Grimms75

With all the cash Jaz is carrying and the hurry-scurry Rab is surprised to be standing beside him at a bus stop waiting for a bus. Jaz has brought along a bottle of VAT 69 to keep them lubricated. A bus comes before they can finish the bottle and Jaz leaves it half empty on the pavement.   They’re sitting upstairs in the Corporation bus, smoking, when they pass Kilbowie Road. Rab points, ‘That’s the pub there,’ he says.

Jaz drops his cigarette out of his mouth and it rolls under the back seat. He jumps up and pulls the cord, alerting the driver they are getting off. ‘I thought you said the Bisley Bar.’

‘Aye, I did,’ Rab says. ‘But I meant that wan.’

‘You’re a fuckin’ roaster.’ A shuffle of feet. Jaz nips down the aisle swaying as the bus stops just before Dees, the clothes shop. Rab clumps behind him, the conductor smiling ruefully at him, and bending backwards to step out of his way.

The heat hits them and they wait on the pavement for the traffic on Dumbarton Road to slow before crossing and walking back towards the Regal Bar and offsales, ground floor of blackened tenement blocks,  clanging noise from John Brown’s behind them,  the red beacon of Woolies, with kids hanging about outside making it a more public place than Jaz would like. He feels sober now, wired. Ready for action he fingers the top his razor.

The pub’s dirty off-white facade looks as inviting as a cage door plummeting into a coal mine. The windows, head height, shun daylight and are like skid marks in snow with accumulated years of smoke. The solidity of atmosphere is added to by rough grey plaster walls and functional wooded tables and not many chairs, the size of two living rooms, a working man’s pub, but empty of bodies and tension. The barman in striped shirt and wide patterned tie hurries across to serve them. A customer in a tartan shirt, dark flared trousers worn high and boots stares into his pint at the bar, ashtray beside him full of douts. Lounging In the corner, an older man with a grey side-shed haircut,  chunky square glasses, and squirrel’s tail of a moustache above his upper lip. He has his arm outstretched along the back of the plush seat, hand on the shoulder of the woman furthest away, pulling the woman sitting next to him closer, taking possession of them. Both women wear matching dresses of blue white and red diagonals, curtain material, despite their age, cut well above the knee. The group make a point of ignoring the new arrivals and laughing loudly at their own private joke.  

‘Two lager,’ Jaz says through clenched teeth. He turns to face Rab, the sharp set of his cheekbones, and downturned mouth a warning. ‘Don’t fuck me about,’ he warns.

‘It’s alright,’ Rab whispers out of the side of his mouth, in explanation. ‘That’s him.’  

Jaz waits to collect his change and pockets it and for the barman to go back to shining glasses with a cloth at the other end of the bar. He turns his back on the company and sips at his lager. ‘Whit dae yeh come in here for?’ He laughs, without humour. ‘This place is a shitehole.’

‘It’s near the buroo.’

‘Right,’ Jaz says, conceding the point. ‘Whit dae yeh dae next?’ He takes out his cigarettes and offers Rab one. He lights his Silk Cut, waits for Rab to spark his, and the silence deepens and draws them in.

Rab gulps at his pint looks past him. ‘It’s pretty easy. I walk past him, give him the nod and he follows me into the toilet.’

‘Like a couple of benders. I don’t like the sound of that.’

‘No-oo…well, aye, but no’ like that.’

Jaz takes a drink and considers. ‘Is he carrying?’

Rab manages to nod that he isn’t. ‘He doesnae need to. That’s Frank Dunne, the baby of the family. Touch him and…’ he makes a phewrr sound and he shrivels back and away from Jaz. ‘You’re no gonnae. Ur yeh?’  

‘No, no, I didn’t know it was Frank Dunne.’ Jaz speaks in a braying and loud voice. The slight frame of the youth stops spinning the box of Vulcan matches he’s toying with on the bar and looks towards Jaz’s frizzy hair and at Rab’s face. ‘All I need is some weed, to help me sleep.’ He dips into his pocket and passes underhand three ten-pound notes. ‘Get something for yerself,’ he grins and takes another mouthful of beer. ‘Just tell him to wait for me in the toilet cubicle like a good boy.’

Rab bites his lip. He doesn’t trust him, but he’s sick, quivering like a tuning fork, but with money grasped in his hand, hidden away, he feels buoyant and a renewed hope. The boy ganders at him, his face broad and white as marshmallow and he has the weird sensation of having been here before. He tears himself from his gaze and strides towards the toilets at the top end of the bar. The decision already made.

Rab sits on the edge of the lavvy pan, the stink of disinfectant clinging to him. The walls of the cubicle are decorated with fuck the popes and fuck king billy and celtic and rangers forever, some carved, some inked, mostly poorly spelled. There’s a phone number if you want Sindy and a drawing of an open mouth, penned in red ink, which is pretty good. He hears the door opening and feet soft as the flippers on a seal, coming closer and three sharp raps on the door. The three tenners in his hand he spring up and pulls open the door.

Frank Dunne squeezes in beside him, his eyes zeroing in on the money. ‘Who’s that prick with yeh?’

The bathroom door bangs open and footsteps in a running motion. A razor cuts across one cheek, then the other cheek and digs deep into his forehead. He falls backwards into Rab, his hands held up in flat in self-defence. The tip of his index finger slices off and deep scores in his other hand leaves him bleeding and crying. He feels his jacket being tugged away from him, and his pockets being emptied, but he no longer cares. ‘Don’t kill me,’ he squirms and begs.

‘I’m no gonnae kill yeh. This is just a warning. As of now, I’m taking over the drug trade in my town.’ The razor slices into Frank’s big nose and breaks. ‘Cunt,’ he says, kicking him in the ribs.

He reaches a hand out and helps Rab up and laughs. ‘Yeh better wash yer face,’ he says. ‘You’re covered in blood. Look at yeh. I cannae take you anywhere.’