'Would you mind drinking up now, please!'
That command signalled the end of another Saturday night. You spent your working week anticipating the weekend, its possibilities, mentally ticking off the days. In a matter of hours, it was gone. All that beckoned was Sunday’s hangover then Monday again.
Tonight was more anti-climactic because they’d been celebrating Gareth’s 18th. The gang had been preparing for it for days. There had been an embarrassing notice in the Evening News featuring a cherub-like Gareth aged 5; balloons around his desk, wine in beakers and a filthy card. Seven hours had shot by.
But Simon’s nights out, whether with work colleagues, or his other mates, were nominally about socialising with them. That was a side issue. The real reason he braved the West End’s extortionate and occasionally violent night spots was to meet women. He sometimes wondered what it would be like not to be one of a boisterous crowd. Whenever you got chatting to a female a mate was guaranteed to appear and say the wrong thing, to ridicule you and undermine the person you were trying to impress. But not everyone relied on the pack mentality. When you were regular in any uptown bar you got to recognise people. You noticed faces drinking at the bar who’d skulk away to assume lone vantage points. Week in, week out. His own mates called these guys losers. But Simon saw something exciting in their solo approach. He didn’t see them as stalkers; they were mavericks. They didn’t have to justify who they intended chatting up. Their choices weren’t judged and scorned. He could see the attraction of being exempt from having a posse watching your every move, providing a running commentary with derogatory, sexist remarks. Usually within earshot.
But he might as well have been on a solitary mission because his mates had long since petered out. He often found himself in this situation at the end of the night. He would liken himself to the survivor of some epic trek, as his mates were picked off by marauding ladettes, rival casuals, whiteys or card-swallowing cashlines. Gareth had been roaring about lap dancers. He’d stood in the doorway of the pub, arms swirling wildly, as if rounding up everyone with an invisible lasso. But Simon had told him to fuck off. Exotic dancing meant spending a fortune to watch half-naked women pretend they desired a drunken, gawking cretin like you. As fucking if. As they gyrated around, wiggling their toned bodies, they were thinking about boyfriends, children. The attraction was so one-way you might as well file straight into the kebab shop and ogle the revolving meat slab. Although right now the thought of a fit woman ramming her cleavage into his face was appealing. The fact he hadn’t tagged along now made him feel even more cut adrift.
The bouncer marched up to him. ‘Drink up now, sir’.
‘Away to fuck’.
Simon spluttered into the dregs of his pint. The sneering remark had spat from over his shoulder but the bouncer squared up to him. The vicious stare and
bullet head belonged inside a white hood, not the 3-piece suit his
pumped-up body seemed about to rupture. Simon’s lips moved but nothing happened. He gaped at the pitiless features and felt as if he was facing a firing squad. He knew one punch from this guy could have him plugged into a machine for weeks.
‘That wasn’t me!’
‘Just fucking drink up’. The bouncer reached a hand out, adding Simon’s tumbler to a stack. Simon burped and weaved into the crowds clogging the door. Staring down at his feet he found himself worrying about the queue at the taxi rank. Then he thought about Monday. He toiled in a call centre. He’d been grilled that morning by his supervisor over a recorded conversation. On being informed of a customers’ death he had closed the call instead of establishing the next of kin so a fresh line of enquiry could be pursued.
‘What a cunt’, he mumbled.
The guy in front about turned. ‘What did you call me?’
‘I said I’m half cut’, he replied, watching the expression flare then subside. His heart pattered. He hated this time of night. In moments he’d be out on Lothian Road. Sometimes it felt like an actual war zone. He knew the staff at Accident and Emergency would be checking their own watches, waiting for the inevitable parade of blood-soaked revellers to commence.
There was a woman standing behind a pillar. He’d noticed her catching his eye a few times earlier, hadn’t really thought much of it because he’d been trying to eye up a redhead himself. The redhead had long vanished. But in the vacuum of his alcohol-fuelled sexual frustration this long-fringed blonde was suddenly transformed. He stalled beside her.
‘Hiyah’, he chirped.
‘Hi, doll’, she said. ‘What’s your name? And where you taking me? Which club?’
‘Eh, I’m Simon. Who are you with?’
‘On my tod, eh? My mates have all clicked’.
‘Well, so have you. What’s your name?’
‘Jacqui’.
‘Hi Jacqui. Where are you from?’
‘Hyvots. You?’
‘Mountcastle. What club were you thinking of?’
‘That new one. What’s it called… Chez Moi. D’you know it?’
Simon imagined a firework display. He shook his head. ‘You’ll have to introduce me to it. You’ll have to vouch for me, mind. I can get a bit fucking wild’.
Jacqui gripped his hand. He peered down. Her sleeveless top exposed a line of jangling bracelets. There was a panther inked to her left shoulder. His free hand patted his jeans pocket to check his Mates were still there. Of course they were. He’d been in the disastrous situation recently of not having any. He wouldn’t get caught out again. But right now he had to concentrate on getting this one outside and into a taxi before some loudmouth whisked her away. That had also happened before.
