Farewell Tour of a Terminal Optimist

by John Young

  “What? Do I have to grope people?”

  “No, you wassock, act like you own the place.” He laughs and pushes me towards the door.

  I roll my shoulders, straighten my specs, suck in some air and strut through the door with my head held high. I don’t think anyone in the sweaty mass of pissed people notices us over the wall of noise and steam, a mix of folk shouting orders and deafening music.

  We wander between people, goldfishing everything and everyone. Despite bouncing to the music and taking a buzz of atmosphere, I feel disconnected. I’m the smallest of the lot of them and the whole unit move about as a crowd – one that I’m not part of. I want to be, though. This is all new to me because I’ve been a loner all my teenage years. The closest I have to a squad is when I’m with my bald-headed chemo mates, pushing our trolleys of blood and drugs down hospital corridors.

  Oh shit. I’ve lost Skeates.

  I limp about, bumping into people or them bumping into me because they can’t see me. I’ll never find Skeates in here. I look around for him, but there’s no sign. All I see is shoulders. I jump as I’m grabbed by the arm from behind. I try to pull away in case I’m about to get slung out, but I’m spun round roughly to see Skeates grinning at me.

  “Here, hold these.” He hands me two bottles of cider he’s scooped up from the bar on the way past.

  “God, Skeates, you scared the shit out of me.”

  He grins like he knows he did. “Right. We need to get you a good seat because you stand out like a fat Yank in Bangkok.”

  “I thought it was Tokyo?”

  “I swear, that jumper grows daily.” He laughs at Gumbo’s woolly dress.

  We spot a curved booth at the back and Skeates drags me through the milling mess of dancers and drinkers. He sits down with his collection of stolen cider bottles and adds to the assortment by minesweeping another glass belonging to a distracted suit. He finishes it off and pours the contents of his bottle into the glass. A few minutes later the guy is having a spate with the waiter for clearing up his glass when it was half full. Skeates has a real chortle about that, and we have a great chat about our earlier Spidey exploits.

  After a while he stands and says, “Right, I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Either fighting or dancing. Sod all else to do in these places.”

  I goldfish him.

  He smiles, “Just joking. I’m getting us rooms for tonight.”

  He grins drunkenly and heads off into the tightly packed throng of swaying youths. I sip and watch the people coming and going. It’s a young crowd, my guess is mostly students. The bouncers musn’t be too fussy after all because most look like underage chancers, just like us. I watch one guy, who would probably look cool if he wasn’t trying so hard, thumbs in his pockets, chewing gum, and rolling his shoulders. He chats to a girl, who responds by glaring at him. He’s all movement and chewing and he thinks he’s chocolate. I can tell from where I’m sitting that she thinks he’s a prat. She mouths two words at him and his ego crumples. Off he goes, the loser, back to his mates, tail between his legs.

  Fifteen minutes later Skeates returns with more success than the gum-chewing failure. Accompanying him are two girls of dubious, albeit not unpleasant, looks. In the flashing lights they appear fine but, if I’m honest, trying too hard. No doubt that’s why Skeates eyeballed them.

  “Meet my mate, Connor. Girls,” he says, looking all chuffed, “introduce yourselves.”

  “Can you see in those things?” one of them asks me, pointing to my orange glasses.

  “Cool sweater,” says the other one and giggles.

  I smile and hope that the pong of a week sleeping rough in Gumbo’s fishy jumper isn’t too strong.

  They sit down and, to my pleasant surprise, they aren’t bad lassies, friendly and funny. Frances and Morag are happy to be with us, and Skeates is entertaining everyone with his antics.

  He keeps us in drink with his well-honed minesweeping skills. I join in and the hours pass nicely. Though I have my doubts these girls will be as chirpy when I stand and the lights come on.

  At 3 a.m., that’s exactly what happens, though the change in mood isn’t obvious until we’re outside. I walk ahead because Morag has taken the hump and stopped talking to me. Skeates and Frances have cosied up to each other and Morag displays her irritation at being left the short straw. I don’t blame her, I would too.

