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773 lines
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<h1>1</h1>
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<p>IT WAS Gus Ferguson's heavies who started the whole thing off. What they did to Donny Watson, that was well out of
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order and they deserved a real comeuppance for it. </p>
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<p>It was them, and the spilt whisky, and the fact that right then everything was loaded against the bunch of friends.
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To tell the truth, everything was going wrong and there seemed no end to it. </p>
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<p>That whisky. That and the hot summer sun, and those arseholes at the golf club. And then there was Alistair Sproat
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who thought he ran the town and now he was bailing out to the highest bidder. Selling out, selling everybody
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out. </p>
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<p>It was all of these things, these people. The sell-out, the whisky, the arseholes, Donny Watson getting kicked black
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and blue and bloody, on his way home. They all made it happen, one way and another, because sometimes you get to the
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end of the rope and you've no choices left. But that's just the hindsight talking. If you're going to hear this
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story, you might as well hear it from the start. </p>
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<p>Five of them, two cans of cold lager and a skinny greyhound with serious personal problems, playing a four-ball from
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the tenth to seventeenth. No medal, no handicap except the usual. </p>
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<p>Jed Coogan had his cart and the old set of clubs his uncle had left him in his will. He'd pawned the shoes because
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the last time they'd caused big blisters that he burst with a needle until the water came out. Six of them, hunkered
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and sprawled down in the gorse and broom, waiting for a foursome of Ralph Lauren shirts and big check trousers to
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make their way to the twelfth, then a pair of loud women with wide round backsides in even louder checks, these daft
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gamblers' visors they wear these days and snooty Kelvinside accents that could grind glass to a bevel finish. Half
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way along the straight they looked round and saw the guys passing the cold lager back and forth and gave reproving
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sniffs and tut-tutted loud enough to hear. Everybody laughed. Just two minutes before, one of them had stuck her
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hand down and hauled the seam of her pants out of the crack of her arse. Ladylike it wasn't. </p>
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<p>"That one's younger than your girlfriend," Donny said. </p>
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<p>"Jealous git," Jed said. He was sturdy and dark, that Irish kind of way, and he was up to all kinds of stuff with the
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ex-wife of one of the town councillors who'd done the dirty with a young secretary from the council office. She was
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getting her own back and everything else from Jed several nights a week and some more at weekends. Truth to tell,
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Margery Burns might have been on the far side of forty five and getting some of the blonde out of a bottle to shade
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the fade but there wasn't one of them there, except maybe Jack Lorne, who wouldn't have jumped at the chance of a
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weekend indoors with Mrs B. </p>
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<p>"You just can't get away from her," says Donny. " 'cause old women run faster. They only wear sensible shoes."</p>
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<p>"And big loose cotton knickers."</p>
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<p>"She doesn't wear knickers," Jed threw back. "Not when I'm there. And she never wakes me up after it and asks what
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I'm thinking. Not like your bunch of bimbettes." He went into falsetto: "Do you love me Donald, I mean
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<em>really</em> love me? Honestly?"</p>
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<p>He reached into the bag and rummaged for the second can. Two between six was hardly a boozy afternoon, but it was
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still cold and on a day like this, you couldn't have gone nine holes without a refreshment. It was hot as anybody
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could remember..</p>
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<p>"Oh, Mrs Robinson, you're trying to seduce me. Aren't you?" Neil was good with the accents.</p>
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<p>"You couldn't get a scabby sheep to seduce you, Big Stuff."</p>
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<p>Neil had a tight grip on the greyhound's leash. Every now and again she'd let out a little soulful whine and rub her
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backside along the grass..</p>
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<p>"You couldn't even pull Fannieboz, here, and she's hot for anything."</p>
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<p>Levenford Golf course is flat as a salt pan. On the north side there's some scrubby gorse and broom and straggly
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hawthorn butting up against Aitkenbar Distillery and its old storage sheds, bonded warehouses that give off a sweet
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heady smell some days when the wind is right. Then there's the big inlet, what they call Bruce's Harbour, where they
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used to load the whisky on to barrels and down the river to the big ships moored at the castle rock. They say King
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Robert himself used to stash his warship here, back when they didn't just talk hot air and politics in Edinburgh,
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but who knows? It was a while ago.</p>
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<p>Along by the twelfth and thirteenth, the curve of the river shoves up against the big levee bulwark that's the only
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thing keeping the water out and the golfers in. You have to be a member on this course, which costs some fancy money
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and cash was something none of them had to waste, not this summer anyway.</p>
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<p>This day the heat made the air twist and dance and shimmer way along the fairway, like half-seen ghosts in the grass.
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You could see pools of water sparkling along the flat in the distance and when you got up to them, they'd be gone.
