Ugly Puggly 45

I checked the bedroom for booze, I might have missed, before going into the toilet. My face in the mottled mirror above the sink wasn’t pretty. ‘Who loves yeh, baby?’ mimicking Kojak’s American drawl, the accent came out half-assed Scots.

Often I forgot what I looked like. It was only when some wanker insisted on taking a photo of us all smiling, to beat the band, as my da put it. I then noticed time stretched me in the wrong directions. Leaving our childhood behind, it rushed to catch up. Then it overtook us, pulled our hair out and stood on our faces. None of us should have been in a photo, pretending hilarity in the face of some oppressive phone regime. Ugly Puggly told me nobody ever smiled in oil paintings. Having your likeness taken was not a laughing matter. You’d probably die of some godawful plague, venereal disease or pox before it was framed, and it would be your own fault for showing such godless vanity. I grimaced at my reflection, bearing yellowing stumps of teeth.

Washing my face in the sink and glancing at myself in the mirror, I decided to make a new start. I was practically sober. Might even take up jogging since I’d a pair of sannies lying about somewhere. And a donkey jacket, ideal for long walks and bagging Munro after Munro.  I dabbed at my face and under my chin with a bottle of Old Spice that had been lying about so long they built the house around it. It would keep the midges away when I was doing all that walking. Taking a wee uppie and downie, I hawked it up, spat it out in the sink. It tasted worse than it smelled. No wonder before basic training in cheap wine, methylated spirits was the alkie consumer choice. It was cheaper and tasted better and didn’t burn your throat as badly on the way down.

Stumbling down the stairs, with the wash and splash, I was almost a new man, ready for some grub.

Ugly Puggly was sitting at the table eating from the pot and reading a book with a red cover. Some foreign author, I couldn’t make out the name in white lettering. Dave was sitting beside him with a fork in one hand, absentmindedly, chewing, and flicking through stuff on his phone.

‘Yeh, no got anythin for me?’ I asked.

Dave turned and raised his head. He made a show of sniffing, twitching his nostrils. ‘You smell funny—you had a bath for wance or somethin?’

Ugly Puggly put his book face down on the table to keep the page and stood up. ‘I kept yeh some. I put it in the micro.’ He took a step towards me and the microwave.

I waved him away, pulled open the microwave door and glanced inside. Setting the dial for two minutes, I stood beside the sink. Leaned and grabbed a dishtowel folded over the handle of the grill, waiting for it to ping.  

‘You want somethin to drink with that?’ Ugly Puggly asked as I hotfooted it with the plates and clattered it down on the table.

I checked for a knife and fork, but could only see a fork and picked at potato and rice with it. ‘Nah,’ I replied. Then changed my mind. ‘Maybe a glass of water.’

Ugly Puggly patted my shoulder as he passed me. I heard him running the tap. Only when I started eating did I feel hungry. He put a cup of water down in front of me. I picked it up and drained it almost in one go.

He smiled at that. ‘Thirsty, eh?’

‘Aye.’

‘I’ve got a can of lager in my room,’ Dave watched me chewing, with a twisted smile on his lips.

I shrugged. ‘I’m no botherin.’ I glanced up at Ugly Puggly. ‘We’ve work tae dae.’

Ugly Puggly squeezed in beside me and slapped my leg. ‘Aye, we huv. But no until yer finished.’ He looked at the rain splashing against the windows. ‘And the weather’s no great. But I’ll make a start.’

I pushed my plate away, half-finished, and rubbed my hands on my trousers. ‘I’ll gie yeh a haun.’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘We’ll no finish the night. I’ll take aff the top soil and go doon a few feet. I’ve got another wee job for you and Dave.’

Dave leaned forward, almost falling off his seat. ‘Whit?’

‘I want yeh to buy superglue for gluing the locks—and nae sniffin it, mind.’ He looked at me.

‘You were the wan that sniffed glue.’ I chuckled. ‘No me.’

Dave, chewing at his thumbnail, asked out of the side of his mouth. ‘Whit locks yeh talking about?’

‘The locks at the crematorium,’ Ugly Puggly said. ‘We’ll jist follow the numbers. Check the notices in the papers and online. Between four and six maximum and they’ll be ready to burn the bodies. We’ll superglue the locks—and they’ll no be able to get in. Then they’ll follow the rule of three.’

I grunted, ‘Whit the fuck yeh talkin about, the rule of three?’

‘Simple, when people explain hing tae yeh, they use numbers. For example, global warming. To keep our world on track and temperatures increasing by no more than 1.5 degrees Centigrade, leading to global Armageddon, we need tae half the amount of carbon we put into the atmosphere by 2030. This is just basic stuff, outlined in the Paris Agreement, but we’ve already fucked that up, totally.’

‘Whit’s that got tae dae wae the rule of three?’ I asked.

He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘We all like a story. So that’s the beginning, The midpoint of the story of Armageddon, squared, is we need to half the half of carbon we send into the atmosphere by 2040.  And Armageddon cubed, half the emissions we huvnae halted in the first half of a half we haven’t acknowledged by 2050. Basically, we’re fucked and the rule of three tells us how fucked we ur.’

Dave sneered, ‘Whit’s that got to dae wae glueing doors?’

‘Same rule applies. When somebody tells yeh a story about drug addicts or people in asylums, or kids that will go on to play for Celtic or Rangers, the same thing happens. Imagine there are a thousand kids kicking a ball and dreaming of glory.’

I stuck out my chest. ‘We all did—apart fae you.’

‘Because I’m no daft,’ he replied in a monotone voice. ‘Between one and five will make it to the fringes of the first team they supported. But that’s no to say they’ll make it. They’ll just be there or thereabouts. We’re no concerned wae them. We’re sticking wae the other 995-999 that’ll no make it.’

I sighed. ‘That’s me,’ I admitted.

‘And me,’ said Dave.

‘No Dave,’ I shook my head. ‘Yer no even part of the fanny-wash. Yer no even considered.’

‘Oh, but he is,’ Ugly Puggly replied. ‘We aw ur.’

‘Even you?’ I asked.’

‘Me tae. Sometimes we really aw are in it together. A third of us willnae make the cut because we lack somethin—height or muscles or somethin that makes us too slow or cumbersome.’

‘Whit about a brain?’ I stared at Dave.

‘That as well,’ Ugly Puggly said turning on me. ‘That’s why yeh work for the Council. And I’m gettin tae that bit. A third will maybe continue playing fitba. They might even get tae Junior level, but they’ve no got the stuff that’ll take them to the top.

The last third are the refuseniks. That’s the guy in the asylum. The alkie that keeps boozing. Yer typical council worker.

They start aff great guns. Dae aw the training. Dae aw the running. Shooting practice. The manager is ready tae put him in the team. They’ve proved their point. They can dae it, but it’s too much like work. Like that drug slogan. They just say, Nah.

‘Nah tae tryin to get into a door where the locks have been superglued. Nah to firing up the ovens and burning the bodies in the back of the crematorium. Somebody else can fix it. Somebody else can dae it. And that somebody else is gonnae be us. We’ll burn an extra body and mix it with the other stiffs and nobody will ever know. The Council boys ‘ll never say they fucked up. They’ll follow the path of least resistance and cover their tracks for us.’  

‘Might work,’ I said. ‘But yer goin a bit harsh on us Council boys.’

‘Wisnae me thought of it,’ Ugly Puggly said. ‘Herman Melville, I’ve a soft spot for Bartleby, the Scrivener.’

‘Where does he live?’ Dave asked.