FRACTURED IN THIS KILLING SCENE
By
Stevie Mach
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Stevie Mach
All rights reserved
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication
To Ann-Marie,
My Dear Departed Sister
Other Books By Stevie Mach
Fiction:
When Pigs Fly Does Mud Fall As Rain
Stories of Joe
Inspirational:
New Light for the Soul
CONTENTS
ONE
The heavy lorry trundled to a halt on the hard shoulder of the M74 just after the Motherwell exit. There was a light rain falling, and dark clouds above promised that it would continue for the remainder of the night.
'Cheers, mate,' said Tam. 'That's a drink I owe you if you ever make my local.'
'Yeah, I'll hold you to that,' said the truck driver. 'Sorry I couldn't take you all the way.'
'It's no bother from here,' said Tam, jumping down from the cab. 'Thanks again, and for the food.'
Tam shut the cab door and looked at the night. The trucks engine roared and it moved slowly off. It was good to be back again, he thought, even though he'd only been gone for four days.
He watched his lift from Manchester disappear into the distance. He'd been lucky, he knew. Christ, getting a lift from the M25 within half an hour, and then the first driver he'd asked at that Manchester motorway cafe was leaving for Glasgow immediately. Luck, by god, and getting a decent steak pie and chips bought for him at the services at Carlisle. The only drawback was he had missed the last bell at the Tombstone; the punters nicknamed it that because it was situated next to a graveyard, and The Diamonds Seat, the latest in a long string of names didn't ring off the tongue like the Tombstone.
He turned up the collar of his denim jacket, slung his hold-all over his shoulder, and began the walk home. Well, home was a joke. He'd have to stay with his sister tonight and see if the room he'd rented till last Thursday was still free in the morning. He hoped Ronnie was nightshift. It would save any bloody arguments. His brother-in-law would start his superior I told you so patter. He could imagine it, “I told you, Jean, didn't I. I told you he'd be back when the money ran out.” Moron, how the hell did she ever come to marry him? Then he remembered the hassle with his parents when she fell pregnant. Still, she could've stood up to them. She was stubborn enough, so she must have really wanted to marry him.
After half an hour he was finally entering the town. He heard the town hall clock strike eleven and cursed missing that pint. He could be at the Tombstone in twenty minutes. But, if he was that desperate, he could always go on and into the Carousel. It was open till twelve every night and sometimes one in the morning. He reached into his pocket and counted his money although he knew how much was there. One fiver, two single Scottish notes, two pound coins, and a pile of grush amounting to one pound eighty-five. Ten pounds eighty-five. No, if he hit the Carousel he'd blow the lot. Better to wait and go out the morrow afternoon when it'd last longer. Besides if Ronnie smelt any drink off him, he'd be accused of not going to London in the first place, or of coming home Saturday or Sunday and not telling them.
It was twenty to midnight when he finally reached Hazel Avenue. It was an effort walking through the town centre at that time, with all the punters coming out the pubs that were closing and either going home, or to bars open later. He kept hoping he'd meet someone he knew who'd a carry-out or money who'd take him for a drink. But he recognized no one. He saw the living room light was on as he drew up to the gate, then he cursed. Ronnie's car was in the drive. Cool it, he said to himself. He was too tired and wet to argue. If he'd to eat humble pie then he'd eat it if it meant a bed for the night, and Ronnie can gloat if he wants. He'd tell him to sod off in the morning.
He was just about to go through the gate when he heard the side door opening. Before he knew it he was darting back to the street corner. Moron, he called himself, bloody coward. Still, he didn't go back. After a minute he watched Ronnie's car reverse into the street and go off in the other direction. After it turned the corner he re-slung his bag and whistled as he breezed to his sister's front door.
'Thomas!' she said, surprised, when she opened the door. 'What're you doing back? Come in, come in.'
She was wearing her nightdress and dressing gown. It was funny, he thought, how women aged after only a few years of marriage and a couple of kids. Jean was only four years older than him, but she looked mid-thirties, rather than the twenty six that she was.
He entered and flung his bag down in the hall. 'Sorry about the time of night, Jean,' he said. 'I just got back this minute. I'm knackered. I didn't want to bother you. Is Ronnie in?'
'You just missed him, Thomas. I thought that was him back forgotten something,' she said. 'You know what he's like.'
A dizzy bastard, thought Tam. 'What, is he nightshift?'
'Aye. He went out at six, but he got away for his lunch. He's just away back.' She went through to put the kettle on. 'Have you had anything to eat, Thomas?' she called from the kitchen. He said he had and she returned a few minutes later with a teapot and cups on a tray.
'My, you look a sight, Thomas. Have you had a wash since you went away? Was there no work? I heard it's just as hard to get a job down there now. Ronnie says you can't expect to get work right away.'
'Give is a break, Sis. I got a job on the Saturday, on a building site. But, it's no the jobs, it's getting a place to stay that's the hard bit. If I'd went down with a gang we could've afforded to rent a room, but just on my own, it's too bloody expensive.'
'Aye, I can imagine it,' said Jean, pouring the tea. 'Well, you tried, but I'm glad you're back.'
'I went to see about one room. The size of your linen cupboard it was. Guess how much a week?'
Jean handed his tea over to him. 'God, I can't think,' she said.
'Seventy-five pounds a week,' said Tam, 'plus bills, and they'd the cheek to ask for a hundred and fifty pounds deposit! Can you imagine that?'
'Scandalous!' Jean sounded horrified.
'Aye. I told them where to stick it,' Tam enthused. 'I mean, there wasn't even a kettle in it. There was damp on the walls, and you'd to share a toilet with about thirty others.'
