by Les Wood
She sat back in her chair and let out a long sigh. The telling of the story had exhausted her. Boag looked down at his cigarette and saw an inch and a half of flaky ash suspended over the table like a crooked finger. He studied the lighter, the figures sculpted on its surface. The leering face of the woman, the words La Guerre, they made his blood run cold. Not for the first time that day he shivered.
‘Away and fling shite at the moon,’ he said. ‘Ye’re just makin all that stuff up.’ But he wasn’t sure. ‘Aren’t ye?’
‘God, son,’ the woman said. ‘Ye’re no a very trustin character, are ye?’ Boag let his gaze fall to the table. She went on: ‘Every word Ah’ve told ye is the truth and if ye don’t want to believe me, then that’s your problem.’
‘So, what if it is true?’ he asked. ‘How does that make this lighter a lucky thing? You’ve had it for a while now, and you don’t look that lucky to me. It’s all just superstitious rubbish.’
She gave a small laugh and leaned over to tickle the dog’s ears. It squirmed onto its back, and she rubbed its belly. She looked up at him. ‘Ye don’t know anything about me son,’ she said. ‘How do you know Ah’m not lucky? What makes ye think Ah’ve not got a good life?’
‘Well, ye don’t look as if—’
She cut him off. ‘No, son, don’t go on appearances. They count for nuthin. Just cos Ah’ve not got much money doesn’t mean to say Ah’ve not been lucky in my life. Money means nuthin.’ She brought the dog back onto her lap, cuddled it close. The cataract in her eye caught the light and shone like a silver pebble. ‘For all you know Ah could be the luckiest woman in the world. And in a way Ah am. Simply because Ah’m alive. And more than that, Ah know Ah’m alive.’
Boag frowned. The old woman smiled at him. ‘Ye see, son, there’s many folk don’t even stop to think about the simple fact that they are alive and that they’re experiencing the world. That this is the one chance they’ll get to be a part of the whole show. Life. They just blunder about without taking any of it in.’ She stubbed out the remains of her cigarette on the saucer. ‘And then they discover, one day, that they’ve not got that long to go, the race is nearly finished, and, too late, they begin to wonder what the hell they’ve done with their time. And that can happen to the wealthiest folk ye can imagine.’ She looked down at her dog, smiled and stroked it under the chin. It gave a small groan of contentment. ‘Ye know son, we’re luckier than any rich man that died yesterday, cos we’re here and we’re alive the now. Just think of all the folk that won’t see out the end of this day. The ones that are gonnae die in an accident on the way home from their work, or the ones that are in their deathbed right this minute. The ones that haven’t bothered to enjoy the fact that they’ve been alive. But here we are, and here we’ll be tomorrow. Now, you tell me… who’s luckier, us or them?’
‘But we all die someday,’ said Boag. ‘It doesn’t make any difference.’
‘Aye, we all die right enough. But ye’re missin my point. We don’t all die knowin that we’ve ever been alive in the first place. That’s why the lighter is lucky. If it hadn’t been for that, my grandfather would be dead, but, just as important, after that incident he knew that life was sweet, and to be savoured.’
‘The lighter didn’t do that though,’ he said. ‘That’s got no more to do with luck than—’
‘Of course it didn’t,’ she interrupted. ‘But it’s a talisman, it’s the thing that started it all off. And ye don’t know about all the other things that have happened, to me, to my father, and to my father’s father. Things that are hard to explain. But Ah call it luck.’ She brushed some crumbs from the table. ‘Maybe ye’re right son, maybe there’s no such thing as luck. Just opportunity, and it’s what ye do with that opportunity that makes ye lucky. Ye can think what ye like though, Ah still believe luck exists.’
‘Opportunity…,’ Boag murmured. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
The old woman straightened herself, lifting the dog onto the bench beside her and smoothing down her coat. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘What about another wee cuppa tea? Ah’ll pay.’
‘No, ye’re alright,’ he said. ‘Ah’m fine.’
‘Aww, c’mon,’ she said, squeezing out from the table. ‘It’ll do ye good. When Ah come back Ah’ll tell you about the other bits of luck Ah’ve had, and maybe ye’ll even let me tell ye about the bridges over the Clyde?’
