The porters are miffed to discover no luggage in the taxi, giving Terry some dubious looks, as if he is in some way responsible. Terry bristles, but there are pressing matters to attend to. The funeral of his old friend Alec is due to take place this afternoon. He drives home to his South Side flat, where he changes and calls Doughheid, to take him down to Rosebank Cemetery.
Doughheid is prompt, and Terry gratefully settles back in the cab. However, it’s an older, less slick and upholstered version of his own beloved TX4, made by the London Carriage Company, and its spartan environment makes him feel overdressed in his black velvet jacket, yellow shirt, buttoned up to the top with no tie, and grey flannel trousers. He’s tied back the corkscrew curls in an elasticated band, but a couple have already popped out, jumping irritatingly across his eyeline as he scans women on the streets towards the inner-city district of Pilrig, which looks frosty and threadbare around the park. As Terry steps out the cab and bids Doughheid farewell, the cold drizzle assails him. This is the first ever burial he’s been at, surprised when he’d heard that Alec’s do wouldn’t be in the usual venues of Warriston or Seafield crematoria. It was disclosed that there was a family plot of land purchased many years ago, and Alec was to be buried beside his late wife Theresa, who had died tragically in a fire. Terry had never met her, and he’d known Alec since he was sixteen, but had learnt over the years, through the odd tearful bout of alcoholic remorse and lamentation, that Alec, inebriated, had accidentally started the chip-pan fire which had led to his wife’s demise.
Pulling up the collar on his jacket, Terry heads across to where a large group of mourners have gathered around a grave. It’s busy, but then Alec’s passing was always likely to precipitate a jakey convention. What surprises Terry is that many old faces he has presumed either dead or in prison, are discovered merely not to have ventured past their local supermarkets since the smoking ban.
It isn’t all low-rent style though. A green Rolls-Royce pulls assertively through the gates, crunching the gravel of the path. All the other cars are parked in the street outside, but, much to the chagrin of the bemused cemetery officials, the Rolls inches as close as it can to the gravestones, before two suited and overcoated male passengers exit ceremoniously. One is a gangster whom Terry knows as The Poof. He is accompanied by a younger, wily-eyed, narrow-featured man, who, to Terry’s eye, appears too physically unimpressive to be a minder.
The grand entrance, which has certainly attracted the attention of the mourners, fails to hold Terry’s, his gaze soon turning in other directions. Experience has taught him that grief affects people in different ways. Along with weddings and holidays, funerals afforded the best pulling opportunities. With this in mind, he remembers how Councillor Maggie Orr has returned to her original surname from the clumsy designation Orr-Montague, the latter part belonging to the solicitor husband she’d recently divorced. Terry is armed with two pieces of knowledge: one is that Maggie has worn well, the second is that relationship breakdown and bereavement means double vulnerability. Perhaps he’ll get the old Maggie back, the bewildered Broomhouse girl, rather than the slick, self-actualised professional woman she’s morphed into. The thought excites him.
Almost immediately, he sees her standing by a large Celtic cross gravestone, talking to a group of mourners, wearing a sombre dark suit and gently drawing on a cigarette. Tidy enough, Terry thinks, licking a crystallising layer of salt from his top lip. He meets her eye, allowing first a faint smile then a sad nod of acknowledgement to pass between them.
Stevie Connolly, Alec’s son, sidles up to him. Stevie is a wiry guy, with a permanent bearing of semi-indignation that he inherited from his father. — You found ma faither, ay?
— Aye. Died peaceful like.
— You were his mate, Stevie says, in accusation.
Terry recalls how father and son had never been close, and partly empathises, being himself in a similar situation of paternal alienation, but is unsure of how to react to Stevie’s contention. — Aye, worked oan the windaes thegither, he says blandly, recalling another eventful chapter in his life.
Stevie’s doubtful scowl seems to be saying: ‘and the fucking housebreaking’, but before he can voice the thought, a series of calls and signals ripple across the cemetery, compelling the mourners to bunch slowly around the graveside. The minister (Terry gives thanks that Alec, though originally a Catholic, had left instructions that the funeral would be as secular and short as possible, so this meant Church of Scotland) makes a few non-contentious remarks, centring on how Alec was a social man, who missed his beloved Theresa, cruelly taken from him. They would now be together, not just symbolically, but for all time.
