The Bullet Trick

by Louise Welsh

  'I need to get away frae this godforsaken city and back to civilisation, see?'

  'Aye, well, I hope you make it.'

  'This is a bad place, son; Sodom and Gomorrah had nothing on London. Land of bloody heathens.'

  'You’re not in London,' I said, distracted away from my vision of collisions and vanishing buses.

  'I know that, I’m no bloody daft.'

  'Fair enough.'

  I was through with illusions, magical and philosophical. I pushed the calculations from my head and turned towards the benches, but they were full now. The wind was growing sharper, cut through with a dampness that meant it would rain soon. I leaned against the wall of the shelter and the old man shifted with me, muttering something I couldn’t make out. The wind was bitter, but it wasn’t strong enough to carry away his tang. I wondered when he’d last had a wash. Maybe it’d been in London. I pulled out my half-empty pack of cigarettes.

  'If I give you a fag will you go away?'

  'That’s what you bloody yuppies are like.' The old man’s voice was getting higher. 'You think you can bloody buy and sell everyone. Well Jackie McArthur’s no for sale.'

  The people on the benches turned towards us. I didn’t care, maybe it would be the last time I’d be the entertainment. I held the pack towards him.

  'Aye fine, you can have one anyway, if you lower the volume.'

  Jackie took a cigarette.

  'Bloody fucking metropolitan yuppies. No room for a working man any more.'

  Perhaps he really had come all the way from London. He seemed to have the measure of the place.

  Another bus slid into another stand, but the Cumbernauld service was still missing in action. The people waiting on the benches started to shuffle into line. I looked back towards the clock in the main hall and saw a short moustached man in a navy-blue fleece walking towards us. He wore a silver ticket-machine strung round his neck like a badge of office.

  The woman at the top of the queue began counting her change, getting the correct fare together. She looked up as the conductor passed, but he ignored her, walking by the waiting queue towards my new pal Jackie McArthur.

  The ticket-collector cocked his thumb at Jackie.

  'Move it.' The old man looked up, his fight chased off by the uniform and moustache.

  The ticket-collector moved a little nearer, putting his face close to the old man’s. 'I said, bloody move it.'

  I counted to ten, but when I finished counting the old man was still mumbling and the ticket-collector was still puffed before him like a bantam facing a flyweight.

  'There’s no need to talk to him like that.'

  'This isnae vagrant central.'

  Jackie started muttering, 'Nae place for a working man any more.'

  I tried to keep my voice reasonable. 'He’s only waiting on a bus.'

  'No, he’s no, he’s just in here for the heat.'

  'Then he’s bloody kidding himself isn’t he? You’d get more heat off my granny’s fanny and she’s been dead fifteen years.'

  Someone in the queue laughed and the conductor flushed.

  'You watch your mouth. There’s ladies present.' He turned to the old man. 'Where are you headed?'

  'Away from London, son. City of fools and killers.'

  'He’s going to Aberdeen.'

  'Where’s your ticket?' The old man patted the pockets of his jacket and the official raised his voice, enunciating slowly. 'I said, where is your ticket?'

  The man stopped his search and the collector’s eyes sparkled. He adjusted the settings on his machine. 'That’ll be fifteen pounds please, sir.'

  Jackie looked confused. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the fifty pence I’d given him. He turned to me his voice high.

  'I told you already. I dinnae have the money.'

  The cogs of the ticket-machine rasped as the collector cranked it backwards.

  'Well fuck off and stop wasting our time then or I’ll be forced to call the cops and have you done.'

  I took out my wallet.

  'Look, I’ll bloody pay.'

  I pulled out a tenner. The old man took it gently from me, smiling, and I noticed how well his horn-yellow nails coordinated with the nicotine tint of his fingertips.

  The ticket-collector’s voice was nasal and sharp.

  'It’s fifteen pounds please, sir.'

  'Give me a moment.'

  I patted my pockets for change echoing the old man’s search, but that morning I had resolved again to live within the bounds of the bru and never to touch the tainted money hidden in my props case beneath my bed. I remembered too late that the tenner was the last of my cash. I looked towards the queue.

