There's Only One Danny Garvey, page 13
‘Fucken sit there,’ Raymond instructs me. He rolls and then lights a fag. Hands me it, but I hold my hands up in protest. ‘Chucked them?’
‘Aye,’ I say. ‘Had tae make myself available tae play, just in case. So, ah gave them up.’
‘When?’
‘Two weeks ago.’
‘Bloody hell … better self-discipline than me. Hats off tae ye,’ he says. He looks lean, likes he’s been training hard for a bout. Or making sure he’s ready for any spontaneous ones. His hair is shoulder length, greasy and lank. The beard is gone, a moustache remains. Eyes that are constantly planning an escape route. Robert Carlyle, as Francis Begbie, with Lennon-style specs, which he didn’t need the last time I saw him.
‘Heard the Lugar game wis a bit radio rental,’ he says.
‘Aye,’ I say. ‘A bit ae a baptism ae fire.’
‘Lost yer temper, ah hear. Just like the auld days.’
‘Eh … naw, ah didnae,’ I protest, as if we’re back in our teenage years and I’m denying his accusations again.
He narrows his eyes and turns his head, like he’s studying the results of a polygraph test.
He’s the fucking liar, not me.
‘Young kids bailed ye out though?’
‘Aye.’ Somehow, Higgy has managed to transmit this information to inside the prison walls despite the game only being played four days ago.
‘Sound like ye were there,’ I say.
‘Still got ma sources.’ He draws deeply and the roll-up almost disappears. After more awkward shuffling…
‘Ye needin’ anythin’?’ I ask.
‘Get us a few copies ae the Loaded magazines, eh? Good work, fella!’ He cackles at this.
‘Anythin’ else?’
‘Aye. As a matter ae fact…’ He tails off, and then turns and snaps his fingers. A guard strolls over. ‘Johnny Boy, any chance ae a loan ae a wee pencil an’ a sheet ae yer pad?’
‘Loan, Ray? That mean ah’ll get them back?’
‘Course ye will, son. Ah’m good for it.’
Both laugh and I recognise the charm offensive at work here. Raymond takes the paper and writes a date on it. As he does so, I decide to ask about the Standard journalist.
‘You know anythin’ about a guy called Sandy Buchanan?’
‘Naw. How, who is he?’
‘He covers the fitba for the Standard.’
‘Never heard ae the cunt. How?’
‘He’s been fucken destroyin’ us in the paper this last fortnight. Seems tae have a right grudge. First time ah met him, he mentioned you.’
His eyebrows raise. ‘Sayin’ whit, like?’
‘Nothin’ much. Just that ye’d put a guy in the hospital.’
‘We’ll that no’ exactly news, is it? Whit’s that got tae dae wi’ junior fitba matches?’
‘Dunno,’ I say. I suspect he knows more than he is letting on. But then Raymond Garvey has lived his life by that code.
‘Ah’d forget about the prick, if ah wis you. It’s no’ like you’re Souness signin’ Mo Johnston out fae under Celtic’s nose. Yer the manager ae a dumplin’ second division junior team fae the arse end ae naewhere.’ If he means this as a comfort, it – like many of his attempts at positivity – misses the mark.
‘It’s the wean’s birthday in a few weeks.’ He hands me the paper, presumably to ensure I don’t forget. ‘Can ye get him somethin’? Fae me, like. Use yer imagination.’
‘Aye. Sure,’ I say. Half-hearted. ‘Whit’s yer budget?’
‘Up tae you,’ he says; code for use your own money. ‘Ah’ll square ye up when ah get out.’
‘Aye. Right.’
‘Ah will. When have ah ever let ye down before?’ he challenges.
‘How long’ve ye got?’ I say.
‘Hey, ya cheeky wee cunt!’ he replies. Smiling, though. That cut-glass smile that reels you in before the teeth devour you.
‘Naw, how long ye got left in here?’ I ask. Fighting back. Wriggling free.
‘No’ too long,’ he replies. ‘Be out soon, accordin’ tae the brief. Early release on compassionate grounds.’ He laughs. ‘Ah’ll be able tae help ye at the Bridge.’ Counterpunches.
‘Ah think we’re fine.’
‘Dinnae look a gift horse, son.’
‘Yer boy’s growin’ up fast,’ I say. Shifting him onto different ground. Not safer, just different.
‘Aye? Damo?’
‘How many more weans have ye got?’
