Jason’s face scrunches up in pain, like he’s eaten something nasty. — Faither, ah’m thinking ay blowin that yin oot.
— Whit dae ye mean, son?
— Wi reference tae one ay yir ain great literary heroes, Faither, Alan Sillitoe: The Loneliness ay the Long Distance Runner, ya hoor.
— A great book, son, his dad acknowledges as he hands me a pint of lager I didn’t even see him getting up. — Excellent film n aw; Tom Courtney, ah think ah’m right in sayin.
Jason nods at a settling Guinness, blackening up on the bar. — Aye, bit mind the central thesis ay thon work but, Faither: sometimes ye kin only win by no takin part.
I take a sip at the lager. It’s very gassy, but I can’t stomach that gut-rot Guinness Jason loves so much.
His father smiles at me, then nods back to Jason in enthusiasm. — Whin the odds are stacked against ye, optin oot ay the system is the only wey. Like the boy in the book that won yon race but refused tae cross the line. The ultimate rebellion, son, n yin muh man 50 Cent understands only too well, he says, and then asks in concern, — What you goat planned?
— Dad, Jenni n me ur thinking ay gaun tae Spain. Fir good, likes. Kravy’s got mates ower thair, Jason explains, — n ah’ve been in touch wi thum… on the Net, likes.
— Go for it, son! That’s excellent. His father takes a swig of his pint, gulping it back. — Ah wid n aw if ah hud ma youth, n if ah hud a wee belter like this yin, he smiles at me, — aye, ah’d be right oaf tae Spain in a flash!
I feel my face igniting in a smile. — Your dad is so sweet, Jason, I say, and Mr King goes a little coy.
— Ye’ll be awright oan yir ain? Jason asks in some concern.
A mischievous glint comes into his father’s eye. — Whae says ah’ll be oan muh ain?
— Aye?
His father winks and lets a smile mould his face. I notice that there’s something different about him. It’s the burn mark, it looks faded, but I can see he’s just put some cosmetic foundation on it. — Maybe this old niggah got moves too. Watch this space, but ah’m sayin nae mair except: oot ay adversity wi can find triumph.
— A sentiment ah hertily endorse, Faither, a sentiment ah hertily endorse, he says and puts his arm around me and we have a little snog.
— Enough ay thon! Mr King snaps. — Mind, this is Fife! Dampen yon ardour n buy yir auld felly a beer. Ah saw that boy slip ye a double score fir this gig!
— It’s my shout, I say, pushing up to the bar and shouting them up. Before I leave this town I want them all to know that I’m Jenni Cahill, not Tom Cahill the haulage guy’s daughter!
27.
DEMISE OF AMBROSE
THAT WIS A great yin in Kirkcaldy last night, then ontae that perty in Glenrothes. Wee Jenni liked it n aw; hud plenty joints and even a couple ay lines. Glenrothes isnae Fife, but. They filled the place up wi Weedgies back in the sixties. Three tae fower generations doon the line thir still no assimilated intae the local population. Insteed it’s real Fifers thit gie it aw yon ‘by the way’ shite n swan aroond in Auld Firm replica tops. Some social experiments ur doomed tae fail here, like the preservation ay the native rid squirrel fae yon incomin American grey hoors.
Ah also git the wee notion thit Tam’s beginnin tae suspect that somethin’s cookin wi me n ehs firstborn, cause eh gies ays a call first thing in the morning. So ah huv tae head up early doors. Ah mind ay Jenni no being happy aboot cutting oot early, but she said she hud tae drive her ma tae the city.
Ah lits masel in the hoose wi the spare key Tam gied ays, hopin a might catch Jenni fir a wee grope and snog. But thir’s nae cunt hame; she’s already gone intae Edinbury shoapin wi her ma n yon wee spoiled Indigo. Thir’s a note n a pair ay car keys.
J
Decided to get train. Take car if you want.
So ah borrow her motor, thinkin thit ah’ll take the dug doon tae the seaside at Abby-Dabby, cause it’s a hoat yin awright, sor. Mair like a summer’s day!
