A Fine House in Trinity

by Lesley Kelly

  One night Lachie’d got himself in a worse state than usual. One of the laddies-with-dogs had given him some coke so he was being even more obnoxious than usual, which wasn’t going down well with the bouncers in the club. Inevitably we got thrown out, and Shirley, Lachie and I got a taxi back home. Lachie was raging all the way down Leith Walk but by the time we got up to the flat he was crashing. Shirl and I settled down in the living room with a couple of beers while Lachie disappeared off to the bathroom. After half an hour he hadn’t reappeared and we realised he’d taken himself off to bed. Shirl stuck her head round the door of his room and saw that he was snoring away. She came back and made herself comfy at the other end of the sofa from me.

  ‘I’d better be off then,’ I said, getting up.

  ‘Stay,’ said Shirl. She started rolling a joint. ‘Share this with me.’

  I didn’t take much persuading. She stretched out on the sofa and I slid down onto the floor and sat at her feet. I looked up at her and thought how young she looked. I knew I shouldn’t but I couldn’t leave well enough alone.

  ‘Don’t you have to be up for work in the morning, Shirl?’

  She was concentrating on the joint but gave a tiny shake of her head. ‘Naw – I’m not working at the moment.’

  We sat in silence for a minute.

  ‘Shirl?’

  ‘Aye?’

  My heart was beating really fast. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  She laughed. ‘What?’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Nineteen.’ She smiled and kicked the back of my head with her foot.

  I snorted. ‘Aye right, Shirl. How old are you really?’

  ‘Nineteen!’ She laughed again, and threw me her handbag. ‘Check my ID.’

  I delved in and took out her purse. Sure enough her Young Scot card had her birthday as 4th May 1967. I turned it round to show her. ‘Sorry, pal. Shouldn’t have doubted you.’

  I was about to hand her the bag back when I caught sight of the edge of her bus pass. I wriggled it out of her purse.

  She caught sight of what I was up to. ‘What are you doing, Stainsie?’

  The bus pass had a picture of Shirley, without makeup and in her school uniform. The birth date on the pass was 4th May 1972.

  ‘You’re fourteen.’ For once in my life, I was right.

  Shirl sat up and snatched the bag off me, scattering ash as she did so.

  ‘You aren’t going to tell Lachie, are you?’

  I didn’t know what I was going to do. ‘Shirl – you’re too young to be hanging around with Lachie, and taking drugs and that.’

  ‘Don’t say anything, Stainsie.’ Shirl swung herself off the sofa and onto the floor beside me. ‘Please.’ She placed her hand on the top of my thigh, and got onto her knees. ‘Say you won’t tell him.’ I didn’t say anything, and after a few seconds she leant over and kissed me, and her hand moved on to my belt.

  ‘I’m going home’ I said, pushing her away. This was too weird for me.

  Shirl gave me the cold shoulder after this. I wasn’t sure if it was because she was worried I’d tell Lachie, or because I’d rejected her. Maybe a bit of both: hell hath no fury and all that. Guthrie on the other hand, couldn’t get enough of me – always asking how I was doing, how I was enjoying the job, his dark eyes gleaming as he nodded at my answers.

  And I was quite proud of the achievements I had to tell him. I’d passed all my catering exams so far, and I’d been moving rapidly through the ranks at Raiders. I’d graduated from potman, to substitute barman, to valued member of staff with responsibility for cashing up on the quiet nights when Rob was off.

  Guthrie obviously thought I was showing promise because he started confiding in me about some of the problems he was having with his empire. To be honest, I wasn’t that keen on hearing about the problems of running a protection racket, or in fact any of Guthrie’s anecdotes that ended with him joking about breaking somebody’s legs, but I was flattered that he bothered to talk to me. He didn’t even attempt to interest Lachie in his business affairs.

  ‘That bar on Great Junction Street is late with their payment again.’ Guthrie struck up a conversation one night in the flat, after Lachie’d fallen asleep on the sofa.

  ‘Oh. Right,’ I said, nervously.

  ‘I’ll have to get round there and break both the bar manager’s legs if I’m not paid double this week.’