  “Why do I end up with the limping midget in the wool dress?” she snaps. It was probably an out-of-character comment because she immediately looks embarrassed and hangs her head. I don’t think she meant me to hear it, but she’s upset to see that I did.

  I pretend to ignore what she said, as is my custom. My other custom, going radge, isn’t really going to work here. Plus, it’s easy to ignore because it’s true and I’m used to the truth. The three of them eventually catch up with me and we take a cab back to their place, which is way out of town.

  We go past a big IKEA ad. Skeates says, “Did you know that J. K. Rowling based Azkaban on IKEA?”

  “What?” we all say at once.

  “Straight up. She went in there one day as happy as a mad aunt and within five seconds she felt like big soul-vacuums had sucked her happiness dry.”

  Frances giggles and Morag and I roll our eyes. Frances obviously sees something in Skeates that has bypassed the rest of the world and cuddles up to him in the cab. Unlike Morag, who jumped into the front seat to avoid me.

  We arrive at the girls’ place, which is a student flat near the medical school. It turns out they’re junior nurses.

  “Awesome, get your uniforms on, I have a thing for nurses,” says Skeates.

  Morag tuts and calls him an idiot. She’s mellowed since the earlier shock of getting the dregs of the pair of us. She’s now happy to chat with me, the limping midget. I think she feels guilty for her outburst and I don’t think she likes Skeates too much anyway, now he’s in full swing.

  “Hey Connor, told you I would fix us a place to stay!” says Skeates when the two girls go for a pow-wow, leaving us in the sitting room.

  “Yep, but I’m not sure your plans for romance are going to work out for either of us!”

  True enough, Morag has hit the sack and Frances enters wearing jammies. She’s cosying up pretty close to Skeates, though.

  “Sleep well.” He winks at me.

  “Have you got a shower?” I ask before they leave. “I would love to get cleaned up.” I haven’t washed in near a week and I want to be clean when I see my dad in the morning.

  “Yeah sure, it’s this way.” Frances shows me the bathroom and I head in.

  “We need to leave here at ten a.m., Skeates,” I say. “Don’t forget that. Our tickets are for the eleven o’clock train.”

  “Yeah yeah, Connor, don’t worry, I’ve got it sussed,” he replies.

  The pair head off, leaving me in the bathroom. I undress, remove the caliper and turn on the shower. The hot water feels great and I lather the girls’ sweet-smelling shampoo all over. I don’t want to get out, but I know I need sleep. The fuel of booze and excitement, which has so far kept me motivated and awake, is running out. I climb out of the shower and look around for a towel.

  Too late!

  The bathroom door opens and I scramble about in a panic. I look up, shocked. Morag is standing in her jammies, half-asleep and staring at me. I grab something and try to cover myself up, and she laughs even more when she sees that it’s a floral shower hat.

  I freeze in embarrassment. I must look really pathetic with my odd gait and skinny exhausted body, covered in nothing but a flowery shower hat.

  “Come on, love, you need to get some sleep,” she says.

  I throw on my pants and my dad’s Proclaimers t-shirt, grab my gear in a bundle and follow her to her room. She points to one side of a massive double bed.

  “That’s your side – keep your hands to yourself.” She climbs in and promptly falls asleep.

&
nbsp; I do the same, even though I don’t think I’ll sleep because Morag is actually really lovely. I pass out before I touch the bed.

  Chapter 25

  Old Macdonald

  10.30 a.m. comes with a shock. Skeates grabs me by the legs and hauls me out of bed.

  “Bloody hell, Skeates, that was sore!” I shout.

  He has deep bloodshot eyes and a drunken and panicky grin. “It’s ten thirty, we have to go now! I’ve been hunting everywhere for you, I never thought for a moment you’d be in here. You snake, Connor Lambert.”

  Morag groans at being woken. She lifts her head up. “Have a good day seeing your dad, Connor. Call if you’re up this way again.” She turns over and falls asleep.