* * *
He was lost in the taxi’s frantic motion, the relentless parade of orange lights streaming by, the smell of her perfume and nicotine, her hand rubbing his thigh, straying into his crotch, kneading him like putty. He began worrying he’d been so stiff now it would curtail his performance later. The way Jacqui was thrusting her tongue around his own, and pressing her breasts into him, each jolt round a corner or over a sleeping policeman seemed perilously close to making him climax. They eventually halted. Jacqui dug into her purse, handed a twenty to the driver. ‘Keep the change, pal’.
Simon glimpsed a white beard. He must’ve seen it all in the back of his taxi, especially Saturday morning pick-ups on Lothian Road. Jacqui was still clutching his hand and tugging him towards the house. Simon glanced at his surroundings. A long, curving street of Sixties blocks, proliferating with dishes. A towerblock loomed at the end. All was silent. He clocked a hedgehog scurrying along the road further up. Inside the house light streamed from below an internal door. Muted music.
‘Just go into my room’, she told him. When she opened the living room door he caught sight of another young woman, mid teens, an angular blonde bob razored up to the nape of her neck. She was tugging on a fresh spliff.
‘Jacks. You on your own?’
‘Naw. Met him in The Office. Nice gadgey. I think he said he works in a bank. But he’s cute. Quite shy’.
He heard the other make a cooing noise. ‘My big sis, the big slapper! And the quiet ones are the worst, as you well know’.
‘Bet your one’s only just legged it down the garage for some Veras?!’
‘Nah. Been on my fucking lonesome all night, eh, Jacks’.
Jacqui stepped further into the room. But their conversation remained audible.
‘How’s Sarah?’
‘Went down about eight. No bother. She’s been good as gold. Not too much noise, now, you. Not like the other week. Fucking embarrassing. Had to stick on one of Ma’s old records, eh. Having to sit and listen to fucking The Clash. Sounded like a fucking white riot was going on through the wall!’
‘Keep it down, Dee. Not wanting him to do a runner!’
Simon sat on the edge of the double bed. He felt reluctant to begin undressing until she joined him. Instead he glanced around. There were birthday cards stacked on the portable TV. Pink balloons bobbed near the ceiling. Jacqui had just turned twenty-one. This added to his kudos. The dressing table was cluttered with make-up, lipstick. Boots and jeans were scattered across the carpet. Johnny Depp leered at him from a large poster for ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’.
When Jacqui returned she unclipped her belt and tossed it aside. The door slammed. She marched over and pushed him back onto the bed. He grasped her hair while she worked drunkenly at his own belt. He gazed at the dark roots showing through the blonde streaks as she struggled with the catch, swearing under her breath. Finally she opened the buckle, then roughly tugged his trousers and pants down. Her nails caught his thigh and he bit his lip. He moaned as he felt her lips slithering around his cock.
‘You got anything?’ she asked him. He nodded and leaned awkwardly over the bed, fumbling for the condoms. While he did so she kept stroking between his legs. Finally he freed a rubber. Jacqui took it from him and slipped it over his erection.
‘Lie back, now’, she ordered him. She stooped to the iPod plugged into its pink speakers by the chest of drawers, then flicked the light switch. James Blunt crooned into the darkness. He was grateful she hadn’t inherited her mother’s raucous tastes. He savoured the triumph of the moment. He didn’t usually have a lot to brag about. He was one of the quieter ones in the crowd and therefore fare game for mockery. He watched her strip against the orange light filtering through the blinds. It looked as if she was striped like a tiger. This was so real; as opposed to the vapid professional version his pals would have wasted their money on. He relished her curves. Most of the girls he worked beside were obsessed with glossy magazine celebrities; figures his granddad described as the back-shift from the Burma railway. But she looked as if she would actually enjoy a night in a restaurant. Her breasts trembled as she discarded her pants. She came to him. Savouring the moment, he closed his eyes. She straddled him, feeling for him, targeting him into her own sex. She commenced an eager rhythm immediately. Eyes still shut, he reached into the void, his hands clamping around her ample chest, his fingers twisting the hard nipples. He groaned. Of course he would exaggerate the tale he recounted in the canteen on Monday. They all did that, transforming basic instincts into Olympic events.
She sighed, forcing him further into her, hands gripping his shoulders, clawing at his hair. She leaned down and kissed, biting at his lip. He wondered at the strangeness of this. He knew nothing about her. What was she like, beyond this? What had been the key events in her life? Where did she work? Who was Sarah? Once the alcoholic veneer was stripped away, was Jacqui a happy person, or bitter? How would it be in the morning? But he was drunk enough to dismiss that final question’s present irrelevance. This was all that mattered. Now. He opened his eyes and as they became accustomed to the dark he savoured her hourglass form bearing down on him. He felt the spark kindling his inevitable explosion. He tried holding off. He attempted to visualise the moment he would divulge the details of this experience to his gang. After listening to Gareth and the others bragging about their personal lap dances he would trump them. He gnawed his lip. He pictured poker hands. He described the hierarchy inside his head: royal flush, straight flush, four of a kind, full house, flush, straight, three of a kind … two … two. But it was beyond his control. She had worked him into a frenzy as effortlessly as stirring a coffee. Now she determined to wring as much as she could from him before his stiffness died. His climax rocked through his body and left him gasping, rivulets of sweat trickling down his neck. She dug her nails in to his shoulders, then dismounted. Lying on her back she caressed his balls.
