Lizzie rejoined them at the table. — Is he okay?
— He’s been a bit mental, pittin it mildly, since my ma went, Alison conceded.
— He’ll be awright, Tommy said hopefully, — Calum’s sound.
— Aye, Alison exhaled. — So what youse up tae?
— Going tae see Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Lizzie said.
— She chose it. Tommy was quick to make the point. Alison reckoned that was because more than one person had mentioned he looked a bit like Harrison Ford. She envied the couple, sitting in a warm picture house together, their love incubating in the silent hothouse dark. The odd smile and kiss, the squeeze of the hand, then intertwining as Harrison cracked the whip on-screen. She thought of calling Alexander, and then wished that Simon was here. She wanted to ask Tommy if he’d heard from him, but something stopped her. Her relationship with Simon was non-exclusive and more than a little clandestine. It suddenly seemed cheap goods compared to what Tommy and Lizzie had. His hand was resting on hers. The way they looked at each other …
Disinclined to play gooseberry any longer, Alison left them and walked down to the river, settling onto a bench. The sun was starting to fall over the disused warehouses in front of her, as the odd person and dog ambled by on the walkway. Her poetry book was in her bag and she took it out and looked through its contents.
The book now seemed pointless. Real life wasn’t reducible to the written word, and even spoken words, our interactions with others, just seemed like distracting drama. She lowered the book, and let her gaze fall across the still, black river. This was real life, when we were alone in thought, lost in memory.
She had barely noticed him coming towards her. When she did, he at first cut a tentative figure, growing more gallus as he slumped onto the bench a little bit apart from her. — Good book, aye?
Alison was too distracted to immediately get up and walk away. Instead she looked up. He was young; much younger than her even, just a laddie. He had a cheeky face, with busy eyes observing her from under the ubiquitous fringe. — So-so.
— You’re Calum’s big sister, eh?
— Aye. Ye ken ma brar, like?
— Aye. Really sorry tae hear aboot yir ma, likes.
— Thanks.
— It’s shite, eh? My ma died two years ago. Ah stey at ma auntie’s now.
— Sorry … she said, then acknowledged, — Yir right. It is shite. She was going to add that was putting it mildly, but Kelly had half jokingly pulled her up for saying that a lot. She realised he was chewing, and he noticed her noticing, and offered her some gum, which she accepted. Moved to reciprocate in some way, she gave him a cigarette.
— Was meant tae be gaun tae Easter Road, but ah couldnae be bothered. Fancied a wee walk instead, he explained, bending in to accept her light. — What’s your name?
— Alison.
He extended his hand and she felt herself reaching out to take it. — Bobby, he nodded, then rose and awkwardly blew out some smoke. — You’re a barry lassie, Alison, he said quite ruefully. — Wish ah hud a sister like you, and he gave a small wave and went off down the walkway. He held the cigarette strangely, like he wasn’t a smoker. She watched him go, all the time wondering how this daft, sweet wee boy had left her on a riverside bench with her heart in fragments.
It had grown cold down by the water but she sat there for ages, until jakeys and perverts started hassling her for cash and sex. One really old, frail man, going past painstakingly slowly on a Zimmer frame, asked grimly, — Whaes fanny dae ye need tae lick tae git a gam in these parts?
It was time to go.
Crossing from Constitution Street, Alison came round the corner onto the Foot of the Walk. She saw him straight away, sat down on the bench under Queen Victoria’s statue, still and silent. It’s like he’s waiting till closing time tae smash the first lippy cunt he sets eyes on. — Frank. How’s it goin?
He looked at her as she joined him on the bench, his eyes narrowing into sharp focus. She could smell the drink off him, but his movements and thoughts seemed premeditated, everything deliberately executed; he was holding onto a form of sobriety through the exercise of his will. It took him a couple of seconds to respond. — Awright. Sorry tae hear aboot yir ma n that.
— Ta. Alison stretched her legs out, staring at the fur trim at the top of her boots. She looked up the Walk. The rim of a full moon shimmered over them, opening up the layers in the dense, smoky sky, casting curious shadows. Queen Victoria towered above, partly concealing them from the street lamp. — Where ye been?
— Dockers’ Club. Some ay the boys ur still in thaire. Frank Begbie cast a brief glance towards Constitution Street. — Jist came oot cause a couple ay cunts wir gittin oan ma fuckin nerves. A bunch ay us went doon eftir the fitba n got stuck intae the peeve. Ah wanted tae go up the toon, but they wir jist sittin thaire. Playin at bein two-bob gangsters, acting like an auld-fashioned pagger wi some wide cunts wis fuckin beneath them. Especially Nelly wi his fuckin Davie Power this n Davie Power that bullshit!
Alison could see them all, sitting round a table in the club; the stylised movements and slick gab. No wonder Tommy wasn’t into that any more. No wonder Simon and Mark had left for London. Under the amber glow of the street lamp, she thought of Calum again: saw what her gangly, dopey young brother might become. She wanted to ask Franco about the game, whether there was any trouble.
— Nearly smashed a fuckin tumbler intae that cunt’s face, Francis Begbie snarled — jist went ootside tae git some air n clear ma fuckin heid but, eh. Aye, it’s aw changed now. Nivir fuckin well see Rents or Sick Boy, eh, no. Dinnae ken whaire Spud is. Every cunt’s oan that smack. Tommy never even fuckin showed up fir the fitba.
As Franco spat out his bitter litany of grievances, the air seemed to gather mass, like a barometric dip before the descent of a thunderstorm. Alison felt herself wincing inside.
— It wis London that fuckin ruined the likes ay Rents n Sick Boy; they cunts doon thaire, Begbie declared. — They wir fine till they went doon thaire; nae airs n graces. That wee cunt they broat up, he wis awright, ah’m no sayin nowt against him, but it wis London that fucked wi thair heids.
It was unmitigated nonsense, but Alison didn’t feel like arguing. Nutters. How did they keep it going? Sustain the energy levels required to fuel all that rage and indignation? Didn’t they ever just get tired?
— Ye git a laugh wi Rents n Sick Boy n that. Nelly n Saybo n they cunts dinnae git ma sense ay humour, Begbie said sadly. Then he looked pointedly at her. — June loast the bairn.
— Aw … I’m really sorry, Franco. Poor June … ah didnae even ken shi wis … how long … is she okay?
— Aye, course she is. Franco looked at Alison as if she was crazy, then explained, — It’s the bairn that’s no okay, she’s fuckin fine. He lit up a cigarette, then as an afterthought, offered her one. She hesitated for a second, then took it and leaned into him to accept a light. Franco took a drag, filled his lungs with smoke and sat back. — Aw she hud tae dae wis keep the fuckin thing up thaire, n she couldnae even dae that! Fuckin useless. Tae me that’s murder, or as fuckin good as; murder by peeve, murder by snout! Ah telt her that, n she sterted fuckin greetin, showin us aw this rid-brown stuff in her fuckin pants. Ah jist took thum n rubbed thum in her fuckin pus. Telt her it was her fault: telt her she wis a fuckin murderer!
Alison stared at him in disbelief.