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  Billy, in the meantime, had grown tired of him. He’d had enough of this joker, swaying about in the non-existent breeze and pulling Kathryn Joyner around like the woman was a rag doll. — Terry, you’ve had enough, mate. Ah’ll git ye a taxi hame.

  — Ah dinnae need a taxi, Birrell, Juice Terry Lawson said testily, picking up his glass of champagne and sipping it royally, — ah’ll jist huv a glass ay champers here, then ah’ll go.

  Billy looked stoically at Terry. There was no friendship, no history in his glance, and Terry felt its chill. He was being viewed as nothing more than a potentially troublesome drunk. No past. No Andrew Galloway. Like it never happened. Like the boy never lived. Aw aye, they’d said a few things at the funeral, but they were still both in shock. After that Billy never fuckin well said anything. After it happened, he just focused on his fight. The thing was, before that fight, Terry was so proud of Billy. ‘Business’ was a name he used freely without piss-taking irony. His mate was going to be the champion of the world. Billy was a machine. But later, when that boy from Wales did him, Terry had felt a malevolent satisfaction through his wounded pride.

  Billy turned away. Terry was a waster. He’d gone downhill. Oh aye, he was still a wind-up merchant but bitterness had got into it. He wished that he hadn’t cut Terry off like that, all those years ago, but the man was a liability. A lot of people said that he never came to terms with Gally’s death. But he, Billy Birrell, was as upset as anybody about what happened. But you had to put it behind you, you had to move on. Gally would have wanted it that way, he loved life, would’ve wanted the rest of them to get on with it, to make the most of it. Terry was acting like he was the only one hurt by what happened, like it gave him an excuse, a licence, tae be a fuckin wide cunt with everybody. You suspected that if it wasn’t Gally, he’d find some other justification to be a cunt.

  Of course he wanted to tell Terry that when he went into the ring with Steve Morgan from Port Talbot, Billy Birrell was ready to tear the boy apart. Somebody was going to get it for what happened to Gally.

  When he got into the ring he just couldn’t move.

  The thyroid thing was blamed, and it was a factor, but Billy knew he could have done Morgan from his death-bed. The first round clash of heads, the blood from Morgan’s nose. Then it happened. Something about Morgan seemed so familiar. He’d never seen it before, but now he saw it in painful clarity. The close-cut black hair, the big brown eyes, the sallow skin and that hooked nose. The jerky gestures and the troubled, wary expression. And the blood, trickling slowly from that nose. It suddenly dawned on Billy that the Welsh boxer was the spit of Gally.

  Nope, Billy couldn’t move.

  He couldn’t throw a punch.

  Billy knew that there was something wrong. He’d first felt it just before he went to Munich. He’d tried to conceal it from Ronnie, who’d tried to conceal it from the sponsors. Fitness was all. Billy reasoned that if you weren’t fit, you couldn’t do what it was essential to do in order to win at any one-on-one sport — be it boxing or tennis or squash — and that was to dictate the pace. In a one-on-one contest, competing at the other person’s pace was demoralising, and unsustainable. That was why Billy reckoned that when he stopped going forward, he would be finished with the fight game. But there was the matter of this particular Morgan fight. His future opportunities relied so much on it. Raw pride carried an exhausted Billy Birrell into the ring. Dictating the pace was out of the question; the only chance Billy now had was a puncher’s chance. And, when the ghost of Galloway came waltzing towards him, that had gone.

  But he was too proud to tell that to Terry, or anyone else, too proud to tell him that he was in shock still from the death of a friend. How lame and pathetic would it have sounded? A boxer, a professional, should be able to rise above that. But no. Thyroid and grief had conspired and Billy’s body had gone and was not moving for him. That was his last time in the ring. It told him that he wasn’t cut out for boxing. He was probably being unfair on himself, but Billy Birrell was a perfectionist, an all-or-nothing type of person.

  When the medical examiner identified the thyroid deficiency, and said that it was a miracle Billy had managed to climb into the ring, he became an overnight hero. Anyway, the British Board of Boxing Control could not allow him to fight taking thyroxine. They became the villains. By popular demand, and after an Evening News campaign, there was a civic reception at the City Chambers. Davie Power and other sponsors realised how much the tendency to ennoble glorious defeat was ingrained in the Scottish psyche. The Business Bar went ahead.

