All the Colours of the Town by Liam McIlvanney Page A

tiles. ‘I’m kidding, all right? I’m kidding. Jesus. Touchy, Gerry.’ He clapped his shoulder. ‘Sit down for Christ’s sake. You’re worse than MacLaren. Come on, Gerry. You know what I think of you. You know I rate you. Did I help out a wee bit? Did I help things along a little?’
    What could I say? I shrugged. A waiter was waiting to get past; he stood before me with three desserts balanced on his arm; a tiramisu and two elaborate ice-cream structures . I sat down.
    ‘That’s all I’m saying then.’ He folded the banknotes, lodged them in the pocket of my shirt. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’
    The waiter squeezed between the tables, twisting his hips like a matador.
    We ordered coffee and talked about nothing; Party gossip ; Celtic-and-Rangers. At one point the lights went out and a fizzing, orange ball wavered into view, and a man’s reddened features, savage in the ruddy glow. Then the music started and everyone joined in, craning round to see. Lyons was beaming. The voices thinned when it came to the name – Timmy, it might have been, or Cammy or Terry – and then we all rallied round on the final line. The kid’s round mouth raked the conflagration – there were sparklers in there, and four or five candles – and everyone clapped as the lights came back on.
    ‘How’s your own two?’ he asked. ‘Ricky and James?’
    ‘Roddy. They’re great. I’m taking them up the coast next week. Carradale.’
    ‘Nice.’
    Lyons’s phone rang again.
    ‘Do you mind?’ The phone perched on his outstretched palm, open, like a black plastic bird. ‘I sort of need to take this.’
    ‘On you go.’ I needed a piss in any case.
    When I got back Lyons was signing a napkin for the toothy woman.
    I called for the check.
    At the birthday table the kid was sulking, his chin deep down between the wings of his polo shirt. As his dad leaned in close, the boy flinched, hunching his shoulders as if he was cold, as if his clothes were suddenly wet. I could hear the dad’s tone, coaxing and low – a tone that the kid himself would come to master, the tone of a man letting somebody down.
    The waiter arrived with the check and presented it to Lyons.
    *
     
    The street was cooler now – a breeze had come up off the river – and as we strolled towards George Square the tension between us passed, as if the restaurant were to blame, its enervating cramped formality, and here in the open air we were easy as ever.
    Lyons stopped to light a torpedo; the flame flapped whitely, twice, like a butterfly’s wings, as he sucked and puffed and got it to draw. A great white cloud plumed skywards.
    ‘Oh yes.’ He shook his head. ‘Smoking ban. Fucking politicians. Listen, Gerry.’
    ‘What?’
    We paused at a junction.
    ‘About the wine. Back there. It was stupid; I should have thought.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘It never occurred to me. I’m sorry.’
    We stood at the kerb. A bus rolled through the junction , its fumes blue in the afternoon sun. I’d been in rehab, briefly, a year or so back – there were alcohol issues after the split – but I didn’t see how Lyons could know this. I was about to ask him what he meant when the signal changed and the crowd pressed forward. On the far pavement a man in a red wooden booth called ‘ Evening Times ’ in a stylised bark. Lyons strode ahead, his free hand rooting for change. A backdraught of smoke gusted into my face and the two things – the smoke and the bright hot sun – pitched me back a quarter-century . Sunlit water on wooden planks. I’m in the Howard Park, half in and half out of the gloom beneath the footbridge, reclining on the earthen bank. I’m eleven years old, smoking a Regal King Size and the petty, tea-dark river is majestic with light; its reflection sways on the planks of the bridge, crossing and twisting like ropes of shadow-glass. I watch the pattern through half-shut eyes, through smoke and sunlight, sleepy and alert.
    ‘Here.’
    I opened my eyes. Lyons was