  'Look, this old boy’s a bit confused, he’s four-fifty short of his fare to Aberdeen.' I hesitated, not really wanting to go ahead with what I knew I was about to do, but sure that I wouldn’t be bested by the bully. I scanned the faces before me. Third in line stood a skinny red-haired girl in a green coat. She looked like a student, but the coat was new, her bag mid-range expensive. Others were looking away, keen to remove their better nature before it was called on, but the skinny redhead was half out of the line, watching us. I bet she had some money on her. Even as I caught her look in mine, her hand went shyly to her pocket. I held her gaze and said, 'You want to help this old man.'

  The order freed her and she stepped forward, calmly unzipping her handbag.

  Jackie took off his bunnet and started to sing.

  The northern lights of A-a-berdeen are home, sweet h-o-o-me to me.

  A couple of people in the queue started to grin, but the girl continued to reach for her purse. I kept my eyes on her, smiling but willing her to speed up.

  Then suddenly everyone in the queue was laughing, the girl looked up confused, a flush burning her cheeks.

  Jackie was tilting a small bottle of whisky to his lips. He finished his swallow, raised the ten pounds to his mouth, kissed it, then lifted the note in the air and began jigging back into the station, towards the exit.

  The northern lights of Aberdeen are where I want to be.

  'Remember, son,' he shouted over his shoulder, more lucid than a drunken, dancing tramp with money in his hand should be,'

  'member and keep away from London. It’s full of killers and fools.'

  'Aye, that’s good advice for your money,' said the ticket collector. 'So do you want this ticket to Aberdeen?'

  'What do you think?'

  'I think you should bugger off.'

  Jackie’s song echoed from the exit.

  I’ve been a wanderer all my life and many a sight I’ve seen, But God speed the d-a-a-a-a-y

  when I’m on my w-a-a-a-a-y

  to my home in Aberdeen…

  I hesitated, caught between the impulse to run after the old man and an urge to thump the ticket-collector.

  I said, 'Who the fuck do you think you are?'

  He shook his head, and started to walk towards the waiting queue. I made to follow him, then a small figure caught my eyeline. I turned and said, 'Hi Mum.'

  We wandered down past the Stalinist façade of the concert hall and into the city. I reached towards my mother’s carrier bag but she pulled it away from my grasp. The last time we’d met I’d taken her to an Italian restaurant I’d read about on the flight from London. This time I didn’t even have the price of a cup of coffee. The change hung between us as we walked towards the café of her choice.

  I’ve drunk coffee in Starbucks from Manhattan to Inverness and never yet enjoyed the experience. We queued, ordered, Mum paid, then we waited to see what we’d paid for.

  Perhaps it said something about the indomitability of the human spirit that no matter how hard the coffee corporation tried they couldn’t guarantee service with a smile. Our server looked like he’d had a rough night. His skin had a veal-calf pallor and there were red rings round his eyes that told of late nights and smoky rooms. He clattered our cups onto their saucers, swilling milky coffee over the side.

>   I lifted the tray and said, 'Ever thought you were in the wrong job?'

  'All the time, pal.' He leant forward and whispered low enough to exclude the other customers. 'I’d prefer one that didn’t involve dealing with wankers.' Getting things off his chest seemed to cheer the boy up. He smiled, resuming normal volume. 'Mind and have a nice day.'

  I started to answer, but Mum put her hand on the small of my back. She should have been a nightclub bouncer. There was no arguing with that steady pressure. I bit back my words and we made our way to the only seats available, two stained chairs set round a table littered with a debris of sandwich wrappers and dirty cups. I slid the tray between the mess.

  Suddenly I wanted a pint.

  Mum set our cups on the table and started to fill the empty tray with the rubbish. A plastic sandwich pack sprang open and her mouth grew tight as she forced it shut.

  'Do you have to pick a fight with everyone you meet?'

  I watched her hand the tray to a passing employee with the smoothness of a fly-half passing a rugby ball. One minute the guy was loose-limbed and unburdened, the next he was laden.

