Towser, who’d downed two pints while Malky had drunk two-thirds of one, leaned across in the first pub on Rose Street and told him, “That’s us. Everyone who said they’d be here is here. Time tae make a move.”
“Eight o’ us?”
Malky hadn’t wanted his stag do to be a mad affair with stripograms running about naked and guys spewing torrentially onto pavements. Heavens, no. Connie would have been horrified. But he hadn’t wanted it to be dull or underattended, either. It depressed him that tonight’s occasion, when the guys nearest and dearest to him celebrated the end of his untethered youth and the start of his time as a responsible husband and, hopefully, father, had mustered just eight people – himself included.
Sensing his disappointment, Towser offered consolation. “Well, everyone who said they’d be at this pub. We may see more folk later. Richard McKenna for instance. He promised tae meet us further along the street.”
Malky lit up. “An’ didn’t Richard say he’d bring his cousin Charlie? Ye’ve heard o’ Charlie? The musician fellah?”
While Malkie’s face brightened, Towser’s face fogged with puzzlement. “Richard’s cousin Charlie is a musician?”
“Richard’s mentioned it. Says he has a wee recording studio in his flat.”
“Aye,” said Towser dubiously. “Aye, right.” His voice dropped in volume. “Also… I’ve a mate in Edinburgh who I tellt could join us.” Towser sat back, suddenly worried-looking. “Hey, Malky. Ye dinnae mind?”
“Och naw, Towser. Any pal o’ yers is a pal o’ mine.” Malky was delighted in fact. That’d raise the total to eleven. Much better than eight.
“Great… But listen. Something I should say. This mate’s a bit… How’d ye put it? A bit dodgy.”
“Dodgy?”
“Like in, no quite respecting the rule o’ law. A bit o’ a rogue.”
Jamie Ferne had noticed Towser being furtive and secretive with Malky and he’d quietly shifted his stool towards them. Now he interrupted. “Ye mean a criminal. Go on. Tell us. What’s his name?”
Sheepishly, Towser said, “Matt Calvete.”
“Matt Calvete!” squawked Jamie and momentarily the other conversations in the group hushed.
Malky waited till everyone resumed speaking. Then he asked, “So this Matt Calvete’s a criminal?”
“Aye,” Towser conceded. “But no massively criminal. No Kray Twins criminal…”
Jamie interrupted again. “No much fucking less than Kray Twins criminal. Christ, Towser. How’d ye fall in with the likes o’ him?”
“Back in ma days as a brickie. Back when Matt had his mitts in the building trade…”
“Matt’s had his mitts in all sorts o’ places. Including on a few folk’s throats.”
“Even though he wis the gaffer, me an’ him got on well. I guess it wis cos o’ the canasta.”
“Ye played canasta with Matt Calvete?”
“Ye ken me. Never met a game o’ cairds I didnae like. An’ Matt wis specially keen on canasta cos it comes frae South America an’ Matt’s proud o’ his Latin roots. So me an’ him formed a partnership. That wis the basis o’ the friendship, a canasta partnership. Handy when ye think about it. Meant I never had tae play against him…”
“Jesus fucking Christ. An’ during this friendship ye never took the opportunity tae solve a few o’ Edinburgh’s great mysteries? Like the strange disappearance o’ Ronnie Flett? Or Junkie Jim Pollard?”
“Naw. That would a been rude. When Matt played canasta, he wis relaxing. Having pleasure. He didnae want reminding o’ the day job.”
“Some fucking day job, killing folk.”
While the pair bickered, Malky had lapsed into silent listening mode. This was his normal setting, in the warehouse with his workmates, at home with his parents, in the company of Connie. But now he made an interjection. “So if this Matt Calvete turns up… Should I be worried?”
“Och naw,” Towser said hurriedly. “Matt’ll no harm ye. Just act civil tae him and ye’ll be fine.”
Jamie spluttered. “Civil? Listen tae the cunt. Civil.”
