The Mowgli Chronicles
by Pat Black
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: As if life isn’t hard enough for unemployed Jack, now he has to go in search of Mowgli.
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: As if life isn’t hard enough for unemployed Jack, now he has to go in search of Mowgli.
It was a three-man job. Cash in hand. Clear out a house; someone had done a runner. Full of stuff. Maybe the odd bit they might be able to sell. A one-off, but maybe there’d be something else later on. Was Jack interested?
Jack was.
Senga made a fuss of him that morning. The weans were all out the door, and he’d put on his old overalls, burgundy monsters she had hated having to wash. She’d feared the dyeing effect - with good reason. So the ovvies had steeped in an old basin rather than going in the washing machine, and they had dried stiff as an old board. But she made sure all the buttons shone in their buckles, and she’d even made a decent effort at polishing up his old steelies, too. He hadn’t asked her to do this, and he’d been somewhat embarrassed at the effort she’d gone to.
“It’s the wee details,” Senga said. She was more excited than Jack was. He half expected her to spit on her hanky and abrade his face with it, like she’d done with every one of their weans. She still did it occasionally at the school gates with the wee man.
“God’s sake, doll,” Jack said, laughing, “I’m not off to meet the Queen.”
“Well, if you see her, you’ll dazzle her, handsome man. Well… apart from the hair.”
He chuckled, smoothing back his shoulder-length brown hair. “Hair’s staying, pet. No haircuts. Non-negotiable.”
“They might think you’re Francis Rossi.”
“I’m better looking, though.”
“Fair comment.”
“Better guitarist an’ all.”
“I might draw the line at that.”
He kissed her. Then kissed her again, properly.
He checked his watch and arched an eyebrow.
She acted surprised.
“What do you expect, doll? I’m no’ finished yet,” Jack said, not too much later, as he rebuckled his overalls. “Not 40 for another eight months. Thirty-nine, not out.”
It turned out he was a mite overdressed. Barry O’Connell was in charge, and he turned up with the van wearing a battle-bobbled black jersey, black working trousers and shoes, while the other lad turned up in trainers and a shell-suit. The latter’s name was Billy McCaffery, and from the reptilian tongue-flicks and neck-tics, Jack guessed he maybe wasn’t right.
“You aren’t one of the McCafferys from Old Dalmillington?” Jack asked the boy, as they all shifted their bums along the van’s front seat.
“Aye,” the boy said, brightening. “Vinny’s ma’ brother.”
“Vinny McCaffery! Hey, I used to play fitba with him. Mention my name to him; I’m Jack Dennison. He’ll mind o’ me. Cracking fitba player, Vinny was.”
Barry O’Connell seemed relieved that Jack had taken the brunt of the conversation. “He’s a bit tapped,” the squat wee gaffer said, after they got out the van, while Billy’s attention was diverted. “Nice enough boy, though.”
Jack shrugged, not wishing to get into the subject. “We’re all a bit tapped,” he said. “And he’s doing the same job as me.”
“Aye,” O’Connell muttered darkly. “It’s liberty, I know. I’m just doing a favour to his maw.”
“He’s absolutely fine, mate. Brand new.”
The house was in Muirton Street, a tight rank of eight-in-a-blocks with crumbling metal verandas stuck to the front. They weren’t unlike sea defences you sometimes saw in old war movies. Jack used to live there with his parents more than 30 years before, but he could never remember anyone sitting out on these verandas. There was no-one on them now.
“Hell of a street,” O’Connell muttered, as they piled out the van. “Need to make sure nobody dives in and clears the van while we’re taking the gear out.”
“I used to live round the corner,” Jack said. “Until I got married. Lived wi’ my ma and da. Used to be a nice street. Went the same way as every other one hereabouts. Shame.”
“Full o’ junkies and asylum seekers, now. Hellhole. Wait here till I open the place up, boys.” O’Connell fished in his trouser pockets for keys as he disappeared up the close.
Soon, faces began to appear behind net curtains. Jack couldn’t see any junkies or asylum seekers. It was mostly old dears, mouths downturned like sharks’.
“Who’s they boys?” Billy said, pointing.
Two pale white faces had appeared at the mouth of one of the closes. Perhaps young enough to still be at school, though it was a school day. One of them was smoking; both gazed over balefully.
“Never you mind,” Jack said. “Just boys. Try not to point or stare at them. Some people don’t like it.”
“Hol,” one of the two teenagers called over. “Whit you lookin’ at?”
“Don’t know,” Billy called back, smirking. “But it’s looking back.”
They both piled over without a second’s hesitation. One of them wore a blinding white shell-suit that clashed awkwardly with his freckled complexion and bright ginger hair. The other, the smoker, was taller and reedier, with a squat, near-triangular jaw. The red-headed one snarled, “Whit the fuck did you say, fat man?”
Jack stepped in front of them, jaw twitching. “Hey – get tae fuck,” he said, voice low. “Baith ‘o yese. On yer way.”
“Whit you up tae, Status Quo?” the taller one said. “You haudin’ an audition? Need a spazzy for yer backing band?”
“Shut yer mouth. Baith o’ yese – mind yer ain business, and get tae fuck.”
The ginger one in the white shell-suit looked from Jack to his friend, a bundle of nerves. “If ah get the jail again, man… Ah cannae…”
Jack’s eyes blazed. “You cannae whit, mate? You won’t get the jail, you ginger prick. You’ll get a body bag. Now you and yer pal – fuck off. I won’t tell ye again.”
Another voice cut across the scene. To the left, on the first floor of a block of flats where the windows were mostly shuttered, a figure appeared on one of the verandas. He wore a dirty white dressing gown, several sizes too small for him, the belt taking the strain over an immense paunch. He was in his fifties and unshaven, and at a glance looked as if he’d had a convivial evening the night before. This man bared yellowish teeth in what might have been a smile. “That you, Jacky Dennison?”
Jack nodded. “And if it isnae Mr McDougal? How ye doing, mate?”
“No’ bad. See you’ve got a coupla pals there wi’ you?”
“You mean these two?” Jack nodded at the newcomers. “I think they were just leaving.”
“I think they were, tae.” The man in the housecoat leaned his elbows on the crumbling balustrade. “Right, Ginger – you and Lurch; you’ve got 10 seconds to fuck off. Or I’ll be coming round to see yese later. Move!”
They were gone as quickly as they appeared. The ginger one nodded intently at Jack and drew a finger across his throat. Jack laughed and lit a cigarette.
“Weans alright?” the man in the housecoat asked him.
“Pretty good, Martin. A handful.”
“Excellent. Tell Senga I was asking for her. See you for a beer up at the Gibbet, aye?”
“Definitely, mate.”
“Don’t worry about yer van, either. Alright? Nobody’ll touch it.”
“Appreciated, Martin.”
Once he’d gone, Billy Caffery laughed shiftily and bit at his thumbnail. “Who was that guy?”
“A guy I used to play football with. Lucky for us.”
“We showed they two dafties, eh?”
“No we didn’t.” Jack’s hands shook as he took a long draw of his fag.
Billy smiled. “You would have battered’m.”
“Listen, mate, the last time I can remember lifting my hands to anybody is when I smacked my Hannah’s arse for setting fire to the curtains with some matches when she was six. And she still got up and hit me back. In future, Billy, you ignore guys like that, alright? And you definitely don’t gie them any cheek. Bad things can happen up here when you’re on your own. Very bad things. Okay?”
“Sure, Jack.”
“Okay then.”
“I’m sorry, Jack.” Billy looked stricken; two more fingers disappeared inside his mouth.
Jack laid a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry. I just want you to be safe. Alright?”
“Okay, Jack.”
O’Connell miraculously reappeared at the mouth of the close a few seconds later, once the two teenagers were nowhere to be seen. He beckoned them inside the close.
The house was threadbare; an ancient fridge-freezer sputtered in the corner, an empty plastic container of milk and a single triangle of spreadable cheese the sole survivors. The top two freezer drawers were frozen solid; beyond some shiny chrome chairs and a hard formica-topped table that looked suspiciously new, the rest of it was destined for the cowp. Sofa, complete with fag burns; wall unit, denuded of ornaments; a vase with dust-caked plastic flowers inside, somehow terribly sad. The place smelled vaguely of cat, though there were no signs of one being around.
“Downer,” O’Connell said, scratching his scalp. “Thought there’d be a bit more. Nothing worth salvaging. It’s all for the cowp, I think.”
“Nae bother, either way,” Jack said, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s get intae it, eh?”
The whole business really started once they’d filled the van and dumped it at Dalmillington cowp. They dropped Billy off first, with O’Connell counting out tenners in full view of the boy’s mother. O’Connell bustled back into the cab, then drove Jack back to Fullerton Street. The gaffer seemed tense. Jack wondered if O’Connell had seen the confrontation earlier; if maybe he thought Jack had been a little too harsh with Billy.
“Right,” O’Connell said at last, drumming his hands on the wheel. “Here it is. There’s a problem wi’ the bank. I can’t get any more money out till a cheque clears.”
“You what?”
“I’m sorry. I had to pay Billy first. I can’t send him back to his mother with no money. I had a decision to make. Him or you.”
“Billy doesn’t have five weans, mate. Christ’s sake, when does this cheque clear? I need this money, Barry. I’ve been out of work a long time. We’re counting on it.”
O’Connell held up his hands. “I’m so, so sorry. It won’t be till Friday.”
“And didn’t it cross your mind to tell me before we set off?”
“I’ve said I’m sorry. Look – there’s another job coming up at the end of the week. On payday. Same deal, round about your street. It’ll just be a two-man job this time. I’ll give you what we agreed today, double-bubble, with another £20 on top for the bother today. How does that sound?”
Jack exhaled, drawing his fingers through his long hair. “I suppose it’ll do. It’ll have to, won’t it?”
O’Connell clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good man. That’s what I like to see. They said you were a good man.”
“Too good by halves, I think.”
“I can give you something for now. Something to take away with you. From a job we did the other day. I had nae idea what to do with it. I was going to try and punt it down the pub. You’ve got… four weans?”
“Five weans.”
“Five weans. Any of them into animals, or that?”
“Animals? Well… wee Joe, my youngest, he’s got loads of wee plastic lions and tigers and things. But he’s mad into dinosaurs.”
“Dinosaurs?” O’Connell’s face lit up. “That’s close enough. Near perfect. Come and take a look, it’s back at my hoose.”