'I can believe it, Thomas. Aye, you're better off up here.' She came over and refilled his cup. 'Aye, it's only a matter of time afore you get a good job up here.'
'Any letters from mum?' he asked.
'No yet, but I'm expecting her to write this week.'
After his second cup of tea he said goodnight to Jean and quietly crept upstairs to the spare room, he unrolled his sleeping bag, placed it over the top of the bed, and lay on top of it. His clothes had dried and he was too tired to undress. Jean hadn’t asked any awkward questions, he heard her quietly singing to the weans. The wee one had woken and started crying and woke the four year old. Hell, he thought. The wee one would be two next month, September the tenth. He'd need to remember and buy a present. At two weans start to remember who did and didn't buy them presents. Though he was tired, Tam didn't sleep for a long time. He'd lied to his sister about the job on the building site, but that was not the reason he couldn't sleep. He was thinking about the morning, about the run in he would likely have with Ronnie, and about his friends, Rab and old Murdoch. He'd promised them he wouldn't be back until he'd enough money to buy his own pad, and he'd be driving a sports car, a Porsche or a BMW. Yet, here he was, four days later and a hundred quid poorer and nothing to show for his time in London but a tube train ticket, sore bloody feet, and a niggling nightmare in his subconscious he couldn't begin to contemplate. Apart from all that, he'd have to see about his old room. He'd used the price of accommodation excuse with Jean, but Ronnie and his mates wouldn't be so gullible. They'd know he'd a few addresses in his pocket. Guys were going up and down to London all the time, and there were two mates working down there the now who would’ve put him up no bother, and maybe got him a job without even looking. He'd think of something to tell them in the morning. He fell asleep thinking it was a good thing he hadn't signed off. At least he would get a giro this week.
He woke to a knock at the door. A soft tap he knew was Jean's. The curtains were closed but he could see daylight streaming along from the edge of the window.
'Yes?' he called. The door opened a few inches and Jean looked in.
'Just making breakfast,' she said. 'Do you want anything cooked?'
'What time is it?'
'Just gone ten, will I cook some ham?'
Christ, he thought. He'd slept like a log. 'Yeah, that'd be great. I'll be down in ten minutes.' She closed the door and he heard her soft steps down the stairs.
He left the house at eleven after a good cooked breakfast and a hot bath, saying he'd be back for his hold-all when he got his room organised. Benny, his landlord, was always slow to let a vacant room. He would most likely get the same room he had before, but if not there was an attic room that had been empty since June.
The rain clouds had disappeared and it was a warm August morning. The sun shone brightly and he felt happy to be back in Motherwell. He turned from Hazel Avenue into Holly Road and headed towards the town centre. Benny's rooms were above an old furniture shop in Merry Street and Benny should be surfacing around now. If he got his room organised first then he could relax the rest of the day.
London had been disastrous, he thought. Whatever had possessed him to go down there in the first place? First, missing his bus on the Thursday night. Well, that was his own fault. He should never have gone to the Tombstone beforehand. Christ, he never just missed his bus, it had been gone an hour before he got to the pick up point at Hamilton bus station. But he'd have looked a right dickhead to come back to Motherwell then. He could imagine the slagging he would have got, 'Tam went to London and didn't even get out of Hamilton!' So he had gone down the Strathclyde park a walk and drank his carry-out for the bus, then over to the motorway cafe to see if there were any lifts going south. But no one would take him drunk. He'd ordered coffee after coffee until he fell asleep at a table in the corner. When he woke up and went to the toilet to get washed he overheard some drivers talking about the best way to Croydon once you hit the M25. So he waited at the door outside the cafe and one by one asked the drivers as they came out if any were going to London. It still took him over an hour to get a lift, and by that time it was nine in the morning.
Tam had been to London before, though he'd always been with a crowd of mates so it wasn't so bad. London on your own was murder though, especially when you had to lug a hold-all about with you all day. In a city the size of London every second guy is a weirdo. You're on the defensive at all times. Christ, you can't even trust someone to give you honest directions.
Benny was an alcoholic. Every time you knocked on his door he answered it with a glass in his hand. Sometimes it was whisky in the glass, sometimes vodka, gin, or rum. Benny never drank anything but spirits, and he always looked like hell. He was in a bad way this morning when he eventually answered the door. He was wearing only a vest and long johns, and he'd been sick down the front of the vest sometime during the night. Probably in his sleep, thought Tam.
'How's it going, Benny?' he said. 'It's me, Tam.'
'Thought you were gone away,' he slurred. His breath was stinking.
'Changed my mind, Benny.' It was no use trying to explain anything. He was hard enough to talk to at the best of times, but this morning he was paralytic. The smell emanating from his room reminded Tam of some of the grimier tube stations he'd happened along in London.
'Have you got my room, Benny, number four?'
'Number four?'
'Aye,' said Tam, getting frustrated. 'I gave you the key back Thursday.'
'How the hell can I remember Thursday?' he growled, swayed in the doorway for a second, emptied the glass in his hand and said, 'wait there, son.' He stumbled backwards as he turned and had to prop a hand against the wall to stop from falling. Benny disappeared muttering the days of the week in rotation. Tam lit a cigarette and sat against the close wall.
He was lighting his second cigarette from the dowt of the first, wondering if Benny had fallen asleep, when he returned. Amazingly, he had the right key in his hand.
'I've marked you down Tuesday, son,' he said. 'You're no bad. You'll see me Saturday?' He handed out the key. Tam wondered what he'd done to square himself up, he sounded almost lucid.
