Lonie48

When Audrey left Lonie piled his dirty dishes into the larger sink. He ran the hot water from the geyser and washed in the smaller sink. He tried not to think too much about the things she’d said. He lathered his face with soap and a shaving brush and nicked his neck with the razor thinking about the things she did and the taste of her body. His clothes were hung half on the bookcase and his trousers lying on the floor, ready to step into.

It was cold outside, but no longer slippy. Lonie grunted in pain as he pulled his collar up as protection against the swirling wind and rain. He crossed the road and hobbled along to the Haberburn Vaults. The high windows of the bar were black with grime and although it was daytime the overhead lights were dotted on and gave the place the feel of a grotto. A few older men stood about at the bar, looking at their drink, smoking fags and scanning the horses and greyhound section in the newspapers for their next big win.

‘Whit you wantin’?’ The barman, a stocky fellow with red hair, planted his hands on the bar and leaned over to take Lonie’s order.

‘Double Bushmills.’ Lonie fingered the coins in his coat pocket. The regulars in the bar gave him the once over.

‘Were you at the game at the weekend?’ The barman brought his drink and some chit-chat, pushing the water jug towards him.

‘Whit game?’ A groan escaped Lonie’s lips as he spoke. He spread the change out of his coat pocket on the bar for the barman to pick clean.

Lonie threw the whisky back in a oner. Its magical warmth working its way down his throat into the lining of his stomach and easing the pain in his head and shoulders. He placed the glass gently down onto the bar and stood up a little straighter. ‘Gi’e me another. One for the road.’

A grey haired old man with a checked bunnet and long brown coat almost trailing the ground, so that he seemed to move about like a Dalek, wheeled over. ‘You’ve no’ got a light son, have you?

Lonie put a hand on the bar to steady himself as the fingers of his other hand delved deep into his coat pockets. He pulled out his packet of Woodbine and sat them on the bar. He went to hand the box of Bluebell matches to the old man, but he stood unmoving before him, his watery eyes looking at him.

‘Or a fag?’ the old man’s eyes blinked apologetically, his shoulders barely rippling the material of his heavy coat.

‘Hi,’ the barman barked. He placed the Bushmills on a fresh placemat at the bar. ‘Fuck off Hughie and leave the man alone. He doesnae want the likes of you, botherin him.'

‘Hi.’ Lonie’s index finger shot out, like a gun, pointed at the barman standing behind the counter. ‘That’s my uncle Hughie you’re talkin’ about.’ He fixed his eyes on the barman’s until his mouth opened and he looked over Lonie’s left shoulder. Only when the barman had retreated down the bar, did he turn and give the old man a fag and his box of matches.

The old man fumbled with opening the fags and then the matches. It was as if Lonie handed him a puzzle. Lonie gently took them out of his hand and lit a Woodbine for both of them.

‘Ah’m much obliged,’ said the old man

‘And whit are you havin’ to drink Uncle Hughie?’ Lonie pulled a barstool closer to him so the old man could sit down, but he wondered if he’d have to pick him up like a puppet and place him on top of it.

The old man’s legs seemed to work alright. He perched himself on the stool and smoothed himself out. ‘Ah’ll have a pint of heavy,’ and gave Lonie a sly glance, ‘if you can afford it?’

Lonie shouted the old man’s order to the barman. He added in another drink for himself. The sullen faced barman placed them down in front of each of them, waiting to be paid.

‘Ah’m sorry Uncle Hughie.’ Lonie looked at the old man. ‘Ah didn’t ask if you wanted a wee whisky with your drink. Do you want a Bushmills?’

‘Oh, no.’ The old man shook his head sadly. ‘That gives me awful indigestion. Ah’ll have a Whyte and Mackay.’

Lonie grinned and took a quick nip of his drink. ‘Single or double?’

‘Oh.’ The old man had to use two hands to grasp his pint. It left a foam moustache as he spoke. ‘Ah think a double would be better. Don’t you?’

Lonie held two fingers up to the barman to indicate a double was needed. He watched the barman put the glass under the optic and press it twice. ‘You want water?’ Lonie left the money to pay for the drink on the bar and nudged the water jug, ‘or lemonade?’

The old man’s neck bent forward and he put the Whyte and Mackay up to his lips and sipped at it like a baby bird. ‘Och no son. This’ll dae just fine the way God made it.'