* * *
Bustle, scream and steam, 4pm to lights out. Blue Peter fanfare, full bag of boiled potatoes, already queues outside the bathroom. A pot of stew, puff pastry, thick gravy and onion. Senga made it often, Jack thought, but she did it right. Hannah out the door already, after a quick change. That let Eve get her turn in the bathroom, the roar of the taps stilled to deadly silence as she soaked. Outside, Richard bellowing – her junior, but the boss of the house. Thomas was never in; he had a wee bird, they knew, and he spent most days round her house after school.
That left the wee man, playing with his wee Star Wars men before he was even out of his yellow coat after the Cubs, setting them up on the tables and hiding them in folds of the old settee. Jack could even see Yoda poking his head out of a fag burn on one arm of the chair – both the action figure and the damage mementos from uncle Rab’s last visit.
Jack waited until the dishes were done before the grand unveiling.
“Right, wee Tigger,” he said, ruffling the boy’s head. “Got something for you at work today.”
“What work were you at?”
“Just a wee job tidying someone’s mess. Look, over here.”
Senga sipped at a cup of tea, and frowned as the box was produced. “I hope those holes in the side aren’t to let something breathe,” she said.
The creature was revealed, nestled in among yellow straw. Its head retracted as soon as the light appeared; its shell matched the burnished sheen of the old coffee table underneath the lamplight.
The little boy cried out in delight, and grabbed its shell. “A tortoise!”
“That’s right. Your tortoise. Be gentle, now, wee man. Don’t hurt it. That’s it.”
“His head’s gone inside!”
“He’ll be a bit shy at first. Apparently he’s only wee.”
“And how big does he get, then?” Senga said. “Bloody tortoise! They outlive us, you know.”
“I don’t think it’s one of those ones,” Jack said, running his finger over the shell. “It’s from Greece or Cyprus, I’m told.”
Richard, who was buttoning up his shirt, peered over the edge of the box and wrinkled his nose. “Bloody stinks, that.”
Jack stabbed a finger at his eldest son. “Mind yer language. And who said you could take my aftershave?”
The lad smirked. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“She’d better be worth it, boy.”
Senga said: “And was this creature part of your wages, then, Jack?”
“Yeah, something like that. Hey – what shall we call him?”
“Mowgli,” the wee man said, without hesitation. He touched one of the armoured legs; it twitched slightly, and then a head emerged. Tiny black eyes appeared shiny in the light.
“Mowgli?” Jack frowned. “The teddy was Mowgli; the monkey puppet was Mowgli; the goldfish was Mowgli. Maybe I should have called you Mowgli?”
“I like Mowgli.” The wee man beamed.
“Mowgli it is, then. Let’s find him some lettuce, he likes that, apparently.”
Senga cocked her head. “Wee word with you, Jack.”
Out in the hall, among the fishing boat paintings and woodchip wallpaper, she said: “When you said, ‘something like that’, when I asked you about getting wages… what did you mean by that?”
Jack took a deep breath, and told her.
* * *
“There you go,” O’Connell said, handing over some notes. “Thanks for all your help, the other day. And for being so understanding.”
Jack didn’t even need to count. “This isnae enough, mate. That wasn’t what we agreed on. Twenty on top, you said.”
“You’ll get the rest later,” O’Connell said, side of his face twitching. “You don’t get to withdraw that much out of the bank straight away. There’s a limit.”
“So what about the money you made out of the job the other day? Surely that’s cleared. Christ’s sake, mate!”
To his credit, O’Connell kept his voice level. “It was a cheque, Jack. It has to clear, first. The money won’t be in my account until next week.”
“Mate… look, my wife’s never scudded me, right? Never lifted a hand. But last night, when I brought a tortoise home instead of the dough she was expecting, she nearly crowned me with it. We need that money. Okay? We’re struggling. Hannah’s 18th is coming up. We need the money for her party. That money has to be in my pocket for next week. Alright?”
“I understand. Hey… I’ve got other jobs coming up. We could be a partnership. See how it goes, eh? How long you been away from the driving game?”
“Six months,” Jack muttered. “Well, six and a half.”
“Jesus. Not easy, eh?”
“To be honest, no.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted. Okay? Promise, Jack. Like I said – if it was a regular job, you wouldn’t get your wage right away, would you? You might have to wait a month’s lying time.”
“Lying time…” Jack fiddled with the glove compartment. He could not look O’Connell in the face. He could not even turn his head in his direction. “You said ‘cash in hand’. That’s what you said. Not, ‘you’ll get what I owe you in a fortnight’.”
“You’ll get it. Alright? I’m not going to do a runner on you. Now c’mon. Let’s get this van loaded up. It’s an auld dear who coughed it. Daughter’s there. Hopefully shouldn’t take too long. Not far away from your place, in fact.”
* * *
Jack was sure he knew one or two people who lived up this close, certainly by sight, but he couldn’t place the names on the doorplates. It was one of the better closes in this part of the town, well kept, stiff-backed neighbours lurking behind net curtains. The two front gardens were pristine, while the variegated burgundy and beige paintwork in the close was unpitted and untainted by graffiti. The old dear’s house was right at the top, and a good-looking woman of about forty met them at the head of the stairs. He knew the face, but couldn’t place the name.
“Oh, Jack! Lovely to see you!” She clasped his hands.
“Hey, it’s yourself!”
“Mark’s sister! Mark McRae.”
“Oh of course! Becky McRae. I remember you. Goodness me, I think you even babysat our eldest a couple of times. Long time ago now. I hope everything’s alright, darlin’. Sorry to hear about your ma.”
Becky shrugged her shoulders. “Och… Ye know how it goes. She’d been a wee lost soul since dad went. Got a bit wandered, too. It was for the best.”
“Is Mark about?”
“No, he’s in Australia. Came over for the funeral, had to fly back. Left me to sort all this out, the bugger!”
Jack pictured the late Mrs McRae of younger days, an almost freakishly tall lady, an ancient bird of prey always immaculately turned out, with tight white curls. She’d been somewhat stern; her son Mark, who had been in Jack’s year at school, had always seemed more scared of her than of his dumpy, jolly wee da, whom both the children had taken after.
The house was well-turned out, redolent of furniture polish and bleach but as pin-sharp as a showhome. The net curtains were tied back and proper, giving the windows a prim, maidenly look. Jack and O’Connell heaved out the furniture, denuded of the ornaments, framed photos and other items which must surely have fought for space on the shelving and wall units. They carted them carefully down the stairs and loaded the van up. There were no torn-faced neds waiting to ambush them or strip the van.
Jack noted that if anything was a three-man job, it was clearing out Mrs McRae’s place, rather than the previous gig.
“No Billy McCaffery today?” Jack asked, palming sweat off his brow, as they had a tea break.
“Nah. Just enough work for him on one day, Jack. Plus, I figured you might need it more.”
Jack said nothing, taking care to chew his tuna paste sandwiches well before dry-swallowing.
Once the big stuff was loaded, they removed boxes of rubbish and stuff meant for the tip. The cleansing department were due over the next day, so old drapes, a broken-down washing machine and boxes of other folderol were taken downstairs to the midden at the back of the tenements. Jack could see this place from his kitchen windows, so it was odd to have the perspective reversed. It was a misty morning, but Jack could just about make out the veranda that marked out his house, right at the top end of the block facing on to this one, where Senga kept the kitchen light burning as usual. The back courts were a strange place, overgrown here and there, well-kept in others, spiked with telephone poles and criss-crossed with thrumming black wires like a spider’s web. Jack had just heaved down a box filled with almost exclusively dreadful LPs – Val Doonican, Perry Como, and worse – when someone poked their head out from the other side of the rickety wooden fencing.
“’Lo, Jack,” said a deep voice.
“Hey there, Tam. You alright?”
Tam Gilchrist was the thinnest man Jack knew; someone who never put the beef on despite drinking vast amounts. Smoking accounted for it, probably, putting the blockers on appetites, with the odd liquid dinner doing for the rest. It was still difficult to process him when he wasn’t wearing a postie’s uniform. Tam had a lovely wee wife, but didn’t spend any time with her, and didn’t seem to have much in the way of work since he was laid off at the Post Office. There’d been some dark talk of him having lifted other people’s mail and getting his jotters, but Jack knew better than to believe these things straight off. Some folk had devilment in them. Some folk liked to make simple things into better stories.
“You working, Jack?”
“Aye, Tam. Just a bit of graft for O’Connell, o’er there.” Jack jerked a thumb towards the back door, where O’Connell had disappeared to grab another boxfull.
“Got anything worth punting?”
“Ah, not really. We’re dropping some furniture off at the Sally Anne, then taking an old settee to Dalmillington cowp. But… there might be some LPs in here, I dunno. Might do, if you were going to a jumble sale.”
Tam’s eyes brightened. “That right, Jack?”
“Sure. Have a wee look, mate, if you like. Clennie’s picking it up tomorrow – it’s heading for a tip somewhere, otherwise. Nae harm done, I reckon.”
“That’s a good shout, that. I’ll have a wee look maybe. Take care, Jack.”
“You too, Tam.”
Jack watched Tam Gilchrist sidle back up the garden path. He’d never even seen him arrive. Maybe he’d been at the other side of the midden all the time. Maybe he’d popped out of thin air. Jack had spotted him out at the middens a few times, while he got the weans’ breakfast ready; a walking pipecleaner scouring the bins, lifting the lids as quietly as he could. Former postie, right enough. Jack guessed that once you got used to working early in the morning, it was a tough habit to get out of.
Once everything was loaded, Jack collected a hug off Mark McRae’s sister, despite the sweat darkening his armpits and the hollows of his back beneath the overalls. “Weren’t you doing the driving a while back, Jack? I’m sure I saw you in a coal lorry when I visited mum one time.”
“That was a while ago. I was on at the brewer’s for a while, doing my driving. That dried up a few weeks ago.”
“Things are terrible now.”
“Yep. Blame Mrs Thatcher. She’ll make everything alright, my mother-in-law says.”
“Here – I could ask my Jimmy if there’s anything going at his place. Roadside engineering, he does. Contracted out. Sometimes there’s stuff going there, but he’ll have his ear to the ground.”
“Anything would help, that’d be awful kind of you.”
She took her time to find a scrap of paper and pen; in the end, she had to scrawl his number on an unused hankie. The ink blotted badly on the filigreed edges, and threatened to tear it, but didn’t. “I’ll ask him. He’ll give you a phone.”