'Aye, Benny,' he said, 'I'll have the rent Saturday.' He took the offered key and watched Benny turn to close the door. He thought to ask if there were any new tenants, but didn't think it likely. There had only been the attic and his room empty, and if anyone had the choice they'd have picked his. Besides, engaging Benny in conversation was only for the masochistic.
He checked to see if the pay phone in the hallway was working before he leapt up the stairs. There were five rooms in the building. One and two on the first floor, directly above the furniture shop. Benny lived in number one. Three and four on the second floor and the attic room above. Tam had the attic room when he first came here. It was by far the largest, despite the sloping roof, as it took up the full area of the two rooms below it. But it was also the coldest, in winter it was murder. As soon as the next available room, which was four, was vacated, Tam moved to it. Four was about the best he thought.
He entered his room to check everything was the same as he'd left it. The room smelt slightly damp, but after a while either the smell diminished or your nose grew accustomed to it. The sink in the corner still had a dripping tap, and the cracked window hadn't been repaired. No difference, except, though he wasn't sure, the linoleum might have been mopped over. The threadbare rug in the centre of the room hadn't been brushed anyway; he could still see the crumbs from the toast he always made for his breakfast at the gas fire.
Well, that's that, he thought, and checked his watch. Twelve o'clock and time for a pint. Before he left he took the spare room key off the ring and placed it on the corner of the window sill. He then pulled the left window slightly open. He'd lost his keys enough in the past to learn not to anger Benny by rattling him awake in the wee small hours. If he lost his keys again, the drain pipe that ran down the wall adjacent to the window could be climbed and he could reach his hand in for the keys on the window sill from it. This was okay only if you were sober. The last time he had been paralytic after a two day binge and nearly killed himself. He locked his door behind him and went to the toilet, situated on the first floor and shared by all, on the way out. He was pleased to get his old room back. It seemed almost as if he'd never been gone, and he whistled a tune as he waltzed up Merry Street, jacket over shoulder, towards the Tombstone.
This was his favourite time of the day for going into a pub. There were never more than half a dozen people in at this time. He was nearly always assured of getting his favoured stool at the bar, which was within reach of the jukebox and in front of the beer taps but at the opposite end of the bar from the phone, which in this pub rang almost continually. It always amazed him the amount of wifies who rang up to tell their husbands to get home, and the amount of men who'd tell the barmaid, Marge, if anyone phoned for them, that they hadn't been in.
The thing he liked about Marge was that as soon as you entered, if she wasn't serving, she'd be pouring your drink for you before you got to the bar to ask. There were only four people in, three old regulars and a young guy he hadn't seen before. He sat on his stool and Marge placed a pint of lager in front of him.
'Hello, stranger,' she said. 'I thought you were going to the bright lights?'
'The bright lights dulled as soon as I got there,' he said, handing over a fiver.
'Get homesick, did you?'
'Missed you too much, Marge.'
'Flatterer.' She topped up his pint as the head had shrunk, then rang up the price and returned his change.
'Did you no get work down there?' she asked, 'or did you no look too hard for it?'
'What's this, Marge,' he said sarcastically, 'one hundred questions?'
'Oh, is it all a big secret then?' she laughed, wiping the bar top in front of her. He took a long swallow. God, it was good, he thought.
'Well,' he said, 'Scottish and English pubs both have their good and bad points.'
'And what's our good points?' she asked.
'The beer, of course. They must import the stuff they serve down there from Egypt. If not, it's the best imitation of camel piss I've ever tasted.'
Marge burst out laughing. 'So, what's the good points down there then?'
Tam smiled wickedly. 'The fact that a punter can walk into a pub down there without being given an inquisition.'
'Bugger off,' she said, and mockingly swung her cloth at him. 'I've barred people for less you know.'
Marge went off to serve someone else and Tam lit up a smoke. You canny beat Scottish pubs for their barmaids, he thought. There were some right dreepy types down south. Curdle your beer afore they served it they would. Still, it was probably the accent that put them off. But it was funny right enough. When an English guy came into this pub, someone would always engage him in conversation, friendly like. Ask them where they came from and how they came to be away from home. But down there, it seemed as if they all went on the defensive the minute they heard a Scot open their mouth.
After being dropped off at Hackney, it was four o'clock on the Friday afternoon, he got a bus into Piccadilly. He wasn't sure exactly where he wanted to go, but what the hell, he'd get a few drinks before he worried about what to do. Piccadilly was as he remembered it. Masses of people cramming every available inch of pavement, buskers seemingly at every corner, and newspaper stalls with vendors trying to out shout one another. He wandered about for a bit, looking in shops, and just surveying the people constantly passing by, sometimes jarring him with umbrellas or briefcases. After a while enough was enough and he entered the first decent looking pub he encountered. It was also busy, finished office workers and shop assistants took up every bit of bar space and he'd to wait an eternity to get served. One drink there and he was off. They stared at him as if he was a charity case, a runaway, or more likely, a pickpocket. He drank quickly and left; scruffy worn denims and straggly hair didn't go well in a pub full of pseudo yuppies wearing fake designer gear and talking of Telecom shares and the appalling public transport system.
The next pub was slightly better. It had the exterior appearance of being run down, but once you entered it was surprising to see how clean and well run it looked. There was also a bar stool vacant which he quickly claimed as he ordered a pint of Guinness. He handed over an extortionate amount of money, the barmaid took the proffered two Scottish single notes unlike the other place and he was given ten pence change.
He looked around at the clientele and decided the reason for the difference between the interior and exterior was to dissuade the yuppies, the mobile telephone brigade, and the half pint to last a lunch time salad crunchers. This pub was full of working class punters; brickies, joiners, and scaffolders, from a site across the road. He spied a few uniforms belonging to British Rail and the London Underground. There were blacks here, Asians, Irishmen, and he detected a few Scottish accents from the other end of the bar.
