Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Would, these men he was preparing to meet be hardened criminals or, more likely, just dogsbodies like him, burdened with someone fearsome on their backs, compelling them to do this, just as he was with the ex-brother-in-law?

He walked into the pub via the rear doors, going through a narrow conservatory and coming into a large, low-ceilinged lounge bar. Although comfortably shy of six foot, Russell still had to duck to avoid some overhead beams. The pub was practically deserted. Even with the monstrously inclement weather, it seemed inconceivable that a bar could survive such minimal trade on a weekend night. The only other people he could see were two men, standing by a roaring fire, and a barman engrossed in the mounted television, who, in profile, looked the double of the actor who played Arthur in On the Buses .

Russell decided not to approach or acknowledge the men by the big stone fireplace straight away. It might be bad form, if there was any etiquette in this sort of thing. He assumed there would be; everything else had its codes, so why should this business be different?

When the barman turned face on to take his order, the Arthur effect was reduced, but not completely dispelled. Russell ordered a pint of London Pride, and was disappointed to note the man’s north of England accent, rather than Arthur’s rasping cockney. He tried to think of the actor’s name: nothing came to mind.

The two men were looking over at him. One of them, thin, with a duck’s-arse haircut, approached him, moving in a jerky manner. This puppet-like wretch seemed to have been sent by the other man; a portly, menacing figure who smiled at him with gleefully psychotic bonhomie. Russell briefly thought he knew him from somewhere, but realised it was just the grin. It belonged to every thug and bully he’d ever met.

Neither of them seemed to be carrying anything, making him glad he’d left his own package in the car boot. It would be sensible to make this transaction outside, in the dark, secluded car park. He began to feel a bit pleased with himself, growing in confidence as the first man drew alongside him.

— How d’ya do, the man lisped, in a soft but metallic voice. His accent was slightly camp, and the sickly weakness he exuded bolstered Russell’s morale further.

— Not bad. Yourself?

— Can’t complain. You come far?

— Edinburgh.

The man’s face twitched slightly in register. It was evidently some test, as meagre as it was. The man introduced himself as Marriott, making Russell immediately think of Steve Marriott from the Small Faces, a band he’d always liked. — Join us for a drink.

He could see no good reason, after that drive, not to do so. The fire was inviting, though on Russell’s approach, the other man gave out mixed signals. He didn’t extend his hand, merely acknowledged Russell with a mean smile, then moved up to the bar. He returned with three large whiskies. — Scotch. Scotch for a Scotchman, he observed, seeming pleased with himself as he settled them down on the mantelpiece.

Russell could have done with a brandy, but as he sipped the amber fluid, realised it was a decent malt, the smoky, peaty aroma perhaps indicating Islay. It warmed him, like the fire that roasted at his legs. His pint sat on the bar; he wasn’t bothered about it. — Cheers.

The stocky man finally introduced himself as Gal. — Some say it ain’t professional, this socialising lark, but I don’t agree. It’s nice to put a face to a name. Ya gotta know who yer dealing with. You need trust in this business. A covert menace bubbled under the surface of his tone. His lively tongue didn’t match his deep-set eyes, slanted at the extremity of the brows as if to suggest inbreeding. Being in his very presence caused Russell to silently curse his ex-brother-in-law, his stupid sister and his own weakness, for once again putting him in this situation. He knew his parents now regarded him as a loser like Kristen, rather than a mover and shaker like Alexander. But, and Russell gained succour from the notion, they didn’t know what he did. The other week he’d been driving up Leith Walk and he’d seen that young girl his brother was fucking, heading up into town. She’d looked different; scruffy, damaged, an obvious junky, like this Marriott character. Perhaps that was curse of his family: fatally drawn to lowlife.

After the relatively effusive welcome, Marriott now seemed to be cold-shouldering him, like he’d decided Russell wasn’t important enough to try and keep on the good side of. Then he suddenly announced, — I ain’t all that keen on people from Edinburgh. I had a bad experience with some people from Edinburgh once.

Russell looked at him, unsure of how to respond, but Gal was definitely the one calling the shots, and he gazed coldly at Marriott. — We’re talking about Seeker. He’s a friend of mine.

Marriott fell silent.

Gal kept his stare trained on him for a couple of seconds, before turning to Russell, the smile of genial menace back on his face. — You know The Man then?

— He’s my brother-in-law, Russell said. It seemed sensible to omit the ‘ex’.

Gal looked him up and down, seeming disappointed, certainly in Russell, and perhaps also, he fancied, in Seeker. — You poor sod.

Russell kept his face neutral, feeling that either a collusive smile or disapproving frown might be taken the wrong way.

— Anyway, Gal went on impatiently, — we can’t sit here jawing all night. Let’s get it over with, and he downed his whisky in a single gulp that strong-armed the others into doing the same. Russell noted that Marriott was struggling, his hand shaking, but Gal’s raptorial leer wouldn’t leave him till he’d finished. — That’s good Scotch, he said accusingly to his associate, who was painfully trying to fight back a gagging reflex.

The walk outside to the car park was torturous. Russell felt a creeping dread that the next thing would be a skull-splitting blow to the back of his head, the prelude to him being bundled into the boot of the BMW like a sack of coal. He’d lie briefly alongside the package in the holdall that had been gift-wrapped in birthday paper (a touch he’d almost felt moved to comment to Seeker about, but had resisted), en route to the bleak wasteland that would be his final resting place. Or perhaps he’d have Seeker’s money taken from him with force, and have to explain it all. Every heartbeat-measuring step across the dark, barren parking area seemed part of a doomed procession to the grave.

But Gal just casually went to his car, returning with a box, wrapped up in identical gift paper, and made the exchange. Russell wasn’t going to open it up and check the contents; there could have been anything in either of the packages. Both parties behind this transaction evidently held each other in a high degree of confidence.

— Safely home now, but don’t spare the horses. I hear ya got a lot of customers waiting for ya back in Edinburgh, Gal smiled again, now reminding Russell of a jaunty travelling salesman, — and tell Seeker that old Gal said hello. Then he turned to the hapless-looking Marriott. It was soul-destroying to Russell how much he empathised with this broken figure, another fellow stooge who had overstepped the mark. — Right, you cunt, let’s farking move.

Russell walked stiffly to his car with the package, leaving it on the passenger seat. He watched the BMW pull off and roll out of the car park. His hands were wet on the wheel and trembling, but elation quickly took over him. It was finished. He’d done it. It was a triumph. Now Seeker really owed him, surely. He’d get his cut and they would be all square.

He started the car up and drove out of the car park, heading away from town, north towards Cambridgeshire. He stopped at an old phone box, outside a garage it pre-dated. He put the package in the boot, lest a potentially fatal temptation to examine its contents grip him.