  Billy looked around at the airy, spacious bar, and its largely affluent clientele. As he was contemplating his past paralysis, Johnny Catarrh was spurred into action. Johnny had been letting go some gassy, chemical farts, which had been embarrassing enough in the busy bar. Now he suspected follow-through, and made a hasty lunge to the toilet in order to investigate.

  Billy hadn’t spoken to Johnny yet, and was about to say hello, when Catarrh sped past him. Ignorant cunt, off his tits. What the fuck was Rab doing bringing this lot here? Especially Lawson. Billy looked at Terry, his alcohol-bloated face, his charlie-arrogant mouth, spewing his bombast across the bar, causing paying regulars to glance around uneasily. And there he was, quaffing Billy’s expensive champagne. This cunt had to go. He was . . . Billy’s line of thought was broken when he saw a man storm up to the bar and grab Kathryn by her arm. — What in the name of suffering hell have you been doing? he demanded in an American accent.

  Billy and Terry moved forward as one.

  — Franklin . . . have some champagne! Kathryn squealed happily. Billy backed off. She knew the guy.

  — I don’t want champagne . . . I’ve been going fucking crazy . . . you goddamn fucked-up selfish . . . you . . . you’re drunk! Goddamn it, you’ve gotta sing tonight!

  — Take yir fuckin hands offay her, cuntybaws! Naebody’s singin the night! Juice Terry snarled.

  — Who the hell is this? Franklin asked Kathryn in outraged disdain.

  — This is the cunt that’s gaunny burst your mooth, ya fuckin radge! Terry snapped as he hit Franklin on the jaw. The American staggered back on his heels and fell over. Terry moved forward to put the boot in but Billy was in between him and his intended prey. — You’re out of order, Terry! Git oot ay here!

  — That cunt’s oot ay order . . .

  Kathryn was picking Franklin up. He was rubbing his jaw and looking unsteady on his feet. Then he started throwing up. There was a cheer from a beery crowd of rugby types in the corner.

  Billy grabbed Terry’s arm. — Let’s talk aboot this, mate . . . He ushered him to the back door of the pub. They stepped outside together into the small yard stacked with barrels and crates. The blinding sun shone overhead in a cloudless blue sky. — You n me need tae huv a proper blether, Terry . . .

  — It’s too fuckin late fir that, Birrell . . . Terry swung at Billy who easily sidestepped him and floored him with a sweet left hook.

  As Terry sprawled on the deck, Billy rubbed at his knuckles. He’d hurt himself. That fat, stupid cunt!

  Rab, Charlene, Kathryn, Lisa and Post Alec followed them outside. Alec lurched up to Billy. — Awright, champ? He assumed the stance and sparred for a bit, throwing short punches at a static Billy. Then he was seized by a violent coughing fit and leant against the wall hacking up phlegm. While this was going on, Kathryn and the others were attending to Terry. Franklin came up to them and shouted at her. — If you don’t come back to the hotel now, you are goddamn finished!

  Turning around, Kathryn screamed like a banshee at him. — You don’t tell me I’m finished! You tell me nothing, asshole! Consider your fucking fat sweaty ass fired!

  — Aye, that’s you telt, now git tae fuck! Lisa spat at him, thumbing in the direction of the door.

  Franklin stood and looked at them for a while. This crazy bitch had been brainwashed by a bunch of Scottish lowlifes . . . they must be part of a crazy cult. He knew this was waiting to happen.
He looked at the badge of Rab’s strip. What the fuck was all this shit, some Celtic Scientologist brainwashing bullshit? He’d see about this!

  — Move, Billy Birrell said coldly.

  Franklin turned on his heels and stormed off.

  — Nae offence, Rab, Billy said, looking at him, then at Kathryn, — but maybe youse better think aboot callin it a day and getting some sleep.

  They looked at each other, then at Billy. Rab nodded and they picked up Terry. Lisa shouted something at Billy who looked straight at her. He watched them lurching out, his brother and one of his oldest pals, and shook his head slowly. Billy contemplated the difference between the likes of them and him. They saw the car, the clothes and the smart bird on your arm. They never saw the graft, never faced the risks or felt the anxiety. And sometimes he envied them, just to be able to let go and get fucked-up like that. It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself that luxury. But he didn’t regret what he was doing. You needed respect, and the only way you could get it in Britain if you weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth, or had the right accent, was through having money. You used to be able to get it in other ways, like his old man, or Duncan Ewart, Carl’s dad. But not now. You see the contempt punters like that are held in now, even in their own communities. They say it’s all changed, but had it fuck changed. Not really. All that happened was . . . fuck this.