He made no answer, but watched her as she waddled across to the tea bar at the far end of the room, the back of her coat smeared with grime and dirt.
He bent under the table and unplugged his mobile, shoving the phone and the charger into his pocket. The dog watched him, its nose twitching. The lighter was sitting on the table, the distorted face of its wild-haired woman scowling at him. Boag thought about what the old woman had said. About luck. About opportunity. She was deluding herself, justifying her own miserable existence on the basis of a fantasy. The lighter glittered in the flashing lights from the one-armed bandits and the figure of the wild woman seemed to wink at him.
He watched the old woman ordering the tea at the other end of the room, her back towards him.
He quickly slid out from the table and edged towards the exit. As he reached the door, he looked back. The dog had climbed up onto the table and was staring at him, its head tilted to one side.
Boag opened the door and quickly slipped out into the swirling wind, feeling the comforting warmth of the lighter against his hand.
The Wilson Twins: Tattooed Love Boys
Campbell did the drawings, John did the words and the piercings.
Usually.
It had been a slow day for Two’s Tattoos. In fact, they hadn’t had a single customer. Not that it mattered in the long run – the shop, once their livelihood, was now just another of Boddice’s money-laundering fronts. Whether they turned a penny or not was neither here nor there.
‘Here’s one for ye,’ said Campbell.
‘One what?’ said John.
‘A thing, a wee interestin thing.’
‘On ye go then.’
‘Okay – can you think of a sentence that uses the same word three times in a row an still makes sense?’
‘Like what? What what?’
‘What?’
‘No, three times.’
‘Wait… wait a minute, that doesn’t work. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘How no?’
‘Just because… Uch, now Ah’ve nearly gave it away.’
‘What?’
‘The sentence.’
‘What sentence?’
‘The one with three words that… Bugger it, Ah’ll just tell ye.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘The sentence!’
‘Oh, right, on ye go then.’
‘Okay, here goes…’
‘That’s three different words.’
‘Ah’ve not started yet!’
‘Oh.’
‘Right this is it… You cannot start a sentence with because, because…’
‘With because because?’
‘Wait, will ye? Ah’m no finished yet! Jesus Christ!’
‘Sorry.’
‘You cannot start a sentence with because, because because is a conjunction. There.’
‘Ye can’t start a sentence with because because because? That’s shite. What the fuck are ye talkin about?’
‘No, no, ye’re missin the point.’
‘What point?’
‘The point is that ye have to listen to the sentence!’
‘Ah just have!’
‘No ye haven’t! Listen again… You cannot start a sentence with…’
‘Hold on. What’s a confunction?’
‘Conjunction, ye mean.’
‘Do Ah?’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, what is it?’
‘Never mind. Christ on a bike!’
‘Sorry.’
‘Right. Again. You cannot start a sentence with because, because because is a—’
>
‘What did ye make that funny wee sign with yer finger for?’
‘It was supposed to be a comma.’
‘A comma?’
‘Aye, a comma, ye know – a pause, a—’
‘Like a dog’s paws?’
‘What?’
‘Never mind, on ye go…’
‘Naw. Fuck it, Ah can’t be bothered.’
‘Aw c’mon… Ah’m interested, honest.’
‘Are ye fuck.’
‘C’mon, don’t get the hump.’
‘No, forget it.’
‘Please?’
‘No!’
‘Ach, fuck off then. You an yer stupid ideas an thinkin. Just because ye ‘stuck in at school’, like mammy wanted, an ye know all these fancy, high-falutin word thingies.’
‘Aye, an what the fuck’s wrong with that?’
‘An you got that stupid second-name-for-a-first-name thing. Campbell. Fuck’s sake!’
‘Don’t fuckin start on that again, right?’
‘At least Ah’ve got a normal name.’
‘Look, ye’re no gonnae rile me about my name, okay?’
‘Ah can’t be arsed anyway. Uch, c’mon Campbell, tell me the sentence.’
‘Ah already have.’
‘Ah’ll listen this time. Because because because, right what about it?’
‘Pay attention then.’
‘Ah will. Promise.’