The man sitting on the bar stool to his right drank up and left. He shuffled the now vacant seat over a bit and made more space for his hold-all. He drank thirstily at his pint and decided he would stay here for a few, at least until the rush hour had subsided outside. London was not for him, he knew already. It was the kind of place only a loner could survive in, and although he'd always thought of himself as a loner, he knew in reality this was untrue. Always he had needed people to fall back on. This fact irritated him, but he accepted it. It was strange admitting it to himself. He supposed it was something to do with not having grown up yet, matured to the adult world. Perpetually he was told he was irresponsible, thoughtless, he didn't regard the feelings of others. He ordered another Guinness and decided to get a whisky as well. He downed the whisky in one, chased it with a little stout, and lit himself a cigarette.
'Could I have one of your cigarettes, Jock?' This was asked by the man on his left. A guy around thirty, wearing the overalls of a painter and a skull cap worn back to front. Tam slid his cigarettes and lighter towards him a bit.
'Good on you, mate,' the guy said, pleased. 'Down to work are you?' he said, indicating Tam's hold-all.
'Don't know,' said Tam. 'Pissed off with the place already.'
'Don't let it get you down, man,' the guy said and looked away. Tam tried to remember from where he'd heard that accent before, but couldn't, and didn't want to draw the guy into conversation asking him.
'My, you're a dreamer Tam.'
He looked up from his lager. Marge had drawn him out of his reverie. His cigarette was nearly burned out. He took another from his packet and lit it from the remnant. He took two long drags and leant over to the juke box, put a pound coin in the slot and selected five tracks without looking at the listings. He knew the numbers from memory. The first song came on, 'Life's What You Make It,' by Talk Talk.
'Put the jukie up a bit, Marge, will you?' he asked.
'You're a bloody nuisance, Tam,' she said, but did so. Tam ignored the disapproving look he got from an old punter along the bar. Put some cotton wool in your lugs, he thought.
'Did Murdoch say he'd be in the day, Marge?' he asked.
'Isn't he always in on a Tuesday?'
'Aye, that's right, his wife goes to the bingo on a Tuesday. He hates getting home from work afore she's off.'
'No wonder,' said Marge, 'the state he gets into sometimes.'
'Give the guy a break, Marge. He deserves a swally at his time of life.' The old boy along the bar gave him a stern look again.
Tam allowed himself a smile. The old boy would probably love to get pissed but was too scared of his wife.
The door opened and Tam looked round to see Wee Johnnie enter. Johnnie waved and Tam nodded. He came over.
'Thought you were going away, Tam?'
'Aye, I did, but I'm back.'
'Want a drink?' Tam nodded he did.
'Two lager, hen.'
Marge glared at him. 'Do I look like a bird?'
'Well,' said Tam, 'that's a matter of opinion.' Johnnie laughed. Marge now glared at Tam.
'I've already told you I've barred people for less.'
'Aw, lighten up, Marge, can you no take a joke?'
'It's a pity I don't bump into your mother up the street any more. I'd soon tell her a few stories if I did.' She put a pint of lager in front of both Tam and Johnnie.
'I hear Rab's got himself a new bird, Tam,' said Johnnie.
'Who's this?' Tam asked, 'I just got back last night, I haven't seen him.'
'She works in the hairdresser at the top of the town. Mary, I can't remember her surname. No a bad bit of gear, I heard.'
'I'll likely see him the night,' said Tam. 'He's got all my stuff stored for me.'
'Going to chance my luck,' said Johnnie, and went over to the fruit machine with the change Marge gave him.
Tam looked at the clock, it was almost two, Murdoch was usually in around three. He was looking forward to seeing him, Murdoch was always good for a laugh, usually at the expense of his wife. He swallowed the last of the pint Johnnie had bought him.
'Two lager, when you've time, Marge,' he called. Marge was propped up on a stool next to the gantry doing her knitting. She'd been knitting non-stop since her daughter got pregnant.
'Can I no get a minute,' she moaned.
'Are you no a granny yet?' he asked.
'September, Tam,' she said, pouring the drinks.
'Bloody machine's a rip off,' said Johnnie, coming back. 'You didn't get me one?' he asked. 'I've hardly touched this.'
'What, you in a hurry?'
'I've got an interview at three o'clock,' he said, 'at that wee garage down the road.'
'Murry's?' asked Tam. Johnnie and he had been apprentice mechanics together when they'd left school. But Tam had been sacked in ‘85 just before he'd served his time, and Johnnie had been paid off when the garage they'd worked for went through a rough patch later that year.
'Aye,' said Johnnie. 'It's no as a mechanic, at least not to start with, but if I don't get some kind of job soon I'm going to tan my wrists.'
'You better watch the booze, Johnnie,' Tam said. 'You don't want to go in there reeking.'
'I'll get a packet of mints. I just came in for one to calm my nerves.'
Tam and Johnnie had been great mates when they'd been working together. Some of the jokes they used to play on the customers, as well as on each other, thought Tam.
'Remember when that bird came into the garage with the Beetle, Johnnie?' said Tam.
'Aye, that blond piece, she was a right smasher.'
'Aye, listen to this, Marge.' He beckoned her over. 'This blond bird came into the garage with her Volkswagen Beetle. Johnnie went out to see what the matter was, as soon as it was a bird in the motor he was out like a shot.'
'I'd to race to beat you,' said Johnnie.
'Well,' continued Tam, 'I followed him out to see what the score was.'
'To chat her up you mean.'
