Grimms 98

Three boys shuffle into the pub through the swing doors, tagged together, a little cortege of platform shoes and high-waist bands bigger than their heads. They look nervously about.

Drew looks up from the racing tips in the Daily Record at the leader of the group, a pall-bearer’s complexion, small, with a freckled nose. The biggest of the small fry searches for money in pockets, one after the other, hand digging into the top pocket of his denim jacket, then the side pocket, side pocket of his trouser and pulling out a pound note out of the back pocket.

The barman takes a deep breath and flips over another page in his paper, shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says, to the boy before he can speak. He exchanges a wink with one of his regulars, a blousey blonde in a satin dress sitting on a barstool, cigarette in her mouth, who had just nipped in and forgot to nip out again.  

‘Three lager,’ the boy says, regardless of the warning and blank face staring at him.

‘Beat it,’ Drew says.

‘We’re eighteen, mister,’ the leader pipes up. The pound note, as evidence, held up like a birthday card in his hand.

Jaz laughs from his spot in the corner table. He shouts over the heads of regular customers, glad of the entertainment. ‘Fuck sake Drew, just serve them. I’ll pay for it.’

‘Nah, cannae,’ Drew shakes his head.

Jaz shuffles forward in his seat, takes a quick drag of his cigarette and takes a roll of notes out of his pocket, an elastic band holding them together. ‘Look, get them wan, and get yerself a double for the trouble. You can’t say any fairer than that.’

The barman’s cheeks blow out and he sucks in air. He turns and looks at the clock above the gantry, which is set ten minutes fast and closing time for the afternoon is twenty minutes. ‘Just the one,’ he holds up an index finger, addressing the freckle-faced boy.

A thickset man sitting at a table near the door shakes his head. Three empty quarter-gill glasses, a jug of water, ashtray, a packet of Woodbine and another glass with a smidgen of White Horse at the bottom of it, waits until Drew looks around the pub and meets his eye, before he speaks. ‘They’re underage. Don’t serve them. You’re no daeing anybody a favour here.’

‘Whit the fuck’s it got to dae with you, pal?’ Jaz shouts.

The man sits motionless under Jaz’s stare. There’s no rancour in his voice when he addresses him. ‘I wasnae talkin’ to you.’ The stillness is broken by a bob of his head towards Drew. ‘I was talkin’ to that gentleman over there.’

‘Who are you talkin’ to, yah bampot? Jaz says. ‘Do you know who I’m ur? This is my pub. Serve them their drinks, Drew.’

Drew takes a deep breath, waits a moment, pings a quick look at Jaz and to the man at the table near the door.

The freckled-faced boy’s voice cuts through the silence. ‘It’s alright mister, we’ll jist go.’

Jaz springs up, threatens to knock over the table, his knees hitting the underside of it. ‘You’ll take a pint yah wee cunt, and like it, whether you want wan or no’. And so will your pals.’ He lifts a beer glass from his table in passing.

Drew flips the lager tab to begin to top up slops at the bottom of the glass. ‘One drink and you’re out,’ he warns the boys watching him.

‘I widnae dae that,’ the thickset man says.

Drew shrugs. ‘My pub. My rules.’ His eyebrows lift. ‘They look at least eighteen to me. Whit you want me to do, phone the police to check?’

‘Nae chance,’ the thickset man says, ‘I wouldnae give police the time of day.’

The pint tumbler smashes into the side of the thickset man’s head, cutting his ear near the lobe and the side of his head. Jaz looks down at the base of his thumb which is also bleeding. The thickset man blinks, looks up at him with cool grey eyes and doesn’t seem surprised. His chair scrapes back and there’s faint laughter from one of the tables when he stands up because he’s so tall and he blocks the door and the rest of the room seems to wrap around him. ‘There’s nowhere to go for you now,’ he says, quietly.

The blousey blond edges from her seat and scuttles around the side of the bar and picks up the phone. She dials 999 and waits for the phone to ring and operator to ask in a robot voice which service she wants. ‘Police, Ambulance or Fire Service?’

She cups the phone and ponders the menu. She watches Jaz getting punched, picked up and punched again, ragdolled over and under tables, with the thickset man apologising to the customer’s whose tables he’d knocked over and promising to pay for any spilt drinks.

‘Eh, police and ambulance,’ she says, pronouncing the pubs name out of the side of her mouth and where it was situated in Dumbarton Road with gusto. ‘Oh, fuck it, send the fire brigade as well. He’s hell of a big chappie.’

‘My name? Oh, it’s Princess Anne,’ she tells the operator.

‘You’re on yer way,’ she slurs. ‘That’s nice. I better be going then.’ She combs her tousled hair on the back of her head with her fingers, steps daintily around the debris at the bar, tucks her bag under her arm and makes her way out the door.  

Three teenage boys look at her. ‘There’s a riot in there, missus,’ a bright-eyed boy says.

‘Is there?’ she says, holding her head up, a bright red lipstick smile, as if he is about to take her picture, high heels clicking along the pavement away from the stink of the canal and the sound of sirens.