drinks, the pigeon breakfasts and trailing bloodstains.
Two teenage girls perched on the windowsill of the late-night Spar passing a bottle between them while a yard away their friend snogged a youth in a tracksuit, their joined mouths sealed vacuum-tight. The boy’s hand slid up the girl’s crop top. One of the drinkers tipped back a swig from the bottle, arching her body, her short skirt riding up her thighs. For an instant she looked like an advert for the elixir of youth. Then she lost her balance and bumped against her companion. Both girls giggled and the one who had nearly fallen shouted, ‘Fucking jump him if you’re gonnae or we’ll miss the bus.’
The boy broke the clinch, grinning at his audience, then pulled the girl back to him, whispering something that made her laugh, then push herself free, staggering slightly on her high heels as she tottered towards her friends.
‘Virgin,’ the teenagers taunted, passing her the bottle.
Lyle Joff gave them a stern look. ‘I should bloody hope so.’ The girls sniggered, nudging each other, and Lyle took refuge in his kebab. He didn’t speak again until they had passed the group.
‘If I caught Sarah or Emma behaving like that, I’d lock them up until they were thirty. Fuck it, thirty-five. I’d lock them up till they were thirty-five and even then I’d still want some guarantees.’
Murray looked back at the girls. They were at the bus stop now. One of them – he wasn’t sure if it was the one who’d been doing the kissing – pushed the boy. The youth stepped into a half trot, shouting something. The girls roared back, united now as they rushed at him, their high heels clattering against the pavement, laughing, full of victory as the boy ran off down the street.
Murray joined in the laughter. Some people had more talent for life.
‘Brief Encounter.’
Lyle said, ‘It’s not funny, Murray. Boys like that take advantage of young girls.’
Rab asked, ‘What age are Sarah or Emma now? Five and seven? You don’t need to worry about that for a few years.’
‘Three and six. Remind me to look up convent schools in the Yellow Pages in the morning. Here, hold this a minute.’
Lyle thrust his half-eaten kebab into Murray’s hand and nipped up a lane. Murray lifted the swaddled meat and salad to his mouth, crunching into vinegar, spices and heat. When had he last eaten? There had been a packet of crisps in the pub, but before that? Some sauce escaped the wrap and ran down his chin.
‘Hey.’ Lyle emerged from the alleyway. ‘I said hold it, not eat it.’
‘Sorry.’ Murray wiped his face. He took a second bite then handed it back. ‘I don’t know how you can stomach that stuff.’
Lyle fed the end of the kebab into his mouth and started picking at the shreds of salad and onion left in the paper. ‘I used to live on these before Marcella got her claws into me.’
His expression looked like it might crumple and he tore at the kebab with his teeth again, as if seeking solace.
They were passing the queue for The Viper Club now. Murray recognised a girl from his third-year tutorial group. She’d caught her long, straight hair back in an Alice band. Her dress was short, her white boots high. She made him think of the test-card girl, all grown up and gone kinky.
‘Hello, Dr Watson.’
He nodded, trying not to stagger. Ah, what the fuck? He was allowed a private life, wasn’t he?
Rab echoed his thoughts.
‘Sometimes you need to cut loose, connect with the elemental, remind yourself of the beauty of your own existence.’
Lyle scrunched the kebab’s wrapping into a ball and tossed it into a bin already brimming with rubbish.
‘For tomorrow we may die.’
The paper trembled on the peak of the pile, and then tumbled to the ground. Rab bent over, picked up the wrapping and stuffed it carefully back into the bucket. A look of satisfaction at a job well done settled on his face.
‘Right, what den of iniquity are we headed to next?’
* * *
The thin man with the long hair and the bandanna wanted a pound before he would let them in. Rab dropped three coins into the old ice-cream tub that acted as a till and they went up the stairs and into the electric brightness of the pool hall.
‘I should head back.’ It had been Lyle Joff’s mantra since he’d phoned his wife two hours ago, but he joined the queue for the bar with the others and accepted his pint. ‘Just the one, thanks. I’ll need to be thinking about getting home.’
The room was busy with the quiet clack of billiard balls and the low murmur of conversation. They were in the first wave of pub exiles and serious pool players still outnumbered those for whom the hall was just another stop on the night’s drunken highway. It was about a year since Murray had been here, a night on the town with his brother Jack, but it was as if he’d just stepped out to take a piss. There were the same faces, the same closed looks and poker expressions. The same mix of scruff and cowboy-cool, the lavvy-brush beards, arse-hugging jeans, Cuban heels and tight-fitting waistcoats. Fuck, you’d have to be hard to wear that gear in Glasgow.
Rab lowered himself behind a free table.
‘Welcome to Indian country. What time does this place stay open till?’
‘Three.’
Rab’s sigh was contented, nothing to worry about for two hours.
Lyle stared silently at his pint, as if it might hold the possibility of enlightenment. Slowly his head sank onto his chest and his eyes closed.
A woman bent across the baize, lining up her options. Murray found himself following the seams of her jeans, up the inside of her raised thigh to the point where they met in a cross. He looked away. Would the tyranny of sex never stop?
He nodded towards Lyle.
‘Is he all right?’
The woman telescoped her cue back towards their table and Rab shifted his drink beyond its reach.
‘He’s fine, he’ll wake up in a moment.’ Rab indicated a pair of women sitting near the back of the room. ‘Why don’t you go over there and ask them if they want a drink?’
The women might have been sisters, or maybe it was simply that their style was the same. Strappy tops and short feathery hair whose copper highlights glinted under the bright lights. They were grown-up versions of the girls he’d gone to school with. They’d never have looked at him then, but now?
It was stupid. He didn’t fancy either of them, and besides, he wasn’t up to the aggressive dance of tease and semi-insults that constituted a chat-up.
‘They’ve got drinks.’
‘Well, get up, pretend you’re going to the gents’ and offer them another one en route.’
‘Is that how James Bond does it? Hello, ladies, I was
