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<h1>1</h1>
<p>IT WAS Gus Ferguson's heavies who started the whole thing off. What they did to Donny Watson, that was well out of
order and they deserved a real comeuppance for it. </p>
<p>It was them, and the spilt whisky, and the fact that right then everything was loaded against the bunch of friends.
To tell the truth, everything was going wrong and there seemed no end to it. </p>
<p>That whisky. That and the hot summer sun, and those arseholes at the golf club. And then there was Alistair Sproat
who thought he ran the town and now he was bailing out to the highest bidder. Selling out, selling everybody
out. </p>
<p>It was all of these things, these people. The sell-out, the whisky, the arseholes, Donny Watson getting kicked black
and blue and bloody, on his way home. They all made it happen, one way and another, because sometimes you get to the
end of the rope and you've no choices left. But that's just the hindsight talking. If you're going to hear this
story, you might as well hear it from the start. </p>
<p>Five of them, two cans of cold lager and a skinny greyhound with serious personal problems, playing a four-ball from
the tenth to seventeenth. No medal, no handicap except the usual. </p>
<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
the last time they'd caused big blisters that he burst with a needle until the water came out. Six of them, hunkered
and sprawled down in the gorse and broom, waiting for a foursome of Ralph Lauren shirts and big check trousers to
make their way to the twelfth, then a pair of loud women with wide round backsides in even louder checks, these daft
gamblers' visors they wear these days and snooty Kelvinside accents that could grind glass to a bevel finish. Half
way along the straight they looked round and saw the guys passing the cold lager back and forth and gave reproving
sniffs and tut-tutted loud enough to hear. Everybody laughed. Just two minutes before, one of them had stuck her
hand down and hauled the seam of her pants out of the crack of her arse. Ladylike it wasn't. </p>
<p>"That one's younger than your girlfriend," Donny said. </p>
<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
ex-wife of one of the town councillors who'd done the dirty with a young secretary from the council office. She was
getting her own back and everything else from Jed several nights a week and some more at weekends. Truth to tell,
Margery Burns might have been on the far side of forty five and getting some of the blonde out of a bottle to shade
the fade but there wasn't one of them there, except maybe Jack Lorne, who wouldn't have jumped at the chance of a
weekend indoors with Mrs B. </p>
<p>"You just can't get away from her," says Donny. " 'cause old women run faster. They only wear sensible shoes."</p>
<p>"And big loose cotton knickers."</p>
<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
I'm thinking. Not like your bunch of bimbettes." He went into falsetto: "Do you love me Donald, I mean
<em>really</em> love me? Honestly?"</p>
<p>He reached into the bag and rummaged for the second can. Two between six was hardly a boozy afternoon, but it was
still cold and on a day like this, you couldn't have gone nine holes without a refreshment. It was hot as anybody
could remember..</p>
<p>"Oh, Mrs Robinson, you're trying to seduce me. Aren't you?" Neil was good with the accents.</p>
<p>"You couldn't get a scabby sheep to seduce you, Big Stuff."</p>
<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
backside along the grass..</p>
<p>"You couldn't even pull Fannieboz, here, and she's hot for anything."</p>
<p>Levenford Golf course is flat as a salt pan. On the north side there's some scrubby gorse and broom and straggly
hawthorn butting up against Aitkenbar Distillery and its old storage sheds, bonded warehouses that give off a sweet
heady smell some days when the wind is right. Then there's the big inlet, what they call Bruce's Harbour, where they
used to load the whisky on to barrels and down the river to the big ships moored at the castle rock. They say King
Robert himself used to stash his warship here, back when they didn't just talk hot air and politics in Edinburgh,
but who knows? It was a while ago.</p>
<p>Along by the twelfth and thirteenth, the curve of the river shoves up against the big levee bulwark that's the only
thing keeping the water out and the golfers in. You have to be a member on this course, which costs some fancy money
and cash was something none of them had to waste, not this summer anyway.</p>
<p>This day the heat made the air twist and dance and shimmer way along the fairway, like half-seen ghosts in the grass.
You could see pools of water sparkling along the flat in the distance and when you got up to them, they'd be gone.
All illusion. </p>
<p>Three weeks of solid rain and then two of a sunshine heatwave that left cracks where the shallow mud had been and the
straight along by the built-up riverbank was lush and green, tangled with willow herb and that creepy wild rhubarb
that grows in the damp, crawling with centipedes and earywigs. It was all alive. Warblers warbled non-stop and the
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
open with little crackles that made it sound like the bushes were on fire. Three small boys paddled about barefoot
up to their thighs in the rough marsh, feeling for lost golf balls with their toes and feeding them into a big
plastic bucket. </p>
<p>The four-ball took their time and one of them hooked a fast curver straight into the marsh. The nearest boy marked
where it went and then looked the other way. There was no chance that pringle man in the while flat cap and the
Payne Stewart knickerbockers was going to risk his spikes in the deep marsh. Every footstep set off a jacuzzi of
nitrates and methane that smelt worse than old cow farts. </p>
<p>"Have you seen the ball, sonny?"</p>
<p>"No mister." A blatant lie. It had missed him by only three yards. "But I've got some spares. Sell you half a
dozen."</p>
<p>Swift negotiation, and to the boys out there, it was a seller's market, always had been. Jed Cooper and Jack Lorne
had done that job plenty of years before and had bought good bikes with the proceeds. Then they got a paper round
and sold the golf franchise to two other boys from down the street and passed on the tradition. Good days. </p>
<p>"Supply and demand," Jack said. He always came out with these things. "Nothing changes."</p>
<p>Pringle man did his deal, keeping his black and white brogues away from the gassy muck and they sauntered on, rotund
rotarian senior partners killing time. The fat-arsed women came by, hacking pretty wildly, and a stray ball smacked
into the gorse nearby, sending up a thick, somehow exotic scent of coconut oil. </p>
<p>"Stupid cow," Neil said. "That could have brained me."</p>
<p>"You'd have ended up with more brains than you were born with."</p>
<p>Donny pulled a long black tube from the cart. It came out like a blunt sword. </p>
<p>"This is the piece of the resistance." He murdered a French accent. </p>
