Lonie33

The night before, the morning after cure -Lonie was late for work. He was never late for work. But he’d been early to work the day before and god knows whether that helped him. He’d met an old friend Archie at Beadie’s Offsales on Dumbarton Road, a fenced in shop that the civilian population tended to avoid. One thing led to another. He’d woken with a jump start, sitting in his armchair at home, his right arm cramped up from lying on it and a head like a year-old mallet. He went through the debris of douts he’d smoked in the ashtray, salvaging what little tobacco was left for a roll up. But he’d no roll up papers and no means of getting them. He did the best he could with a bit of cylindrical newspaper, but the fag in his mouth looked like the thin relative of a crook- nosed Christmas cracker. After sucking the meagre half-life out of it, he had to spit it into the fireplace before it set his lips on fire. There were no party jokes.

He’d walked to work at a fast clip, but by the time he got there Davy was already away. There was nobody to tap for a fag. Audrey was hovering and hand flapping about his desk. There was no point in asking her for a cigarette. He felt like telling her to fuck off, but she was too pretty for such base language.

‘The fat man’s being looking for you.’ Audrey shook her head at him and looked anxiously towards the glass booth.

Lonie felt the weight of the world on his shoulders and he hadn’t even got his coat off yet. He fell into his office chair and cat- rubbed at his head and face. Davy had scrawled him a note asking to phone him. Lonie pushed it off his desk into the bin, or onto the floor. He coughed and beat at his chest to help him breath. There was a yellow pop-it note from Bresslen stuck to the office phone on his desk. His eyes hurt. He couldn’t read it because it was Bresslen’s hieroglyphic notation and it was written in pencil. Who the fuck writes in pencil nowadays? Lonie thought. He picked it up like a moth that had fluttered in, by mistake, and let it flitter-flatter into the bin at the side of the desk. Audrey sounded agitated, but she sounded agitated if the top button on her blouse was undone. Lonie checked to see if it was, but unfortunately she was all buttoned up and smelt as fresh as a newly opened bar of Sunlight soap.

‘The fatman spent ages grilling me this morning. He was looking for you, but you weren’t here.’ Audrey felt like slapping Lonie, or at least cleaning him up.

‘Fuck the fatman,’ Lonie said.

Audrey arrowed another glance towards the editor’s room. She’d said what she’d have to say. The fatman made it clear he’d be watching her. She involuntarily shivered and hurried back to her own desk.

Lonie’s phone rang. He picked it up to hear a familiar whispery voice.

‘It’s me,’ said Bresslen, ‘the fatman wants to see you.’

‘Sure.’ Lonie looked over at Bresslen on the other sides of the glass panels and waved. ‘He can see me from here.’

‘Now.’ Bresslen put the phone down.

Lonie picked at a bogey in his nose, pulled open the drawer and wiped it underneath. He looked across at the editor’s office. Most of the usual crowd were at their own desks working with their heads down. It was just Bresslen and the fatman in the glass booth. He picked at his teeth trying to think of something he’d done, or more likely not done. Nothing sprung to mind. He ambled across to the fatman’s office and pushed the door open.

The fatman and Bresslen were working. They were peering over some copy, ignoring him.

Lonie leaned against the door. He recognised the artificiality of what they were doing, as if they were bad actors on the wrong stage and he’d wandered in by mistake, catching them out. The fatman finally looked up at him, his stomach moving the table slightly forward. Bresslen’s back unhinged and he stood up slowly, his hand holding onto his wrist as if it was hurting him. He too looked at Lonie.

‘Where the fuck you been?’ There was none of the false bonhomie usually found in the fatman’s voice. He sounded as abrasive as a gravel pit.

‘So Ah’m late. Ah was early yesterday.’ Lonie shrugged, but felt the sweat clinging under the armpits of his good shirt. ‘Whit’s the big deal?’

‘So what have you got for me?’ The fatman looked up at Bresslen and they exchanged glances. The fatman edged the copy on his desk away from him. ‘Lay it all out on the table for me.’

Lonie sniffed and swallowed. His hands patted his trouser pockets for a cigarette packet. His face slackened into a grimace of suffering. ‘You got a fag?’ he asked Bresslen.

Bresslen nodded that he did, but made no move to give him one.

A cough, like a dog bark, escaped from Lonie. One hand shot up to cover his mouth. ‘Sorry,’ his other hand waved at them to wait until he recovered. ‘Ah’ve been up to Goldenwell hospital a few times…’

‘So how many times have you met with Carol Peters or Larry Murray?’ The fatman’s feet were planted on the floor firmly as a snooker table and he wasn’t giving Lonie any angles on which to squirm.

‘None.’ Lonie admitted.

‘What have you got on Father Campbell, or the closure of the secure unit?’ The fatman spoke briskly, as if working his way through a checklist.

‘Nothin’.’ Lonie looked at his feet, but then he remembered something and his voice became animated. ‘But I meant to ask you about the Larry Murray trial. You covered it, didn’t you?’

The fatman looked at him as if he didn’t hear, or didn’t care, or both. ‘I’m not asking for personal reminiscences. I’m not running The People’s Friend.’ His voice became increasingly gruff. ‘I’m asking you to investigate and be a reporter. And what have you got so far is diddly-squat. Look at you. You’re like a combed over ashtray. Stand up straight and smarten yourself up.’

