He sees him across the social area, near the big pile where everybody dumps their bags. Robbie bends down and makes sure the laces on his Docs are tied tight, then walks across.
He just hovers about at first, on the edge of the conversation. He knows a way in will come soon, and it does when Coco refers to him as Turkey’. It was Aldo started that a few weeks back. Robbie fucking hates it, but when it’s big Aldo, there’s not much you can do. But Aldo saying it doesn’t mean every cunt can say it.
“Don’t fuckin caw me Turkey, Coco, ya cunt, or I’ll batter your fuckin melt in, awright?” Robbie says. He gives him a push in the chest to underline his intentions. A few folk’s eyes and ears have perked up. Good. If nothing happens, at least they’ll see Robbie laid down the law, and Coco shat it. “I’ve fuckin leathered ye afore and I’ll dae it again,” he adds, figuring he might as well broadcast the track record seeing as he’s got an audience, including folk who never went to St Elizabeth’s and so don’t know.
“Aye, it was fuckin Primary Three, Turkey,” Coco responds, with a disbelieving, disrespectful laugh.
Robbie seizes the chance, pushing Coco again with each question. “So ye hink ye’d dae better noo, eh? Hink ye’d dae better? Ye want your go? Dae ye? Ye want your fuckin go?”
He’s waiting for Coco to push back, because that’s his cue: that’s an accepted come-ahead that everybody can recognise, no question of Robbie just lamping him unprovoked.
Instead, Coco punches him flush on the the jaw. Robbie doesn’t see it coming, only feels the impact, and in that instant knows he’s just fucked up on an enormous scale. The image he’s had of Coco in his mind, he realises too late, is not the boy he’s now fighting, nor has it been for months. He’s taller than Robbie now, a good few inches, but the main difference is bulk, muscle, power. He’s filled out, stocky, sturdy, like Chick Dunlop, like Kenny Langton. Like Boma. Like Joe.
When Coco hits him, it’s not like in fights with other kids before. It’s like blows from his brothers or his da. Each one shakes him to the bones, impacts through his whole body, which is why he knew he was beaten after the first.
He can take the blows, he knows, but there’s no chance of delivering enough damage in return for that hard-learnt stoicism to help. His own strikes are feeble flails in comparison, like every time he’s been daft enough to try to hit back at Boma. And just like Boma, when he looks at Coco, he can see he’s enjoying it. Robbie feels fear amid the pain: that fear his brothers’ opponents feel when they get that look in their eyes that says they just want it to end. His legs buckle and he falls, though he didn’t lose his balance really. That’s usually the end. Sometimes fighters keep kicking into the guy when he goes down, but they always get hauled off, either by the boy’s mates or by one of the bigger guys doing his Captain Sensible. Robbie can sense the pause, the lull in the noise of the crowd in response to the action stopping, as they wait to see whether the boy on the floor will get up and go in again. Sometimes the other fighter offers a hand to shake: the winner giving the loser a road out, no hard feelings; or offered by the loser, showing he surrenders. His face is sore around both sides of his jaw and he can tell he’ll have a huge keeker round his left eye, maybe the right, too. His mouth and nose are all right, though, so at least he doesn’t look a total mess. He clambers halfway to his feet, still looking at the floor, not at Coco yet. Coco isn’t offering a hand, he can tell, maybe not wanting to let down his guard, and just as likely wanting to give Robbie some more. The eeeee noise is louder than ever, the room swimming a bit.
Robbie’s about to put out a hand, having no other choice, when a voice—sounds like Aldo, not sure—shouts: “Get fuckin intae him, Coco.”
A hand grabs his hair at the back of his head. Robbie sees a flash of black leather. Feels something crunch. Feels something wet.
“The first goal was scored by Gunni, the second by Geordie Shaw, the third goal was scored by Paul Lambert, the finest of them all…”
The Railway Inn is busy and noisy, but not raucous. The singing is coming from four guys at a wee table, and they’re not belting it out or clapping and stamping. Somebody started it and the others have taken up the refrain in a moment of lightly bevvied camaraderie.
