The Domino Effect

Chic McHendry tips the dominoes oot, clatterin them oan tae the table an mixin them up like some bedraggled auld mystic preparin tae read his tarots. He slides the upturned pieces aboot in wide sweepin movements, nearly knoackin Wullie Henderson’s drink oer. ‘That’ll dae man, fur fuck sake.’ Wullie sais.

‘Just makin sure thur mixed up right, it’s important.’ Chic sniffs, continuin the ritual.

‘So’s playin at least wan gemme afore last orders ya mad crank, ye! Get them dealt oot.’ Wullie replies, wryly, flippin the last ay the roll-ups he’s been buildin. It’s the back ay two in the efternin.

‘Aye, hurry up, wull ye?’ ah sais, gettin agitated masel.

‘Don’t you start Coyle. It’s bad enough wae this cunt here.’ Chic sais, dolin the dominoes oot, ‘Who’s aw in?’ he sais, lookin roon the table.

‘No me.’ Tam sais, fae the coarner.

‘Ah’ll play.’ Andy McDermott sais, an me an Wullie nod oor heids as Chic counts them oot.

‘Whit’s the matter wae ye, Tam? How ye no playin?’ Chic asks, no breakin a beat fae his dealin.

‘Aw, he’s feelin sorry fur himsel cos ay this bother he’s goat himsel intae. Ah’ve telt him though, it’ll no dae tae mope aboot. Ye just need tae dust yersel doon an get oan wae it.’ ah sais an take a large moothfae ay ma hauf. Ah almost convince masel but the truth is, aw we’ve managed tae dae is evade the swines since the last visit. Kickin the proverbial can doon the road.

‘How, whit is it? Whit bother?’ Chic sais, rackin up his doms. Tam looks embarrassed an lights a fag.

‘He’s only went an goat himsel mixed up wae bloody loansharks! Gettin hounded aff the swines, so he is.’ ah sais.

‘Here, ye want tae watch yersel wae they kind ay folk. Wance they’ve goat thur claws intae ye, they don’t let go.’ Andy McDermott pipes up. Tam looks like he’s gonae explain himsel; that he didnae know whit he wis gettin intae; that he wisnae a bloody fool an he’d been taken a len ay, but he disnae. He just kerries oan smokin his fag, runnin his finger doon the sections ay the Racing Post, immersed in it as though he’s tryin tae block oot the conversation – willin it tae move oan tae the next topic, wan that didnae revolve aroon him bein a mug.

‘That’ll no sort it oot anywaiy, wull it?’ ah sais tae him, noddin taewards the paper in his hauns, him still examinin the sections.

‘Some cunt’s goat tae win Coyle. There ye are, see? Jack-in-the-boax, runnin at Aintree in ten minutes, ah’m huvin some ay that.’ he sais, haudin the paper up, ‘ . . . it’s a sign, int it? Jack-in-the-boax, like ma daughter, Jackie. Ah’ll catch the bookies afore it starts.’ he sais, lookin at his watch an foldin the paper oer, tuckin it under his oxter. He downs the last ay his lager an shuffles aff through the throng ay efternin drinkers, the hubbub fae whom fills the air like static electricity.

Ah’m chappin, so take the opportunity tae go an get a round in at the bar while McDermott makes a show ay it afore his shot, starin intently at his options like he’s playin high-stake Texas holdem insteid ay poun gemmes ay dominoes. ‘Same again aw roon, is it?’ ah goes, walkin away fae the table taewards the bar, no really interestit in an answer. They’ll huv the same again, an they’ll like it.

Blarin, cartoonish music accompanied by the machine gun rattle ay coins paiyin oot intae the collection tray startle me as a young yin hits the jackpot oan the puggie next tae the toilet oan the waiy by. He’s crouched doon, the boay, scoopin the coins intae his jumper, the material ay which he’s stretched oot intae a makeshift pouch fur his bounty. It’s a good joab Tam’s left fur the bookies, he’d been watchin the puggie like a hawk; sais it wis ready tae paiy oot. He wisnae wrang, there must be a couple ay hunner quid there anywaiy. The waiy his luck’s been gaun, that wid huv scunnered him, an nae mistake.

Gettin back tae the table wae a round ay haufs an a jug ay watter, ah set thum doon afore ah go back fur the hauf pints ay lager an pint ay heavy fur Andy. It’s too busy tae attempt bringin it aw at wance. Too many bloody eejits bouncin aboot full ay it. It’s the fitba, ye see? The Cellic gemme’s oan shortly. ‘Whit in the name ay Christ ur ye dain Coyle? We’re sittin here waitin oan ye tae take yer shot.’ Henderson sais.

‘Whit dae ye think ah’m dain, eh? Gettin the bloody drinks in ya crabbit bastart, ye. Some bugger’s goat tae an ah didnae see you movin!’ Ah’m in full defensive mode wae the swine cos ah’m no gettin pult up fur huvin the civility tae go an get a round in aff ay him. Christ, doon the bowlin club they call him the blacksmith, oan account ay the fact that whenever it’s his round, he makes a bolt fur the door.

