Gutted

Chapter 43

Princes street has come down in the world of late. Once the site of Scotland’s most prestigious retailers, now it plays host to pound shops, puggies and, worst of all, Ann Summers. I slunk past the window display of naughty nurse uniforms, dominatrices and — is there a worse euphemism? — love toys. If it made me blush, Christ alone knows what John Q. Citizen thought of it. Back in the day, a window display like that would have the dirty mac brigade scuffling outside clutching brown paper bags — now it’s fair play for the Scottish capital’s main drag. How things have changed.

I tied up Usual and jumped into a whisky shop. There were less of them, too. Got a half-bottle of Bell’s and a full bottle of Glenfiddich in a presentation case; had plans that required a ‘bring a bottle’ touch.

Outside the shop I unscrewed the cap of my latest purchase, took a good blast. The dog was scratching at my legs to be untied. I let him loose, got strolling again and jumped a bus back to the boat. The slow drive through the city and the mild buzz from the whisky had me thinking about Debs all over again. I couldn’t put our meeting out of my mind. There’s a streak in me, Presbyterian probably, that moons over predestination at times like this. It’s a uniquely Scottish trait. We even have a phrase to live by: What’s for ye’ll no’ go by ye.

Rough translation: what’s meant to be, will be.

I liked the cut of it. Appealed to my alkie’s wisdom. We’re all looking for someone to say, ‘You’re doomed, there’s nothing you can do about it.’ In such instances, the best course of action is always to say: ‘Fuck it, let’s get blootered.’

There are some alkies who can separate out the doomed stuff from the everyday disappointments like the shaving cut, the burnt toast, the late bus. Me, I add them up, say, ‘There’s your proof.’

It’s when things go right that I become truly distressed.

When nothing goes wrong on you, when the world conspires to give you calm, it’s the drinker’s duty to disrupt it. You start to feel the world closing in on you. It’s too small a place. Too simple. People, normal people, begin to irritate you endlessly. Your anger knows no bounds. Shouting, ranting, bawling and raging at anything becomes the norm. A DJ’s comments on the radio, a chance remark overheard in a shop, and you’re off. You want out. Anywhere will do. Just away from this… state.

I’d read about famous alcoholics; it had become almost an obsession with me. To a one they all said the same thing: ‘I can’t imagine a world without drink, it would be too… boring.’

When I hear this I know at once that it’s the addiction talking. Alkies just can’t put up with themselves. To a one they are self-loathing. Days on the dry are endless. Like being locked up with a stranger. A stranger you hate. You drink, and the stranger goes away, leaves you in peace. But more than that, you find another state. Somewhere where you don’t need to scream all day and all night like you were in purgatory being poked in the ribs by the Devil.

Rousseau said: ‘Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.’ Alcohol was my key. It unlocked the chains. It set me free — for a little while.

I was back on the boat before I knew it. Hit the half of Bell’s again; tanned the lot this time. The dog was watching me. Could have sworn he had disapproval on his face.

‘Sorry, boy, got to leave you again.’

I knew I was wrong to stray too far from Hod’s boat. What I needed was something like that scene in Trainspotting where Renton locks himself away with the tins of soup, goes cold turkey. I also knew, like Renton, there wasn’t a chance in hell I was doing any cold turkey.

Anyway… what’s for ye’ll no’ go by ye.

I flagged a Joe Baxi to Sighthill. When I got out I gave the driver a nod, said, ‘Go safe.’

A smile; whole head quivered on his meaty neck.

I could hear trail bikes burning up the park beyond the road. This was the new craze: get a bike and go grabbing handbags. We had them all over the city now, young neds on bikes, could spot them by the bare head. There’d been some bad incidents, folk knocked to the ground and near killed. No one seemed to have any trouble identifying them, except plod. No revenue in it I guess.