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All illusion. </p>
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<p>Three weeks of solid rain and then two of a sunshine heatwave that left cracks where the shallow mud had been and the
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straight along by the built-up riverbank was lush and green, tangled with willow herb and that creepy wild rhubarb
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that grows in the damp, crawling with centipedes and earywigs. It was all alive. Warblers warbled non-stop and the
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drone of bees up in the high elms could put you to sleep if you sat down under them. The gorse and broom pods popped
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open with little crackles that made it sound like the bushes were on fire. Three small boys paddled about barefoot
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up to their thighs in the rough marsh, feeling for lost golf balls with their toes and feeding them into a big
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plastic bucket. </p>
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<p>The four-ball took their time and one of them hooked a fast curver straight into the marsh. The nearest boy marked
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where it went and then looked the other way. There was no chance that pringle man in the while flat cap and the
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Payne Stewart knickerbockers was going to risk his spikes in the deep marsh. Every footstep set off a jacuzzi of
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nitrates and methane that smelt worse than old cow farts. </p>
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<p>"Have you seen the ball, sonny?"</p>
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<p>"No mister." A blatant lie. It had missed him by only three yards. "But I've got some spares. Sell you half a
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dozen."</p>
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<p>Swift negotiation, and to the boys out there, it was a seller's market, always had been. Jed Cooper and Jack Lorne
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had done that job plenty of years before and had bought good bikes with the proceeds. Then they got a paper round
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and sold the golf franchise to two other boys from down the street and passed on the tradition. Good days. </p>
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<p>"Supply and demand," Jack said. He always came out with these things. "Nothing changes."</p>
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<p>Pringle man did his deal, keeping his black and white brogues away from the gassy muck and they sauntered on, rotund
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rotarian senior partners killing time. The fat-arsed women came by, hacking pretty wildly, and a stray ball smacked
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into the gorse nearby, sending up a thick, somehow exotic scent of coconut oil. </p>
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<p>"Stupid cow," Neil said. "That could have brained me."</p>
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<p>"You'd have ended up with more brains than you were born with."</p>
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<p>Donny pulled a long black tube from the cart. It came out like a blunt sword. </p>
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<p>"This is the piece of the resistance." He murdered a French accent. </p>
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<p>"What's that?"</p>
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<p>"A golf ball holder. Got it in a sale for two quid."</p>
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<p>"Total waste of money," Jed said. </p>
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<p>"Watch this." Donny thumbed off the plastic lid and put the top of the tube to his mouth. They heard the glug as the
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liquid went down. </p>
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<p>"What the hell's that?"</p>
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<p>"The angels share." Donny wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Want some?"</p>
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<p>"But what the hell is it?" Neil wanted to know.</p>
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<p>"Only the finest twenty-five-year-old Glen Murroch. Made before you were even a glint. It'll set you back fifty notes
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a bottle, maybe more."</p>
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<p>"You ripped it off?"</p>
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<p>"They're ripping <em>me</em> off," Donny came back. He smacked his lips. "That's what I call a drink. Take it while
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it's going, for it won't be going long."</p>
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<p>That was true enough. The sun might have been high and the bees doing the sleepy thing up on the leaves, but it had
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not been the best of times, and from the looks of it, it was going to get a whole lot worse come the autumn.</p>
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<p>Jack had summed it up. "You get screwed, and then they really fuck you." Jack wasn't really that given to swearing
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either, but he hit it right on the head. </p>
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<p>Donny was screwed, one way or the other. He'd only been told two weeks back that he was on short time working and the
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distillery was going to shut for good. Him and another two hundred would be out to scrap, and then Alistair Sproat
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would make a fortune selling off the land for a useless shopping centre that was going to try to sell lots of things
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to people with bags of no money. It was worse for Donny Watson. He'd just been made up to chargehand, in the
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cooperage where they made the barrels, and there sure wasn't going to be a big demand for his services around here
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any more, not with Sproat aiming to get into the designer moonshine market that didn't need any years in oak
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conditioning doing nothing but getting smooth. It was much the same for the rest of them, even Jack, who everybody
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had said was the one most likely to make something of himself, but here he was, down in the gorse with the rest of
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them, Saturday afternoon and nothing much else to do. Soon they'd be able to play midweek, for the same reason.</p>
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<p>He passed the tube untouched to Jed who lifted it up like he was playing a trombone and poured some down his own
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throat. His face went red and he started to cough and somebody thumped him on the back. "Lordy lordy, that's the
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real stuff. Smooth as silk."</p>
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<p>"They'll be doing a last bottling sometime soon," Donny said. "Clearing all the old barrels out of stock. Sproat
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wants a special blend before the doors shut."</p>
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<p>"Scraping the bottom of the barrel."</p>