“No goals were scored by Celtic, three-nothing was the win, and ye couldnae hear The Soldier’s Song for When the Saints Go Marching in.”
The Soldier’s Song reference gets a couple of sideways glances, probably from Old Firm fans, who get a bit prickly that they wouldn’t be allowed to strike up any of their numbers in places like this. Maybe if they ever tried singing one that was actually about football, they might be given a more indulgent reception, but Martin is straying into the realms of fantasy there.
He’s glad the place is lively. It makes him feel more comfortably anonymous. He hasn’t seen Jojo so far, and whenever she does put in an appearance, he isn’t sure he wants her to see him more distinctly than as a face in the crowd. And yet he does want her to spot him. He just doesn’t quite know why.
It’s an unease, one he knows will not fade or dissipate on its own.
He feels bad about last night, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say he feels bad about this morning and the manner of his leaving. No, he does feel bad about last night, too. He fears he mistreated her, little as she was complaining, and much as she was reciprocally mistreating him. He was grudge-fucking some residual totem of a daft wee teenage lassie, but the vessel for that totem was a hard-working woman trying to run a business and raise two kids on her own.
He doesn’t even have to close his eyes to see the two of them upstairs last night, and it makes him wince. Does she believe that’s what he thinks of her? Because it isn’t, and he’d like her to know that. And he’d like her to think he isn’t the guy she was grudge-fucking, either.
So essentially it’s as you were, repeat scenario. The frustration is the same: that he never got her to see who he really is. That he’s a decent guy. A nice guy.
The bloke standing talking to the folk at the next table finally spots a spare pew and takes a seat, unblocking Martin’s view of the gantry. He sees Jojo now, realises she could have been there a while. She looks a little flushed but is managing a joke with one of her staff and a punter as she places his order on the bar. It’s an old boy, probably been drinking here for decades, aside from in the aberrant hiatus of the pub’s eighties teen meat-market misadventure. Jojo sends him on his way with a sweet smile. She thinks he’s a nice guy.
Martin never got a smile like that from Jojo in twelve years of knowing her. He used to think being a nice guy ought to have been enough for her—and a few others—to like him, or at least for her not to be nasty to him. But maybe being a nice guy wasn’t enough. What did it consist of, in Jojo’s case, he asks himself? Mere acts of omission, if he’s honest: what he didn’t say, what he didn’t join in with. Nothing more. What did he ever do for Jojo that would have made her like him? He tries to recall, comes up blank. So in truth, as it turns out, he was merely a nice guy to some other people. Why should that have counted for anything at her end?
His pint is finished. Part of him wants to leave, tell himself she must have seen him sitting there and that’s got to count for something. The greater part of him knows he can’t, knows he won’t, uncomfortable as this next scene is going to be.
He walks up to the bar and places his empty glass down gently upon it. Jojo doesn’t see him yet, but it’s going to be her who serves him: the other bar staff are taking orders and she’s at the till getting someone his change. He tries to compose the right expression, but can’t think what that expression ought to be. Doesn’t matter anyway: he’s going to look the same to her regardless.
She turns around and seeks her next customer. She looks surprised and a little wary. “Nae waitress service tonight,” she says. “And the free drinks for celebrities offer’s expired.”
“Aye, you reel them in with your special offers, then they’re addicted,” he replies, offering a smile
but trying not to seem glib.
She takes a clean glass and pours him a pint. “Seriously, what are you doing back here?” she asks, sounding ready to muster her defences.
“Should I leave?” he asks, a sudden chasm opening in his stomach as he realises how badly he may have misjudged coming here. It’s not a polite gesture but a sincere question: if she says yes, he knows he’ll be on the pavement ten seconds from now.
Jojo looks down at the pint she’s pouring. She closes her eyes very briefly and shakes her head. He lets the gush of relief out through his nostrils in a silent sigh.
“I cannae talk much,” she says, indicating the throng. “But pull up a stool if you like. It usually gets quieter about an hour from now. Young ones start heading off for the clubs.”
