Stonemouth

No, I’m kidding myself, I know I am. Of course it’s over. Finally, for ever. Almost certainly. But still there’s this feeling, if nothing else, that it needs to be laid to rest properly, otherwise it’ll be like one of those Japanese ghost story things, dead but undead, wandering the earth and disturbing respectable folks until it gets the burial it’s always needed. Yeah, something like that. So, sweet though that smile from the young and delectable Haley is, I can’t really follow through (I’m probably too drunk anyway, or firmly set on the course of getting that way) because that’s where I made my mistake the last time, that’s how I got distracted and everything fell apart. I’m not letting that happen again. Still, I smile back; no harm in that. And you always need a Plan B. Or Plans B through Z. I start humming something from The Defamation of Strickland Banks.

‘So, how much does this floodlighting scam pay?’ Ferg asks.

Fuck. Back to reality. I clear my throat. ‘A fair bit.’

‘Don’t be fucking coy with me. How much?’

‘I don’t know. I get more in expenses most months but, obviously, it’s all been spent already. And some of it’s in—’

‘What did you put down on your mortgage application?’

‘I lied.’

‘How much?’

‘Oh, I lied quite a lot.’

He punches me on the shoulder, not hard. ‘How much money?’

‘Hundred grand a year,’ I tell him. This is a lie.

His eyes narrow. ‘Was that a lie upwards or downwards?’

‘Why’s it fucking matter?’

‘I’m supposed to be the exiled prince,’ he tells me. ‘I’m the returning alpha star here, not you.’

‘The what?’ I say, laughing. ‘You’re not even exiled. You’re only in fucking Dundee and you’re back here all the time.’ I nod at the scrappy, much ducted rear wall of the pub. ‘That barman knew your order. He called you Ferg.’

‘It’s voluntary exile. And I like coming back to make sure nobody’s overtaken me.’

‘Overtaken you?’

‘In fame, coolness and financial reward.’

I stare at him. I so want to tell the fucker I’ve just been made partner, but it actually feels cooler not to somehow. I can win this one without even using that semi-trump card (it’s only a semi-trump card — if there is such a thing — because it’s just junior partner, not equity, which is the kind of distinction Ferg is likely to know about and pounce on).

I shake my head. ‘I’m sure even you used to be cooler than this, Ferg, I’ll give you that.’

‘So, what—’

‘And what about Zimba? He’s a DJ, isn’t he? He must be—’

‘That’s—’

‘And Craig Govie. He plays for QPR. Arsenal are interested. Coining it in, I—’

‘Not counting lumpen randoms who’ve risen without trace on the strength of making round things revolve.’

‘I bet they’ve both been back more often in the last five years—’

‘Never mind them, what do you make?’

‘I’m not telling you.’

‘Don’t be a cunt. Why not?’

‘Because it seems to matter to you so much. That’s unhealthy.’

‘Don’t be so naive. It’s not unhealthy to hate the very idea of one’s friends doing better than oneself—’

‘And when the fuck did you start referring to yourself—’

‘—in fact it’s only natural. Everybody feels the same way. They just don’t want to admit it.’

I tap my chest. ‘Well, I don’t feel the same way.’

Ferg snorts. ‘Bet you do.’

‘No I don’t. I want all my friends to do at least as well as me. That way I can stop worrying about them.’ I draw on the J, pass it back. ‘Makes it less likely the fuckers’ll ask for a loan, too.’

‘I haven’t forgotten!’

‘Eh?’ I’m having a little trouble focusing now. Ferg looks quite upset. ‘What?’

‘I’ll write you a cheque! They still have cheques, don’t they?’ He starts fishing inside his jacket, patting pockets.

‘That’s right,’ I say, remembering. ‘You owe me money. I’d forgotten. Where’s my fucking dosh, O exiled superstar?’

‘Give me a second!’

‘And, anyway, how much do you make?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘What?’

‘It’s commercially sensitive.’

‘You fucking hypocrite. Give me that.’

I swipe the joint off him while he’s still digging into his inside jacket pockets, muttering. There’s not much drug left. I grind it out against the railing; it joins what by now must be a whole stratified carpet of roaches under the decking. One day, after an admittedly unlikely month or so of no rain, the wee, brown, screwed-up remains will all be ignited together by a stray match or unextinguished butt and half the town’ll get stoned.

We’re so old-school, to be smoking at all. Young folks today, they have this bizarre idea that all smoking’s bad for you, not just tobacco. Prefer pills. Clean, chemically; no need to sit drawing all this greasy, heavy-looking smoke into your pristine little lungs. Lightweights, say I.

I look round the people on the decking. I recognise most of them. So many people doing the same things they were when I left, hanging out in the same places, saying the same things, having the same arguments. It feels comfortable, reassuring, just being able to step back into our old shared life so easily, but at the same time a bit terrifying, and a touch sad.