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<p>"No, this is real good stuff. It's been there for years. It was made for some boat, the Queen Elizabeth probably, and
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then it just got locked down in customs bond. The buyer went bust, years ago, so there's tons of it, all over-proof
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as well."</p>
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<p>"And then you're out on your ear."</p>
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<p>"Then we're all out," Donny agreed. "Life's a pure bitch." He grabbed the whisky and took another slug at it. Neil
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had a mouthful, then Jed and then Tam Bowie who hadn't said much because he was still working, at least until they
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finished the houses out on the east end of the town. It came back to Jack. </p>
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<p>"Life is a box of chocolates," Jed said. "You end up getting left with all the hard ones that break your teeth."</p>
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<p> "Look at this place," Jack said. "We got a river, and a castle and the best pubs in the west. Fishing and climbing
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and everything else, wall-to-wall women and then the arseholes come along and totally screw it up."</p>
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<p>"You'll be okay when you finish your college stuff," Jed said. </p>
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<p>"Sure, I'll be rich as sin. I don't think. If I even get to finish, now."</p>
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<p>Everybody knew Jack was paying his way through, working his way to some degree in business or management, studying
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after his morning shift in the dairy. Nobody really knew exactly what it was for and he never said much about it. He
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was up at four in the morning delivering milk, and then half the day cleaning out the tankers at the dairy and God
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alone knew when he had the time to study, but they all had to hand it to him. He was trying to pull himself up by
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the bootstraps, make something of himself like his grandad always said, and since his old man had died, it had been
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no easy garden stroll. </p>
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<p>Now the dairy was teetering on the edge and Andy Kerr was staring disaster in the face. The two hundred grand he'd
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invested in new tankers had proved a bad bet after the big supermarket chain he'd been supplying for ten years
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pulled the rug and left him flat. They'd been trying to drive the wholesale price down to where even the dairy
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farmers would operate at a loss. Now Andy Kerr and the farmers, and everybody who worked for them were all going to
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lose.</p>
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<p>On top of that, the Town Council had doubled the rent on the dairy site, and Jack said he was sure some of the
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councillors were on the take. You get Andy out and you've got five prime acres to build on and Asda and Safeway and
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Sainsbury's are biting each other's backs to get flat land to trade on. That was a sellers market. So the
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supermarkets won whichever way.</p>
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<p>Eighteen prime acres when you threw in Bruce Harbour, where Sproat planned to bulldoze all the old distillery
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buildings and warehouses. Another piece of town history gone forever, but that was nothing new. What could you
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do?</p>
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<p>"Bastards," Donny said, and everybody agreed with the sentiment. He had Irish red hair and freckles and his face was
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scarlet from the sun. </p>
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<p>"Sure they are," Jack said. "They're tearing the heart out of the place. It's going to be like a ghost town. Five
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hundred out of work, and worse to come."</p>
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<p>"How d'you figure that out? It's only two hundred at the distillery."</p>
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<p>"<em>Only</em> two hundred," Jed butted in. "Get real!"</p>
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<p>"Okay," Jack said. "You got the two hundred from Sproat's. Another forty from the creamery. That's the start. Plenty
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of people not earning, and not spending. That's going to hit the shops and the bars, and when they get hit, they lay
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off. So there's less rake-in to the council. So they start cutting services and jobs."</p>
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<p>He shook his head. "Look what's happened after the banks crashed. Thousands of jobs wiped out. Less taxes for the
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government. So they start cutting costs. More jobs down the drain. Less taxes. It's a vicious circle."</p>
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<p>"Bastard!" Donny repeated. "Somebody should do something about it."</p>
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<p>Jack just nodded. </p>
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<p>Jed got to his feet.</p>
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<p>"Enough of this dismal crap. Come on and finish the game."</p>
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<p> "Hey mister, you want some balls?" One of the boys held up a plastic bag.</p>
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<p>"His granny's got them," Tam chipped in and everybody fell about. </p>
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<p>"What's it like with her teeth out?"</p>
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<p>"You'll never know. What's it like being a dildo?"</p>
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<p> Tam lined up. He had the six iron and the wedge. Jed had the three and a big old wood. Everybody else had two clubs
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apiece. Tam hit a scorcher that went straight down the middle and nearly hit the woman who had pulled the gusset
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lining from her cheeks and she turned round to glare. </p>
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<p>"Fore. . . . " he bawled. </p>
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<p>"<em>Sixty </em>bloody four."</p>
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<p>"That would be the only bang she'd get," Neil said. </p>
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<p>"Not unless Jed catches her up."</p>
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<p>"Shit upon you, gentlemen" Jed said, very agreeably. "Don't knock it until you've tried it, not that you're going to
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get the chance. The mature lady, she don't yell, she don't tell and she be grateful as all hell."</p>
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<p>Jack hit a grass cutter that glanced off a handy rise and took off, almost catching up with Tam's ball on the middle.