<p>"What's that?"</p>
<p>"A golf ball holder. Got it in a sale for two quid."</p>
<p>"Total waste of money," Jed said. </p>
<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
liquid went down. </p>
<p>"What the hell's that?"</p>
<p>"The angels share." Donny wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Want some?"</p>
<p>"But what the hell is it?" Neil wanted to know.</p>
<p>"Only the finest twenty-five-year-old Glen Murroch. Made before you were even a glint. It'll set you back fifty notes
a bottle, maybe more."</p>
<p>"You ripped it off?"</p>
<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
it's going, for it won't be going long."</p>
<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
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>
<p>Jack had summed it up. "You get screwed, and then they really fuck you." Jack wasn't really that given to swearing
either, but he hit it right on the head. </p>
<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
distillery was going to shut for good. Him and another two hundred would be out to scrap, and then Alistair Sproat
would make a fortune selling off the land for a useless shopping centre that was going to try to sell lots of things
to people with bags of no money. It was worse for Donny Watson. He'd just been made up to chargehand, in the
cooperage where they made the barrels, and there sure wasn't going to be a big demand for his services around here
any more, not with Sproat aiming to get into the designer moonshine market that didn't need any years in oak
conditioning doing nothing but getting smooth. It was much the same for the rest of them, even Jack, who everybody
had said was the one most likely to make something of himself, but here he was, down in the gorse with the rest of
them, Saturday afternoon and nothing much else to do. Soon they'd be able to play midweek, for the same reason.</p>
<p>He passed the tube untouched to Jed who lifted it up like he was playing a trombone and poured some down his own
throat. His face went red and he started to cough and somebody thumped him on the back. "Lordy lordy, that's the
real stuff. Smooth as silk."</p>
<p>"They'll be doing a last bottling sometime soon," Donny said. "Clearing all the old barrels out of stock. Sproat
wants a special blend before the doors shut."</p>
<p>"Scraping the bottom of the barrel."</p>
<p>"No, this is real good stuff. It's been there for years. It was made for some boat, the Queen Elizabeth probably, and
then it just got locked down in customs bond. The buyer went bust, years ago, so there's tons of it, all over-proof
as well."</p>
<p>"And then you're out on your ear."</p>
<p>"Then we're all out," Donny agreed. "Life's a pure bitch." He grabbed the whisky and took another slug at it. Neil
had a mouthful, then Jed and then Tam Bowie who hadn't said much because he was still working, at least until they
finished the houses out on the east end of the town. It came back to Jack. </p>
<p>"Life is a box of chocolates," Jed said. "You end up getting left with all the hard ones that break your teeth."</p>
<p> "Look at this place," Jack said. "We got a river, and a castle and the best pubs in the west. Fishing and climbing
and everything else, wall-to-wall women and then the arseholes come along and totally screw it up."</p>
<p>"You'll be okay when you finish your college stuff," Jed said. </p>
<p>"Sure, I'll be rich as sin. I don't think. If I even get to finish, now."</p>
<p>Everybody knew Jack was paying his way through, working his way to some degree in business or management, studying
after his morning shift in the dairy. Nobody really knew exactly what it was for and he never said much about it. He
was up at four in the morning delivering milk, and then half the day cleaning out the tankers at the dairy and God
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
the bootstraps, make something of himself like his grandad always said, and since his old man had died, it had been
no easy garden stroll. </p>
<p>Now the dairy was teetering on the edge and Andy Kerr was staring disaster in the face. The two hundred grand he'd
invested in new tankers had proved a bad bet after the big supermarket chain he'd been supplying for ten years
pulled the rug and left him flat. They'd been trying to drive the wholesale price down to where even the dairy
farmers would operate at a loss. Now Andy Kerr and the farmers, and everybody who worked for them were all going to
lose.</p>
<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
councillors were on the take. You get Andy out and you've got five prime acres to build on and Asda and Safeway and
Sainsbury's are biting each other's backs to get flat land to trade on. That was a sellers market. So the
supermarkets won whichever way.</p>
<p>Eighteen prime acres when you threw in Bruce Harbour, where Sproat planned to bulldoze all the old distillery
buildings and warehouses. Another piece of town history gone forever, but that was nothing new. What could you
do?</p>
<p>"Bastards," Donny said, and everybody agreed with the sentiment. He had Irish red hair and freckles and his face was
scarlet from the sun. </p>
<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
hundred out of work, and worse to come."</p>
<p>"How d'you figure that out? It's only two hundred at the distillery."</p>
<p>"<em>Only</em> two hundred," Jed butted in. "Get real!"</p>
<p>"Okay," Jack said. "You got the two hundred from Sproat's. Another forty from the creamery. That's the start. Plenty
of people not earning, and not spending. That's going to hit the shops and the bars, and when they get hit, they lay
off. So there's less rake-in to the council. So they start cutting services and jobs."</p>
<p>He shook his head. "Look what's happened after the banks crashed. Thousands of jobs wiped out. Less taxes for the
government. So they start cutting costs. More jobs down the drain. Less taxes. It's a vicious circle."</p>
<p>"Bastard!" Donny repeated. "Somebody should do something about it."</p>
<p>Jack just nodded. </p>
<p>Jed got to his feet.</p>
<p>"Enough of this dismal crap. Come on and finish the game."</p>
<p> "Hey mister, you want some balls?" One of the boys held up a plastic bag.</p>
<p>"His granny's got them," Tam chipped in and everybody fell about. </p>
<p>"What's it like with her teeth out?"</p>
<p>"You'll never know. What's it like being a dildo?"</p>
<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
apiece. Tam hit a scorcher that went straight down the middle and nearly hit the woman who had pulled the gusset
lining from her cheeks and she turned round to glare. </p>
<p>"Fore. . . . " he bawled. </p>
<p>"<em>Sixty </em>bloody four."</p>
<p>"That would be the only bang she'd get," Neil said. </p>
<p>"Not unless Jed catches her up."</p>
<p>"Shit upon you, gentlemen" Jed said, very agreeably. "Don't knock it until you've tried it, not that you're going to
get the chance. The mature lady, she don't yell, she don't tell and she be grateful as all hell."</p>
<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.