‘Where’s auld Tam O’Henry?’ a voice comes fae ahent me.

‘He wis here five minutes ago, ye’ve just missed him.’ Wullie sais, openin that big mooth again afore ah kin say anythin. Ah don’t need tae turn roon, ah know it’s him. Ah just know. Turnin roon only confirms it. Christ he wisnae kiddin aboot the scar either wis he? A big bloody Mars Bar ay a thing gaun right acroass his left eye an cheek.

‘Just missed him, eh? Where’s he away tae then?’

‘He’s just nicked intae . . .’

‘ . . . his daughter’s . . . needs tae watch his grandweans, ye see. . .’ ah cut in afore Wullie dis anymare damage wae his gub, ‘ . . . aye, he’ll no be back in here the day noo.’ ah sais, wae some degree ay finality. He looks at me, the big cunt, like he knows ah’m lyin. Christ, these other useless bastarts huv aw but telt him, ‘ . . . is there anythin ah kin help ye wae son? Ah kin pass oan a message.’ ah sais tae him.

‘Just tell him ah’m lookin fur him when ah shouldnae be fuckin lookin fur him, okay? He knows whit’s whit.’ he sais.

Ah don’t know whit comes oer me, his tone mibbe; the casual, fatalistic arrogance ay it, ‘Noo, you listen here tae me,’ ah sais, ‘ah know exactly who ye ur an whit ye want. Dis it make ye feel like a big man, eh? Bullyin folk aulder an weaker than ye, eh?’ Ah’m shakin, ah kin feel it an ah don’t know if it’s obvious -- ah hope it isnae. A hot flush washes oer me; the palms ay ma hauns clammy; ma hert beatin like a drum.

‘Coyle! Sit doon son, there’s nae sense in this.’ a haun rests oan ma shooder. Chic McHendry.

‘Coyle?’ the big swine sais in recognition, ‘ . . . you John’s Da?’

‘Aye. An whit ay it, eh? He owe ye money an aw, dis he? He’s only been deid ten bloody year!’ His face is expressionless; redundant. Just an appendage ay skin stretched oer bone, devoid ay emotion.

‘Just tell Tam time’s up. Ah’ve no goat time fur this.’ he sais an turns away, bulldozin his waiy through the busy pub an through the saloon door.

Ah take ma hauf an drink it doon, ma haun still shakin. The crowd in the pub has swollen tae near capacity an folk ur gettin animated wae the gemme kickin aff.

‘Is that who Tam owes the money tae then Arthur?’ Andy McDermott sais, wae a glakit expression.

‘Naw Andy, that’s his bloody Home Help! Aye, that’s him! Nearly goat him an aw, nae thanks tae that bloody clown oer there.’ ah sais, pointin tae Henderson.

‘Whit did ah dae?’ Henderson sais, incredulous, stupit bloody lookin swine that he is.

‘Whit happened tae ma pint ay heavy?’ McDermott sais.

‘Don’t worry, yer pint’s comin, Andy. Bloody priorities, eh?’ ah sais, staunin up.

Ah’ve tae fight ma waiy tae the bar through the jostlin crowd vyin fur the attention ay the overworked barmaid. Ah’m sandwiched in between two big bloody swines, wavin ma haun through tae get her attention when wan ay them sees me strugglin an moves oot the waiy, usherin me in tae the counter ay the bar. ‘Ah’m just back fur the rest ay they drinks hen.’ ah sais, ‘ . . . sorry, goat a bit held up there.’

She nods an turns roon, liftin the tray fae the counter ahent her, afore toppin up the heids oan them an placin it doon oan the bar in front ay me. ‘Whit dae a owe ye, hen?’ ah sais, gettin ma wallet oot.

‘Nothin. It’s awready paiyed fur.’ she sais, bustlin aboot, pullin pints an takin mare money aff other punters.

‘Naw hen, ah’ve no squared ye up yet. Ah wid mind gien ye it.’ ah sais, positive ah’m right.

‘Ye cannae mind because ye didnae. Somebody came up an took care ay it.’ she sais, lookin like ah’m becomin an annoyance tae her. The boay that let me in tae the bar’s startin tae look pissed off an aw, the swell ay boadies wantin served bufferin up against him as he tries tae keep ma path oot clear.

‘Sorry, ah don’t understaun,’ ah sais, ‘ . . . who paiyed it?’

She sighs, blawin a strand ay hair up away fae her face an points through the gantry ay the horseshoe shaped bar intae the other end ay the pub, ‘Him in there. The big guy, there!’ she sais, impatiently jabbin her finger at him, ‘ . . . Right! Who’s next?’

Through the gantry, in the other side ay the pub, there’s McNulty, sittin wae a bunch ay boays. The wan that came tae Tam’s door’s there, whit’s his name again? – Monty. They raise their glesses tae me, an the McNulty fella nods his heid, smilin.

When ah get back tae the table wae the drinks, Tam’s back fae the bookies, sittin despondently in the same place he wis afore, haudin a tissue tae his mooth.