***
Malky was still thinking it over when they left the pub. Towser’s pal was, in common parlance, a gangster. In some ways the possibility of a gangster attending his stag evening was flattering. It had the makings of a great tale, one he could tell in decades ahead to his children and grandchildren. Though not to Connie. He’d never breathe a word about it to Connie.
But that would be after this evening was finished. First, he had to get through the evening itself. And from the examples of gangsters he knew about – Joe Pesci in Goodfellas, James Caan in the first Godfather movie – one trait they had was that they lost their tempers easily and as a result folk got hurt. Malky didn’t want anyone hurt on his big night.
Rose Street swirled with people. Homeward-bound office workers flowed in and out of a nearby branch of Sainsbury’s, where the snacks and ready-meals sections were still open, and mingled with the off-season tourists who ventured along the street in search of food and the young men in groups like Malky’s who strutted along it in search of drink. Wind and rain swirled down from the black winter sky, imitating the pattern of the crowd. Malky paused outside the pub, produced a red cagoule from his knapsack and pulled it over him, creating his own swirl, of flapping red polyester.
He’d fallen behind his companions. But he knew the name of the next pub they – not he – had chosen and started walking towards it. He spotted some members of his party ahead. They’d gathered around a wizened man with a grey beard, a khaki army-surplus jacket and a bundle of copies of The Big Issue clutched under one arm. A phone was raised and they squeezed close together and grinned. Once the selfie was taken, they immediately detached themselves from the man and continued towards the next pub.
The Big Issue seller shouted after them in an accent Malky needed a moment to decipher: “Haad on! I thought yees were ganna buy a few a these!”
Somebody shouted back, “Fuck off ye Geordie loser.”
Somebody else: “Aye, an’ speak English properly – ye bowfing auld jakey.”
Pricked by his conscience, Malky approached the Big Issue seller and bought a magazine off him. He didn’t identify himself as a member of the group who’d just antagonised him.
“Ta man,” snorted the seller. “Ya’re miles nicer than them other cunts oot the neet!”
Once they’d had a drink in the second pub and Richard McKenna joined them there – to Malkie’s regret, minus his cousin Charlie, whom Richard explained had another engagement – they headed for the third one. This was in the block past where Rose Street was intersected by Hannover Street. It had a loud juke box and had rock-band posters, album covers, vinyl discs and even a couple of electric guitars slathering its walls. A man stood alone at the middle of the bar counter with his back to the door when they walked in.
Perhaps feeling a waft of wintry air enter the pub with them, the man slowly turned around. Malky noticed a skull-and-crossbones flag hanging on the gantry directly behind him, which somehow seemed significant.
The man was short and compact. He wore black trousers, a white shirt and long black leather coat. At his throat, a bright red cravat bulged between the shirt’s lapels. He clutched a half-drunk pint of lager in a hand adorned with clunky gold rings that from a distance made his knuckles look swollen and jaundiced. Malky peered at his face. His cheeks and brow had a purply tinge that gave the impression of perpetual anger. His head was hairless, its dome recently shaved.
Towser lurched forward and shook the man’s free hand. “Matt, how are ye? Good tae see ye.”
The man had the manner of someone trying to be patient with an overexcited dog. “Towser,” he said curtly. “How’s it going?”
Behind him, Malky heard Hector Spence, the warehouse foreman, say in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, “Christ. Is that who I think it is?”
Jamie Ferne, quiet too: “It is indeed.”
“Matt Calvete… I kent that eedjit Towser had some radge friends. But this takes the biscuit.”
Towser beckoned Malky over. “Meet ma pal Malky, the guy who’s tying the knot. Whose future happiness we’re celebrating the night.”
The man pushed his free hand into Malky’s hand and shook it. Malky felt the metallic heft of his gold rings. “Congratulations, young man,” he said in a wholly non-congratulatory tone. “What are ye wanting tae drink?”
Malky wavered. “Och, I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have another so soon.” He felt one of Towser’s shoes rap his shin. “A pint… A pint o’ lager. Please!”
While the man was busy ordering the drink, Towser put his mouth close to Malky’s ear and said, “He has a thingmie round his neck.”
