by Limmy
But she smiled and said, ‘All right. Thank you very much.’ And she lay back in bed again. Tony zipped up his coat and left.
He walked out the house, and repeated to himself the things he had to get. ‘Eggs, bacon. Beans, baked beans. Black pudding. Bacon.’ No, he’d already said bacon.
There was something else, but he’d remember it when he got there.
He walked down his street and onto the main road, and then along to the traffic lights.
‘Butter,’ he said to himself. He was to get butter. ‘Butter, eggs, bacon, baked beans, black pudding …’
He wasn’t sure if there was anything else. Then he reckoned that the best way to remember was simply to imagine having a fry-up, and imagine what was on the plate.
He crossed the road without walking to the traffic lights ‒ there weren’t many motors on the road this early. There weren’t many people walking about either. There was a cyclist locking up his bike to a lamp post; there was a young woman in her gym gear, walking her dog; there was a teenager with a hooded top, going into the garage. People up early to keep fit, or sent out to get breakfast. It was a nice morning for it, he was glad he came out.
He took a deep breath of the fresh air, and headed for the garage. He was to get butter, bacon, black pudding … och, he’d work it out when he walked in there.
He stopped for a second to watch the cyclist. The guy was having trouble with his bike. With his lock. He was mumbling to himself. Swearing. Then he turned to see Tony looking at him.
Tony smiled, and was about to say something to him, but the guy just looked back to his bike lock. Not a happy camper.
‘Morning,’ said Tony. ‘You know, you don’t …’
‘What?’ said the cyclist.
The cyclist was in a cunt of a mood. He looked at Tony, then looked back at his lock. He held it in his hand, unlocked, then he looked at the bike, as if trying to work out how to solve the problem in his mind before doing it for real.
Tony didn’t want to annoy the guy. He knew how it was with these folk. Cyclists. Especially ones like this, the ones that wore all the gear like they were in that Tour de France. Highly strung. He’d seen a few of them get angry at drivers over next to nothing. Shouting at the top of their lungs.
He was sure it went both ways, though, he wasn’t judging the guy. Tony reckoned that both sides just needed to turn it down a notch. Not just the folk on the bikes, but the folk on both sides. Turn the other cheek, as the saying goes. Just look at this glorious day ‒ how can you be off to a bad start on a fresh day like this? A fresh, bright morning.
‘Fuck sake,’ mumbled the guy, but it wasn’t at Tony. He was crouched, trying again to get his lock around his bike and the lamp post, but he couldn’t quite do it. There was a sign for a cafe in the way. The sign was strapped to the bottom of the lamp post. The cyclist was able to slide the sign up the pole only so far, but not far enough.
Tony said, ‘All I was going to say was that you don’t need to lock your bike up here, son.’ And Tony truly believed that. It was a good area. He’d lived here for over 30 years without any sense of it being a bad area or getting worse over time. Even the teenagers, you didn’t get any hassle from them, not back then and not now. They were good boys. It was a good area.
The cyclist didn’t move. He was holding his lock, but he wasn’t doing anything.
Tony didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what the guy was doing. He almost looked like he was about to cry. Tony had felt that way himself before, trying to put up a shelf or what have you. You feel like you’re having a fucking breakdown.
‘What I mean is,’ said Tony, but the cyclist had something else to say.
He stood away from the bike, looked at Tony, and said, ‘Go’.
Tony looked at him and said, ‘What?’
‘Go,’ said the guy. ‘On you go.’
On you go what? ‘I don’t know … I don’t know what you …’
Then the guy said something under his breath. Tony could hear that the guy was ‘sick to fucking death of’ something.
The teenage boy with the hooded top left the garage, and walked past them both. The cyclist watched him, then looked to Tony and smiled.
‘Is it him, aye?’ said the cyclist.
The teenager looked at the cyclist, not sure if he was being spoken to. He kept walking. Tony didn’t know what was going on here ‒ who was the cyclist talking to? What was the mix-up here?
The cyclist spoke to the teenager. ‘D’you think I’m fucking daft?’ he said. ‘Go then,’ pointing to his bike.