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Neil managed all of twenty yards and scooped a two-foot gouge. Jed topped it hard and the ball dug in to a knoll,
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under the roots of a tree. Donny hit his a smack and his did a fast curve to the left. The greyhound whined and
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rubbed her backside along the grass again.</p>
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<p>"Sliced and diced," somebody said. </p>
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<p>"No. It was hooked."</p>
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<p>The ball kept curving past the willow stumps and came down into the march, not far from the furthest swamp kid. Donny
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swore. </p>
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<p>"Anybody got another ball?"</p>
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<p>"There was some in the bag."</p>
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<p>"No," Jed said. "I took them out for the lager."</p>
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<p>"Oh, brilliant! That's me out the game."</p>
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<p>"Want a ball mister? Ten for five. Brand new, no totties."</p>
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<p>"How much for one?"</p>
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<p>"Got to buy bulk, mister. Ten balls, five notes."</p>
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<p>"That's bloody robbery. I'll wrap this six iron round your ear."</p>
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<p>The boy shrugged. He was safe, up to his thighs in clinging mud. No club member would get near to him out there.</p>
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<p>But Donny was no member. </p>
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<p>"Screw it," he said, and maybe it was the whisky, or just the way Donny was. Once he got hold of an idea, there was
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no stopping him. His cargo pants were down at his ankles before anybody could say a thing. </p>
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<p>"Just leave it," Jed said. "We can take shots each."</p>
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<p>"It's only a bit of mud." He heel-toed out of his trainers and stood there in tee shirt and jockeys, surveying the
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scene. His ball had landed thirty feet out, close to a lone squat bush. </p>
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<p>"It's too deep. You'll soak your pants."</p>
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<p>"To hell with the pants." He pushed them down too and stepped out. His backside was pallid furred with golden hairs
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which contrasted with the dark tee shirt. He pulled the edge down to cover his balls and tried to wedge it between
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his thighs. </p>
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<p>"Let it swing, Donny boy."</p>
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<p>"There's piranhas in there. They go for worms."</p>
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<p>Jack cupped his hands to his mouth and bawled to the women golfers who were just turning the bend at the end of the
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straight. </p>
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<p>"You don't know what you're missing here, ladies."</p>
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<p>Everybody laughed, even Donny. He scratched his backside and then started wading until the mud came up to his thighs.
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Every step made a gloopy sucking sound and set up and gobble of bubbles and sighed when they reached the
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surface. </p>
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<p>"What a smell, man. That would knock you out flat."</p>
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<p>"Let's make it a four ball," Neil said. "I'm not playing with him when he comes out."</p>
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<p>Donny was bending down now, arms deep in the mud, white backside catching the sun, nose close to the surface. </p>
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<p>"Use your feet," Jack shouted. </p>
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<p>Donny stood up and held his hand up in triumph. His arm was black from fingers to shoulder. </p>
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<p>"Got it," he called back, floundering to catch his balance, and then laboriously turned to make the long sticky walk
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back to the hard ground. </p>
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<p>"Shit," Jed said. "That's what it smells like. That is rank rotten."</p>
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<p> Neil laughed. "Momma always said, stupid is as stupid does."</p>
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<p>Donny stood there and the black greasy ooze slowly slid down his thighs. The tip of his penis bore a black dot of
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mud.</p>
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<p>Fannieboz strained at the leash and shoved her nose into his crotch.</p>
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<p>Donny stumbled backwards. "Jeez, Neil. You got to get that bitch fixed."</p>
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<p>"It's her hormones. Something wrong with her glands. She can't help it."</p>
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<p>The greyhound mewled and rolled her eyes at Donny.</p>
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<p>"That's one seriously screwed pooch," he said.</p>
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<p>"Hey, mud man, you have to get cleaned up." Jed held his nose. "That's bog awful."</p>
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<p>"Along here," Jack said. "If there's any water in the steam you can wipe it off."</p>
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<p>They all sauntered off, taking shots when they came across the balls, Donny leaving black and smelly footprints on
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the green grass, until they reached the little runnel that crossed the fairway. There was about a foot of water,
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flowing slowly, with a thick candyfloss of algae on either side. Some water skaters skimmed the surface and a family
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of whirligig beetles madly made themselves dizzy. </p>
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<p>Donny slid down the bank and into the water and immediately a trail of ooze washed downstream in slow whorls. He bent
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and started wiping the mud off.</p>
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<p>"What's that smell?" Tam asked, sniffing the still air. </p>
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<p>"It's the dog."</p>
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<p>"No it's the ginger loony from the black lagoon," somebody said. </p>
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<p>"Not that. I smell more drink."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack sniffed. "Me too."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Look," Jed said. "Where did these fish come from?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>They all peered into the clear water upstream of where Donny stood. A half a dozen small fish, maybe brown trout,
|
|
floated in a little pool that was blocked off by a fallen branch. They were pale and bloodless, floating belly
|
|
up.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"It's whisky," Jed said. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"No. That's just because you're drinking the stuff."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"No, he's right," Donny said. "This must be where it came out. Man, the shit really hit. It was just last Friday,
|
|
before a big decant. Somebody must have moved the wedges on the barrel stack and three of them rolled. They hit the
|
|
concrete like bombs."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>He laughed. "Sproat went berserk, but it's his fault for not making sure the barrels were checked. Some of the hoops