“A cravat.”
“A cravat. Whatever ye say, don’t mention the cravat. Matt’s choosy about what he wears. An’ if he thinks ye’re paying tae much attention to an item o’ his attire… He thinks ye might be mocking it. An’ ye don’t want Matt thinking that.”
The man returned and handed Malky and Towser each a pint of lager. Then he looked at Malky and pointed to his cravat. “See this? It’s ma cravat. What dae ye think o’ it?
“Well…” stammered Malkie. “It’s…”
Matt Calvete’s mouth, nose and eyes were small and cramped-looking. Now they seemed to crowd closer together, becoming more cramped. “Cmon. What dae ye think o’ it?”
“It’s… scarlet.”
The man’s features seemed to relax and expand slightly, into the purple areas of his cheeks and brow. Malky felt froth splatter down his fingers as the pint wobbled in his hand.
“Hear that?” the man barked at Towser. “He says ma cravat is scarlet. Scarlet!” He looked back at Malky. “Very perceptive. Most folk would be glaikit an’ say it wis red. No scarlet, but red.” He pointed at Malky’s cagoule, which he hadn’t taken off yet. “But what ye’re wearing is red. As opposed tae scarlet. That’s why I bought this cravat. I saw it in a shop an’ thought, ‘I like that colour. It isnae red, it’s scarlet!’”
Malky wasn’t sure but he got the impression that, somehow, he’d said the right thing. And later, while the man was visiting the pub loo, Towser said, “Good going, Malky. He likes ye.”
“I only tellt him what colour his cravat wis.”
“An’ ye got the colour right. Nice work!”
After Matt Calvete reappeared, he and Towser talked about past games of canasta. “Mind the night we gubbed Pluto an’ Kelvin MacKay? Christ, they werenae happy. Thought auld Pluto wis gonnae get out the machete.” The pints Towser had drunk were taking hold of him and he swayed and gesticulated while he spoke. Once during his blabbering, a fleck of spittle left his mouth, traversed the space between him and his old boss and landed on the shoulder of the black leather coat. Towser didn’t notice. Almost imperceptibly, Matt Calvete glanced sideways, observed his flecked shoulder and flashed a look of annoyance.
Malky found this troubling.
His bladder was feeling heavy so he also went to the loo. While he used a urinal, Jamie Ferne materialised at the one next to him and demanded, “What’s going on? What’s happening with you an’ thon eedjit Towser an’ thon heidbanger Calvete?”
“Nothing,” said Malky. He tried to sound relaxed but doubted if he was convincing. “Towser an’ him are blethering about auld times. Auld caird games.”
“That stupid cunt Towser. He’ll get himself killed before the night’s finished. Malky, have ye any idea what a psycho yous pair are fraternising with?”
“He’s been decent enough so far. Bought me a drink…”
“Some folk call him the Tattie Peeler. Ken why?”
“Why?”
“His second or third wife had a tattoo on her arm proclaiming the name o’ a former beau. Calvete, being as jealous as fuck, wisnae happy about it. One night he came hame pisht an’ they had a row an’ Calvete ended up pinning her tae the kitchen floor. Where he forcibly removed the offending tattoo. Using a tattie peeler he found in a kitchen drawer.”
Malky stood thinking about this – long after his urine had stopped dribbling onto the urinal’s porcelain. “Wow,” he said finally. “He could a removed it another way. Paid for her tae get laser treatment.”
“The only laser treatment Matt Calvete’s interested in is lasers that cut ye in half. Like Goldfinger tried with Sean Connery.”
Back in the bar Malky thought it’d be polite to offer to buy drinks. But when he made the offer Calvete responded with a stare that was discomforting because, the longer the stare lasted, the longer its perpetrator went without blinking. The eyes from which it emanated seemed as lidless as a snake’s. “Naw. Ye’re drinking with me the night. I buy.” He shoved a twenty-pound note into Towser’s hand and sent him to the counter. When Matt Calvete and Malky were alone, the former said, “Let’s get this straight, son. Drinks are on me. I dinnae care how rich or how skint ye are.”
