Lonie16

Tilby was all for leaving the pub. He finished his half of whisky, banged the glass down on the table, and looked about him glassy-eyed to get his bearings and fished in his Marks and Spencer's black trench coat for his car keys. He looked diagonally across to where Lonie was leaning over talking to the fatman, licking up to him so he got all the best jobs. Woods was shouting something at Jock who was collecting glasses and had his hand to his ear, and a big grin on his face, to show he couldn’t hear, because of the blaring music, and Davy Brown was curled up fast asleep, with his legs tucked underneath a stool, holding a full pint of lager in his hand, and a fag burning in his lips. Tilby wound his wool scarf round his neck. He didn’t want to be catching any of them flu bugs, but sat down again, his back against the wall, when he saw two females coming through the swing doors and into the lounge. Both of them were lookers, but with Barbara behind the bar, and no other women in the pub, most women were. His eyesight wasn’t what it used to be and he didn’t like wearing his specs. He squinted at them, his forehead frowning and picked up a half pint of lager to help him concentrate. ‘Oi,’ he shouted over at Lonie, ‘isn’t that two of your pals over there.’ His tongue shot into the side of his mouth, distending it, pushing out his cheek on the one side; a childish gesture of a cock in the mouth.

Jock's neck jerked round, to get an eyeful, a stack of nine pint glasses wobbling in his big hands. He turned back to face Lonie. ‘Fuckin’ hell. You’re like fuckin’ Rob Stewart. All those bits of fuckin’ stuff, follin’ you around, and fuckin’ follin’ all over you. Good fuckin’ on you mate. Fuckin’ get it while you’re young. That’s what I fuckin’ say. Fuckin’ get it when you’re fuckin’ young.’

Lonie, with a fag perched on his lips, looked over his shoulder. At the bar, Marj was standing sideways to him. Her normal expression of boredom was dressed up in the shortest skirt since the bikini and, as it was a working night, she’d fluffed up her big hair with the aid of hairspray to the proportions of a bearskin hat worn by the Scots’ guards. Mary, in comparison, dressed in a red skirt and suit ensemble, with her breasts peeking out of a black bra, with little or no makeup, looked like a church warden. She was looking directly over at him. Lonie sighed, his hand lifted in a casual wave towards her. Their table wobbled, with the drinks threatening to spill, as he put his hand on it to steady himself and stand up. ‘I’ll get a round in.’ He looked round at those, still awake, in his company and there were no dissenters.

‘Why don’t you bring the ladies over?’ suggested Tilby.

Lonie put his hand on Davy Brown’s shoulder waking him up-almost spilling his pint- and leaned across to speak to Tilby. ‘I will. But you play nice. And remember they are ladies and you’ve got to pay for their company and everybody knows what a skinflint you are.’

‘Fuck off,’ said Tilby. ‘Just ‘cause I don’t need to pay for it like you.’

‘Bet that’s not what your wife says,’ said Lonie.

‘Push up,’ said the fatman. ‘Let’s get a few stools over to give the good ladies a seat.’

‘They can squeeze in beside me.’ Tilby pushed his hip up against Bresslen’s to create a gap, but even though the ladies were pencil thin, neither could be seated in such a small space. Lonie, before going to the bar, held his finger up and shook it at Tilby, a sign to behave. Those further along the seat pushed Bresslen back the other way, so the gap disappeared.

Mary patted Lonie’s arm, drew him in and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

‘Wa-hey,’ shouted his colleagues in the corner, as if he’d scored a goal in a knockabout game.

‘We were just passing,’ said Mary, ‘and we thought we’d drop in for a drink.’

Marj looked as if she’d dropped in from another planet. Lonie shrugged and pinned on a slow smile, but he wasn’t sure what had brought on this new overfamiliarity. Barbara had placed two vodka and cokes in front of the bar for the two women, but it was evident by the way she looked at Lonie that he was expected to pay for them. He shrugged that off too and ordered a round up. ‘We’ll get a couple of seats for you in the corner.’ He lit a Woodbine, pulling slightly away from Mary who’d kept a possessive hand on his arm.

‘We’re only staying for one.’ Marj lifted her glass and, to prove her point, flung it back in a oner.

Mary ran her finger around the rim of her glass, took a sip and winced. ‘I might stay a bit longer.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Marj held her head up like a periscope to see what men were watching; her eyes like a cash register. She met Tilby’s eyes, but knew his type and slipped out the lounge door without a goodbye.

‘That’s nice.’ Lonie spoke with a jocular tone as he watched Marj sashay away and leave.

‘She doesn’t mean anything.’ Mary smiled back at him.

Lonie got his change. ‘Suppose she’s busy.’ He placed three pints in triangular shape so he could more easily lift them from the bar and over to his table. ‘Ah won’t be offended if you want to go and catch her up?’

‘No. No.’ Mary clutched onto his arm. ‘I’ll stay and have a drink with you.’ She was still smiling, but her hand dropped and she looked at her feet. ‘That is,’ and she looked up at his face again, ‘if you want me to?’

‘Yeh, that would be nice.’ Lonie tried to sound enthusiastic. ‘You want to bring some of those drinks over to the table?’ He nodded towards them.

‘Sure.’ Mary put her drink on the bar and she tried to lift four whiskies in two hands, but the glasses bumped together and she settled for taking three. ‘I’d make a good barmaid.’ She followed behind Lonie.

‘Not in here you wouldn’t.’ Lonie laughed. ‘You’re too pretty, for starters. And I doubt any of them at the bar would give you any peace.’