“Bless you, love. You want us to lock up here?”
“No.” She looked stricken for a moment. “No, I’ll spend another wee half an hour inside, I think. Before I go for good.”
In the van, on the way to the cowp, O’Connell said: “She intae you, big fella? Eh?”
“Not at all,” Jack said.
“Ye sure? You must get your pick of ‘em, pal. You look like that guy out of Status Quo. Anybody ever tell you that?”
“Never,” Jack drawled. “Never heard that yin, before.”
“Anyway, she was no’ a bad bit o’ stuff. Bit plump, eh? Nice big doos?”
Jack frowned. “She was just asking how things were. I know her. I used to be big mates wi’ her brother. She babysat for us, years ago.”
“Not many people you’re no’ mates with around here, eh?”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Did you see the midgie raker who was hanging about? I reckon he’s off with a boxfull of thae James Last LPs.”
Jack shrugged. “They’re better aff in somebody’s house than clogging up a landfill somewhere. Good luck tae him. So long as he doesn’t actually play them, mind.”
* * *
Two nights later, the wee man bent down close to Mowgli, nose about a quarter of an inch away from the shell. The creature had completely retracted itself, and hadn’t been seen for a day and a half.
The boy had been crying earlier, but had put on a brave face for his dad. Sensitive wee soul though, Jack thought. That little tremor in the bottom lip, the button chin, gave it away. “Maybe we can take him to a vet’s?” the lad said.
“Maybe, kiddo,” Jack said. “Did you say he’d been eating his lettuce?”
“No. He hasn’t touched it.”
“Maybe he’ll be better in the morning. Come on. Bedtime.”
The boy kissed the shell, then nuzzled it. “Goodnight Mowgli. See you in the morning.”
After he was gone, Senga said, quietly, “He won’t be seeing it in the morning, will he?”
Jack shook his head. “There’s no heartbeat, pet.”
“You sure? It’s got a shell – how can you hear a heartbeat?”
“Darlin… here. Take a sniff.”
He held the creature up. She leaned forward, nostrils flaring. “Ugh! Christ!”
“Yep.”
“Should we bury it?”
He gestured out the window. Their flat was on the second floor of an eight in a block; outside the window was another eight-in-a-block. “Bury it where, pet? Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“Poor boy. He’s attached to it.”
“He’ll get over it, honey. We’ll get him a hamster.”
“He talks to it every morning and every night.”
“I know, doll. It’s hard. It’s a wee shame. I’ll get some sellotape for the box.”
* * *
At half past nine on the Friday, Jack rang the doorbell outside O’Connell’s house. It was in an older part of town, near the main road, where the houses pre-dated the war and the proliferation of prefabricated housing throughout the city. It was a mid-terrace property, but plenty big inside. Newish door, painted a moody blue.
Someone came out of the house next door, a tall man in his late fifties with close-cropped white hair, past his best but still stylish in a smart shirt, trousers and patent leather shoes. He slung a sports jacket over his shoulder, frowning at Jack as he locked the door.
“Hullo, mate,” Jack said. “I’m looking for Barry O’Connell. You know where he is?”
“Who wants to know, like?”
It had been a long time since Jack had been looked up and down by anyone. Polis, he thought; or maybe a lawyer. “Sorry, I’m Jack Dennison. I work with Barry on the van, a few jobs here and there. I was supposed to meet him here.”
The man headed towards a car, parked in front of his house. “He’s gone down the shops, son. With his missus.”
“Thanks. Hey – is that an XR3i?”
“Who wants to know?” The white-headed man unlocked the car door and slid inside, still grinning.
“Prick,” Jack said, without moving his lips.
* * *
It was only a five minute walk to the shops, a dwindling collection of stores set in decrepit buildings rife with pigeons. Jack remembered the top end of the centre being a thriving place, with banks, building societies and even a department store, less than five years ago. The place was long gone to graffiti and broken glass, although some big shops survived a bit further down the arcade.
Jack hadn’t expected to find who he was looking for. But he got lucky.
O’Connell and his missus were on their way out of the drycleaners’, and then heading into the main supermarket, when Jack caught up with them.
“Hey!” Jack said. “Nice to see you, Barry, mate.”
O’Connell had been halfway through a joke with his missus. She was a fair bit younger than him, and not a bad piece of stuff, it had to be said. She had Sheena Easton eye make-up, and stylishly close-cropped hair. The mind boggled.
“Jack. How are you?” O’Connell asked, hesitantly.
“Forgetting our meeting?”
“Eh, I was just getting some shopping in, Jack. Weren’t we meant to meet..?” he checked his watch.
“Nine o’clock, we were meant to meet. At your house.”
“Oh. The time got away from me. Well, as I said… I’ve got shopping to get.”
“Nae problem, my man.” Jack clapped his hands. “Me too. Got stuff to get for the party. We’re having people over. Hannah’s birthday. Did I mention?”
“Well…”
The girl had looked amused at first; now she looked furious. When she frowned, the silvery-blue eyeshadow was more Star Trek than Top of the Pops. Jack followed alongside them as they trailed a trolley around the aisles.
“Hold up, Barry,” Jack said. “Let’s get in some of this pasta. My missus does a great pasta and tuna salad.” He threw an economy bag of dried pasta into O’Connell’s trolley. The girl tutted; O’Connell turned and whispered something in her ear.
“And how about this?” Jack grabbed some family-sized packets of crisps. “Can’t do without nibbles at a party, my man, eh? Canapes? Horsey-doovies?”
The wheel on their trolley squeaked, and O’Connell’s shoulders seemed to clench with each revolution.
“Awful decent of you, this,” Jack said at the checkout, lifting the bags of shopping kept separate from O’Connell’s. “A wee advance, we could call it, eh? That should do us nicely.”
O’Connell stepped forward, after he’d paid up at the checkout. Jack laid down the two bags, idly wondering if his erstwhile gaffer would actually raise his hands. O’Connell’s fleshy face was flushed a delicate pink, and Jack saw a reef of blackheads clustered around his flared nostrils as he darted his head close. “We’re finished,” he whispered. “Got that? Finished. No more.”
“Don’t you worry, ya chancer. We’re finished alright. After we settle up.”
“Whit?”
“My share of the shopping you so kindly paid for came to £15. £14.82, to be precise. I was keeping count. So you’re still short, wee man. You still owe me money. I’ll be back on… let’s say, Tuesday? Nine o’clock? Your house? By the way, your cheques should definitely have cleared by then. I phoned the bank and asked about how long that kind of thing takes. So I’ll see ye then.”
* * *
Jack dragged the shopping past The Gunnels. He hadn’t been in for years. It had changed its name to The Grove, although everyone still referred to it as The Gunnels. Jack straightened his back, and felt sweat trickle down his spine. He’d spotted bright brasses through the window; some play of the light, and he took a notion.
Jack changed course, and shouldered the door open. It was past 11, and not too busy. Perfect.
“Alright stranger?” said the barman. It was Sandy Clitheroe. He’d tried out for Jack’s band one time, a bass player, but he really couldn’t hit a note. The bass had been a Christmas present. He hadn’t seem too fussed about being passed over for the audition, and Jack hoped he didn’t hold onto a grudge. “What’ll it be, Jack? Pint of heavy, was it?”
“Just the one,” Jack said. “In fact, make it a hauf pint of heavy, Sandy.”
“You never just have the one,” a loud, deep voice interjected. “Come on, Sandy, get the man a proper one.”
A hugely fat, tall man ambled over, belly straining the buttons of a denim shirt. He gripped Jack’s hand.
“Eddie – how you doing mate?”
“How you doing yerself, ya long haired-bastart?” the newcomer said. “You not getting that cut, yet?”
“Nah, Eddie. I was thinking of getting a perm, you know? Doing something different wi’ it.”
“Ha ha, you’re going thin on the top, Status Quo. It’ll have stretched all the way back tae yer neck before ye realise.”
Jack caught Sandy’s eye, spotting that the barman had followed Eddie’s instructions and was poised before the tap with a pint glass. “Naw, Sandy. Just a hauf, like I said.”
“Och, for christ’s sake, Jack,” Sandy said, “I’ll get ye a full one.”
“Nah, it’s fine Sandy. Just a hauf pint. Promise. Just wetting ma whistle.”
Eddie nodded towards the shopping pooled around Jack’s ankles. “Ye under orders, like?”
“I am, in fact. Got a busy afternoon. It’s oor Hannah’s 18th, soon. We’re throwing a wee do down at the community hall for her at the weekend.”
“Aw right,” Eddie said, brightening. “She works at Boots, aye?”
“That’s right.”
“Bonny lass. Takes after your Senga.”
“Ah, cheers.” Jack sipped at his pint. He didn’t like Eddie’s proximity; he was the type of man who dominated a space, probably without even meaning to, using his incredible belly a prow, or a battering ram. The voice didn’t help, a bass that might have been better suited to an oil tanker, or Godzilla. Jack knew that his dislike of the man was somewhat irrational, but there it was. He forced out a smile.
“You still working the now, mate?” Eddie asked. “Doing the driving?”
“Laid off, Eddie, to be honest. Been out of work six months.”
“Six months! Christ. Sorry to hear it, man. I know a coupla guys, mate – do some contract work. One or two wee gigs going there, I think. I’ll have a wee word. You still up at Heenan Avenue? Same number?”
“Same hoose, same number. Every little helps, Eddie. I’ll take anything at the minute.”
Eddie sighed. “Thatcher, eh? Here’s to her early demise.”
They both drank deeply.
Eddie palmed foam off his lips. “Still… if that boy ever leaves Status Quo – that could be the opening for you.”
Sandy the barman roared laughter. Jack smiled, then gulped down the rest of his half-pint. “Anyway boys – on that note…” He mimed a guitar stroke – “It’s time for me to be off. Sandy – get Eddie another pint, he’s fading away to fuck all, here. And one for yerself.”
* * *
Just the one, mission complete… Not even one, a half. That wasn’t so bad. Half was great. One would have been okay, too, but two was pushing it, three was definitely trouble, and four and the rest weren’t worth thinking about.
Jack nodded hellos to people as he dragged the shopping up to the top of the scheme, his thin shoulders and spindly arms groaning with the effort. Status Quo was going through his mind, though – twelve bar blues, open G tuning maybe, the same riffs over and over. Jack hadn’t eaten that day at all and having been off it for a while even that one opening time hauf pint had travelled up and down the fault lines. Red shutters drew his eye as he passed by Mugger’s Lane, beside the bingo. The red shutters were the library. Was it still open?