“Skint,” Malky repeated softly. He was still thinking about Jamie Ferne’s story and momentarily he believed Matt Calvete had said, “Skinned.”
“So ye’re getting wed.” The snake-stare disappeared and his tone became philosophical. “That’s a big step in a man’s life. A necessary step, for I’m a great believer in marriage, an’ family, an’ procreating, an’ furthering the human race. But ye need tae be careful. Tell me, this young lady o’ yers… Is she a good sort?”
“Very good.” A little too good at times, Malky reflected, thinking of Connie’s religiosity.
“She’s a person ye can trust?”
“Oh aye.”
“She disnae have tattoos?”
“Tattoos?”
Matt Calvete’s eyes turned reptilian again. “Tattoos are bad news. Ye cannae trust anyone with a tattoo.”
“No tattoos.” Images of bloody potato-peelers flashed through Malky’s head. “Absolutely no tattoos.”
They were halfway through their next drinks when Hector-the-foreman approached them. “The lads…” he started, and glanced over his shoulder at the others, who were keeping their distance. “The lads were wondering where tae go next.”
“Aye,” said Matt Calvete, sounding jocular now, “where are we going? I wis tellt this wis a pub crawl. Havenae seen much crawling yet.” He tugged one of the tresses on Towser’s head. “Apart frae the lice crawling through this yin’s hair.”
Towser laughed, but from his face Malky suspected it was the first time this evening he didn’t think it great to have Matt Calvete as a pal.
“Well,” said Hector, “we were considering the Rose Street Tavern…”
“Och, fuck the Rose Street Tavern!” spat Matt Calvete. “Why’d anyone want tae drink there? It’s shite. Full o’ tourist wankers an’ office wankers. The Guy Mannering, though. That’s a much better pub.”
Malky had never seen Hector so deferential. “Fine. The Guy Mannering it is.”
On the wet, blowy street, Malky again found himself separated from his workmates – though this time it wasn’t because he was tardy and they’d surged ahead. Rather, Matt Calvete had chosen to walk beside him, which had the effect of forming an exclusion zone around him, and the others had fallen behind. Even Towser, previously so lap-doggish towards Matt Calvete, stayed out of the exclusion zone. Perhaps he hadn’t appreciated the hair-lice joke.
Matt Calvete suddenly halted and clamped a hand on Malky’s shoulder, bringing him to a halt too. “Och shite, fucking shite! Can them cunts no ever gie me peace?”
“Matt…” started Malky. “I mean, Mr Calvete… What’s wrong?”
“Bizzies… Filth… Pigs… Polis!”
Ahead, Malky observed two constables in yellow high-viz jackets, standing by the entrance of a Rose Street branch of Greggs the Bakers.
Still gripping Malky’s shoulder, Matt Calvete steered him to the street’s side and into the alcove of a shop front, where a stone corner shielded them from the policemen.
He grabbed at Malky’s cagoule. “Gie me that.”
Malky shuddered, imagining the unflattering clash between the cagoule’s plasticky red and the cravat’s suave scarlet. “It’s no very stylish…”
“Fuck the stylishness. It’s a disguise.”
They stepped out from the shop-front with the cagoule transplanted onto Matt Calvete. Its red hood swallowed his head, its baggy red body enveloped him to his knees. At the same moment, the rest of the party caught up with them. Jamie Ferne addressed the cagoule: “Jesus, Malky. Ye look like a big gimpy periscope in thon outfit.”
Then, noticing Malky on the far side of the cagouled figure, he realised who was wearing it and croaked, “No offence, Mr Calvete!”
The red hood snarled back. “Quit using ma name, ye stupid cunt. There’s polis in the vicinity.”
They negotiated the policemen, who seemed more interested in scoffing the bridies and sausage rolls they’d bought in Gregg’s than in checking passing faces. A minute later, they were inside the Guy Mannering.
Matt Calvete freed himself from the cagoule and thrust it back at Malky. Then he faced Malky’s companions and said, “If word ever gets out that Matt Calvete wore a shitey red cagoule along Rose Street, I’ll see tae it that yous cunts die. An’ die painfully. Am I understood?”