‘Right you, mone. You cannae be here.’ ah sais tae him, ‘ . . . yer big altruistic pal an his groupies ur in here. We’ll be able tae sneak oot through the crowd if we go noo.’

‘Save it Coyle, ah awready bumped intae that Monty ootside the bookies.’ he sais, pullin the tissue away tae reveal a burst lip, ‘he sais that’s ma last warnin.’

‘Aye, thur relentless they money lenders . . .’ Wullie Henderson unhelpfully sais, grabbin the drinks aff the tray an passin thum roon, ‘How’d yer horse dae, did it win?’

‘Win? Did it win? The fuckin thing didnae even run. It goat put doon afore the race startit.’ Tam sais, lightin a rollie an takin a drink ay his hauf, sookin air through his teeth as he places the gless back doon, the alcohol nippin his burst mooth.

He starts laughin, we aw dae. Sometimes there’s nothin else fur it.

 

The pub’s heavin. Ah suppose it is a big gemme. If Cellic win the day, at hame, they win the league. That in itsel makes it a big deal but the fact that winnin this title, this year, will stoap the Rangers winnin ten-in-a-row makes it ay monumental importance tae the support.

Ah don’t bother wae it much these days. Too auld fur aw the kerry oan that comes alang wae it. Cannae be arsed. Christ, ah mind ay the Cellic gettin nine-in-a-row in the sixties an seventies sure. That’s how it matters, ye see? Cannae huv them surpassin it. Important stuff, it is, if ye allow it tae be.

The wans fae the Rangers end will huv fucked off by noo alang tae The Marquis or that. The understaunin disnae extend tae match days. Certainly no this wan.

Suddenly every bugger in the place is jumpin aboot mental. Drinks go flyin in the air, an grown men embrace other grown men in elation. The roar ay wan, simultaneous ‘YAAAAAASSS’ near lifts the roof aff the place. Henrik Larsson’s swervin strike bulges the nettin in the third minute, fae open play.

Tam’s worries seem a distant memory tae him as he tear arses aboot the flair wae Wullie Henderson dain a wee, restrained version ay the can-can while Chic an Andy an me ur up an aw, waeoot even realisin it, kerried away oan the the crest ay a wave. It passes though. Efter a minute or two, the pub’s settled doon tae a murmur again wae just the odd pub commentator vocalisin his opinion.

‘That’ll be the dominoes fucked then.’ Henderson sais, getherin them back intae the boax.

‘Should’ve known better. Ah didnae even think aboot the fitbaw.’ ah sais.

‘Ah knew it wis oan, just didnae think it’d be this busy.’ Chic McHendry sais, ‘ . . . will we go doon the club, oot the road ay aw these mad bastarts in here?’

‘That’s a shout, whit ye sayin tae it Tam? Doon the bowlin club fur a couple, eh? They’ll huv the fitba oan in there tae. Ah quite fancy watchin it noo, aw the same.’ ah sais.

‘Aye. Let’s get oot ay here.’ he sais, ballin up the napkin he hud oan his mooth an flingin it oan the table. He stauns up, ‘ . . . here, Coyle. Is that no young Daniel oer there?’

Oer by the door, workin his waiy intae the room is Daniel wae his pal an a couple ay lassies. Ah wave, beckonin him oer. This must be the wee burd he wis tellin me aboot. Or wan ay thum, anywaiy.

He waves back an they make their waiy, single file, through the sea ay boadies.

‘Daniel! Ye just missed a goal. A cracker it wis tae. We’re just away doon tae the club tae watch the rest ay it. Too much bloody commotion in here. Yies ur welcome tae join us.’ ah sais, wishin a didnae, as he looks embarrassed, ‘ . . . naw, whit ah’m ah thinkin ay? Yies need yer space. Here, sit doon here, well.’ ah sais, wavin them intae the booth.

‘Cheers mate. Ah mean, Mr. Coyle.’ his pal sais, takin his hat aff. Seems a nice boay. Respectful.

‘Thank you, that’s awfy nice ay ye.’ wan ay the wee lassies sais.

‘Don’t be daft noo, away ye go.’ ah sais, takin Daniel aside. Ah push a twinty poun note intae his haun, ‘ . . . here, take that an get you an yer pals a drink, oan me.’

‘Granda, it’s awright. Ah’ve goat ma ain money.’ he sais.

‘Just let yer bloody grandfaither buy yies a drink, okay? You watch yersel, dae ye hear me?’

‘Ah’ll be fine. You watch yersel gaun doon that road. Get yersel intae the club afore the pubs spill oot.’ he sais, gien us a cuddle an rubbin ma back. Ah feel a bit embarrassed again, like a bloody wee wean, but it’s nice, ah suppose, that he cares, ‘ . . . here McDade, whit yous huvin?’ he sais tae his pal at the table an walks away, leavin me.

Oer in the middle ay flair stauns Tam, his fat lip conspicuous like a bloody beacon, ‘C’mon Coyle, ah’m gaspin fur another hauf here.’ he shouts oer, bloody impatient swine that he is. Ah gie him daggers wae ma eyes as ah approach, then we make oor waiy taewards the door.