  'Bad manners annoy me.'

  Mum folded a napkin and placed it between the saucer and the cup to soak up the slopped coffee. She rubbed a paper hanky over the spills of the previous customers, then put her carrier bag on the table between the lattes.

  'It’s me that’s the pensioner, not you.'

  'Aye, sorry.'

  She smiled to show me the reprimand was over then reached into her handbag and pulled out an envelope with her address written on it in my handwriting.

  'I’d best give you this before I forget.'

  'Oh, right.'

  I took the envelope from her, feeling the cord that seems to stretch from my guts to my groin tighten.

  'You said it was insurance documents.'

  'That’s right.'

  I slid it into my inside pocket wondering if Montgomery’s envelope would be my insurance or a bait to my downfall.

  'Your dad always said you had a good head on you, underneath all the carry-on.'

  'Thanks, Mum.'

  'I brought you a couple of things.' She unfolded the plastic bag and pulled out a three-pack of navy socks. 'I thought you could probably do with these.'

  'Thanks.' I lifted them up trying to look interested in the 80 per cent wool, 20 per cent acrylic mix. 'Great.'

  'They were on sale in the Asda. How are you for pants?'

  'Fine.'

  'I almost bought you some, but I minded the last time I got them you said they were the wrong sort.' I vaguely recalled a set of piping-trimmed Y-fronts I’d be scared to get run over in. 'I brought you this as well.' She handed me a blue shirt still in its cellophane wrapping. 'I got it for your dad, but he never got the chance to wear it.'

  It was the kind of shirt that would look good with an off-the-peg from Slaters, a shirt for a nine-to-five man, the kind of shirt I never wore.

  'It’ll mebbe be a bit big for you but I thought you could wear it under a jumper.'

  I took it in my hand smoothing the slightly brittle cellophane.

  'Aye, it’ll be grand in this weather.'

  'That’s what I thought. Keep the chill out.'

  We sat in silence for a moment. Neither of us touched our coffee.

  'I bought it for your dad to wear to Lorna’s wedding, but he went before that came round.'

  I bowed my head. Every time there was a crisis Mum would begin to reminisce about my dad’s death, as if reassuring herself with the knowledge that the worst had already happened.

  She lifted her teaspoon and began to peel back the skin that had started to form on the top of her drink. 'Almost two pounds each these coffees and we’ve not even touched them.' I lifted my cup and took a sip. 'I almost had him buried in that shirt, but in the end I dressed him in plain white. I don’t know why, blue always suited him better. White just seemed more appropriate for a funeral.'

  'There’s no point in fretting over it now. I’ll wear it under a jumper.'

  'Aye,' she laid aside the teaspoon and looked me straight on. 'Or mebbe you should keep it in the packet and save it for your own funeral.'

  'What’s that meant to mean?'

  'Look at the state of you, son.'

  'I’m fine.'

  'You don’t look it.'

  'Well, I am.'

  I sat up a little straighter hoping improved posture would convince her. But I knew what she meant. I’d looked in the mirror before I left my room and seen my face puffy from the night before, my skin pale from days spent indoors, my cheeks jowlier than they’d been in Berlin.

  'Why are you here, William?'

  'That’s a nice question.'

  Her face wore the same stern look she’d used to coax the truth from me when I’d been a wee boy.

  'You’re not in trouble are you?'

  For a second I wished I could tell her everything. The thought almost made me laugh. It was like an urge to put a finger in an electric socket or the impulse to jump under a subway train. I knew it would be fatal but the temptation still beckoned. I took a sip of my coffee, looked her in the eye and said, 'Of course not.'

  The straight stare worked no better than when I’d been a kid.

  'It’s nothing to do with drugs is it? Your dad was always worried about you being in showbiz. I told him you were a sensible laddie but he said it was high risk for drugs. I mean look at Elvis.'

  She smiled at my dad’s folly, agreeing with him all the same.

  'It’s not drugs, Mum, honest.'

  'Honest?'

  She took another sip of her drink, uncertain but wanting to be reassured.