For the second time that morning, he took a notion, and followed it. Jack changed course again, swerving round the broken glass where he could. His figure ambled in front of the white cladding of the bingo hall, freshly decorated with immense, stark black graffiti which informed the world that CRAW SUCKS CATS COCKS.
The library was a warhorse of a building, constructed like a wartime pill-box, somewhere that expected to take punishment, maybe even relished it. It was squat, flat-roofed, the windows trussed up in mesh, clad in bricks that looked burnt. Jack felt guilty when he looked at those windows. He’d clobbered them with snowballs as a lad. But he had an even guiltier secret; he’d loved the place, since his maw had taken him in as a wee laddie. He’d taken out a book on the Loch Ness Monster, again and again. Later on there’d been books on guitar chords, biographies of Jim Morrison. There were other worlds in there, exciting worlds, if one knew where to find them, in among the row upon row of large-print westerns and pink-spined Mills and Boons.
Jack pushed his way inside, the shopping bags swishing against the doors. He got a sharp look from the lass behind the desk, especially when he went into the children’s section. Nobody else was in there, of course. He caught a note of some lemony scent in the air, undercutting that curiously comforting scent of old books – someone had polished the floors recently, and the wooden panelling shone in the sun. They still took care of the place inside, at least. A frieze of Roald Dahl characters dominated one wall; James and the Giant Peach, Willy Wonka and Charlie.
Jack laid down the shopping and went to the natural world section. No sign of the old books he’d enjoyed in there; no Jacques Cousteau. Lots of picture books, though. He spotted what he was looking for: Caring For Your Pet.
His fingers found the section on tortoises, and he read it without really reading it, remembering the wee man’s numb acceptance of his explanation that Mowgli had gone back to his mum’s.
“They don’t like it in Scotland,” Jack had said, wondering if the boy realised fine well that he was lying. “They have to go back to the Galapagos Islands.”
Then one single line in the book leapt out at him. Jack read it again. Then he grabbed the shopping and hurried out.
* * *
“Naw. Aw, naw.”
Clanking bins, the rumble of hydraulics, the muffled shouts of the men. Bins day, of course. It had to be. Jack was too late. The lorry was halfway up Heenan Avenue by now. He knew a couple of the boys who worked on the bins, too; they called out to him, raised hands after dumping another load plucked from the middens round the back of the eight-in-a-blocks. Jack waved back, wondering at Mowgli’s fate, hoping that it would still be in deep sleep as the metal jaws crashed down on its shell. Hoping it was quick, that its grisly end would never be discovered by anyone but the gulls at the cowp. He’d only stuck the shell in the bins because they were being collected that very day – he wouldn’t have let the thing rot for a week, and there was nowhere to bury it.
Jesus, it had stank. How was he to know?
It not been dead, the book had told him. Not dead, but sleeping.
“Just leave it, Jack,” he muttered to himself, lugging the shopping upstairs. “Forget about it. These things happen.” He laughed, a desperate sound echoing through the close. “A fucking tortoise! I must have been mental!”
Senga greeted him at the door, eyebrows raised at the sight of the shopping.
“Good news and bad news, pet,” he said.
A short time later, when they were both sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, she giggled. “You have to admit, it’s funny. A wee bit.”
“It isnae, really. Back of a bin lorry! What a way to go, man. Poor Mowgli.”
“You weren’t to know. And I have to say, it smelled pretty dead to me.”
“They’re reptiles. They don’t smell like us. I should have checked. I should have, I dunno… taken it to the vet’s, or something.”
“Costs money, a vet.”
“Aye… money.” Jack got up, restless, and crossed to the veranda door. It opened out onto Muirton Street. A few days ago, I thought I was getting it right, he thought. Ovvies on, putting my back into it. Earning money I don’t have yet. Cash in hand, aye? How readily he’d agreed.
Jack grit his teeth, considering the middens, now cleared for the next seven days. He’d do the bins, no problem. Difficulty was, no-one just hired you on the nod, these days. You needed a CV, a suit and some references, even with the fuckin’ bins. He’d sweep the streets. He’d bleach out the bogs in the shopping centre. Anything.
In considering the middens, an idea struck him.
For the second time that day, he rushed out.
* * *
“You sure you haven’t seen anything, Tam? Anything at all?”
Tam Gilchrist sucked at his teeth, and stood up straight, his head almost touching the top of his doorframe. It was almost impossible to see what his house was like in the doorway over his shoulder; every door was shut, every curtain closed. The carpet at the gaunt man’s feet was some sort of brown floral print, 1960s if it was lucky. “Why d’ye ask, Jack?”
“Cos it’s the kind of animal that likes a wee root about… You know, it knocks around the back gairdens. Hides in the bins. Natural habitat, that kind o’ thing.”
“I dunno how it would have got into the back gardens. It ran off, ye say? They’re not known for their speed, tortoises, eh?”
“I guess. You get different breeds, some of them can be nippy. I heard they eat snails. Lot of snails, in the back gardens, and in the middens.”
“There are. That makes sense, ah suppose.”
Jack sighed. “Look, Tam… if you’ve got the tortoise, how much do you want for it? I’ll give you a coupla quid. Come on, mate. It’s my wee boy’s pet.”
Tam’s eyes kindled. “Three quid, and it’s a deal.”
* * *
“How did it get back?” the wee man asked, pushing some celery before Mowgli’s horny little beak.
“It turns out it needs to stay in Scotland for a wee while,” Jack said. “It was homesick, and it turned the plane around.”
Mowgli took a quick bite of celery, and the boy yelped in excitement. The head retracted a little, then stole out again for more.
Richard was heading out again. He fastened Jack’s cufflinks, then drew a strand of hair back over his ear like an archer nocking an arrow. “Hope that thing doesn’t stink as badly this time,” he said.
“If it does, you could give it a wee squirt of my aftershave maybe, smart alec,” Jack said.
Richard smiled, snatched up his keys from the mantelpiece, and strode out, enveloped in a cloud of Denim.
The phone burred from the hallway. Senga answered. “Jack, for you.”
Jack’s heart began to kick. He dared not hope, dared not anticipate.
But it was O’Connell on the end of the line. Sounding nervous.
“Alright, Barry. Lovely surprise, this. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I wanted to sort out the rest of your money. And… I wanted to apologise.”
Jack exhaled. “It’s done, Barry. We’ll get settled. No problems for me, at all. I’m sorry I was cheeky with you. If you need another hand with anything, let me know. You’ve got my number.”
“Appreciate that, Jack. There’s one other thing… You still got that tortoise?”
Jack hesitated. “Aye. It’s in the living room, now. Roaring around like a wee racing car.”
“Heh. Well. This is a bit awkward, but… apparently, the people who owned it left it in the hoose by accident. Or they’d meant to pick it up, but we got in first. They want it back, Jack.”
Jack sighed.
“It belongs to a wee lassie. They took days to try and trace what happened to it; they thought an uncle had lifted it, but he forgot… You know how it goes, Jack. Can you bring it back?”
“Can you maybe get another tortoise for them, Barry? Christ’s sake, man. How will they know the difference?”
“Nah, they’d spot it a mile off, Jack. Imagine how that would look, if I gie them the wrong tortoise? I’m sorry. I’ll get you another fiver on top for it, alright? How does that sound?”
“That sounds like I’m two quid in profit.” Jack laughed, bitterly. “The best of times.”
* * *
It happened the day Jack gave in, and got a haircut. He had to admit that shorter hair looked better on him. He even got a round of applause from Ally the barber. “When wis your last haircut, Jack? Second year at school?”
“You’re not far away,” Jack said. He rubbed the prickles at the back of his head. It was like closely-cropped grass under bare feet, an oddly addictive sensation.
Back at the house, the wee man poked lettuce into a new box. Jack had found it outside the community centre, after the party. At first it was meant to be a spaceship, somewhere for the boy to keep his wee Stars Wars men. Then Jack had a better idea.
“It’s getting bigger,” the wee man said, gesturing inside the box.
The snail – Richard and Hannah had insisted it be called Fabrice, not Mowgli, and for once the wee man was over-ruled – stole forward more confidently than his reptilian predecessor ever had, feelers waving.
“It is growing, for sure. You’re feeding him well.”
“I think I like him better than Mowgli. He does more things.”
“I’m glad to hear it!”
“Mowgli didn’t really want to stay with us, did he? He couldn’t make his mind up.”
“That’s true – now Fabrice, here, I think he’s found his ideal home.”
The wee man frowned. “But isn’t his home on his back?”
Jack laughed. How the wee man loved the little things of god’s creation; ladybirds, ants, even the wiggling worms they had dug up in the back gardens a while back. Jack felt a stirring of love so big, and so absurd, that tears glinted at the corners of his eyes.
Then the phone burred, once more. “It’s for you,” Senga said.
Jack almost shrank back from the receiver as a bass rattle assaulted his ears.
“Alright, Francis Rossi.”
“Eddie. What can I do for you, mate?”
“Well, you can buy us another pint. I spoke to my pals. Jimmy Culhearn said he was looking out for something for you, in fact. You know his missus, apparently, ya dirty devil.”
“Culhearn? Oh… is his wife Becky McRae? I helped clear her ma’s old house a couple of days ago. I went to school wi’ her.”
“That’s right. Jimmy says there’s something coming up at Durrell’s the Baker’s. Doing deliveries. Get your own wee van. They want to speak to you on Monday, if you can make it. Check you out, make sure you’re no’ an alky. I says, ‘Jack’s no’ an alky – he’s a fairy. Hauf pints, he drinks!’”
“Are you kidding?”
“Naw, mate. Durrell’s the Baker’s. Interview, Monday morning, nine o’clock. One bit of advice, though – ever considered a haircut?”
“I’ll be there. Eddie, Christ. Thanks mate. Durrell’s the Baker’s, aye?”
“That’s right. Driving job. Right up your street.”
Jack strode back into the living room. He drew breath to make an announcement. Then he noted that Senga and the wee man were cooing at Fabrice the snail; that Hannah had her hair up in a towel turban, and carefully painted her toenails, preparing to meet her boyfriend; that Richard and Eve were bickering over someone on Cheggers Plays Pop on the telly; that Thomas was sat quiet, writing a letter to someone; that steam from the potatoes was misting the veranda windows in the kitchen. So instead of speaking he sat down, and had a wee smile to himself.
Jack was.
