The Road to Lisbon (17 page)

“Who?”

She gestures with her head in the general direction of where the boys are situated.

“What are you talking about? These are my friends. My brothers.”

“You will leave them behind.”

“Never. If I am not loyal to them then I am nothing.”

“It isn’t a question of loyalty. Although in a sense it is – loyalty to oneself. You do not belong with them. You will move on.”

“I didn’t realise you were such a snob.”

“I’m not a snob, I’m a realist. I’m merely identifying what will happen.”

She looks at her shoes, then says: “And you can fall in love again.”

“I know. It’s just hard, at the moment, to get my head round that.”

“Why? You think you can’t recover in a few days? A few hours?”

“Delphine, that’s . . . heartless.”

“I don’t mean to be heartless. I’m just trying to open your eyes to how society has been conditioning you . . . and everyone else. This thing called ‘love’, it is
an illusion of higher feelings, a trick of nature to disguise a merely animal need to procreate. A misnomer for hormonal processes.”

“I’m sorry, Delphine. I’m not sure I understand what you are on about. And I’m not sure I want to.”

I get up and walk away.

The rest of the morning is awkward to say the least. The weather becomes overcast and drizzly. As well as my eye my lower lip is swollen, my nose encrusted with dried blood,
and the skin of my left forearm has been serrated by gravel. Rocky’s left cheekbone and eye socket are starting to bruise. Eddie, Iggy and Mark are all noticeably astonished by our
appearances but know better than to say anything for now. We pack the Zodiac. Iggy’s hangover persists such that he is installed in the passenger seat while I take the wheel for the next
stretch of the N10. Rocky, Eddie, Mark and Delphine squeeze into the rear.

“What’s that smell?” asks Eddie.

“Iggy’s got his shoes off, they are pure l-l-louting,” says Mark.

“Christ Iggy,” says Eddie, “you are fucking Abraham Linkin’!”

The French girls accompany us southwards for a few miles before they must leave us, and we wave off their 2CV as it splutters towards Paris. Rocky and I spend the rest of the morning being
self-consciously courteous to one other, laughing loudly at each other’s jokes, ensuring to offer the other a fag.

Somewhere in the pit of my stomach lurks a terrible feeling that I’ve done him a great injustice. Him and Debbie.

We stop at a village – more a handful of buildings than a village – just outside Poitiers. Mark walks over to a little shop to buy lemonade and cigarettes.

“Here, Mark,” Iggy shouts after him. “If you’re going to that wee dairy gonnae get us an
Evening Citizen
.”

“They’ll no have a
Citizen
here ya tube,” says Eddie. “We’re in fucking
France
!”

“Oh,” says Iggy. “Alright well. Here, Mark, gonnae get us an
Evening Times
instead.”

“Give us peace!” exclaims Eddie.

Delphine excuses herself to make a call from a payphone. I watch her for a while as she walks away from me.

We enter a
Relais-Routier
to escape the light rain and sit down. We are the only patrons. It is a small, modest establishment, brown interior, gleaming chrome
Gaggia
coffee
machine, clean plastic tablecloths.

“I’ll be getting this fellas, my treat,” says Iggy.

The boys murmur protests and gratitude.

“How come you’re so flush?” I ask him quietly.

He surreptitiously produces something from his inside pocket and shows it to me under the table. It is a wad of banknotes. He strokes it between his index finger and thumb and grins inanely.

“Big Vinnie owed me for a wee job.”

I frown at him disapprovingly.

The waiter, a boy in his late teens, approaches, and Iggy begins babbling in broad Glaswegian.

“Alright there my china, I’ll have square sausage, and black pudden, and a tottie scone, and fried breid, and egg. And have you got any chips on?”

The waiter just stares at Iggy, bemused.

“He’s
French
ya tube,” says Eddie. “Doesn’t know English. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Eddie proceeds to speak with a strange French lilt.

“Have yeez got any squerre sauseege?”

Blank stare.

“Squerre sauseege?” he repeats, making a little square with his fingers on the table. “Have yeez any?”

Blank stare. Eddie turns to us.

“It’s no use lads,” he says in a lowered tone. “The boy’s half-daft.”

“Haud the bus – you’re just speaking English with a French accent,” says Rocky. “Let me try.”

He turns to the waiter.

“Havez vous de sausage de square?”

Blank stare.

“Alright, how about la pudden de noir? Havez vous la pudden de noir?”

