Stonemouth

Mike MacAvett and his boys wouldn’t be able to save me from Powell Imrie and associates if the word went out. Wouldn’t want to, either: not enough in it. Mike MacAvett would step between Donald and a subject of his righteous ire only for something truly important and worthwhile that promised a serious pay-off at the end, not just to protect a guy who dug his own hole years ago, even if he is the son of his oldest friend. Business, and all that. And keeping the peace, frankly, too; not threatening a whole web of mutually beneficial arrangements by attacking each other and — if things get really out of hand — making it impossible for the cops to keep on turning a blind eye.

Whatever. Dad sits back, relaxes. He looks at me properly. ‘Lookin well. You doin all right? What you driving? You got a car yet?’

And with that we’re safely into small-talk, largely about what I do and don’t possess. I don’t possess a car, for example, which Dad seems to think is almost sacrilegious. I keep telling him I don’t need one in London. Dad thinks it’s political and I’m about to go and start hugging trees and blowing up nuclear power stations or refineries or something. He’s worked all his life in oil — he’s harbourmaster at the new docks these days, where the rig supply and support ships hang out — and so he’s sort of defensive on the subject, but at least not an outright denier.

Mum comes in with a big tray and asks about whether I’m happy, and about girls. I sit holding my favourite old SpongeBob SquarePants mug — I mean, really? — and think about saying something like, They’re all shaved these days, Mum. Pubic hair’s an endangered species amongst girls my age, did you know that? But that would be a bit weird. And probably wouldn’t even shock Mum anyway. Mum’s Dad’s age, looks a bit boho in jeans and a long flowing top (she’s an art teacher, so, fair enough). Barefoot, as she usually is round the house. She’s dark blonde, still mostly slim, though getting heavier as the years plod on. I always forget she’s got really good tits for a woman her age. I used to waver between being proud she’s still good-looking and not being able to wait for her to stop being a MILF, as my leering pals used to assure me she was. She’s probably just about dropped off that radar screen now.

I tell her I’m not involved with anybody long-term at present; too busy.

‘What about that Zoraiya lass? She seemed nice.’

Zoraiya was the Iranian girl I was seeing on and off during the summer: trainee lawyer. ‘She was nice. Still is.’ I shrug. ‘We’ve just gone in different directions.’ I smile big. ‘As you do.’

She smiles too. ‘Good to have you back, son.’

‘Good to be back, Mum.’

‘Aye,’ Dad says.

4

‘No; classical music.’

‘Like the Beatles?’

‘Not exactly. Beethoven, that sort of thing.’

‘That no a dug? Ah saw that fillum.’

‘Never mind.’

‘Evening.’

‘Stewart! Thank fuck. Great to see you. Mine’s whatever overpriced Continental lager this is. Ask BB for details.’

Ferg holds up a nearly drained pint glass. We’re in The Head in Hand. Ferg — lanky, darkly foppish-haired, eyes glinting — is the same Bodie Ferguson of the golf course story. The Head in Hand is the latest name for a pub on Union Street in the town centre where we’ve all been hanging out since before we were legally allowed to. When we first started sidling in for a bottle of alcopop and two straws it was called Sneaky Pete’s, then it became Murphy’s during Stonemouth’s belated and short-lived Irish-bar phase, then The Mason’s Arms, and for the last couple of years it’s been The H in H, apparently. Overdue for a name change.

The decor changes more slowly; still much like it always was, which is nondescript. On the outside, on Union Street itself, there’s a big awning all the smokers congregate under; inside it’s the usual Friday night crush, with most people standing. Our lot form a knot of bodies corralled into a little raised area with wooden railings near the food service end of the bar, handy for the gents. I get a lot of hugs and claps on the back from the guys, who are mostly actual guys, though with some lady drinking buddies too. BB is Big Bairn: Nichol Dunn. I find him, find out who’s drinking what and head for the bar.

While I’m waiting, trying to catch an eye, Ferg puts his glass down, sliding it between me and the big rustic-looking guy next to me, then follows his arm in, wriggling until he’s squeezed himself between us, his body pressed against mine. The big farmer chappie scowls at him and rumbles in the near subsonic but Ferg ignores him.

‘I’ll give you a hand,’ he tells me. ‘You well?’ He frowns, picks at my jacket with two fingers, rubbing. ‘What’s this? You haven’t developed taste while you’ve been away, have you? Who put you up to it? Is it a girl?’

‘No,’ I tell him, ‘it’s money.’

‘Not a girl?’

‘Girldom in general. No one specific. Girls like the—’

‘So, where’ve you been? Why have you been out of touch?’

‘All over. And I’ve not been out of touch; you have.’