‘Okay, now listen. You cannot start—’
‘Wait a minute… is a comma no one of they things that happens to ye when ye bump yer head, or are in an accident or somethin an ye cannae wake up?’
‘Ya wee bastard, ye said—’
‘Ah’m no wee, Ah’m the same height as you. We’re twins, remember?’
Campbell lunged at John, knocking the newspaper out of his hands and gripping him in a headlock. He wrestled him to the floor. Tattoo design books and photographs skittered across the room.
The bell above the front door jangled as someone entered followed by a swirling flurry of snowflakes. ‘Hello? Anybody in?’ he called.
Campbell came through from the back room, smiling and smoothing down his overall. ‘Alright pal? Helluva day eh?’
The guy nodded. ‘Aye, freezin.’
John joined them. He glared at Campbell, but turned to give the guy a toothy grin.
‘So, what can we do for ye?’ said Campbell.
The guy hesitated, looking from Campbell to John. ‘Are youse two…’
‘Twins?’ said John. ‘How could you tell? Not many people notice.’
Campbell shot John a look.
‘Really?’ said the guy. ‘Youse look awfy like each other to
me.’
‘He’s just windin ye up pal,’ said Campbell. ‘Ignore him. He’s the deranged one, Ah’m the sensible one.’
The guy looked unsure.
‘No, he’s windin ye up now,’ said John. ‘We’re both happy as if we’re normal.’
‘What?’ said the guy.
‘Don’t bother with him,’ said Campbell. He clapped his arm around the guy’s shoulder. ‘So, Ah’m guessin ye’re here for a tattoo?’
‘Cos if it’s a sensual massage ye’re after,’ added John, ‘then Sharon’s Sunbed Shack is two doors down.’
The guy frowned. ‘Eh, just a tattoo actually,’ he said.
‘Excellent,’ said John. ‘Ye’ve came to the right place. We’re just the boys ye need.’
‘What kinda thing do ye want?’ asked Campbell. ‘Celtic knots? Maori Moko designs? Broken heart leakin tears?’
‘Nuddy wumman?’ said John.
The guy brightened. ‘No, Ah’ve got one of them already,’ he said.
‘Oh aye?’ said Campbell. ‘Give us a look’
The guy took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve. On his arm he had a drawing of a woman with her hair falling down over one eye, and a truly enormous bust thrusting towards the viewer. Her legs looked out of proportion to the rest of her body – too short – and there was something not quite right about the way her arms and hands were angled onto her hips. It was hopeless. Campbell wondered if it was supposed to be Marilyn Monroe. ‘Is that…’
‘Jessica Rabbit? Aye, crackin isn’t it?’ said the guy.
‘Jessica Rabbit?’ John almost choked. ‘Christ almighty she’s…’
‘Perfect,’ said Campbell, raising an eyebrow at John. ‘Who done it?’
‘It was a wee guy who comes into our pub. Does it as a homer kinda thing. Wants to open a tattoo shop of his own sometime. What do youse think? Does he stand a chance?’
John smiled. ‘Oh aye… definitely… especially with they new surrealist tattoo designs that are becomin the latest fad now. He’s caught that brilliantly there.’
‘Do ye think so?’ said the guy. ‘Wait till Ah tell him.’
‘Aye, ye should definitely tell him,’ said John.
‘Surrealist, eh?’ said the guy. ‘What’s that then?’
Campbell interrupted before things went too far. ‘Anyway! We’re a wee bit short of time the day. Got to be somewhere by four o’clock.’ He nudged his brother.
John grunted.
‘It’s somethin dead important,’ said Campbell. ‘Can’t get out of it. So, if ye let us know what yer wantin done, we’ll get ye sorted out.’
‘Eh, right,’ said the guy. ‘It’s no a drawin, it’s just some words.’
‘Just words?’ said John. ‘How’d ye no just get Salvador Dali down the pub to do it for ye?’
‘Ah don’t know anybody by that name comes in our pub. Just wee Chris that does the homers.’
Campbell stepped in again. ‘So, Ah’m thinkin ye maybe wanted to try out a professional approach, see how the real guys do it?’
‘No, not really. It’s more a spur of the moment kinda thing. Was just passin, an Ah thought Ah’d maybe get somethin done as a wee Christmas pressie to myself. An Ah’m going up the dancin the night an Ah thought this would be ideal timing for what Ah want.’