Lonie held his own whisky glass up in salute and swallowed back his double. He indicated the barman should bring the same again. The old man nursed his whisky, but his eyes lit up like Christmas lights when he knew he was getting another.

The old man peeked craftily at Lonie from beneath his hat. ‘Whit is it you dae again son?’

‘Ah’m a reporter.’ Lonie paid for the latest set of drinks and looked at the old man who seemed unimpressed. ‘Whit is it you dae yerself?’

‘Oh, I’m a cocker-burner. Forty years in Babcocks. Went just like that.’ The old man clicked his fingers. ‘Now Ah’m retired, if that’s whit you call it.’ He took a belt of whisky.

Lonie slapped the old man on the back. ‘Well you’re looking fit as a fiddle.’

The old man Adam’s apple bobbled up and down as he finished his first half. He picked up the other and began sipping at it. ‘Aye.’ He turned to Lonie. ‘You’re no’ lookin’ so good yourself.’

‘Aye, that’s true.’ Lonie finished his drink. Below the bar, he slipped a fiver into the old man’s hand. He knew the old man wouldn’t check what it was until he’d left and he could do it safely. ‘That’s me away now Uncle Hughie.’ The barman watched him go. ‘Take care of yourself,’ he shouted back behind him.

Partick train station was a five minute walk from the pub. Lonie felt better with a few drinks in him. And he felt better because he’d done a good deed. He was going to track down an acquaintance from his impoverished youth and somebody that knew well about the school of hard knocks. Waiting for the Dalmuir train Lonie smiled at what Tony Curran would have said. He always had an opinion and neither nuns nor priest, god or the devil, would stop him expressing it. He knew roughly what Tony would have said -- now you’ve done a good deed, you can be a right cunt for the rest of the day -- but only one of them was ever that way inclined. Lonie got on a Balloch train and got a window seat. He thought back to those long ago days. It wasn’t the forty years of the old man in the pub. A mere twinkling at twenty years, but time was shortening its leash.

Tony stayed in the Holy City. Lonie couldn’t remember what the street was called, but he knew the general direction. He got off the train, went through the tunnel into Dalmuir Park and kept walking. He stopped and had a drink of water at the well and looked over at the green tinged plaque on a rock, with a stream bouncing and bubbling beside it. The story about some lad that had saved a young child from a speeding train was still fresh in his mind, especially as he couldn’t imagine trains going faster than ten miles an hour in the 1900s. The tarmac path led like an arrow straight on. If he kept walking through the park gates, over the road and beyond that he’d come to some football parks. Tony stayed up, near the pavilion. How he’d wangled it Lonie didn’t know. They were reasonably new council houses. Shining bright white adobe type houses with flat roofs, hence the Holy City tag. Tony had insisted at the time that any architect that designed a flat roof for a place that rained every day should get his eyes poked out with a pronged stick. He also insisted that Jesus lived a couple of doors along from him. And up the street, a guy lived with two camels and a goat in his living room. Lonie hadn’t been sure if he had been joking. It was easy enough to find Tony’s door. All the other council houses were painted regulation Council red. He’d painted his door black and had metal bars in front of it, whether to keep people out or Tony in was a moot point. Lonie rung the bell. He could hear its reverberations standing in the lane.

A shape appeared behind the net curtains of the kitchen window before the front door was opened. They sized each other up. Tony looked much the same, shoulder length red hair and muscles sitting on muscles, a mesomorph that had overdosed on iron bars. Even as a kid he’d looked that way. All he’d needed was a spear and they could have taken a picture of him and hung in the Art Galleries in Sauchiehall Street and labelled it Neanderthal man.

‘You look like a bag of shite.’ Tony sprung the lock on the iron gate and looked up and down the lanes before bringing him inside.

Lonie followed Tony through into the living room. The venetian blinds were tilted towards downwards so that they could look out to the windblown fitba parks, but nobody could see in. It was light and airy and clean smelling. The green light of a modern stereo was playing the latest jazz tunes. That was Tony’s thing. He liked music. The list of things he didn’t like started with babies and ended with old folk and everything human in between.

‘You want a wee charge?’ Tony let Lonie find a seat and went through into the kitchen. He came back with a bottle of Eldorado and two half pint glasses, and squeezed into an armchair across from the couch that Lonie was sitting in. He cracked open the bottle and filled each glass to the brim, placing one carefully on a slip of a white table in front of Lonie’s seat. What little was left in the bottom of the bottle he emptied into his mouth, tilting the bottle up and down a few times, until he was satisfied it was fully finished. ‘Excuse me.’

