Cowboy's last stand (Part 1 of 2)

Boyles Pub, early evening

He was a yee haw country cowboy from Aberdeen. Big fuck off studded belt holding up his navy blue Chinos, their bottoms tucked into his pointy-toed leather rodeo boots. The shirt he was sporting was a sight too. All colours of the rainbow striped thing, left unbuttoned down to the third button so that all and sundry were ‘treated’ to the sight of his chest rug. The cowboy effect was topped off by a Wyatt Earp luxuriant bushy moustache. Davie and I were killing ourselves over by the jukebox; all the more so when our mate Boxer (one of the barmen) deposited some coins with the result that some Garth Brooks-type pish started to blare out of the speakers. Cowboy even started tapping his foot as he waited for his Guinness to be poured. Priceless!

I knew he was from Aberdeen cos I’d been up getting my round in when he breezed in and ordered his drink. His accent was thick with the Doric brogue, and my guess was confirmed when he started regaling Barney (the head honcho bar manager) about how he was down in the capital for the weekend and wanted to show us city slickers how to drink. Of course word of this boast soon spread through the pub, causing snickers and stares in equal proportions. In Boyles that was fighting talk, and it weren’t no surprise to me, or Davie boy, or anyone else, when one of our very own Neanderthals took the bait. Anyway, what did he mean ‘city slickers’? The last time a bottle of champagne was quaffed in here was most probably when Archie Gemmell slalomed his way past the Dutch defence back in ‘78!

Anyway, as I said, it weren’t no surprise when one of our resident lug-heads took umbrage at Cowboy’s words. I could see it about to happen. Could see the look of outrage on Kermit’s big ugly mug, see the tensing of his overly muscled arms as he threw back his chair and started striding towards confrontation. Now, Kermit probably sounds to you like a nice cuddly name? What’s a knuckle-head like that doing with such a cuddly name? Now I wouldn’t personally call him it to his face (Jim, or Tommo, or Mister Thompson does me just fine cos I like to keep my teeth) but the name stuck after one joker (Flat faced Frank) said that his missus looked a bit like Miss Piggy. Flat faced Frank was just plain Frank until he made that particular quip.

“You saying I can’t drink, or something?” enquired Kermit bluntly.
Cowboy by now had acquired his pint and was in mid sip when Kermit fired this opening ambit his way. He did that thing drinkers (usually male) sometimes do of smacking his lips noisily as if that sip of beer was the most refreshing satisfying thing he’d ever tasted. Then he put down his drink, carefully and unhurriedly, upon the bar and, equally unhurriedly, turned back to face Kermit. “Nope. I was saying that y’all cannae drink. What of it?”

Most people, on being eyeballed by a psychotic tattooed nutter, would have started to perspire by this point. Maybe they would also have backed away, started to offer apologies and tried to build bridges of reconciliation. The thing that was most impressive about Cowboy therefore was his remarkably unflustered calm. I mean, the guy didn’t even seem to be drunk, so it wasn’t as if it was Dutch courage. Davie nudged me in the ribs at this point and whispered “Punch up!” in an excited fashion. I was put in mind of a classroom scene, where you just know that the school bully and the new boy are about to tear into each other. There’s a huge sense of guilt-ridden excitement. Excitement because, well because no matter what your liberal sensibilities are, we humans just find nothing more exhilarating than the sight of two folks going hell for leather at each other. It’s a primal thing, but there’s guilt attached on account of the fact that it’s been drilled into us that it’s not right to fight. Also, there’s the intrigue of whether the new kid’s gonna get his head kicked in, or could he just possibly turn out to be the head kicker?