  I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to this so I offered him a fag and lit up myself. Guthrie laughed at my discomfort.

  ‘I’m just kidding you, Stainsie, I’d never break both a man’s legs.’

  ‘Really?’ I said with a feeling of relief.

  ‘Aye. I’d only ever do one. A man can’t work with two broken legs, so I’ve even less chance of getting my money. And it always leaves me another leg to come back for.’

  He winked at me. I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it but it felt like Guthrie was sounding me out, seeing if I was deserving of a place in his little empire. He steered the conversation round to Raiders. I wasn’t happy about this but I was obviously not going to say so, so I just nodded.

  ‘They’re one of my clients.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ I took a long swig of my lager. I really didn’t want to know any of this.

  ‘Not one of my better-paying clients it has to be said.’

  I shrugged. ‘We’re not that busy a lot of the time.’

  Guthrie laughed. ‘That’s what they said, and I didn’t believe them either.’

  My stomach was doing back-flips. I had a mental picture of Rob lying in the lane behind Raiders with two broken legs.

  ‘Stainsie, son, do you fancy helping me out with my little problem?’

  Not really. ‘How’s that?’ I said reluctantly.

  ‘See one night when you’re locking up, just leave one of the doors, or windows unlocked, eh? Could you do that for me, son?’

  There was no way I was getting involved in this but I didn’t know how to say so, so I said, ‘Can I think about it?’

  There was the briefest of pauses, then Guthrie laughed and said, ‘Of course you can, son,’ and on his way to get us another couple of cans he ruffled my hair like I was five years old again.

  I spent a sleepless night at Florrie’s thinking what to do. I pulled back the curtains of my room and watched the night sky gradually lighten. I swung from one point of view to another. I didn’t want to get Raiders turned over, but if Guthrie got his money that way, maybe he’d leave Rob in peace. Or maybe not. By the time the sun crept over the tenement roofs I’d decided I’d tell him that I couldn’t do it; he wasn’t going to be pleased but I reckoned seeing as I was his son’s best friend, in fact his son’s only friend, he wasn’t going to do me too much damage.

  I headed round to the Stoddarts’ to tell Guthrie. The door was open but there was no one in the front office. It’d been many years since Mrs Ainslie sat at reception, chain-smoking and helping Guthrie to cook his books. Her desk was still there though, and Shirley’s pink handbag was sitting on it.

  I hesitated for a minute. If Lachie and Shirley were here, then I wasn’t really going to get a chance to talk to Guthrie. But if I didn’t talk to him today, it was another night watching sunrise over Cadiz Street for me. I needed this over with. In a flurry of resolve, I chapped the door and without waiting for an answer pushed it open.

  I should have waited; if I’d learned anything in life it’s not to walk in uninvited. Don’t walk into your own cabin without knocking in case your roommate is abusing himself, don’t walk into your mother’s bedroom in case she’s got a bottle on the go, and don’t ever, ever, walk in unannounced on Guthrie Stoddart. Shirley was bent over Guthrie’s desk and he was standing behind her, giving it to her good and proper.

  ‘Staines!’ cried Shirley. Guthrie had one of her arms pulled behind her back. She didn’t get a chance to say anything else cause Guthrie clamped his hand over her mouth.

  ‘Son…’ said Guthrie, but
I didn’t wait to find out what he was going to say. I was straight out of the house and across the Links. I took the stairs to Florrie’s flat two at a time.

  Three days later I jacked in my course and signed up as a kitchen assistant on a cruise ship sailing out of Newcastle.

  Saturday

  I realise now that I’m not a man of deep philosophical leanings. I always thought that if I was staring death in the face I’d be thinking meaningful thoughts, or at least have selected scenes from the life of Stainsie going through my head. Although with the way my life has panned out it would probably make me glad to go.

  But no. Even as I’m staring at the gun, the main thought going through my head is, if I die with a hard-on will I stay that way? Does all the blood rush away from that region or does rigor mortis set in right away? I’m not saying that it would be an entirely bad way to go, but I’d definitely have a closed casket. I’m not having Wheezy and the lads down the pub taking the piss even when I’d dead.