Neil managed all of twenty yards and scooped a two-foot gouge. Jed topped it hard and the ball dug in to a knoll,
under the roots of a tree. Donny hit his a smack and his did a fast curve to the left. The greyhound whined and
rubbed her backside along the grass again.</p>
<p>"Sliced and diced," somebody said. </p>
<p>"No. It was hooked."</p>
<p>The ball kept curving past the willow stumps and came down into the march, not far from the furthest swamp kid. Donny
swore. </p>
<p>"Anybody got another ball?"</p>
<p>"There was some in the bag."</p>
<p>"No," Jed said. "I took them out for the lager."</p>
<p>"Oh, brilliant! That's me out the game."</p>
<p>"Want a ball mister? Ten for five. Brand new, no totties."</p>
<p>"How much for one?"</p>
<p>"Got to buy bulk, mister. Ten balls, five notes."</p>
<p>"That's bloody robbery. I'll wrap this six iron round your ear."</p>
<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>
<p>But Donny was no member. </p>
<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
no stopping him. His cargo pants were down at his ankles before anybody could say a thing. </p>
<p>"Just leave it," Jed said. "We can take shots each."</p>
<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
scene. His ball had landed thirty feet out, close to a lone squat bush. </p>
<p>"It's too deep. You'll soak your pants."</p>
<p>"To hell with the pants." He pushed them down too and stepped out. His backside was pallid furred with golden hairs
which contrasted with the dark tee shirt. He pulled the edge down to cover his balls and tried to wedge it between
his thighs. </p>
<p>"Let it swing, Donny boy."</p>
<p>"There's piranhas in there. They go for worms."</p>
<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
straight. </p>
<p>"You don't know what you're missing here, ladies."</p>
<p>Everybody laughed, even Donny. He scratched his backside and then started wading until the mud came up to his thighs.
Every step made a gloopy sucking sound and set up and gobble of bubbles and sighed when they reached the
surface. </p>
<p>"What a smell, man. That would knock you out flat."</p>
<p>"Let's make it a four ball," Neil said. "I'm not playing with him when he comes out."</p>
<p>Donny was bending down now, arms deep in the mud, white backside catching the sun, nose close to the surface. </p>
<p>"Use your feet," Jack shouted. </p>
<p>Donny stood up and held his hand up in triumph. His arm was black from fingers to shoulder. </p>
<p>"Got it," he called back, floundering to catch his balance, and then laboriously turned to make the long sticky walk
back to the hard ground. </p>
<p>"Shit," Jed said. "That's what it smells like. That is rank rotten."</p>
<p> Neil laughed. "Momma always said, stupid is as stupid does."</p>
<p>Donny stood there and the black greasy ooze slowly slid down his thighs. The tip of his penis bore a black dot of
mud.</p>
<p>Fannieboz strained at the leash and shoved her nose into his crotch.</p>
<p>Donny stumbled backwards. "Jeez, Neil. You got to get that bitch fixed."</p>
<p>"It's her hormones. Something wrong with her glands. She can't help it."</p>
<p>The greyhound mewled and rolled her eyes at Donny.</p>
<p>"That's one seriously screwed pooch," he said.</p>
<p>"Hey, mud man, you have to get cleaned up." Jed held his nose. "That's bog awful."</p>
<p>"Along here," Jack said. "If there's any water in the steam you can wipe it off."</p>
<p>They all sauntered off, taking shots when they came across the balls, Donny leaving black and smelly footprints on
the green grass, until they reached the little runnel that crossed the fairway. There was about a foot of water,
flowing slowly, with a thick candyfloss of algae on either side. Some water skaters skimmed the surface and a family
of whirligig beetles madly made themselves dizzy. </p>
<p>Donny slid down the bank and into the water and immediately a trail of ooze washed downstream in slow whorls. He bent
and started wiping the mud off.</p>
<p>"What's that smell?" Tam asked, sniffing the still air. </p>
<p>"It's the dog."</p>
<p>"No it's the ginger loony from the black lagoon," somebody said. </p>
<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
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
slugger went flying off into the hedge. </p>
<p>"What the fuck. . . .? "</p>
<p>Jack was still on the curve of the adrenaline roller, with that odd singing in his ears and everything was going in
backlit slow motion like in one of those old Jap samurai films. He regained his balance, used the spin to follow
through, turned, and sunk a fast boot into the man's groin. The thug doubled up and made an odd, gasping growl of
sound. Jack brought the sand-wedge up and whipped it down as the guy bent over and the heavy face connected with his
left buttock in a wondrous meaty whack.</p>
<p>The man roared like a bear.</p>
<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
like him at all. </p>
<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
huge and overwhelming fury swamped Jack Lorne and he swung out again with the wedge, taking the other man on the
ribs so hard that it doubled him over. Seggs Cullen was on his feet, holding his mouth, dribbling the same kind of
blood and snotters and yelling in a mush behind his fingers. The second man gasped for breath, caught it and came
forward, reaching for the club. Jack swung again, fast left and right and managed to catch a knuckle with a sound
like stone on stone.</p>
<p>Up at the Jaguar somebody was bawling and Jack couldn't make out the words. The man with the sore knuckles and arm
and balls backed off, growling and cursing incoherently and making sure he would recognise Jack Lorne if he ever saw
him again and then they were up at the Jag and the doors were shut and it sizzled away, sending up dry earth and
grass and a pall of blue exhaust. </p>
<p>Donny pushed himself up again and crawled around blind on his hands and knees, making a complete, confused little
circle, and Jack caught him just before his arms gave way again. </p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="text">
<div class="section" id="xhtmldocuments">
<h1>2</h1>
<p>Friday night and Macs Bar was all noise and laughing. The juke box competed with MTV and the karaoke was setting up.
A couple of kids were over at the bandit, thumbing
coins and staring at the flashing lights, going for the full epileptic. The joint would be juddering by
midnight. </p>
<p>"Who said this place was dead?" Jed straightened up from the pool table to watch two slender blonde girls doing the
dance they must have been practising in their bedrooms, metronome perfect. Behind the bar it was all bustle and
hustle, Frank and the girls weaving their own dance in the tight space; in front of it, three deep in the shallows,
getting to six near the door. </p>
<p>"Of all da gin joints in all the towns in all the woild, they has ta walk into mine." Neil did GBH to old Bogey..</p>
<p>"They see you and walk back out again, fast."</p>
<p>They were up at the held territory of the far corner, squeezed in by the press of new arrivals, close to ten at night
and it was still warm. Here in the confined space, the moving of bodies added another ten degrees. The heatwave had
stretched to three weeks and while the puddles of the summer deluge had finally drained and dried to cracked china,
it was still lush, getting to the hot and sticky stage that's still a rarity in these parts, even with the global
warming coming on apace. </p>
<p>Jed had trails of sweat rambling down his cheeks. Neil took a shot, potted and ended up right on line to make another
drop.</p>
<p> "Fat man, you shoot a great game of pool." They were a good double act.</p>
<p>Neil started to laugh just as he was about to take the pot and he sliced the white. It skittered away without
doing any damage.</p>
<p> "Cheating rat, you put me off." He turned and held the queue up in both hands. "You don't understand! I could've had
class. I coulda been a <em>contender</em>. I coulda <em>been</em> somebody, instead of a bum which is what I am."
