One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night (9 page)

‘But you can’t establish a high BDQ and then have a low BDQ showdown at the end, that’s what you’re saying?’

‘That’s what I’m saying. And you cannae establish a low BDQ then have the hero take oot the baddie wi’ wan shot while the air roon about him fills up wi’ lead.’

‘I agree. So, as you’ve got a term for everything else, what do you call it when that happens?’

‘I call it a Renny Harlin film, usually. Worst fuckin’ action director – excuse the swearies—’

‘Oh please, Alastair. I’m not your teacher anymore.’

‘Fair enough. Worst fuckin’ action director in the world. No idea whatsoever. Just blows a few things up and link’s it together with badly blocked – and always badly lit dialogue sequences. And the worst of it is he makes money, so they let him go and do it all over again.’

‘I’m not so clued up on the names of the directors who is he?’

‘Renny Harlin. Never to be forgiven for
Die Hard 2
. A sequel so unworthy, John McTiernan kidded on it had never happened when he made
Die Hard With a Vengeance
– even came up with a title that got around callin’ it
Die Hard 3
. Further Harlin crimes include resurrectin’ Stallone’s career with
Cliffhanger
, and the absolute mortal sin of wastin’ a script by Shane Black wi’
The Long Kiss Goodnight
.’

‘Oh come on, I thought that one was funny.’

‘Aye, it was – that was down to Shane Black, though. As a thriller it was pish – and that was down to Renny Harlin. I mean, Shane Black, that’s precious material. You don’t give it to just anybody. There should be an approved list of directors for his stuff.’

His tone of indignant reverence had Mrs L highly amused, evidently recalling the level of respect he had previously afforded the written word.

‘You know, if I could have got you just a fraction as observant and analytical when you were in my English class, my job would have been a damn sight easier.’

Ally, having seen this one coming, wasn’t for backing down.

‘Christ, what did you expect, inflictin’ that Grassic Gibbon damage on us? You’d be up on an abuse charge for that these days. Besides, I needed all my powers of observation and analysis to keep comin’ up wi’ new slaggin’s for my classmates. It was hard work bein’ a smart‐
arsed wee bastard – you teachers never appreciated that.’

‘Oh, believe me, we did. We knew exactly how much effort you put into that – rechannelling it was our impossible ambition.’

‘Well, you could have made it easier on yoursel’s. I know it was the curriculum, but I mean, if it was up to you and you were tryin’ tae get teenagers interested in books, is that what you’d throw at them? Grassic Gibbon? Teuchter farmyard dreichness?’

‘Well, no, I must admit …’

‘What was wrong with Stevenson, then? Or Tolkien? Bit of hobbit action. Plenty of pyrotechnics to keep the weans interested. Mibbe it was a Catholic thing – it had to be borin’ an’ depressin’ or it wasnae daein’ you any good.’

‘That sounds as much a Protestant ethic to me. And before you say it’s a general Scottish philosophy, it was the same down south when I was growing up. The only difference was we got our rural depression from Hardy and Eliot.’

‘George Eliot? That’s the one whose husband jumped oot the windae on their weddin’ night. She must have threatened tae read him her new book.’

‘Well, I must say, Alastair, I’m impressed at you knowing that.’

‘It’s no’ the kinna detail you’re likely to forget. Anyway, I’m the one that’s impressed at
your
movie knowledge. Never pictured you wi’ a bucket of popcorn an’ a bandana, you know?’

‘Oh, James and I were always big on the movies. We went all the time. Must have kept a few picture‐
houses open between the two of us during the video boom.’

‘Aye, I can appreciate that much, but I mean, Arnie and
Aliens
and all that?’

‘Oh don’t be so ageist. I was watching
The Enforcer
when you were in short trousers, remember. And I saw
A Clockwork Orange
when you’d have still been in a pushchair. To me, cinema has always been more about spectacle than anything else. I loved reading
The English Patient
, but on a Saturday night out, if it was between the film of that and
True Lies
, give me guns and explosions every time.’

‘Your husband must be awfy keen on that stuff as well, then.’

‘He was. He died almost four years ago.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘Now, now, don’t mention it. Before he passed on, James made two requests of me for when he was gone, and one of those was “don’t be a widow”.’

