair of staff - one guy, one girl - adopted a look approaching terror. I sympathised, guessing this was the biggest single group they’d dealt with since opening.

Friday tea-time was always what I’d dreaded most when behind the bar. It felt like every single office worker in the city suddenly appeared at five-past-five, every one of them expecting a pint or a long-vodka to appear instantly before them as they prattled on about shit it was obvious even they didn’t care about, in an attempt to impress one another. Fucking yuppies, I never could take to them; thank God they were pretty much extinct. Although, I supposed we were their natural, if less well off, descendants as Terry wrote down everyone’s order on a beer-mat and collected
tenners
for the kitty.

‘Lager, lager,
Breezer
,
Breezer
… okay, tangerine
Breezer
, lager,
Breezer
,
Breezer
, lager, lager, Smirnoff Ice, kudos on breaking with convention there, Christine …’

As the bar-staff heard Terry recite the drinks they visibly relaxed. Not so much as a white wine to contend with, all beers and bottles.

I took a seat at one of the two large round tables opposite the bar.

It was a deliberate gambit, sitting down first. It was my night out and I figured it would be interesting to see who would choose to sit beside me. Terry aside, I hadn’t spent much time socially with my colleagues. Of the fourteen other people there, I knew four well enough to regard as sort-of mates (at least during office hours). Six, I classed as acquaintances, people I wouldn’t be scared of getting stuck in a taxi queue with. Two, I actively disliked and knew the feelings were mutual, and the other two I was fairly certain I had never seen before in my life. Patrick hadn’t joined us as yet but had threatened to come along later, presumably after heading home to change into his other braces.

I was starting to feel a little foolish as I sat there alone and everyone else crowded together at the bar, their backs to me.
C’mon Terry
, I thought,
don’t leave me sitting here like a prick
.

Just as I was about to give up and go outside for a smoke and a sulk, they turned around en-masse and I saw that Terry, at their centre, held a large, gift-wrapped box in his chubby arms, which could only have come from behind the bar. The bugger must have nipped down with it at lunch-time.

‘Here you go, Jimmy boy. A wee something from us to say cheerio.’

‘Aw guys, jeez-oh.’ I was genuinely touched.

‘All right, don’t be a poof about it.’ Terry laid the box on the table in front of me, and I saw there was an oversized white envelope on top. He took the chair next to mine as a tray of drinks appeared. ‘C’mon, open it,’ Terry said, passing me a pint.

Manners dictated that I should open the card first, but manners were never my strong point and I tore into the shiny red paper as the rest of the seats around the tables filled with eager onlookers.

‘Oh, very funny,’ I said, once the contents were revealed.

‘We thought it might come in handy, given your dynamic new lifestyle choice.’

‘Aye, cheers, how very thoughtful of you all.’ I smiled, sort of, as I held up the maroon, quilted smoking jacket. Also in the box was a pair of matching slippers and a ludicrously long, extravagantly curved pipe and a pack of Old Holborn tobacco.

Terry reached into the box and picked up the pipe-tobacco. ‘We needed to know you had one decent shag in your future.’

I shook my head as they all laughed. ‘Where the hell did you find a smoking jacket in
Glasgow
?’

‘Veronica’s uncle’s in the trade.’ Terry nodded over the table to a tiny brunette, one of the two people I’d never seen before. She smiled shyly as Terry went on. ‘She got us a deal.’

‘Okay,’ I said, wondering what trade her uncle could possibly be in. ‘Well, cheers Veronica. Thank your uncle for me.’