Stonemouth

I stare over at him, but of course he’s talking about the game, not a stray Poseidon boat blundering into the Stoun like a confused techno-whale. An unfeasibly large sub is indeed surfacing in the Hudson, if that’s New York they’re playing in. Currently up are Lee and Jim, with Ferg standing looking over their shoulders. Bets have been placed on the outcome so there’s more than just pride and bragging rights at stake.

‘Don’t get me started on that fucking submarine!’ Ferg says vehemently.

Lee snorts. ‘That’s just bullshit, man.’

I’ve just had a shot on the new game and we all got to talking about how the violence in these games never quite measures up to the sort of messy horror real gangsters inflict on their victims. Turns out Dr Jim has heard a rumour.

‘I’m telling you,’ Jim says. ‘If you’re ever close enough to Fraser Murston, take a look at the tips of his left index finger and thumb. Scar tissue.’

‘Sure he wasn’t just trying to sandpaper off his prints or something?’ Ferg asks.

Jim shrugs. ‘Who’s sure about any of this stuff? Just telling you what I heard.’

‘He took out this guy’s balls and his eyes and … swapped them?’ Lee says, crossing his legs and screwing his eyes up in something like sympathy.

Jim nods. ‘And then superglued everything back up again. That’s how he got injured, pinching the guy’s scrotum closed with his fingers; left them in contact too long. Then he got it wrong trying to free himself and removed some of his own skin.’

‘That’d leave DNA evidence, would it no?’ Ezzie says.

‘Which is maybe why he used the welding torch on the guy as well,’ Jim agrees. ‘Anyway, this gangster from Govan might already have been dead from shock by then. Body’s under ten metres of backfilled rubble beneath the new spur on the bypass. So they say.’

Lee shakes his head. ‘Still sounds like shit.’

‘Good rumour to have going round about you, though,’ Ryan says. ‘If you want to keep people scared of you.’

‘You ever see these scarred fingers?’ Lee asks Ryan.

‘No. Wasn’t looking for it, though. Didn’t hear about any of this till after Ellie and me split up.’

‘Stu?’ Ferg says. ‘You ever seen this digital scar tissue?’

‘Yup.’

‘Heard that story?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Illuminating. Any further insights?’

‘El told me he did it taking a Pop-Tart out the toaster.’ Ferg looks relieved. ‘That’ll do. I prefer that explanation.’

Later Ryan and I are sitting back on the couch together while the others play or observe MuddyFunster II in all its beta version glory.

‘Listen, Ryan,’ I say quietly, because I haven’t actually said this yet and I’m probably supposed to, whether I really feel it or not, and in the end he seems like a decent enough guy. ‘Ah … I’m sorry about you and Ellie. Sorry it didn’t work out.’

Ryan shrugs, drinks, doesn’t look at me. ‘And I’m sorry about you and my sister,’ he says, turning and giving me an insincere smile.

Whoa. Didn’t see that one coming. Bit of a low shot, even if I do deserve it.

I breathe out in a sort of soundless whistle: all breath, no note.

‘Yeah,’ I say, after a moment. ‘Saw Jel yesterday. For whatever it’s worth, Ryan, I think we’re okay. Jel and me.’

‘Yeah, good for you,’ Ryan says with a small sneer, sighing and studying the top of the Bud bottle. ‘But you really fucked up a lot of people, you two.’

‘Like I say, Ryan, I’m sorry.’

Ryan shrugs. ‘Aye, well. If you see Ellie,’ he says, looking at me, ‘tell her I said hello.’

‘I don’t know that I will, though. Not to speak to.’

He gives a small, bitten-off laugh. ‘Nah, she’ll see you.’ He drains the bottle. ‘She might be teasing you, or waiting for you to — I don’t know: make the effort or something, but she’ll want to see you. Never fucking stopped talking about you.’ He jumps up, waggles the bottle. ‘Drink?’

I haven’t partaken yet, but it may be time. ‘Aye. Think I saw some Becks in the fridge. One of those.’

‘Bud no good enough for you, eh?’ Ryan says. Not too harshly, but still.

‘They make that shit from rice, man.’

Ryan shrugs. ‘All gets you drunk, just the same,’ he says. ‘Whatever works.’ He heads for the fridge.

True. And I’m happy enough to drink Kirin and other Japanese beers made from rice. So I’m a hypocrite and a beer snob. I look at Ryan as he opens the fridge door. And I’m guessing that you, young man, would always be too easily pleased to be good enough for Ellie.

Shocked at my own ignobility — and alarming self-honesty — I’m especially nice to him when he hands me my beer and sits back down again.

After turns wrecking large parts of Beijing, LA, Rio, London and Lagos — though we never do see that submarine again — Ryan and I are sitting pissed on the couch once more, agreeing that Ellie is a hell of a girl, and we’re both idiots to have let her slip through our fingers.