</p>
<p>"Exactly."</p>
<p>"Yeah, but for a pint, who said it?"</p>
<p>"Marlon Apocalypse Captain Kurtz Brando. On Da Watafront."</p>
<p> "Every one a winner. You get the pint." Neil called the barman. "You want another, Jack? Put a smile on your torn
face?"</p>
<p>They'd been hunched at the bar, waiting for the pool table to free up, and Jack hadn't been his usual self. Friday
night was fun night, always had been, but Jack Lorne had a deep side to him that sometimes showed through to make up
for the mischief. You never could tell just when it would.</p>
<p>"The town's dead on its feet," Jack was saying. "This is just the nerves jumping. You watch, rigor mortis will set in
quick as a blink."</p>
<p>"You're nothing but a pessimist." Jed always got optimistic on Smirnoff Ice. "If it's just the nerves, this place is
jumping pretty good. Alive and kicking."</p>
<p>"Pessimist? <em>You're </em>facing ninety days notice. The dairy is about to fold. Donny and Neil are just waiting
for the axe."</p>
<p>It was Friday night and he knew he should have shrugged it off, followed the Friday night current and just gone for
the fun, but it was hard to get the chuckle engine started tonight. Donny had got out of casualty strapped up and
stiff and nobody believed he had fallen down a flight of stairs, but there was no way he'd finger Ferguson or his
team of pit-bulls. You just wouldn't win, because it was two of them against three, and then Ferguson would start
leaning on people. He threw a bit of tonnage in this town and you could walk down River Street and get a sore face
and cracked ribs from a stranger anytime he said so. Most of the hurt was bruising and some internal stuff that was
healing slow and sore and every time Jack thought about it he got a hot clench in the middle of his belly while his
nails dug hard into the palms of his hands and he knew it was just impotence. There was nothing he could do, and
that was the worst of it. The story of their lives.</p>
<p>He kept picturing Donny, red hair matted and blood dripping to the grass, turning round in that stupid little circle
on his hands and knees and moaning like a dying bullock. God, that had been scary. He closed his eyes and flicked
the picture away. Donny had managed to get to his feet and the pupil of one eye was shrunk down to a pinhole. He had
started gurgling up the blood he'd swallowed and half of it went over Jack's tee shirt. It had taken them twenty
minutes to get round to Jed's and a miraculous eight minutes of crazy driving in that souped up little stock-car to
get to casualty. Jed could wheel it like nobody's business. The doc said Donny was dead lucky he still had his
kidneys and any brains left, but it didn't seem lucky to either of them. The nurse gave him a jab and rubbed alcohol
on the dirt and then the young houseman had started in with the needlepoint where they'd shaved the hair. He made a
good job of it. </p>
<p>Jack was on ice cold Guinness, taking it slow. It had been a long day and it was taking him a while to shake it
off.</p>
<p>"I'll get another job no bother," Jed was saying. "Everybody needs drivers." </p>
<p>"I sincerely hope do. That means you can start buying drink."</p>
<p>Tam pushed his way through the crowd and shoehorned into the corner. He had slicked his hair back behind his big red
ears that glowed with the heat they picked up during the day. Neil was leaking, carrying a couple of stones more
than a heatwave made comfortable.</p>
<p>"What's happening?" Tam was up for mischief.</p>
<p>"Couple of parties ongoing, or we could cut about River Street. The town's one big Mardi Gras tonight, wall-to-wall
women. Some of them not too sore on the eyeball."</p>
<p>Jed looked at Jack. "Told you, didn't I?"</p>
<p>"You just don't know when you're down and out."</p>
<p> "You okay Jake?" Tam was holding out a ten-spot for the next round and one of the girls behind the bar was volleying
verbals with him. </p>
<p>"Sure. Just tired. Got to get my second wind. "</p>
<p>"You'll be glad to get a lie-in these mornings," Tam said and as soon as he did he realised that might not have been
the diplomatic thing. </p>
<p>"Sure, sleep it off. It's time I checked out Australia House. The outback's got to be better than this."</p>
<p> "Come on you guys," Neil said, barrelling in against them. "It's Friday night and we've got the whole weekend ahead.
I mean like, hol'on, consarnit, golly-darnit. I'll be a horn-swaggeled bushwackin' side-windin' saddled horn...
rivvid, ravvid, ravvid...You going to the party?"</p>
<p>"Maybe," Jack said. "I told Robert we'd show up sometime."</p>
<p>"You Jed? You coming with the boys or going for a leg under with her indoors. Mrs Round the Block Many Times?"</p>
<p>Jed aimed hard fingers at Neil's belly, dug in and squeezed hard. Neil yelped.</p>
<p>"She's not been around. She's a previously enjoyed companion. Who will be enjoyed some more, given half a
chance."</p>
<p>"And you're not a sex machine, you're just hormonally automated."</p>
<p>Jed laughed. Everybody knew he would peel away some time late on and head up to Margery Burns' place for a night on
the springs. </p>
<p>"Come on Jed," Tam wanted to know. "Is it the grey hair or what?"</p>
<p>"None of your business. Do I ask you about the chicks you shag?"</p>
<p>"All the time!"</p>
<p>"What chicks?" Neil pumped his fist. "He only knows Pamela. Gets by with a little help from his friends."</p>
<p>"That's very true," the bar girl agreed, and that broke the mood for Jack. They all cracked up again and handed over
their empty glasses to start on the next round. </p>
<p>"Listen," Jed said. "Don't knock it until you try it. Tell you one thing, she's taught me plenty. Swear to god, even
the neighbours need a smoke afterwards."</p>
<p>They all fell about.</p>
<p>"Has she got a daughter?" Jack asked.</p>
<p>Somebody called for order and Frank the barman bulled round through the crowd and slung an arm round one of the
dancing girls and the karaoke started with his Friday night version of Meatloaf getting up to naughty by the
dashboard light. The noise cranked up until it drowned MTV. </p>
<p>Over by the door a small commotion started and none of them noticed until Donny eased his way in beside them, his
normally red face a whiter shade of grey. He let out an involuntary grunt when an inadvertent elbow brushed against
his ribs. Jack could see him grinding his teeth. </p>
<p>"Jesus, Don. What are you doing out?"</p>
<p>Donny had taken the bandage off his head and sometime between the golfing disaster and tonight he'd managed to shave
the rest of his hair down to stubble. His scalp was just as white as his face, and the stitches just to the left of
his crown looked like a patch of spiky thorns. </p>
<p>Somebody got one of the stools and shoved it under his backside. Tam shouted up another lager. </p>
<p>"Stay in on a Friday night? Goes against my religion."</p>
<p>"You should have stayed in your <em>bed </em>Don. Look at the state of you. You're having a right bad head day."</p>
<p>He shook it, regretted it. "My ma keeps asking me what happened. She's driving me up the wall. I'm scared I'll crack
and tell her Ferguson's going to pull the plug on Aunty Jean. And then she'll call the cops and the shit will hit.