--

Police Station, Late evening

“So, you saw his severed ear on the bar?”
The police man, the wonderfully named Detective Donald McDonald, jotted a note dutifully into his standard issue notepad. Don’t know why he bothered, our conversation was being recorded. Maybe he just hadn’t caught up with modern technology, though he didn’t look much more than thirty.
“Yeah, I think …” I groaned. The pain in my shoulder was killing me. Well, maybe not exactly killing me but it sure felt that way. I felt dizzy, head was spinning like a bastard, and I wasn’t sure that the sugary tea that they’d supplied was the most scientific remedy?
“Can you be more specific Mister Hammell? Did you see James Thompson’s severed ear?”
“Yeah, I fuckin’ saw his bloody ear!” I blurted. “Hey, my shoulder’s aching like a bad boy and I’m trying really hard not to puke all over your nice clean interview room …”
“The sooner we get through this, Mister Hammell, the sooner you can get back to your convalescence”.
Gee, just my luck to get a cop with so much compassion in his heart. The truth was that I didn’t want to have to dwell on what had gone down in Boyles in the moments after Kermit approached Cowboy. Anyway, it had all happened so fast, it was difficult to recall exactly all the details.
“Take us through the sequence of events Mister Hammell”
“Well, as I said, Cowboy came strutting into the bar, said he was here to show us …”
“Yes, you’ve already given us the preamble, Mister Hammell. Tell us what happened after Mister Thompson approached Mister McCall at the bar.”
As well as being brimful with compassion, it seemed that I’d had the misfortune to get a cop who was tetchy as hell. Wonder what’s got his goat? Maybe his wife wasn’t giving him any? I tried to focus my thoughts and ignore the rising tide of pain and dizziness.
“Well, insults were traded …”
“Who threw the first insult?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Depends on your definition of insult, I guess? Kermit, sorry Mister Thompson, said Are you saying I can’t drink?, to which Cowboy replied Naw, I’m sayin’ y’all cannae drink! I laid the respective accents on thick and I could see my copper friend getting agitated, like I wasn’t taking things seriously. Just my way of coping, that’s all.
“Yes, Mister Hammell. Then what happened?”
More agitation from Detective McDonald. Looked like he was going to do a damage to that pen of his. I decided that I’d better continue. You hear all those stories about police brutality and I had no desire to become another statistic.
“Then they stared at each other, all hard and fierce, grrrr-like, and then Jim, that’s Mister Thompson, he threw a punch”
“So Mister Thompson threw the first punch?”
“Aye, but it was only a friendly-kinda punch ….”
I felt I needed to stick up for Kermit. After all he might have been a twat but he was one of our twats. That’s gotta count for something, right?
The Detective once again diligently scribbled something into his notepad. It looked like he underlined something. Soon enough though he was glaring at me to indicate that he hadn’t given me leave to stop.
With my still good right arm, I scratched my back, then my neck. Nervous reactions I know but the whole thing was still a bit fresh in my mind. I had suffered a major trauma, not to mention a not too minor injury and here I was having to relive it all without the slightest sign of counselling being on hand. Indeed, it felt like I was the criminal, as if I was the one facing charges! What was going on?!
“Can I get a cup of tea please?”
“You’ve already had one”.
“Can’t I have another one? Pretty please?”
“Very well”. I can see the annoyance writ large across his face. He gets up, walks over to the door, opens it and barks an order for another tea to be ferried to me. Soon afterwards a lady copper enters and places a cheap looking plastic cup of tepid looking tea down on the table top next to me. She treats me to a scowl, Detective McDonald to another one and then stomps out. What’s up in this joint? Why’s everyone so ill mannered? Maybe their boss is a bastard? I take a sip. It’s only lukewarm but still manages to be delightfully refreshing. And thankfully no sign of any phlegm, though I wouldn’t have put it past these bastards.
“Let’s see” I say. “Where was I?”
“You had just indicated that Mister Thompson had directed a punch at Mister McCall”
