The Amateurs

by John Niven

  ‘Could be,’ Stevie said, lifting the hatch in the counter and stepping through. ‘And ye’ve a tendency tae swing from in to out. C’mon and we’ll go for a pint. Bernie, hold the fort. And keep this fucking pish–’ he held up the box for Love Again–‘aff the shelf.’

  Bernie appeared from the horror section with an armful of glossy slashers. ‘Nae bother, boss.’

  ‘And stop calling me boss, ya toadying wee bam.’

  Stevie’s father had opened Target Video in the early 1980s–at the height of the video-nasty boom, the days of the big V2000 boxes and the Betamax/VHS battle. The days when most video shops had floor-to-ceiling gore apocalypses surrounding a single copy of On Golden Pond. He’d made a small fortune, at one point having three shops scattered across northern Ayrshire. As the years passed the competition all gradually sold out to chains like Silver Screen. Stevie had inherited the shop–with its prime, high street location–from his father, but how he managed to stay in business was beyond Gary. His goal, his reason for getting up in the morning, seemed to be to insult and berate anyone foolish enough to approach the counter with a film that didn’t feature in Stevie’s personal top 100.

  ‘Thirty-three. Thirty-fucken-three, ya auld bastard, ye!’ Stevie said, raising his frothing lager. It had just gone five and they had the snug of the Annick to themselves. In 1990 they had sipped their first illegal pints in here–hiding behind big Tank MacIntyre, who’d got the round in, their tiny, childish hands struggling to grip the huge tumblers. Gary had been drunk before half of the lager had gone down, someone had put ‘Hallelujah’ by the Mondays on the jukebox and, for a moment, the snug of the Annick bar on the corner of Ardgirvan High Street had felt like the epicentre of the world. Over the last two decades its stone walls and dark wood had contained Gary, Stevie and their friends as they celebrated Christmases, birthdays and–more recently–the arrival of children. Its faux-leather seating had supported and comforted them as they mourned deaths and football disasters, its truncheon-handled pumps dispensing lager which served as champagne or hemlock, depending on the occasion.

  ‘Come tae fuck, it’s no that old…’

  ‘Same age as Christ on the cross,’ Stevie said, tearing open a pack of cheese and onion and spreading the contents on the table before them. ‘Jim Morrison, Byron, James Dean, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Ian Curtis, Bill Hicks, Edie Sedgwick, John Belushi, Nick Drake, Otis Redding, Sid Vicious, Kenny Dalglish, William Wallace…aw deed by the time they were your age.’

  ‘Kenny Dalglish isn’t dead.’

  ‘That bastard died the day he went tae Anfield!’ Stevie spluttered, spraying a film of crisps across the table. He had never forgiven King Kenny for leaving Celtic and transferring to Liverpool back in ’77. ‘Anyway, whit’s the problem wi’ yer swing?’

  ‘Ah’m shanking everything again.’

  ‘Och, yer probably jist standing too close tae the ball.’

  ‘I’d been trying that new tip but–’

  ‘This is the thing, Gary. You’re always looking fur a quick fix: this new tip, that new club, this new book…’

  Stevie shook his head and took a great slurp of his pint at the same time. ‘You’ve got tae take care o’ the fundamentals: grip, stance, ball position. Besides, you’re too nice to be a real sportsman. Look at Linklater. A perfect organism. Unclouded by conscience, remorse or delusions of morality.’

  ‘Ian Holm in Alien,’ Gary said automatically.

  Stevie had been a decent golfer in his youth, certainly a more naturally gifted player than Gary. He just chose not to play any more. Consequently he had indeed been granted the kind of deep peace, the serenity that only comes to those who have given up golf.

  ‘And I’ve got the Medal tomorrow,’ Gary said.

  The Medal: Ravenscroft Golf Club’s monthly competition. Gary entered every month with the hope that a combination of an unexpectedly decent round and his ridiculously high handicap would somehow propel him into…well, not the top three, the prizewinning slots, but at least the upper half of the field. Maybe get a couple of strokes shaved off his handicap. Actually winning a Medal? This had never crossed his mind in daylight. It existed only in his most elaborate fantasies, the ornately constructed kind he used to get himself to sleep on restless nights. ‘It’s just, every spring I start off with these high hopes and I…’ Gary paused, looking into his glass, into the swirling amber bubbles, ‘…I never seem to get any better, Stevie.’