Anyway, I need help, you guys. I haven't had a stiffy for days. It's got me worried."</p>
<p>"What do you expect? You've just had your ribs caved in, got concussed, and nearly lost a kidney. You have to give
yourself time to heal."</p>
<p>"But I wake up hard every morning," Donny said. "What if that's me for life? I mean, I'm only twenty four."</p>
<p>"And that's six years past your prime. It's all downhill from here on."</p>
<p>"It's not funny. You know where I can get viagra?"</p>
<p>"Stick to lager. It'll do you better."</p>
<p>Over in the other corner, a tableful of girls from the Starlight stage group were out on the town, up on their feet
murdering Gloria Gaynor, all of them promising that they would survive, though half of them didn't look as if they'd
see the night out still awake or still standing. One of them was blowing kisses at Jack and he blew one back just
for the hell of it. </p>
<p>"Does Kate know you're out?" Jack's sister Linda was amongst the crowd.</p>
<p>"Kiss my ass, little mother."</p>
<p>Linda had her arm around Neil's sister Joanne and another girl called Donna Bryce who worked with them in the
hairdressers. All of them were ready for the karaoke to do the number they'd been practising for the past five
weeks. The kiss blower pushed her way across.</p>
<p> "Jack Lorne. Haven't seen you in years. Here, give us a real kiss."</p>
<p>There was no preamble. She just lunged at him and there was nothing he could do. All the other girls started hooting
and he held up two fingers to them all. </p>
<p>"Put him down," Linda ordered. "I know where he's been."</p>
<p> "Look at that girl go," Neil broke in. "She's eating him alive."</p>
<p>"That should cheer up his miserable face," Tam said agreeably. </p>
<p>Jack finally managed to break away. He wiped a hand over his mouth to clear the lipstick. </p>
<p>"Are you going to Clare Jamieson's party?" the girl asked. </p>
<p>"Sure," he said. </p>
<p>"See you there," she said with drink, hope and promise chasing each other in her eyes, gave him a squeeze and went
back to the group. </p>
<p>"So we're going to Robert's, for definite," Jack said. "She'll cook my rabbits."</p>
<p>Neil got to the mike and gathered up Linda and Donna Bryce and Joanne, who sang the doo-wah backing vocals in the
Starlight show. Neil had a terrific baritone voice that he loved to show off and as soon as the music kicked in,
they were belting out one of the stage numbers, all in close harmony, making the walls shudder.</p>
<p>Tam called Frank over and the boys chipped in the kitty money for their party drink. Frank filled two big plastic
bags and they were just about to leave for Robert's place when there was another commotion at the far door as a new
group of people pushed their way in. In a crowded bar, you can always tell when the atmosphere changes. It's
something in the tone of the noise that just alters and gets the nerves on full alert. Even the air seems to turn
brittle. Jack felt it and looked up. </p>
<p>Over at the microphone, Neil broke off the song and the girls backing stumbled to a fade.</p>
<p>"They're he-eeeere." He announced in a high girlish voice.</p>
<p>Jack turned, aware of the change.</p>
<p>"The boys are back in town," Neil sang right out against the music, looking at Jack but pointing down the far end.
Jack followed the direction. He stopped still. A man stared right at him down the length of the bar. Frank the
barman caught the look and did a double take. </p>
<p>"Dear oh dear oh dear," Jack said. </p>
<p>"What's up?" Tam turned and saw the man lift a hand. Beside him another man, squat and shaven headed was looking
around, obviously searching the faces. He had a big plum-coloured bruise right across his cheek and his lips were
scabbed and raw. </p>
<p>The first man jabbed a finger straight at Jack. Donny looked up and saw Seggs Cullen first. </p>
<p>"Aw, holy fuck!"</p>
<p>"Is that them?" Tam wanted to know. "Jeez Jake, that's Wiggy Foley. He's just got out of Barlinnie jail. He did six
for armed robbery. Full stretch for bad behaviour."</p>
<p>He turned to Jack. "You never hit that psycho with a club, did you?"</p>
<p>Jack nodded, feeling less heroic than he had when his anger was hot and high. They were stuck here right at the end
of the bar, on the opposite side from the door. </p>
<p>"You should have made sure that nutter stayed down."</p>
<p>Down there, somebody shouted in protest. At the corner of the bar, Donna Bryce's boyfriend, a fellow they knew called
Ed Kane leant in towards them.</p>
<p>"Do you guys need a hand?" Ed was dark and wiry. He and Tam sometimes kicked about together. It was a good offer
under the circs.</p>
<p>"Thanks Ed." Jack said. "Best not get involved. It's a grudge thing."</p>
<p>"Any time," Ed said. "You give me a shout." Even in the tension of the moment, Jack thought that was a fine thing to
say.</p>
<p>"Nick out the back, Jack," Neil was pushing towards them, microphone still in his hand, still keeping a tune. "Make a
new plan, Tam."</p>
<p> "Outamaway... !" It was just an angry growl. Wiggy Foley had recognised Jack all right, just as his eyes had
promised back there on the sunlit field. They could see people push back as the two hard men shouldered their way
through and the atmosphere suddenly crystallised. </p>
<p>"Hey what the fu... ?"</p>
<p>"He spilled my drink... "</p>
<p>"Watch it you... "</p>
<p>Tam grabbed Jack by the collar. "That was really clever, <em>Die Hard</em>. Him of all people."</p>
<p>He pulled Jack back away from the corner. "Grab these bags, quick."</p>
<p>For once Jack let himself be led. He hoisted the bags, even though logic and survival instinct told him to dump them,
but it was Friday night, and some instincts are even more deeply rooted. Tam raised a foot against the bar of the
door that nobody ever used and kicked it in a downward stamp, proving once and for all that the Tae Kwan Do lessons
had not been all a waste of time. The door punched outwards and cool night air sucked in. </p>
<p>"Get going." </p>
<p>"What about Donny?"</p>
<p>Donny was moving slowly, as if he was encased in plaster and hurting all over, which was probably true. Neil helped
him out and down the little alley behind the bar. Tam turned and pushed the door closed again. Foley and Cullen were
halfway to the corner, shoving people out of the way. They could hear the shouts from halfway down the alley. Tam