Hurriedly, everyone confirmed that they understood.
Matt Calvete pointed at Jamie Ferne. “Dae you understand, gimpy periscope man?”
Jamie Ferne made a gurgled approximation of the word ‘yes’.
Then Matt Calvete put an arm around Malky’s shoulders. “I’ll say this. I’m pleased yin man here the night has proved his worth.” He gave Malky a look that seemed less reptilian and more warm-blooded – almost mammalian. “Thank you, young fellah, for helping me out.”
Malky blushed and bowed his head. As he clutched the cagoule, he noticed a corner of paper protruding from one of its pockets. Malky teased more of the paper out of the pocket, into view, then gasped and pushed the paper back into the pocket, out of view.
He edged close to the gangster and whispered, “Mr Calvete, ye forgot something. Ye left some o’ yer money in ma cagoule.” Malky partly drew the folded notes from the pocket again so he could see them.
Matt Calvete chuckled. “Listen, that’s yours. A token o’ ma appreciation. Ye helped me on the street an’ when folk help Matt Calvete, he pays them back.” Then he produced another note from his own pocket and waved it towards Towser. “Hey, T-man! Shake them lice out o’ yer manky hair an’ buy us a drink with this!”
Malky hardly noticed when Tower brought him another pint. He stood stupefied, thinking only of the bundle of money in his cagoule-pocket. He hadn’t expected a gift like this on his stag-night. Certainly not from a senior criminal in the Edinburgh area.
Then a voice along the bar counter to his left – Matt Calvete, Towser and the others were to his right – brought him out of his stupor. The voice, simultaneously posh and drunk, said: “That’s some coat your friend came in wearing. Was he auditioning for Don’t Look Now?”
Malky looked leftwards. A dozen young men, in their late teens or early twenties, stood there sub-divided into groups of three or four. All were tall and broad-shouldered and wore navy-blue, V-necked sweaters with small circular emblems on their left breasts. The nearest young man in the nearest group had turned from his circle and was looking towards Malky and Matt Calvete. Before the man spoke again, Malky took in more of his sweater’s emblem – the X of a Scottish saltire with a thistle above it and a castle below it, and some words underneath that included ‘university’ and ‘rugby’.
“You know, the old horror film set in Venice. The one with the killer dwarf in the red coat. Hey… Your friend’s short enough to play the dwarf.” Both the man’s hands gripped pint-glasses that were three-quarters full of beer. His six-foot-plus frame swayed slightly.
Malky was shocked. He looked at Matt Calvete to ascertain if he’d heard the young man’s taunt. He had. His expression was oddly blank, which Malky assumed was how he looked when he was boiling with psychotic rage.
Panicking, Malky told the student rugby-player, “Hey, mind what ye say. Ye probably dinnae ken who this man is. If ye did, ye’d show some respect.”
By now one of the rugby-player’s friends had noticed him being obstreperous. He took hold of his arm and tried to birl him around, so that he faced into his own group instead of facing out of it, towards other people. But the young man refused to turn. He jeered at Malky, “No, I don’t ken who your friend is. Though he’s obviously a pig-ugly, slap-headed short-ass.”
Malky felt unexpectedly furious. “But this is Matt Calvete.” He advanced on the man. “Ye hear me? Matt Calvete.”
He felt a hand on his elbow, detaining him. He looked sideways and discovered Matt Calvete trying to hold him back. Strangely, the gangster’s face wore a look of apprehension. Malky wouldn’t have associated that look with someone who’d rubbed out Ronnie Flett and Junkie Jim Pollard and removed an offending tattoo with a potato peeler. “Malky, calm down,” he pleaded. Then, as if realising the pleading tone was out of character for him, he changed his manner back to that of a scary gangster. “Look,” he growled. “Pick yer battles with folk who are worth it. An’ it’s a waste o’ time getting intae a rammy with some posh, drunken, ignorant student cunt like this…”
The drunk rugby-player bellowed, “Ignorant? Who are you fucking plebs calling ignorant?” He lurched towards them, arms swinging – he’d forgotten the two beer glasses he was holding. Malkie raised his right arm defensively and his right forearm collided with the man’s left one. Both stalled, but the momentum of the beer in their hands was unchecked. The rugby player’s glass shot out of his hand and flew over the heads of Towser, Jamie Ferne and the rest, its contents splattering them. Meanwhile, Malky was holding a beer-mug and although he held onto its handle, the beer in it sailed out and doused the rugby-players standing behind the man.
