The Amateurs (29 page)

S
HUFFLING ALONG LIKE A CONDEMNED MAN
, L
EE
followed Alec towards the eighteenth green, the grandstand towering over him like a scaffold. Just then a huge collective groan went up, followed by a gasp, followed by laughter, followed by cheering and applause. Lee and Alec hurried up, running by the TV screen positioned behind the hospitality bar. On the screen a shot of Gary, laughing and shaking his head, and Rowland Daventry’s voice saying, ‘Have you ever, in all your days, seen anything like that?’

Gary’s approach shot–his ninth strike at the ball–had definitely been an improvement. Rather than shank it again, he’d simply hit a very, very bad slice. He and Stevie and the rest of the world watched the ball heading for the deep rough to the right of the green. They watched in amazement as it struck a little hillock, created that very morning by a burrowing rabbit, and ricocheted back at a crazy angle, coming to rest just on the edge of the putting surface.

‘Someone up there likes him,’ Daventry said.

Linklater was safely on the green in two, with a birdie putt of about thirty-five feet. An outside shot. But he’d almost certainly make par.

Assuming Linklater
didn’t
sink the birdie putt, Gary would have to get up and down in two shots from about sixty feet to win by one clear stroke.

If he took three it would mean a play-off between the two of them.

A very short play-off.

Lee sat wedged between Ranta and Alec in the stand. Ranta had stopped speaking. He simply sat staring down at Gary as he walked around the green below them, a seven-iron in his hand as he lined up a chip-and-run. Ranta just had a single phrase running on a loop through his head now, the Ranta Mantra:
cometaefuck, cometaefuck, cometaefuck, cometaefuck.

‘Fucking nine shots and no even oan the green,’ Alec laughed hollowly, shaking his head. ‘Fucking family o’ losers.’

‘He could get up and doon fae here,’ Lee said.

‘Aye, right,’ Alec snorted. ‘An ah–’

‘Hey, you two?’ Ranta said, not turning to look at them. ‘Shut yer fucking mooths.’

Cometaefuck, cometaefuck, cometaefuck…

Linklater had seen many opponents crumble down the final stretch when faced with his relentless, grinding staying power–but he’d never seen anything like this. The guy hadn’t crumbled so much as…exploded.
Steady on
, he thought,
we might still have to make a putt to win this sucker.

Gary rehearsed his backswing–a short punchy scoop, the kind of bump-and-run shot indigenous to this part of the
world–over and over. For the first time this week he was aware of the thousands of spectators, of the TV cameras. His hands were shaking as he moved the club behind the ball. He held his breath–the whole of Ayrshire held its breath–and swung a little harder than he meant to, his head coming up too soon, jerking the blade of the club into the middle of the ball rather than under it. The horribly thinned chip flew across the green towards the hole, on line, but travelling much, much too fast. The crowd in the grandstands gasped in horror.

Then came a hollow clank as the ball hit the flagstick and rocketed off, finishing six feet downhill from the hole. Had it not hit the flag it might well have been off the green.

Ranta opened his eyes when he heard Alec saying, ‘Ya fluky bastard!’

Gary marked his ball and Linklater stepped up; an uphill putt, breaking right-to-left, a little at first, then sharply towards the end.

‘Easy money, boss,’ Snakes whispered.

It was in all the way–perfectly struck, breaking exactly as he’d visualised, slowing, slowing as it reached the hole…

The crowd noises were a strange jumble of strangulated cheers and moans: the crowd schizophrenic, many of them huge Linklater fans, many wanting to cheer a huge putt dropping, but more of them still praying that Gary might be allowed the chance to win the thing.

The ball slowing, slowing, inches from the cup now.

Linklater on his knees, out of character, game face gone. ‘
Come on, baby, come on, baby
,’ Linklater whispered.

His third Open title in a row: the first player to do so in over half a century, since the great Australian Peter Thomson won in ’54, ’55 and ’56.

Slowing, slowing…

Stopped.

And still–somehow–quite clearly above ground.

‘Goddamnit!’ Linklater muttered. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head.

‘How on earth did that stay out?’ Daventry wondered as Linklater walked up to tap in, being careful not to run over the ten seconds he was allowed to wait for the ball to drop. He barely had to touch the silver face of the putter against the ball for it to clink into the cup.

Incredible cheers and applause all around him as the full extent of reality dawned on Gary.

It was the stuff of golf dreams and nightmares.

He had a six-foot putt to win the Open.

‘Ah cannae take it,’ Cathy said.

April put an arm around her.

Come on, you stupid, useless bastard
, Pauline was thinking. How hard could it be to tap the ball into that wee hole? She could probably bloody do it.

Ranta turned and stared at Lee, his black eyes had no bottom to them. Lee nearly fainted.

‘Any last-minute advice?’ Gary whispered to Stevie.

‘It’s uphill now. Don’t be short.’

