by Les Wood
The waiter smiled. ‘Thanks pal, I’ll be sure to use those very words.’
Boag drifted off towards the pedestrian crossing, shuffling slowly and drawing sidelong looks from the commuters making their way from the bus station. He glanced back to make sure the waiter and the doorman had gone back inside and he sprinted back to the window. He drummed hard against it with his fists, making the glass shake and boom. The man in the dark suit jumped, startled by the noise, spilling his coffee onto his trousers. ‘Get it right up ye!’ Boag shouted, and turned and ran, laughing, through the crowd down towards West Nile Street.
***
Anderson’s Amusements at the bottom of West Nile Street was one of the better arcades, mainly because it opened early – eight or half-past – catering for the seriously addicted, or those coming off night shifts. It also served food and hot drinks first thing. For Boag, it provided him with warmth and a place to dry off a bit, and he was grateful to get in out of the cold.
Even at this early hour there were a couple of people sitting at the bingo consoles, and a dreary, monotonous voice calling the numbers – one and eight, eighteen, three and five, thirty five, on its own, number six… Boag used the last of his money to buy a dry roll and a cup of tea and found the little group of tables hidden amongst the clacking puggy machines. He made sure he sat at a table with one of the gaudy, pink table lamps. He leant under the table and unplugged the lamp from the socket in the wall and plugged in his mobile charger.
His mobile was his lifeline, his link with Boddice. He’d waited for weeks now without so much as a peep from the phone. No voicemail, no texts. Had Boddice forgotten him? There was a time when he’d get a call, maybe even two, every week. Wee jobs, driving stuff around the city – ‘couriering’ Boddice called it – or keeping watch overnight at a warehouse. Sometimes he was asked to come along with Prentice and Kyle on more complicated jobs. But he wasn’t so keen on those – Prentice scared him, and Kyle was just plain weird. But Boddice always paid well.
Recently though, there’d been nothing. Maybe he’d fallen out of favour. He tried to remember if there was anything in his last couple of jobs that had pissed Boddice off. Something he hadn’t done properly. But he was sure there was nothing.
Maybe Boddice had just lost interest. After all, the only reason Boddice bothered with Boag at all was because of Gerry, his Da.
Gerry Boag was doing six years in the Bar-L for Boddice. Incarcerated at Her Majesty’s Pleasure for storing fifty grand’s worth of heroin in the shed in the back green. It was Boddice’s heroin, of course, although Gerry never blabbed that wee bit of valuable information to the police. He didn’t want to end up rolled in an old carpet and set on fire in some remote quarry. He’d rather take the six years, maybe only four if he was a good boy. All things considered, old Gerry could have been a lot worse off.
Gerry’s time on the inside meant he had lost the flat of course, and, with that, Boag was out on his arse on the street. Boag had been living with the old man since he came out of the army. Gerry had given him the use of the back bedroom as long as he kept out of the way of whatever ‘business’ deals took place in the flat. The arrangement suited Boag. He’d never really got on with the old man anyway, and as soon as he found his feet he intended moving on. It never worked out that way though. Boag found himself settling into a routine, a comfortable familiarity in which he and the old man largely ignored each other and led their separate lives.
Of course, Boag knew what was going on with his old man and Boddice, and he knew the men who came round to the flat by sight and by reputation – the men who would gruffly nod to him if he passed them on the stairs, or who watched him warily if he happened to wander by accident into some deep conversation that was happening around the smoke-shrouded kitchen table late at night. He mostly stayed out of their way and they seemed to tolerate him for that.
It was the old man’s habits that Boag found the hardest to deal with – the drinking and the women and the drugs. Often, he’d lain awake at night listening to the old man humping some tart he’d brought back from the pub; the headboard banging against the adjoining wall, and the desperate, wheezing grunts and moans of his Da (his Da!) finally building up to a phlegm-choked convulsion as he shot his load. It made Boag bury deep under the bedclothes, his face burning with shame. Sometimes he met these women in the lobby the next morning. They ranged from blank-faced girls, younger than himself, to haggard women in tight leather mini-skirts and too much make-up who were old enough to be his grandmother. His Da would just look at him and flash a smug smile as they passed.
