Glue (26 page)

Eh breks off ehs grip. — It’s jist a handshake, eh laughs.

I let my hand fall. — Ma hands are for a job ay work. Thir no for somebody tae try n show how wide they are, ah say, looking straight at him.

— Settle doon, Billy, Ronnie says.

Gillfillan punches me lightly on the shoulder. — Dinnae settle um doon too much Ronnie, that’s what makes um Business Birrell, that’s what’s gaunny make um champ, eh Billy? Take no bullshit, eh smiles.

I’m still lookin at the tosser, right in ehs eye. The black bit. It expands, and his lips quiver a fraction. — Aye, ah’m glad wir agreed that’s what aw that wis, ah say. Eh disnae like that. Then eh smiles again n winks, n points at ays. — Ah hope you’ve been thinkin aboot
ma proposition, Billy. The Business Bar. Like it or no, you’re a name now in the city. A celebrity. Your fights have captured the imagination.

— Ah’m away oan holiday next week. We’ll talk when ah git back, ah tell him.

Gillfillan nods slowly. — Naw, naw. Ah really think we should talk now, Billy. Ah’ve goat somebody whae wants tae meet ye. It’s no gaunny take long. Remember, we’re aw on the same side, eh smiles. Then eh turns tae Ronnie — Have a wee word here, eh Ronnie, eh sais.

Ronnie nods, and Gillfillan starts moving away, ower tae where Eddie Nicol and the other boy are sparring.

Whispering at ays in a low hiss, Ronnie says, — Ye dinnae want tae piss him off, Billy, thir’s nae need for it.

Ah shrug at that. — Mibbe thir is, mibbe thir isnae, ah tell um.

— Eh’s a sponsor, Billy. Eh hus been for a while. And eh’s as heavy as fuck. Ye dinnae bite the hand that feeds ye.

— Maybe we need new sponsors.

Ronnie’s face creases up intae its worry lines. This isnae easy for him. — Billy, you’ve never been a stupid laddie. Ah’ve never, ever had tae spell things oot for ye.

Ah say nowt. Ah dinnae ken what this is aboot, but ah ken it’s aboot something ah
should
ken aboot.

Ronnie huds oan for a bit; then, as eh sees Gillfillan lookin at ehs watch, realises eh’s no goat the time. — Wise up Billy, eh goes, pointin tae his jaw. — Ye see that scar, oan your chin?

Every fuckin day in the mirror. Course ah see it. — Aye, what aboot it?

— Ye hud bother wi some boy then. The heidbanger that gied ye that. Now he doesnae bother ye anymair. Ye ever asked yirsel why that is?

— Cause ah pit um oan ehs erse, ah tell Ronnie.

Ronnie smiles grimly and shakes ehs heid. — Ye really think eh’s feart ay ye, a nutter like that?

Doyle. Naw. Ye can pit him doon as often as ye like. Eh’ll keep comin, and eh’ll git lucky once.

— Ye think that Doyle’s feart ay ye? Ronnie repeats, this time namin the name.

— Nup.

Ah didnae think eh wis, and ah’d always wondered why thir’d been nae comebacks.

Ronnie smiles sadly, n grips ma airm. — Thir’s a reason that Doyle’s no been giein ye grief. That’s cause eh associates ye wi the likes ay Gillfillan and Power.

So it wis Gillfillan n Power that put the breaks oan Doyle. Makes sense. Ah thoat it was Rab’s mates in the cashies, Lexo n that. But they ken the likes ay Doyle, n Lexo’s even a blood relative ay Marty Gentleman’s, so they widnae necessarily take our part.

— All the man’s asking, Billy, is an hour ay yir time, tae discuss something that could make you some money. Something legitimate. It’s no unreasonable, is it? Ronnie nearly pleads.

This club’s a labour ay love for Ronnie. Now places like this need sponsors tae keep it gaun. Business sponsors.

— Awright, ah say, noddin ower tae Gillfillan.

What ah ken aboot the likes ay Gillfillan and Power, is thit thir just mair established versions ay Doyle. Wide cunts. And you never hit the wideos in the ring. The ones in the ropes are just the ones you
can
hit, and get away with it; tae make up for the frustration at no being able tae batter the ones ye
want
tae hit.

Gillfillan comes over. — Right Billy, we’ll no take up too much ay yir time. Ah jist want tae show ye something, and for ye tae meet some people. I’ll see you up in George Street in about fifteen minutes. Number one hundred and five. Okay?

— Right.

— See ye next Tuesday then, Ronnie, Gillfillan says turning and leaving.

Ronnie waves him away, aw palsy-walsy. It isnae Ronnie, and it’s embarrassing watchin him crawlin up this wanker’s hole. I think eh kens that ah’m no chuffed.

Ah go tae phone the flat, tae see if Anthea’s back fae her assignment in London. Her first real assignment, a pop video. It beats gaun roond bars handin oot free nips n promo T-shirts; gittin chatted up, pawed and leered at by drunks. The glamour ay modellin.

