— Ma days ay gaun through ceremonies ur ower. Terry drops his voice and briefly turns his head. — Listen, mate, if yir eftir any nook n cranny ower here, jist geez a shout. Ah’m the boy. Kin sort ye oot wi anything ye need in this toon. Just sayin likes!
Ron Checker has scant clue as to what this man is ‘just saying’.
This asshole really has no idea who I am!
Yet through the rush of contempt he feels for this cabbie, something else is happening: Ronald Checker is experiencing the phantom excitement at being cut adrift, of being a traveller again, as in his student days, as opposed to a cosseted business tourist. And those unyielding seats feel good on his spine! Strangely, Checker is conceding that part of him, that piece liberated by the most recent divorce, is enjoying himself! Why not? Here he is, striking out on his own, free from the sycophantic incompetents like Mortimer! Did he have to be limited and hemmed in by other people’s perceptions of Ronald Checker? Wasn’t it fun, to try and be somebody else for a while? And this back! Perhaps it was now time to give it a start. — I appreciate that . . . er . . .
— Terry, mate. Terry Lawson, but ah git called Juice Terry.
— Juice Terry . . . Checker lets the name play on his lips. — Well, pleased to meet you, Juice Terry. I’m Ron. Ron Checker. He looks at the cabbie in the mirror for any traces of acknowledgement. None.
This clown really doesn’t know who I am
,
so self-absorbed is he in his own petty, trivial life.
But he’d seen this before in Scotland, during the Nairn debacle.
— Check thehhht! Juice Terry bellows, at what appears to Checker to be a rather ordinary young woman, who is stopped at a pedestrian crossing.
— Yes . . . fetching, Checker forces himself to agree.
— Ah’m gittin a twinge fir that minge!
— Yes . . . Listen, Terry, Checker begins, suddenly inspired, — I love these cabs. These seats sure feel good against my back. I’d like to hire you this week. You’d drive me around locally, some tourist places, one or two business appointments further north. I have some negotiations at a distillery in Inverness, and I’m a keen golfer. There will be some overnight stays, in the best hotels, of course.
Terry is intrigued, but shakes his head. — Sorry, mate, ah’ve goat ma shifts planned oot, ay.
Unused to non-compliance in others, Checker is incredulous. — I’ll pay you twice what you earn in one week!
A big grin framed by a mop of curls gazes back at him. — Cannae help ye, buddy boy!
— What? Checker’s voice screeches in desperation. — Five times! Tell me how much you earn in a week and I’ll pay you five times as much!
— This is the busiest time ay the year, mate, the run-up tae Christmas and Hogmanay – even worse thin the fuckin festival. Ah’m clearin two grand a week, Terry lies. — Ah doubt ye could pey us ten grand a week jist tae drive ye roond!
— Consider it a deal! Checker roars, and dives into his pocket, producing a chequebook. Waving it at the back of Terry, he shouts, —
Do
we have a deal?
— Listen, mate, it’s no jist aboot the money; ah’ve goat regular customers whae depend oan ays. Other activities, if ye catch ma drift. Terry turns, tapping the side of his nose. — In business-speak, ye cannae compromise the core enterprise, no just for a one-off. Ye huv tae look eftir the long-term client base, mate, the steady-income stream, n no git hijacked wi side projects, as lucrative as they might be in the short term.
Terry can see Checker in the rear-view mirror thinking about this. He feels pleased with himself, although he is only quoting his friend Sick Boy, who makes the porn videos he occasionally stars in.
— But I can offer –
— Ah’ve still got tae say naw, mate.
Checker is astounded. Yet deep in his core he is sensing that there is something about this man. Perhaps it’s even something he needs. This notion compels Ronald Checker to utter a word that he can’t consciously remember leaving his lips since he was a child at boarding school. — Terry . . . please . . . He gasps at his use of the word.
— Awright, mate, Terry says, flicking a smile into the mirror, — we’re baith men ay business. Ah’m sure we’ll be able tae strike up some kind ay a deal. Just one thing but, pittin ye in the picture, Terry’s head swivels round, — they overnight steys in hotels . . . thaire’s gaunny be nae bum banditry gaun oan!
— What?! No way, man, Checker protests, — I ain’t no goddamn faggot –
— No sayin nowt against it, if that’s yir thing, like, n ah’m no sayin thit ah’m no partial tae a bit ay back-door action masel, but a hairy ersehole wi a pair ay hee-haws dangling under it, well, that jist disnae dae it fir the Juice felly here. Terry shakes his head violently.
— No . . . you sure won’t have to worry about that! Checker says, wincing on the bitter aftertaste, but just about managing to swallow the power-ceding pill.