  'Honest.' I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. 'You need to keep a clear head in my line.'

  'Aye, I suppose so.'

  'How’s Bobby?'

  Her face brightened.

  'He’s grand. Mrs Cowan’s laddie’s going to take him out when he comes in from school.'

  'I didn’t know they were letting dogs into school these days.'

  It was a poor joke but she did me the grace of laughing.

  'You know what I mean. Though mind you, he’s as clever as some folk I’ve met.'

  'More intelligent than Mrs Cowan’s laddie that’s for sure.'

  'Ach, you’re terrible, William. He’s doing his standard grades now.'

  'That’s good.'

  I sipped my coffee, pleased the conversation had moved to neutral ground. I should have known better. Mum let me relax, then hit me again with the old verbal one-two.

  'Is it a girl, son?'

  I kept my voice level.

  'There was a girl, Mum, but there isn’t any more.'

  She smiled. Romance was a good problem.

  We left Starbucks and walked down towards the town. Mum wanted to see where I was staying. I said it was being painted, but promised to take her when the renovations were over. She asked me about the colours the decorators had chosen and I lied my way through an addled spectrum that had her shaking her head. We wandered into Marks & Spencer’s where she clucked at the prices and tried to patch my misery with reduced-price knitwear.

  'It’s not my style, Mum.'

  'You’re getting too old for style, son. Feel that, it’s lovely wool.'

  'I’d never wear it.'

  She reluctantly let go of the sleeve of the jumper she’d been holding out for my inspection.

  'It’s a nice shade. It’d go well with your complexion.'

  I thought it looked the colour of dog sick. But I smiled and said, 'Where do you want to go now?'

  She straightened the hooks on the hangers, making sure they were all facing in a uniform direction.

  'I still think these are a bargain.'

  'Not if they stay in the cupboard.'

  'I suppose not.'

  Across the racks a smartly dressed shopper stared at us. She looked away as I caught her eye and I wondered if she was the store detective or just a nosy cow with t
oo much time on her hands. I glanced to check Mum’s back was turned then mouthed Fuck you, clear and silent. Mum dug me sharp in the ribs.

  'What?'

  'You know what. I brought you up better than that.'

  'Sorry. She was staring at us.'

  'Well, let her stare.' Mum steered me towards the exit. 'And you a bally magician. Did you not know I could see you in the mirror?' She started to laugh. 'Mind she was a nosy torn-faced auld besom.' We were both laughing now. Mum wiped her eyes. 'Honestly, you’ll be the death of me.' She looked the most cheerful she’d been all day. 'Come on,' she handed me her shopper. 'It’s an hour before I need to get the bus. Will I take you for a wee drink?'

  The pub was a converted bank. Mum admired the ceiling and gasped at the size of her glass of wine, but she kept a brave face when the barmaid told her the price of the round and managed to pay up without flinching. I carried the drinks over to a corner booth with a good view of the room. It was still early in the day and the last of the sun was filtering soft yellow through the frosted windows of the old bank. The nearest I’ve come to religious experiences have been in pubs in the late afternoon. A few office workers were scattered about the place, self-medicating with cheap bottles of wine and two-for-one lager offers. I’d always said I’d kill myself before I worked in an office. I wondered if I was destined to join their ranks, or if I’d stick to my principles.

  Mum folded her coat on the seat beside her, took a sip of her wine and asked, 'Why do you not come back with me for a wee while William? Just till you get on your feet again.'

  'You’ve not got the space.'

  'That couch folds out into a bed. It’s comfy, I slept on it when your dad was not well.'

  'And where would Bobby sleep?'

  'He’s not allowed on the couch.'

  'Aye right, I bet he’s sleeping on it right now.'

  'Just for a wee while, William.'

  'I’m fine where I am, Mum.'

  She gave me the same look she’d given me when I’d said I was giving up university to concentrate on my conjuring.

  'I wish I could believe that. What’s wrong son?'

  'Nothing, I’m just having some time out.' I drained the last of my pint. 'It’s a popular twenty-first-century lifestyle trend.'

  'For those that can afford it maybe.'