  Skeates drags me out the door whilst I’m trying to get my caliper on. “Come on, our train.”

  I don’t remember much about the panicked rush to the station. I dress on the bus, to the tune of Skeates’s chat.

  “So tell me, you and Morag, eh? How did you manage that, wee man?”

  His face is so animated with happiness and surprise that I feel that the full truth would only disappoint him. So I don’t tell him of the no-go zone down the middle of the bed, but I don’t think he would’ve wanted to hear that anyway. He’s so high on the thought of me and Morag flanging into the small hours that I would hate to spoil it for him.

  He laughs and laughs the whole way to the station. Then stops suddenly.

  “Shit! Connor, you’re about to see your dad!”

  ***

  The station is packed with pissed football shirts, cheering death threats to the wrong colours. The lack of sleep and meds has hit home, and Skeates has had to give me a piggyback to get us here on time.

  “What’s with all the racket?” Skeates asks a guy in a train uniform.

  “Hearts versus Hibs football match today in Glasgow, postponed from the other night. I’m glad I’m not on duty on the next service to Glasgow, ’cause there’s no security organised, bloody nightmare, ken? Where you going?”

  “Shotts,” says Skeates.

  The man snorts. “Platform eight, second stop and good luck mate,” he says and leaves us to it.

  The heaving platform segregates into a mix of maroon versus green.

  “We forgot our colours!” Skeates laughs.

  I don’t answer. I clamber down off his back and wish the train would arrive so I can sit down.

  “We’ve made it, Connor. I said we would get to see your dad.” He holds up his hand to high five.

  I slap it. “OK.”

  The platform sways with singing fans and there’s nothing we can do but get shoved about. I nearly stumble off the edge and I’m glad when the train pulls in. The crowd surges forward and we swim along in the throng, bobbing towards a door. All the seats are taken up with pissed Hibs fans on one side and Hearts on the other.

  Skeates shoves against a green-coloured fan, who shoves back. “And what about it?” says Skeates. They stare hard at each other. Skeates looks like he’ll lamp him and I think, Shit, he’s going to start a riot, we;ll get a kicking into hospital and back to custody.

  The Hibs fan turns away.

  “You bloody idiot, Skeates,” I mutter. I’m surprised by the noise and the tension in the train. I never go to football matches but I know from the news that these things sometimes escalate, unless they find a common denominator to focus on. Usually a foreign football team.

  True to form, the volume increases and we hear the occasional slur back and forth. Someone chucks an empty beer can, which is answered with a half-full one.

  Full tins, unopened, start coming like missiles. One cracks someone on the head and the carriage erupts. We’re right in the middle and are about to become another ‘wrong place at the wrong time’ statistic.

  An idea pops into my head. It’s stupid, unlikely to work, but it’s better than nothing. I think of a common denominator for pissed people – singing. I start as loudly as I can:

  Old MacDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O!

  Not loud enough for all to hear, just the ones next to me. Skeates eyeballs me. I get more odd looks from others. Still I repeat it, yelling as loud as I can,

  Old MacDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O!

  and start with ducks

  And on that farm he had some ducks, E-I-E-I-O!

  Skeates laughs and joins in for the hell of it, along with a couple of others who sing the same thing, simply because they’re pissed.

  With a quack-quack here and a quack-quack there,

  Here a quack, there a quack, everywhere a quack-quack!

  By the last quack we have ten singers. A simple common denominator is all we needed. I should be a mathematician.

  I repeat the chorus and go for goats next.

  Old MacDonald had a goat, E-I-E-I-O!

  The guy who looked like he might punch Skeates a second ago bursts out laughing.

  “How do you do a goat? Do a dog, ya cleb!”

  With a woof-woof here and a woof-woof there,

  Here a woof…

  He howls and barks just for the hell of it, and creases over in giggles, too far gone laughing to continue with dog yelping. However, the woof has caught legs of its own, and the bulk of the carriage is either singing or laughing now.

  It’s chickens next, chosen by another Hibs fan, then cows, and by now the whole carriage has joined in.