Twenty minutes later and we have finally ordered thanks to Delphine’s arrival and intervention. The starters – radishes, bread, butter and salt – have largely remained
untouched. My pals’ faces are bemused as they survey the main course, a rather exotic-smelling stew.

“What in the name of Jesus is this?”

“Can they no do normal food? Aw, no offence Delphine.”

“It’s alright. Look, just try a little. I promise you will like it.”

I poke at mine with a fork. Try a little. Then a little bit more.

“You know what, fellas? This is no half-bad.”

Mark tries a little.

“You’re r-right!” he agrees.

“Quite tasty!” says Rocky.

“I like it!” says Iggy.

“You see!” beams Delphine.

We munch away happily. All except Eddie.

“It’s pure rancid more like. Gives me the boke.” He clatters down his cutlery. “Me with my delicate stomach. I’m away to see if there’s any of that corned
beef left in the car.”

There is a pause, then we all burst out laughing, and I divide Eddie’s portion up between us.

“Eddie doesn’t know what he’s missing,” declares Iggy as he wolfs down the last of his stew. “What was that anyway, Delphine?”

“Horsemeat,” she replies, with a wry curl of her lip. “Iggy – what is wrong? You have gone a little pale!”

Once on the road again Iggy – who was dying an hour and a half ago – has joined Eddie in swilling cheap wine. I catch his eye disapprovingly.

By the time we stop again in the late afternoon the rain is off and the humidity is high again. We pull in by some nice wooded countryside and we all stretch out and stroll around. Delphine and
the boys get the stove on for some tea. I take my fags and wander into a nearby glade. I sit beneath a tree to ponder the day’s momentous events.

“H-H-Hi.”

“Christ Mark, you gave me a fright.”

“S-sorry.”

He sighs, sits down. Silence.

Then he asks: “H-how are you?”

“I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just that, you and R-R-Rocky.”

“We had a scrap, so what?”

“W-w-what was is all about?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Was it about D-D-Debbie?”

“Why the fuck would it be about Debbie?”

“No r-r-r-reason.”

He gets up and wanders into the glade, closer to me. Makes a play of examining the surroundings.

“Tim, do you ever think that you and m-m-m-me are . . . s-s-s-s-similar?”

“No really, no.” My voice betrays my irritation.

Eddie arrives.

“Christ, can a man no get some peace? It’s like Sauchiehall Street round here!”

“Here, Olive, away and bugger off and put your pinny on so I can have a word with Tim.”

It’s barely 4pm and already he has his bad-drinker face on. Mark leaves.

“Why do you always have to do that?”

“What?”

“Put him down.”

“I just take the piss out of him a wee bit ’cause he’s a fairy.”

“Naw he’s no. We can’t all be tough guys like you.”

“Ach, he’s as bent as an Arab’s sword. And anyway, I’m only kidding around.”

He offers me his bottle, I shake my head. He takes a long draught.

“What happened with you and Rocky well?”

“Nothing. It’s all sorted now.”

“Was it about the Cumbie?”

“Naw. Like I say, it’s all sorted now. And what about the Cumbie?”

He looks away, takes another swig.

“It’s just that back home . . . folk were saying you don’t give a fuck about the Cumbie no more. Saying you are a shitebag. Saying that you think you’re a cut
above.”

“Let them say what they like, see if I give a fuck. The Cumbie is a load of auld garbage anyway.”

“Keep your voice down ya tube!”

“THE GANGS ARE A PILE OF PISH – THE CUMBIE IS A PILE OF SHITE!”

“That’s right, let Rocky hear you; see how interested he’s gonnae be in your views.”

“He won’t give a fuck.”

“Aye, right.”

“He won’t. You don’t get it, do you Eddie? One day Rocky’s gonnae team up with a right nice wee lassie, and you’ll see a different side to him. He will toe the line
– guaranteed. And top of the list will be no running with the team anymore. And he’ll be right no to.”

“Shite. Just ’cause you’ve let the side down don’t go dragging in Rock. He knows what it’s all about.”

“And what exactly is it all about? Could you explain that to me?”

He has to think about this for a moment.

“It’s about survival. Comradeship. Identity.”

“Is it fuck. The gangs are about parochialism.”

“Para-whit-now?”

“Parochialism. A narrow prejudice against folk from other bits.” I stub out the cigarette I had been smoking. “Fucking ants do that.”

“Do what?”

