The Amateurs (24 page)

M
ASTERSON WAS FINDING IT HARD TO RECOGNISE THE
woman sitting across the table from him. He glanced around nervously, hoping none of the other lunching customers could hear Pauline as she repeated herself, this time inserting an expletive between the two words.

‘You’re fucking joking?’

‘Calm down, for fuck’s sake,’ he whispered.

‘Calm down? I’ve been to see the place twice. I told the estate agent we’d be putting an offer in tomorrow. I found a
sofa
!’ Pauline delivered this last sentence with the kind of panicky stress normally heard only in emergency rooms, on battlefields, on the flight decks of failing aircraft.

‘It’s only a fucking house!’ Masterson said. ‘We’ll just have to live somewhere smaller for a wee while.’

‘Smaller?’

‘It’s just, after the divorce, ah won’t have as much spare cash. But, once the boy’s finished university and aw that…
and Leanne might get remarried sometime. As long as we’ve got each other, eh?’

‘I thought you weren’t going to get a divorce. I thought…’ Pauline wasn’t quite sure what she’d thought.

‘Well. Change o’ plan,’ Masterson said. He couldn’t go through with it again. That was that.

Pauline let him put his hands over hers but she didn’t meet his gaze. She stared at the tablecloth, thinking about the house, the matching his and hers sinks, the garden. Lawyers for neighbours.

‘There’s just the two of us, eh?’ Masterson said enthusiastically. ‘A nice wee flat would do us for a bit.’

‘Flat?’ Pauline said, doing a very good job of making it sound like she had just said ‘Aids’ or ‘cancer’.

B
ERT HAD BEEN WRONG
. G
ARY’S BALL HAD ACTUALLY
finished four and a half feet from the pin. He rolled it in for an eagle: two under for the tournament. A few moments later, after Keel had three-putted his way to a par, they were walking towards the twelfth tee when Stevie said, ‘Holy shit.’

‘What?’ Gary asked.

‘Look,’ Stevie said, pointing. Gary followed his finger towards one of the huge leader boards that dotted the course. It had just been changed. Gary’s mouth flapped open as he looked at it. It said:

1st: LINKLATER C–5

2nd: LATHE T–4

3rd: RODRIGUEZ J–3

4th: HONEYDEW III J–2

4th: IRVINE G (A)–2

He’d known he was playing well, but he hadn’t really been thinking about his score. Now here he was–tied fourth in the Open. Just three shots behind Linklater.

Calvin Fucking Linklater.

Gary felt his chest tightening and he was breathing harder. ‘Jesus, Stevie,’ he said. ‘Jesus fucking fuck.’

‘I know, come on, breathe easy now.’

‘Aye. Breathe. Cunt. Dug rider. Fuck.’

Oh Christ
,
not now
, Stevie thought as Drew Keel sloped over to them. ‘Listen, son,’ he said, laying a massive gloved hand on Gary’s shoulder, ‘don’t you even think about that shit. Just keep playing your own game and don’t worry what anyone else is doing, OK?

‘Aye. Wankyawankye. Wank me aff,’ Gary said.

‘Sure, son,’ Keel said, Gary’s Ayrshire accent as foreign and indecipherable to his ears as Chinese. ‘No need to thank me. You just hang in there.’ He sauntered back towards the tee.

‘Oh Christ, Stevie,’ Gary whispered, ‘ah’ve got a fucking hard-on.’

‘I know. It’s exciting. Calm down. Just a few holes to–’

‘No!’ Gary whispered through gritted teeth, ‘I mean I’ve got an actual hard-on. It’s killing me.’

Stevie looked at him. Then at their gallery–thousands of spectators now, lining the fairway, pressed up against the ropes all along the tee box and the paths. ‘Look,’ Stevie said, ‘it cannae be that bad…’

‘Bad? It’s fucking bionic.’

‘Jesus.’

Keel and his caddie were already waiting for them on the tee as Stevie walked over to their marshal. ‘Umm, sorry tae to be a pain but my player needs a quick…comfort break?’

‘Christ, son, the match behind is nearly caught up with us.’

‘I know, he really needs to…go.’

‘OK, but make it quick.’

Inside the humid Portaloo, breathing through his mouth against the tangy fug of urine and faeces, it took just forty-five seconds before–cross-eyed, sighing and separated from thousands of spectators by just half an inch of green plastic–Gary felt blessed relief beginning to rumble up from the floor of his testicles. He reached for the toilet paper to find that the box was, of course, empty. Only one thing for it. He grunted as he ejaculated gratefully into his golf glove.