Then the rugby-player’s right arm swung and struck the side of Malkie’s head. Only his arm struck it. His fist, clutching a second glass, overshot its target. When the fist stopped moving, another near-pint of beer drenched Malky’s companions.
Stunned, Malky staggered against the bar-counter. Around him, the bar erupted into a chaos of surging bodies, windmilling arms, pummelling fists, flying glasses. The blow had muffled his hearing but distantly he heard yells, screams, curses, obscenities, breakages, crashes. One voice seemed more audible than the others. He realised it was his own, shouting, “But this is Matt Calvete! Dinnae mess with Matt Calvete, ye bastards!”
Then Matt Calvete appeared in front of him. Shockingly, the gangster looked confused – scared, even. The big drunken rugby-player who’d started the trouble loomed beside him and with a punch swatted him to the floor. “Take that, Matt fucking Calvete!” he roared, though his voice was faint to Malky’s malfunctioning ears.
Richard McKenna, who was five-and-a-half feet tall and for some reason was shouting about his ‘cousin’, ran at the rugby player. His fist arced up and caught the man on his jaw. The blow carried enough force to topple him and he landed on the floor too.
Malky propelled himself away from the counter, towards where Matt Calvete had fallen. “Matt,” he spluttered, “Are ye all right?” But suddenly, on either side, his arms were seized and two assailants dragged him towards the door and out onto Rose Street. Several tables with metal frames and polymer, fake-wooden tops, and similar-styled chairs huddling around them, stood outside. The rugby-player holding Malky’s left arm twisted it and forced his chest and face down against a wet tabletop. Malky’s ears had recovered enough for him to hear a snarl above him: “This bastard’s the instigator. He started the argument with Jez.”
A hand wrapped itself in Malky’s hair. His head was hoicked off the tabletop, then smashed down on it again. “You’re going to get such a doing, scum-hole…”
From the middle of the street something rushed at them, accompanied by a weird cry: “Eeee-yah!” It whooshed past the side of the table, there was a crunching sound and the hands twisting Malky’s arm and gripping his hair were wrenched away from him. A body hurtled into another table and its set of chairs and, with a great clatter, upended them. Malky managed to raise his head from the table-surface. He was in time to see a scrawny figure in a khaki-patterned coat tackle the second rugby-player who’d dragged him out of the pub. Another cry: “Eeee-yah!” The figure kicked impossibly high and his foot made contact with the rugby-player’s head. This sent him pirouetting along the front of the pub until he lost his balance and sprawled over the pavement.
Several flapping papery things had landed on Malky’s tabletop and the surrounding ground. Malky pushed himself fully upright, focused on one of the items and identified it as a copy of The Big Issue.
The figure hurried over to him. “Are yee aal reet, man?” demanded a voice with an alien, yet familiar, accent. “Leek Ah says, thor’s some bad cunts oot the neet.”
***
“Well,” one policeman said to the other policeman, “I cannae understand it. Can you understand it?”
“No, I havenae got ma heid round it either.” The other policeman turned back to Jamie Ferne, who sat at one of the tables in front of the Guy Mannering. Across from him sat Matt Calvete who, Malky knew now, wasn’t really Matt Calvete but Richard McKenna’s cousin Charlie. Charlie had removed his scarlet cravat and was using it to plug his bleeding nose. The policeman gestured at Charlie. “So this guy isnae a gangster?”
