Farewell Tour of a Terminal Optimist

by John Young

  We clink glasses of orange juice to seal the deal. I feign enthusiasm – the energy I had has already expired and my mind is playing on Emo’s warning from the doctors. The lack of meds has kicked in properly and my energy levels need to be topped up more and more frequently as a consequence. Plus, since the pile-up at the roundabout I’ve had that pain in my stomach, which I worry is more than just wind.

  Two days. I can cope, I tell myself.

  “Giddy up,” he says after we finish.

  I follow him out of the building. A lorry has stopped outside the B&B and the air fills with the screech of air brakes. Skeates jumps – proving he’s always on edge, even on holiday – and he shouts. “Shit, I hate that noise.”

  “Aye, it’s like Quint’s nails,” I say and grin as he looks at me blankly. Got him again. How can he not have seen Jaws? It’s a classic.

  His face changes. “You look wrecked, Connor. We need to get you some transport.”

  “We aren’t nicking another car,” I say.

  He grins.

  “What?”

  “Come on, this way. I have an idea.” He leads me out into the street and away from the centre of town to a supermarket.

  “Wait here.” He disappears into the store and returns moments later with a shopping trolley. “Your carriage awaits, my Lord.” He bows with a big exaggerated sweep of his arm.

  I laugh and climb in. “The Castle, my good man, and make haste!” I pretend to crack a whip in the air.

  He shoves me back into town, where I can feel my teeth jangling as the trolley goes over the cobbles. Then we’re back across Princes Street, past a man playing bagpipes and up the Mound towards the Castle. We get funny looks from the tourists and tramps, the suits ignore us and the stag and hen groups cheer us on.

  I ignore the beeping traffic and bounce about in the wire cage of the trolley, yelling and laughing all the way. When we arrive at the Castle courtyard, which is about the size of two rugby pitches, I stumble out while Skeates catches his breath.

  We stare over the ramparts of the outer wall, taking in the view over Edinburgh and Fife.

  “That’s awesome,” I whisper.

  Then there’s a scream and a commotion behind us.

  “What’s that about?” I ask.

  “Where did the shopping trolley go, Connor?”

  “Oh shite!”

  We stare with a mixture of concern and humour at the trolley bouncing its way back down the Royal Mile. People are shouting and running out of the way.

  “We’d better hide,” he says, and leads me up to the castle gates.

  “We don’t have tickets.”

  “Aye, kids go free. Come on, join in the back of that school group.”

  We trundle along with a big party of oblivious Italian teenagers, past the ticket collectors and skip off as soon as we’re out of sight. Skeates is instantly over at the cannons, pretending to shoot through the battlements into the city below. He runs from guns to dungeons while I stroll slowly, reading the info boxes.

  Later on, we buy tomorrow’s train tickets for Shotts, find a bench and sit staring back up at the ramparts. Skeates has been quiet for a while, ever since I restarted cowking.

  “Connor, you’re getting greener by the second. Let me take you to a hospital.”

  “I don’t want to spoil the party. We’ll be in Shotts tomorrow and I’m not going to miss that for a bit of vomit.”

  “You sure?” He doesn’t look convinced. It’s funny seeing him care about something.

  “Come on, Skeates, are you going soft on me? I thought we were going clubbing,” I tease him.

  He grins at my get-up-and-go when he knows that I have no go to get up for.

  “Let’s grab some scran and something to drink first.”

  “How much cash have we got left?” I ask.

  “Enough for something to eat and a drink, but we’ll have to improvise about the club and booze tonight.”

  It’s around 8 p.m. and I’m famished, not least because I hoofed up my lunch.

  “This looks just the ticket, Big George’s Kebabs.” Skeates leads us across the road and into a biohazard of a takeaway.

  George isn’t big; George is huge, a real gut bucket.

  “Two doners, chilli sauce and chips and four tins of cider,” demands Skeates.

  “You over eighteen?” ask Big George.

  “What do you think?”

  “I take that as a yes.”

  Skeates nods.