kicked again and the door clammed. He swivelled to the left while Jack went to the right, hoisted two aluminium kegs
and jammed them in against the door. If there was a fire inside, everybody would burn to carbon, but that didn't
seem likely the way the beer was flowing. Jack grabbed a wooden pallet and pushed it hard against the casks,
managing to force a corner against the brick wall to hold it in place. As soon as it locked, something hard hit the
door on the inside and somebody was bawling incoherently and it was perm any one from two. Cullen or Foley. </p>
<p>"Right let's <em>getty-fuh</em>," Tam said. Jack picked up the remaining bag, trusting that Jed had the other and
they scooted down the alley towards the river, knowing they only had a minute before the two pit-bulls got
themselves back through the crowd and out the front door. He was thinking of Donny, who might make two miles an hour
if he worked hard at it and picked up speed. </p>
<p>They turned the corner and caught up with them. </p>
<p>"You come with me," Tam said, taking Donny by the arm. Across the street Tam's Yamaha Dragstar was canted over on its
strut, shiny in the summer night light. </p>
<p>"Can you get a leg over it?"</p>
<p>"I'm like Jed. I'll get a leg over anything."</p>
<p>Tam helped him on and the other three disappeared round the corner to where Jed had parked the old Skoda shell with
the big V6 Saab engine under the hood. They jumped in and the engine growled like a beast. </p>
<p> Jed grinned. "Fasten your seatbelts kids, it's going to be a bumpy ride."
<em> </em>"Pop-eyed Betty Davis," Neil guessed correctly.</p>
<p> "If you gentlemen could tear yourselves away from Hollywood quiz night, I really think we should be in transit."</p>
<p>Round the corner the bike snorted, purred smoothly and Tam and Donny came cruising past them, just as Foley and
Cullen came barrelling round the corner in pursuit.</p>
<p>"Watch this thing shift," Jed said. He slipped on his sunglasses, hit the throttle and Jack was thrown right back
into the seat. They were across the old bridge and gone in five bare seconds</p>
<p>Robert Wardell might have been an air steward and as camp as a girl guides jamboree, but he was a mate and he never
threw a bad party. </p>
<p>The place was heaving when they got there and Robert </p>
<p> never Bob, or Rab, always Robert </p>
<p> had as usual, stored away his collection of china from his long haul stopovers, and lifted the zebra skin that he'd
smuggled from Kenya. He loved a party and hated a mess.</p>
<p>"Jack, Thomas! Come away in boys. I though you were never turning up."</p>
<p>Robert was effusive in his welcome. He bought duty free exotic drink on long hauls and his parties just never ran
out. Nevertheless, it was always bad form here to turn up empty handed. </p>
<p>"Just dump it anywhere," he insisted, taking the two of them by the arm, knowing he was the only non-female who would
get away with it. He was a mate. In primary school he'd always held the jackets when the rest of them were tumbling
in the mud and they'd always taken care of trouble for him when it showed up. </p>
<p>"Listen. I've brought a couple of friends I want you to meet."</p>
<p>"If they're like the usual, forget it," Jack said, completely inoffensively. </p>
<p>"No, not at all. You think I'd waste them on the likes of you phobic barbarians?"</p>
<p>He raised a hand and beckoned across the room. Tam and Jack looked at each other, taking in Robert's silk hipsters
that were just a shade too tight and a lot too purple. He was a dead ringer for Rock Hudson in the old Doris Day
movies and women always wanted to reform him, with remarkably little success. Or none at all.</p>
<p>"Ilse and Ingrid, come and meet Jack and Thomas."</p>
<p>He leaned in to Jack. "You don't see too many of these walking down River Street."</p>
<p>Jack turned. </p>
<p>She was one of the most stunning women he had ever seen, and the one next to her was nothing less than a blonde
vision. </p>
<p>"Be still my beating heart," Tam said. </p>
<p>"Be still your hormones," Robert said.</p>
<p>"Hello," Ilse said, holding out a perfect hand. Jack shook it and forgot to let go. She smiled as if this was nothing
less than expected. </p>
<p>"We're from Sweden," she said, totally unnecessarily. You never got skin and hair and teeth and everything else in
packages like this anywhere else in the world with the exception of Estonia and that was just a hop-skip away.
Robert had got the boys a free flight there a couple of years back for a stag night and they all wondered why he
still swung the funny way. </p>
<p>"And what brings you here?"</p>
<p>"Robert did. We work with the airline in Stockholm. Our uncle is the captain of a ship here, so we come to see
him."</p>
<p>"That's awfully nice. Would you like a drink?"</p>
<p>"Of course. That's the other reason we are here."</p>
<p>Ilse took him by the arm and led him towards the kitchen. Ingrid took the other arm and Tam was left standing with
Robert, making goldfish faces.</p>
<p>"Don't worry," Robert said. "I've some free flights coming up. There's a million just like them where they come from.
And the boys are world class."</p>
<p> Donny was on the leather settee, propped up in a couple of cushions, spinning some yarn about fighting for a girl's
honour that got more preposterous by the minute, but he had a sympathetic audience and the sympathy vote was better
than nothing. With his head shaved and stitched and his face swollen out like a fed hamster, it was all he was going
to get. They kept the drink coming and minded his bruises and he seemed okay. Jack ended up on a double-seater with
Ingrid on one side and Ilse on the other and a big bottle of Bailey's Irish cream between them. He was drinking
double handed, alternating Guinness with sips from their liqueur glasses.. </p>
<p>"Poof's drink," Neil said, flicking through the discs, then he remembered where he was. "No offence Robert."</p>
<p>"None taken, Big Stuff. I got a crate of the stuff in Gibraltar for next to nothing."</p>
<p>"It's a total rip off," Jack said. "That's nearly fifteen notes a bottle and most of it's milk."</p>
<p>"But beautiful," Ilse said. Her hair was short and spiky and so fair it was like fibre-optic. The Irish cream left a
pale rim round her mouth. "We do not taste this in Sweden, you know. Much too much <em>kroner</em>. Too much money."