Mary bent over, like a crabbed older women, and put the whisky glasses carefully down on the same table as Lonie had crammed the pint tumblers.

‘I certainly wouldn’t give you any peace.’ Tilby leered across the table at her.

Mary bubbled with false laughter. Lonie glanced over at him, but he was too far gone to notice. He pulled Mary’s arm and guided her through the chicane of stools and bodies in to a table near the wall and across from the fatman.

Lonie went back to the bar to get the drinks he’d left. He’d salvaged the only drink’s tray in the pub to bring them back. The fatman had that self-satisfied look on his face as he leaned across the table and talked with Mary. She was smoking one of his Dunhill cigarettes and looked animated in her replies to him, but she also looked uneasy. The reason was sitting squeezed in a barstool next to her, with his chin perched on Mary’s shoulder and his hand wavering about her knee.

Lonie put the round tray down on the table, almost knocking over some tumblers that had only dregs of beer left in them. He tapped Tilby on the shoulder. ‘Move,’ rumbled from his throat and his thumb jerked out; a warning signal that Tilby should go back to his own seat on the other side of the set of tables.

‘Fuck off.’ Tibly shook his head from side to side. His face squashing up into a mask of disbelief, but his hand slipped from her knee. ‘I’m just speaking to the young lady.’

‘I’m ok.’ Mary half stood, facing Lonie, and shaking free of Tilby. Her voice was dressed in gaiety, a protestation that everything was fine. Just fine.

‘Fuckin’ move.’ Lonie slapped Tilby on the shoulder again.

Tilby sprang up to face Lonie, his hip bashing against the table and spilling drinks, his fists clenched. ‘I’m going nowhere.’ He pushed his head in towards Lonie’s face.

The fatman struggled to get up out of his seat in the corner. ‘Lonie leave it,’ he shouted, ‘he’s an arsehole and he’s drunk.’

As the table jolted, Mary had a drink spilled on her dress. She too sprang up. ‘He’s not worth it,’ she shouted.

Davy Brown dived from his stool, his specs falling from his face, slapped his arms around Tilby’s arms, pulling him to the floor, and knocking over another table of drinks. Amid the wreckage of broken glass, he looked up at Lonie, the side of his head on the floor gashed and bleeding. ‘You’re worth twice of the likes of him. Just let it go.’

‘Ah’ll let it go.’ Lonie looked down at Tilby who was relatively unscathed. ‘But if I ever hear any more from you, ah’ll no’ start any trouble. That’s kid’s stuff. I’ll wait for you outside. And ah swear on my life, ah’ll no’ stop punchin till the knuckles of my hands are broken with the bones of your face.’

Jock rushed across and stood between them. ‘What the fuck you fuckin’ cunts been up to? Fuckin’ wrecking the fuckin’ place. Can’t fuckin’ have that. Can we?’

Lonie ignored Jock, his foot scrunching on the broken glass as he picked up his coat. He leaned down and whispered to Tilby. ‘That’s a promise.’ He carried his coat bundled up like a parcel, not looking back, as he made his way to the lounge door, through the bar and out into the street.

‘Wait on me. Wait on me.’ He heard the click of Mary’s heels. She was out of breath when she caught up. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Just walkin’.’

‘Do you mind if I walk along?’

Lonie shrugged and they walked for a few minutes, their heels clicking on the empty pavements in companionable silence. ‘I’m sorry, about that.’ He nodded, in the general direction of back towards the pub.

‘It’s ok,’ her arm slipped through his.

The smell of the Clyde drifted across and there was a banging noise, someone hitting a metal drum, like the Apaches were on the opposite side of the water. Lonie had felt drunk, but after the confrontation with Tilby he was now sober. He stopped walking and turned to face her. ‘It’s not ok.’ He watched her sea-green eyes and noted the way they changed, but she kept smiling. ‘It’s not ok.’

‘Ok. It’s not ok.’ She grabbed for his arm and tried to mock haul him along the pavement and into walking with her.

Lonie wasn’t for moving or playing. He looked across at the metal bars and spikes of Jerry’s Autos and reached for his fags. He lit one and handed it to her. ‘Where are you goin’ to?’

‘Where are you going to?’ She sounded girlish, fun even, the way she mimicked his speech, waved her hands about and mocked him.

‘Ah’m serious,’ Lonie said. ‘Where are you goin’ to?’

‘I’m serious,’ Mary said. ‘Where are you going to?’

Lonie was first to break and smile. ‘Ah’m goin’ home.’

She laughed. Her eyes a challenge. ‘I’m going home too.’

‘Eh-eh.’ Lonie waved his finger at her as if she was a child. ‘Not with me you’re not.’

‘I didn’t say I was going home with you. Did I?’ She grabbed for his hand and pulled herself in close, pulling his arm over her shoulder. ‘Is your house really that bad?’

‘No. Not really.’ Then he laughed. ‘It’s a bit of dump. Ah don’t even need to lock the door.’ And he was going to tell her about Audrey not being able to lock the front door, but he stopped because she smelled nice, was looking up him in that Sphinx way, her hand was brushing against his zip and the outside of his trouser, and his cock was getting hard.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ Mary felt the outline of his cock through the thin material. She licked her lips and slowly tugged down the zip on his trousers. ‘Do you know some young fat girl with a posh accent? Cause she seems to know you.’

‘Can’t say that Ah do.’ Lonie looked up and down the street, before turning sideways, as if that made them invisible, and began kissing her.