  “Hey, Connor,” Skeates shouts over the noise of the moo-moo here and a moo-moo there. “I hope for our sakes you know enough animals to get us to Shotts.”

  Chapter 26

  Don’t Go

  The train pulls into Shotts after half an hour of animal-kingdom mayhem, just as I run out of ideas for keeping the song lit. A Hearts fan runs up and down the train imitating a chicken, even though we’d already done chickens as we passed Livingston.

  “You are a genius,” Skeates says as we hop off the train. “‘Old MacDonald’. Genius! I was certain we weren’t getting off that train upright – though I’m not sure how many Scottish farms keep lions and llamas.” He laughs.

  “What now?” I ask as we take in our surroundings.

  Skeates finds a station conductor. “Can you tell us how to get to Shotts Prison?”

  He looks hard and serious at us. “GBH, armed robbery or murder usually does the trick.” He laughs and I join in. “Sorry boys, you walked into that one. It’s about a mile and a half that way.” He looks at me as he gestures down the road. “I guess you don’t want to walk?”

  I shake my head. We wander out of the station area and, as we wonder what to do, the guard shouts after us. “Yo, lads. Iain here,” he points to another station worker, “is heading that way and can drop you off close to the prison.”

  Iain starts his white van and we clamber aboard. He drops us off at the end of the access road. “See you,” he shouts as he drives off.

  We walk up to the main building.

  “How do we get in?” I ask.

  Skeates laughs. “It’s easy getting in, not so easy getting out.”

  I’m not in the mood for his japes, but I’m still grateful for them. I can’t remember the last time he lost his rag with me.

  “There it is.” I point to a sign with ‘HMP SHOTTS’, written in capitals to show it’s a serious place. I can’t focus on anything except Dad. Now I’m so close to him, I can feel him. I feel more alive than ever and I tingle with nervous energy. Dad, just behind the fence of razor wire, so close.

  We walk up an approach road towards a three-storey sandy brick building that resembles an oversized empty toilet roll. We stop by the security door, just under the sign: HMP Shotts

  The rest of the place looks ominous, and not surprisingly, like a prison, with fences and high walls hiding life inside from us and the outside world from them.

  “Go on,” says Skeates as I hesitate.

  I’m nervous. I’m also thinking of what life would be like inside, surrounded by people who want to harm you. I feel terrified for Dad, while at the same
time worrying he may be one of the ones causing harm. I don’t know which is the worse feeling. On top of all that, my biggest worry: “What if he doesn’t want to see me?”

  Skeates laughs.

  “He hasn’t asked to see me in nine years,” I say. “So he can’t want to.”

  “The guy’s been in prison for nearly a decade, locked up with the same bunch of psychos and murderers without a break. Believe me, even if you were the most dull, irritating little shit in the world, he’ll be over the moon to see you.”

  “Mum gave me a thousand excuses and I don’t know which one’s true.”

  “He probably thought it would hurt too much. Prison time is hard without reminders of how good life is on the outside.” Skeates hesitates. “Look, Connor, I’m heading off.”

  “What? Come on, don’t be daft.”

  “I can’t hang around here. That’s that!”

  “Can’t you wait down the road or something until I’m done? It doesn’t make sense to just leave,” I argue, even though it makes total sense.

  He pulls me aside. “Look, Connor, I have a fake ID and Soapy’s knife. We’ve stolen a car! Once they find out who you are they’ll be looking for me, and neither of us will be going anywhere but back to Stornoway. That suits you – not me. I’m going to find my mum.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, hands it to me and says, “Good luck. I’ll buzz you some time.” He turns to go.

  “Don’t—”

  “Don’t what? Don’t go? Don’t leave? You’re better off without me. That’s a fact. It’s been a blast, Connor.” He stares at me. “I mean that – I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world.” He shoves me towards the entrance and I stumble into a closed door. He pushes an intercom button until we hear a crackly voice. Then he turns and walks off. He doesn’t look back.

  “Your phone,” I shout after him.