‘Wee Chris no available the day then?’ said John with a sneer.
The guy didn’t pick up on it. ‘No, haven’t seen him for a week or two.’
‘Well,’ said Campbell before John could get back in. ‘Johnny boy here is our lettering man. He’ll do yer words for ye, any font ye want.’
‘Font?’ said the guy.
‘Aye ye know,’ said John. ‘The type of letters. Gothic, Roman, Celtic.’ He smiled sweetly at the guy. ‘Surrealist, if ye want.’
‘No, Ah’m no sure if Ah want anythin sur-thingmy. Ah kinda had in mind they big black letters ye get in German films. Ye know… Where Eagles Dare writing.’
‘That’ll be Gothic then,’ said John.
‘An what is it ye’re wanting wrote?’ asked Campbell.
‘And where?’ added John.
‘Well, Ah don’t know if ye do this or no,’ said the guy, shuffling his feet. ‘But Ah want it above my dick.’
‘Yer boaby?’ said John.
‘Ma dick.’
‘Ah think we can do that,’ said Campbell.
‘An Ah want it to say Sex Stud,’ said the guy.
John stifled a snigger. ‘Are ye sure?’
‘Absolutely,’ said the guy.
‘Ah mean, once it’s on it’s on. Ye can’t really take it off. Are ye sure ye might no regret somethin like that? Ah mean it’s—’
‘No it’s definitely what Ah want. Just Sex Stud curving above my dick.’
‘But do ye no think it might put the lassies off, seeing something like that?’
‘Naw,’ the guy grinned. ‘After all, Ah’m just bein honest, they’ll know what they’re gettin then.’
‘Aye, but…’
‘Look, do youse want to do this or not?’
‘Of course, pal,’ said Campbell. He turned to his brother. ‘John, just get on with it right?’
John threw up his hands. ‘Alright pal, it’s your tattoo, but Ah think ye’re makin a mistake.’
&nb
sp; ‘If ye just want to come over to this cubicle, we’ll get ye sorted,’ said Campbell, ushering the guy to one of the curtained booths at the back of the shop.
‘Ye’ll have to take yer kegs down,’ added John.
‘Ah think it’s hardly necessary to point that out,’ said Campbell.
‘And yer boxers too,’ said John, flashing a humourless smile at Campbell.
‘No probs,’ said the guy, dropping his trousers and taking off his underwear.
The twins stared at his groin. John smothered another laugh. ‘You’ve—’
‘Shaved my pubes, aye,’ said the guy. ‘Porno trick that one. Makes yer dick look bigger. Not bad, eh?’
‘Crackin,’ said John, rolling his eyes. ‘Might try that one myself.’
The guy settled down on the plinth and lay back. John brought out a sterile needle pack and laid it on the table, while Campbell left them to it and went through to tidy the back room.
‘This might hurt a wee bit, being on a sensitive area and that,’ said John as he prepared the ink gun.
‘Ah think Ah’ll be okay,’ said the guy. ‘It wasn’t too bad the last time.’
‘Aye, but that was yer arm. This is different. Trust me, Ah’ve seen folk faint when gettin tattooed or pierced down there.’ He went over to a shelf and took down a Walkman. Old-school technology. He handed the headphones to the guy. ‘Here, put these on an listen while Ah’m doing ye. It’s heavy metal, Iron Maiden – it’ll distract ye from the pain. It works, honest.’
The guy put the headphones on and closed his eyes. John listened to the tss, tss, tss of the music, letting it lull him into the dreamlike trance in which he worked best, as he swabbed the guy’s skin with methylated spirits and worked out the best way to apply the letters. He made sure they would line up correctly, forming a neat crescent curving across the guy’s groin, and then filled the needle gun with deep black ink. He switched the gun on and set to work, skilfully outlining the block letters and filling them in so that they gradually spelled out the words.
He was good. Skilled tattooists were hard to come by and he took pride in his lettering work. Campbell was better at the graphic designs though, and between them they had built up a reasonable little business with Two’s Tattoos. Return clientele, decent reputation, clean and safe – no hassle from the Environmental Health people.