A couple of psalms are sung, the minister gamely trying to garner the enthusiasm of probably the weakest and most self-conscious backing chorus in the history of Christendom, unaided by indoor acoustics. There follows a short speech from Stevie. He just about manages to cover up his resentment towards Alec and his role in his mother’s demise, before inviting anybody who feels so inclined to come up to the microphone to give testimonial. There follows a nervous silence, with much studying of the blades of wet grass.
Then, at the urging of both Alec’s son and niece, Terry gets up to speak, standing on a box behind the microphone. Looking out at the sea of faces, he cracks what he thinks is a winning smile. He then taps the microphone in the manner he’s seen stand-up comics do at Edinburgh Fringe shows. — Once Alec goat the results n kent thaire wis nae wey back, eh took oaf oan a massive session, drinkin his wey through half the local Lidl’s stock! That wis Alec, he thunders, waiting for laughter to erupt.
But there is mostly stillness around the grave. The few who choose to react polarise between half-stifled chuckles and gasps of horror. Maggie shakes her head ruefully at Stevie, whose hands are balled tight and white, his teeth almost cracking as he hisses through them, — He thinks it’s a fuckin best man’s speech at some waster’s wedding!
Terry elects to soldier on, raising his voice above the intensifying grumbles. — Then he decided tae pit his heid in the oven, ay. But Alec bein Alec, he wheezes, — the cunt wis that pished he thought the fridge wis the fuckin oven! Pardon ma French but, ay. Aye, eh went intae the boatum freezer compartment, couldnae git ehs fuckin heid in, cause ay the wire basket n the McCain oven chips, so eh stuck ehs heid intae the plastic container next tae the basket n filled it wi ehs puke! Terry’s laughter explodes across the cold, wet cemetery. — Any cunt else ye’d blame it oan the medication, but that wis Alec, ay!
Stevie’s face crumbles as he takes this in, and a hyperventilating fit starts to seize him. He looks to Maggie and the other relatives in appeal. — What’s eh sayin? Eh? What is aw this?
But Terry, the wind whipping up his curls, has the floor and, in full flow, is all but oblivious to the reaction from the mourners. — Well, even wi the door open, it was such a cauld night that when ah found um in the morning, his heid wis frozen in a solid fuckin block ay iced-up seek-water, fae jist under his chin tae the back toap part ay his neck. Thaire was an aypil frozen in the water for some reason. Like he’d been tryin tae fuckin dook fir it, before eh passed oot! But that wis Alec, ay! Terry pauses. There follows a few tuts, with some heads shaking. Terry glances at Stevie, being restrained by Maggie, who has a firm grip of his arm. — Some boy for a peeve! But it’s great tae see um buried next tae his beloved Theresa . . . Terry says, pointing at the grave next to the one they are standing around. Then he indicates a patch of grass between the two graves. — That’s whaire they buried the auld chip pan; in between the two ay thum, he says, poker-faced, drawing real gasps of disgust, and some barely supressed guffaws. — Anywey, that’s me done. See yis back at the boozer for a scoop, for the boy’s memory, like, and he hops down into the body of the mourners, who stand apart from him like he has a contagious disease.
The rest of the service passes without controversy, though there are some teary eyes when the inevitable ‘Sunshine on Leith’ strikes up on the ricke
ty sound system, as the coffin is lowered into the ground. Terry is too cold to wait for the closing hymn. He shuffles away and heads down the street to the Guilty Lily pub, where the reception will take place. He is the first person to get to the alehouse, and it’s a relief to be in the warm on this foul, dreich day. Outside it is already pitch dark at barely 4 p.m. A sombre barmaid points to a white-clothed table full of glasses of beer, whisky and wine, and another with a buffet of traditional funeral spread; the mini sausage rolls, the ham-and-cheese sandwiches. Terry hits the toilets, doing a livener before returning to get himself a bottle of beer. As he takes up position by the bar, the mourners file in. Terry, his eyes on Maggie’s entrance, fails to notice Stevie’s discord. As she moves elegantly over to the big fireplace, on the other side of the room, he wonders how long it will take her to come his way.