When they had finally come for the old man, Boag had been out. He’d returned later in the afternoon to see the flashing blue lights and the crowds of police in the street, black shirts and stab-vests making them look like extras from a science fiction film. He wondered who had done the dirty on his old man. Who’d had the balls to run the risk of crossing Boddice? Boag reached the close mouth and kept walking, pushing through the crowd, his eyes fixed firmly in front of him. He knew then that things were changed. He was on his own now.
To his surprise, he found that not to be the case. Out of some warped sense of loyalty or gratitude, Boddice had assured Gerry that he would see the boy was alright, send him on a couple of wee jobs here and there, make sure he didn’t go without the bare necessities. In reality, all that meant was that Boag had slowly become in thrall to Boddice, same as his old man.
At first, the jobs Boddice threw his way gave him sufficient cash to pay the rent on a wee place in a crummy, gang-ridden scheme south of the river, and enough food to send him to sleep at night with a full belly.
Then, things began to dry up.
It had been more than a month now since he’d had any kind of contact.
He felt a sickening chill in his stomach as he realised that maybe Boddice would never call again.
Nevertheless, Boag was taking no chances. He made sure that he charged the mobile at every opportunity. As it had done for the last three or four weeks, the thought burrowed into his mind: maybe today would be the day.
He took a bite from the roll and slurped his tea. It felt good, and he let out a low sigh. He thought of the man in the hotel and the way he had jumped when Boag banged on the window. He smiled. Lucky bastard, he thought. Wonder if he had any fusions for breakfast.
Boag looked up and saw the guy in the change booth counting out piles of ten, twenty and fifty pence pieces, but all the while watching Boag, wondering what a low-life piece of shite like him had to smile about. Boag shifted the phone to the seat, made sure the guy couldn’t see it.
The door from the street banged open and an old woman reeled in, bouncing off the slot machines like a ball against the bumpers in one of the pinball games at the back of the arcade. She looked as derelict and destitute as Boag did. A skinny Jack Russell terrier followed her, never taking its eyes off the opened can of dog food the woman held in one hand. Her hair sagged like broken grey springs as she navigated her way through the puggy machines. She sang softly to herself, but none of the customers lifted a head as she waltzed by. She stopped when she noticed Boag sitting by himself with his roll and cup of tea.
He lowered his head and stared at the table, but he knew she would come over anyway. It was as inevitable as a bad smell after a fart. She shuffled over, singing now in a low soft voice and giggling to herself. Oh, the River Clyde, the River Clyde, Ah love the Clyde, a rum-ti-tum-tum-ti somethin somethin inside…
‘Y’alright son?’ she asked as she slid into the seat opposite him. The dog jumped onto her knee and stared at him. ‘Nice and warm in here isn’t it?’
Boag didn’t answer.
‘Ye know, Ah just love that song,’ she went on. ‘Ah used to love that Kenneth McKellar singin it. Or Andy Stewart. Great voices. Just like myself,’ she laughed.
Boag continued to look at the table.
‘Aw c’mon son, Ah’m only makin a wee bit conversation. Ah hardly ever get to talk to anybody
, except wee Jess here,’ she said, indicating the dog. ‘Here, do ye want to know somethin?’ she asked, as she picked up Boag’s saucer from the table. ‘Do ye know how many bridges there are over the Clyde?’ She rummaged in some dark cavern inside her coat and produced a fork which she used to empty the contents of the tin of dog food onto the saucer. Boag turned his face away from the smell, and shifted his roll and tea to the corner of the table. The dog plunged its snout into the saucer and began eating the gluey brown food. ‘Eh?’ she went on, ‘The number of bridges over the Clyde?’
Boag finally looked at her, but said nothing. One of her eyes was obscured by the milky pearl of a cataract.
‘Ah know them all,’ she said with defiant pride. ‘Oh aye. There’s the Albert Bridge, the Suspension Bridge, the Erskine Bridge, the Kingston Bridge, Glasgow Bridge, King George the Fifth Bridge, the Bell’s—’
‘Shut up, will ye?’ snapped Boag.
She laughed. ‘Aha! Knew Ah could get ye to talk.’