‘Gee, you’re looking a picture of health yourself.' Lonnie regretted his outburst even as he said it, but couldn’t help adding, ‘Ah’d a bad night, but you look like that all the time.’

‘Fuck you Lonnigan.’ The fatman’s voice rumbled from somewhere deep in his gut. ‘I’ve covered for you in the past because I thought you brought something to the game. I’m putting you back on the news desk. Stories about drunks falling off the pavement are about all you can handle. I’m putting Tilby on the case. Now fuck off out of my sight before we both say something we’ll regret.’

‘Tilby couldn’t find his arse, unless he’d a bit of bog- roll stuck to it.’ Lonie’s head darted forward like a prize rooster. ‘Ah’d a bit of respect for you, but that’s the whole problem, you’ve lost your edge. You’ve got too many arse lickers round about you. You don’t know if you’re comin’ or goin. Fuck you too.’

‘I’m suspending you.’ The fatman spoke matter-of-factly. He shifted his weight and turned to Bresslen. ‘Phone down to admin; make sure he gets his pay stopped as of now; make sure he’s docked for being late this morning.’ He looked at Lonie then back at Bresslen, nodding his head. ‘And tell the stupid fuck to get himself sorted out.’ He turned back to Lonie. ‘Now fuck off out of my office. Get out of my sight.’

‘Ah’ll make it easy for you.’ Lonie’s jaw clenched tighter than a vice-grip, as he looked from the fatman to Bresslen, squeezing the words out of his mouth. ‘You can go and fuck yourself. Ah quit.’ He turned to Bresslen. ‘Phone admin to tell them to get this week’s wages made up pronto. And my week’s- lang-time. Then you can get all the other arse lickers in here and have a little party and laugh about it.’

A grim faced Bresslen scrambled in his pockets and handed Lonie a fag. ‘I might not be able to get that done today.’

‘Just do it.’ The fatman belly laughed. ‘But I don’t think you’ll be seeing much of your week’s- long- time. Or have you forgotten about our wee bet? Real men always pay their debts. Or are you going to let that slide too?’

Lonie leaped forward his hands planted on the fatman’s desk, an unlit fag sitting on his lips, and his eyes inches from the fatman’s unflinching gaze. ‘Ah’ve got a pair of Audrey’s silk drawers sitting in my house for you to sniff ya fat fuck. Call yourself a reporter! You don’t even know what’s happening when it’s sitting right in front of you. Ah hope that’s enough evidence for you and the other arse lickers to pay out. I hope your man enough to pay up. Real men always pay their debts.’ His arms were shaking and his face puce as he spat out, ‘but I won’t hold my breath.’

Lonie knew how these things worked. He pulled open one drawer in his desk then the other. There was the usual guff of elastic bands, loose matches, paper clips, a purple Spangler’s wrapper, but nothing worth taking home with him. He lifted whatever pens where lying and stuffed them in his coat pockets. The buzz of office noise seemed to grow louder in his head. He looked round quickly to see if anybody was watching him. A few old heads turned quickly away, as if getting sacked was contagious. By some kind of office osmosis they knew. He looked across the room at Audrey, in little Siberia, typing away manfully and a smile crossed his lips. She’d be the very last to know. Then he remembered what he’d said to the fatman and a hand wrenched at his gut. It was one thing hurting himself, but to take somebody down with him, made him feel like weeping, and gnashing his teeth. He put his jacket around his shoulders and cut across the room. All eyes were on him.

Audrey saw Lonie coming, but she kept typing. The fatman had taken her off the Goldenwell case. She guessed by Lonie’s ne’er-do-well expression that he too was off it. Somehow that cheered her, as if someone else’s hand had been also caught in the same cookie jar. But then she immediately felt guilty about it. She stopped typing long enough to commiserate. ‘I’m sorry.’ Tears sprung into the corner of her eyes. Whether for herself or him she wasn’t quite sure, but they gave her words added poignancy.

He took up his usual seat, with his bum half on and off the desk across from her, one leg tracking down and kicking the carpet. ‘A’hm sorry too.’ His mouth opened to tell her, but then he started coughing and, for once, he was glad of the flagellation, like one of those old time penitents and also because it put off the telling.

‘It was all my fault. If I hadn’t made such a mess of interviewing Carol Peters.’ Audrey’s eyes were glass crystal springing a leak.

‘Aye.’ Lonie’s foot swished back and forth across the carpet. ‘Ah made a few mistakes myself. Ah said things Ah shouldn’t have said. If Ah could take them back…’

‘Don’t worry about that.’ Audrey’s mouth dropped open as she rubbed at the corner of her eyes with a white paper handkerchief that she’d lying on her desk. She gave him a watery half-smile. ‘You’re always saying those kinds of things to me. Oh no, I’m beginning to sound like you.’ She began to sob in earnest.

Lonie was quick to put his arms around her and give her a cuddle. She rested her head briefly on his shoulder, before breaking away. He handed her another handkerchief and watched her dabbing at her nose. ‘Ah’ve got to go.’

‘Right.’ She blew her nose, smiling at him, glad he’d took it so well.

‘Ah’m away.’ Lonie gave her a rueful smile and he waved his hand at her before letting it drop, knowing he’d made things so much worse. Eyes followed them. Noses were pressed against the office window watching them. That had just confirmed to everyone and his dog that he was shagging Audrey.

The ping of the typewriter behind him was a bell call to her innocence and his guilt. He was glad to slink away.