Maggie, comforting and placating a pent-up Stevie, has guided him away from Terry, in the hope that he’ll cool off. As she glances across at Terry, she recalls their early trysts, how she (perversely now) preferred him to the sweet and successful Carl Ewart, who had such a hopeless crush on her. But Terry had possessed that bombastic confidence, which obviously hadn’t changed. And, it has to be said, from his cocky bearing, perched at the bar on a stool, that he looks well. He is obviously taking care of himself and still, implausibly, has those force-of-nature corkscrew curls. They seem not to have thinned or receded at all, though she suspects he runs Grecian 2000 through them.
Maggie is thus moved to give her own reflection a surreptitious glance in one of the full-length windows, pretending to be looking outside into the darkness. As a younger woman, her small body and breasts had never felt much of a blessing, but as she drew close to her forties, Maggie had grown grateful for them. There was little for the hungry ravages of gravity to work with, and any potential traction was thwarted by a four-times-a-week gym regime, an obsession with healthy eating and the discipline of moderate food portions. Maggie also finds it hard to pass a spa, and indulges in high-end skincare products and exfoliation treatments. That she is often genuinely taken for her daughter’s elder sister is a great source of quiet pride to this elfin woman.
She turns to see that Terry has caught her lingering glance of self-regard. Her heart sinks as a smile splits his face and he moves over, waving a lecturing finger. — Aye, caught ye thaire, checkin yersel oot in the gless! No that ah blame ye mind, ah’m likin what ah’m seein n aw!
Maggie feels an invisible hand tear her face into a smile. — Well, you look very well yourself, Terry.
— Goat tae make an effort but, ay, Terry winks extravagantly.
He hasn’t changed, Maggie thinks. He never changes. She looks back across to the fire. Stevie has a whisky in his hand, and is thanking some elderly guests for coming.
— So how’s things? Terry asks, and before she can inform him, answers on her behalf. — Big changes wi the divorce n the lassie bein away at college, or so ah’m hearin.
— Aye, well, impeccable sources. Maggie raises her glass of whisky to her lips.
— Aw oan yir lonesome, Terry beams, pitching it as a statement.
Maggie chooses to answer it as a question. — Who says ah’m on my lonesome?
— So thaire’s a new felly? Well, eh’s a lucky laddie! Tell ye that for nowt!
— I never said that either.
— Well, what is it then?
— ‘It’ is my life, and it’s none of your business!
Terry spreads his arms. — Hi! Kin ye no comfort an auld pal in her hour ay need?
Maggie is about to retort that Terry’s attempt at mass comforting at the funeral speech has given him near-pariah status, but now Stevie is tearing towards them, murder in his eyes. — What was aw that aboot? That speech, he confronts Terry, in bug-eyed rage.
— Wis a tough balance, Terry nods, seemingly oblivious to Stevie’s seething anger. — Ah wanted tae keep it Alec-friendly but at the same time gie the family some closure, ay. He nods semi-smugly. — Ah think ah pilled it oaf if ah say so masel, and he pulls out his mobile phone and goes into photographs. — Ah took some pictures oan the mobby, like that Damien Hirst gadge. Huv a shuftie, and he thrusts the camera phone in Stevie’s face.
Stevie had never been close to Alec, but seeing the image of his father’s head frozen into a block of ice, with yellow vomit trailing from the mouth, is too much to bear. — Ah dinnae want tae see that! Git the fuck oot ay here!
— C’moan, mate! Closure!
Stevie lunges to grab Terry’s phone, but Terry shoves him in the chest and he stumbles backwards. — C’moan now, pal, yir makin an exhibition ay yirsel here . . . Alec’s day but, ay . . . Terry warns.
— FUCK . . . FUCK YOU, LAWSON! Stevie stammers, as two relatives are on hand to pull him away. — Cunt’s fuckin mental . . . ye see what he’s got on that phooooone . . . Stevie’s voice rises to breaking levels, as he is protestingly hauled off to the other side of the room.
Terry turns to Maggie. — Ye try n gie some cunts, the family n that, a wee bit ay closure n git nae fuckin thanks!
— You’re crazy, Maggie says, and not in a flattering way, her eyes bulging in disbelief. — You huvnae changed!
— Keepin it real, Terry says proudly, but Maggie tears across the room to comfort her cousin. She always was a snooty wee cow, he thinks. Besides, Stevie never got on with Alec, what’s the hypocrite doing, playing the grieving son?
