grimms33

Jaz is standing chittering at the bus stop outside Ramsay’s Fruit and Veg when a beige Morris Marina sweeps through the puddles, making an old guy that is squinting through thick rain-spattered specs into the far galaxies of Mountblow Road jump backwards. Jaz finds that funny.

Dougie, in the passenger seat, winds the window down. He gazes at him and his mouth twitches into a smile. ‘Where you goin’ to?’ his accent seems sharper out in the streets. The engine is running, Del is driving with a lit fag in his gob and looks straight ahead.

‘Och, naewhere, just into Clydebank.’ A bus lumbers into view and Jaz points, but he’s not sure Dougie will be able to see it unless he looks in the rear-view mirror, but he reckons Dougie’s not really the listening type.

‘Get in,’ the Irishman says, turning and fiddling with the lock on the back door, pulling it up and open.

‘No, it’s aw right. Honest, it’s no far.’

‘Whit, you think we’re gonnae kidnap you?’ Dougie laughs, nods his head in Jaz’s direction, including Del in the joke. ‘I mean, we’ve nowhere to keep you, the boot’s already full of Taigs.’

Jaz takes the hint and pulls the door open and flings himself into the back seat. The windowscreen wipers squeak out of time as they pull out into the traffic. The interior stinks like the inside of a sannie somebody has been blowing smoke into. The front-seat heater is on full blast to keep condensation down and Jaz is sweating into his shirt before they even get to the canal bridge. Some children are playing, balancing tricks, on the horizontal of the bars, mucking about.  Del drops his fag out of the window onto the road before its half-finished and reaches for another from his packet, looking in the mirror and tossing one to Jaz. Dougie turns and hands him his cigarette lighter, and yawns showing a mouthful of yellow teeth and black gaps or fillings.

‘Where are we droppin’ yeh?’ Dougie asks.

‘Just along at the buroo. No’ far.’ He looks out the window as they pass the windblown plots, huts painted in cheery colours. ‘Straight on,’ he adds.   

‘That pal of yours—’ Dougie says

‘—Rab.’ Jaz lights his fag and passes him back his lighter, noting the heft in it and the fancy engravings.

‘Aye, him,’ says Dougie. ‘Seems a bit of a bawheid.’  

Del observes Jaz in the mirror and they pass the Town Hall clock. ‘Nah, he’s alright,’ says Jaz as they pass the blackened buildings of the Police Station. Eyes turning in unison to see if there is any action.

‘You’d vouch for him?’ asks Dougie.

‘Aye, Aye, I would,’ says Jaz. The car slows as they come to the traffic lights at Kilbowie Road.

‘With your life?’ Dougie asks in a low growl. The car jerks forward, but his gaze doesn’t leave Jaz’s face. When he says nothing, Dougie changes that subject and turns around and looks at the road, talks out of the side of his mouth. ‘That other matter.’

‘Aye.’ Jaz knows he’s talking about Godge. He winds his window down a tad and his dout gets caught in the slipstream and the rain.

‘You know whit to dae there, don’t you? We’re not a comedy act. We’re not fuckin’ Chic fuckin’ Murray or Benny fuckin’ Hill.’ Dougie’s head turns to see if he’s listening, suddenly worked up. ‘You need to tell us where he is and when he’s gonnae be there, so we can pick him up and have a word with him. You got that?’

‘Aye,’ Jaz looks past Dougie. ‘We’re just in here, tae yer left,’ he instructs Del, although he doesn’t’ need any instruction.

It’s a familiar sight, in any city, in any language, even Irish. A crowd that’s not really a crowd but a gathering of men with no focal point, hanging about, smoking and waiting. Hard men who look at the parked car and those in them through squinted eyes. Jokers and jesters who bounce from group to group, waiting for the call, that’s them on next. And those that stand alone, ghosts of themselves, with their mouths hanging open sucking in exhaust fumes from the road, a bit of paper in their hand that tells them who they are.

‘You want us to wait for yeh?’ Dougie asks and laughs.

‘Nah, it’s alright. They’ll probably make me hing about for being late or something. Stupid bastards, ye’d think it was their money. Whit difference does it make to them?’ The car door is sticky, Jaz jerks it open, and when he stands outside, even with his coat on, the cold wind bites him.

‘Mind don’t be a stranger.’ Dougie winds the window down and Del ducks his neck down to gawp at him through the gap. ‘You’ll get us at the Hall,’ and Dougie adds a note of warning. ‘The crucial think is don’t be wastin’ our time and be makin’ us come lookin’ for yeh. If you’ve got nothin’ for us, we want nothin’ from you. And we can call it quits.’

The car boots rubber and does a sharp U-turn into the traffic. Jaz has an inkling of what he means in his head. Dougie was saying he could be somebody or he could be nobody. The choice is his. He turns and walks into an older guy with a Zappata moustache, and chapped lips, who clicks his tongue impatiently, but makes a joke out of it. ‘Who the fuck was that? Your boss? I wouldnae like to work for that cunt.’

Jaz reaches into his pocket for his razor. ‘Whit the fuck’s it got to dae with you?’

‘Easy pal,’ the man with the moustache shrugs. ‘Nothin’ to dae with me. Just a joke, man. We’ve all got to eat humble pie sometime.’

Jaz’s shoulder bangs against his as he passes him. He can just imagine what he’d like to do with the skinny wee clerk than makes him queue to sign on and babbles on about this and that. His days of humble pie are over.