Nae answer.

Stallin for a bit, ah listen tae her voice oan the answer machine: ‘Neither Anthea nor Billy are available at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep and one of us will return your call.’

Ah tell the machine I’ll see her later, I’m away oot tae see my Ma. It’s funny, but ah always think ay ma mother’s hoose as home. That place that ah share wi Anthea, in that Lothian House complex wi the
nice swimmin pool, it’s like her. It’s nice, easy tae look at, but it doesnae feel permanent.

Ah leave Ronnie and walk ootside. Ah hear this rumble and the black skies open n ah huv tae sprint tae the car tae avoid bein soaked.

Ah look at my scar in the car mirror, right at the front ay my chin, almost a cleft. If it hud been half an inch tae the right ah’d’ve been Kirk Douglas. I’d no that long gone pro at the time, and was training for a fight. I’d finished up doon the club, working late wi Ronnie. The thing was, that ah wis oan ma wey hame. It was only when ah saw Terry at the West End, comin oot fae the Slutland (as they call the Rutland) that ah decided tae get off the bus.

Thir wis a funny atmosphere in the toon that Setirday night, then ah realised why. Aberdeen were at Hibs, and they were the two biggest casual mobs in the country. They would be looking for each other, probably no aw at once, but in smaller groups tae outwit the polis. Ah sprinted and shouted eftir Terry. Eh wis gaun up tae meet ma brother Rab, n Wee Gally, in a pub in Lothian Road.

Baith Rab and Gally fancied themselves as cashies. Rab goat intae it through ehs mates, but eh loved the clathes, the labels n aw that. Gally wis jist a wee nutter. Things wi him and ehs wife, that Gail, they wir brutal. She’d been seein Polmont, of aw people.

Gally and Gail hud had that fight, and wee Jacqueline was badly hurt in the crossfire. At the time, the case was still pending in court, and Jacqueline was still in the hoaspital getting that reconstructive surgery oan her face. A wee lassie, aboot five. Beyond brutal. Gally hud gone intae the hoaspital tae see her, in defiance ay a court order. He glanced at her for a wee bit, couldnae face her, and walked oot.

When Terry and me goat up tae the pub, it was teaming wi Hibs boys. There were the casuals, trying to work oot where Aberdeen hud gone, and other, aulder boys fae the old scarfer days. The aulder boys were just hanging around drinkin. A lot of them would probably have got involved if Aberdeen had come through the door, but they came fae a different era, and wouldnae be intae the idea ay traipsin roond the streets, lookin for younger guys. They were jist beer monsterin oot, like Terry.

Rab, Gally and Gally’s mate Gareth were sittin drinkin Beck’s at the bar, wi a few other boys ah didnae ken. It was mobbed oot. Boys kept comin in saying Aberdeen were in William Street, or Haymarket, or Rose Street, or were on their way here. Thir wis a real buzz ay pent-up violence.

So it wis a volatile mix awready. Then ah saw them, sittin drinkin in a far corner ay the bar. Dozo Doyle, Marty Gentleman, Stevie Doyle, Rab Finnegan, and a couple ay aulder cunts. They were aw scheme gangsters, rather than proper Hibs boys. Ah’d always detected a bit ay jealousy fae boys ma age and aulder, taewards the cashies. While our age-groups had been battering each other in the toon and roond the schemes, the cashies had united their generation and taken the show on the road. Doyle n that were checkin them oot, n aulder boys like Finnegan, ye could tell they jist didnae get it. Now they were in the pub.

N Polmont wis wi thum.

Gally hudnae seen them, they’d no that long come in. Ah hoped eh widnae, nor they him. It was Saturday, and it wis absolutely choc-a-bloc. But then eh clocked them. For a bit eh jist sat thair, mumblin under ehs breath. Terry saw this first. — Dinnae start nowt in here, Gally, eh said.

Gally wis up for it, but eh heard what Terry was saying. Eh wis in enough bother cause ay the court case pending. We took him ower tae the furtherest corner ay the pub, the yin by the door, n sat doon wi him. When ah looked ower at thaim, ah could see Doyle eggin Polmont on. Ah thought that we should drink up, because if any cunt started here, the whole place would go up, n thir wis nae wey ay workin oot which way the cairds wid faw.

It wis too late. Polmont wis ower, n Dozo n Stevie Doyle wirnae far behind. Ah wis lookin beyond thaim but, tae the huge shape ay Gentleman, which wis slowly risin oot the chair.

Polmont stood a few feet fae where Gally sat. — Ah hope yir fuckin well satisfied, Galloway, eh sais. — A bairn, yir ain bairn, in hoaspital cause ay you! You go anywhere near Gail or Jackie again, n you die!

Gally’s knuckles went white oan the pint glass eh wis hudin. Eh stood up. — Me n you, ootside, eh said quietly.