‘Ah’m no talkin,’ he said. ‘Ah’m tellin.’
‘No, no, no,’ she said. ‘Ye’ve started. This is a conversation now.’ She laughed again. The dog, already finished with the food, went back to staring at him. ‘Ye can talk to me, son. Ah’m no drunk or anything, if that’s what ye’re wonderin. Just happy to be livin.’
Boag sniffed, avoiding her gaze.
‘Do ye no want to know about the bridges?’ she asked. ‘Ah could tell ye loads about them.’
‘Look missus,’ he said. ‘Just gonnae leave us in peace? Ah’m no in the mood.’
‘Ach, ye don’t need to be in any sort of mood to have a wee talk with an auld wumman, do ye?’
‘Aye ye do.’ He picked up his roll. ‘Ah don’t know anythin about bridges, and to be honest, Ah couldn’t give a toss.’
‘Ye look like somebody that needs a wee bit of cheerin up,’ she said. ‘Ye look as if ye’re a wee bit down on yer luck, am Ah right?’
‘It’s none of yer—’
‘When Ah saw ye sittin there Ah thought, he’s no happy, that poor boy, his luck looks like it’s run out.’
Boag looked at her. ‘Ah don’t believe in luck,’ he said. ‘There’s no such thing. So it doesn’t run out, and it doesn’t run in either. We just make do with what’s handed down to us.’
‘Oh, aye, what’s for ye’ll no go by ye? That’s a loada rubbish son. Ye just don’t believe in luck because ye’ve never had any.’
She scuffled round in her seat and pointed to the puggy machines. ‘Take a wee look around this joint. This place is built on the idea of luck. If there wasn’t any such thing as luck, these poor bastards wouldn’t be in here, day in, day out.’
‘Aye, and do they ever win anythin?’ Boag asked. ‘Ah mean anythin worth having?’
She held the fork to the dog’s mouth to let it lick the remains of the food. She considered Boag for a couple of moments. ‘Have ye got a fag son?’ she asked, eventually.
‘No, Ah don’t smoke.’
‘Are ye sure? Cos ah’ve got somethin to show ye. Somethin about luck.’
‘Ah told ye, Ah’ve not got any fags. Ah don’t smoke, and anyway ye cannae smoke in here.’
She went into an inside pocket of her coat and brought out a crumpled cigarette. ‘So ye’ll not want half of this then? We don’t need to worry about any smoking ban. To hell with that. Naebody’ll see us. What do you say, eh?’
He caught her looking at his nicotine-stained fingers, and he moved his hands under the table. He licked his lips. He could do with a good smoke.
She took the cigarette and snapped it in half, handed him one of the pieces. ‘Here, take it. Ah know ye want it. And anyway, ye need it for me to show ye something.’
He hesitated for a second, then reached out and took the cigarette from her. It felt damp.
‘Now,’ she said, fumbling in her coat pocket, ‘here’s this thing.’ She held up something that looked like an oversized brass coin, or an old-fashioned fob watch. She turned it over with fingers that looked so dry and papery that Boag thought he could hear her skin rustle. There was a small knurled wheel at the edge and she brought her thumb up and spun it. A shaky yellow flame stood at the end of a wick of what he now saw was a cigarette lighter. She held it towards him to light his half of the cigarette. She nodded at the lighter. ‘Fancy, isn’t it?’ she asked.
He drew on the fag, pulling hot, bitter smoke into his lungs, the smell of the lighter fuel making his eyes water. She lit her own part of the cigarette and let out a long jet of smoke from her nostrils. She passed the lighter across to him. ‘Have a look.’
He took the lighter from her. It was the kind of thing he’d seen before in traders’ stalls at the Barras, some artefact that nestled in a dusty tray beside old carburettor components or plastic dials for long-defunct television sets. The kind of useless object you could pick up for fifty pence and later wonder what the hell you were thinking about when you bought it. It was heavier than he expected. On one side there was an engraving of an angel, flying through a cloud-wracked sky using a rope to drag a troop of horses behind her. On the other side was another engraving, this time of a woman’s head, her mouth pulled back in a snarl. Boag couldn’t decide if her look was one of pain, fear, defiance or a combination of all three. The figure’s hair flew out from her head in a tangle of snaking coils. Arching under the woman’s head was a vicious-looking scythe and the words La Guerre. The images made Boag feel uneasy.
