Stonemouth (22 page)

‘You mentioned the European and particularly the English League there, Ferg,’ Jim Torbet says. Jim’s a junior doctor at the hospital. Medium build but wirily buff; a rock climber. He’d probably be scaling a cliff today if the weather was better. He’s the only one of us wearing glasses. ‘What about dear old Scoatlund?’ He shifts to Glaswegian nasal to pronounce the last word.

Ferg snorts. ‘Barely worth bothering with,’ he tells us as he shuffles the cards. ‘A duopoly where it makes sense for the two big teams to buy up star players from their lesser opponents and then leave them sitting on the bench or playing for the reserves—’

‘Or on loan to an English team,’ Lee provides, because this is a familiar theme for Ferg, and we can all join in if we want to.

‘– just to make sure they won’t be playing against them is the worst of both worlds: insufficiently competitive and pathetically, defensively cynical at the same time. Personally I think the idea of the Old Firm joining the Premier League is brilliant; get them to fuck out of the small pond that is Scottish football.’

‘What
if they get relegated?’ Lee asks.

‘Yeah,’ Jim says. ‘Torquay United might object to travelling all the way to Glasgow.’

‘Be like a European tie for them,’ I suggest. ‘They should be grateful.’

‘Or Taunton,’ says Phelpie.

‘Oh, it’s not going to
happen
,’ Ferg concedes, dealing the cards. ‘It’s like world peace: great idea but don’t hold your breath.’ He snaps the deck down onto the table, picks up his cards, glances at them and looks left to Phelpie, who is carefully studying his. ‘Phelpie?’

‘Hmm,’ says Phelpie. A couple of people sigh and put their cards back down.

‘In your own time, Phelpie,’ Lee breathes. Phelpie prefers not to be hurried.

Talk turns to what people were doing last night. Jim was working, but the other guys were out enjoying themselves, clubbing or in bars. Ferg was in Aberdeen at a not very good party; came back early. I am looked on with some sympathy for having had to endure an evening with the old folks. As no one can recall me having form in this – dereliction of the duty to party – the piss is not taken. I listen to what the others got up to, allowing a little for bravado and exaggeration.

This is so much like the old days. And, again, I have mixed feelings. In some ways it’s good and comfortable to be fitting straight back in like I’ve never been away, but, on the other hand, I’m getting this constrictive feeling as well. It’s the same places – like the bars and pubs on Friday night – the same people, the same conversations, the same arguments and the same attitudes. Five years away and not much seems to have changed. I can’t decide if this is good or bad.

After a long-feeling two minutes of deliberation, Phelpie goes a minimum pound. Actually there has been progress; on a majority vote round the table, Lee pulls out his Android phone and announces
a one-minute maximum thinking-time limit. He leaves the phone on the table with the stopwatch function ready.

‘No fair,’ Phelpie says, though he’s grinning.

Phelpie usually takes for ever to decide on his bet, though I’ve seen him be quick and decisive enough when he really needs to be. When challenged on this studied glaciality he claims he’s just working through all the angles and probabilities, though none of us really believes him. On the other hand, as Ferg has pointed out (though only to me; not for public consumption), while Phelpie rarely wins big he never loses big, and he’s very good at restricting his losses. He plays like somebody who knows the difference between luck – which is basically mythical – and chance, which is reality. Phelpie knows when to fold, maybe better than any of the rest of us.

I end up going head-to-head with Ezzie Scarsen, a skinny, wee, shaven-headed guy I know only a little; a couple of years older than most of us. Works in the control room of the road bridge. He blinks a lot, which might or might not be a tell. I’ve got three tens and I think Ezzie’s an optimist; tends to over-bet.

There’s a sort of unofficial limit in these games, which has shifted from twenty to twenty-five pounds while I’ve been away. Just a fun game between pals, after all. We get to twenty quid apiece on top of the pot before he sees me. Ezzie has kings and queens.

‘Gracias,’ I say, scooping with both arms.

‘Aw, man,’ Ezzie says, sitting back.

I start shuffling.

‘Any jumpers this week, Ezzie?’ Lee asks.

Ezzie nods. ‘Just the one, a female, but no a fatality.’

‘That the lassie on Wednesday night?’ Jim asks.

‘Aye,’ Ezzie says. ‘One of the McGurk girls? Chantal. Youngest one, I think.’