  Stevie looked at Gary sadly. They had known each other for over a quarter of a century–since they had bonded over a rare Star Wars trading card in the violent melee of the playground of Castle Glen Primary School–and he felt his friend’s pain. What could he say? The truth–‘you are a very poor golfer who is unlikely to ever get much better’–was unthinkable. Stevie said the only thing he could. ‘Slow down and take a wee bit aff yer backswing. And don’t go up that driving range so much. All you’re doing is practising yer faults. Ah told ye–book a couple of lessons wi the pro up at the club.’

  ‘Aye. You’re probably right enough,’ Gary sighed.

  ‘Fucking hell, it’s no that bad, is it? Whit’s wrang?’

  ‘Ach, it’s no just that. It’s Pauline. We’re no, we haven’t, y’know…for a while.’ Gary looked up at Stevie, sad and ashamed.

  Stevie nodded, using his back molars to grind the last mouthful of cheese-and-onion crisps into a tangy, grainy paste. He would have to tread carefully here. It happened to all men sooner or later: one of your friends will decide to spend the rest of their lives with someone who is patently the Antichrist.

  When Gary had started going out with Pauline, Stevie had thought soothingly, it’ll never last. She was way out of his league. All the sixteen-year-old Pauline saw in the eighteen-year-old Gary was the fact that he had a job, a car and some money in his pocket. As opposed to the other boys around her, with their school books, their acne and their wanking.

  What did Gary see in Pauline? Beyond her face, breasts, belly and much-worshipped bum? (And Stevie, despite his unwavering commitment to socialist principles, was no prude or killjoy. He enjoyed a quality bum as much as the next Marxist and he could see that Pauline’s bum was unquestionably A Good Thing. But you don’t decide to spend the rest of your life with a pair of cheeks, do you?) Stevie could overlook the fact that she was obsessive about status and possessions. That when she met someone you could see her taking in their shoes, their watch, the type of credit card they produced, like she was feeding all this into a computer program: WindowsNetWorthCalculator 10.9. That she had no interest in much of anything beyond celebrity and fashion. Ultimately, what doomed Pauline for Stevie was this: she had no sense of humour. None. Nothing. Not. A. Flicker. She was the kind of person who, when confronted with something genuinely funny would actually utter the words, ‘That’s funny.’

  Stevie looked at Gary, staring into the inch or so left in his glass. He had, Stevie thought, the kind of life that was great if you were happy, terrible if you weren’t. Hence distractions like improving your golf handicap. How do you address this? What do you say when your best friend tremblingly confides their darkest fears?

  ‘Same again?’ Stevie said.

  ‘Aye, cheers, wee boy.’

  As Stevie shouldered his way in at the bar the grey van’s orange indicator began winking as it left the bypass via the Stone Cairn roundabout, taking the third exit towards Ayr, towards Oklahoma Dan’s Discount Golf World, its final destination.

  10

  THE KRAKEN RISING.

  Alec Campbell pulled into the car park of a small industrial estate on the northern edge of Ardgirvan–a cluster of a dozen nondescript breeze-block units. Only four were occupied; a garage, a company called Ayrshire Ceramics that made fancy tiles, a double-glazing company and the unit owned by Ranta and used primarily for storing certain things he wouldn’t want in the house. There was only one other car in the car park, a big grey Audi, parked in front of Ranta’s unit. They pulled up beside it and A
lec turned the ignition off, the loss of the air conditioning immediately noticeable. ‘Some day, eh?’ Ranta said, popping his seat belt. He was sweating.

  As always when he found himself in a confined space with his father Alec was aware of the sheer bulk of the man–eighteen stone plus and a little over six feet tall, he’d turned fifty last year but his hair was still the same thick, gypsy black as Alec’s, although here and there Ranta’s was showing fine strands of silver. Just visible at the neck of his polo shirt was the faint pink welt of a scar, some bam’s bladework from back in the day, when the old boy still had to get involved in the more run-of-the-mill violence that kept the business on the rails.

  ‘Are yer clubs in the boot?’ Ranta asked.

  ‘Aye, Da.’

  ‘Bring us yer driver and some baws.’

  Out of the warm spring sunshine and into the cool darkness of the unit, into the smell of engine oil on cement, where, under the fizzing glare of three fluorescent strip lights, a man was tied to a chair. He had a bag, a cloth sack, over his head and he was making strange noises.

  The Beast and two other men were playing cards at a table against the wall, seemingly oblivious to the tethered, hooded man. The Beast looked up from cutting the deck as Ranta walked over. ‘How ye doing, boss?’

  ‘Ach, fine, Frank. Ye see it aw.’