  ‘Who is it?’ I say, pulling my towel firmly into place to preserve what’s left of my dignity. ‘What do you want?’

  There’s no answer, but the door opens slightly. The lava lamp is illuminating the gun a neon yellow, then purple, then green. I don’t want to die a psychedelic death. I look round for something to hide behind, but the only thing within reach is Marianne and even I can’t bring myself to hide behind a lassie.

  There’s a noise and I realise that my front feels wet.

  ‘Jesus, fuck!’ I stagger back, looking to see how much blood is on my chest. There isn’t any.

  ‘Liam,’ shouts Marianne. ‘What have I told you about playing with that water pistol in the house?’

  ‘Water pistol? You little bastard.’ My hands are round Liam’s throat before my brain kicks in with a warning that I’m unlikely to ever shag his ma if I throttle him. I decide I don’t care. ‘You little prick!’

  ‘Stainsie!’ Marianne manages with some difficulty to prise my hands off her first born. ‘Liam – get to your room.’

  He scarpers, and Marianne and I look at each other. The mood has been killed, even if nothing else has. ‘I’ll get you a sleeping bag,’ she says.

  I nod. ‘Fair enough.’

  I sit down on the sofa. As I start to calm down I think it’s probably for the best; after all I’m out of here tomorrow. And I can’t entirely blame Liam; I mean no laddie wants to walk in on his Ma doing a Govan curtsey in the living room.

  Roll on morning.

  I wake on Marianne’s sofa. A number of factors have combined to ensure I had a crap night’s sleep. For one thing, the sofa isn’t long enough for me to stretch out, and I have a new-found respect for my father, after all the nights he spent sleeping on sofas in the one-bedroom flats of my teenage years. No wonder he was always in such a bad mood. In addition to the physical discomfort, I kept waking up thinking that I’d find the tiny, irate, figure of Liam standing over me, waiting to drop his ma’s TV on my head.

  But the main reason I couldn’t sleep was that my conscience was killing me. Tell me, Jiminy Cricket – what have I done wrong this time? The usual? Drunk too much and got myself into a situation I can’t handle? Met a nice lassie that I could maybe have something good with and then run off at the thought of responsibility? Gee, if I stay and face the music will I turn into a real, live, boy? Or will I still be a liar with a wooden heart?

  I sit up, yawn, and stretch my arms. I’m not alone; there’s a real, live, boy in the room. A pair of speccy eyes are staring at me over the top of the armchair where I’d dumped all my clothes the night before.

  ‘Morning, Liam.’

  He doesn’t reply. He sweeps my clothes onto the floor and plonks himself down on the chair.

  ‘Are you going to try to strangle me again?’

  ‘I don’t know, Liam. Are you going to soak me with a water pistol again?’

  He doesn’t answer my question. ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘Soon enough, don’t you fret. Where’s your Ma?’

  He yawns. ‘Still asleep.’

  I get up and pull on my trousers. ‘Right, Liam, tell your mammy I had to go, but I’ll give her a ring later on.’

  Liam stares at me and doesn’t say anything. I wonder if I should slip him a tenner, then I remember that he nearly gave me a heart attack last night and I decide I won’t bother.

  ‘Just tell her, right?’

  I manage to get in to the Priest’s House and pick up my stuff without wakening Father Paul. Fair play to him – the man deserves a long lie now and then.

  All the way to Waverly Station I’m looking over my shoulder but it’s an uneventful trip. Jiminy Cricket is still nipping my head, but, well, Wheezy and Marianne should know by now that I’m a reliably unreliable bastard. If I’m their best hope, let’s face it, they were fucked anyway.

  ‘Where to, pal?’ says the man at the ticket desk.

  ‘How much is it to Newcastle?’ and I dig into my jeans for the wad of Colin’s cash. It isn’t there. I try each of my pockets in an increasing state of panic.

  ‘Single or return?’

  I take off my coat and start rifling through it, but I know that I’m not going to find it. That money was never out of my jeans pocket. I’ve either dropped it or been dipped.