'Anyway, she didn't know the first thing about the motor, so Johnnie nudged me and asked her to pull the bonnet catch. She didn't know where this was so she came out the motor and Johnnie pulled it. I lifted the bonnet and shook my head. "How did you get the car here?" I asked her. She'd complained about a nasty noise coming from the engine. "It was a hassle," she said, "I thought it would blow up." I said no wonder. The engines fell out the car! "What!" she said, getting into a panic, and looked under the bonnet. Aye, I said, and Tam went to the back of the car. He lifted the lid and said, "don't worry, hen, there's a spare one in the boot." God, we were rolling about laughing, Marge.' Marge just stood there.
'In a Beetle, Marge,' said Johnnie, 'the engines in the back of the car.'
Marge still didn't get the joke.
'Aye, that was some laugh,' said Tam. 'The look on that bird's face.'
'And all that was wrong was the spare tyre clamp was loose,' said Johnnie. 'They were the days, Tam.'
'Aye.'
Johnnie looked at his watch and downed his pint.
'You off?' said Tam.
'I'd better not be late.'
'You might have put a suit on or something.'
'I pawned my suit months ago, Tam. Anyway, it's only Murry's.' He said this and made towards the door.
'Good luck, Johnnie,' Tam said after him. He waved from the door.
Aye, they were the days, thought Tam, taking a long swallow. He'd been at the garage since leaving school, working side by side with Johnnie, learning from the old mechanics, and attending the college every Friday for his papers. He'd been a model apprentice until his last year. That's when things started going haywire. That was nearly two years ago, or at least, it was nearly two years since he'd been sacked. In reality, he supposed, things began to go haywire when his father was made redundant at the steelworks. His father had aged ten years overnight when he was told his job was going. "Forty-five and on the scrap heap," he kept repeating. Then one day, shortly before he was due to finish up, he came in with the news he'd a chance of a transfer down to Wales, and asked what the family thought. No one wanted to go to Wales; his mother nearly had a fit when it was suggested. But after a few days the idea grew on his mother, either stay here and have no money coming in, or move to Wales and sustain her standard of living. Tam had asked Jean if he could stay with her and Ronnie, at least until his apprenticeship was finished and he started making decent money. The next month, his father and mother had moved to Swansea in Wales, and he'd moved to his sister's. That was nearly three years ago now.
He finished his drink and ordered another, wondering if he would have been a fully fledged mechanic with a few years experience under his belt by now if his parents hadn't moved away.
'Murdoch's late the day,' said Marge, placing his drink in front of him.
'He's maybe working late,' said Tam.
'And can he not get you a start beside him?'
'He's tried, Marge, but there's no much work about.'
'It's a damn shame,' she said, 'all you young ones nothing to do all day.'
'Except listen to you, Marge,' Tam said cheekily.
She took the hint and went to annoy some other customer. Tam took a cigarette from his packet and lit up. Just at that moment the door opened and in came Murdoch. He was soaked to the skin and waved his remaining sodden strands of grey hair back with his hand when he got in the door. Tam hadn't realised it had started raining.
'A half lager and a whisky, for Murdoch, Marge,' said Tam.
'You're back, Tam, are you?' he said and came over. 'I'm wet outside, I might as well get wet inside.' He sat on the stool next to Tam. 'Bloody weather.'
'Where's your tammy?' Tam asked. Murdoch was never without a bonnet, he even wore it in the house.
'Bloody school kids,' he replied. 'I went into the library for a read when I finished work. My bonnet was wet through so I placed it on the radiator in the reading room to dry out. I then sat at the table to read the Herald, but could I get peace? Bloody kids running riot round the table.'
'Did you no complain?' asked Tam.
'Aye, I complained alright,' he answered. 'Bloody librarian didn't bother her arse.'
'What's all this to do with your bonnet?' asked Marge, placing his drinks in front of him. Murdoch lifted the whisky and took a sip.
'Well,' Murdoch continued, 'I grabbed one, didn't I. One of the brats. The wee bastard started howling of course.'
'You didn't hurt a kid, Murdoch, did you?' Tam said.
'No as much as I would've liked to. I let the brat go and he ran to the door. There they were, four of them, calling names and cursing, and them the height of nonsense. I shook my fist at them and one darted forward, grabbed my tammy from the radiator, and then they all ran out the door.'
'How did they know it was your bonnet, Murdoch?'
'Cause, Tam, there was only me and the bloody librarian in the room, apart from the kids, and she didn't look the type to be wearing a tartan bonnet. Damn brats. I chased them of course, but it was no use. I'm too old to chase kids down the street. I'll need to get a new one tomorrow.'
'That'll cost you, Murdoch,' said Tam. 'They're no cheap.'
'It was worn out, really. But that's not the point. Anyway, when did you get back, or did you no even go?'
'Aye, Murdoch, I was away for four days,' said Tam. 'Got back last night.'
'No work?'
'I could've got a job. But, Murdoch, London's not for me.'
'Well, I told you that afore you went, but at least now you've seen it you know for yourself.'
'You knew I'd be back then, Murdoch?' said Tam.
'Well, I knew you wouldn't be down there for long, Tam. London's not the place it's made out to be. You like a drink and a laugh and that, Tam, and the atmosphere in London certainly isn't conducive for the type of guy you are.'
'Aye, I know what you mean,' said Tam. 'You're watching your back all the time. You can't relax.'
'You're better off with your own type, Tam. I mean, look round about you here. Who's in here that you need to worry about?'
Tam looked about. The pub had started to get busy with workers coming in for a few on their way home. But the atmosphere in the pub was friendly and good natured.