He ran back to the tee box only slightly red-faced. ‘Go on, Gary!’ someone shouted from behind the ropes. ‘You can do it!’

‘Thanks, cheers.’

‘That was quick,’ Stevie said, holding the driver out.

‘Aye, give us a new glove out the bag, would ye?’

‘Glove?’

‘Aye.’

The various sponsors provided an endless supply of free golf junk: balls, tees, gloves, towels, umbrellas and the like, all piled high in the locker room. Stevie knelt down and rummaged through the golf bag.

‘Feeling better, kid?’ Keel asked.

‘Yeah, thanks.’

‘Your honour, Mr Irvine,’ the official said, gesturing towards the tee.

‘Aye, just a sec.’

Stevie came up from the bag. ‘Umm, sorry. I forgot to lift some new gloves this morning.’

Gary swallowed.

‘Please, Mr Irvine,’ the official said. ‘I’m going to have to put you on the clock.’

‘OK,’ Gary said, fishing in his pocket.

He shuddered as he slid his left hand into the cold, glutinous semen-filled glove and walked onto the tee.

Pauline had popped back to the house to pick up some clothes. She knew he was staying in Troon, that the place would be empty. What with the heat and trauma of the day she’d decided to take a cool shower to try and relax. She had the radio on as she leaned into the cold needles, but terrible words kept drifting up to haunt her–
only a house…somewhere smaller…a flat
. She felt the water tingling into her scalp and held her breath for as long as she could.

She turned the shower off and in the quiet heard that the hourly news bulletin had commenced.
‘…with the Prime Minister now in close discussion with the rest of the Cabinet. In sporting news, in a dramatic turn of events at the Open Championship in Troon, amateur player Gary Irvine has just birdied the eighteenth hole to take the lead as the penultimate day of play draws to a close. More now from Roger Morton at Royal Troon
.’

Pauline ground a pinkie into her left ear, squeaking out the soapy water.

‘Yes, Angela, dramatic scenes here. All the more so because Gary Irvine really is a local boy, from Ardgirvan just a few miles along the coast and–’

The doorbell rang. Probably Shona from next door, an avid Radio Ayrshire listener, wanting to tell her that Gary was on the news. Pauline wrapped a towel around herself, turbaned her hair up and ran downstairs.

She opened the front door, the words ‘I know, Shona’ already forming on her lips.

Pauline was dazzled by a fusillade of light guns.

Reporters were crowded around the doorstep. More were streaming through the garden gate, making their way across the front lawn and along the path, some of them even managing to avoid the various decaying turds Ben had strewn around the place. (And ‘strewn’ was wrong, for it suggested the random acts of a madman. The satanic beast had, of course, placed the reeking mounds as strategically as a retreating commander would landmine a field.) Pauline felt the heat of a lamp on her face as cameras, microphones and Dictaphones were thrust in her direction. ‘Mrs Irvine,’ someone was asking her, ‘how do you feel about your husband’s performance?’

‘Do you think he’ll go all the way?’

‘Was his accident a big factor?’

Faced with such an ambush, many people would crumble. They would stammer and slam the door. Pauline–a veteran of tabloids and celebrity magazines, well versed in doorstep journalism and reality TV–found her answers coming immediate and slick.

‘I’m very pleased he’s playing so well…he works hard at his golf…I’m not a doctor so I’m afraid I couldn’t say how much his accident affected his playing…I think if he keeps playing the way he is he can definitely go all the way!’

Cameras flashed, microphones were thrust closer, more questions were shouted and Pauline began to feel…what, exactly?

For so long she had felt like there was a hole somewhere in the centre of her being. A sense that she was missing something, that she was living out the wrong life. That greater, better things had been intended for her. Now, here on her own doorstep, under TV lighting and the strobing of the cameras with the long, heavy lenses, the hole was being filled. The missing part was being found. She was finally slipping
into the right life. For the first time in a long time she felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be. She felt alive. She felt
famous
.

Pauline was experiencing nothing less than a rebirth.

‘How much would the money change your life?’ someone asked.

‘The money?’ Pauline said.

‘The winner’s cheque. Seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’

Pauline felt her jaw twitch.

‘Why weren’t you out there cheering him on today?’ someone else asked.