The teenager kept walking. He reached into his pocket for his phone, but kept on walking.
‘Go then,’ said the cyclist to Tony, and then he grabbed Tony’s arm. It hurt.
‘What you doing, son? What is this?’
‘D’you want a wee shot, aye?’ asked the guy. ‘Is that it? A wee shot around the block, is that all? Go then. On you go. D’you think I’m fucking daft?’
Tony pulled his arm away.
The cyclist lightened up. ‘On you go,’ he said, smiling. ‘Have a go.’ He was suddenly cheerful.
‘I don’t want a go,’ said Tony. ‘Son, what is this?’
‘On you go,’ said the cyclist. ‘It’s just a bike. A wee cycle around the block, aye? D’you want a wee cycle around the block, aye, is that it? And you’ll bring it right back?’
This was all going too fast for Tony. The guy with the bike seemed nice enough, but there was something not right with him; one minute he looked ready to go for Tony’s throat, the next he was full of the joys of spring.
Was it the teenager? What was the thing with the teenager? Did the teenager try to steal his bike before or something? Tony didn’t know. He didn’t think so. It was a good area, this. He might even know the boy.
‘On you go,’ said the cyclist, pointing to the handlebars. ‘There’s the brakes, these are the gears. It’s a good bike, you’ll love it. Carbon frame. Cost £1,995. And it’s all yours, if you promise to bring it back. Do you promise?’
This was a wild morning.
But, you know, maybe he would. Maybe Tony would have a shot. He’d have something to tell Barbara when he got back. And he’d be able to show this guy that this wasn’t a bad area. Tony meant what he said, he didn’t have to lock his bike up here. He didn’t know about that teenager, he couldn’t vouch for him personally, but he knew that most of them were fine. No hassle at all.
‘All right then,’ said Tony, and he took the bike.
‘That’s it,’ said the guy. He was speaking to Tony like he was a child. ‘Up you get, that’s it.’
Tony sat on the bike, and put his hands on the handlebars.
‘Oh, it’s been a while,’ said Tony.
‘That’s right,’ said the guy. ‘Who is it, by the way? Was it him?’
‘Was who what?’ asked Tony.
The guy pointed back the way, in the direction the teenager had gone.
‘I don’t know about him,’ said Tony. ‘But I know that this is a good area, son. I’ll show you.’
‘You do that,’ said the guy. ‘Who cares, eh? It’s only a bike.’
The guy held onto the seat of the bike and began pushing. Tony wobbled the front wheel from left to right.
‘I’ve never been on something like this,’ he said. ‘Here, wait. Wait.’
The guy pushed Tony faster and faster until he couldn’t keep up. Tony liked it, but he reckoned that was enough.
He looked over his shoulder at the guy, and smiled. The guy was becoming further and further away, but Tony could see the guy smile back. Then the guy looked down at the pavement.
Tony looked forward to see where he was going. He didn’t want to go over a broken bottle and cause the guy any trouble.
He looked back over his shoulder. He wanted to tell the guy that he wanted to come off now. He could see that the guy was still looking at the pavement. The guy wasn’t smiling anymore. He was hitting the sign on the lamp
post with his bike lock.
Then, all of a sudden, the guy started sprinting after Tony.
There was a look on the guy’s face that Tony didn’t like. It looked like maybe the guy was just concerned about Tony’s safety and the safety of his bike, but as the guy got closer, it looked less like that and more like something else.
It made Tony want to pedal faster. And so he did. He pedalled until the guy became further and further away. He pedalled until all he could hear was the wind in his ears.
He didn’t get back until two that afternoon.
Barbara knew he’d ruin breakfast. And he did.
Benidorm
Me and the lads fucked off to Benidorm there. Fucked off for the weekend. A wee Friday to Sunday thing. We do it every year, pretty much. I jump online and get us a wee deal and then we’re off. It was some fucking laugh.
This year it was me, Peter, Scott and Scott’s uncle Andy. Just the four of us. There used to be a lot more, more than a dozen, but they’ve all dropped out. Every year it’s like one less is up for it. Even though we always have a laugh, by the time I start talking about where we can go next time around, everybody’s like that: ‘I’m not really up for it.’