Stevie had committed one of the most grievous sins in the caddie’s handbook: he had used a negative in a motivational statement. Stevie said: ‘Don’t be short.’ Gary heard: ‘Hit it very hard.’

Total silence. On TV Daventry whispered, ‘This for the history books.’

Gary smacked the ball straight past the hole.

The crowd gasped.

‘Oh dear,’ Daventry said for the umpteenth time.

A muffled cry came from somewhere in the grandstand.

Stevie shut his eyes as Gary walked straight round to his ball. Now he had a very slippery downhill four-footer to tie Linklater.

He lined it up.

‘This for the play-off,’ Daventry whispered.

It didn’t even graze the hole, slipping by a few inches on the left-hand side and dribbling on, coming to rest in almost exactly the same spot as his first putt had been made from.

Linklater had just won his third consecutive Open.

Gary walked back round and immediately assumed his putting stance.

‘Putting for second place now,’ Torrent said numbly.

‘Easy now,’ Stevie said. Gary’s brain heard ‘easy’ and translated it to ‘barely touch it’. The ball dribbled forward, coming to rest with a little over two and a half feet still to go.

‘Good lord,’ Daventry said.

A strange noise from the grandstand as Ranta emitted a high-pitched squeal, somewhere between a train whistle and a piglet being butchered.

‘This for
fourteen
and third place,’ Daventry said.

Completely beyond caring now, Gary just brushed the ball with the putter.

It climbed towards the hole.

It stopped on the lip, trembling.

It dropped in.

For a moment, out of perhaps ten thousand people crowded around the green and filling the grandstand, only two people went berserk.

‘YES!’ Gary screamed, sinking to his knees, putter raised over his head in triumph.

In the grandstand Ranta leapt to his feet, screaming, ‘YES! YES! YES! YA FUCKING DANCER YE! BASSTTTTTAARRRDD!’

Alec and Lee looked at Ranta astonished as the rest of the crowd began to come to life, gradually clapping and cheering. Ranta stopped dancing a jig, leaned down and planted a kiss on Lee’s lips.

‘EACH-WAY! FUCKING EACH-WAY, YA CUNTS!’

With his ten grand each-way bet at 180 to one he had just won a little over a million pounds for a top-three finish.

‘Ah’ll tell ye whit, son,’ Ranta said to Lee, ‘if that last putt hadnae dropped you’d be in the boot o’ ma motor the now. Getting fitted fur a set o’ fucking concrete Nature Treks. Anyway–’ he threw an arm around Lee–‘c’mon and we’ll go tae the bar and get a drink. Boy’s a’right, Alec. Ye hear me?’

Alec glowered at Lee.

‘Aye, cheers, Ranta,’ Lee said, ‘ah’ll see ye in there. Ah’m just gonnae go and see ma brother first.’

As they made their way out of the packed grandstand Ranta remembered something.

The beast picked up his chirruping mobile. ‘A’ right, boss?’

‘Aye. Magic, big man. Fucking magic,’ Ranta said. ‘Listen, ah wis just thinking, maybe ah wis a wee bit hasty earlier. Let’s just leave the boy Findlay alone, eh?’

‘Ah…’ Frank looked down at Masterson. ‘Maybe a wee bit late for that, boss,’ he said, stepping away from the spreading puddle of blood.

Ranta thought for a moment. ‘He’s definitely deed?’

‘Well, ah cut the cunt’s fucking throat. That normally sorts them oot like.’

Ranta thought some more. Ach–fuck it.

‘Ach, fuck it. Do us a favour then, swing by 42 The Meadows up in Riverside. Woman called Leanne. She’ll have a wee envelope fur ye tae pick up. Then get yer arse over here when you’re done. Ah’m getting the drinks in.’

‘Nae bother, see ye in a bit.’

Frank hung up and started whistling as he walked over to the wall and began uncoiling the hose, his shape reflected in Findlay Masterson’s dead, open eyes.

D
OWN ON THE GREEN, IN FRONT OF THOUSANDS OF
cheering fans, Gary and Stevie were embracing when Linklater walked over, his hand extended. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I guess I gotta ask you what everyone else is going to–what the hell happened?’

Gary grinned, shaking hands as he said, ‘I was a mongo who dreamt he was a professional golfer. But now the dream is over.’

‘And the mongo is here,’ Stevie said, clapping a hand on Gary’s shoulder.

‘Ah, right…’ Linklater said.

On TV screens all over the world, viewers saw Gary and Linklater talking. Daventry supplied the sound; ‘I should think Calvin will be saying, “Thanks very much for handing me that, chum!” Dear oh dear oh dear. Not since poor old Jean Van De Velde at Carnoustie back in ’99 have we seen someone throw it all away so dramatically.’

‘He doesn’t look too bothered though,’ Torrent said.

‘It’s been a real honour to play with you,’ Gary was saying to Linklater. ‘A dream come true and all that.’ It felt so good to be in control of what came out of his mouth again, to have no crippling erection burrowing into his thigh. It was gone, all gone.

