the big schemes for antisocial behaviour. So the few young professionals who had been misguided enough to purchase such properties found themselves trapped in an embryonic ghetto.
To Franco’s astonishment, Joe is still at the address and answers almost immediately, cheerlessly opening the door, then going back inside, urging him to follow. His brother regarded him in such a perfunctory manner, it was as if Franco had just nipped out for a packet of cigarettes, rather than to California for six years. Joe Begbie, wearing a parka, slumps onto the couch, and swigs at a plastic litre bottle of flat-looking cider, seeming relieved when Franco refuses a slug.
Franco casts his eyes around the small, barren room. The walls are painted white, and are grubby around the light switches. The beige carpet, sticky under his feet, is discoloured with different spillage. The place is littered with empty foodcartons, beverage cans and overflowing ashtrays. It seems an advertisement for how a middle-aged man shouldn’t be living.
— That Sandra, Frank, ye were right aboot her. You had that cow sussed, Joe offers, eyes red and sunken, as he augments his cider consumption with a nip of whisky from a bottle of Grouse.
He makes to pass it to Franco who again waves it away, as he thinks of Sandra and chips. He’s always associated the two after a teenage sex incident up the old goods yard. — Kick ye oot, aye?
— Fuckin evil bitch, Joe hisses, his eyes burning. — Poisoned the kids against ays n everything. He shakes his head, then his face suddenly fills with cheer. — Still, good tae see you again. Kent you’d be back!
— Just for the funeral. Then ah bolt.
Joe’s face crumples into a scowl as he lowers the whisky onto a wooden coffee table, the periphery of which is discoloured by cigarette burns. — Dinnae tell ays yir no lookin for the cunt that did Sean! Ah’ve been lookin!
— Aye, fae that couch?
— Ah’ve been lookin! Joe protests. — It’s no that easy . . . you dinnae ken what it’s like roond here now . . .
— Aye, life kin be hard, Franco blandly concedes.
— Ah’ve nae snout.
— A tragedy. You have my apathy.
— You stoaped?
— Aye.
— Snout?
— Aye.
— Yuv stoaped smokin?
Franco shakes his head. — How many weys dae ye want ays tae say it?
— Hmmph. Joe fixes his brother in a piercing stare. — Any money in this art game, then?
— Ah dae awright.
— Aye, ah read aw aboot that, right enough. Aye, you’re daein fine! Shoes, Joe says bitterly, nodding at the polished black leather on Franco’s feet. It seems to set him off as he suddenly explodes, — You cannae say thit ye didnae make mistakes, Frank!
Frank Begbie retains his composure, hauls in an even, steady breath. — Mistakes are what other people make. People that tried tae fuck ays aboot. They made mistakes. Usually, they peyed for them n aw.
This is enough to turn his brother’s volume down. — California. How’s that workin oot for ye, Frank?
— Fine enough.
— Ah’ll bet it is. Joe’s eyes dance, or rather something behind them does. — How’s it the likes ay you git tae go tae California? he slurs, then snaps suddenly, — Big hoose, ay?
— Five bedrooms. A big outbuilding converted intae a workshop, or studio, as I like tae call it, Franco almost sings, as a sweet taste fills his mouth.
— Near the sea?
— Naw. Well, about three-quarters ay a mile away.
— Big hoose, but, Joe’s accusatory tone continues.
— Aye, though there’s a lot in the neighbourhood that’s bigger. N you? Still livin oan other people’s couches, mate?
— Aye, this is ma mate Darren’s place, ay.
— Cannae be much fun, Franco nods, looking again around the room, the walls of which seem to close in a little more each time he regards them. — Mibbe ah’m just no pickin up on the glamorous side.
Joe is irate, looking at Frank in fury. — Come back ower here tae lord it ower everybody –
— When you’re slumming
To Franco’s astonishment, Joe is still at the address and answers almost immediately, cheerlessly opening the door, then going back inside, urging him to follow. His brother regarded him in such a perfunctory manner, it was as if Franco had just nipped out for a packet of cigarettes, rather than to California for six years. Joe Begbie, wearing a parka, slumps onto the couch, and swigs at a plastic litre bottle of flat-looking cider, seeming relieved when Franco refuses a slug.
Franco casts his eyes around the small, barren room. The walls are painted white, and are grubby around the light switches. The beige carpet, sticky under his feet, is discoloured with different spillage. The place is littered with empty foodcartons, beverage cans and overflowing ashtrays. It seems an advertisement for how a middle-aged man shouldn’t be living.
— That Sandra, Frank, ye were right aboot her. You had that cow sussed, Joe offers, eyes red and sunken, as he augments his cider consumption with a nip of whisky from a bottle of Grouse.
He makes to pass it to Franco who again waves it away, as he thinks of Sandra and chips. He’s always associated the two after a teenage sex incident up the old goods yard. — Kick ye oot, aye?
— Fuckin evil bitch, Joe hisses, his eyes burning. — Poisoned the kids against ays n everything. He shakes his head, then his face suddenly fills with cheer. — Still, good tae see you again. Kent you’d be back!
— Just for the funeral. Then ah bolt.
Joe’s face crumples into a scowl as he lowers the whisky onto a wooden coffee table, the periphery of which is discoloured by cigarette burns. — Dinnae tell ays yir no lookin for the cunt that did Sean! Ah’ve been lookin!
— Aye, fae that couch?
— Ah’ve been lookin! Joe protests. — It’s no that easy . . . you dinnae ken what it’s like roond here now . . .
— Aye, life kin be hard, Franco blandly concedes.
— Ah’ve nae snout.
— A tragedy. You have my apathy.
— You stoaped?
— Aye.
— Snout?
— Aye.
— Yuv stoaped smokin?
Franco shakes his head. — How many weys dae ye want ays tae say it?
— Hmmph. Joe fixes his brother in a piercing stare. — Any money in this art game, then?
— Ah dae awright.
— Aye, ah read aw aboot that, right enough. Aye, you’re daein fine! Shoes, Joe says bitterly, nodding at the polished black leather on Franco’s feet. It seems to set him off as he suddenly explodes, — You cannae say thit ye didnae make mistakes, Frank!
Frank Begbie retains his composure, hauls in an even, steady breath. — Mistakes are what other people make. People that tried tae fuck ays aboot. They made mistakes. Usually, they peyed for them n aw.
This is enough to turn his brother’s volume down. — California. How’s that workin oot for ye, Frank?
— Fine enough.
— Ah’ll bet it is. Joe’s eyes dance, or rather something behind them does. — How’s it the likes ay you git tae go tae California? he slurs, then snaps suddenly, — Big hoose, ay?
— Five bedrooms. A big outbuilding converted intae a workshop, or studio, as I like tae call it, Franco almost sings, as a sweet taste fills his mouth.
— Near the sea?
— Naw. Well, about three-quarters ay a mile away.
— Big hoose, but, Joe’s accusatory tone continues.
— Aye, though there’s a lot in the neighbourhood that’s bigger. N you? Still livin oan other people’s couches, mate?
— Aye, this is ma mate Darren’s place, ay.
— Cannae be much fun, Franco nods, looking again around the room, the walls of which seem to close in a little more each time he regards them. — Mibbe ah’m just no pickin up on the glamorous side.
Joe is irate, looking at Frank in fury. — Come back ower here tae lord it ower everybody –
— When you’re slumming
Similar Books