  I don’t say anything. I see a sign about ID required if customers look under twenty-five. I don’t look fourteen, never mind eighteen, and twenty-five is an age I’ve never been likely to reach. George hands over the tins and starts prepping the kebabs.

  We sit on a plastic bench near the door, waiting for our grub. I’ve started to notice that Skeates always chooses window seats with a view of the room and exit. His body takes over whatever place he’s in, and his attitude says, ‘I own this room, and if you accept that, all will be well’. He necks his tins casual and easy while absorbing the characters coming and going. I retch a bit at mine – my head’s spinning after two sips. Skeates picks up a newspaper from another table and turns to the local adverts, drags his finger down the list of nightclubs and stops at one.

  “Bingo.”

  “Why that one?”

  “Girls. Look, they have free entry, and it’s at the back of a hotel so there’ll be a fire exit.”

  “I never took you as a pyrophobe.”

  “A what?”

  “Scared of fire.”

  “No, you bamstick, that’s how we get in, not out, and we have to get in otherwise we have nowhere to sleep tonight.”

  “Are we going to hide under the seats or something?”

  “Are you always this daft?”

  I’m still not seeing it, so I shake my head.

  “Look, Connor. It’s a nightclub full of girls looking for a good time. They need the likes of us to give them it, and in exchange they put us up for the night. See? And I know from you and Emo that you like meeting girls. So happy days all round.”

  I beam at Skeates’s mention of Emo, but I don’t complain. In all honesty, I miss her.

  “I’ve never been to a club before,” I say. “And my getup isn’t going to do us any favours, unless girls in Edinburgh have a fetish for lopsided midgets with life limits.” I stand up and hold my arms out. “I mean, I’m not exactly Tony Manero.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind,” I say, pleased that I scunnered him again. I take a sip of cider in the hope that apples nurture good looks.

  “Don’t worry, Connor, it’ll be dark in there. They won’t know what a minger you are until it’s too late.” He laughs at my expense. “Aw cheer up, hopalong.”

  I laugh at his teasing. A week ago he would have said that in a hurtful way and I would have reacted badly. Today he says it like it’s a term of endearment, and his cheerfulness is infectious.

  “You not drinking that?” he asks and grabs my tin when I shake my head. Half a tin and I’m giddy.

  He necks it and big George arrives with two pittas stuffed with processed fat and chilli sauce. Skeates dives straight in and immediately begins sweating with the heat of the sauce.

  “That’s lovely,” he says with his mouth full, dribbling bits everywhere. “I’m starving, my guts think my head’s been lopped off.”

  I have to agree as we munch our way through the kebabs. Even so, I only manage half of mine. Skeates finishes it off and necks the last can of cider.

  “You alright?” he asks me for the billionth time.

  “Yeah, just a bit full after that.” The niggling pain in my stomach is no longer just niggling; it’s proper aching. I try to tell myself I can ignore it for one more day.

  “Right, let’s go then,” he says. He buys a couple more tins before leaving and we head towards the city centre.

  Skeates gets increasingly cocky as the evening goes on. I don’t mind much except th
at I’m losing confidence in his ability to resolve the obvious dead-end situation.

  “Skeates, we have one night before I see my dad, can we not…”

  “Not what?”

  “Like, eh, take it easy?”

  “What? This time tomorrow we, or I should say you, will be on your way back to Stornoway waiting to see that bamstick lawyer of yours, who’ll tell you that you’re off to youth custody. Tonight is going to be big – huge – the biggest night of your life.”

  I suddenly realise that of course he won’t walk into Shotts with me. We both know that once I log into the prison system the police will arrive and I’ll be taken into custody. I presume I’ll be allowed to see my dad and I wonder now how naïve that presumption is. It’s nearly the end of a short but defining moment in my life. The anticipation of it is like the start of a roller coaster that I can’t stop.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask Skeates.

  “Neck this tin of cider…” he begins.

  “No, not now! I mean what are you going to do tomorrow after I go into Shotts?”