The cab pulls up outside the Balmoral. Portering staff, obviously anticipating Ron Checker’s arrival, literally drop what they are doing, in one instance the luggage of another guest, to descend on the cab as the American steps out. The wind has intensified, a surging gust whipping Checker’s oily black-dyed locks skywards, holding them up in a formidable peacock-like display, as he talks to Terry.
Terry Lawson is far more aware of the hovering porters than Ronnie Checker, taking his time and savouring the slow punching of digits into his phone as the two men exchange contact details. They shake hands, Terry going in aggressively to the hilt, without leaving trailing fingers to be crushed, reckoning that Checker is the type of man who would self-consciously work on a dominant shake.
— I’ll be in touch, Ronald Checker smiles, a charmless display that most people could only evoke reflexively and privately if fortunate enough to stumble upon a much-hated rival falling under a bus. Terry tracks Checker’s departure, the American’s stride jaunty, as he tries in futility to flatten his hair against the ministrations of the gales, visibly relieved to walk past an obsequiously grinning doorman.
The porters are miffed to discover no luggage in the taxi, giving Terry some dubious looks, as if he is in some way responsible. Terry bristles, but there are pressing matters to attend to. The funeral of his old friend Alec is due to take place this afternoon. He drives home to his South Side flat, where he changes and calls Doughheid, to take him down to Rosebank Cemetery.
Doughheid is prompt, and Terry gratefully settles back in the cab. However, it’s an older, less slick and upholstered version of his own beloved TX4, made by the London Carriage Company, and its spartan environment makes him feel overdressed in his black velvet jacket, yellow shirt, buttoned up to the top with no tie, and grey flannel trousers. He’s tied back the corkscrew curls in an elasticated band, but a couple have already popped out, jumping irritatingly across his eyeline as he scans women on the streets towards the inner-city district of Pilrig, which looks frosty and threadbare around the park. As Terry steps out the cab and bids Doughheid farewell, the cold drizzle assails him. This is the first ever burial he’s been at, surprised when he’d heard that Alec’s do wouldn’t be in the usual venues of Warriston or Seafield crematoria. It was disclosed that there was a family plot of land purchased many years ago, and Alec was to be buried beside his late wife Theresa, who had died tragically in a fire. Terry had never met her, and he’d known Alec since he was sixteen, but had learnt over the years, through the odd tearful bout of alcoholic remorse and lamentation, that Alec, inebriated, had accidentally started the chip-pan fire which had led to his wife’s demise.
Pulling up the collar on his jacket, Terry heads across to where a large group of mourners have gathered around a grave. It’s busy, but then Alec’s passing was always likely to precipitate a jakey convention. What surprises Terry is that many old faces he has presumed either dead or in prison, are discovered merely not to have ventured past their local supermarkets since the smoking ban.
It isn’t all low-rent style though. A green Rolls-Royce pulls assertively through the gates, crunching the gravel of the path. All the other cars are parked in the street outside, but, much to the chagrin of the bemused cemetery officials, the Rolls inches as close as it can to the gravestones, before two suited and overcoated male passengers exit ceremoniously. One is a gangster whom Terry knows as The Poof. He is accompanied by a younger, wily-eyed, narrow-featured man, who, to Terry’s eye, appears too physically unimpressive to be a minder.
The grand entrance, which has certainly attracted the attention of the mourners, fails to hold Terry’s, his gaze soon turning in other directions. Experience has taught him that grief affects people in different ways. Along with weddings and holidays, funerals afforded the best pulling opportunities. With this in mind, he remembers how Councillor Maggie Orr has returned to her original surname from the clumsy designation Orr-Montague, the latter part belonging to the solicitor husband she’d recently divorced. Terry is armed with two pieces of knowledge: one is that Maggie has worn well, the second is that relationship breakdown and bereavement means double vulnerability. Perhaps he’ll get the old Maggie back, the bewildered Broomhouse girl, rather than the slick, self-actualised professional woman she’s morphed into. The thought excites him.
Almost immediately, he sees her standing by a large Celtic cross gravestone, talking to a group of mourners, wearing a sombre dark suit and gently drawing on a cigarette. Tidy enough, Terry thinks, licking a crystallising layer of salt from his top lip. He meets her eye, allowing first a faint smile then a sad nod of acknowledgement to pass between them.
Stevie Connolly, Alec’s son, sidles up to him. Stevie is a wiry guy, with a permanent bearing of semi-indignation that he inherited from his father. — You found ma faither, ay?
— Aye. Died peaceful like.
— You were his mate, Stevie says, in accusation.
Terry recalls how father and son had never been close, and partly empathises, being himself in a similar situation of paternal alienation, but is unsure of how to react to Stevie’s contention. — Aye, worked oan the windaes thegither, he says blandly, recalling another eventful chapter in his life.