‘None … that ah’m payin’ for, at any rate,’ he says, laughing at a joke that just isn’t funny anymore. ‘Tough kid, that yin. Last time ah saw him on the outside, he tipped a can ae fucken beer ower my head. Nae warnin’, or nothin’.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Aye. Mindin’ ma own business. Up he comes. Starts screamin’ at me. Before ah can get up tae him, ah’m wearin’ a fucken lager shampoo.’ He smirks. ‘Damo … he’s no’ normal, like.’
‘Normal?’ I say. ‘What’s normal? Like you “normal”, ye mean?’ I pose this quietly. He doesn’t seem to read the inference.
‘Aye. He’s fucken mental!’ He says this as if it was something to be proud of. Maybe he is.
‘Wonder where he gets that fae,’ I say, aiming to hurt, but he just deflects it.
A few minutes pass. Nothing is said. My brother passes them nodding and winking to others around him. A few return the signals as if it’s a secret gag, known only to the inmates in grey.
‘Have ye seen her, then?’ he says, without prompt.
‘Who?’
‘My Nancy?’ The “my” is unexpected. No point in lying though. Higgy has already seen to that.
‘Aye. Ah took the boy tae the game on Saturday.’
‘Aye? Whit d’ye think? Did she mention me?’
‘What d’ye mean?’
‘Nancy, Danny. Fuck sake, son. Keep up.’ He lights another roll-up. Blows the smoke slowly out the side of his mouth. Draws again. Blows again. The prolonged action allows me the space to avoid answering. ‘Listen, ah’m dead straight when ah’m outta here. Nae fucken danger. Ah’ve messed her an’ the wee man about somethin’ terrible. But that’s aw gonnae stop, Danny boy. It’s gonnae be a whole new me. Kickin’ the fucken Charlie right intae touch this time. Ah mean it, nae temptations.’
He sounds determined but that’s probably easier on the eve of a release than on the day of arrival. Raymond’s had more new beginnings than Tommy Docherty’s had football clubs. They all end the same way: struggling to come to terms with not having paid work, or with the relentless boredom of being in it. Drugs and booze and criminality filling the gap. He’ll never be happy, and neither will those forced to be around him.
‘Ah fucken love her. And the wean. Doreen though, ye met her?’ I nod. ‘Ah’d gladly fix that yin a fucken one-way ticket tae Siberia.’ He hacks up a mouthful of phlegm and spits it into a paper hankie, which he puts back in his pocket.
The way he speaks about her though. When Nancy is the subject he’s a different Raymond from the one I remember. I’m suddenly jealous of him and I can’t work out why. It’s a strange emotion. I haven’t known her long but already it’s obvious that the rest of her life will be wasted waiting for Raymond’s miraculous conversion from small-time village ned with no prospects to someone with whom a reliable, loving, trusting relationship can be formed. And as for Damo, well Raymond’s never been that good at looking after children. He fucking abandoned me after all. Twice.
‘Ah’m goin’ back tae the full trainin’. The discipline. Maybe get a few bouts sorted.’
‘Aye?’
‘Aye. Ah need tae settle down, son. This stretch has been fucken murder. Too many youngsters in here now. Aw desperate tae prove a point. Desperate tae take somebody down.’
‘Has somethin’ happened?’ I’m not asking out of concern for him.
‘Ach, nothin’ ah cannae deal wi’. It’s just…’ He tails off. With a downward look, he appears immediately older and more vulnerable. His hair is thinning. After emerging from the Polmont year, Raymond was as hard as nails. The institution did that to him. He’s talking now about challenges from wired young guys exactly like he was back in 1980.
‘She’s fucken braw, eh … Nancy, ah mean?’ His eyes light up as he returns to her. His new favourite subject.
‘Christ, Raymond. What ah’m ah meant tae say tae that?’
‘Whit? We always used tae compare burds!’ he says. We didn’t.
‘You, wi’ yon wee Alison Currie. Me wi’ her maw!’ He laughs at this.
‘Fuck off,’ I say. I feel my face reddening.
‘Dinnae tell me ye’ve bumped intae her! She’s wi’ that plank, Denny Deans.’
‘Naw. Ah haven’t. Fucken hope it stays that way tae.’
‘Mind ah paid her a tenner tae let ye fuck her anaw!’ He can see the anger rising in me.
Nancy deserves so much better than this absolute waster. Everything’s just a game to him. I just wanted to see her. I can’t explain why.