Lonie heard the clink of glass on glass from the kitchen as the bottle was added to other empties. He sat down and leaned across the table, sipping at his Eldorado.

‘Who beat you up?’ There was no threat in his voice, no hostility, Tony was just acquiring information in the same way he would about the weather.

‘Nobody.’ Lonie took a drink of his wine and his face squeegeed following it down. ‘Ah fell out of a tree.’

Tony tapped his right shoulder. ‘You might have broken your clavicle. Longest bone in the body. I’ve broke mine a few times.’ He gulped a drink of wine down. ‘Do I know this tree?’ He raised his eyebrow the emphasis on the last word, what others would have taken as an expression of amusement was on his face, but Lonie knew it better as cool indifference.

‘It was a tree.’ Lonie laughed and took another slug of wine and stopped laughing. ‘A tree in The Botanic Gardens.’

Tony's lips tightened. He finished his glass of wine as he considered this. The music on the stereo stopped and he slipped out of his chair, flipped the LP and put the stylus down. What seemed to Lonie like the same extended track of trumpets and piano started again. He sipped his wine and nipped his face as Tony went through into the kitchen. He cracked open another bottle of Eldorado on his way back into the living room. Filling his own glass he topped up Lonie’s on the table.

‘Cheers.’ Lonie raised his glass. ‘Ah’d like to thank you for that last thing you did for me.’

Tony quaffed his drink and poured himself another.

‘The thing is Ah’d like to ask you for another wee favour.’

Tony held his hand up, stopping Lonie from going on. He cocked his head to the side, towards where one of the two speakers were unobtrusively positioned. ‘I like this bit,’ he explained.

Lonie took another mouthful of wine and let it fall down his throat. He waited until Tony’s hand dropped before he dared speak. ‘The thing is,’ Lonie groaned as he leaned across the table, ‘Ah’ve got my girlfriend into a little bit of bother.’

‘She wants an abortion?’ Tony looked through his empty wine glass at Lonie and clarified it for both of them. He poured himself another drink.

‘Yes.’ Lonie was glad to sink back into the couch. He was even glad to take another mouthful of wine. It was starting to taste, not too bad, which he knew was a measure of how drunk he was getting.

‘£75 down and £100 when the job is done.’ Tony looked across at Lonie to make sure he understood. ‘How long’s she gone?’

Lonie felt for the wad of notes in his back pocket. ‘About a month. Ah’m no’ sure. A couple of weeks.’ He sat the money on the table between them. ‘She will be safe, won’t she? Is it a doctor that would be daeing it?’

Tony picked up the notes and counted them, smoothing out the crumpled ones and putting them on top of his pile. ‘No, I’ve got a midwife that owes me a few favours.’ He shrugged. ‘She’ll just deliver the baby a bit earlier than usual.’

‘But she has done this kind of thing before?’ Lonie’s voice was a bit slurred, a bit reckless. ‘Can you no’ get a doctor to dae it?’

Tony rocked a little forward in his chair, the bottle was nearly finished. He poured the last into his glass and finished it. ‘Yes. I can get you a doctor, but it would cost you three times as much. And let’s face it, you’ve always been a bit tight with money.’

Lonie swallowed his drink back. ‘Ah cannae believe you said that.’ He looked around the room as if there was a jury waiting to judge him. ‘Ah’m no’ tight. Ah’m just poor. Ah’ve known you a long time. Ah’m the only pal you’ve got.’

‘Yes, we have known each other a long time.’ Tony’s finger pinged impatiently on top of the glass in front of him. He could go for another bottle, but he was sure Lonie was leaving very soon. ‘What do you want me to do?’

Lonie shuffled round the table. ‘Set it up with that midwife.’ He handed him a card with his office number on it. ‘Phone me. Early in the morning is best.’ He lurched towards the door. ‘Ah’ll let myself out.’

Tony got up out of his chair and followed him down the hall. ‘You can’t let yourself out. There’s four separate systems of bolts and locks and you’ll not know how to work them.’ He squeezed by Lonie and showed him what he meant. Tony stuck his head outside first and looked up and down the lane before he let Lonie leave. ‘It’ll take about two weeks. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Sure.’ Lonie waved at his old pal and walked into a sunflower- yellow steel-framed bin bolted to the wall.