towards my drinking companion across the bar, eyes
darting around the room in an attempt to strike up conversation.
‘Brad?’
Kirsty asks, ‘He’s harmless enough. Big and daft is his trouble. Gets used a
lot to provide muscle, not bright enough to talk himself out of the shit that
comes with it.’
Seems
we’ve got more in common than I thought. It’s hard to reinvent yourself if you
continue to move in the same circles, living cheek by jowl amongst men with so
little aspiration they judge each other by the number of drinks they can hold
or the damage they inflict. Maybe Brad and I are kindred spirits for altogether
different reasons. I move over to his end of the bar, pointing to his empty
glass.
‘Another?’
I offer, whilst surreptitiously checking that Daz’s attention is still caught
up in the game, I’m not sure I can stretch to a third drink. Brad nods, pushing
his empty glass away to make way for the new one. My gaze falls onto his
heavily nicotine stained hands. ‘Can sit outside if ye want a smoke?’
‘Nut.’
Brad replies hastily, casting a glance back at the entrance, ‘Keeping me head
down, ye know how it is.’ I think of MacIntyre and smile sympathetically,
‘Pretty much.’ I agree.
‘Haven’t
seen ye around here recently.’ Brad observes, making conversation.
‘Been
away.’ To his credit Brad doesn’t ask for details, nor to my shame does he use
it as an introduction to his own story. Instead we lift our drinks to our lips,
drinking and focussing on our own thoughts. Our silence is shattered by Marcus
Dreyton striding in with a mobile phone clamped to his ear. He’s giving someone
a bollocking as every other word is a swear word followed by a threat. The
pub’s decibel level drops instantly as everyone attempts to listen in to his
one way conversation:
‘Yi
know what wi’ happen if it isn’t done by den….’ he says menacingly.
At
first I thought he’d ventured out without a minder but three strides later two
men emerge behind him like smoke from a gun. By the time Marcus has ended his
call his pint has been poured and placed at a table by the jukebox where the
original occupants finish their drinks and gather their coats in record time.
Two
pints are placed in front of us causing Brad to catch my eye. ‘For services
rendered.’ I mutter, and we dutifully raise our glasses to Marcus.
If
only he gave me cash instead of keeping me topped up in drink I could make
Mickey Plastic’s next repayment without needing a second job. Of course I know
it doesn’t work like that. Marcus is a gift horse you certainly don’t take for
granted. I’m not daft. He’s oiling me for a reason, there’ll be something he’ll
want doing, a wee favour, something someway along the line. Brad, it seems, is
way ahead of me on this one. He gulps down his pint, wiping the froth from his
mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he says, inclining his
head in the direction of Marcus and his cronies, ‘I’m off.’
I
feel exposed now he’s gone. A Billy-Nae-Mates nursing a drink can’t pretend he
doesn’t see what’s going on around him, can’t avoid the conversation of a stranger
without it looking like a snub. I start to take larger gulps of my drink so I
can be on my way too when my eye accidentally catch’s Marcus’s. He pushes an
empty chair back from the table he’s sitting at then motions for me to sit
down.
6
When I wake the
next morning I feel as though someone has driven over my head with an
articulated truck. I’d felt quite sober by the time I’d gone to bed and my
sleep had been deep but that doesn’t stop my skull from feeling as though a
family of woodpeckers are trying to break their way out from the inside.
I
make it into work thanks to half a packet of painkillers but it’s a close call
what with the smell of fried food and the attack of vertigo every time I try to
clear a table. In the end Tam lets me go early, or rather in his words:
darting around the room in an attempt to strike up conversation.
‘Brad?’
Kirsty asks, ‘He’s harmless enough. Big and daft is his trouble. Gets used a
lot to provide muscle, not bright enough to talk himself out of the shit that
comes with it.’
Seems
we’ve got more in common than I thought. It’s hard to reinvent yourself if you
continue to move in the same circles, living cheek by jowl amongst men with so
little aspiration they judge each other by the number of drinks they can hold
or the damage they inflict. Maybe Brad and I are kindred spirits for altogether
different reasons. I move over to his end of the bar, pointing to his empty
glass.
‘Another?’
I offer, whilst surreptitiously checking that Daz’s attention is still caught
up in the game, I’m not sure I can stretch to a third drink. Brad nods, pushing
his empty glass away to make way for the new one. My gaze falls onto his
heavily nicotine stained hands. ‘Can sit outside if ye want a smoke?’
‘Nut.’
Brad replies hastily, casting a glance back at the entrance, ‘Keeping me head
down, ye know how it is.’ I think of MacIntyre and smile sympathetically,
‘Pretty much.’ I agree.
‘Haven’t
seen ye around here recently.’ Brad observes, making conversation.
‘Been
away.’ To his credit Brad doesn’t ask for details, nor to my shame does he use
it as an introduction to his own story. Instead we lift our drinks to our lips,
drinking and focussing on our own thoughts. Our silence is shattered by Marcus
Dreyton striding in with a mobile phone clamped to his ear. He’s giving someone
a bollocking as every other word is a swear word followed by a threat. The
pub’s decibel level drops instantly as everyone attempts to listen in to his
one way conversation:
‘Yi
know what wi’ happen if it isn’t done by den….’ he says menacingly.
At
first I thought he’d ventured out without a minder but three strides later two
men emerge behind him like smoke from a gun. By the time Marcus has ended his
call his pint has been poured and placed at a table by the jukebox where the
original occupants finish their drinks and gather their coats in record time.
Two
pints are placed in front of us causing Brad to catch my eye. ‘For services
rendered.’ I mutter, and we dutifully raise our glasses to Marcus.
If
only he gave me cash instead of keeping me topped up in drink I could make
Mickey Plastic’s next repayment without needing a second job. Of course I know
it doesn’t work like that. Marcus is a gift horse you certainly don’t take for
granted. I’m not daft. He’s oiling me for a reason, there’ll be something he’ll
want doing, a wee favour, something someway along the line. Brad, it seems, is
way ahead of me on this one. He gulps down his pint, wiping the froth from his
mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he says, inclining his
head in the direction of Marcus and his cronies, ‘I’m off.’
I
feel exposed now he’s gone. A Billy-Nae-Mates nursing a drink can’t pretend he
doesn’t see what’s going on around him, can’t avoid the conversation of a stranger
without it looking like a snub. I start to take larger gulps of my drink so I
can be on my way too when my eye accidentally catch’s Marcus’s. He pushes an
empty chair back from the table he’s sitting at then motions for me to sit
down.
6
When I wake the
next morning I feel as though someone has driven over my head with an
articulated truck. I’d felt quite sober by the time I’d gone to bed and my
sleep had been deep but that doesn’t stop my skull from feeling as though a
family of woodpeckers are trying to break their way out from the inside.
I
make it into work thanks to half a packet of painkillers but it’s a close call
what with the smell of fried food and the attack of vertigo every time I try to
clear a table. In the end Tam lets me go early, or rather in his words:
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