Polmont took a step back. If any cunt was killin Gally, it wisnae gaunny be him. Eh wisnae even intae a square-go. Dozo Doyle came forward, looked at me, at Terry. — Youse wi this wee piece ay trash?

— This is thair business Dozo, it’s no ours n it’s no yours, Terry said.

— Whae fuckin sais? Eh? Dozo looked at Terry.

Ah wis up n oan ma feet. — Me, ah sais. Now git, n ah thumbed taewards the door.

Dozo didnae mess aboot, ah’ll gie um that, eh just came at me. A
table went ower. Eh caught ays oan the chin wi one blow, but ah knew ah’d go through um and that was the only one eh goat in. Ah hit um wi a couple ay punches n eh fell back oan ehs erse, n ah follayed up wi the boot. Terry had smacked Polmont, who picked up a gless. One ay Rab’s mates, a boy called Johnny Watson, battered Polmont ower the heid wi a bottle ay Beck’s.

Gentleman came ower n ah caught him wi a good left, n eh staggered back. Lexo n Rab got between me n him, n Dempsey came ower n battered Finnegan. Thir wis loads ay shouting and threatening. Ah was later tae find oot that Dempsey fae the cashies, and Finnegan, Doyle’s sidekick fae Sighthill, had a long-standing feud and Demps saw an opportunity which wis jist too good tae pass up. It wis nearly so brutal that night.

The place wis a mad mix ay boys, a lot ay whom were aw pumped up and just wanted the release ay it kicking off. Then thir wis the cooler heids whae saw it as a civil war and wanted tae calm things doon. What got me wis the discipline ay the top boys. They’d hud thir meet wi Aberdeen oan the cairds fir weeks, n they didnae want it ruined by what they saw as a few schemies huvin a fight ower some daft bird, n drawin polis heat thair wey.

Ah wis glad big Lexo stopped Gentleman comin ahead. Those hands were like shovels. Thir wis a bit ay shoutin n jostlin, then a boy came in and said that Aberdeen were definitely in William Street, and everybody left the pub, headin off in small groups. As they departed, Dempsey staged another assault on the still-groggy Finnegan, only tae be restrained by a cashie guy wi white hair and Stevie Doyle. We headed doon the road sharpish. It wis only then that ah realised ay wis covered in blood. — That’ll need stitches, Terry said.

— Sorry Billy, Gally went timidly, lookin like a wee laddie apologisin tae ehs faither fir pishin the bed.

Ah mind ay wee Stevie Doyle shoutin death threats doon Lothian Road eftir us, and we jumped a taxi up tae the Accident and Emergency. Ah didnae realise at the time that Doyle hudnae punched me, he’d hit me wi a flensing knife. It wis strange, but ah hud jist seen ehs hand. Every other cunt told me, naw, it was a flenser. It needed eight stitches. Just as well it wis the only blow he’d got in.

Because ay the wound bein right oan the chin, ma fight wi the Liverpool boy, Kenny Parnell, was postponed. It must have cost Power and Gillfillan money, so they probably put the bite on Doyle then.

Dinnae think ah’ve even seen um since.

George Street’s brutal for parkin, n ah huv tae go up n doon it twice before ah see a white Volvo pull oot ay this space, n ah’m right in thair. Drastic. It’s a bit ay a walk tae number one-zero-five. At first ah think Gillfillan’s taking the piss, because the building’s a bank and it’s shut, completely empty, like it’s gaunny be renovated. Ah pushes the door, n sees Gillfillan, talkin tae this security guy. Dinnae ken what they want security in a place like this for.

Thir’s a big, fat guy sittin at a desk and chair. Ah recognise him fae the ringside. David Alexander Power, or Tyrone, as eh gets called. Eh’s huge, wi this black hair that sticks up like a brush.

— What aboot this then Billy? eh sais, lookin roond the barren space. — Nice, eh?

— If ye like banks, aye.

Power gets up and goes ower tae this kettle. Eh asks if ah want a coffee. Ah nod, n eh starts makin it. Eh’s different tae what ah thought eh’d be like. Eftir Gillfillan, ah thoat eh’d be aw that serious, flash, gangster wey. This big cunt though, eh’s aw relaxed, but cheerful and enthusiastic, like yir favourite uncle who’s gone intae business. — Tell ye what Billy, ten years fae now, this street’ll be unrecognisable. Aw that building work at the West End, reaching right up tae what we used tae ken as Tollcross. Ye ken what that’s gaunny be?

— Offices, ah bet.

Power smiles, hands me a coffee in a Hibernian mug. — Right, but mair than that. It’s gauny be Edinburgh’s new financial centre. So what happens here, tae aw they fine old buildings?

Ah say nowt.

— This place changes, eh explains, — becomes an entertainment centre. No like Rose Street, wi its tacky touristy pubs, n places for the suburbanites tae huv a toon pub-crawl doon. Naw, aw these punters that go oot ravin now, they’ll be ten years aulder doon the line, n they’ll want thir creature comforts.