  “I dunno. Find my ma, like I said.”

  “You not coming in with me?”

  He says nothing.

  “Oh, right.”

  “This is our last night, mate. Tomorrow, who knows what will happen. Everything will change.” He pings the can lid and takes a long draw, offers me some and I down it.

  “Big night it is,” I say. I feel sad yet energised. In all likelihood I’ll never see Skeates again after tomorrow. I have to make the most of tonight, it may be the last party I ever have.

  “Good man, Connor. Right, let’s find that nightclub.”

  “One thing, Skeates.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Thanks.”

  “What for?”

  “For bringing me here. Looking out for me. I couldn’t have done this without you.” He tries to interrupt and I ignore him. “Even if things don’t work out, with my health and my dad and all… thanks.”

  I hold up my fist for him to bump, which he does, near breaking my knuckles.

  “Stop being such a soft wuss,” he laughs. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, and don’t you worry, we’ll make it to Shotts tomorrow to see your dad. OK?”

  He gives me such a look of confidence that I know I can trust him. I beam and set off on his nightclub trip with a new head of steam.

  Chapter 24

  Nightclubbing

  “Where are you going, Skeates? The entrance is this way.”

  I’ve been feigning jollity to hide the fact that I feel wrecked, and watching Skeates get drunk is wearing my jolly reserves thin. He neglected to tell me that the club didn’t open until 11 p.m. and he didn’t want to be first in because we would stick out, in his words, ‘like a fat Yank in Tokyo’. We’ve seated ourselves nearby, people-watching and drinking tins of cider to pass the time. Well, he aggressively demolished tin after tin, while I sipped and struggled my way through one. Unlike him, I’m sober enough to realise that the queue is massive and the bouncers have the door locked down, airport-security tight. This whole scheme is a waste of time.

  “Taking a recce,” he replies.

  “We’re not getting in there – look.” I point to the gorillas guarding the queue, to indicate the blatantly obvious.

  “I reckon we have two hopes of getting in,” he says.

  “Aye, no hope and Bob Hope.”

  “Who’s Bob Hope?”

  “Never mind, go on, I can’t wait to hear this.”

  Skeates is strutting in the face of a sure no-win situation. So, for the umpteenth time, I leave my fate in the hands of the school head-case. I raise my tin, drop the last mouthful and give him a lopsided grin.

  “Option one. We climb up that lamp post…” he points towards it with his tin, “…and we shimmy across the roof.”

  I look at him like he’s touched.

  “What?” he says.

  “You have to be kidding.”

  “Come on, Connor. Just look at you in Perth, like a regular wee ferret.”

  “OK, let’s remember that I haven’t suddenly become an acrobat. That lamp post is ten metres from the entrance. It’s lit up like a lamp, because, well, it’s a bloody lamp. And you think those lobotomised apes won’t notice us trying to climb up?”

  He takes a look at me, then the bouncers and back at the lamp, and reassesses the situation. “OK. Option two. We walk through the hotel, take the stairs up to the second or third floor and walk down the fire escape.”

  “That sounds easier,” I say. “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place? Come on, let’s do the hotel thing.”

  He grins and leads me through the front entrance. The lobby is busy with a coach party queuing to check in or out, so no one seems to notice us heading upstairs. That, and Skeates walks everywhere like he owns the place. We stalk the corridors looking for a fire escape for ten minutes in the usual manner – he struts and I scamper along behind.

  “You sure you know what you’re doing?” I ask. “We’ll get nabbed for being snoozers.”

  “I can’t find the right window.” He ignores me and is looking tetchy. He rattles open a big sash window and sticks his head out. “There it is, next floor up.”

  We hit the stairs again and wander to the same position on the floor above. He checks it.

  “Bang on. Are you ready?” He pulls up the sash window and ushers me to look.

  “There must be easier access to the fire escape?” I say.

  “Technically, it’s next door’s fire escape. Look, it goes straight to nightclub heaven.”