‘Well…’ Pauline stammered, trying to regain her composure. ‘One of us has to work, you know! But, as a matter of fact, I was just getting ready to head over there right now…’

Lee puffed furiously with trembling hands, blood on the filter and the cigarette smoke searing the cuts and holes in his gums. A small portable TV had been turned on, the screen glowing a brilliant green in the dark room, Rowland Daventry’s gentle commentary burbling incongruously in this terrible space. Ranta was watching the TV. Alec, the Beast and the others were watching Ranta. Ranta turned from the screen and looked at Lee. Lee shifted uncomfortably, the oil slick in his pants cold and terrible now whenever he moved.

Ranta Campbell–a firm believer in the management philosophy of ‘a good plan today is better than a perfect plan tomorrow’–was not much given to confusion. In the world of drug retail and the violence that accompanies it there was usually little grey area: people paid or did not pay. Money was made or lost and reward or retribution followed accordingly. But here he was: confused. No two ways about it.

It may have been a poor choice on Alec’s part to hire the quivering bam sitting before him–they’d get into that later–but, no matter. Lee had failed them. Lee would have to pay. However, Ranta was also prone to the myriad superstitions, the juju and voodoo that afflict the chronic gambler. Would he kill the owner, trainer or close relative of a favoured horse on the eve of a big race?

‘Son,’ Ranta said, ‘do you think yer brother can win this fucking thing?’

Lee swallowed a smoke-flavoured blood clot. ‘S-see since his accident, Ranta, he…he cannae hit a bad shot, so he cannae. Ah swear tae fuck he–’

‘Will he no be wondering why you’re no over there watching him?’

‘Aye, probably.’

‘Come tae fuck, Da,’ Alec said. ‘Let’s just do the cunt.’

Ranta drummed his fingers on the tabletop, thinking.

‘Fuck sake,’ the Beast said. ‘Look at this…’

Ranta turned back to the screen. The camera was tracking a fast-moving putt as it snaked across a green, zeroing in on the hole. The shot cut back to Gary’s face, biting his lip as he watched the ball anxiously. It was the first time Lee had seen his brother on TV. It was an odd sensation. ‘That was Gary Irvine for birdie at eighteen a moment ago,’ Daventry said as the ball slammed into the hole.

‘Ooh ya hoor ye,’ Ranta said.

G
ARY SHYLY TWEAKED HIS VISOR AT THE CHEERING
crowd. It had been a hell of a putt all right: thirty feet through about three different breaks. All the more impressive because he’d made it with his golf glove superglued with semen to his left hand. He tossed his ball into the crowd–something else he’d seen them do on TV–as Drew Keel came over and shook his ungloved right hand. ‘Well played, son. You come have a drink with me later on, ya hear?’

‘Thanks, Drew.’

It was unreal. Drew Keel telling him they’d have a drink later, the crowd pressing in, calling his name out, pushing hats and programmes forward for him to sign as the marshals cleared a path towards the marker’s hut for him. Gary picked out the grinning faces on his way–Dr Robertson, Aunt Sadie, Bert. Where was his mum?

In the marker’s hut he tripled-checked his scorecard. It was true enough. He’d shot 68–two birdies, an eagle and no
bogeys. Not quite his 65 of yesterday, but still one of the best rounds of the tournament so far.

‘Well played, son,’ the official who ratified his card said. ‘Just you watch. This wind keeps getting up and you might be up there on your own before the end of the day.’

Gary walked out of the hut in a daze, right into April. ‘Well,’ she said, grinning, ‘the man of the moment! Right, you, after your press conference you can give me the first exclusive interview.’

‘Press conference?’ Gary said.

There must have been over a hundred journalists crammed into the media tent. Applause as Gary entered flanked by April and a press officer called Kelly. April looked across the crowded tent and caught Lawson’s eye. He was sitting near the back and sweating profusely. She flashed him a benevolent smile and he mouthed the words ‘fuck you’. Gary was trembling as he scanned the logos on the TV cameras at the front–BBC, NBC, CBS, the Golf Network. Kelly led him onto the stage. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she announced into the microphone, ‘the current clubhouse leader, amateur entrant, Mr Gary Irvine.’

Fresh applause as Gary sat down. Cameras flashed and microphone booms wavered and jockeyed for position. Beneath the table his knees were clacking. Jesus, this was worse than any downhill putt. He went to lift one of the bottles of mineral water that had been placed in front of him and noticed how badly his hand was trembling. He put it back, dry-swallowed and folded his hands in front of him.