  What would Gally have been like now, if he was still here?

  Gally’s eyes often haunted Billy. He saw them mostly if he was sleeping alone, when Fabienne was back in France, an off period in their on-off relationship, and he hadn’t got round to replacing her with a local version. The big eyes of wee Andy Galloway; never those lively, busy ones, but vacant and black with death. And his mouth, open in a soundless scream, the blood pouring from it, staining his big white teeth. Still more of it had run out of his ear, past that gold stud in his lobe. The metallic smell of it on Billy’s hands and clothes as he supported the lifeless head. And the weight of him. Gally, so small and slight in life, seeming so heavy in death.

  Billy’s own mouth had seemed to fill with that metallic taste of blood, as if he’d been sucking on an old two-pence piece. Later he’d tried to brush it out, but it kept coming back. Now, in this bar, all those years later, it seemed to be there again. Loss and trauma left its own phantom aftertaste; his stomach warped and cramped around something as unpliable as a chunk of marble.

  And then, the way the blood bubbled out of Gally’s mouth, as if just for a second he was breathing, taking a final breath. But Billy didn’t allow himself that thought, he knew Gally was gone and it was just air in his lungs escaping.

  He minded Carl screaming and Terry was pulling at his own hair. Billy wanted to batter them both and tell them to shut up. Shut the fuck up for Gally. Show some fuckin respect for the boy. After a bit, Terry caught his eye. They nodded at each other. Terry slapped Carl. No, boys never slapped in Scotland. Cockneys gave the missus a slap, that was where it came from, a good slapping. This was a clout, a clatter. Terry kept his wrist firm, it wasn’t a lassie’s or a poof’s slap. Billy minded that. It seemed so fuckin important at the time. Now, to him, it seemed beyond both sad and sick and just completely bizzare. It wasn’t our bad habits which really scared us; we got too used to them, they only worried others. It was the odd, unpredictable, brutal impulse you fought to restrain, the one that the rest never even saw and hopefully never would.

  But they did with Gally.

  Sometimes Billy never understood how he kept it all in his head. He knew that personality was generally seen as action rather than words or thoughts. Long before he took up boxing he had learned that fear and doubt were emotions best left unexpressed. They often burned all the harder for the suppression, but he could do it. He had no time for the ghoulfest of the confessional culture; when such emotion threatened, he bit hard on it as if it was a pill and swallowed the energy that was released from it. Better that than giving some other cunt the power to dismantle your head. It normally worked, but it failed him once.

  When Gally’s ghost came floating into the ring.

  And it had come back all too strongly recently. Billy was thinking about Fabienne, thinking about his partnership with Gillfillan and Power, and he’d taken a walk in the cemetery where Gally was buried. He came close to the grave and saw a guy muttering away beside it. As he got closer it was like the guy was talking to Gally. Embarrassed, Billy walked on and dismissed the thought. The boy was probably just some community-care jakey mumbling shite. He didn’t look the part though; he wore a tie and it was like he had a uniform under his overcoat.

  It disturbed Billy. He was almost sure the man had said ‘Andrew’. In all likelihood just the phantom imprint of his old grief, but it twisted away through him like the weeds and vines in the cemetery.

  Islands in the Stream

  Though feeling the dull ache in his jaw, Juice Terry brimmed with victory as he struggled across Princes Street with one of Kathryn’s suitcases. He’d get her down the Gauntlet, and everybody would see that he, Juice Terry, was still THE FUCKIN BOY when it came to, well, everything. It had been a mistake though, having a go at Birrell, he admitted to himself. It was a good, clean shot, Terry reflected in stubborn admiration. They say that a boxer’s punch is the last thing that goes. Birrell’s reflexes had been impressive too, though. Mind you, Terry thought, I’m fuckin pished and you could probably see my punch coming fae the other end ay Princes Street.

  Now Terry was part of a wasted convoy carrying Kathryn’s luggage. Johnny and Rab also had a case each, Lisa and Charlene had some smaller bags. Kathryn carried nothing. — I should help you guys . . . she half-heartedly protested. — Maybe we should get a cab . . .