The water wisnae even like thon oily pish thit ye normally git in the Forth Estuary, it wis St Andrews-style; cobalt blue and as calm as a well-shagged, wedged-up hoor wi hur purse in her drawers. Tae ma mind then, thir wis nae bother aboot flingin yon bit ay stick in; jist a wee bit driftwid fir the boy tae fetch. Cool doon the pantin beast, likes. Didnae want um gittin aw nippy in yon heat n takin a chunk oot ay some cunt’s weddin tackle. Like mine. Aye, ye kin git awa wi murder wi fower n a hawf inches by flingin hawf a dozen Bicardis intae the mix, but three n a hawf n ah’d nivir work again. No in this fuckin coonty any roads!
Aye, Ambrose is gaspin in yon heat. Felt fair sorry fir um, so ah did.
So ah picks up a long, slimy bit ay driftwid n birls n launches the fucker oot as far as ah could. Afore ye could say ‘Jim Leishman’ the dug’s flyin off intae the sea eftir it, bobbin up n doon, that retriever gene still active even eftir three generations, ya hoor ye!
Thing is thit perr auld Ambrose nivir looked back once, even wi me shoutin the bastard’s name at the top ay muh voice. Jist that wee heid bobbin away, gaun up n doon like a… well, then thir wis nowt.
Ah’m standin oan the beach oan muh Jack Jones n big Tam Cahill the haulage gangster’s pride n joy, ehs fightin dug, is oan ehs wey tae bein washed up in an Amsterdam canal!
Ridin ehs daughter, now ah’ve fuckin drooned the cunt’s dug!
Ma heid’s birlin. The only thing ah kin think ay is thit nae cunt saw ays come or go; ah hud the run ay the hoose. They’d aw left early tae go tae the city n Tam wis at ehs work, leavin Ambrose tied up in the back gairdin. Ah drives right back tae Cowden n perks Jen’s motor. Ah steels masel up fir a performance, then bells Tam at the yard. — Awright, Tam? Whaire’s yon dug ay yours? Naebodie’s aboot n ah’m twiddlin ma thumbs here. Will ah pick um up at the yard, aye?
Thir’s a wee silence, then eh goes, — What… eh’s no here, eh’s tied up at the back. Left um thair this mornin!
— Eh’s no thair now. Would the lassies no huv taken um wi thum tae Edinbury?
— Would they fuck! Fucken do not believe… is Jenni thaire?!
— Naw, they wir aw away by the time ah goat roond; hud a wee bit ay a late yin last night. Ah couldnae see them takin the dug so ah assumed you hud um.
Another silence, then, — That wee hoor’s done somethin tae ma Ambrose! She accused me ay fuckin oaf that useless kerthoarse ah hers n she’s done somethin oot ay revenge!
— Ah widnae be jumpin tae they conclusions, neebs, ah say. Then ah ask, aw uneasy, — Ye dinnae really think she suspects onything aboot yon hoarse, dae ye?
— Ah dinnae ken that ungrateful wee bitch’s state ay mind… n eh stoaps fir a bit, — you fuckin tell me, Jason! N it’s a voice ay accusation right enough, ya hoor.
— Hud yir hoarses! What ye oan aboot, Tam?
— Well, yir ridin her, aren’t ye?
— Whoa, Tam, hud oan thair, man—
— Dinnae deny it, lover boy. Ah ken; ah’ve seen her fuckin diaries, eh sais, then adds, —… which wis an accident, as ah wis lookin for information about what she kent aboot that hoarse, right?
— Eh, aye, fair enough, Tam, ah goes, but that cunt’s oot ay order. Nae wonder Jenni wants oot ay thon hoose.
— So you say nowt tae her aboot it or the twa sides ay yir jaw’ll nivir meet again!
— Ah widnae say nowt, Tam—
— Mr Big Shagger. Eh makes a fartin noise doon the phone, then ehs tone changes. — Ye fair surprised me. Ah thoat ah kent everything thit went oan in this toon, he says in disappointment. Then ehs voice goes aw stroppy again. — Ah gie ye a key tae ma hoose n ye repey me by knobbin ma wee fuckin lassie!