by Nigel Bird
Hers was the only sale that day and the next. The competition had put out word and the Belters were sticking together against the new blow-in on the block with his one eighth Italian blood and fading good looks.
It was Kylie who gave him the idea. If he could lure in the kids from the High School, he’d be quids in.
He took on two extra staff, a couple of older ladies who’d never travelled further than Prestonpans, hand wrote signs and offered food at half the price of anyone else. ‘Credit Crunch Lunch’ he called it and it took off like it was supersonic.
There were still queues of black sweat shirts at the bakeries and the other chippies, but he had the lion’s share, the line of youngsters stretching back to where he and Kylie had had their fun. Hot plates full of fried pizza (his ex-wife’s father would have had a heart attack), burgers, puddings, pies and fish were emptied daily within half an hour, as if a plague of locusts had descended and licked them clean.
They were getting through two hundred polystyrene trays at a sitting, twice that on a Friday when the primary school kids piled in to kick-off their weekend with a healthy fry-up.
After a month of success, Carlo felt that he had finally earned the slice of the luck he’d always deserved.
Things started to change when two lads came in after the rush hour, all swagger and spiky hair with the familiar white line down the middle that always made him think of wobbly skunks.
When they spoke, he just listened until they’d finished and watched them leave without ordering a thing, their mullets bobbing against their designer gear.
Turning to Mrs Edgar, who was wiping grease from the wall tiles, he asked for an interpretation.
They wanted him to put the prices up, she told him, and they wouldn’t be asking so nicely the next time. And, if he didn’t mind her putting in her two shillings worth, the Ramsay boys were nasty pieces of work and it might be worth listening to what they’d said.
Listening? He’d tried that and hadn’t understood a single word.
The wee shites. Who did they think they were telling him how to run his business? They’d have been plankton in Leith if they ever ventured from their tiny pond into those shark-infested waters.
That same afternoon, Kylie told him about the baby. She wasn’t ready to tell her dad and her mum would beat her enough to make sure the kid never saw out the first trimester so there was no way she was going round there with the news.
She wanted to keep it, leave school and live with Carlo. She could serve at the counter for six months and after that she’d be a stay at home mum, make a nest they could share, a cosy place that would be a cut above the council scheme she was used to.
Carlo didn’t say anything. Instead, a hug of reassurance, a pat on the behind and a poke of chips “on the house” did their job and she left with a half smile on her lips.
Turning the open sign to closed, he hooked up his apron, left the ladies to get on with things and headed for the Cross Keys. Having a glass in his hand always made life easier to understand.
The landlord, Billy, knew all about the Ramsays. They’d graduated from the Tranent Young Team and had a brief spell with the Hibs Casuals.
Local folklore had it that they used the derelict farm up near the cemetery as their base. There were tales of broken bones, cuttings and even a crucifixion. He’d seen clips of them on You Tube working away on some bloke with a pair of pliers. Their faces were hidden, but everyone in town knew who they were watching.
They were involved in drugs, loan-sharking and a bit of dog-fighting every now and then.
Their mother was known to everyone as Nan. Nan was where Carlo and just about everyone else went to get cheap fags. She sold them singly to those that were really hard up or too young to know better, with special deals for the under 9s. The Ramsays were likely to be allied to ‘The Happy Haddock’ given that the older one of them was sleeping with Nan’s half-sister, whose brother owned the joint.
As Billy pulled Carlo another pint, he started on about Kylie’s dad. Bert was put away for tying a man to a car and dragging him around the Heugh for slapping his sister. That and for driving underage and without a licence. Family life had cooled the fire in his belly, though Billy described him as a dormant volcano.
The stories of some of the other fast food joints that followed were hardly better news.
Opposite Carlo’s place was the ‘Quick N Eazy’, run by Ray and Jim McMerry. The brothers worked like a tag team when it came to a scrap, the kind that would have had grannies screaming at their sets when wrestling was still taken seriously.
Then there was Kwok or Kwang or whatever his name was at ‘Peking Cuisine’. He was bound to be Bruce Lee or a Triad or both.
No, it wasn’t looking good for Carlo Salvino, not until his fifth whisky gave him inspiration. There was nothing to be scared of.
Who, he asked himself, who outside of the area had ever heard of the town? They didn’t even have a football team. It was a blackhead on the face of a giant and it was about time someone gave it a squeeze.
First he took on the McMerrys. The ‘Quick N Eazy’ had slashed its prices to keep up with him and the Ramsay boys had probably paid them a visit too.
As far as he could see, outside of a good fight and making a few quid, there was only one thing that Ray and Jim McMerry cared about. Their cat was pure Russian Blue and worth a few bob. An elegant thing, Carlo imagined she was the sort of creature a pharaoh might have wanted to have with him in his tomb.
Beautiful she may have been, but loyal she was not. It took nothing more than chocolate drops and Catnip to get her to go with him.
Making sure she was safely secured in his laundry basket, Carlo went on to complete the next part of the plan.
Sitting with Kylie’s dad, he could see why she wanted to move. The furniture stank, the carpet was hardly worth the name and the swirls on the wallpaper were making him dizzy. Outside the dirty brown render on the houses made it look like god had puked over every single one of them and the line of satellite dishes made it look like everyone on the street was trying to contact alien beings to get them the hell out of there.