Jamie sighed. “Look, I’ve explained. We’re having a stag-do, right? As a joke on the groom-tae-be, who’s a bit innocent an’ gullible…” He looked towards Malky, seated at an adjacent table. “Sorry, Malky lad, but it’s true. Ye are innocent an’ gullible. So as a joke, we got Charlie, who’s an actor, tae pretend tae be some big Edinburgh gangland figure…”
Richard McKenna also sat at Malky’s table. Towser, Hector-the-foreman and the others occupied further tables along the pub’s front. Most of them were immersed in copies of The Big Issue, which Malky had made them buy off the seller. They seemed grateful for the magazine, since it allowed them to keep their heads down and avoid eye contact with the policemen. To Richard McKenna he said, “I thought Charlie wis a musician. I heard ye say he had a recording studio.”
Richard McKenna replied in a strained voice, “No, he’s an actor. His studio is for recording audio books an’ voice-overs for TV an’ radio ads.”
“We bet money on it,” Jamie continued. “On what time in the evening Malky would twig on it wis a gigantic wind-up. I put a hunnert quid on him not figuring it out, on him finishing his stag-night without being any the wiser.” He looked at Malky accusingly. “I wis on ma way tae winning. We were dropping stuff intae the conversation about Charlie here, or Matt Calvete as he wis called, murdering folk an’ torturing his wife with a tattie peeler. A fucking tattie peeler! An’ muggins here believed it all. Thought it wis true. Till he got so carried away with the fantasy he started a battle with them rugby cunts inside the pub!”
The university rugby-club students had legged it as soon as they saw the policemen approach along Rose Street. Because Charlie was semi-conscious at the time, Malky’s party hadn’t been able to run off.
The first policeman tutted. “That’s cruel.”
“It wisnae,” Jamie protested. “Our bets went intae a big kitty. Part o’ it paid Charlie for his services. It also gave him money tae pay for his an’ Malky’s drinks all evening. Another part o’ it wis for Charlie tae give Malky as a wedding gift, pretending it wis frae him, the gangster. But it wis really frae the eight o’ us. The remaining money… Well, that wis for whoever won the sweepstake.”
“What,” Malkie asked Richard McKenna, “has Charlie done voices for?”
“Och, various stuff. He’s currently the voice o’ Tunnock’s Chocolate Shortbread.”
The policeman quizzed Jamie about the Big Issue seller. “An’ Geordie Trevor rescued yer pal who’s getting married?”
“Aye. Two o’ those cunts were about tae panel him here. He dived in an’ saved him.”
The policeman spoke admiringly. “That’s Geordie Trevor for ye. He’s ex-marines. Shame how an auld sodjer like him ended up hameless.” He gave Malky’s party an approving look as they sat along the tables, reading. “Good tae see yous lads supporting him, by the way. Now. Yous still have plenty o’ the betting money left?”
“Aye,” said Jamie with trepidation.
The policeman nodded towards a pub window. A suited man stood on the inside of it, glowering out. “I think yous may want tae speak with him. Use that money tae pay for the damage his pub’s suffered. Unless yous want this tae go further…”
Suddenly, the other policeman pointed towards Charlie and exclaimed, “Hey, I ken this guy. He wis in Taggart!”
Charlie lowered the bloody cravat from his nose, “Several times. First, I wis an extra, playing yin o’ the binmen who discover the dismembered corpse in the first scene. Then I graduated tae playing minor members o’ the Glasgow underworld.”
The policeman sounded even more delighted. “An’ that voice… That’s the Tunnock’s Chocolate Shortbread voice!” He produced a notebook and pen. “Can I have yer autograph?”
Malky decided it wasn’t just Connie who’d remain ignorant of this story in the decades ahead. His children and grandchildren wouldn’t hear about it either. And as he gazed over at Charlie’s bloodstained cravat, he decided something else. The thing didn’t look scarlet any more.
It looked red.
by 
Steve Cashel
Latest posts by Steve Cashel (see all)
- Last Laugh - March 17, 2026
- Malkied - December 31, 2024
- The Folkie - November 13, 2023
Loved this. What a story. Stags going sideways are always a winner.