“Knock fuck out of each other just ’cause they come from a different anthill. You think just ’cause some guy is born a mile away across the river in the Calton that makes him a
bam?”

“Of course no. But you can’t stand by and let the other mob take top spot – because they will. That’s a fact of life. That’s Glesga.”

“But it doesn’t have to be like that. I mean, it’s no even about religion; the Tongs are our biggest enemy and they’re mostly Tims too for Christ’s sake!”

“So you think you are just gonnae sail off into the sunset? Leave us to fight off the interlopers? To deal with the polis?”

“I’ve already done it. And anyway, these guys are my brothers. They will understand.”

He snorts, takes out a fag, lights it, then continues.

“Two years I did in the Bar-L for that mob, for serious assault. And you’re just gonnae abandon us.”

“I’m glad you mentioned that. Wee Peachy got killed so you and Rocky take over a team to Bridgeton to sort the guy out. But who gets done for it? Was it Rocky? Was it fuck. It was
you
Eddie. You. It’s guys like you who do the porridge. Guys like Rocky, they come up smelling of roses every time.”

“I already told you – Rocky’s solid.”

“Ach, turn it up,” I say, rising to leave.

“Don’t walk away from me Tim! You can’t just leave us! They are tearing the Gorbals down brick by brick, without the Cumbie, what are we?”

I spin round to face him.

“We have our pals, our faith, our families.” Damn, shouldn’t have said that last one.

Then it occurs to me. Of course. It’s so obvious.

“And we have Celtic. No matter what changes that will always be there for us. The club. Our identity.”

He sits down on a mound of baked earth. Takes a draught from his bottle. A drag from his fag. Sighs out blue smoke.

“You’re fucking kidding yourself on. It’s all a dream.”

“What is?”

“All of it. You getting out. Celtic winning the European Cup. It’s no gonnae happen.”

“It might. You gottae have a dream, Eddie. The whole existence of our club was based on a dream, and a hope for something better.”

“We’re up against the best team in the world. We’re gonnae get fucked.”

The dull light exposes his ugly, scarred features. Face like a Hallowe’en cake. His cheap suit is crumpled. He wears it in honour of the big occasion; the only big occasion of his life. I
feel so sorry for him. Where is he going to end up? All that boozing’s got to take its toll.

“My auld man came to see me.”

The statement crackles into the dry heat. I can hardly believe he has said it. Breached the unacknowledged veil of silence that surrounds his father.

“When?”

“Christmas. He’d been living in America.”

“How was it?”

“Okay.”

Another draw from his fag.

“Naw, better than okay. It was great.”

“That’s . . . great.”

“No it isn’t. He fucked off again. Said not a word. Tapped me a right few quid as well, the auld bastard.”

It occurs to me how other families operate in different, less functional ways from mine. I think of Delphine, too. I feel sad for them both.

“I’m real sorry. Was that why you . . . went off the rails?”

“Aye. Went down to stay with my auntie in Ayrshire. But mostly I just slept rough. Bevvied a lot.”

“But you’re alright . . . now?”

He smiles thinly.

“If the Celts win on Thursday, I’ll be alright.”

“Eddie, the Cumbie . . . it’s just that – ”

“I know, I know, you said.”

“We’re getting too auld, Eddie.”

He gazes abstractly into the distance, takes a last draw from his fag.

“Let’s go and get a cup of tea,” I suggest.

The road to Lisbon. Several thousand Celtic supporters strung along it in clusters like beads on a rosary.

As I walk back to the Zodiac my attention is drawn by a growing growl of motor engines. It is a strand of the Celticade. We all rush over to the roadside to salute them. Iggy is waving a
green-and-white scarf to identify us as fellow pilgrims. Suddenly my mood soars as the convoy thunders by; what a joyous sight it is to behold! They are waving, and shouting greetings and slogans
to us. One phrase is repeated several times. It sounds like ‘
swear-us-a-suit
’. I hear it again and again. ‘
Swear-us-a-suit, swear-us-a-suit,
swear-us-a-suit
.’

Then I decipher it: ‘Suárez is oot.’

Luis Suárez Miramontes of Spain. Inter’s classy, intelligent midfielder. Unfit for duty. Undoubtedly a boost for our chances.

“The Celtic fans!” Rocky exclaims simply, once only a cloud of dust and fumes remains. The Celtic fans, indeed. The greatest supporters in the world. The salt of the earth.