  I stick my head out, look down, lift my orange glasses up and see the corrugated steps of a fire escape about two metres to the right of our windowsill. I look down four floors and see that the steps end in a small courtyard with an open door on the far side. The throbbing sound of music rises out from the darkened flashing space behind the doorway.

  “We’re four floors up?”

  “So?”

  “We’re four floors up,” I repeat.

  “Are you expecting a welcome mat or a red carpet? We’re sneaking in, you dork. They don’t have a special entrance for chancers.”

  “You said this was the easy option.”

  “Nope, you said it was. Not me.” He laughs at me. “Now, come on.”

  ‘Fire’ by Kasabian resonates from the doorway below, as if to serve as motivational music. I understand his plan and don’t complain any further, even though I don’t like it. In fact, I’m shitting myself. I don’t believe for a minute that I’ll make it across. However, I’ve been surprised enough these past few days at what Skeates can make me do, so I feign excitement at the prospect. That, and I’m too tired to argue.

  “Nadie deja este mundo vivo, Ferret-man,” he says, grinning.

  “Yeah, I’m— what did you call me? Ferret-man?” I pause in thought. “I can take that. Here we go. Lemon squeezy.” I pull the sunglasses back down, like I’m suiting up.

  “That’s the ticket, pal.” He grins, steps out onto the window ledge and leaps, grabs the underside of the fire escape and swings his legs round. He monkeys his way onto the steps. “Your go,” he whispers across the divide.

  I had hoped he’d be able to help in some way, but sod it. I climb onto the ledge. I hate heights and don’t look down. Instead, I stare across the gap, which now looks much further than it did before. I make to jump, and falter as I hear him shouting at me.

  “Shit, Connor, what are you at? You trying to kill yourself or something?”

  I wobble on the ledge, trying to regain balance with my arms flapping like the wings of a frightened chicken. I grab the side of the wall. “Bloody hell, what?”

  “Let me get into a position to help first.” He hangs off the stairway upside down, like a fat bat, with his feet tucked under the step below and says, “Right, off you go. Aim to grab this step…” He pats the step just above his dangling hands. “…and I’ll catch y
our body. OK?”

  The thoughts going through my head at this moment are so full on that they’re a jumble:

  Don’t do it, you’ll die.

  Do it, what have you got to lose?

  Don’t do it, Skeates is a header with too much cider in him to think straight.

  Do it, Skeates will catch you.

  Don’t do it, he couldn’t catch a cold, never mind you.

  Do it, everything else has worked out OK so far.

  Don’t do it, if you fall, you won’t see anyone again, never mind your dad.

  Then suddenly, I’m given no option. Behind me, the lift pings its arrival. I’m about to be found standing on the window ledge of a hotel, wearing sunglasses in the dark. That would ruin our little clubbing exploit and my reunion with Dad so I leap blindly towards the steps. My hands grip, slip, my big woolly jumper getting in the way. I fall. Firm, rough hands grab me. I crash into the fire escape with a bang.

  “Swing your legs up, right, hold on.” Skeates instructs in a loud whisper. My legs scramble against nothing and I panic as I hear him swear, his grip on Gumbo’s oily jumper slipping. I feel it ride up my back like it’s going to peel right off, sending me to a messy end amongst the beer kegs. Skeates shuffles into a better position, grabs my belt and hauls me over. I lie panting then start to laugh.

  “Told you it would be easy,” he says. Suddenly he pushes me down flat, tells me to be quiet and points to the open window.

  A man is staring out. He looks either way, down and up. We crouch, trying to stifle giggles. The adrenaline of the action has me full of courage and nervous laughter. The man looks around again, doesn’t see us, and slams the window shut.

  Skeates rolls onto his back and we both explode with laughter. When the hysterics have gone he says, “Come on, I’m thirsty.”

  We sneak our way down the steps into a small yard. He halts just at the bottom by the kegs and empty bottle crates. Through the club door, a raft of busy barmen serve drinks in the flashing darkness and thump-thump club music.

  He turns and smiles. “Walk in like you’re Donald Trump.”