|
|
had rusted in store, and when they hit, they just broke away. You ever see a hogshead explode?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Nobody had.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Malt whisky fountain, that's what you get. The decant tank drain valve was still open and all the spillage went
|
|
straight into the pipe."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Donny stood up, cupping water in his hand to loosen the mud on his caked arm. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"It all went down the drain and that was that. Couple of hundred gallons. And believe me they get worked up if you
|
|
take a half bottle for medicinable purposes."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Sure, like you've got a dangerous case of being sober?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Imagine their faces when all that went down the swanney. You can still smell it down here."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Must have killed the fish. They'd have been swimming in it."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"What a way to go. Suberb. That's how I want it."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack stood at the edge and looked upstream. "So it all went down a drain and into this?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"They tried to hush it up. Sproat got them to block it off. He's scared he'd get done for polluting the place. But if
|
|
it got to the environmental people, I never heard."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"So three barrels, how much is that worth?" Jack had that look in his eye. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Depends," Donny said. He was bending down again, now winning the battle. His legs were becoming paler as the muck
|
|
washed off. "Depends on how old, what blend and whether the duty's been paid. That's about eighty percent."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Eighty percent?" Jed said. "That's what they take? That's robbery with violence."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Too true," Donny agreed. "Anyway, three barrels is about a hundred and fifty gallons."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Six bottles to a gallon," Jack said. He was quick.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"And what's that over-proof thing?" Jed asked. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack stepped in. He was always good at pub quizzes, knew all the obscure stuff that wasn't music and football. "They
|
|
used to test whisky with gunpowder to see if it was strong enough. If it exploded, it was. That was it proved."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p> "Yeah," Donny said. "A hundred proof is about sixty percent. The raw stuff they make in there is about a hundred and
|
|
thirty, so that's eighty percent pure alcohol, twice as strong as normal, so you have to water it down."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p> "That would blow your head off."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p> Jack was still picking at it. "So that's like three hundred gallons, eighteen hundred bottles, all down the drain.
|
|
No wonder they were pissed off."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"It was just the angels share," Donny said, almost clean. "You can still smell it down here."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"What's that?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Cooper's trade secret."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Ex-cooper soon," Tam said, and that was true enough. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Okay. Your barrels are made of oak, right? Whisky has to be stored in oak for three years minimum, to be real
|
|
scotch. And some of it evaporates through the pores in the wood. They call it the Angels Share. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Can't you make barrels with no holes?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"No," Donny said, not bothering to explain. He hauled himself up to the bank. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You forgot to wash your dick," Tam pointed out. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Shouldn't have been looking, sweetheart." Everybody laughed. Donny started climbing back into his shorts and when he
|
|
straightened he reached for the black tube, popped the top and took a big one. He gasped and wiped his mouth again,
|
|
unaware that he left a wide grey streak from one cheek to the other. Nobody bothered to tell him. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"And this is the angels share too. Everybody gets a share."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Like Catch 22," Jack said. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Everybody looked at him and none of them knew what he was talking about. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Donny pulled on the cargo pants and slipped his feet back in the trainers. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Where's that ball?" </p>
|
|
<hr/>
|
|
<p>"Hey, you there! Are you members?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>It came from off to the left, back the way they had come. Tam was hacking away in the rough, not far in, close to a
|
|
thin birch and he'd taken about ten fruitless swipes, cursing after every one of them, but the ball was still stuck
|
|
in the long grass.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Another designer shirt came striding up, dragging a big red bag of Ping clubs with little woolly hats to keep them
|
|
warm, even in this heat. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Donny was taking another drink of the amber stuff and Jed had the can of lager in his hand. They all turned. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"On you go," Donny said, waving them forward when he put the tube down. "You can play on through. We're not in any
|
|
rush."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"I asked if you are members," the man asked. He had thin grey hair and a thick stubbly presbyterian moustache.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Yes, we are. Of course." Tam hiccupped at the end of that and Jed giggled. It had been that kind of day so far. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Oh really. And what is this, a five ball? And where are your clubs?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Donny held up a driver and a wedge. The bag stood alone on its little wheels with only a black tube protruding from
|
|
the top. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You know the rules."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"What rules?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Or you would if you were members, which you clearly are not." He looked Tam up and down, taking in the jeans and the
|
|
old Jesus sandals. "No denim, only golf spikes, and definitely no, repeat no low-life vagrants."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack knew the face. Jamieson Bell, one of the big-wigs on the council. Every one of them were in Alistair Sproat's
|
|
pocket as far as he could tell.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Who are you calling a low-life?" Jed stepped forward and stuck his chin out. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"What's the problem Jamieson?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack recognised the voice and spun round. Gus Ferguson hove into view, bright in a yellow polo shirt and sky blue
|
|
trews. He was stocky, with thick lifter's arms covered in black curly hair.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"No problem Fergus. These people were just leaving."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Look, we said you could play on through. Just you go ahead. We're not bothering anybody."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You're bothering <em>me</em>," Bell said. Donny had recognised him too even though Bell wouldn't have known him from
|
|
Adam. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Yeah. Get lost," Ferguson said. "You're cluttering the place up."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Get yourself lost," Tam came back. "We're just having a game."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Ferguson came right up to them, passing Bell. He leaned in on them, bull-like and broad. He had some sort of share in
|
|
the big scrap yard out beyond the railway bridge where Jed and Neil rummaged for parts for the stock-car bust-ups.
