The Bullet Trick (12 page)

The clock outside Buchanan Street bus station is a fey sculpture, a working clock frozen fleeing towards the entrance on long aluminium legs. I wondered what had come first, the image or the title, 'Time Flies’ — too bloody true.

On reflection the bus station probably wasn’t the best place to hook up. It had been renovated a few years back, but no one had bothered to maintain it since and the building was shrugging off the revamp. I arrived early, or perhaps the bus was late, so I took a seat on one of the cold perforated metal benches that sit on the edge of the concourse unprotected from the elements, smoked a cigarette and watched the buses sailing in and out of their slots, sliding across the forecourt like reckless ocean liners on speed. A bus left the far stand, the faces of its passengers blurred behind fogged-up windows. As it revved into top gear a second coach sped into the concourse from Buchanan Street, slicing towards the departing bus. They faced each other like reflections in a mirror and I tracked their course, tensing myself for impact. Just when collision seemed inevitable one of the drivers, I’m not sure which, peeled back and they cruised by with a quick exchange of salutes, one two-fingered, the other a single digit.

A woman of around my mother’s age sat at the far end of the bench. I gave her a reassuring smile and said, 'They should set that to music.' She shot me a sour look and shifted away from me. I muttered, 'Stuck up old cow,' just loud enough for her to hear, then threw my cigarette butt onto the concrete, walked to the edge of the stand and looked out into the forecourt. The wind had full reign across the open space. It blew down from the Necropolis, through the infirmary, across the motorways and round the high rises until it could reach its goal and whip loose grit into the inadequate shelter. I rubbed my eyes. There was an illusion waiting to present itself on the edge of my mind.

'Excuse me, Jim,' an old man stood at my left hand. 'Could you help us out with my fare to Aberdeen?'

I searched in my pocket for some change, the illusion still shifting angles in my head.

'There you go.'

I put fifty pence into his palm. He glanced at the coin before folding it in a firm grip, like a child scared of losing his pocket money before he made it to Woolworth’s.

'I need to get away frae this godforsaken city and back to civilisation, see?'

'Aye, well, I hope you make it.'

'This is a bad place, son; Sodom and Gomorrah had nothing on London. Land of bloody heathens.'

'You’re not in London,' I said, distracted away from my vision of collisions and vanishing buses.

'I know that, I’m no bloody daft.'

'Fair enough.'

I was through with illusions, magical and philosophical. I pushed the calculations from my head and turned towards the benches, but they were full now. The wind was growing sharper, cut through with a dampness that meant it would rain soon. I leaned against the wall of the shelter and the old man shifted with me, muttering something I couldn’t make out. The wind was bitter, but it wasn’t strong enough to carry away his tang. I wondered when he’d last had a wash. Maybe it’d been in London. I pulled out my half-empty pack of cigarettes.

'If I give you a fag will you go away?'

'That’s what you bloody yuppies are like.' The old man’s voice was getting higher. 'You think you can bloody buy and sell everyone. Well Jackie McArthur’s no for sale.'

The people on the benches turned towards us. I didn’t care, maybe it would be the last time I’d be the entertainment. I held the pack towards him.

'Aye fine, you can have one anyway, if you lower the volume.'

Jackie took a cigarette.

'Bloody fucking metropolitan yuppies. No room for a working man any more.'

Perhaps he really had come all the way from London. He seemed to have the measure of the place.

Another bus slid into another stand, but the Cumbernauld service was still missing in action. The people waiting on the benches started to shuffle into line. I looked back towards the clock in the main hall and saw a short moustached man in a navy-blue fleece walking towards us. He wore a silver ticket-machine strung round his neck like a badge of office. The woman at the top of the queue began counting her change, getting the correct fare together. She looked up as the conductor passed, but he ignored her, walking by the waiting queue towards my new pal Jackie McArthur.

The ticket-collector cocked his thumb at Jackie.

'Move it.' The old man looked up, his fight chased off by the uniform and moustache. The ticket-collector moved a little nearer, putting his face close to the old man’s. 'I said, bloody move it.'

I counted to ten, but when I finished counting the old man was still mumbling and the ticket-collector was still puffed before him like a bantam facing a flyweight.

'There’s no need to talk to him like that.'

'This isnae vagrant central.'

Jackie started muttering, 'Nae place for a working man any more.'

I tried to keep my voice reasonable. 'He’s only waiting on a bus.'

'No, he’s no, he’s just in here for the heat.'

'Then he’s bloody kidding himself isn’t he? You’d get more heat off my granny’s fanny and she’s been dead fifteen years.'

Someone in the queue laughed and the conductor flushed.

'You watch your mouth. There’s ladies present.' He turned to the old man. 'Where are you headed?'

'Away from London, son. City of fools and killers.'

'He’s going to Aberdeen.'

'Where’s your ticket?' The old man patted the pockets of his jacket and the official raised his voice, enunciating slowly. 'I said, where is your ticket?'