'I don't know,' said Tam, 'that barmaid looks right dodgy.'
'I'll swing for you, Tam,' said Marge.
'See what I mean, Murdoch.'
'Aye, she's worth the watching, Tam.'
'I'll need to do something but, Murdoch. If I don't get a decent job I'm going to crack up. As it is, I'll need to get a few homers just to pay the rent next week.'
'You short, Tam?'
'Don't get me wrong, Murdoch, I'm not desperate. It's just London, it's a bloody expensive place.'
'Well, my motor could do with an oil change, Tam. It's no had a service since that one at Easter.'
'When you want it done, Murdoch?'
'Come round Saturday morning when I know dour face won't be using it.'
'You've no been arguing with the wife again, have you?'
'You should've heard us Friday night, Tam. I bet the neighbours had a field day.'
'About the drink again?' Tam asked.
'What else? You'd think I drank all the house keeping money the way she goes on. But I'll tell you, Tam, that bloody woman lacks for nothing. If it wasn't the drink, it'd be something else.'
'I used to get hassled like that when I stayed at the sister's by the brother-in-law. Just cause he didn't drink, no one else was allowed to enjoy their self.'
'Aye, Tam, the ones that don't smoke or drink are the worst. Bloody puritans. But they're the ones to watch. I'll tell you, Tam. I'm fifty-five. I worked with your father for twenty years at the steelworks, so he can bear me out, and the only foremen we ever had any trouble with were the ones who didn't smoke or drink. The rest of them allowed the men a smoke now and again, and turned a blind eye if they seen a can of lager in someone's locker. They treated the men decent as long as the work was done, and the work was done, Tam. The men knew the score as well as the gaffers. But it was always the ones that didn't smoke or drink that upset the applecart. They would shop anyone stopping for a smoke, and get a man sacked for coming to work with the smell of the drink in his breath. Aye, they were the bastards, and at the end of the day they got less work done cause they'd upset the workforce.'
Murdoch ordered a round up after his rant. Tam went to the toilet wondering how lager could safari round the seemingly endless coil of intestines in a man's guts so rapidly. He tried to remember how many pints he'd drank so far. But his mind was getting a little muddled by this time and he knew he'd better leave soon or he'd be pissed.
He checked his money before he went back to the bar. All he had left from his ten pounds eighty-five was three pounds. He stuffed this back in his pocket and wondered how he could broach the subject of servicing Murdoch's car again, and if he could be paid in advance for it so he'd get a drink the night. He wanted to see Rab and find out about this bird, and he'd also have to arrange to get his stuff back. It'd be murder sitting in that room without a tv or radio. Murdoch was on the phone when he got back to the bar.
'Talk about the wailing wall,' he said when he got back. 'Guess who that was?'
'That the wife chasing you down the road, Murdoch?' asked Marge.
'That'll be the day. I'll go when I'm good and ready.'
'What's she want, Murdoch?' Tam asked.
'I would open my big gob about the motor, wouldn't I.'
'She's no broke down, has she?'
'No,' said Murdoch exasperated. 'She's no broke down. She's just gone and demolished the bloody driveway gate with the thing. Said it blew closed as she was reversing out the drive.'
'Any damage?' asked Tam, thinking this could be another wee job for him.
'According to her it's the end of the bloody world. You wouldn't believe it, would you?'
'Are you going down the road?' asked Tam. 'I'll take a walk down with you and see what the damage is.'
'Going down the road!' cried Murdoch. 'That's what she wanted. I told her I'll be back at the usual time, just to park the motor and get a taxi to the bloody bingo. Christ, the end of the world right enough.'
'That's what a like to see,' said Marge, 'two knights running off to help a lady in distress.'
'Aye,' said Murdoch, 'for a lady I might run off to help. All she's worried about is missing her bloody snowball. Christ, what a day. First the bonnet, then the bloody gate and motor. Get us a round up, Marge.'
'I'll get this, Murdoch, it's my round,' said Tam.
'Well, get it off this, Tam,' Murdoch said and handed Tam a folded tenner under the bar. You can drop by the morrow and check what she's done to the motor.'
'No bother,' said Tam, 'I'll be round first thing.'
TWO
Rab jumped from the forklift truck, walked over to the bay door and grabbed a long hollow bar from behind a stanchion. This train came in every other day, and this wagon was the one with the seized door release catch. Always he needed the bar for this one.
He lifted the locking bolt on the handle, slid the hollow bar over the handles short length, then, foot wedged against the wagon step, he pulled at the bar, and finally, with the extra leverage he had, the door handle began to open. Once fully opened, he reset the locking bolt and started to heave at the released door until it slid along to the end of its runners. He replaced the hollow bar behind the stanchion and mounted his forklift truck once more, carefully manoeuvred it towards the wagon, lined up the forks with the left most pallet, and gently crept forward. Once he was sure he had the forks fully home, he lifted them three inches and reversed slowly back. When the pallet was completely free of the wagon, he lifted the forks a bit more and spun the forklift truck round in a tight circle. He raced it in through the bay doors and slowed as he came to the trailer he was loading. Once aligned with the last load he'd placed on it, he lifted the forks until just above the flat bed, crept forward, then slowly brought the pallet down next to the last one. Sure it was placed correctly, he dropped the forks a touch and gently backed away. Then it was whirl round and race back to the railway wagon. Back and forth, the job's a doddle, he thought. This next one would finish the trailer off, then he'd have a break until the next one came in. That wouldn't be for a while yet.
He drew the forklift to a halt outside the bothy and pulled the engine stop. He entered the portacabin the men used for their break, surprised that at half past ten there were only two people there. Davie Dodds the security guard and a lad called Warty, so nicknamed because of a profusion of warts he had on his hands.