‘If you ever get to Florida gimme a call,’ Linklater said. ‘I think I can help you with that shanking.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. You’re probably just standing too close to the ball.’

They started to make their way off the green, towards the marker’s hut to turn in their scorecards, thousands of people cheering in the grandstands above them, hundreds more pressing against the ropes lining the pathway, policemen holding them back as the sky began to darken for what felt like the first time in weeks. In a group right at the front of the ropes he saw his family–his mum, his Aunt Sadie and Uncle Danny, his sister-in-law, his nephews and niece. Bert and Dr Robertson too.

His mum had tears streaming down her face as he pulled her through the ropes towards him. ‘Aww, son,’ Cathy said, ‘I’m that p-proud o’ ye.’

‘Mum, listen, has the boiler in your bedroom been making a funny noise recently?’

‘Eh? Ma boiler? Er, aye, a bit. Sometimes in the night.’

‘Maybe we should get it looked at, eh?’

He hugged her to him, smiling as he looked up into the darkening sky. Then, above the roar of the crowd, he heard Lee’s voice, the words ‘ma brother’ and ‘ya fucken prick’.

‘It’s OK,’ Gary said to the policeman. Lee stepped through the ropes and the two brothers embraced, Lee smelling sweat and blood, Gary smelling the sweetish hint of cannabis.

‘Fuck sake, bro,’ Lee began, ‘that was some–’

‘I’m sorry, Lee.’

‘Eh?’

‘Listen, do you want to get a round in next week? Me and you? Up at Ravenscroft?’

‘Er, aye, sure. That’d be magic so it wid.’

People on all sides calling Gary’s name out. Flashbulbs popping, cameras on him, microphones and tape recorders thrust towards him and now Pauline appearing through the crowd, holding her player’s guest pass imperiously in the face of the policemen.

‘Gary,’ a man next to him said, extending a microphone towards him. ‘Nick Parr from the BBC. Can we have a quick word?’

‘Aye, sure,’ Gary said as Pauline pushed through and slipped her arm around him, taking her place beside him in front of the cameras.

‘Here with Gary Irvine,’ Parr said through the microphone to the crowd, to the television audience at home, ‘who has just become the highest finishing amateur entrant in the Open for nearly eighty years. But what could have been. Gary, you threw away an
enormous
lead. I hope you don’t mind me asking–what happened on the last hole there? Was it the pressure?’

‘Ach, you know golf, Nick. It’s a funny game.’

Everyone laughed. Pauline giggled and gazed at him adoringly.

‘I’m sure everyone knows your story by now, but tell us–what’s it like to go from being a club golfer just a few months ago to playing with the world number one in the final round of the Open?’

‘Ah, it was fine, Nick. Brilliant. I just hope I didn’t put Calvin off too much!’ More laughter.

‘As I say, you came so close to winning, but the third-place cheque for nearly three hundred thousand pounds should be some compensation, I would think.’

‘Ah, no, not really. I’m not going to take it, Nick. I don’t want to lose my amateur status.’

Those close enough in the crowd and the millions watching on TV saw Pauline’s face change.

She was still smiling, but the corners of her mouth were quivering, fighting not to turn down as she turned to look at him. Gary smiled back at her.

‘He’s just kidding,’ Pauline said to more laughter.

‘Pauline?’ Gary said. ‘Fuck off.’

He briskly shook Parr’s hand–‘Thanks, Nick’–untangled himself from Pauline’s embrace, and stepped out of shot and into the crowd.

Pauline stood alone in front of the cameras for a long, agonising, silent moment.

It was the most beautiful thing Stevie had ever seen.

Then a roar went up as Linklater emerged from the marker’s hut and Parr, the camera crews and the crowd were all surging towards him.

Pauline turned round, speechless, to find herself face to face with a very angry Lee.

‘Listen, ya dirty fucking boot,’ he whispered through grinding teeth, ‘ah ken fine well you’ve been riding that fucking carpet guy. Tom fucking Sellick right up ye. Just do us aw a favour and get yourself tae fuck before ah panel yer daft fucking coupon in.’

Lee shouldered his way off into the crowd, leaving Pauline blinking back tears, her jaw working strangely.

Gary pushed on through the crush–people slapping him on the back, trying to shake his hand–until he found her.
As April watched him coming towards her she noticed that there was still a tiny fleck of dried blood on his cheek. She wet her thumb and reached out and wiped it off. ‘So what happened to “I’ve got to try and make my marriage work”?’ she said, smiling.

‘Well, God loves a trier…’ Gary said as he leaned into her.

They kissed, oblivious to the cheering fans, to the TV cameras and the flashbulbs, to the officials trying to get Gary into the marker’s hut to return his card, and to the cool rain that had finally started to fall softly, sweeping in from the Irish Sea, heading inland, moving eastwards across Ayrshire, covering the dry fields and the baking roads and making them sizzle gently, making everything smell fresh and sweet and new.