‘Sounds like good advice. What was the other?’

She gave him a conspiratorial look then produced a half‐
bottle of Glenfiddich from by her side. ‘Grow old disgracefully,’ she said with a grin. She took a quick swig and passed the bottle.

‘Cheers,’ he said.

The choice of seat had been kind of forced upon Ally, not that he was complaining about how it had worked out. When he got on the bus and started moving up the aisle, he’d soon noticed that he was one of very few people not to have brought along his or her significant other.

There was a guy sitting alone two seats from the back. He had his head down, so Ally couldn’t place him, but then there were lots of spouses in tow who hadn’t had the pleasure of a St Mick’s education. The bloke was probably waiting for one of the gaggle of females currently under the impression that the reunion was taking place outside the coach’s front steps.

Ally had clocked Mrs Laurence on her tod three rows ahead of that. There were still a few empty double seats on offer, most of them in eavesdropping distance of several one‐
time classmates and their undoubtedly better halves. That was when he glanced out of the window and spotted the instantly recognisable Kenny Collins swaggering alone towards the coach, trademark four‐
pack of Cally Special Brew swinging from one hand. Sitting alone in a double seat would be an invitation to the alky bastard to plague him for the next five hours, so Ally swiftly opted to forgive and forget
Gumble’s Yard
(she was only obeying orders) and very politely reintroduced himself.

Kenny’s appearance was an unwelcome vindication of Ally’s contention that the offer of free booze would tease all sorts of creatures out of hiding. More surprising, really, was the attendance of others such as himself who would, generally, have better things to do on a Saturday night. Allan Crossland, Mick Thorn, Karen Nelson, Jennifer Finn, all known to have successfully escaped Auchenlea for the world beyond. Maybe Ally wasn’t the only one with a sentimental streak. Either that or Annette was right and they wanted to survey their successes in the context of what they rose above and left behind. Whatever, they’d all be pissed and best pals by midnight. Then after tomorrow they’d never see each other again.

Throughout the journey gossip and rumour filtered back and forth as to who else might be showing up later, as well as grim facts about who definitely wasn’t. Janice Brennan, breast cancer, ’95. Markie Roberts, car crash, ’92. Eddie McGinn, heroin OD, the super‐
strength batch that took out dozens in ’96. Vera Murphy, two ODs proving a warm‐
up for suicide, ’98. Peter Cullen, shot dead in a Paisley drug‐
war retaliation hit, ’96. Franny Smith, life, murder. John Donnelly, eight years, armed robbery.

At one point Mrs Laurence enquired as to whether Ally knew anything of what had become of ‘that lovely girl, Annette Strachan. Very bright. Very pretty.’

Ally barely resisted the temptation to say that, last he’d heard, she was barefoot and pregnant, and opted sensibly to change the subject.

‘Do you reckon there’ll be any other former St Mick’s staff at this thing tonight?’ he asked.

‘I doubt it. As far as I’m aware, none were invited.’

‘So why were you?’

‘I wasn’t. I’m gatecrashing. Oh for God’s sake, stop looking so shocked. You’re like an old woman with that face on, Alastair. I just heard on the grapevine that this reunion was taking place and I thought it sounded rather a hoot, so I decided to invite myself along. It
will
be fun, don’t you think? All those familiar faces, all grown up. And on this bizarre floating resort place, too.’

‘Aye. I have to say, though, I’ve got my reservations about the timing.’

‘What?’

‘Well, this floating island affair is
almost
complete. You hear that crucial word?
Almost.
Not half‐
finished, not up‐
and‐
runnin’ either, but
this
close to ready.’

‘So?’

‘So, “almost finished” is the most vulnerable time for disaster. Nakatomi Towers, Jurassic Park, the second Death Star, Deep Core …’

Nobody had recognised him. He’d been among the first to climb on board, making his way to a double seat near the back. Most of the subsequent arrivals had eagerly scanned either side of the aisle, looking for faces from the past, but they’d all passed him over. Maybe it was the sunglasses; it was a bright, warm day, the kind you always got in August as a kid when the schools were ready to go back, it having pissed with rain all through July. Or maybe it was that he’d kept his head down the whole time, not ready for eye contact, not ready for recognition.