|
|
He did a bit of car trading from a yard on the east side, and they were the only things he did that were anywhere
|
|
close to being legit. Everybody knew he was into every mucky scam going.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Listen, you low-life bunch of shite, get yourselves off this fairway or I'll fucking kick you off myself."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You and whose army?" Donny demanded. Jack clapped a warning hand on his shoulder, but Donny was up for it. His
|
|
freckles stood out like ink-blots on his skin, the way they did when he was losing it just a bit. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Ferguson leaned in further. "Do I know you? I do, don't I?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"So what?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You're Skid Watson's boy, that right? Like father like son. Last of the great unwashed."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You keep my dad out of it, you slimy bastard." Donny's old man had never been an outstanding success at anything,
|
|
apart from football, when he had been noted for a vicious sliding tackle, but now he had bad arthritis that curled
|
|
his fingers into claws and welded his knee bones into knots and was in a lot of pain a lot of the time. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You'll amount to the same thing, Ginger boy. Nothing."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Neil Cleary broke in and Ferguson rounded on him, slab-faced, grizzle haired. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You too, beef lard. See me after you've been to weightwatchers and got rid of the flab"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Come on," Jack said. "We don't need this."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Yeah. Take the rest of the dead-end kids and get to fuck out of my club."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>That was enough for Donny. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You're club? What club would have you? You're nothing but a fucking low-life, slimy, tuppeny-ha'penny dope dealing
|
|
fuckin' shark. People like you give fuckin' criminals a bad name."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Ferguson whipped round to see how far off Jamieson Bell was. Maybe they had just been pitched together in the medal,
|
|
and maybe Bell was too far up the social scale to know just who and what Ferguson was, but Donny had touched the
|
|
spot all right. Gus Ferguson had built up his racket in the seventies and eighties when all the big Yank firms had
|
|
pulled out to chase the dollar in the Pacific rim sweats, and after Thatcher yanked the plug on everybody else, when
|
|
every other home in the schemes needed the tide-over loans the banks never dished out as low as the council house
|
|
strata. Everybody knew Ferguson turned a dishonest buck here and there besides and under the Lacrosse polo shirt
|
|
there would be enough dope rope to hitch a coach and four. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>He leant in further and lowered his voice. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You got a fast mouth ginger nuts. I'll remember you said that. And I'll remember the next time your Aunty Jean comes
|
|
looking for a leg-up, like she does every other week. Her rate just went up. She gets a leg up when I get a leg-over
|
|
her skanky arse, <em>capice.</em>"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Go fuck yourself and the horse you rode in on, you wide-boy skag."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Aye, get lost Ferguson," Neil Cleary butted in. He was still stung by the fat boy remark. "That's well out of
|
|
order."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p> Ferguson smiled that way hard men do, letting it even reach his eyes, like he was really having a laugh, but you
|
|
know it's just the poison in them. He never took them off Donny. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>He was right up against his ear and nobody else heard it except Jack Lorne. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"And <em>you</em>, you get to follow the old man. You're in a fuckin wheelchair, got me?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack bit his lip, but Donny was too far gone with the insult. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Fuck yourself on a sharp stick, arsehole."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Down at the edge of the rough, Jamieson Bell called up. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Just leave them Angus. They're not worth the trouble. I'll call the greenkeeper."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>He pulled out a little Ericson job the size of a penguin biscuit and flipped its lid. They heard the beep of
|
|
dialling. He started talking loudly into it. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Tam Bowie pulled at Donny's arm. "Come on you. Ignore it. Just walk away."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Donny shrugged him off, ready to get waded in again, but Ferguson was walking away and all the fun had gone out of
|
|
the game. Donny stood there, face still smeared in grey, whisky on his breath and his hands were shaking. He never
|
|
did anything in half measures, drunk or sober. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"That slimy <em>cunt</em>. I could fucking have him."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"You and whose army?" Tam mimicked, all sarcastic. "You want to stay well clear of that bastard. He's a total loony
|
|
and he's got a bunch of crazies backing him up."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack nodded. "Come on. They're just a pair of wankers."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Ferguson didn't even look at them as they pulled away to the side. Donny and Neil still wanted to go on with the
|
|
game, and Donny looked as if he wanted to have a real go with the sand wedge, but the others pulled them back. The
|
|
game was a bogey, as the kids say here. The ball was on the slates. They went back up to the gorse-covered hillock
|
|
and sat in the sun, drinking the rest of the lager and the whisky and Tam threw a six iron at a pheasant that
|
|
wandered out of cover and got the fright of its life. He missed by a hand span. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Sliced it again," he said and everybody laughed and then they all got up, emptied the water out of the bag, stuck
|
|
the clubs back in and started sauntering home along by the old distillery. Apart from Ferguson and that creepy
|
|
Jamieson Bell, it hadn't been such a bad afternoon when there was nothing better to do. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Kerr Thomson, the customs man at the big distillery gate nodded to Donny as they passed and he waved back.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack turned to Donny. "What did they do when they spilled the whisky?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Nothing they can do. They had to write it off."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Just like that?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Sure. It happens all the time. Sometimes a barrel will split a hoop and you lose the lot. You don't pay tax on what
|
|
you haven't got. When it's in customs bond, it's like a duty-free zone, know what I mean?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Tam and Neill headed off up to Overburn which looked out over the rest of the town down on the flatland, and the
|
|
other three trundled on towards Drymains, on the other side of the main road, past the row of bonded warehouses and
|
|
Levenford Dairy where the clanking of the bottles on the racks told them they were getting filled for the next day.