Senga made a fuss of him that morning. The weans were all out the door, and he’d put on his old overalls, burgundy monsters she had hated having to wash. She’d feared the dyeing effect - with good reason. So the ovvies had steeped in an old basin rather than going in the washing machine, and they had dried stiff as an old board. But she made sure all the buttons shone in their buckles, and she’d even made a decent effort at polishing up his old steelies, too. He hadn’t asked her to do this, and he’d been somewhat embarrassed at the effort she’d gone to.
“It’s the wee details,” Senga said. She was more excited than Jack was. He half expected her to spit on her hanky and abrade his face with it, like she’d done with every one of their weans. She still did it occasionally at the school gates with the wee man.
“God’s sake, doll,” Jack said, laughing, “I’m not off to meet the Queen.”
“Well, if you see her, you’ll dazzle her, handsome man. Well… apart from the hair.”
He chuckled, smoothing back his shoulder-length brown hair. “Hair’s staying, pet. No haircuts. Non-negotiable.”
“They might think you’re Francis Rossi.”
“I’m better looking, though.”
“Fair comment.”
“Better guitarist an’ all.”
“I might draw the line at that.”
He kissed her. Then kissed her again, properly.
He checked his watch and arched an eyebrow.
She acted surprised.
“What do you expect, doll? I’m no’ finished yet,” Jack said, not too much later, as he rebuckled his overalls. “Not 40 for another eight months. Thirty-nine, not out.”
It turned out he was a mite overdressed. Barry O’Connell was in charge, and he turned up with the van wearing a battle-bobbled black jersey, black working trousers and shoes, while the other lad turned up in trainers and a shell-suit. The latter’s name was Billy McCaffery, and from the reptilian tongue-flicks and neck-tics, Jack guessed he maybe wasn’t right.
“You aren’t one of the McCafferys from Old Dalmillington?” Jack asked the boy, as they all shifted their bums along the van’s front seat.
“Aye,” the boy said, brightening. “Vinny’s ma’ brother.”
“Vinny McCaffery! Hey, I used to play fitba with him. Mention my name to him; I’m Jack Dennison. He’ll mind o’ me. Cracking fitba player, Vinny was.”
Barry O’Connell seemed relieved that Jack had taken the brunt of the conversation. “He’s a bit tapped,” the squat wee gaffer said, after they got out the van, while Billy’s attention was diverted. “Nice enough boy, though.”
Jack shrugged, not wishing to get into the subject. “We’re all a bit tapped,” he said. “And he’s doing the same job as me.”
“Aye,” O’Connell muttered darkly. “It’s liberty, I know. I’m just doing a favour to his maw.”
“He’s absolutely fine, mate. Brand new.”
The house was in Muirton Street, a tight rank of eight-in-a-blocks with crumbling metal verandas stuck to the front. They weren’t unlike sea defences you sometimes saw in old war movies. Jack used to live there with his parents more than 30 years before, but he could never remember anyone sitting out on these verandas. There was no-one on them now.
“Hell of a street,” O’Connell muttered, as they piled out the van. “Need to make sure nobody dives in and clears the van while we’re taking the gear out.”
“I used to live round the corner,” Jack said. “Until I got married. Lived wi’ my ma and da. Used to be a nice street. Went the same way as every other one hereabouts. Shame.”
“Full o’ junkies and asylum seekers, now. Hellhole. Wait here till I open the place up, boys.” O’Connell fished in his trouser pockets for keys as he disappeared up the close.
Soon, faces began to appear behind net curtains. Jack couldn’t see any junkies or asylum seekers. It was mostly old dears, mouths downturned like sharks’.
“Who’s they boys?” Billy said, pointing.
Two pale white faces had appeared at the mouth of one of the closes. Perhaps young enough to still be at school, though it was a school day. One of them was smoking; both gazed over balefully.
“Never you mind,” Jack said. “Just boys. Try not to point or stare at them. Some people don’t like it.”
“Hol,” one of the two teenagers called over. “Whit you lookin’ at?”
“Don’t know,” Billy called back, smirking. “But it’s looking back.”
They both piled over without a second’s hesitation. One of them wore a blinding white shell-suit that clashed awkwardly with his freckled complexion and bright ginger hair. The other, the smoker, was taller and reedier, with a squat, near-triangular jaw. The red-headed one snarled, “Whit the fuck did you say, fat man?”
Jack stepped in front of them, jaw twitching. “Hey – get tae fuck,” he said, voice low. “Baith ‘o yese. On yer way.”
“Whit you up tae, Status Quo?” the taller one said. “You haudin’ an audition? Need a spazzy for yer backing band?”
“Shut yer mouth. Baith o’ yese – mind yer ain business, and get tae fuck.”
The ginger one in the white shell-suit looked from Jack to his friend, a bundle of nerves. “If ah get the jail again, man… Ah cannae…”
Jack’s eyes blazed. “You cannae whit, mate? You won’t get the jail, you ginger prick. You’ll get a body bag. Now you and yer pal – fuck off. I won’t tell ye again.”
Another voice cut across the scene. To the left, on the first floor of a block of flats where the windows were mostly shuttered, a figure appeared on one of the verandas. He wore a dirty white dressing gown, several sizes too small for him, the belt taking the strain over an immense paunch. He was in his fifties and unshaven, and at a glance looked as if he’d had a convivial evening the night before. This man bared yellowish teeth in what might have been a smile. “That you, Jacky Dennison?”
Jack nodded. “And if it isnae Mr McDougal? How ye doing, mate?”
“No’ bad. See you’ve got a coupla pals there wi’ you?”
“You mean these two?” Jack nodded at the newcomers. “I think they were just leaving.”
“I think they were, tae.” The man in the housecoat leaned his elbows on the crumbling balustrade. “Right, Ginger – you and Lurch; you’ve got 10 seconds to fuck off. Or I’ll be coming round to see yese later. Move!”
They were gone as quickly as they appeared. The ginger one nodded intently at Jack and drew a finger across his throat. Jack laughed and lit a cigarette.
“Weans alright?” the man in the housecoat asked him.
“Pretty good, Martin. A handful.”
“Excellent. Tell Senga I was asking for her. See you for a beer up at the Gibbet, aye?”
“Definitely, mate.”
“Don’t worry about yer van, either. Alright? Nobody’ll touch it.”
“Appreciated, Martin.”
Once he’d gone, Billy Caffery laughed shiftily and bit at his thumbnail. “Who was that guy?”
“A guy I used to play football with. Lucky for us.”
“We showed they two dafties, eh?”
“No we didn’t.” Jack’s hands shook as he took a long draw of his fag.
Billy smiled. “You would have battered’m.”
“Listen, mate, the last time I can remember lifting my hands to anybody is when I smacked my Hannah’s arse for setting fire to the curtains with some matches when she was six. And she still got up and hit me back. In future, Billy, you ignore guys like that, alright? And you definitely don’t gie them any cheek. Bad things can happen up here when you’re on your own. Very bad things. Okay?”
“Sure, Jack.”
“Okay then.”
“I’m sorry, Jack.” Billy looked stricken; two more fingers disappeared inside his mouth.
Jack laid a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry. I just want you to be safe. Alright?”
“Okay, Jack.”
O’Connell miraculously reappeared at the mouth of the close a few seconds later, once the two teenagers were nowhere to be seen. He beckoned them inside the close.
The house was threadbare; an ancient fridge-freezer sputtered in the corner, an empty plastic container of milk and a single triangle of spreadable cheese the sole survivors. The top two freezer drawers were frozen solid; beyond some shiny chrome chairs and a hard formica-topped table that looked suspiciously new, the rest of it was destined for the cowp. Sofa, complete with fag burns; wall unit, denuded of ornaments; a vase with dust-caked plastic flowers inside, somehow terribly sad. The place smelled vaguely of cat, though there were no signs of one being around.
“Downer,” O’Connell said, scratching his scalp. “Thought there’d be a bit more. Nothing worth salvaging. It’s all for the cowp, I think.”
“Nae bother, either way,” Jack said, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s get intae it, eh?”
The whole business really started once they’d filled the van and dumped it at Dalmillington cowp. They dropped Billy off first, with O’Connell counting out tenners in full view of the boy’s mother. O’Connell bustled back into the cab, then drove Jack back to Fullerton Street. The gaffer seemed tense. Jack wondered if O’Connell had seen the confrontation earlier; if maybe he thought Jack had been a little too harsh with Billy.
“Right,” O’Connell said at last, drumming his hands on the wheel. “Here it is. There’s a problem wi’ the bank. I can’t get any more money out till a cheque clears.”
“You what?”
“I’m sorry. I had to pay Billy first. I can’t send him back to his mother with no money. I had a decision to make. Him or you.”
“Billy doesn’t have five weans, mate. Christ’s sake, when does this cheque clear? I need this money, Barry. I’ve been out of work a long time. We’re counting on it.”
O’Connell held up his hands. “I’m so, so sorry. It won’t be till Friday.”
“And didn’t it cross your mind to tell me before we set off?”
“I’ve said I’m sorry. Look – there’s another job coming up at the end of the week. On payday. Same deal, round about your street. It’ll just be a two-man job this time. I’ll give you what we agreed today, double-bubble, with another £20 on top for the bother today. How does that sound?”
Jack exhaled, drawing his fingers through his long hair. “I suppose it’ll do. It’ll have to, won’t it?”
O’Connell clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good man. That’s what I like to see. They said you were a good man.”
“Too good by halves, I think.”
“I can give you something for now. Something to take away with you. From a job we did the other day. I had nae idea what to do with it. I was going to try and punt it down the pub. You’ve got… four weans?”
“Five weans.”
“Five weans. Any of them into animals, or that?”
“Animals? Well… wee Joe, my youngest, he’s got loads of wee plastic lions and tigers and things. But he’s mad into dinosaurs.”
“Dinosaurs?” O’Connell’s face lit up. “That’s close enough. Near perfect. Come and take a look, it’s back at my hoose.”
* * *
Bustle, scream and steam, 4pm to lights out. Blue Peter fanfare, full bag of boiled potatoes, already queues outside the bathroom. A pot of stew, puff pastry, thick gravy and onion. Senga made it often, Jack thought, but she did it right. Hannah out the door already, after a quick change. That let Eve get her turn in the bathroom, the roar of the taps stilled to deadly silence as she soaked. Outside, Richard bellowing – her junior, but the boss of the house. Thomas was never in; he had a wee bird, they knew, and he spent most days round her house after school.
