Stonemouth

The four guys alongside us are playing two against two. The first time it’s my turn to play at the same time as the wee guy on the other table, we both want to use the aisle between the tables at once. There should be enough room, but he takes up a lot of space squatting down, sighting over the top of the cushion and closing one eye. He’s thin but hard-looking, and hollow-cheeked enough to be embarking upon, or recovering from, a recreational substance dependency regime. Straggly thin black hair he probably cuts himself — certainly nobody in their right mind would pay good money for that look — and a shell suit that looks like it’s made from white bin liner. Couple of gold sovs on his right hand. Even by Stonemouth standards, this is almost comically old school.

I stand and wait for him to finish, but he’s tsking and tutting and shaking his head and keeps standing up and looking like he’s about to take his shot but then changing his mind and squatting down again, closing one eye and sighing.

I just have this feeling that he’s waiting for me to try to take my shot so that he can claim I’ve got in his way or jostled his elbow or something, so I decide waiting patiently is the wisest course. After about five minutes of this shite I sigh, and pull my phone out to check the time.

‘Aye? What?’ the wee guy says suddenly, all edge and aggression. He’s staring at me.

I look at him. ‘Excuse me?’ I say, with a sort of formal smile. Oh, shit; I already don’t like the way this is going.

‘Whit the fuck?’ the wee guy says shrilly, as though when I said ‘Excuse me?’ he somehow heard, ‘Fuck your junky whore of a mother with a rusty fire extinguisher, you clit-nosed cuntface.’

I spread my hands wide, still holding my cue by the thin end. ‘Sorry, what?’ I say.

He swaggers towards me, wee eyes screwed up. ‘You takin the fuckin piss?’ He sticks his face in mine, making me back off out of head-butt range.

‘Not doin anything, pal,’ I tell him.

Some old set of responses from my teenage years has kicked in. The wee guy obviously wants a fight or at least the threat of one with some ultra-humbling backing down on our part — if we’re very lucky — and BB and I are outnumbered two-to-one. I know BB’s no good in a fight anyway; I’ve seen him still trying to reason with people while he’s lying on the ground with kicks raining in. I haven’t seen a single face I know in the place apart from BB’s since we came in here, the exits are all past Wee Guy and his mates, and the enemy do look kind of rumpus-ready: schemey, and with fight skills not confined to Grand Theft Auto.

‘No wantin any trouble,’ BB says in a sort of muted rumble.

The wee guy shoots him a look. ‘You fuckin stay oot a this, ya big emo cunt.’

‘Aw,’ BB says, frowning. ‘No need fur—’

‘Shut it!’ the wee guy rasps, sounding almost hysterical.

‘Look,’ I begin, trying to sound reasonable. ‘My phone vibrated, that’s all.’ I take it half out of my pocket but the wee guy grabs it away from me before I can stop him. ‘Hi, wait—’ I say.

‘Naw it fuckin didnae!’ he says, and throws it across the pool table towards one of his pals. It clatters, bounces, nearly falls into a middle pocket. The wee guy is gripping his cue near the narrow end now, like he’s ready to use it like a club. His other fist grasps the white ball. He sees me glance towards the reception bar, where nobody seems to be noticing the situation building here. ‘Fuckin look at me when I’m talkin to ye, ya cunt,’ he tells me. He glances over too, waves at a distant face that is finally looking our way. ‘Okay, Toammie?’ he shouts at the guy, who waves back. ‘Just sortin oot a wee problem here; nae problem, ma man.’ Then he’s in my face again with a tight wee grin, like he’s cut us off from any help.

‘Look,’ I tell him, ‘we’re just here like yourselves, to have a quiet game of pool.’

‘Naw yer naw! Naw yer fuckin naw!’ the wee guy says, getting a bit too close again. He’s got spittle on his lips like he’s working himself into a state here and I think some flecks have already hit my face but I’m not prepared to wipe them off because I’m pretty sure that’ll just give him something else to get even more upset about. He stabs me hard in the chest with one finger. ‘You are just here to fuckin try and take the piss out me, is that whit ye fuckin think?’

‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ I begin, and instantly know this is a serious mistake.

The wee guy’s voice goes up another octave. ‘You fuckin callin me fuckin daft, ya fuckin—’

‘He fuckin called you daft, D-Cup!’ one of his big mates says.

(D-Cup? I’m thinking, and even as my guts are going cold and starting to churn and there’s a bad, tight feeling in my chest and my mouth is going dry, I still think, Wouldn’t it be fascinating to know how this particular scrawny wee runt got nicknamed that. Unless it was Teacup … But Teacup would be a shit street name. It was definitely D-Cup.)