‘Scud Meikle’s brother’s in the squad,’ I tell him. This puts him on his backside, like a fat defender I’ve just swivelled around.
‘That right?’ he replies. He takes a long draw of a new roll-up. He sits back in the seat. Legs spread. The body language says what’s that got tae dae wi’ me?
‘Spotted Scud hangin’ about tae.’
He doesn’t immediately respond to this. He pauses. Looks around himself. He’s been blindsided, I can tell. He starts a sudden shuffling of his feet and I sense his growing hostility.
I’m shaking inside as I say: ‘An’ ah went tae see Auld Jock Reid’s widow.’
This grabs his attention. And action. The darts hitting the bullseye. The defining actions from our shared youth. The first two times he ended up inside. He grabs my sleeve and pulls me closer. Over Raymond’s shoulder, the guard he called Johnny Boy has switched on his surveillance.
‘Whit the fuck, Danny?’
I pull back, saying nothing.
He clears his throat. ‘Stay fucken clear, right?’ Down to a whisper, but the anger and the threat crystal clear.
I still say nothing. His eyes stay on me. Laser beams. Unsure of me, of what I’ll do next.
‘Everythin’ aw’right here, lads?’
‘It’s fine, Johnny,’ says Raymond. ‘Just gie’in the boy here a wee Chinese burn. Aul’ time’s sake, ken?’
The guard looks at me, and nods before strolling on. Raymond has calmed himself.
‘Ah’m helpin’ her out. Doin’ the garden, an’ stuff.’
‘Fuck sake … ye’ve barely been tae visit yer dyin’ mam, but ye’ve got time tae plant flowers an’ cut hedges?’
‘It’s no’ like that,’ I tell him. ‘Ah felt sorry for her. Everythin’ she’s been through. How could ye cope wi’ aw that pain an’ sorrow in yer life?’
‘Look Danny, dinnae be growin’ a conscience. No’ after aw this time. Who would that benefit, eh?’ he pleads. ‘Ah mean, Christ’s sake, it wis a fucken lifetime ago. We’ve aw suffered, specially me. An’ it wis a bloody accident, pal. Ye know that?’
I look at my watch. I need to get out of this horrendous place. ‘Listen, ah need tae go,’ I say.
‘Don’t you fucken dare fuck up this release!’
‘Ah’ll see ye next time.’
‘Ye’ve just fucken got here,’ he protests.
‘We’ve got the Glens at the Bridge tonight. Ayrshire Cup. Ah need tae get back.’
He sighs. He knows it’ll have to wait. No more grabbing my hair and forcing his will anymore. Not while he’s still in here. He calms down, at least for appearances sake.
‘Right. Fair enough, then. Good tae see ye,’ he says, and I don’t know whether he means it, or whether there is thick sarcasm dripping from these four words.
‘Watch yersel,’ he asks. ‘An’ come back next week?’
‘Aye. maybe,’ I respond.
‘Ah’m tellin’ ye,’ he whispers. ‘Tell Nancy she’s due a visit tae. An’ mind an’ see Mam, right?’ he instructs.
‘Aye. Right. See ye!’ I hear him tap the table loudly as I walk away.
My head’s swimming in a dank, murky swamp. Auld Jock Reid, my brother Raymond the prisoner, Scud Meikle, Libby, Damo, but mostly Nancy. All jostling for prominence in the impenetrable maze. The game passed by in a blur. We had no right to expect a win against the Glens, and we did better than many would’ve anticipated. A three-nil defeat is no disgrace. We kept our shape well, held it level until the last quarter, and only two brilliantly worked moves by Glenburn’s speedy wingers undid us. The third goal trundled in with a minute to go, but by that time McIntosh had been taken off with a suspected broken jaw. He’d gone down at the feet of their striker but lifted his head too sharply. A knee went into the side of his face. Ten minutes of additional time came from us chairing him off the park to a waiting taxi bound for A&E, and then the ref scouring the penalty box for the five teeth he claimed to have lost in the incident.
I’m popping pills and nursing a raging headache. It’s quiet and I’d assumed everyone had gone home, but no.
Danny?
I look up, surprised at a young female voice in my office.
Hi. It’s Anne Macdonald. The chairman wants you to accompany me on a PR initiative. Tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up at nine. Okay?
‘Eh … em, are ye sure? Me?’
Yes, Danny. You. And it’s important, so dress properly. It’s a meeting with a new sponsor. An independent bookmaker from Troon. He’s interested in sport. So … best behaviour and bring out the good stories, got it?