That left the wee man, playing with his wee Star Wars men before he was even out of his yellow coat after the Cubs, setting them up on the tables and hiding them in folds of the old settee. Jack could even see Yoda poking his head out of a fag burn on one arm of the chair – both the action figure and the damage mementos from uncle Rab’s last visit.
Jack waited until the dishes were done before the grand unveiling.
“Right, wee Tigger,” he said, ruffling the boy’s head. “Got something for you at work today.”
“What work were you at?”
“Just a wee job tidying someone’s mess. Look, over here.”
Senga sipped at a cup of tea, and frowned as the box was produced. “I hope those holes in the side aren’t to let something breathe,” she said.
The creature was revealed, nestled in among yellow straw. Its head retracted as soon as the light appeared; its shell matched the burnished sheen of the old coffee table underneath the lamplight.
The little boy cried out in delight, and grabbed its shell. “A tortoise!”
“That’s right. Your tortoise. Be gentle, now, wee man. Don’t hurt it. That’s it.”
“His head’s gone inside!”
“He’ll be a bit shy at first. Apparently he’s only wee.”
“And how big does he get, then?” Senga said. “Bloody tortoise! They outlive us, you know.”
“I don’t think it’s one of those ones,” Jack said, running his finger over the shell. “It’s from Greece or Cyprus, I’m told.”
Richard, who was buttoning up his shirt, peered over the edge of the box and wrinkled his nose. “Bloody stinks, that.”
Jack stabbed a finger at his eldest son. “Mind yer language. And who said you could take my aftershave?”
The lad smirked. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“She’d better be worth it, boy.”
Senga said: “And was this creature part of your wages, then, Jack?”
“Yeah, something like that. Hey – what shall we call him?”
“Mowgli,” the wee man said, without hesitation. He touched one of the armoured legs; it twitched slightly, and then a head emerged. Tiny black eyes appeared shiny in the light.
“Mowgli?” Jack frowned. “The teddy was Mowgli; the monkey puppet was Mowgli; the goldfish was Mowgli. Maybe I should have called you Mowgli?”
“I like Mowgli.” The wee man beamed.
“Mowgli it is, then. Let’s find him some lettuce, he likes that, apparently.”
Senga cocked her head. “Wee word with you, Jack.”
Out in the hall, among the fishing boat paintings and woodchip wallpaper, she said: “When you said, ‘something like that’, when I asked you about getting wages… what did you mean by that?”
Jack took a deep breath, and told her.
* * *
“There you go,” O’Connell said, handing over some notes. “Thanks for all your help, the other day. And for being so understanding.”
Jack didn’t even need to count. “This isnae enough, mate. That wasn’t what we agreed on. Twenty on top, you said.”
“You’ll get the rest later,” O’Connell said, side of his face twitching. “You don’t get to withdraw that much out of the bank straight away. There’s a limit.”
“So what about the money you made out of the job the other day? Surely that’s cleared. Christ’s sake, mate!”
To his credit, O’Connell kept his voice level. “It was a cheque, Jack. It has to clear, first. The money won’t be in my account until next week.”
“Mate… look, my wife’s never scudded me, right? Never lifted a hand. But last night, when I brought a tortoise home instead of the dough she was expecting, she nearly crowned me with it. We need that money. Okay? We’re struggling. Hannah’s 18th is coming up. We need the money for her party. That money has to be in my pocket for next week. Alright?”
“I understand. Hey… I’ve got other jobs coming up. We could be a partnership. See how it goes, eh? How long you been away from the driving game?”
“Six months,” Jack muttered. “Well, six and a half.”
“Jesus. Not easy, eh?”
“To be honest, no.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted. Okay? Promise, Jack. Like I said – if it was a regular job, you wouldn’t get your wage right away, would you? You might have to wait a month’s lying time.”
“Lying time…” Jack fiddled with the glove compartment. He could not look O’Connell in the face. He could not even turn his head in his direction. “You said ‘cash in hand’. That’s what you said. Not, ‘you’ll get what I owe you in a fortnight’.”
“You’ll get it. Alright? I’m not going to do a runner on you. Now c’mon. Let’s get this van loaded up. It’s an auld dear who coughed it. Daughter’s there. Hopefully shouldn’t take too long. Not far away from your place, in fact.”
* * *
Jack was sure he knew one or two people who lived up this close, certainly by sight, but he couldn’t place the names on the doorplates. It was one of the better closes in this part of the town, well kept, stiff-backed neighbours lurking behind net curtains. The two front gardens were pristine, while the variegated burgundy and beige paintwork in the close was unpitted and untainted by graffiti. The old dear’s house was right at the top, and a good-looking woman of about forty met them at the head of the stairs. He knew the face, but couldn’t place the name.
“Oh, Jack! Lovely to see you!” She clasped his hands.
“Hey, it’s yourself!”
“Mark’s sister! Mark McRae.”
“Oh of course! Becky McRae. I remember you. Goodness me, I think you even babysat our eldest a couple of times. Long time ago now. I hope everything’s alright, darlin’. Sorry to hear about your ma.”
Becky shrugged her shoulders. “Och… Ye know how it goes. She’d been a wee lost soul since dad went. Got a bit wandered, too. It was for the best.”
“Is Mark about?”
“No, he’s in Australia. Came over for the funeral, had to fly back. Left me to sort all this out, the bugger!”
Jack pictured the late Mrs McRae of younger days, an almost freakishly tall lady, an ancient bird of prey always immaculately turned out, with tight white curls. She’d been somewhat stern; her son Mark, who had been in Jack’s year at school, had always seemed more scared of her than of his dumpy, jolly wee da, whom both the children had taken after.
The house was well-turned out, redolent of furniture polish and bleach but as pin-sharp as a showhome. The net curtains were tied back and proper, giving the windows a prim, maidenly look. Jack and O’Connell heaved out the furniture, denuded of the ornaments, framed photos and other items which must surely have fought for space on the shelving and wall units. They carted them carefully down the stairs and loaded the van up. There were no torn-faced neds waiting to ambush them or strip the van.
Jack noted that if anything was a three-man job, it was clearing out Mrs McRae’s place, rather than the previous gig.
“No Billy McCaffery today?” Jack asked, palming sweat off his brow, as they had a tea break.
“Nah. Just enough work for him on one day, Jack. Plus, I figured you might need it more.”
Jack said nothing, taking care to chew his tuna paste sandwiches well before dry-swallowing.
Once the big stuff was loaded, they removed boxes of rubbish and stuff meant for the tip. The cleansing department were due over the next day, so old drapes, a broken-down washing machine and boxes of other folderol were taken downstairs to the midden at the back of the tenements. Jack could see this place from his kitchen windows, so it was odd to have the perspective reversed. It was a misty morning, but Jack could just about make out the veranda that marked out his house, right at the top end of the block facing on to this one, where Senga kept the kitchen light burning as usual. The back courts were a strange place, overgrown here and there, well-kept in others, spiked with telephone poles and criss-crossed with thrumming black wires like a spider’s web. Jack had just heaved down a box filled with almost exclusively dreadful LPs – Val Doonican, Perry Como, and worse – when someone poked their head out from the other side of the rickety wooden fencing.
“’Lo, Jack,” said a deep voice.
“Hey there, Tam. You alright?”
Tam Gilchrist was the thinnest man Jack knew; someone who never put the beef on despite drinking vast amounts. Smoking accounted for it, probably, putting the blockers on appetites, with the odd liquid dinner doing for the rest. It was still difficult to process him when he wasn’t wearing a postie’s uniform. Tam had a lovely wee wife, but didn’t spend any time with her, and didn’t seem to have much in the way of work since he was laid off at the Post Office. There’d been some dark talk of him having lifted other people’s mail and getting his jotters, but Jack knew better than to believe these things straight off. Some folk had devilment in them. Some folk liked to make simple things into better stories.
“You working, Jack?”
“Aye, Tam. Just a bit of graft for O’Connell, o’er there.” Jack jerked a thumb towards the back door, where O’Connell had disappeared to grab another boxfull.
“Got anything worth punting?”
“Ah, not really. We’re dropping some furniture off at the Sally Anne, then taking an old settee to Dalmillington cowp. But… there might be some LPs in here, I dunno. Might do, if you were going to a jumble sale.”
Tam’s eyes brightened. “That right, Jack?”
“Sure. Have a wee look, mate, if you like. Clennie’s picking it up tomorrow – it’s heading for a tip somewhere, otherwise. Nae harm done, I reckon.”
“That’s a good shout, that. I’ll have a wee look maybe. Take care, Jack.”
“You too, Tam.”
Jack watched Tam Gilchrist sidle back up the garden path. He’d never even seen him arrive. Maybe he’d been at the other side of the midden all the time. Maybe he’d popped out of thin air. Jack had spotted him out at the middens a few times, while he got the weans’ breakfast ready; a walking pipecleaner scouring the bins, lifting the lids as quietly as he could. Former postie, right enough. Jack guessed that once you got used to working early in the morning, it was a tough habit to get out of.
Once everything was loaded, Jack collected a hug off Mark McRae’s sister, despite the sweat darkening his armpits and the hollows of his back beneath the overalls. “Weren’t you doing the driving a while back, Jack? I’m sure I saw you in a coal lorry when I visited mum one time.”
“That was a while ago. I was on at the brewer’s for a while, doing my driving. That dried up a few weeks ago.”
“Things are terrible now.”
“Yep. Blame Mrs Thatcher. She’ll make everything alright, my mother-in-law says.”
“Here – I could ask my Jimmy if there’s anything going at his place. Roadside engineering, he does. Contracted out. Sometimes there’s stuff going there, but he’ll have his ear to the ground.”
“Anything would help, that’d be awful kind of you.”
She took her time to find a scrap of paper and pen; in the end, she had to scrawl his number on an unused hankie. The ink blotted badly on the filigreed edges, and threatened to tear it, but didn’t. “I’ll ask him. He’ll give you a phone.”
“Bless you, love. You want us to lock up here?”
“No.” She looked stricken for a moment. “No, I’ll spend another wee half an hour inside, I think. Before I go for good.”
In the van, on the way to the cowp, O’Connell said: “She intae you, big fella? Eh?”
“Not at all,” Jack said.
“Ye sure? You must get your pick of ‘em, pal. You look like that guy out of Status Quo. Anybody ever tell you that?”
“Never,” Jack drawled. “Never heard that yin, before.”