It was hard to know whether he’d have been recognised anyway, particularly if they looked in his eyes. There weren’t many photographs of him at that age, but those few he’d seen looked like a different person. A person he knew well, admittedly; a person he remembered with little fondness but much sympathy; but a different person nonetheless. His wife had once written, touchingly, of his eyes as ‘placid pools, calmed by the depth of their secret sadness’, though the sadness was no secret to her. In those old photographs, they raged and boiled, permanently energised by the volcanic activity below.

There was one picture he still had, a class line‐
up from maybe Primary Four, which looked like a Gary Larson cartoon. Teacher standing tall on the right, big glasses, two rows of weans beside her, teeth missing in action from a few of the beaming smiles, knee‐
patches on all the boys at the front, bunches sticking out like jug‐
handles on the girls. Then you looked at the photo again and noticed John Lydon Jr, second‐
left in the back row. No caption required. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had a copy of it in every social work department in Scotland as a test for prospective employees: Spot the Looney. If you don’t get it in one, it’s probably time for a vocational rethink.

There was also the possibility that he
had
been recognised and was being blanked. He had so instantly remembered many of the faces around him, yet he remained unhailed as they shuffled up the bus and took their seats. He stole his own glimpses once each gaze had scanned and rejected him. Jawlines filled out, waistlines filled out. Lines of age like pencil scribbles on old photographs, the images beneath nonetheless familiar. Twinges in his stomach, the heart‐
quickening surges of excitement, surprise. Moments of anticipation, stilled with the reminder that for him there was nothing to anticipate. For him, there would be no mutual recognition, no laughing or tearful reunions.

He had not been their friend.

Still, going in the huff wasn’t really Auchenlea style if someone bore you a grudge. Nor would it ever be, unless it one day became possible to dish out the silent treatment
and
declaim your foe as ‘ya cunt’ at the same time. Even allowing for reputations, fear had seldom kept an Auchenlea mouth shut. It was the kind of town where guys would insist on the last word even if they were speaking it from the deck, through a shattered jaw. You may break my feeble body, but my blow‐
hard ego marches on.

Confirmation that he simply hadn’t been IDed came when he heard Charlie O’Neill and Eddie Milton talking about him, clearly oblivious to his being within two thousand miles of earshot. There they’d been, up the back, reverting to class‐
trip protocol despite being past thirty – even ditching the wives for the duration of the journey because a school coach’s backseat was an inviolable male preserve.

Eddie was only belatedly enjoying back‐
row privileges, having presumably become more pally with Charlie in adulthood than they’d been at St Mick’s, where the latter’s midfield prowess and the former’s all‐
round dunderheidedness meant they’d moved in mutually exclusive circles. Well, maybe that was going a bit far, but it was still fair to say the younger Eddie had never been invited to join the Lad Elite along the rear‐
most window, not least for fear that he’d contrive to put his head through it.

Even from the brief glance he’d got he would guess Charlie was still lithely performing that libero role for some local outfit. No hint of fat beneath the tight, white t-shirt; taut, robust shoulders for shielding that ball; and above those the bright features of a tirelessly cheerful face, the guy who convinces you that a three‐
goal deficit is still recoverable with ten minutes left to play.

Eddie, by contrast, looked more like the guy who convinces you that three rounds are still drinkable with ten minutes left to last orders. He hadn’t blown up or anything, but he had that fullness of face and that paunch on top of a skinny frame sufficient to suggest that if it was between his dinner and another pint with the boys, Eddie wouldn’t waste drinking time on the deliberations.

The notion crossed his mind to stand up, turn around, face the pair of them and, say Awright, boys? Guess who?’ with a big let’s‐
kid‐
on‐
we’re‐
all‐
pals grin, but it passed without action. He just wasn’t ready. The coach wasn’t the right place, either. For some, sure, the reunion started here – look at Ally McQuade, bubbling with chat for old Mrs Laurence, no doubt complimented and delighted that she had time for him after what a wee shite he’d been as a pupil. But for himself and doubtless a few others, it was a mobile ante‐
room, somewhere to prepare before entering a place where such surprises were in context. He’d bet he wasn’t the only one who’d clocked a few familiar faces but not let on, not yet. They all knew it would be easier at the party. Attendance was itself consent to such awkward intercourse. Plus there’d be booze.