‘Gary? James Weston, the
Independent
. How does it feel to be leading the Open?’

‘Er, well, I might only be leading it for a wee while. There’s still quite a few players out there.’

A man in the front row thrust his hand up. ‘Bob Corrigan, the
Telegraph
,’ he said. ‘How did your nerves hold up out there? You took quite a long comfort break after eleven, were you just steadying yourself?’

‘Umm, aye…that’s right,’ Gary said, scratching his still-gloved left hand. That lemonade, trickling through his skull. Fizzing.

‘David Tollhouse, the
Guardian
.’ Tollhouse stood up. ‘Was it intimidating playing alongside someone like Drew Keel?’

‘Aye, well, you know, I’d only ever seen Drew on the TV and that, so at first it was a wee bit–baws–aye, but, ye know, after a wee while it was fine. Spunk.’ The last word was uttered quietly, like an afterthought, and went unnoticed in the crowded, noisy tent.

Cameras flashed, more hands went up. People shouted his name, the name of their publications.

‘Do you think you can be the first amateur winner since Bobby Jones?’

‘Will you be turning pro?’

‘Did the conditions work in your favour?’

‘Was local knowledge a factor?’

April noticed he was starting to twitch a little.

‘Are you out of your depth?’

‘What clubs do you use?’

‘What ball?’

Lawson stood up. ‘Donald Lawson,
Daily Standard
. It’s possible,’ he said, ‘that you’ll be out with Calvin Linklater tomorrow. How does that make you feel?’

‘Obviously it…it’d be a great…’ Gary’s head was fizzing now and his hands were shaking, ‘fat honour. Fat bastard.
Fuck! Fucking fat cunt ye! AWOOO!’ He let out the strange yelp and his hand flew to his mouth as a stunned hush fell over the room. Cameramen looked at each other.

Oh no
, April thought, moving fast through the crowd to find Kelly.

Tollhouse from the
Guardian
missed this exchange as he’d been scribbling a note. He looked up smiling and said, ‘I understand your mother was here today. She must be very…’

He tailed off as he realised Gary had stuffed his fist in his mouth and was turning purple.

‘…proud.’

‘AIEEE!’ Gary spat his hand out of his mouth. ‘MAW! AH’VE RODE YER FUCKING MAW! Oooh ya hoor ye! Big-nosed bastard! Sorry! Cunt! Fuck!’ He was going full tilt; the ‘cunt’ as involuntary as a sneeze and the ‘fuck’ in surprise, astonishment and anger at the ‘cunt’.

April grabbed Kelly and shouted, ‘Get him off!’

‘BAWS, TITS, CUNTS YA FUDS!’

Kelly leapt onto the podium. ‘Sorry, everyone! No more questions right now!’ Still the cameras kept rolling as Gary stumbled to his feet. He was singing now.

‘TEGS, BEGS AND HAIRY FEGS!’

Kelly placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Please,’ she began.

Gary locked eyes on her cleavage, staring down into her deeply cut blouse. ‘Ahhhhh,’ he began to moan.

‘Let’s just get you–’ Kelly said.

Gary launched himself at her breasts, screaming with maximum urgency,
‘GIE’S A FUCKING DIDDY RIDE, YA BOOT!’

Kelly screamed as she reeled back and fell off the podium. Pandemonium now, chairs clattering over as people got up,
cameramen and photographers clambering to get better shots. Shouting, screaming chaos.

‘Ohhh, uhhh,’ Gary was saying now as he scrabbled at his flies. April tried to fight her way through the mob towards the stage, shouting, ‘Gary! Gary! No!’

Stevie walked into the tent through a flap at the side of the stage in time to see Gary stuffing his hand down the front of his trousers.

He ran full tilt onto the stage and
hurled
himself at him, both of them smashing onto the floor of the podium.

‘BASSSTTARRD!’ Gary screamed as Stevie began repeatedly punching him in the face as the cameras flashed.

‘It’s. For. Your. Own.’ Stevie was timing each word with a punch. ‘Fucking. Good!’ Six blows until Gary passed out, his head lolling over to one side. Breathing hard, Stevie looked up at the assembled media of the entire world. He absolutely had to say it.

‘OK, folks,’ he panted. ‘Nothing to see here…’