  ‘Fucking luck oan this prick here,’ Frank said, indicating Davy, one of the other card players, a young lad in his early twenties. ‘A hundred-odd pound the cunt’s taken aff us.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Ranta said. ‘Good for you, Davy son. As well you taking it aff him as William Hill, eh?’

  Ranta walked across to the middle of the room and gently pulled the sack off the man’s head. He had a strip of silver electrical tape across his mouth and his face was bruised and cut, slick with sweat and blood. He blinked into the cold fluorescent light, his eyes adjusting, the pupils shrinking, as he looked up into the face of Ranta Campbell.

  The man started to cry.

  ‘Shhh, Charlie, c’mon, son.’ Ranta spoke soothingly, in the tones he used when one of his children fell and skinned their knees. ‘Nae need fur that. Ah just want a wee chat.’ Ranta ripped the strip of duct tape from Charlie’s mouth, tearing off a good portion of skin from Charlie’s upper lip in the process. Charlie hardly seemed to notice. A torrent of speech instantly poured out of him:

  ‘FucksakeRantafucksake!Ahdidnaeknowwhitwasgoingoanaahsweartaefuckahdidnaeah’llgetyethemoneybacksoahfuckingwillplease–’

  ‘Charlie, Charlie, shhh. Ah don’t care about the money. It’s trust we’re talking about here. Now, come tae fuck, we all know you couldnae huv thought of this on your own. Christ son, you’ve no the brains you were born with. Who was the bright spark who had the idea?’

  ‘Ah swear, Ranta, oan ma wean’s life, ah didnae know anything aboot it.’

  Ranta sighed and thought for a moment. ‘Strip him off and haud him doon,’ he said.

  Davy and Frank ripped Charlie’s clothes off and, with Alec helping, they pinned him naked and wriggling on the cement floor.

  ‘Open yer mouth, Charlie,’ Ranta said, picking Alec’s driver up from the table. He already had a golf ball and tee in his hand.

  ‘Naw, Ranta, please.’

  Ranta knelt down and forced a wooden tee peg between Charlie’s teeth. ‘Now, ah’ve been struggling a wee bit wi’ the driver lately so, ah’d recommend keeping yer heed very still.’ Ranta tried to place a golf ball on the tee, but it kept falling off because Charlie was struggling so much. ‘Here, Davy, hold his head.’

  Davy roughly got hold of Charlie’s head and Ranta managed to tee his ball up, the ball standing a couple of inches clear of Charlie’s nose on its long wooden tee peg. He addressed the ball and all his men pressed their heads closer to the ground.

  ‘Ah’ve been trying to shorten ma backswing a wee bit, Charlie,’ Ranta said, taking a few preparatory waggles with the club, ‘mair accuracy…’

  Suddenly Ranta swung the club and Charlie–hyperventilating now–felt the cool breath of air on his face as the driver thundered by, millimetres from his face, picking the ball cleanly off the tee and sending it rattling off the grey breeze-block walls and bouncing around the unit. Ranta teed up another ball. Davy, Alec and Frank, really fighting to hold Charlie still.

  ‘But ah don’t like sacrificing ma power…’

  Ranta addressed the fresh ball. Charlie was really trying to say something. Ranta nodded to Davy, who released his jaw. Charlie spat the tee and ball out and, panting, said, ‘Bobby Hamilton…it was Boab’s idea.’

  ‘Ah fucken knew it!’ Alec said. ‘That wee prick.’

  ‘Good boy, Charlie,’ Ranta said. ‘You know, ah wis thinking o’ maybe changing ma balls.’ He was moving down Charlie now, waggling the driver above his groin. ‘They say these new Spaxons have a really soft feel. Ah don’t know. It’s a big decision, whit brand o’ baws ye play with.’ Ranta nuzzled the cold titanium of the clubface up to Charlie’s bare testicles. ‘Whit dae you think?’

  ‘Ranta–’ Charlie began, but the word ‘Ranta’ quickly modulated into a shrill scream as Ranta whipped the club back. Using his old swing, the full swing, Ranta smashed the metal driver into Charlie’s balls: like hitting a pair of soft-boiled eggs with a cricket bat. Charlie’s scrotum burst open, covering wee Davy and Frank with blood and viscera. Davy leapt up, wiping at his face as Charlie’s screams echoed off the bare walls. ‘Gads! Gads o’fuck! Fuck sake, boss!’

  Had this been necessary?