Bert hadn’t switched off the TV as Carlo talked, but at least he turned the sound down.
He listened carefully, his expression remaining unchanged from beginning to end, a cold stare fixed upon Carlo as he talked of love and babies, apologies and marriage.
Speech over, Bert stood and, for a moment, it appeared that he was weighing up the penalty for the dragging of another human being against the satisfaction it would give him to take the bastard outside and tie him to the bumper. Instead, he left the room momentarily and returned with two glasses of vodka.
Without exchanging words, they clinked glasses and downed their drinks simultaneously. There was no ice and it hadn’t been kept in the fridge, but what could one expect at 10 in the morning.
Carlo received a slap on the back that would have knocked anyone under twelve stone flying. They shared vodka after vodka until, by mid afternoon, they were practically old friends.
Job done. With Kylie’s dad on side, the odds had tilted in his favour if things came to a fist-fight.
‘The Golden Fry’ didn’t open that day as Carlo toured the bars. Staggering home, he was pleased to see the sign, a colour photo with ‘Lost, Minky. Reward. Ray and Jim @ Quick N Eazy’ written above it.
He considered collecting the cash, but decided to stick to the plan instead.
Three days he waited, watching the McMerrys stew and savouring every moment of their anxiety.
On Tuesday night, Kylie stood with him frying fish, a small diamond ring telling of their engagement. It had only cost a few quid down at the pawnbrokers, but he promised her that they’d get a proper one when they got the chance.
At the end of the evening, Carlo sent Kylie home early then set about his work before the oil cooled. Flicking the fryer back on, he turned out the lights and headed upstairs.
They say that animals can
sense when things aren’t right, that they have a sixth sense about imminent danger. It was a load of tosh as far as Carlo could see, the way Minky burrowed cosily into his armpit as if he were the earth mother herself.
He carried her downstairs, put her on the floor and threw her a few fish scraps. She hadn’t chosen it exactly, but as a last meal it seemed to be up to the job.
The batter was in a bucket he’d prepared that afternoon and, before she knew it, so was Minky. She couldn’t get a grip on the smooth plastic walls, scratched at them to get a grip, bit at the hand that held her down, but all to no avail.
Carlo’s rubber gloves protected him well. Grabbing her tail and her scruff he threw her into the fat in one smooth movement. Minky opened her eyes as she sank, the beautiful blue spheres peering out from the white paste that covered her. A few strokes of doggy paddle and it was all over.
To her credit, she went down without a word of complaint and Carlo thought again of Maria in the van.
He fished Minky out, shook off the excess oil and spooned her into a box looking like a cartoon character who’d been in a road accident.
It took hours for the streets to empty and when they did, Carlo crossed the road to deliver his package.
Returning to his shop, he picked up a sledgehammer and gave it a baseball slugger’s swing. Thousands of lines appeared in the window and it bulged out over the pavement.
Something gave in his back as he swung, so he decided that breaking through completely wasn’t necessary. When the McMerrys found their cat and saw ‘The Golden Fry’, they’d put two and two together and the Ramsays wouldn’t have any legs left to stand on.
Unfortunately for Carlo, Ray and Jim had never been much good at arithmetic.
It was the way the window looked that gave it away, the fact that it bulged out instead of in. He’d avoided the CCTV cameras, but not fooled the McMerrys; they’d put enough folk through glass to know it was an inside job.
*
The diesel engine coughed into action.
Carlo had ridden behind it six times one summer’s day when his dad was still alive. Chris and Jack had loved it, the circular tour of the farm, throwing badly aimed nuggets of food at sheep, donkeys and llamas. Nursery rhymes cheered the passengers, taking their minds off the fumes.
That visit was expensive. This one was going to cost him an arm and a leg. His left wrist and ankle had been cuffed to one of the rails. As he felt the train approach, the vibrations tickling his flesh and rattling his bones, he stretched out the rest of his body like a starfish and turned his face away.
He pictured the time they were there last, the four of them standing by the ostriches, his dad holding out a scoop full of seed. The things had stretched their necks out so far and with such zeal that they’d practically taken his hand off. How they’d laughed, him and the boys, at the way his dad had dropped the whole lot and jumped back three paces at a speed that might be expected of one thirty years younger.
The drivers of the train felt the bump under the wheels and gave a quick toot in celebration. The whistle and the scream were heard by the night staff at the brewery and the insomniacs of Dunbar alike.
Before leaving, Ray and Jim broke into the small animal shed and shone their torch from one enclosure to the next.
“We’ll try one of these this time, eh?” Ray said, stepping over the board and getting in amongst the rabbits.
“Aye. Let’s have the black and white yen,” Jim said.
Ray picked it out by the ears, handed him over to his brother and the two men set off for home, talking gently to their new pet every step of the way.
Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want To Fight Tonight)
“Do I really have to go down there?”
“It was you promised your ma a pearl necklace.”
“Aye, but I meant we was going to buy one.”
“You daft banana. Price of those things, I’d have to get a job.”