“Anyway, she was no’ a bad bit o’ stuff. Bit plump, eh? Nice big doos?”
Jack frowned. “She was just asking how things were. I know her. I used to be big mates wi’ her brother. She babysat for us, years ago.”
“Not many people you’re no’ mates with around here, eh?”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Did you see the midgie raker who was hanging about? I reckon he’s off with a boxfull of thae James Last LPs.”
Jack shrugged. “They’re better aff in somebody’s house than clogging up a landfill somewhere. Good luck tae him. So long as he doesn’t actually play them, mind.”
* * *
Two nights later, the wee man bent down close to Mowgli, nose about a quarter of an inch away from the shell. The creature had completely retracted itself, and hadn’t been seen for a day and a half.
The boy had been crying earlier, but had put on a brave face for his dad. Sensitive wee soul though, Jack thought. That little tremor in the bottom lip, the button chin, gave it away. “Maybe we can take him to a vet’s?” the lad said.
“Maybe, kiddo,” Jack said. “Did you say he’d been eating his lettuce?”
“No. He hasn’t touched it.”
“Maybe he’ll be better in the morning. Come on. Bedtime.”
The boy kissed the shell, then nuzzled it. “Goodnight Mowgli. See you in the morning.”
After he was gone, Senga said, quietly, “He won’t be seeing it in the morning, will he?”
Jack shook his head. “There’s no heartbeat, pet.”
“You sure? It’s got a shell – how can you hear a heartbeat?”
“Darlin… here. Take a sniff.”
He held the creature up. She leaned forward, nostrils flaring. “Ugh! Christ!”
“Yep.”
“Should we bury it?”
He gestured out the window. Their flat was on the second floor of an eight in a block; outside the window was another eight-in-a-block. “Bury it where, pet? Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“Poor boy. He’s attached to it.”
“He’ll get over it, honey. We’ll get him a hamster.”
“He talks to it every morning and every night.”
“I know, doll. It’s hard. It’s a wee shame. I’ll get some sellotape for the box.”
* * *
At half past nine on the Friday, Jack rang the doorbell outside O’Connell’s house. It was in an older part of town, near the main road, where the houses pre-dated the war and the proliferation of prefabricated housing throughout the city. It was a mid-terrace property, but plenty big inside. Newish door, painted a moody blue.
Someone came out of the house next door, a tall man in his late fifties with close-cropped white hair, past his best but still stylish in a smart shirt, trousers and patent leather shoes. He slung a sports jacket over his shoulder, frowning at Jack as he locked the door.
“Hullo, mate,” Jack said. “I’m looking for Barry O’Connell. You know where he is?”
“Who wants to know, like?”
It had been a long time since Jack had been looked up and down by anyone. Polis, he thought; or maybe a lawyer. “Sorry, I’m Jack Dennison. I work with Barry on the van, a few jobs here and there. I was supposed to meet him here.”
The man headed towards a car, parked in front of his house. “He’s gone down the shops, son. With his missus.”
“Thanks. Hey – is that an XR3i?”
“Who wants to know?” The white-headed man unlocked the car door and slid inside, still grinning.
“Prick,” Jack said, without moving his lips.
* * *
It was only a five minute walk to the shops, a dwindling collection of stores set in decrepit buildings rife with pigeons. Jack remembered the top end of the centre being a thriving place, with banks, building societies and even a department store, less than five years ago. The place was long gone to graffiti and broken glass, although some big shops survived a bit further down the arcade.
Jack hadn’t expected to find who he was looking for. But he got lucky.
O’Connell and his missus were on their way out of the drycleaners’, and then heading into the main supermarket, when Jack caught up with them.
“Hey!” Jack said. “Nice to see you, Barry, mate.”
O’Connell had been halfway through a joke with his missus. She was a fair bit younger than him, and not a bad piece of stuff, it had to be said. She had Sheena Easton eye make-up, and stylishly close-cropped hair. The mind boggled.
“Jack. How are you?” O’Connell asked, hesitantly.
“Forgetting our meeting?”
“Eh, I was just getting some shopping in, Jack. Weren’t we meant to meet..?” he checked his watch.
“Nine o’clock, we were meant to meet. At your house.”
“Oh. The time got away from me. Well, as I said… I’ve got shopping to get.”
“Nae problem, my man.” Jack clapped his hands. “Me too. Got stuff to get for the party. We’re having people over. Hannah’s birthday. Did I mention?”
“Well…”
The girl had looked amused at first; now she looked furious. When she frowned, the silvery-blue eyeshadow was more Star Trek than Top of the Pops. Jack followed alongside them as they trailed a trolley around the aisles.
“Hold up, Barry,” Jack said. “Let’s get in some of this pasta. My missus does a great pasta and tuna salad.” He threw an economy bag of dried pasta into O’Connell’s trolley. The girl tutted; O’Connell turned and whispered something in her ear.
“And how about this?” Jack grabbed some family-sized packets of crisps. “Can’t do without nibbles at a party, my man, eh? Canapes? Horsey-doovies?”
The wheel on their trolley squeaked, and O’Connell’s shoulders seemed to clench with each revolution.
“Awful decent of you, this,” Jack said at the checkout, lifting the bags of shopping kept separate from O’Connell’s. “A wee advance, we could call it, eh? That should do us nicely.”
O’Connell stepped forward, after he’d paid up at the checkout. Jack laid down the two bags, idly wondering if his erstwhile gaffer would actually raise his hands. O’Connell’s fleshy face was flushed a delicate pink, and Jack saw a reef of blackheads clustered around his flared nostrils as he darted his head close. “We’re finished,” he whispered. “Got that? Finished. No more.”
“Don’t you worry, ya chancer. We’re finished alright. After we settle up.”
“Whit?”
“My share of the shopping you so kindly paid for came to £15. £14.82, to be precise. I was keeping count. So you’re still short, wee man. You still owe me money. I’ll be back on… let’s say, Tuesday? Nine o’clock? Your house? By the way, your cheques should definitely have cleared by then. I phoned the bank and asked about how long that kind of thing takes. So I’ll see ye then.”
* * *
Jack dragged the shopping past The Gunnels. He hadn’t been in for years. It had changed its name to The Grove, although everyone still referred to it as The Gunnels. Jack straightened his back, and felt sweat trickle down his spine. He’d spotted bright brasses through the window; some play of the light, and he took a notion.
Jack changed course, and shouldered the door open. It was past 11, and not too busy. Perfect.
“Alright stranger?” said the barman. It was Sandy Clitheroe. He’d tried out for Jack’s band one time, a bass player, but he really couldn’t hit a note. The bass had been a Christmas present. He hadn’t seem too fussed about being passed over for the audition, and Jack hoped he didn’t hold onto a grudge. “What’ll it be, Jack? Pint of heavy, was it?”
“Just the one,” Jack said. “In fact, make it a hauf pint of heavy, Sandy.”
“You never just have the one,” a loud, deep voice interjected. “Come on, Sandy, get the man a proper one.”
A hugely fat, tall man ambled over, belly straining the buttons of a denim shirt. He gripped Jack’s hand.
“Eddie – how you doing mate?”
“How you doing yerself, ya long haired-bastart?” the newcomer said. “You not getting that cut, yet?”
“Nah, Eddie. I was thinking of getting a perm, you know? Doing something different wi’ it.”
“Ha ha, you’re going thin on the top, Status Quo. It’ll have stretched all the way back tae yer neck before ye realise.”
Jack caught Sandy’s eye, spotting that the barman had followed Eddie’s instructions and was poised before the tap with a pint glass. “Naw, Sandy. Just a hauf, like I said.”
“Och, for christ’s sake, Jack,” Sandy said, “I’ll get ye a full one.”
“Nah, it’s fine Sandy. Just a hauf pint. Promise. Just wetting ma whistle.”
Eddie nodded towards the shopping pooled around Jack’s ankles. “Ye under orders, like?”
“I am, in fact. Got a busy afternoon. It’s oor Hannah’s 18th, soon. We’re throwing a wee do down at the community hall for her at the weekend.”
“Aw right,” Eddie said, brightening. “She works at Boots, aye?”
“That’s right.”
“Bonny lass. Takes after your Senga.”
“Ah, cheers.” Jack sipped at his pint. He didn’t like Eddie’s proximity; he was the type of man who dominated a space, probably without even meaning to, using his incredible belly a prow, or a battering ram. The voice didn’t help, a bass that might have been better suited to an oil tanker, or Godzilla. Jack knew that his dislike of the man was somewhat irrational, but there it was. He forced out a smile.
“You still working the now, mate?” Eddie asked. “Doing the driving?”
“Laid off, Eddie, to be honest. Been out of work six months.”
“Six months! Christ. Sorry to hear it, man. I know a coupla guys, mate – do some contract work. One or two wee gigs going there, I think. I’ll have a wee word. You still up at Heenan Avenue? Same number?”
“Same hoose, same number. Every little helps, Eddie. I’ll take anything at the minute.”
Eddie sighed. “Thatcher, eh? Here’s to her early demise.”
They both drank deeply.
Eddie palmed foam off his lips. “Still… if that boy ever leaves Status Quo – that could be the opening for you.”
Sandy the barman roared laughter. Jack smiled, then gulped down the rest of his half-pint. “Anyway boys – on that note…” He mimed a guitar stroke – “It’s time for me to be off. Sandy – get Eddie another pint, he’s fading away to fuck all, here. And one for yerself.”
* * *
Just the one, mission complete… Not even one, a half. That wasn’t so bad. Half was great. One would have been okay, too, but two was pushing it, three was definitely trouble, and four and the rest weren’t worth thinking about.
Jack nodded hellos to people as he dragged the shopping up to the top of the scheme, his thin shoulders and spindly arms groaning with the effort. Status Quo was going through his mind, though – twelve bar blues, open G tuning maybe, the same riffs over and over. Jack hadn’t eaten that day at all and having been off it for a while even that one opening time hauf pint had travelled up and down the fault lines. Red shutters drew his eye as he passed by Mugger’s Lane, beside the bingo. The red shutters were the library. Was it still open?
For the second time that morning, he took a notion, and followed it. Jack changed course again, swerving round the broken glass where he could. His figure ambled in front of the white cladding of the bingo hall, freshly decorated with immense, stark black graffiti which informed the world that CRAW SUCKS CATS COCKS.
