Tony Black - Paying For It

My mind felt numb. I’d flitted between mental fireworks and virtual catatonia for so long that I wondered, ‘Was I manic?’ Sorry, that’s bi-polar now, isn’t it? I don’t know… didn’t even know how to pronounce Adidas these days.

‘It’s a kick up the arse you need!’ The indistinct voice of Scots wisdom hit in.

The Scots don’t do self-pity. Morbidity, yes. Drunken insensate, to block it all out, yes. But never self-pity. I put it down to the utter blackness of Scottish history. The struggle to get by. The sheer suffering. I mean, how else do you convince a poor nation like this to drag itself up? The myth of dignity in suffering. Shovelling shite, filling your lungs with coal dust, good for your soul? Bollocks. Good for the plutocrats’ bank balances more like.

Jumped the number 26 bus to the Wall.

I saw all the regulars propped up inside, got a few nods from the most familiar faces. The one I expected to greet me most enthusiastically, though, was goggle-eyed, staring at the telly.

‘Col, how goes it?’

‘Shush shush,’ he said, the back of his hand flapping at me.

‘Must be good, what’s it, Debbie Does Dallas?’

Killer look fired on me. Frowns, the works.

I slunk back, settled myself at the bar. Col turned up the news bulletin, Scotland Today.

The outside broadcast came from the new parliament building. I shook my head. ‘Bloody waste of money!’

Chorus of, ‘Aye. Aye. Aye,’ echoed round the bar.

‘Did you hear this, mate?’ Some gadgie I’d never seen in my puff approached me, his face a riot of red patches, a drinker’s blue nose. ‘They cannae even heat the thing, bloody spewing oot heat it is! See, they put one of them heat guns on it. Saw the pictures in the paper, what a bloody money pit!’

‘Look, can you keep the noise down, please,’ snapped Col.

I raised my eyebrows to the gadgie. He slumped off, old nineties tracksuit dragging off him, pint spilling in his trembling hand. Acrylic and alcohol — a bad combination — he put himself in danger of going up like the Hindenburg with his next fag.

I turned back to the telly. The reporter looked about seventeen. How do they do it? In my day, the telly was a big gig. Went to the best hacks. Trained ones. Not some schoolie that looks like she’d been at her mum’s dressing-up box.

‘The protest started outside the parliament with people waving placards…’ she announced.

Incisive stuff. Top-notch journalism. ‘Oh, bring back John Craven, please. It’s Newsround, surely.’

The wind picked up at the reporter’s back, I expected to hear a quick, ‘and now back to the studio’ to let in her make-up team. She went on: ‘The protesters are asylum seekers, their families and supporters, who are opposed to the Scottish Executive’s policies…’

They played some footage, the kind I knew would have news editors salivating. Early-morning raids with police battering down flats in Wester Hailes, the city’s dumping ground for the dispossessed. They planned to turf out the illegals, quick smart.

They pixelated all the faces of the people being rounded up by plod. My mind played a trick on me, filled in the blanks with the faces I’d seen huddled in misery at Fallingdoon House.

‘Joining us now is Minister for Immigration, Alisdair Cardownie, MSP,’ said the reporter.

‘Turn this up some more, Col,’ I said.

‘Good evening, Polly,’ said Cardownie.

‘ Wanker!’ I shouted at the screen.

‘Minister, judging by the number of protesters, there seems to be quite a significant opposition to your party’s policies on immigration.’

He put on a piranha smirk. ‘Well, Polly, let’s put things into perspective, a handful of very vocal protesters does not signify a backlash against the government. Let’s not forget, we are the elected party. And, as the elected representatives of the people, can ipso facto claim some measure of assumed support for our policies.’

The schoolie looked dumbstruck. Swear a giggle came from her. Capitulation writ large on her peaches and cream complexion.

‘But, well, why do you think these people are here, Minister?’

‘A good question, Polly. And if I may, eloquently put. One can only assume that the overzealous actions of some rogue police officers has, rightly — I reiterate that point, rightly to my mind — raised the indignation of some sections of the populace.’

Col bridled. ‘Fucking hypocrite!’ he said.

I rocked on my heels, taken aback. I had never heard Col make such an outburst. Couldn’t even remember hearing him swear.

‘What’s that, Col?’

He turned to me, eyes wide, said, ‘Well, he’s a politician, isn’t he.’

I couldn’t read Col’s thoughts, but Cardownie got his goat, I saw that clearly enough.

‘Yeah, like I say, a wanker. He’s trying to put the blame on plod. Buck passer.’

I watched Cardownie smarm his way through the shit-storm with heart-stopping ease. Couldn’t believe anyone bought this. Dredged up an adage from David Hume: ‘Nothing appears more surprising to those who consider human affairs with a philosophical eye, than the ease with which the many are governed by the few.’

Suddenly, Col’s interest shifted. He reached for the doofer, switched off the telly. ‘Have you any news for me, Gus?’

I tapped the bar. ‘Have you any booze for me, Col?’

Col turned to his optics, put a stare on me as he filled a shot glass with Jack Daniel’s. Tennessee’s finest, old-time number seven. Good old Col, he’s got my number.

‘Well?’ he said, placing the whiskey in front of me.

‘Go well with a pint.’After a comment like that, anyone else would have blown it, not Col. Cool as you like, he pulled down a pint glass.

‘Guinness?’

‘Nice and creamy.’

I will never tire of watching Col pour a pint of the black stuff. It’s an art. Getting the consistency right is the first tester. Length of wait the next. The head requires a special kind of genius.

Col put the pint down, leaned on the bar. I knew he was desperate to prise information from me. I was desperate to avoid the subject. I had some details to give him, but I’d plenty more to leave out.

I avoided his gaze, grabbed up the telly doofer. Doctor Who had started.

‘Never the same without Tom Baker.’

‘What?’ said Col.

‘The Doctor — to me he’s still Tom Baker, they can never replace him. Like Bond, you know, everyone has their Bond. It’s a moment in time, a peak of interest, when the character first comes alive for you.’

Col returned to the Guinness. Worked on the final third of the pint. Minutes later he thunked down the glass. The shamrock drawn in the creamy head shuddered over the edge in the wake of his frustration.

‘Thanks, Col,’ I said. The taste danced on my lips. A joy like no other.

I knew I’d delayed the inevitable long enough.

‘Shall we, er, move to the snug?’

Three quick nods, a wipe of the bar, and Col led the way.

The snug was empty. At night time, you fight for a seat here. This time of the day, though, was for hardcore drinkers. The lonely looking for company. The dole moles.

The Wall felt like home, the snug, like my front room. Each name carved in the wood panelling as familiar as a family photo. The crushed and worn seat cushions were — what’s the word? — cosy. You couldn’t recreate the feel of this place with a million quid. Pubs like this, they need to evolve.

I drained my JD, fired right in. ‘There’s some… progress.’

‘ Uh-huh.’

‘I don’t know how to put this, Col, so I’m just going to tell it straight.’

Col’s expression tightened. I traced the fine lines around his eyes, they crossed his cheekbones like girders on the Forth Bridge. ‘I wouldn’t want you to soft-soap me, Gus.’