|
|
Jed peeled away and the other two strolled down to the turn. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Catch you in Mac's tonight."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Not tonight," Jack said. "I got to hit the books. See you Friday."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Donny hitched the cart behind him and its wheels juddered over the rough road and then bumped back up onto the
|
|
pavement. The sun had turned the back of his neck bright red, that raw Celtic way that needs factor forty on shady
|
|
days and still hurts like hell the next morning.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack sauntered down the street, hands in his pockets, deep in thought. The sun was in his eyes as it began its slide
|
|
down the slope of the Cardross Hills, getting more red-fevered as it sank, and Jack never really noticed the big Jag
|
|
as it cruised past. He was vaguely aware of somebody turned to face him, but then it was gone. Only the low squeal
|
|
of tires as it picked up speed at the far corner made him turn and take a glance. He turned back, hands in his
|
|
pockets, thinking of the dead fish in the little stream and trying to work out the value of those lost bottles of
|
|
whisky in his head, doubling up for dilution, charging at shop prices. It was one of those things that always
|
|
snagged his brain, the way a tune will go through your head and you can't get rid of it. Jack always had a head for
|
|
figures and if he hadn't left school early to get a job after his dad had died, he'd have got through college a
|
|
whole lot sooner. He was converting gallons to seventy cubic-centilitre bottles in his head when he suddenly stopped
|
|
dead. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>He turned round fast again, looking up in the direction the Jaguar had gone. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Somebody had turned round to look at him and the sun had been in his eyes and he'd been doing mental arithmetic. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Somebody had turned. . . . . </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Gus Ferguson's face spun right into sharp focus. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p><em>Jesus!</em> Gus Ferguson. What was he doing here . . . . ? </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack was running even before he completed the thought. The sun was at his back, sending a long shadow ahead. Two
|
|
small boys on bikes scattered out of his way as he reached the corner, got a hand to the <em>children crossing</em>
|
|
post and spun himself round it. Up at Crosswell Street the road took a bend as it narrowed, on the short cut through
|
|
to the Orlett houses where Donny lived. There was a narrow stretch here, bounded on both sides by a hawthorn hedge,
|
|
and a small field that used to be a paddock back when this had been farmland. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>There was no sign of anybody. But the Jag had definitely turned up here. That meant it was up the lane. Jack was
|
|
breathing fast, and he speeded up, trainers slapping the tarmac. <em>Jesus</em>. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Donny," he bawled. "Watch your back." A woman at an upstairs window leaned out curiously as he passed and followed
|
|
his run up the street. He got to the narrow part and just as he was turning, saw the back end of the Jag angled out
|
|
of the gateway to the field. Off in the distance some boys were playing football. Two dogs were barking at each
|
|
other. A blackbird bulleted out of the hedge with that daft alarm call they all have and clattered away into the
|
|
bush at the far side. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Donny's golf bag was lying at the side. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>On the other side of the thick hedge, somebody was taking a real kicking. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack skidded to a halt. Even from here he could hear the blows land, solid and meaty and of a sudden his heart was
|
|
somewhere up in his throat. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p><em>Fuck!</em> He couldn't think straight. The wheels on the little trolley were still spinning lazily. The tube was
|
|
out of the bag and a few of the clubs had shot from the mouth to scatter on the track. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Donny called out and it didn't really sound like him at all. It was all froth and gulping. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p><em>Fuck! </em> Jack was suddenly scared in so many directions his fear was three-dimensional. He was scared to go
|
|
round that corner and face what was happening, scared that Ferguson would mark him out. But what scared him most was
|
|
that if he didn't go round the corner, then Donny would end up like Ferguson had said, and that vicious bastard was
|
|
mad enough to make it happen. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p><em>Wheelchair. . . wheelchair. </em></p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Just what right did Ferguson have to think he had the power? </p>
|
|
|
|
<p><em>Fuck!</em> That thought punched through the fear and Jack bent down and snatched up the heavy sand wedge. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jesus, they had only gone for a couple of cans and a swing at the ball. Just passing the time.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Behind the hedge Donny coughed again and it wasn't really a cough. Jack swung the iron and went through the gate
|
|
fast. Somebody was in the driver's seat and he felt like taking a smash at him, but all he could think of was
|
|
getting to Donny. Christ, hadn't they backed each other since they were four years old? </p>
|
|
|
|
<p><em>What fucking right. . . . . ?</em></p>
|
|
|
|
<p>There were two of them and they were kicking the shit out of him. One of them had an old baseball bat and he was
|
|