The library was a warhorse of a building, constructed like a wartime pill-box, somewhere that expected to take punishment, maybe even relished it. It was squat, flat-roofed, the windows trussed up in mesh, clad in bricks that looked burnt. Jack felt guilty when he looked at those windows. He’d clobbered them with snowballs as a lad. But he had an even guiltier secret; he’d loved the place, since his maw had taken him in as a wee laddie. He’d taken out a book on the Loch Ness Monster, again and again. Later on there’d been books on guitar chords, biographies of Jim Morrison. There were other worlds in there, exciting worlds, if one knew where to find them, in among the row upon row of large-print westerns and pink-spined Mills and Boons.
Jack pushed his way inside, the shopping bags swishing against the doors. He got a sharp look from the lass behind the desk, especially when he went into the children’s section. Nobody else was in there, of course. He caught a note of some lemony scent in the air, undercutting that curiously comforting scent of old books – someone had polished the floors recently, and the wooden panelling shone in the sun. They still took care of the place inside, at least. A frieze of Roald Dahl characters dominated one wall; James and the Giant Peach, Willy Wonka and Charlie.
Jack laid down the shopping and went to the natural world section. No sign of the old books he’d enjoyed in there; no Jacques Cousteau. Lots of picture books, though. He spotted what he was looking for: Caring For Your Pet.
His fingers found the section on tortoises, and he read it without really reading it, remembering the wee man’s numb acceptance of his explanation that Mowgli had gone back to his mum’s.
“They don’t like it in Scotland,” Jack had said, wondering if the boy realised fine well that he was lying. “They have to go back to the Galapagos Islands.”
Then one single line in the book leapt out at him. Jack read it again. Then he grabbed the shopping and hurried out.
* * *
“Naw. Aw, naw.”
Clanking bins, the rumble of hydraulics, the muffled shouts of the men. Bins day, of course. It had to be. Jack was too late. The lorry was halfway up Heenan Avenue by now. He knew a couple of the boys who worked on the bins, too; they called out to him, raised hands after dumping another load plucked from the middens round the back of the eight-in-a-blocks. Jack waved back, wondering at Mowgli’s fate, hoping that it would still be in deep sleep as the metal jaws crashed down on its shell. Hoping it was quick, that its grisly end would never be discovered by anyone but the gulls at the cowp. He’d only stuck the shell in the bins because they were being collected that very day – he wouldn’t have let the thing rot for a week, and there was nowhere to bury it.
Jesus, it had stank. How was he to know?
It not been dead, the book had told him. Not dead, but sleeping.
“Just leave it, Jack,” he muttered to himself, lugging the shopping upstairs. “Forget about it. These things happen.” He laughed, a desperate sound echoing through the close. “A fucking tortoise! I must have been mental!”
Senga greeted him at the door, eyebrows raised at the sight of the shopping.
“Good news and bad news, pet,” he said.
A short time later, when they were both sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, she giggled. “You have to admit, it’s funny. A wee bit.”
“It isnae, really. Back of a bin lorry! What a way to go, man. Poor Mowgli.”
“You weren’t to know. And I have to say, it smelled pretty dead to me.”
“They’re reptiles. They don’t smell like us. I should have checked. I should have, I dunno… taken it to the vet’s, or something.”
“Costs money, a vet.”
“Aye… money.” Jack got up, restless, and crossed to the veranda door. It opened out onto Muirton Street. A few days ago, I thought I was getting it right, he thought. Ovvies on, putting my back into it. Earning money I don’t have yet. Cash in hand, aye? How readily he’d agreed.
Jack grit his teeth, considering the middens, now cleared for the next seven days. He’d do the bins, no problem. Difficulty was, no-one just hired you on the nod, these days. You needed a CV, a suit and some references, even with the fuckin’ bins. He’d sweep the streets. He’d bleach out the bogs in the shopping centre. Anything.
In considering the middens, an idea struck him.
For the second time that day, he rushed out.
* * *
“You sure you haven’t seen anything, Tam? Anything at all?”
Tam Gilchrist sucked at his teeth, and stood up straight, his head almost touching the top of his doorframe. It was almost impossible to see what his house was like in the doorway over his shoulder; every door was shut, every curtain closed. The carpet at the gaunt man’s feet was some sort of brown floral print, 1960s if it was lucky. “Why d’ye ask, Jack?”
“Cos it’s the kind of animal that likes a wee root about… You know, it knocks around the back gairdens. Hides in the bins. Natural habitat, that kind o’ thing.”
“I dunno how it would have got into the back gardens. It ran off, ye say? They’re not known for their speed, tortoises, eh?”
“I guess. You get different breeds, some of them can be nippy. I heard they eat snails. Lot of snails, in the back gardens, and in the middens.”
“There are. That makes sense, ah suppose.”
Jack sighed. “Look, Tam… if you’ve got the tortoise, how much do you want for it? I’ll give you a coupla quid. Come on, mate. It’s my wee boy’s pet.”
Tam’s eyes kindled. “Three quid, and it’s a deal.”
* * *
“How did it get back?” the wee man asked, pushing some celery before Mowgli’s horny little beak.
“It turns out it needs to stay in Scotland for a wee while,” Jack said. “It was homesick, and it turned the plane around.”
Mowgli took a quick bite of celery, and the boy yelped in excitement. The head retracted a little, then stole out again for more.
Richard was heading out again. He fastened Jack’s cufflinks, then drew a strand of hair back over his ear like an archer nocking an arrow. “Hope that thing doesn’t stink as badly this time,” he said.
“If it does, you could give it a wee squirt of my aftershave maybe, smart alec,” Jack said.
Richard smiled, snatched up his keys from the mantelpiece, and strode out, enveloped in a cloud of Denim.
The phone burred from the hallway. Senga answered. “Jack, for you.”
Jack’s heart began to kick. He dared not hope, dared not anticipate.
But it was O’Connell on the end of the line. Sounding nervous.
“Alright, Barry. Lovely surprise, this. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I wanted to sort out the rest of your money. And… I wanted to apologise.”
Jack exhaled. “It’s done, Barry. We’ll get settled. No problems for me, at all. I’m sorry I was cheeky with you. If you need another hand with anything, let me know. You’ve got my number.”
“Appreciate that, Jack. There’s one other thing… You still got that tortoise?”
Jack hesitated. “Aye. It’s in the living room, now. Roaring around like a wee racing car.”
“Heh. Well. This is a bit awkward, but… apparently, the people who owned it left it in the hoose by accident. Or they’d meant to pick it up, but we got in first. They want it back, Jack.”
Jack sighed.
“It belongs to a wee lassie. They took days to try and trace what happened to it; they thought an uncle had lifted it, but he forgot… You know how it goes, Jack. Can you bring it back?”
“Can you maybe get another tortoise for them, Barry? Christ’s sake, man. How will they know the difference?”
“Nah, they’d spot it a mile off, Jack. Imagine how that would look, if I gie them the wrong tortoise? I’m sorry. I’ll get you another fiver on top for it, alright? How does that sound?”
“That sounds like I’m two quid in profit.” Jack laughed, bitterly. “The best of times.”
* * *
It happened the day Jack gave in, and got a haircut. He had to admit that shorter hair looked better on him. He even got a round of applause from Ally the barber. “When wis your last haircut, Jack? Second year at school?”
“You’re not far away,” Jack said. He rubbed the prickles at the back of his head. It was like closely-cropped grass under bare feet, an oddly addictive sensation.
Back at the house, the wee man poked lettuce into a new box. Jack had found it outside the community centre, after the party. At first it was meant to be a spaceship, somewhere for the boy to keep his wee Stars Wars men. Then Jack had a better idea.
“It’s getting bigger,” the wee man said, gesturing inside the box.
The snail – Richard and Hannah had insisted it be called Fabrice, not Mowgli, and for once the wee man was over-ruled – stole forward more confidently than his reptilian predecessor ever had, feelers waving.
“It is growing, for sure. You’re feeding him well.”
“I think I like him better than Mowgli. He does more things.”
“I’m glad to hear it!”
“Mowgli didn’t really want to stay with us, did he? He couldn’t make his mind up.”
“That’s true – now Fabrice, here, I think he’s found his ideal home.”
The wee man frowned. “But isn’t his home on his back?”
Jack laughed. How the wee man loved the little things of god’s creation; ladybirds, ants, even the wiggling worms they had dug up in the back gardens a while back. Jack felt a stirring of love so big, and so absurd, that tears glinted at the corners of his eyes.
Then the phone burred, once more. “It’s for you,” Senga said.
Jack almost shrank back from the receiver as a bass rattle assaulted his ears.
“Alright, Francis Rossi.”
“Eddie. What can I do for you, mate?”
“Well, you can buy us another pint. I spoke to my pals. Jimmy Culhearn said he was looking out for something for you, in fact. You know his missus, apparently, ya dirty devil.”
“Culhearn? Oh… is his wife Becky McRae? I helped clear her ma’s old house a couple of days ago. I went to school wi’ her.”
“That’s right. Jimmy says there’s something coming up at Durrell’s the Baker’s. Doing deliveries. Get your own wee van. They want to speak to you on Monday, if you can make it. Check you out, make sure you’re no’ an alky. I says, ‘Jack’s no’ an alky – he’s a fairy. Hauf pints, he drinks!’”
“Are you kidding?”
“Naw, mate. Durrell’s the Baker’s. Interview, Monday morning, nine o’clock. One bit of advice, though – ever considered a haircut?”
“I’ll be there. Eddie, Christ. Thanks mate. Durrell’s the Baker’s, aye?”
“That’s right. Driving job. Right up your street.”
Jack strode back into the living room. He drew breath to make an announcement. Then he noted that Senga and the wee man were cooing at Fabrice the snail; that Hannah had her hair up in a towel turban, and carefully painted her toenails, preparing to meet her boyfriend; that Richard and Eve were bickering over someone on Cheggers Plays Pop on the telly; that Thomas was sat quiet, writing a letter to someone; that steam from the potatoes was misting the veranda windows in the kitchen. So instead of speaking he sat down, and had a wee smile to himself.
About the Author
Pat Black is a writer, journalist and bletherer, born and raised in Glasgow, now living in Yorkshire.
If you enjoy Pat’s short stories, you’ll find many more of them here on McStorytellers. Search his name on Amazon, and you'll also find a shedload of his short fiction collections on Kindle.
If you enjoy Pat’s short stories, you’ll find many more of them here on McStorytellers. Search his name on Amazon, and you'll also find a shedload of his short fiction collections on Kindle.