And now The Poof has caught his eye and is heading across to him. Despite rarely dressing in anything other than expensive designer suits and button-down shirts, there is always something slightly soiled-looking about The Poof. It’s as if he’s slept all night in his clothes and just been disturbed into consciousness. This impression is reinforced by the fact that The Poof is almost blind, his permanently screwed-up mole eyes adding to his sleepy demeanour. For a man who sadistically enjoys violence, he is paradoxically squeamish about anything to do with his eyes. Laser surgery is no-go, and he even baulks at fiddling with contacts. The Poof is also prone to heavy perspiration, thus clothes quickly look grubby on him. He has driven Edinburgh’s (and some of London’s) finest tailors to despair; despite their best efforts, around four hours will see him go from spruce to loose. The Poof’s younger sidekick, his face all tight angles, is backed up against the brickwork pillar in the centre of the bar, drink in hand, slyly scanning the gathering’s few younger women.
Terry turns back to The Poof. He recalls how everybody got called a ‘poof’ at Forrester High School in the seventies. Back then, only ‘wanker’ possibly rivalled it as the most common term of abuse. But The Poof was the Poof. Continuously bullied, rather than take the stock revenge route of joining the polis to get payback on the world, The Poof had gone against the grain and become gangster no. 1.
Of course, Terry knows that The Poof, strictly speaking, isn’t homosexual, and that he is one of few folk who still refers to him by that old school moniker. This is dangerous, as The Poof has worked his way up through the ranks by being a wide, vicious bastard. However, in Terry’s consciousness, part of Victor Syme will always be the dippit wee cunt in the brown duffel coat, whom he regularly took a crusty roll and crisps off of from outside the baker van at school break.
The game-changer for The Poof was his totally left-field attack with a sharpened screwdriver on Evan Barksdale. Barksdale was a bully: a twin who, along with his brother Craig, pursued a campaign of systematic, unremitting viciousness that pushed The Poof into the frenzied, psychotic bloodletting that instantly caused the world, and Victor Syme himself, to redefine his street status. Evan Barksdale, like a scheme Dr Frankenstein, had unwittingly created a monster substantially more dangerous than he, or his brother, could ever hope to be. Of course, The Poof had met with some pain and grief along his violence-strewn personal road to Damascus, but Barksdale’s persecution had schooled him well; everything else was insignificant compared to the psychic torture he’d already undergone.
On The Poof’s approach, Terr
y feels his buttocks clench involuntarily. There’s going to be trouble. He has done some business with The Poof before, delivering cocaine to the sailors at the naval base in Helensburgh, before a security crackdown had burnt his fingers and made it too dangerous a market. — Terry . . . A familiar fetid cabbage-stalk breath assails him.
— Sorry, Vic. On reflection, ah realise it wis in bad taste . . . the speech likes, Terry concedes, again checking out where The Poof’s young accomplice is situated.
— Fuck that! It was brilliant! Some cunts huv nae sense ay humour. The Poof shakes his head. — Alec would be laughin his heid oaf. The day wis aboot him, no thaim, and he flashes a reprimanding sneer over at the grieving family.
Terry is so relieved, he lets his defences fall, showing a greater receptiveness to The Poof’s subsequent pitch than would normally be the case. — Listen. Ah need a wee favour. I’m off tae Spain for a wee spell, two or three weeks, mibbe mair. The Poof drops his voice. — Between you n me, ah’m gittin a wee bit ay heat here. I need you tae keep an eye oan the sauna. Liberty, the one doon by Leith Walk.
Terry feels his meagre nod slowing to immobility. — Eh, ah dinnae really ken that much aboot saunas . . .
— Nowt tae ken. The Poof waves a dismissive, ring-covered hand. — Besides, ah hear yir still at that porno vid stuff, wi that cunt, what’s his name again, him doon in London?
— Sick Boy, aye. Now and again. A wee hobby. Nae poppy in it but, ay.
The Poof raises a doubtful eyebrow. — Just check in a couple ay times a week, and he glances at his young cohort, now putting a sandwich and sausage roll onto a paper plate. — Keep that taxin wee cunt Kelvin, he’s the wife’s younger brother, and they fuckin nippy hoors on their taes . . . or thair backs. His face creases in a grin. — Make sure it’s the doonstairs lips that’s gittin wide, n no the upstairs yins!
Terry knows he should be sharing a collusive cackle, but feels his features sinking south. This is hassle he doesn’t need.