I nod through the pain in my head. She leaves abruptly. I stand, intending to follow her, but I’m interrupted by a tapping at the window. I look up and wave at the man, bidding him come round to the entrance.
‘Ye aw’right there, youngster?’ I lift my fevered head from its position, held heavily by clammy hands. The man standing in my office doorway is Alan Rough, former manager of the Glens, and one of Scotland’s greatest goalkeepers. He’s wearing a black polo-neck sweater that makes his head resemble a coconut balanced in a fairground shy.
‘Eh … aye.’ I’m not sure what to say. Or why he’s even here.
‘Heard ye talkin’ tae somebody, didnae want tae interrupt like.’
‘Ach. Aye.’ There’s no-one here.
‘Young boys played well. Hung in there an’ gave us a good game,’ he says.
‘You still involved?’ I ask.
‘Naw,’ he says. ‘But ah still come an’ watch when ah can.’
‘Ah, right.’ He doesn’t seem to be here for anything else. But he isn’t leaving. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Should’ve offered ye a drink, Alan.’
‘Nah, yer fine, son. Ah’m drivin’,’ he says, performing a steering mime. ‘Listen, ah’ll get tae the point. Ah noticed ye didnae have a back-up keeper after yer number one went off.’
‘Aye. Tough yin. Wee Lorimer isnae really a keeper,’ I say, excusing my desperate instructions to him in the last ten minutes of the game.
‘What’ll ye do?’ asks the former Scotland keeper.
‘No’ sure, yet,’ I say. He could be asking this question of several aspects of my life. The answer would’ve been the same for all of them.
‘Well, maybe ah could help,’ he says.
I look at him. The perm’s gone. He’s kept himself trim, no doubt. But Alan Rough must be nearly fifty.
‘Look, man … ah really appreciate the offer, but McIntosh is on a tenner a week and travel expenses. Ah couldnae offer ye much more than that.’
‘Naw … no’ me, ya daft bastard.’ He laughs. I do too to offset my stupidity. ‘This guy … he’s a pal. A relation, sort of,’ he says. ‘Had a tough time ae it. Brilliant keeper, though. Just wants tae get a regular game again.’
‘Well…’
‘He’s an alcoholic,’ Alan says. ‘Played in the lower leagues about a decade ago. He’s late thirties. Still springs like a fucken cat though.’
‘Any good wi’ crosses?’
‘Born-again Christian,’ says Roughie, laughing. I hadn’t given the new goalkeeping crisis enough thought, but with Minishant away in three days’ time, what’ve I got to lose.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Josey Monsanto,’ says Roughie.
‘Continental,’ I say.
Roughie smiles. ‘Naw, he’s fae Bargeddie.’
‘Bit far tae travel, is it no’?’
‘He just wants a game. Prepared tae make the sacrifices needed.’
‘Okay, thanks. Can he get tae trainin’ tomorrow night?’
‘Ah’m sure he will. I’ll get him tae phone ye.’
‘Cheers Alan. Anythin’ else ah should know?’
‘He’s a deacon in the church,’ he says. ‘So he might struggle wi’ Sundays, but other than that, he’s a good lad. Ah can vouch for him.’
We shake on it and vow to stay in touch.
An hour later, I lock up and I walk home slowly. Desperate to go back and talk to Nancy. To explain. But explain what? That I’m becoming more attracted to her? That Raymond still wants her? That he has a vision of them living as a normal family, in a normal house – probably Libby’s after she’s dead – him and his beautiful wife, and his uniquely gifted kid.
Or is it that I want these things?
How fucking mad would that make me sound to her?
‘Want some fish fingers?’ asks Higgy. He hasn’t even checked that it’s me. Then again, who else would it be?
‘Naw,’ I say, sullen and dismissive.
‘Sup wi ye now?’ He asks this like a dad growing bored with a truculent teenager.
‘Nothin’. Never mind,’ I reply.
‘Boys did aw’right, ah thought,’ he offers.
‘Aye.’
‘Dinnae be too hard on them, then.’
‘Ah’m not bein’,’ I say. The sense of frustration inside me is growing. ‘Look, Higgy, what dae you expect fae me in this job?’
‘Ah just want ye tae be content for once in yer life,’ he says, as if it’s the simplest and most obvious goal there is. He shrugs. I know he means it. ‘Go an’ see yer mam,’ he says. It’s becoming a constant refrain. ‘She needs ye.’