</p>
<p>"I'll send you some," Jack said. "Just leave your address and phone number."</p>
<p>"But the customs men, the Duane, you call it? You know what I mean? They catch it and ask for even more money. My
father, he make his own drink, with sugar and water and blueberry." She screwed her mouth into distaste. "Not nice
like this."</p>
<p>"So why can't you buy it?"</p>
<p>"Too much money. Your whisky, it costs... " She closed her eyes and did a mental conversion. "Fifty of your pounds
for a litre. All is taxed you know. They say everybody would just be drunk all the winter."</p>
<p>A short-dark haired girl came up and gave the two Swedes the measuring eye. </p>
<p>"Is Kate not coming tonight Jack?" she asked him, but directed the question at them. </p>
<p>"Sure. She'll be here."</p>
<p>"Well you better not let her catch you then."</p>
<p>He shrugged, all innocence. "International relations Jeanette. You got to be diplomatic."</p>
<p>Ilse leaned over him. "Kate? Is this a friend of yours?"</p>
<p>He was about to answer when the old Stealers Wheel number came belting out of the surround-a-sound and Neil was up at
the microphone. His big voice suited his frame. </p>
<p><em>"Don't know why I came here tonight, I got the feeling something ain't right."</em></p>
<p>He was pointing at Jake as he sang. Tam picked it up and shoved himself in towards the mike. </p>
<p><em>"Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right."</em></p>
<p>They stuck their fingers straight at Jack.</p>
<p><em>"Here I am stuck in the middle with you"</em></p>
<p>He woke early, too early, with a minor hangover, glad it was Saturday, and that somebody else was filling in on the
round. He heard the float trundle past, and the rattle and clank of the crates, wondering just how long he'd be
hearing that noise in the mornings. Outside the thrushes were competing with the blackbirds, belting it out at the
top of their voices. He always pictured them, like the boys on a Friday night, trying to get the double message
across. </p>
<p><em>Hey you arseholes, stay off my patch... hey you girls, come and get it. </em></p>
<p>A lone robin pitched in, off key, high and shrill. It had hung about the garden since winter, feeding on whatever he
threw out. It took on all comers, no matter the size or species. </p>
<p>He lay still, letting himself come to, piecing together the remnants of the night after they had run out the back of
Mac's bar. </p>
<p>That had been a hairy moment, and just as well Tam had his Yamaha out in the street and not stuck up in his garage,
otherwise they'd have been caught down the alley trying to get Donny free and clear. </p>
<p>Close. Too close. And all for what? He'd felt a buzz of sudden adrenaline when the two of them had come in and stared
him right in the eye, but not the way he had when he had a six iron in his hand and Donny was down in the dirt.
Foley was a crazy horse, just out of the jail, and god knows what he'd been carrying. If they'd got stuck in that
corner with no way out, there could have been yellow tape round the front door by midnight. Tam had been thinking on
his feet. He was a good man to have at your back. Now he'd have to stay clear of those psychos for a bit, and not
for the first time he wished Donny had kept his big mouth well shut. Even as he said it he knew that was the wrong
way to think.</p>
<p>Why the hell should they sit still for it?</p>
<p><em>Jesus.</em> That's what they spent their lives doing; sitting still and taking what they handed out. In school,
it was Lorne, Watson, Coogan, Bowie, Cleary. Present and correct. Not Jack or Don or Tom or whatever. It was like
you were there on their sufferance. The big American firms came in and acted like lady bountiful and thought they
owned the place and then they found some Korean kids could do the work for half the wage and the yanks were gone in
a puff of smoke, <em>sorry Jock, but business is business</em>. Got to supply the demand. Keep the shareholders
satisfied.</p>
<p>He stared at the ceiling, knowing it would be two hours before the house slowly came awake and wondering how he could
do it on four hours sleep at night. Saturday morning, hung over or not, he still woke at the same time and lay there
just thinking, chewing over the week, planning the next, solving the problems of the world and resolving nothing at
all. </p>
<p>You get through a lot of thoughts from five until seven. More if you wake at four, and sometimes Jack wished he could
do what Donny did at the weekends, sleep until eleven, back down the pub, up to the match, back into the pub, kill a
whole Saturday and be as carefree as a kid. </p>
<p>Close horizons, that's what it was. Donny was taking what they handed down. In less than two months he'd be on the
scrap and with three hundred more chasing every opening. Chances were he'd still be signing on for benefits a year
from now. Neil was the same, on ninety days notice. Tam was okay, and as long as they were still building houses on
every vacant space, he'd still be okay, but when the jobs went, the money went and everything slowed down. Supply
and demand again. It slowed down and Tam could well be looking for homers and weekend casual stuff, fitted kitchens
and bathrooms on the grip and the lump, no questions, no tax, no national insurance. No future.</p>
<p>He shook his head, trying to get his mind on to another tack, but at this time in the morning, minds have a mind of
their own and he couldn't jump the track to a mellower tune. He wondered if he was turning into a depressive.</p>
<p>Andy Kerr had taken him into the office and laid it on the line. He was going round the banks like the last man on a
Saturday night, when all the girls have put their coats on and the DJ is packing up the lights. The two new
stainless steel tank-trucks would have been a good investment, except for the fact that the supermarket that sucked
up most of the dairy products around here had put the squeeze on, and hard. It was a take-it-or leave it deal. Andy
had to take their price or go out of business. And if he took their price he couldn't make a profit. A lose-lose
situation all round.</p>
<p>Jack had gone over the books with Andy. There was no way he could keep his head above water. The dairy was on its
knees and its days were numbered.</p>
<p>Up at four in the morning wasn't much of a job, but it brought in a wage and it would help put Mike through Uni and
gave him a chance to haul himself up and get his chin over the bar. Up at four and that gave you time in the
afternoon to hit the books and watch the tapes and in two years time he might get the chance to put on the swanky
hat and bat-cape and see his mother in a good suit and a tear in her eye when he graduated. </p>
<p>Business. You got nowhere unless you understood business and until you did that you were dancing to somebody else's
tune. Andy Kerr, he was a grafter, but he only understood the milk trade, that was all, and look where it was
getting him: right into bankrupt court and receivership unless a miracle happened. </p>
<p>Jack turned over and thumped his pillow into a better shape, thinking about the night before..</p>
<p>Ingrid had pressed svelte curves up against him he knew every guy in the place had wanted to trade seats with him.