  ‘Single or return, pal?’

  I run both my hands through my hair. ‘I can’t find my money.’

  ‘Can’t help you there, pal. We’re strictly cash only. No credit.’ He laughs at his joke and I want to kill him.

  I lean on the counter with my head in my hands, and moan quietly to myself. The ticket man takes pity on me.

  ‘Try reporting it at the Supervisor’s Office, pal. You’d be surprised at what people hand in.’

  My head snaps up. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, aye. There’s a lot of honest people out there.’

  Not surprisingly the supervisor’s office is no use. But then if I’d have found a wad of 500 notes lying on the concourse I’d have been straight into the station bar with it and hard luck on the rightful owner, so I suppose I don’t really have karma on my side.

  I sit on one of the station benches and try to make sense of all this. Could I have had my pockets dipped? But I still had the money on me last night, and I’d kept an eye out for neds on the bus this morning. Maybe I dropped it, maybe even now the money is lying on the floor at Marianne’s. Then I remembered waking this morning to a pair of eyes staring back at me from right above where I’d left my clothes.

  Liam.

  ‘Marianne? Are you in there? Open the bloody door!’ I give the door a kick for good measure. I can’t believe that they are not in at quarter to nine on a Saturday, then I remember that Marianne had said something last night about working the next day.

  ‘Liam? Are you in there?’ I give the door another booting, and the old bat from next door sticks her head out and tuts at me. I’m not in the mood for tact. ‘Oh, fuck off.’

  ‘They’re not in. And I’m calling the Polis.’

  Better and better. ‘Don’t bother. I’m out of here.’

  I can’t even begin to think where Liam might be. Marianne said he stays with his dad sometimes, and with her ma, but I don’t know where either of them live. What I do know is that with every hour I spend wandering round Leith I’m more likely to run into somebody that wants to have a one-to-one chat between their boot and my face.

  I want out. It’s time for desperate measures. I head over to the one place I know I’ll find money.

  ‘Father Paul?’

  He doesn’t answer so I drop my rucksack on the kitchen floor of the Priest’s House and think where I’m most likely to find some cash. I’ve already pocketed any spare cash left lying round the place over the past week, so I reluctantly decide to try Father Paul’s bedroom.

  ‘Father Paul?’ There’s still no answer so I gently push the door open. Jeez, but his room is depressing. There is the bare minimum of furniture that you could have in a room and st
ill call it a bedroom. I know the man’s dedicated his life to God but I’m not sure why that stops him having a few home comforts. I stop worrying about Father Paul when I see a couple of brown envelopes lying on his bedside table. They’re the contents of the collection plates for the last two Sundays. I pick them up and hope the congregation has been generous enough to get me to France.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, I bounce into the kitchen and bend down to pick up my rucksack.

  ‘Hello, Stainsie.’

  I jump about three feet in the air. ‘Jesus, Father, I didn’t hear you come in.’

  A pint of milk and the papers lie on the kitchen table. Bloody good timing on his part; another five minutes doing his shopping and I’d have been gone. There’s no disguising the fact that I’m standing there holding all my worldly goods in one hand, and all his money in the other. I can’t talk my way out of this one so I sling the rucksack over my shoulder and step toward the door. Father Paul steps in front of me.

  ‘Father, I don’t want to hurt you but I need this money.’

  He smiles, his lips a grim line. ‘And my church doesn’t?’

  I push him out the way.

  ‘Won’t you be needing this, Stainsie?’

  I turn and he’s standing there with my passport in his hand. The bastard’s been through my bag. I make a grab for it but he gets hold of my arm and forces it up my back. Next thing I know my head’s resting on the Saturday Guardian and I’ve a searing pain in my collarbone.

  ‘Don’t want to hurt me indeed!’ says Father Paul and lets rip with a few phrases that he didn’t pick up in any seminary.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘You’re a priest – not bloody James Bond.’

  ‘You know what they look for in the modern priesthood, Stainsie?’ he asks, increasing the pressure on my arm slightly. ‘Life experience. I spent four years in the army in my twenties.’