“I would like that, thanks.”
“I’ll get you something to read,” she adds.
Before he can tell her not to go to any trouble, she has grabbed hold of a magazine from under the bar. It’s a copy of Heat.
He nods, says nothing, takes his licks.
§
“Fuck, you see that wee guy spurtin up?” Sean says with fascinated wonder.
They’re in double science, last class of the day: Sean, Kenny, Tarn and Martin along the bench at the front, thus assigned so the teacher could keep a close eye on some of them. Chick would normally be on the stool at the end, but he’s off with the flu.
Scan, having gone to St Margaret’s, doesn’t know who ‘that wee guy’ is, doesn’t know the history or the significance of what just occurred. Martin does, and he doesn’t share Sean’s gleeful awe. He never thought he’d say this, but he feels really sorry for Robbie. Feels kind of sick, in fact, thinking about what he saw: his head going back, the blood coming up like a fountain. It was horrible.
He doesn’t like what he saw of Coco either, though maybe before he gets too judgemental, he should ask himself what he thought he’d do in the unlikely event that he ever had Boma Turner in the same situation. Martin doesn’t know Coco so well these days, with them being in different classes. They still say hello in the corridor and all that, but they don’t hang about together.
“That was mingin, man,” says Kenny. “Mind you, if they mop it up and give him it hame in the bucket, his mammy can make him his own black puddin!”
They all laugh; even Martin. Kenny is infectious that way. Not as sharp as Scotty, but you end up decking yourself anyway. And sometimes Kenny really comes out with a cracker: not dead witty or anything, but it’s all in the timing.
“Right, 1S5,” says Coleman, coming in and closing the door with a bit of a slam to shut them up and bring the class to order. “Books open at page 78, section 5.2. Jotters open also. Face the front. No talking.” She’s putting on her tersest voice, used in conjunction with the slam she has judged necessary to set a full-scale nae-messin tone in light of the amphibian hysteria that’s gone on earlier today.
She walks to the blackboard and wipes it clean with a duster. “I want you all to copy this down. There’s going to be a diagram, so you’ll need a ruler. And remember, the quicker we get through this part, the more time we’ll have for the practical work afterwards.” She starts writing on the board, speaking out the words. “In…this…country…we…collect…” There’s a pause as her hand catches up with the last word.
“Frogs,” says Kenny, using exactly the same volume and register.
Within moments she’s wheedling out her belt and calling him to the front while everyone else is close to calling for oxygen.
Kenny doesn’t care. He winks at Martin as he goes up. He knew what would happen and knew it was worth it for the gag.
Plus, if he gets the standard two lashes or above, it’ll put him clear of Tarn Mclntosh at the top of the March league table.
Intelligence
Jojo was right about the crowd. It thins out steadily as the hour approaches ten, the demographic lurching dramatically towards the grey. Jojo takes a look at the sparse remaining clusters of drinkers and declares herself temporarily surplus. She grabs a coffee from the espresso machine and invites Martin to join her at a table.
The music has been turned down but it still provides welcome cover for the initial silence. Martin feels he ought to be the one who breaks it. “I just wanted to say…about this morning—”
“Don’t,” she interrupts. “Just…let’s not, okay? Whatever it is, consider it said. We both know, I think, don’t we?” She doesn’t say what they both know, doesn’t have to. “Cannae say I’m not a little embarrassed,” she adds. “But let’s not build it up into something anybody needs to apologise for. I’ve done plenty I’ve regretted more.”
“Well, I’m sure I can trump that hand, but best we don’t go there.”
She laughs a little. “You? That nice Martin Jackson boy? Surely not.”
“I’m not as nice as I once was.”
“Aye, but at least you’re not as boring, either.”
“Touche.”
She takes a long sip of coffee, looks like she’s already thinking about her kip.
“You okay?” he asks. “You look a bit…”
“Knackered? Don’t flatter yourself, son, it wasnae you. I had to clean this place today. Eleanor who does the cleaning has been off sick since Tuesday, and that was manageable through the week because she just sent Laura, but Laura cannae do Saturdays and Sundays because the weans arenae in school, so…Anyway, bottom line is the buck stops here.”