I’d be like: ‘You’re not really up for what? Having a laugh?’
And they’d be like: ‘I’m up for having a laugh, I just don’t fancy Benidorm,’ or Magaluf, or wherever else I suggested. And if I told them to suggest somewhere else, they’d be like: ‘Och, I’m just a bit skint right now.’
It was bullshit.
The fact was that they wurnae up for it anymore. Getting old. The cunts couldnae handle it anymore, that was the sad fact of reality. So it was just the four of us this time. We were down to four.
Funny thing is, we ended up being down to three, cos of what happened at the airport. I’ve got this wee game, right? It’s a wee game I made up for whenever we’re in the airport. It’s called Bomb.
So we’re there at the airport, Glasgow Airport, and we’re waiting in the queue at the security bit. A big fucking queue winding back and forward like a snake, the thing barely moving. We were right in the middle of it, about halfway to go. Another 20 minutes at least.
I don’t mind queuing, cos time flies when you’re having fun. But we wurnae. We wurnae having fun. And it was because of Scott. Well, Scott’s maw. She was in hospital, so everybody was being pure sombre. No cunt saying anything, no patter. Scott was especially gutted, not just because it was his maw, but because it was Scott that put her there.
What happened was, he was at her house, helping her move some furniture. He was moving this couch, and he somehow managed to break her foot with it. So she had to get taken in for an operation. The operation went fine, but Scott told me that she’d have to use a wheelchair for a couple of months. His family fell out with him, nobody was talking to him, and he felt pure terrible. But other than that, everything was fine. A broken foot, no big deal.
Then guess what.
She got one of they fucking hospital bugs.
You know that sort of shite you hear about in the news, a supervirus or superbug or whatever it is? It actually happened to Scott’s maw. So then suddenly it’s went from a broken foot to her being on the brink of death.
When Scott told me, I was like that: ‘Here, imagine she died and there’s you at the funeral. The minister’s like that: “We are gathered here today to say goodbye to Janet McDonald. Killed by a couch.’’’
He couldnae laugh, though, that’s how bad he felt. Pure guilty as fuck. Then he told me that he wisnae coming to Benidorm. His maw was getting better, but he wanted to stay at the hospital until she had a full recovery. A few days later, though, he phones back saying that his family just told him to go on his holiday and they’d let him know when she got out. I was like that: ‘They’re right, Scott. You’ve done more than enough.’
So there we were in the queue at the airport.
Scott’s staring into space, thinking about his maw, and Andy and Peter are in that sombre way. Now, I don’t know about you, but if I’m in a downer the best medicine is having a laugh. That’s what everybody says, in’t it? You have to agree with that.
So I was like that to myself: Fuck this, let’s get a game of Bomb on the go.
With Bomb, what you’ve got to do is: the first person says ‘Bomb’, all quiet, as quiet as they can. Then the next person’s got to say it louder. Then the person after that, then the person after that, until something happens. It’s a fucking buzz, honestly. I remember it being a buzz even before 9/11.
Before 9/11, you’d get to say ‘bomb’ about 20 times before any of the staff took notice. You’d see some cunt in a suit walking about, trying to find out who was making the racket, then you’d stop. You’d be shiting it that they’d find out it was you, but all they would have done in they days was give you a stiff talking to. We never got caught, but if we did, we’d probably have just got told to keep the noise down.
These days it’s a different story. Especially there in Glasgow Airport. Mind they cunts that tried to blow the place up a few years back? Aye, it’s a different story now. But honestly, it’s some fucking buzz. Try it.
So I was like that: right, let’s get a game of Bomb on the go.
I gave everybody a wee tap on the arm to get their attention. Even Scott. And I went like this, pure quiet: ‘Bomb.’
Andy was like that: ‘What?’, cos he’s never played it before. Andy hisnae come with us on holiday that much. I don’t always invite him. He must be about 60 or something, he’s a wee alky. He was only there to make up the numbers. He said it would be good to come along cos then he could give Scott support. That’s what he said: ‘support’. But he couldnae support fuck all. He’s a daft wee alky.