“Some dads have jobs.”
“And some don’t. Now get the fuck down there before I tan
your arse.”
Craig held on tight to the chimney and looked inside.
“It’s pitch black Dad.”
“Fuck’s sake, son. The torch.”
He’d borrowed his brother’s cycling lamp and fixed it on to an old sweat-band so that he could wear it round his head. It was his own invention. Allowed him to see where he was going and keep his hands free at the same time.
Craig flicked the switch then looked down. His fingers gripped the brickwork.
“I’ll never fit.”
“Get out. Boys twice your age were up and down these bloody chimneys just to give them a clean.”
“But there might be a fire.”
“If there was a fire, there’d be smoke.”
“What if Santa comes?”
“Jesus. There’s no such thing you fruitcake. Now get down there and find us that necklace. Don’t forget Mummy loves any kind of jewellery. And lots of it.”
Craig stepped onto the stack. Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled out onto his cheeks.
“No Santa, Dad. What do you mean?”
“Do you want that present for your ma or no?”
Wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper, Craig lowered himself into the hole and felt around for a hold.
His dad took some of the weight by pulling the rope that joined them together like an umbilical cord.
“Remember the code son. One pull for ready, two for get me out quick”.
Ned drank Irish coffee from his flask. It was more Gallic than Columbian, just the way he liked it.
Between sips he puffed on a fat Cuban cigar, blowing the smoke out in rings the size of Frisbees. It was his Christmas Eve tradition and he wasn’t going to let a little thing like breaking in to Lady Hawthorn’s mansion get in the way of routine.
He’d already picked his horses for Boxing Day and was half way through ringing his TV selections in the Radio Times when the signal came.
One pull. No sweat.
He worked the rope steadily, hand over hand, pulling his son up and thinking about the super-cheese pizzas they’d be having for lunch with all the trimmings.
When Craig popped his head out, he looked like a miner at the end of a shift, dirt covering his face and a broad grin stretching between his ears.
He pressed his fingers to his lips and pulled himself out of the stack without speaking.
The pair descended the ladder and headed for the woods.
Once they were in deep enough to be sure they were in the clear, they sat down against the trunk of an old oak.
“Let’s see what you got.”
Craig opened the bag carefully and pointed his head down so that the swag was illuminated by a circle of light.
“I got her a stocking,” he said to his dad. “From the end of the bed.”
Ned grabbed at the fishnets and pulled the gifts out one by one: a bottle of Tesco’s lubricating gel (silk); a box of Cointreau flavoured condoms (‘For the refined woman’); a chocolate penis; a pair of fluffy handcuffs; a bag of Thornton’s toffee and a Satsuma.
“What about the pearl necklace, Muppet?”
“They’d have seen me.”
“Who?”
“Lady Hawthorn and Santa.” Craig shoved the chocolate into his mouth and chewed. “They were making babies.”
Ned flicked Craig’s left ear hard.
“Christ, Dad.”
“Christ’s got nothing to do with this, it’s Christmas we’re talking about.”
A dribble of chocolate-saliva dripped down Craig’s chin as his smile appeared again.
“What the fuck are you grinning for now?”
Craig put the toffees and Satsuma in the bag to take for his mum.
“I knew you was lying, Dad,” Craig said as he buried his face into Ned’s beer-gut and gave him a hug. “About Santa. I saw him. Right there on top of Lady Hawthorn.”
“Eh?”
“B
est Christmas I ever had,” he said. “Wait till I tell everyone in school.”
“This is best between you and me, son,” Ned said as he pocketed the handcuffs and the gel. “Merry Christmas, mate.”
“Merry Christmas, Dad,” Craig said. “And Dad, you might as well bring the condoms. Ma said she needed another bairn like she needed a Rangers scarf.”
One Hundred And Ten Per Cent
Vincent Love had been running all his life.
Mostly he’d been running from things. Nowadays he aimed for finish-lines instead.
Sitting by the side of the warm-up track he massaged his feet, pretending to listen to his coach.
“Visualise the race,” Ronnie said. “Visualise, visualise, visualise.” Since going on a sports psychology course he’d been spouting shit almost non-stop, mostly in triplicate.
Vincent nodded and picked up his trainers. Bright pink with gold laces and the logo spread across the toe. The Love Boot they’d called it. Paid him a pretty penny to wear the things.
Course he’d have been earning a fortune if he’d been sponsored by one of the big firms, but without McAfferty and his gang, like as not he’d have been back in prison within a week of getting out
McAfferty had heard of his potential from a prison officer down at Barlinnie’s gym.
It all started the morning after Vincent’s first night in the cells.
A Mr. Tweed from the ‘Life Not Life’ initiative gave him a face to face. Vincent could still remember the hair gelled into spikes and the power of the aftershave. Tweed asked him what he was good at.
“Nothing.”
“Everyone has a talent,” Tweed said.
As it happened, he was pretty damned good at taking the faces of cunts like the man on the other side of the table and turning them into modern art.
“Cookery?”
Vincent shook his head and pursed his lips.
“Cars?”
“Nope.”
“Carpentry?”
“Move on to the D’s.”
“Comedy?”