'How's it going, Rab?' said Warty. He was one of the new lads who always started at the fruit bay. This job was one of the hardest as it entailed unloading sacks of potatoes, onions, and a host of other products manually. Not many people persevered in this job until getting moved to another bay where the work was less strenuous. This was where Rab had started his employment with the firm. He was glad his time there was behind him.
'No bad, Warty,' he answered. 'Where're they all hiding the day?'
'Caesar asked them to work through their break and they'd get away an hour early.'
Caesar was the foreman, and not many of the men would willingly get on his wrong side.
'The bottling plant screaming for empties again?' Rab asked.
'Aye. When are they ever not?'
Rab washed his hands at the sink and then washed out his cup, someone had used it and not cleaned it after them.
'Who's been using my fucking cup?'
'One of the drivers was in a while ago, Rab, I think he used it.'
'The bastard might have washed it after him.'
'You need to keep everything locked away in here,' said Davie, 'you should know that by now, Rab.'
'It's no that, Davie. I don't mind people using it. But they should wash it out after them.'
'They drivers shouldn't be allowed in here anyway,' Warty enthused, 'they never think of filling the urn after using all the hot water.'
Rab sat down across from Davie and opened his paper at the crossword page. He didn't want to get into a debate about drivers. He opened his piece and checked the contents. Corned beef, no bad, he thought.
'Did you hear the news, by the way, Rab?' asked Warty.
'What news is that?'
'That Caesar might be getting transferred to Wishaw. He's been in for a move for a while.'
'What's that got to do with me?' Rab asked.
'Well, they're saying you maybe put in for his job, Rab. Is that right?'
'Aye,' said Rab. 'I'd make a great bloody foreman, I would.'
'So, you're no interested, Rab?'
'Put it this way, Warty. There's about a dozen in line afore me, even if I was interested.'
'You'd make a good foreman, Rab, I mean, you wouldn't take a loan of the men n' that.'
'Aye, and there'd be no frigging work done either.'
'No, Rab, the men would work for you.'
'You want to put your name forward anyway, Rab,' said Davie. 'I mean, it'll show them you're keen to get on.'
'Get real,' said Rab, 'they'd think I was taking the piss.'
Rab got up and refilled his cup. Davie put on his jacket to leave.
'I'd think about it anyway, Rab. I mean, fair enough, there're men in line before you, but look at the candidates. Big Stookie's always off on the sick, and Sammy Lyndon's had more disciplinaries than the rest of the lads put together. And who out the remainder has got half a brain in their head?'
'I agree with Davie, Rab,' said Warty. 'You'd be in with a shout.'
'Tch, you're just after my forklift truck, Warty, but you'll be humping those sacks for a while yet.'
Warty lifted his jacket and went back to work. Rab was left on his own and tried to finish his crossword, but he couldn't concentrate. He wondered if he really would have a chance of getting a foreman's job. Well, he'd been with the firm since leaving school, nearly six years, and as far as attendance and punctuality was concerned, he was a front runner. But his age was a disadvantage. Suppose he got the job, he couldn't imagine some of the older hands taking orders from him. They'd resent it. In fact, they'd probably make it hard for him. No, he thought, it'd be more hassle than it was worth. Besides, he'd a cushy number the now. He finished his tea and washed his cup out. Then before he went back to work, he wrote on a piece of paper, 'If you use it, wash it'. He rolled this up and left it inside his cup.
The next trailer was being manoeuvred into position for him when he returned to the bay. Once the driver had backed it in, he secured it, then went round to couple his tractor unit onto the trailer Rab had loaded before his break. Rab had to unload the trailer that had just arrived. This contained the full tins of dog food which was destined for the south of England. The train that came in early in the morning contained empty tin cans from a factory down south. He unloaded the empty cans on to trailers, the trailers left to deliver at the cannery where the dog food was made. They came back later loaded with full cans. He loaded the full cans onto the now empty railway wagons, and overnight the train was lifted and transported back down south. There were two trains of wagons which arrived on alternate days. Each train consisted of twelve wagons, and it was Rab's sole responsibility to load and unload this train. As he was probably the most proficient forklift driver in the place, he was usually left to work as he pleased. The foreman knew Rab could work unsupervised, and it pleased Rab that he was trusted to do so.
Rab worked on and on until the whole train had been unloaded. Occasionally he had to call on the walkie-talkie for the pug to be brought round to either push the train forward or pull it backwards a bit as the train was longer than the loading bay and he couldn't reach the end wagons.
He heard the horn go at twelve thirty for the lunch time break, but he decided to work on for a while. The bothy was always too busy at this time; everyone in the work had their break at this time and there was barely room to swing a cat in the portacabin. Rab usually waited till the back of one, as did some of the others who were allowed to work to their own devices.
Finally he drove his truck round to the bothy. There were still half a dozen men there, though most of them were going through the motions of getting back to work. Most of them acknowledged him as he entered, a few were playing cards. They were talking about Caesar's imminent departure. Apparently it was no longer rumour, it was definite.
'What do you think about it, Rab?' one of them asked. He was a small stocky man nicknamed Rambo because he was always talking about killing this one or that one, though no one ever took him seriously.
'About Caesar leaving?'
'Aye.'
'Haven't really thought about it,' he answered.
'They're speculating about you putting in for his job.' This was one of the others, a skiver and a bully Rab had no time for, called Joe Henderson.
'No me,' said Rab. 'I'm alright where I am.'
'See, I told you.' interrupted Warty.
'Shut up, kid,' snapped Sammy Lyndon, 'Who the fuck asked you?'