  Terry’s head was buzzing. They were all in there, Lucy, Vivian, Jason, his mother, all jockeying for position.

  The rest were lost causes, but surely no Jason. Why didn’t he have a relationship with Jason? He’d pandered to the wee cunt. The zoo my arse, ah should’ve made him go tae the fitba, he thought. Too fuckin dear though these days; besides, the wee guy had shown no interest. Terry had to concede that it was understandable, as he himself was starting to relate to the father he’d always hated. Before, all he saw was the bastard’s actions, his cruel, negligent selfishness, not the underlying reasons for such actions. Now he was reluctantly coming to understand them in terms of his own motivations. The auld cunt just wanted a decent ride, a hassle-free life, easy money and a bit of respect. And yes, as a result he had treated his wife and kids badly. But the poor bastard had been born into circumstances whereby he couldn’t accrue the monetary or social resources to put the satisfactory financial spin on things. Rich men treated their partners just as well or just as shabbily as schemies. The difference was that the cunts could keep them sweet with a big pey-oaf if, and when, it all started to go wrong. That was it. And they could do it impersonally through lawyers.

  Terry had to admit that the possibility that the wee man would turn out different might not be a bad thing. Would he be like Terry? Terry tried to look twenty years down the line and see a couple of fit blonde birds going through a lesbian sex ritual in front of a grown-up Jason who was the image of Terry. Then he (Jason/Terry) would join in, fucking one after the other in different positions before blowing his muck. Then he’d peel off the virtual-reality glasses and headset and be sitting with a limp, leaking cock in a scabby run-down room full of takeaway cartons, full ashtrays, dirty dishes and empty beer cans. Terry looked forward to the twenty-first century getting properly started.

  But that was the hereditary scenario. In the environmental one he envisaged the wee man as a specky cunt with a dull wife and couple of small consuming agents as kids, in a Barratt box in the suburbs. And she’d be there, Lucy, visiting on Sunday with Gawky for the roast. It would all be so nice and idyllic when they’d see a ragged, pish-sodden jakey figure staring in the window. It would be Post . . . Juice Terry . . . no, fuck that. He’d show them all one day. He
ran his hand through his still-thick corkscrew hair and felt sad that he couldn’t feel more than self-pity and mawkish sentiment.

  He’d entertained loads of revenge fantasies, which shocked and repelled even him. Lucy dressed in a Hearts top with number 69 SLAG on the back of it, and him giving her an ungreased one up the chapter and verse. But she was no Jambo, she hated all fitba. It was probably his old man he was thinking of; indeed, when inside Terry’s head he was going at it full pelt, he kept intercutting the scene with images of his father wearing a ridiculous maroon rosette at a Hearts–Rangers Scottish Cup final back in the seventies. Fuck it, you should never analyse your own sicknesses too much, it only compounded them.

  If any cunt should have got a punching, it was the gawky cunt, the fuckin lab technician who was shagging her. And he would have as well, had Terry not been fucking Vivian at the time and the boy’s intervention given them the chance to get it on. But this fuckin beanpole with the long hair, rash of spots and the protruding Adam’s apple. Looked like one of these heavy-metal virgins from Bonnyrigg or the like, who played records of male-domination fantasy and who’d go into fits and stutters just talking to a lassie. In fact, Terry had subsequently learned that Lucy had chatted him up, at a works night in Kirkcaldy, the Almabowl.

  Terry almost laughed out loud when she came round and that cunt was there, with his hands by his side, opening and closing his fists, as if he was going to start something. She was packing and getting the kid ready. He should’ve battered the guy to a pulp because he was taking his wife and his son away. But he couldn’t, because all he could think of was Vivian, how he’d precipitated the situation to get Lucy to leave him, take the responsibility of the kid away in order that he could act the hurt, deserted and abandoned one. And they’d played right into his hands. Now he’d be free of the red bills, the tenancy, the cold silences flaring into vicious arguments, the moans, her desires for a house in the suburbs and a garden for the bairn so he wouldn’t have to play in the streets of the scheme like Terry did. Oh, how he’d savour freedom from all the ugly deceit. Yes, when the door closed, he contemplated his loss and had an indulgent wee whinge to himself, then packed up his own stuff, and, to her abject horror, moved straight back into his Ma’s house.