swinging like a slugger, every one connecting in a dull meaty thud. Donny was down on his knees and he was coughing
|
|
again. It sounded like an underwater sob. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>He recognised the nearest man. Seggs Cullen, medium height, stocky, head shaved, thick as shit, but he was hard
|
|
enough. Seggs waded in and put the boot in under Donny's ribs and some blood and snot sneezed out onto the dry
|
|
flattened grass. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack heard a singing in his ears, a juicy little mosquito hum as if his blood pressure was building too fast and
|
|
suddenly he was up on that high dry plane where everything is stark and clear and all motion seems to go
|
|
treacle-slow. The fear shrank under the cool anger.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Okay gentlemen, it's showtime. What's the par for this course?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Seggs Cullen froze half way through a swing, taken completely by surprise. Jack stepped past Donny, aware on another
|
|
level that the blood mixed with the grass turned it a sticky brown.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Do I hook or do I slice?"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack swung the club up and took Seggs on the side of the cheek, just on the turn. It hit with the most satisfying
|
|
crunch Jack could ever remember in his life. <em>Jesus!</em> No slice, no hook, just on the sweet spot. Seggs did a
|
|
backward flip and sent up a cloud of dust when he hit. Jack swung, way beyond the fear now, riding on the anger and
|
|
the sudden savage joy that had bloomed when he connected with the sand wedge. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>The other man was turning, ready to swing again and Jack spun on his right foot, like a hammer thrower. Donny was on
|
|
the ground, on hands and knees, dribbling blood all over the place, and a matt of it darkening his red hair. He made
|
|
a horrible, scary little noise, the kind of noise you hear down in the slaughterhouse when they put the pin in the
|
|
brain of a black Angus and then it paws and dribbles, not yet aware that it's gone forever. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p><em>". . . . oh. .</em> " Donny just made that little bewildered noise and then a big gout of blood came out along
|
|
with the beer and the whisky. </p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Jack swung like a clansman, pivoting fast to take the other guy straight on the chin. He put the weight on his left
|
|
foot and stepped in the beer and snot, slipped sideways and the wedge missed by a mere inch. It slammed into the
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man's upper arm just as he was about to land another killer on Donny's kidneys. He let out a blurt of pain and the
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slugger went flying off into the hedge. </p>
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<p>"What the fuck. . . .? "</p>
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<p>Jack was still on the curve of the adrenaline roller, with that odd singing in his ears and everything was going in
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backlit slow motion like in one of those old Jap samurai films. He regained his balance, used the spin to follow
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through, turned, and sunk a fast boot into the man's groin. The thug doubled up and made an odd, gasping growl of
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sound. Jack brought the sand-wedge up and whipped it down as the guy bent over and the heavy face connected with his
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left buttock in a wondrous meaty whack.</p>
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<p>The man roared like a bear.</p>
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<p>"You get to fuck and take that garbage with you," Jack said, hearing his words come out in a snarl that didn't sound
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like him at all. </p>
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<p>Donny was down again, unable to take his weight on his hands, snuffling like a pig in the dirt and all of a sudden a
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huge and overwhelming fury swamped Jack Lorne and he swung out again with the wedge, taking the other man on the
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ribs so hard that it doubled him over. Seggs Cullen was on his feet, holding his mouth, dribbling the same kind of
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blood and snotters and yelling in a mush behind his fingers. The second man gasped for breath, caught it and came
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forward, reaching for the club. Jack swung again, fast left and right and managed to catch a knuckle with a sound
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like stone on stone.</p>
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<p>Up at the Jaguar somebody was bawling and Jack couldn't make out the words. The man with the sore knuckles and arm
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and balls backed off, growling and cursing incoherently and making sure he would recognise Jack Lorne if he ever saw
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him again and then they were up at the Jag and the doors were shut and it sizzled away, sending up dry earth and
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grass and a pall of blue exhaust. </p>
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<p>Donny pushed himself up again and crawled around blind on his hands and knees, making a complete, confused little
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circle, and Jack caught him just before his arms gave way again. </p>
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