Ilse had waylaid him in the kitchen with a more than affectionate lingering kiss, while both his hands were occupied
with two full pints. </p>
<p><em>Clowns to the left ... Jokers to the right. </em></p>
<p>And a fool in the middle, that was for sure. He closed his eyes and remembered the suction of the kiss and he knew if
he'd stayed he'd have tried to get the two of them upstairs for a smorgasbord sandwich. And that would have blown
everything. Kate would not have been amused. </p>
<p>Just as well Lars Hanssen had turned up. Uncle Lars. <em>Jeez. </em>When he'd come in from the front room the place
had darkened. He was built like a bulldozer and looked like Thor Sledgehammer or whoever the crazy Viking was that
used to cut people's hearts out in AD 2000 or some other adventure magazine. He had wheat-fair hair like his nieces,
but long and shaggy and a big thick moustache, and man, could he shift drink. <em> </em>He had brought a couple of
bottles of Absolut blue label and seemed determined they would never see the light of day. He was half Finnish and
half Swede and claimed he was half Laplander as well and nobody except Jack knew the distinction. </p>
<p>"<em>Holigen-goligen</em>!" A big clap on the back and another shot was down his throat. He said it meant the same as
<em>Skol</em> in the Lapp language and at the end of the night everybody was saying it.</p>
<p>"I go back in three weeks when I have a good screw," he told Jack, and the rest of the guys laughed at that until
Jack explained the screw was the propeller. "It got twisted on the rocks at Harris."</p>
<p>It came out <em>tvisted on de rooks at Horace,</em> but everybody knew what he meant and Jed, he got mischievous and
started looking out old tracks and belting them out, like <em>Tvisting der Noot Avay</em>, and <em>Tvist and
Shoot</em> and big Uncle Lars never caught on to the fact he was having the piss ripped out of him. </p>
<p>"<em>Anyvay</em>," he said. "I have another three weeks and then back to Oslo first and then Stockholm. I have twenty
things to take and some pipes and I stay a week and be back on Skye in another week. Never stop, back and here,
there and back, all the times, until you get dizzy."</p>
<p>He lifted up his glass. "But it is nice to visit with my sister's babies, no? They worry all the time about old Uncle
Lars."</p>
<p>Ingrid lifted a balloon glass half filled with ice and Irish cream. Lars took it and gulped half of it and then he
pulled a face. </p>
<p>"What is this? Are you sick?"</p>
<p>Jack laughed. </p>
<p>"Like medicine it is!"</p>
<p>Jed laughed louder. "He talks like Yoda. Drunk he is!"</p>
<p>"Daft you are!"</p>
<p>"Uncle Yoda, another drink you want?" Everybody fell about. </p>
<p>"Always another drink," he bellowed, treating Jed to a one-armed bear hug that could have cracked ribs. "And what is
this <em>Yoda</em>?"</p>
<p>It all got a bit foggy after that and Jack remembered Jed sneaking off to finish the night and start the morning with
Margery Burns; helping Donny into a taxi and wondering what would have happened if he'd stayed. Ingrid being sick in
the back garden and Ilse leaving her to it and slinging her arms around Jack's neck again, all pliant and boneless
after a night on the Baileys. Uncle Yoda discovering a taste for the stuff after claiming it was a drink for
girly-boys, followed by an embarrassed silence that was finally broken by Robert's quick camp: "Suits me sir!"</p>
<p><em>.... I feel I'm going to fall off my chair.... and I'm wondering how I'll get down the stair..... </em></p>
<p>Gerry Rafferty's nasal voice kept coming back to him, as if there was a tape loop stuck in his head, but that's the
way it had got later on and Uncle Lars had got to the singing stage and in between times he was doing a deal with
Robert to take some of the Irish Cream home for his <em>vife</em>. </p>
<p>.... <em>You started off with nothing and you're proud that you're a self-made man... </em></p>
<p>Chance would be fine. Self-made milkman. He closed his eyes listening to the robin song merge with the lyrics in his
head. </p>
<p>Self made? He'd taken too long going about that and now he could be stuck half way through a degree and nothing to
show and no money either. He knew he should have bit on the bullet when he was just out of school, but his old man
had only been gone three years and his mother had still been wading through a swamp of grief, struggling to get to
the other side and able to cope only with that and there had been nothing for it but Jack to take charge. <em>Self
made</em>. He could be running his own business by now, or half way up some corporate ladder. Everybody had
expected him to make it. <em>Jeez</em>, he had expected that himself, and here he was, a soon-to-be-out-of-work
milkman with a special aptitude for hosing out the trail tankers. </p>
<p>Self made? Or self deluded. Over there on his desk he had a rack of books and a second-hand computer that was
dinosaur slow and he could rhyme off all the theory, Galbraith, Keynes, carried interest, value addition, double
entry, equity, bonds, the lot. </p>
<p>And still he was stuck here well below the middle line and the chances of breaking through were further and further
away. </p>
<p><em>Yet.... </em></p>
<p>There was something. It had snagged him on the golf course when Donny had been down in the gully, washing the crap
off his legs and there had been an oddly sweet scent in the air mixing headily with the coconut oil of the gorse
bloom, and those dead little trout belly up in the stream. </p>
<p><em>The angel's share. </em></p>
<p>Donny still had the mud stuck to the end of his dick and Tam had been laughing and pointing, but Jack's mind had done
the usual and shot off on a different tack. </p>
<p>"We're screwed. First they screw you and then they really fuck you."</p>
<p>Tam turning round, the only one with a safe job and a decent set of wheels, unless you counted Jed's V6 that needed a
different scrapyard bodyshell every time he and Neil hammered it round the stock circuit. Tam said: "God helps them
that helps themselves."</p>
<p>His grammar had left some to be desired, but that was true. They were all at the mercy, taking what was handed down,
and Jack knew he'd never get on that corporate ladder because unless you were at the very top, you were still taking
what they handed down. </p>
<p><em>God helps those.... </em>He closed his eyes, chasing the thought, and a picture of the stunning Ingrid came
suddenly into his mind. </p>
<p>"You come to Sweden," she had said in a flawless accent, and if it had been a year ago he'd have been on the next
plane. </p>
<p>But there was something else she had said that really snagged him. </p>
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