The man stopped his search and the collector’s eyes sparkled. He adjusted the settings on his machine. 'That’ll be fifteen pounds please, sir.'

Jackie looked confused. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the fifty pence I’d given him. He turned to me his voice high.

'I told you already. I dinnae have the money.'

The cogs of the ticket-machine rasped as the collector cranked it backwards.

'Well fuck off and stop wasting our time then or I’ll be forced to call the cops and have you done.'

I took out my wallet.

'Look, I’ll bloody pay.'

I pulled out a tenner. The old man took it gently from me, smiling, and I noticed how well his horn-yellow nails coordinated with the nicotine tint of his fingertips.

The ticket-collector’s voice was nasal and sharp.

'It’s fifteen pounds please, sir.'

'Give me a moment.'

I patted my pockets for change echoing the old man’s search, but that morning I had resolved again to live within the bounds of the bru and never to touch the tainted money hidden in my props case beneath my bed. I remembered too late that the tenner was the last of my cash. I looked towards the queue.

'Look, this old boy’s a bit confused, he’s four-fifty short of his fare to Aberdeen.' I hesitated, not really wanting to go ahead with what I knew I was about to do, but sure that I wouldn’t be bested by the bully. I scanned the faces before me. Third in line stood a skinny red-haired girl in a green coat. She looked like a student, but the coat was new, her bag mid-range expensive. Others were looking away, keen to remove their better nature before it was called on, but the skinny redhead was half out of the line, watching us. I bet she had some money on her. Even as I caught her look in mine, her hand went shyly to her pocket. I held her gaze and said, 'You want to help this old man.'

The order freed her and she stepped forward, calmly unzipping her handbag.

Jackie took off his bunnet and started to sing.

The northern lights of A-a-berdeen are home, sweet h-o-o-me to me.

A couple of people in the queue started to grin, but the girl continued to reach for her purse. I kept my eyes on her, smiling but willing her to speed up.

Then suddenly everyone in the queue was laughing, the girl looked up confused, a flush burning her cheeks.

Jackie was tilting a small bottle of whisky to his lips. He finished his swallow, raised the ten pounds to his mouth, kissed it, then lifted the note in the air and began jigging back into the station, towards the exit.

The northern lights of Aberdeen are where I want to be.

'Remember, son,' he shouted over his shoulder, more lucid than a drunken, dancing tramp with money in his hand should be,'

'member and keep away from London. It’s full of killers and fools.'

'Aye, that’s good advice for your money,' said the ticket collector. 'So do you want this ticket to Aberdeen?'

'What do you think?'

'I think you should bugger off.'

Jackie’s song echoed from the exit.

I’ve been a wanderer all my life and many a sight I’ve seen,
But God speed the d-a-a-a-a-y
when I’m on my w-a-a-a-a-y
 
to my home in Aberdeen…

I hesitated, caught between the impulse to run after the old man and an urge to thump the ticket-collector.

I said, 'Who the fuck do you think you are?'

He shook his head, and started to walk towards the waiting queue. I made to follow him, then a small figure caught my eyeline. I turned and said, 'Hi Mum.'

We wandered down past the Stalinist façade of the concert hall and into the city. I reached towards my mother’s carrier bag but she pulled it away from my grasp. The last time we’d met I’d taken her to an Italian restaurant I’d read about on the flight from London. This time I didn’t even have the price of a cup of coffee. The change hung between us as we walked towards the café of her choice.

I’ve drunk coffee in Starbucks from Manhattan to Inverness and never yet enjoyed the experience. We queued, ordered, Mum paid, then we waited to see what we’d paid for. Perhaps it said something about the indomitability of the human spirit that no matter how hard the coffee corporation tried they couldn’t guarantee service with a smile. Our server looked like he’d had a rough night. His skin had a veal-calf pallor and there were red rings round his eyes that told of late nights and smoky rooms. He clattered our cups onto their saucers, swilling milky coffee over the side.

I lifted the tray and said, 'Ever thought you were in the wrong job?'

'All the time, pal.' He leant forward and whispered low enough to exclude the other customers. 'I’d prefer one that didn’t involve dealing with wankers.' Getting things off his chest seemed to cheer the boy up. He smiled, resuming normal volume. 'Mind and have a nice day.'

I started to answer, but Mum put her hand on the small of my back. She should have been a nightclub bouncer. There was no arguing with that steady pressure. I bit back my words and we made our way to the only seats available, two stained chairs set round a table littered with a debris of sandwich wrappers and dirty cups. I slid the tray between the mess. Suddenly I wanted a pint.

Mum set our cups on the table and started to fill the empty tray with the rubbish. A plastic sandwich pack sprang open and her mouth grew tight as she forced it shut.

'Do you have to pick a fight with everyone you meet?'

I watched her hand the tray to a passing employee with the smoothness of a fly-half passing a rugby ball. One minute the guy was loose-limbed and unburdened, the next he was laden.