'Leave the kid alone, Sammy,' warned Stookie.
Rab took off his jacket, hung it up and went over to the urn. 'Nobody ever think of topping it up?' he cried. 'I'll tell you, if I was the bloody foreman, you would buck up your ideas,' he laughed and put on a German accent. 'Vill up ze urn, Dumbkopfs!'
They all burst out laughing except Sammy, who never laughed, and Warty, who was still chagrined at his telling off.
'He's no fucking kidding,' Sammy snarled. 'He would be a bloody Hitler.'
'Ah, give over, Sammy,' said Stookie, 'you're just feart in case Rab got the job afore you.'
'That'll be the day,' retorted Sammy.
Just then the door opened and Caesar came in. He looked at the gathering and then checked his watch.
'I'm no away yet!' he cried angrily. 'So get back to work, or clock-out or I'll maybe hand out a few reprimands for you lot to remember me by.'
They all quickly shuffled by Caesar without comment on their way out, all except Rab and another forklift driver called Brian who'd come in just before Rab.
'Give an inch and they'd take a mile,' Caesar moaned. 'The fucking manager's sitting in his office timing them.'
'We're just in,' Brian said.
'Aye, I know,' said Caesar, 'I can trust you two. At least you can do a bit without me biting your heads off every two minutes.'
He went over to the urn, lifted a cup and poured himself some tea.
'What were they talking about, Rab?'
'Just this and that,' answered Rab, knowing fine well what the foreman wanted to know.
'Come on, Rab?' he asked, 'Brian?'
'Just talking about the football n' that, Caesar,' said Joe.
'Aye, the bloody football kept them yapping like puppy dogs till they were late back. Well, I'll just say this,' ranted Caesar, 'you can tell them they needn't keep looking at the notice board. My job won't be advertised.'
'What,' said Rab, 'are you no leaving then?'
'Aye, I'm leaving alright.'
'Then what are we going to do for a foreman?' Brian asked.
'Well,' smiled Caesar, 'you two won't tell me nothing, so I'm no telling you nothing,' he said, washing out his cup. 'Aye, there's changes in the air,' he said as he went out the door.
'What do you make of that?' asked Brian, when Caesar had gone.
'Damned if I know,' said Rab, 'maybe someone from outside's coming in. I mean, after all, to the boys in Wishaw, Caesar's coming from outside.'
'Aye, you're right there, Rab.' Brian scratched his head. 'It's maybe just a swop, one of the Wishaw foremen for Caesar.'
'Better the devil you know,' said Rab. 'At least you know where you are with Caesar. We've had worse than him before.'
'Aye,' said Brian, 'but we've had better as well.'
Rab had his work well finished before it was his clocking out time, so he took his motor, a mini clubman, round to the mechanic's shed to give it a wash. If he hung about doing nothing he'd soon be given work in one of the other bays where the men weren't so industrious.
'Nice wee car,' said old Jimmy, the mechanic.
'Aye, it gets me from A to B,' replied Rab.
'Could do with a respray but.'
'Needs a couple of tyres n' that afore it needs a respray.'
'You should see the manager. I'd do it for you for a few quid and the price of the paint if he let is use the works gear.'
'Maybe do that sometime, Jimmy, but a paint job isn't a priority right at the minute.'
'Aye,' Jimmy shook his head. 'Everybody's got their priorities all wrong, you know.'
'Give is a break, Jimmy,' Rab moaned. 'I've had it up to here the day.' He motioned his hand in front of his neck.
'What's upsetting you?'
'Aw, this damned place. It'd drive you nuts.'
'Aye, you can't get a laugh at work now. Everybody takes everything too serious.' Jimmy pulled a seat out the door from his workshop and sat down, watching Rab wash his car. 'Here, have a smoke, Rab.'
Rab finished off his car, turned off the hose, and sat on the ground next to Jimmy.
'Bet you've seen a few changes here in your day, Jimmy.'
'Aye, you could say that, Rab,' he replied, 'and no many for the better.'
'And there're more changes in the wind, Jimmy, did you know Caesar was leaving?'
'Aye, I heard words to that effect.'
'Well, they're all getting ready to stab each other in the back for his job.'
'It's always like that, Rab, you should know that by now.'
'Some of them even think I'm a threat to them.'
'Aye, I heard some talk.'
'No me, Jimmy, anyway they're not advertising the job. That'll put a damper in the ambitions of some of them.'
'Most of them aren't fit for the work they've got the now, Rab, never mind the job of bloody foreman,' said Jimmy with distaste, 'I'll be glad to get the hell out of it.'
'What, you leaving, Jimmy?'
'End of September, Rab, that's my retirement date.' He stood up and started rolling up the hose Rab had left out. 'Yes, I'm retiring, then the missus and me are selling the house and we're going to move to Saltcoats where our daughter is.'
'Good on you, Jimmy,' said Rab, 'a wee house by the coast is it?'
'A stones throw away, Rab, a stones throw away. Be good for the fishing.'
Just then the horn sounded the end of the shift. Rab and Jimmy walked together to the time office to clock-out. As they left the office they saw Sammy at Caesar, asking when his job's going on the notice board, and Rab got a fly wink from Caesar as they passed him. Obviously he was leading Sammy on.
It was a twenty minute drive for Rab once he got past the works gate. His shift had been quite eventful today, he thought. First the news that Caesar was definitely leaving, and the infighting about who was next for the job out of the possible candidates, he finding himself surprisingly in the running. Then the news the job wouldn't be advertised on the notice board. And to top it all, Jimmy the mechanic keeping everyone in the dark about his retirement in September. Aye, it was a day full of surprises.