  Ranta had no extreme feelings about Charlie Douglas. He was just a daft boy who had tried to rip Ranta off. It was one of the dangers of running the kind of business where you entrusted large sums of cash and quantities of expensive narcotics to shady bams. However, Ranta understood the PR value of a certain type of violence. Wee Davy here, he’ll be in the pub tonight, he’ll have had a few pints and he’ll say to some fanny he’s trying to impress, ‘You’ll no believe whit the boss did tae this cunt the day…’ and the fanny will go off and repeat the story and after a few days it’ll be all round the whole bam community: Ranta Campbell battered Charlie Douglas’s baws aff wi’ a fucking gowf club.

  Some wouldn’t believe it, but enough would for the message to be writ large: NAE CUNT MESSES. It would help keep people in line for a while. You had to feed your rep every now and then. Even at Ranta’s age.

  ‘Right,’ Ranta said, tossing the bloody club to Alec, finding he had to raise his voice considerably to be heard over Charlie’s inhuman screaming, ‘come on, Alec. Ye can run me by the butcher’s. Ah’ve tae pick up some steak fur yer mother. We’ve got half the fucking toon coming fur their dinner the night…’ Charlie was rolling around on the floor, clutching at the ruins of his groin. He pulled his hand away and found to his horror that he was holding one of his own testicles, still attached to his body by some stringy tendrils that ran into the ragged wound where his scrotum had been. ‘Davy,’ Ranta continued over Charlie’s screams, ‘take whoever ye need and go and get Bobby Hamilton. Frank, for fuck sake do the boy a favour.’ Ranta nodded towards Charlie. ‘That’d burst yer heed so it wid.’

  Ranta turned and walked off towards the door, Alec following him. Davy wiped blood from his face and watched his boss go, deeply impressed that he could be thinking about eating red meat right now.

  The Beast took his kit from the table–a black, plastic toolbox. He knelt beside Charlie and opened it to reveal a neatly arranged collection of stainless-steel knives, packed in custom-cut foam. He selected an eight-inch butcher’s knife and leaned in over the bloody, squawking Charlie. He ran a thumb up his ribcage, first rib, second rib, third rib: about the only thing Frank had learned in the paratroopers that he still used. He pressed the point of the knife between the third and fourth rib, just breaking the skin. Charlie tensed.

  ‘Maw…’ Charlie said, crying, clutching uselessly at his wet, bloody groin.

  ‘Yer maw’s no here, son,’ the Beast said pleasantly.
‘She’s away getting rode by a big fucking darkie.’ The last word pronounced in the full Ayrshire–‘dorr-kay’. As he said this he pushed the blade in and up, through Charlie’s heart. Charlie gasped, the expression on his face one of surprise more than pain, very much like someone who has plunged into an unexpectedly freezing sea.

  11

  SUNNY SATURDAY MORNING AS GARY PULLED INTO THE car park, popped the boot open, and lifted out his clubs.

  Ravenscroft Golf Club (founded 1907) was a public course. Anyone was welcome to come along and play, but there was a membership of some two hundred golfers: full members who used the humble locker room (an extension to the original Edwardian building, built just after the Second World War, with cinder-block walls and chipped stone floors), who ate in the little dining room and who had access to the clubhouse.

  The clubhouse had been added in the early 1960s. It was a long rectangular room with a bar in the middle, a parquet dance floor and a pool table at one end, whose blue baize was overlooked by the gold-lettered honours boards listing all the club champions. The name ‘Irvine’ was proudly etched there not once but twice–1976 and 1981. (Gary could only remember the second triumph: his father coming in the front door, flushed and holding the big silver cup as he hugged them all to him, the smell of success, whisky and tobacco strong on him and Cathy whooping delightedly as he broke open the thick envelope stuffed with the sweepstake cash. Gary and Lee’s jaws dropping as his father handed each of them a banknote, a strange banknote, a brown note: a ten-pound note!)

  A couple of fruit machines stood near the pool table. The opposite end of the long, low-ceilinged room was composed of a floor-to-ceiling glass window that overlooked the eighteenth green, where members would gather to watch the outcome of any crucial matches.

  Beyond the clubhouse the golf course stretched over several square miles, bounded on the north by a development of large private homes, to the east by Ravenscroft Academy, the secondary school, and to the west by Ravenscroft Geriatric Hospital: the loony bin. The mento home. (Gary sometimes thought the geography here was convenient: you tumbled out of school, joined the golf club, and, forty or fifty years later when golf had done its work and you had been driven completely insane, you were shipped back across the road to the mento home, where you saw out your days drooling through the glass at the golf course, the very cause of your madness.)