“Eleanor?” Martin asks. “As in Fenwick?” He composes his expression to be as neutral as possible so that his query cannot willingly be interpreted as being remotely judgemental or in any way superior.
“Aye. Does that fit your picture?” Jojo sneers, confirming his expression didn’t pull off any of the above.
“I’m just asking,” he says. “Gie’s a break. How is she doing these days, apart from not being well at the moment?”
“Better than you’re assuming. She cleans this place, but it’s a business she’s got. She employs four folk, two full time and two part time, but she’s a hands-on kinda boss. They do this place, a few offices, some domestic work. She’s done all right for herself.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Always a hard worker, Eleanor. She got pregnant at eighteen and nae sign of a father, but she was determined she wasnae gaunny end up like her ma. Did everything she could to raise the lassie properly. She’s eighteen now, Gail, at uni down in Newcastle. She’s studyin languages. Eleanor was proud as punch when she got in, let me tell you.”
“I can imagine.”
“No need to look so surprised. Eleanor wasnae daft. She just never had much encouragement to believe in herself. I’d like to have seen what your precious grades would have looked like if you grew up in her hoose.”
“You don’t need to lecture me on this stuff, Jojo. And my grades weren’t ‘precious’, just a means to an end. Do you remember once ever hearing me boast about them? Once?”
“No, Martin, but they were precious to you all the same, because they were the proof of how much smarter you were than everybody else. We both admitted last night that we found our own ways to look doon on each other.”
“And I thought you said this morning that we shouldnae be judged on what we did back then.”
“Aye, but you’re still doing it now.”
“I’m not, believe me. I’m the last person you need to tell about how your start in life affects your chances. You’d be amazed how many utterly mediocre but successful people I’ve dealt with in my job, useless numpties who’ve got where they are because they came from the right background.”
“Boat hooses, do you mean?” she says with a bittersweet smile.
“Safe to say, yeah.”
“And the old school tie.”
“Aye, but what folk don’t realise is that the old school tie isnae just about connections. It’s about confidence, about being brought up to believe you’re entitled to take whatever you want from the wo
rld, and you don’t need to have gone to Eton for that. Christ, look at Colin. He wasnae the brightest, but he was always determined to get what he wanted because he’d been brought up to believe he was due it and he had confidence by the barra-load.”
“He was brought up to believe other people were mugs, there for him to use and chuck away,” Jojo says, quietly but firmly, like she doesn’t want to be overheard dissing the dead but won’t stand for revisionism either. “His mother was nice enough, but his da was a blowhard who thought he was better than everybody else just because he’d made a few bob.”
“I don’t remember that about his dad, but I would have been less than ten the few times I met him.”
“Aye. You only knew Colin when he was a wean, before he got big enough to throw his weight around. I knew him later, when he wouldnae have been seen dead hangin about with you. And I knew him as an adult,” she says pointedly. She drains the last of her coffee and puts down the cup.
Martin looks expectantly at her, inviting her to go on. He suspects he’s giving her precisely the gratification she wants, but doesn’t grudge the price.
“Colin’s what you get when somebody’s confidence tries to break past the buffers of their limitations,” she says. “His dad was a balloon who got lucky with a couple of business deals and thought that made him a genius. Colin inherited the delusions and the ego but not the luck or the graft. He was a big, lazy chancer.”
“Was he bent?” Martin asks bluntly.
Jojo shakes her head. “No. Sleazy, but not bent. I’m not sayin he was particularly honest, either, but if you ask me, he lacked the nous, you know? He would have been bent, but somebody would need to have laid the opportunity on a plate for him.”
“Aye.” Martin nods, thinking of Scot and what he told him of the strip-mall deal pretty much falling into Colin’s lap, something Jojo clearly knows nothing about, given her remarks on his absence of luck. “That sounds like him. The sleazy part, too. I take it he never got married or anything.”
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