There’s a round of shrugs, shakes and Nopes round the table as we agree she’s not on any of our personal databases, though we’ve all heard of the McGurk family; one of the larger tribes of the hereditary jobless from the Riggans estate.

‘You
treat her?’ Lee asks Jim.

‘Been on Casualty all week,’ Jim says, with a nod.

‘Mazing how many people jump before the watter an hit the grun,’ Ezzie says, inspecting the interior of his wallet. ‘Even in daylight. At night, you’d unnerstan. Canny see where you’re headin. If you don’t know the bridge you can make a mistake like that. But daylight? You’d think they’d look.’ Ezzie shakes his head at such suicidal slackness. ‘We’ve had people get to just where the barriers start on the south approach and loup ower. You just land in the bushes; you’re lucky if you’re even scratched.’ He shakes his head. ‘Weird.’

‘I guess their minds are on other things,’ Ferg says, watching my hands carefully as I deal. No insult intended; he watches everybody’s hands carefully as they deal.

‘The lassie going to be okay?’ Lee asks Jim.

‘Not really supposed to say too much, Lee,’ Jim says. ‘But I think you could expect a full recovery. Be on crutches for a while, but I’d imagine she’ll be back dancing at Q&L’s again by the year end.’ Q&L’s is one of the town’s two clubs, in the old Astoria Ballroom.

‘Any idea why she jumped?’ Lee asks.

Jim looks at Lee as he lifts his cards, ‘And that’s us over the patient–doctor confidentiality line, right there,’ he says, smiling round at all of us.

‘Do you keep the tapes of people jumping?’ I ask Ezzie as the betting starts. ‘You know, from the CCTV?’

‘No tapes these days, Stu,’ Ezzie says. ‘All hard disk.’

Phelpie gets stopwatched.

‘You ever hand out copies to civilians?’ I ask.

‘Just the polis,’ Ezzie says, looking a little awkward. ‘Gie them a dongle if they ask for it. But we’re no even supposed to hand out copies to the families. How?’

I shrug. ‘Just heard something.’

‘D’you ever watch footage of old jumpers?’ Ferg asks. ‘When it’s a boring shift? Is there a collection of greatest hits?’

‘Canny really say,’ Ezzie mumbles, closely inspecting his cards.

‘Is
there a going rate for copies, Ezzie?’ Lee asks.

‘No,’ Ezzie says. He looks up at us. ‘Come on, guys; no fair.’

Lee’s phone beeps. ‘Yes,’ Ferg says, ‘let’s get on with it. Phelpie, bid or fold.’

‘Pound,’ Phelpie says, sliding a coin decisively into the centre of the table.

Ferg sighs dramatically.

Ryan Mac arrives, nods at me with a sort of wary politeness – I like the wary more than the politeness – and sits in. El’s ex, though I’ll never be able to think of him that way. He’s slim and fair and slightly puppy-fatty, though in a cute way. Still very young-looking, and I can see Ferg eyeing him up. Phelpie takes a call from Mike Mac and has to go. Ryan gets up suddenly to have a word with Phelpie before he leaves and they stand at the far end of the loft’s main living area, by the stairs, talking quietly.

Meanwhile I’m in a head-to-head with Ezzie again, who definitely thinks he has a chance this time. Which he might, of course, though I’m looking at a full house of jacks and threes.

Lee is making more rolls. Ferg has gone to the loo.

Ezzie had three kings, and deflates when he sees my hand. I suspect that’s the last of his money. His wallet looks anorexic and working in the bridge control room can’t pay that well. I go to arm-sweep in all the money, then stop. I look at Dr Torbet and motion with my eyes.

‘Mm-hmm,’ Jim says. ‘Excuse me.’ He stands, goes to help Lee with the rolls.

I look Ezzie in the eyes, nod at the pile of money bracketed by my arms and say quietly, ‘Ezzie, this is all yours if you can tell me a bit more about some of that CCTV stuff.’

Ezzie looks alarmed. He glances round. ‘I canny sell you any of it,’ he tells me.

‘Just want to know if anybody’s ever got a private look, you know? Somebody not off the bridge?’

‘Aye,
well, might have happened,’ Ezzie says, looking at the money.

‘Any footage ever disappeared, Ezzie?’

