patted his pockets, clearly searching for a key.' Ah bollocks,' he said. He looked up at the kitchen window. The small top window was partially open.' Ah bollocks,' he said again, and climbed up onto the sill. He opened the small window fully, then reached down towards the larger one below.' Ah, bollocks,' he said, straining to reach the handle. But he got it and opened it and then manoeuvred himself through the window and into the kitchen. A moment later a light came on and he opened the back door.
'Enter,' he said, bowing, 'my humble abode. But . . .' and he put a finger to his lips '. . . Mother is sleeping.'
I nodded. I'd heard that his dad had died, but he hadn't mentioned it, so I hadn't either. This was a smaller house than he'd lived in when we'd been mates. Just a little terrace. He led me through the kitchen into the front room, flipping the light on as he went. It was small, but packed with dark wooden furniture and shelves full of china figurines.
'Now,' Davie whispered, 'let's organise a little drink, eh?'
He moved to a teak sideboard and began opening drawers. I stood somewhat ill-at-ease. I was out of practice with the drink. I felt like lying on the sofa for a doze, but knew that Davie wouldn't let me get away with it. He tutted as he crossed to a glass-fronted display cabinet in the opposite corner. I glanced at the photos on top of the sideboard. There were none of Davie. None that I could see of his mum. Probably relatives, but I didn't recognise or remember any of them, although I'd probably met a few of them at some point.
'Ah bollocks,' Davie hissed. He wasn't having any luck with the drink.' I'll try the kitchen.'
He walked past me and started opening cupboards there. I bent to a plastic box containing several dozen albums, and began to flick through them. Most of them were of Scottish pipe bands, my personal idea of hell, but each unto their own. Although I didn't remember his family being much into the whole Orange culture thing, it could easily have slipped my mind.
Then I heard footsteps coming from the stairs.
There's nothing as loud as two drunks trying to be quiet.
I steadied myself against a chair and prepared to make polite conversation with Davie's mum. I wondered how much she'd aged. She'd be in her seventies now, for sure, bent and grey, perhaps on a walking stick.
Except the woman who came through the hall door was in her forties at most; she had on a pink dressing-gown, curlers in her hair, and she was carrying a shotgun.
She said, 'I don't know who the fuck you fuckers are, but you better get outta my house or I'll blow your fucking arseholes off.'
I stared at her aghast for several moments, desperately waiting for her to break into a smile, to crack up at the great fright she'd given us. Or indeed me, as I heard the back door open and Davie take off screaming down the garden path.
'Okay,' I said. I started to back away.
'You're the worst fucking burglars I ever met,' the woman hissed.
'We're not burglars,' I said, reversing through the lounge doorway into the kitchen.
'Well, what the fuck are you then?' She jabbed the gun at me, as if it had a bayonet on the end.
'Pissed,' I said.
'Well fucking piss off then!'
I reached out blindly to find the kitchen door, then turned. She poked me in the back with the barrel.
'I know that fucker from around town, but I'll remember you, you fucken no-brain dickhead.'
I cleared my throat and stepped out into her back garden.
'I'll just er . . . dander on here.'
'You do that, arse face. And close the fucking gate!'
Davie was at the end of the lane, laughing his legs off. I said, 'Thanks a bunch. Thanks a fucking bunch.'
'Don't mention it.'
'She nearly shot my fucking balls off!'
'Ah bollocks, she wouldn't have done nothing.' He cackled.' You should see your face, mate, you're as white as a—'
And then he stopped. He sank to his knees, then turned abruptly and threw up into a hedge. Then again. Then again.
From somewhere in
'Enter,' he said, bowing, 'my humble abode. But . . .' and he put a finger to his lips '. . . Mother is sleeping.'
I nodded. I'd heard that his dad had died, but he hadn't mentioned it, so I hadn't either. This was a smaller house than he'd lived in when we'd been mates. Just a little terrace. He led me through the kitchen into the front room, flipping the light on as he went. It was small, but packed with dark wooden furniture and shelves full of china figurines.
'Now,' Davie whispered, 'let's organise a little drink, eh?'
He moved to a teak sideboard and began opening drawers. I stood somewhat ill-at-ease. I was out of practice with the drink. I felt like lying on the sofa for a doze, but knew that Davie wouldn't let me get away with it. He tutted as he crossed to a glass-fronted display cabinet in the opposite corner. I glanced at the photos on top of the sideboard. There were none of Davie. None that I could see of his mum. Probably relatives, but I didn't recognise or remember any of them, although I'd probably met a few of them at some point.
'Ah bollocks,' Davie hissed. He wasn't having any luck with the drink.' I'll try the kitchen.'
He walked past me and started opening cupboards there. I bent to a plastic box containing several dozen albums, and began to flick through them. Most of them were of Scottish pipe bands, my personal idea of hell, but each unto their own. Although I didn't remember his family being much into the whole Orange culture thing, it could easily have slipped my mind.
Then I heard footsteps coming from the stairs.
There's nothing as loud as two drunks trying to be quiet.
I steadied myself against a chair and prepared to make polite conversation with Davie's mum. I wondered how much she'd aged. She'd be in her seventies now, for sure, bent and grey, perhaps on a walking stick.
Except the woman who came through the hall door was in her forties at most; she had on a pink dressing-gown, curlers in her hair, and she was carrying a shotgun.
She said, 'I don't know who the fuck you fuckers are, but you better get outta my house or I'll blow your fucking arseholes off.'
I stared at her aghast for several moments, desperately waiting for her to break into a smile, to crack up at the great fright she'd given us. Or indeed me, as I heard the back door open and Davie take off screaming down the garden path.
'Okay,' I said. I started to back away.
'You're the worst fucking burglars I ever met,' the woman hissed.
'We're not burglars,' I said, reversing through the lounge doorway into the kitchen.
'Well, what the fuck are you then?' She jabbed the gun at me, as if it had a bayonet on the end.
'Pissed,' I said.
'Well fucking piss off then!'
I reached out blindly to find the kitchen door, then turned. She poked me in the back with the barrel.
'I know that fucker from around town, but I'll remember you, you fucken no-brain dickhead.'
I cleared my throat and stepped out into her back garden.
'I'll just er . . . dander on here.'
'You do that, arse face. And close the fucking gate!'
Davie was at the end of the lane, laughing his legs off. I said, 'Thanks a bunch. Thanks a fucking bunch.'
'Don't mention it.'
'She nearly shot my fucking balls off!'
'Ah bollocks, she wouldn't have done nothing.' He cackled.' You should see your face, mate, you're as white as a—'
And then he stopped. He sank to his knees, then turned abruptly and threw up into a hedge. Then again. Then again.
From somewhere in
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