So Andy didnae know what I was on about. The rest of them knew, though, but they wurnae up for it. Scott was in his trance, thinking about his maw. Peter smiled. I got a wee smile from Peter. He looked away and went ‘Nawwww’, but he had a wee smile on his face like he could be persuaded. Like he was playing hard to get. I like Peter.
He’s an accountant, right? Peter. And I bet that sounds like he’s a right fucking bore. I bet that all these folk he deals with, all these clients and that, think he’s the most straight-laced cunt in the world. But he’s always been up for a laugh, right back to when we were wee. You just go like that: ‘C’mon and we’ll do this,’ and it disnae matter how mental it is, if you ask him enough, he’ll do it.
Andy was like that to me again: ‘Kenny, son, what did you say?’, leaning in, speaking all quiet like I’m bitching about somebody. His breath humming of booze. A wee alky. He’d probably been drinking since the crack of dawn.
So I explained the rules to him, and he chuckles and goes: ‘Naw, you’re alright.’
And that was the end of that. I wisnae gonnae just play it with Scott, you cannae just play it with two, cos that would mean there’s a 50/50 chance that you’ll be the one that gets caught. And fuck that. I like a buzz, but fuck that.
But then I hear this voice, this voice that wisnae from any of us.
‘Imbecile.’
I looked behind me and there was this old guy standing ahead of me in the queue. Some old guy with white hair and a beetroot face. He looked like he was just back from holiday, all sunburnt, but he wisnae. His face was just red, with high blood pressure or something. One of these short-fuse types. Easy as fuck to wind up.
I said to Andy: ‘Ooof, Andy, you taking that?’
Andy was like that to him: ‘What? What’s that, fella?’ Andy was clueless.
The old guy turned around and said: ‘No, not you. I meant your friend there,’ pointing at me. ‘The police here, they won’t mess around. I’m just giving you a friendly warning.’
I was like that: ‘You hear that, Andy? He’s warning you.’
Andy was like that to him: ‘Here, fella, I’m warning you!’
Clueless.
I went like that to Andy: ‘Fuck him, mate. Right, c’mon.�
� Then I whispered ‘Bomb’, and pointed to Andy to tell him it was his turn to go.
Andy went for it. He went: ‘Bomb.’ He said it a bit louder than me, then looked at the old guy.
The old cunt shook his head and turned away, and Andy looked all pleased with that.
I nodded at Peter to go, but he said, ‘Naw, Kenny. No way,’ then he took a wee step away from us, like a bomb really was about to go off. I let him away with it, though, because we only needed three people. I’m all right with a one in three chance of getting caught, and I knew we’d have that as long as I got Scott to join in as well.
I looked at Scott, but it was like he hidnae heard a word. He was tuned out. The thing with his maw had really hit him bad. I gave him a nudge and went, ‘Go, Scott, your turn. C’mon, it’ll be a laugh,’ but Scott didn’t do anything. He didnae even look at us.
Andy started getting cold feet, seeing the state of Scott. Scott’s his nephew, remember, and he went like that to me: ‘C’mon, Kenny, leave him. His maw, you know?’
But I was only trying to have a laugh. I thought it might have even helped Scott a bit, who knows. It’s better than all this sombre shite hanging over him like a raincloud.
I went like that to Scott again: ‘Go!’, and gave him another nudge. ‘Say “bomb”.’
Scott went like that: ‘Bomb.’
It was quiet as fuck, though. He still wisnae looking at any of us. He looked like some cunt full of pills in a mental hospital. So I went like that: ‘No chance, Scott. Louder than that, ya cheating bastard.’
And he went: ‘BOMB!’ It was loud as fuck. Loud enough for everybody in our bit in the queue to go quiet. Then he went like that again: ‘BOMB!’, still staring at the ground.
I was like that: ‘Alright, Scott. Fucking hell, mate. Fuck!’ I looked around to see what the consequences were gonnae be, and there was the polis walking over, following the direction of where all the heads were turned.
Peter went like that: ‘Oh, yous are fucked now.’