Ezzie looks up at me. Another not very good poker player. I can see in his eyes the answer’s yes. ‘Oh, now, not really for me … Canny really say, Stu.’

I lean over a little closer and lower my voice still further, though the industrial-looking extraction fan over the hob and grill is easily making enough noise to drown out our conversation. ‘What if somebody wanted to see the time Callum Murston took a dive?’

Now Ezzie looks positively frightened. ‘Think that was all wiped,’ he tells me quickly.

‘Wiped?’

‘Polis. They said to. Didn’t want it fallin into the wrong hands.’

‘Really?’ I ask. The wrong hands? What does that mean – the press?

‘Aye,’ Ezzie says, ‘like if somebody put it on YouTube or somethin? Mr M might get upset and things could kick off, ken?’ Ezzie glances round at where Ryan and Phelpie are standing, still deep in earnest discussion. He looks back at me. Ferg is pacing back from the stairs. ‘Ah was on holiday at the time, Stu,’ Ezzie tells me quickly. ‘That’s all I know. Onist.’

‘Ooh! Blood sausage!’ Ferg says, stopping by the kitchen island. ‘Better have one of those.’

I smile at Ezzie. ‘Fair enough,’ I tell him. I push the pile of money towards him and sit back.

‘How about you? Do you see Ellie often?’ I ask Ryan MacAvett.

Ryan shakes his head. ‘No, hardly ever,’ he says. ‘Seen her once or twice through the window of that drop-in centre on the High Street. Used to bump into her at the supermarket, but now she gets stuff delivered.’ He glances at me. ‘Thought of claiming I had a problem, you know? Like, being an addict? Just to be able to walk into the centre and get a chance to talk to her.’

‘Doubt that would have worked,’ I tell him.

‘Aye,
me too,’ Ryan says, and drinks from his bottle of Bud.

The girl is a hard habit to give up,
I think but don’t say.

We’re sitting sprawled on couches in another part of the loft while we take turns, two at a time, on a beta for the PS3 of MuddyFunster II, due to be the blockbuster Christmas release from the games house Ferg works for. It’s Grand Theft Auto with more ridiculous weapons and more slappable civilians, basically, and Ferg is brutally dismissive of it, having had little to do with the development and nothing with the concept.

‘It disrespects women, for one thing,’ he tells Lee when he asks why Ferg hates it so much.

‘
That
bothers
you
?’ Jim asks, mildly incredulous.

‘Mark my words,’ Ferg says, drawing himself up and narrowing his eyes. ‘Manners change in societies over time, gentlemen, and, as usual, I am ahead of the curve. Gallantry will be making a comeback.’

‘Gallantry?’ Lee splutters.

‘Yes. Perhaps even a sense of fair play, who knows?’

‘Wouldn’t hold your breath,’ Jim tells him.

‘… Is that a
submarine
surfacing in the river there?’ Lee says.

I stare over at him, but of course he’s talking about the game, not a stray Poseidon boat blundering into the Stoun like a confused techno-whale. An unfeasibly large sub is indeed surfacing in the Hudson, if that’s New York they’re playing in. Currently up are Lee and Jim, with Ferg standing looking over their shoulders. Bets have been placed on the outcome so there’s more than just pride and bragging rights at stake.

‘
Don’t
get me started on that
fucking
submarine!’ Ferg says vehemently.

Lee snorts. ‘That’s just bullshit, man.’

I’ve just had a shot on the new game and we all got to talking about how the violence in these games never quite measures up to the sort of messy horror real gangsters inflict on their victims. Turns out Dr Jim has heard a rumour.

‘I’m
telling you,’ Jim says. ‘If you’re ever close enough to Fraser Murston, take a look at the tips of his left index finger and thumb. Scar tissue.’

‘Sure he wasn’t just trying to sandpaper off his prints or something?’ Ferg asks.

Jim shrugs. ‘Who’s sure about any of this stuff ? Just telling you what I heard.’

‘He took out this guy’s balls and his eyes and …
swapped them
?’ Lee says, crossing his legs and screwing his eyes up in something like sympathy.

Jim nods. ‘And then superglued everything back up again. That’s how he got injured, pinching the guy’s scrotum closed with his fingers; left them in contact too long. Then he got it wrong trying to free himself and removed some of his own skin.’