‘Interesting, eh?’ the old woman said.
‘Ah suppose so,’ he replied.
‘It’s from the war, ye know. The Great War. Number one.’
Boag looked at the lighter lying in the palm of his hand. ‘The first world war?’
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘This belonged to my auld man, and to his father before that.’ She lifted the dog, placed it on the floor where it lay down and curled up. ‘Ma grandfather fought in that war, Wipers or the Somme or some such place.’ The puggy machines continued to whirr and clang in the background and the bingo-caller’s voice still sounded mechanically from the far end of the room. The old woman went on, her voice lowering to a splintered, smoky whisper. ‘This is a lucky thing,’ she told him. ‘This thing brings luck with it.’ She stared at Boag. ‘Ah know ye don’t believe me, but listen to my story anyway.’
Boag sighed. He had nothing better to do, and, now that she’d started, he might as well hear her out. ‘On ye go,’ he said.
She broke into a wide smile, showing teeth the colour of old dominoes. ‘Heh, heh. Told ye we could have a conversation didn’t Ah? This is rare.’ Boag rolled his eyes.
‘Ma grandfather was a crabbit auld bastard. Never really liked him that much. Used to hit my granny when he had a good bucket in him. But there were times when he was sober, when he would sit down and tell stories from the war, and what it was like way back in the auld days when he was just a boy himself. He’d gather all the grandweans round about him and hold court. My father and mother would sit on the settee listenin too, even though they’d probably heard the stories a hundred times. One day, no long before he died, he was tellin his stories when he pulled out this auld lighter, the one yer holding now, and gave it to my father. ‘Ah’ve never told ye this story before,’ he said. ‘But Ah think now’s the time.’’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Boag. ‘It’s not the story about how that lighter stopped a bullet from hittin his heart?’
The old woman fixed him with a hard look. ‘No, son. Nuthin like that.’
Boag felt ashamed of his interruption. The old dear seemed genuine enough, and he knew he was just being a bastard by trying to make light of what she was saying. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘On ye go. Ah’m listenin.’
She continued staring at him for a moment and then went on.
‘It was one of the worst months of the whole war. Hard to imagine in a war where every day must’ve seemed like the gates of Hell had been opened and the Devil himself had taken control of the world. It was December,
and cauld. Nineteen seventeen, the worst winter on record. Cauld enough to freeze the toes off the feet of the men in the trenches. Soldiers were dyin just because they couldn’t keep warm enough, never mind what the Germans were tryin to do to them…’
She rambled on, her tale populated with men, long dead; soldiers in the trenches, incompetent captains, men sent to their dooms on a whim, the creeping fog and the constant background of the iron-hard cold seeping into the bones of the men. Men, not much different from himself, living in the very bowels of Hell. Boag felt the story was rehearsed, that she’d told it many times before, but there was something about the rhythm of her words that sucked him in. It all played out in his mind: the terror on the men’s faces, the stench of death and destruction, the earth-shuddering intensity of the relentless artillery. He had to concede: she was a fucking good storyteller.
He settled back, submerging himself in the rasping croak of her voice, drifting into the heart of her story, listening to the ebb and flow of the yarn till, finally, her words came fierce and fast as she got to the climax, the part where she was telling how her grandfather had met this young German soldier in a bomb crater in the middle of nowhere and how if the German hadn’t offered him a light from this god-awful lighter – the grandfather stooping to take a draw on his fag, suck the flame onto the tobacco – he would have been shot to smithereens by his own men.
As luck would have it, because her grandfather bent forward at that very moment, it was the German who caught the bullet, ended up being blasted.
As luck would have it.
Luck and the lighter. She kept going on about how the lighter was some sort of charm or something. Saved her grandfather’s life.
She took the lighter from Boag’s hand, laid it on the table and stared at it with a dour intensity. She looked up quickly and grinned. ‘It was his lucky lighter,’ she said, ‘and eventually it got passed on to me, and Ah’ve always believed it does bring ye luck.’