I nashed through the streets, over paving flags all cracked to buggery. Round the burning wheelie bins — apparently you can get a buzz off them. I kept my head low this time, avoided any eye contact. Avoided the hails of skag merchants, yelling:

‘You sorted, pal?’

‘What about some jellies?’

‘Bag ay puff?’

Didn’t answer, got:

‘A shooter ye after, big man?’

‘You for a ride? Only top nanny, mind.’

Then:

‘… Well fuck ye!’

‘… Homo!’

‘… Fucking bawbag!’

Was hard to imagine meaner streets. Christ, even I was a tourist here. But if a Corrado skidded into view, I’d be ready for it. Somehow I doubted it, though. Smart money was on that baby being garaged for the foreseeable.

At the boarded-up store I tapped the counter, roused the Sikh. ‘How goes it?’

A ‘like I care about that shit’ stare.

I produced the bottle of Glenfiddich, pushed it through the bars, said, ‘I wanted to say thank you… for what you did the other day.’

His face lit up. A huge row of teeth, fair dazzled me. He took the bottle, said, ‘Thank you.’

I shrugged. ‘I’m the one giving thanks here, don’t be turning the tables on me. I’m serious: what you did, you probably saved my life.’

A wave of the hand. ‘No, sir, I do the same for anyone.’ He wiped at the bottle with the tips of his fingers. ‘Come, a drink, yes?’

Like I’d say no.

The Sikh called through to the back. A young girl in denims came out, slouched at the till and started to chew on red-liquorice laces.

Out back smelled of strong spices, cooking. Made my mouth water.

He put two china cups down on the table, poured. I waited for him to drink first. He raised his cup, clinked it on mine. All the while he smiled like a cheeky child. At first taste, I could see he approved.

‘I am Rafi.’

‘Gus. Pleased to meet you.’

We shook.

More smiles. Didn’t think his English was up to much more; tried anyway: ‘I wondered, how did you get those little shites off me?’

A laugh. His head shook on his shoulders. ‘Mossberg!’

‘You what?’

In a second he was out of his chair, unfurling a chain from his belt with a bunch of keys on the end. He slid one into the lock of a battered old cabinet, popped the door. As he turned he grasped the barrel on a pump-action shotgun. ‘Mossberg. Best, yes?’

Somehow, when I see a gun like this, I pinch my lips. ‘That’s some piece. I’m guessing that’ll do the trick.’

He smiled, beamed wide. ‘No talkie. No talkie, Mr Gus.’ He wagged a finger at me. ‘Rafi, no papers.’

I couldn’t help but laugh. He laughed with me, poured another cup of whisky.

For an hour we sat, finished the bottle.

‘You eat with us, Mr Gus.’

‘I’d love to, Rafi… love to, just love to, mate.’ I was feeling a bit tanked, the good stuff mixing with the codeine tabs I’d swallowed earlier on an empty stomach. ‘But my wife would disapprove of me imposing on your family.’

‘A wife, yes. Good. Good.’

‘Sorry, I meant ex-wife.’

‘Ah, ex-wife, not good.’

‘You got that bang to rights. Let me tell you about the d-i-v-o-r-c-e…’

He knew the song, surprised me, joined in:

‘ D-i-v-o-r-c-e…’ We raised the roof, clutching each other, peals of laughter flooding out of us when the door was flung open and an old woman in a sari pushed in, blasted Rafi with some heavy-duty home language. For that stuff you don’t need the lingo, it’s the same the world over. He shrank before me, lowered his head. I followed his lead. When she left, slamming the door behind her, I stood up.

‘Time to boost…’ I had to meet Hod and make our venture out to the pit fight. ‘I’ve enjoyed your company, Rafi, but I must nash.’

The headlight smile came back on. Handshake. ‘Always my pleasure, Mr Gus! Any time, any time.’

As he grasped my hand tightly, I had a thought, said, ‘Rafi, y’know, if it wouldn’t be stretching the friendship too much, there is one thing you could do for me…’