Lonie68

Davy shuffled like a King Penguin wearing a gabardine coat, rocking drunk, from side to side. They cut down Duke Street. His house wasn’t far. He managed the stairs and into his tenement flat with a bit of help from Lonie. A clutter of cats scampered and flooded out of every room to meet him, paws drumming on the linoleum, purring and knitting their bodies around his legs. Four overflowing cat-litter trays, two near the front door and two near the living room door, made the place smell like a buried kennel.

Lonie breathed through his mouth and grabbed Davy’s arm and around the waist as he threatened to slump down and collapse. He didn’t play cautious, flicking with his feet, those twisting and purring furballs, and swooped down batted them away with his left hand. He made a feline free path and barrelled Davy through to the living room and pushed him onto his couch to sleep it off.

Cat’s eyes glowed yellow in the dark. Sheets hung like ghosts over the original closed curtains and windows. ‘That’s you then.’ Lonie expected the booze to blacken Davy out as effectively as the living room. Davy swayed from side to side, but his body refused to topple and go under.

Davy’s mouth dropped open as he thought of something. ‘Put the radio on. I don’t like it when it’s too quiet.’

Lonie rocked on the balls of his feet. Cats crawled like head lice all over his drinking buddy. Two were sitting in his lap. One ran along the cushioned top of the couch and sat on his neck. But Lonie did as he asked. There was an old radio sitting on the sideboard behind him. Lonie turned the white Bakelite knobs until the hiss turned into some kind of classical music -- a concert by the Royal Philharmonic that would help any man sleep.

‘Right, that’s me away now.’ He kicked a tortoiseshell cat out of the way to clear his path to the door, between the back of the couch and unit.

Davy gave him the usual drunk man’s wave, which was a cross between drowning and see you later. ‘Have a wee drink with me before you go.’ He brushed the cats off his lap as he tried to stand up. ‘It’ll not do you any harm.’

Lonie wavered. There were lots of things that would do him harm and drink was the least of them. ‘Alright then. Whit you got?’

Davy rocked and fell backwards back into his seat. ‘Drink? What you wanting? I’ve got rum, whisky, vodka, wine, beer. Hundreds of drink and nobody to drink it with.’

‘Ah’ll take a glass of whisky then.’

‘Bottom cupboard in the kitchen.’ Davy hand waved his answer. ‘Help yourself and bring a couple of clean cups through.’

Lonie came back a few minutes later with unopened bottles of Captain Morgan Rum, Lamb’s Navy Rum and Bacardi. He explained. ‘You’d no whisky.’ He cracked open the Morgan’s and poured each of them a large measure. Shooing a cat off the seat near the fireplace he sat down across from Davy and put both bottles snug beside his chair.

Davy took a long drink. He gestured for the bottle and poured another. ‘I’m sorry.’ His eyes sparkled. Fiddle music broke out like an arpeggio fight behind him. Distracted in what he was saying, he swallowed another drink. ‘The thing is…you’re so scared you’re going to die…and you’re that scared later you cannae live.’

The cup clinked next to Lonie’s seat as the bottle hit against it as he poured himself another drink. The glow and smell of his fag indicated he was still there, even if he wasn’t listening.

‘It wasn’t my fault.’ Davy tried to get up off the couch but slumped back down again. ‘…set up by that bastard Bisset with Archie… don’t know how… blackmailed me into working with The Fatman…when I threatened to…’ He choked up, and flung his drink back. Holding his cup out for Lonie to fill he began to sob again.

Davy took a few minutes, supping at the drink Lonie had poured, before he was ready to speak again. ‘… took me in an unmarked police car… huts in Drymen. That’s where they took all the young boys and girls.’

Lonie noted he’d added girls into the mix, but said after a while. ‘Did they rape them?’

‘Worse…Much worse…called it pick and mix.’

‘Did you hurt or rape any of those little kids?’ The first bottle of rum was empty. Lonie cracked open the next and poured another cupful.

Davy sat for about thirty seconds, a silhouette of a bent over shadow on the couch, with other shadows slinking and slipping around behind and by him. His eyes shone with a different kind of light than his cat’s. ‘You’ve got to understand…’

‘Aye, Ah understand alright.’

‘You don’t understand how much they hate you.’ Davy sounded if as if he was drinking himself sober.

Lonie wished he could drink himself drunk. ‘How? What have Ah done to them?’

‘You’re Catholic. They hate all Catholics with a passion…Want them repatriated to Ireland and want to nuke the island afterwards.’

‘What about Ulster?’ Lonie whispered.

‘You don’t know them. That would be a price worth paying.’ Davy dropped his mug and spilled drink on his trouser bottoms, sending cats scurrying. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’ He blubbered in the same way as before. ‘I cannae sleep for thinking about it.’

Lonie took another drink out of the Lamb’s Navy Rum at his feet and opened the bottle of Bacardi. He rose, a bottle in each hand, careful not to spill any. He blended in with the shadows turning the Philharmonic on the radio up to full volume and letting the cranked up noise loose in the living room. He poured a cocktail of Lamb’s Navy Rum and Bacardi over Davy’s head. His hair was drenched and the sharp tang of liquor hung heavy over his shoulders, but he seemed to accept it in the bent-head way a man does that is caught in a downpour. ‘You’ll sleep now.’ He lit a fag, letting both drop onto his lap. Lonie was outside Davy’s front door, before he heard him screaming. He’d locked him in. Half way down the Gallowgate he let his front door keys drop down and splash into a stank at the side of the road. The first fire engine passed him, with another behind it, sirens blaring.