“That’s right. Directed. But it didn’t land on account of Cowboy blocking it with an outstretched palm. Then he went berserk. Some kinda ju jitsu shit, all arms and legs, kickin’ and punchin’, spinning to kick Derek in the face, who’d come to the rescue of Kermit who by now was on the ground holding his balls and busted nose”
“I see. And where did the knife come into the equation?”
I paused, unsure how to respond. It felt like it would be a bit of a betrayal? Fuck it though, you’ve got to tell the truth, haven’t you? I mean it’s not as if I haven’t told lots of lies but they nearly always come back and bite you on the bum, don’t they? I drained the last of the tea and crushed the cup. It was a satisfying feeling.
“I think Flea produced it. I mean, I can’t be sure, could be wrong, cos you see it was after the whole place went ballistic.”
I could see McDonald looking on expectantly, so continued. “Errupted into a full blown bar fight, ‘cept that instead of everyone fighting everyone else, everyone was fighting that Cowboy freak.”
“Flea?”
“Skinny runt of a teenager. Always wears black. Think his real name’s Iain?”
“I see. So this Flea drew the blade? He was the knifeman?”
“No … I mean yes, he produced it, went at Cowboy but Cowboy caught his wrist, bent it ‘til he dropped it, then head-butted Flea in the face. That was when Kermit got hold of it”
“The knife?”
“Yeah.”
“So Ker …. Mister Thompson attacked Mister McCall with the knife?”
“Yeah, but Cowboy disarmed him. Turned him and slammed his head into the bar. Then took the knife and cut his ear”
“Okay. And tell, me Mister Hammell, how you got involved in proceedings?”
“Well, I didn’t mean to. I’m a lover, not a fighter, me.”
A snort of derision. Obviously Detective Donald McDonald finds such a claim to be hard to believe?
“Go on Mister Hammell”
“You see my mate Davie, daft twat that he is, decides it’s time to play hero. I know he can’t fight to save his life, so I go after him ….. to save his sorry ass”
“Very noble. And that’s when you sustained your minor injury?”
“Minor?! I got a kick to my shoulder! Dislocated the bastard. Hurts like fuck! “
“Yes. Sorry. And this Davie friend of yours?”
“Escaped without a nick! Weasel chickened out when he smelt the blood and guts …. well, the blood anyway, I don’t think there were any guts. Look, what’s going to happen? Is Kermit going to be alright? What’s gonna happen to Cowboy?”
“Cowboy, as you quaintly insist on calling him, is former Private Gordon McCall, King’s regiment. Kicked out of the army for being too violent. Wanted by the Aberdeenshire constabulary for a series of violence-related offences. Allegations of connections with a drug cartel. They’re fighting with us for the right to get hold of him. Course we got to catch him first, but it’s just a matter of time. No hiding places - he’s going to the nick and with any luck won’t see the light of day for a good long while”.
“Good – sure hope you catch him! And Jim … sorry James Thompson?”
“Mister Thompson, I believe, is going through the process of having his ear reattached. As soon as he’s out, we’ll be having words.”

--

I sure was relieved to get out of that nick, I can tell you. And glad that evil Cowboy bastard was facing a long stretch. I hoped that he would resist arrest so that the coppers could use their nightsticks on him. Maybe bust his shoulder the way he’d busted mine? I was sure too that his moustache and chest hair look would go down a treat in Barlinnie!

A wind was whipping as I stepped back out onto the city streets. Gee, you’d never believe the chill of a Scottish night could be so welcome. Being pissed on, deluge from the Heavens, but I don’t care. Even the pain in my shoulder can’t dampen my spirits. I find myself singing and skipping along, must look a right fool, but I don’t care. Must be the effect of coming close to death, well being in danger at any rate, a sudden realisation that life is for living and life even with its imperfections is beautiful.

On being discharged from Detective Donald McDonald’s ill-tempered grip, I had only one thing on my mind. No, better make that two. First, a trip to the chippie, two jumbo battered sausages, a portion of chips drowned in brown sauce and coated in salt. Delicious! Then, secondly, back to my flat, where I had the express intention of diving into the duvet and catching some much needed rest.