Stevie’s doubtful scowl seems to be saying: ‘and the fucking housebreaking’, but before he can voice the thought, a series of calls and signals ripple across the cemetery, compelling the mourners to bunch slowly around the graveside. The minister (Terry gives thanks that Alec, though originally a Catholic, had left instructions that the funeral would be as secular and short as possible, so this meant Church of Scotland) makes a few non-contentious remarks, centring on how Alec was a social man, who missed his beloved Theresa, cruelly taken from him. They would now be together, not just symbolically, but for all time.
A couple of psalms are sung, the minister gamely trying to garner the enthusiasm of probably the weakest and most self-conscious backing chorus in the history of Christendom, unaided by indoor acoustics. There follows a short speech from Stevie. He just about manages to cover up his resentment towards Alec and his role in his mother’s demise, before inviting anybody who feels so inclined to come up to the microphone to give testimonial. There follows a nervous silence, with much studying of the blades of wet grass.
Then, at the urging of both Alec’s son and niece, Terry gets up to speak, standing on a box behind the microphone. Looking out at the sea of faces, he cracks what he thinks is a winning smile. He then taps the microphone in the manner he’s seen stand-up comics do at Edinburgh Fringe shows. — Once Alec goat the results n kent thaire wis nae wey back, eh took oaf oan a massive session, drinkin his wey through half the local Lidl’s stock! That wis Alec, he thunders, waiting for laughter to erupt.
But there is mostly stillness around the grave. The few who choose to react polarise between half-stifled chuckles and gasps of horror. Maggie shakes her head ruefully at Stevie, whose hands are balled tight and white, his teeth almost cracking as he hisses through them, — He thinks it’s a fuckin best man’s speech at some waster’s wedding!
Terry elects to soldier on, raising his voice above the intensifying grumbles. — Then he decided tae pit his heid in the oven, ay. But Alec bein Alec, he wheezes, — the cunt wis that pished he thought the fridge wis the fuckin oven! Pardon ma French but, ay. Aye, eh went intae the boatum freezer compartment, couldnae git ehs fuckin heid in, cause ay the wire basket n the McCain oven chips, so eh stuck ehs heid intae the plastic container next tae the basket n filled it wi ehs puke! Terry’s laughter explodes across the cold, wet cemetery. — Any cunt else ye’d blame it oan the medication, but that wis Alec, ay!
Stevie’s face crumbles as he takes this in, and a hyperventilating fit starts to seize him. He looks to Maggie and the other relatives in appeal. — What’s eh sayin? Eh? What is aw this?
But Terry, the wind whipping up his curls, has the floor and, in full flow, is all but oblivious to the reaction from the mourners. — Well, even wi the door open, it was such a cauld night that when ah found um in the morning, his heid wis frozen in a solid fuckin block ay iced-up seek-water, fae jist under his chin tae the back toap part ay his neck. Thaire was an aypil frozen in the water for some reason. Like he’d been tryin tae fuckin dook fir it, before eh passed oot! But that wis Alec, ay! Terry pauses. There follows a few tuts, with some heads shaking. Terry glances at Stevie, being restrained by Maggie, who has a firm grip of his arm. — Some boy for a peeve! But it’s great tae see um buried next tae his beloved Theresa . . . Terry says, pointing at the grave next to the one they are standing around. Then he indicates a patch of grass between the two graves. — That’s whaire they buried the auld chip pan; in between the two ay thum, he says, poker-faced, drawing real gasps of disgust, and some barely supressed guffaws. — Anywey, that’s me done. See yis back at the boozer for a scoop, for the boy’s memory, like, and he hops down into the body of the mourners, who stand apart from him like he has a contagious disease.
The rest of the service passes without controversy, though there are some teary eyes when the inevitable ‘Sunshine on Leith’ strikes up on the rickety sound system, as the coffin is lowered into the ground. Terry is too cold to wait for the closing hymn. He shuffles away and heads down the street to the Guilty Lily pub, where the reception will take place. He is the first person to get to the alehouse, and it’s a relief to be in the warm on this foul, dreich day. Outside it is already pitch dark at barely 4 p.m. A sombre barmaid points to a white-clothed table full of glasses of beer, whisky and wine, and another with a buffet of traditional funeral spread; the mini sausage rolls, the ham-and-cheese sandwiches. Terry hits the toilets, doing a livener before returning to get himself a bottle of beer. As he takes up position by the bar, the mourners file in. Terry, his eyes on Maggie’s entrance, fails to notice Stevie’s discord. As she moves elegantly over to the big fireplace, on the other side of the room, he wonders how long it will take her to come his way.