‘Come on, Simon … You know what I want …’ She placed a hand around the back of his head. He started kissing her neck, working his way over the fleshy mounds, down her belly. When she eventually reached orgasm he clung to her thighs and felt her jolts; the electricity surging through. He stayed there, his face buried in comfort and warmth and life’s joys.
* * *
Sunlight pierced the slats. He blinked, his surroundings a mystery. He was aware of flickering light. Squinting, he noticed the TV screen. He couldn’t work out what he was seeing. Some kind of erratic race involving bizarre cartoon creatures. One of them jumped from an overhang only to explode.
‘Fuck it!’
He craned his neck. There was a young girl twisting her thumbs into the controls, guiding this mission. Although she appeared no more than four, her hair was similarly blonde and black streaked as Jacqui. Awkwardness enveloped him like a straightjacket. Presently the door was yanked open.
‘Sarah! Get out of here! I said you could play that after your breakfast. Come on, now’.
‘But Mum …’
‘But nothing, lady’.
He burrowed under the duvet. The game’s noise and lurid colours were extinguished. The door shut. Curling his knees up to himself he tried to find sleep again. But he was bursting for the toilet. Forcing a leg out, he summoned the courage to get up. As he stumbled around the room he felt as if he was in a film, had appeared from a time portal. He hastily donned his clothes and crept into the hall. There was a door opposite, with frosted glass. Gingerly he opened it. He cursed the longevity of his piss, and as he tried to mute it by aiming to the side he splattered the tiles.
After he’d splashed water in his face he halted, staring at his bloodshot eyes. Someone was singing. A duet. Jacqui and her sister were roaring into a microphone. He vaguely recognised the song. Jamelia? ‘Walk with me’? Their mouths were too close to their microphones, distorting an R and B track he disliked anyway. Wiping his hands in a towel he paused outside the room. The door was slightly ajar. They were plugged into a karaoke disc. Both were swigging bottles of Blue WKD. From their exaggerated hand gestures he could see they were steaming. The wee girl was jumping on the settee, jigging along to their strident singing.
He felt impaled by embarrassment. That was just the way he was. He needed the cloak of alcohol. Without it he was a shell; just another unremarkable teenager, two years out of school. He had never been with an older woman. In fact, for all his weekends of scouring the pubs and clubs for likely partners, he’d only ever had 2 previous one-night stands. He felt so exposed. He was sure it was the inevitable depression that followed in the wake of binge drinking. But he knew it was more ingrained. His job involved badgering customers who’d exceeded credit limits; it was demeaning for all concerned. You were expected to phone their homes at any time to demand payment. You quoted the regulations at them. You listened to their excuses. You endured them shrieking abuse back at you, the corporate mouthpiece. You shut your mind to the baby crying. But this all paid for the weekend blowouts that numbed the rest of it.
The sight of them necking alcohol and swaying before the karaoke screen at 8.56 A.M. rocked him with nausea. His guts churned. About turning he scurried back to the bathroom, vomited into the sink. He switched the tap on and poked around the plughole. The stink made him sick again. There was a medicine cabinet to his left. Flipping the mirrored door, he found a toothpaste tube. He placed the end against his tongue, squeezed a fraction. He winced at the overpowering minty taste. As he was shutting the door he clocked a figure standing right behind him. He jerked round. The girl was watching him.
‘Are you Aunty Dionne’s friend?’
‘Eh. Aye’.
‘Are you sick?’
‘Just a wee tummy bug, sweetheart’.
‘Oh. I’m having toast’.
With that the girl dismissed him. He grasped the mirrored door again, swivelling it shut. There was a photo on the opposite wall. He studied it. It was Jacqui’s wedding photograph. She beamed at the camera. Her ample curves threatened to spill from the dress’s plunging neckline. The groom wore a dress army uniform; red tunic and tartan trews. His polished buttons shone brilliantly. A white gloved hand clasped her waist. The hands seemed out of place, as if they should be arranging snooker balls rather than squeezing triggers.
He marched for the door. He froze by the living room, listening to them warbling. He rocked on his heels, staring at the carpet, like some actor who had forgotten his cue. He studied a watercolour on the wall. Its subject was Leith Harbour, in the 19th century, its docks brimming with sailed vessels. He marvelled at the courage of young men who would head out to explore the oceans in such rickety boats. The artist had signed it. F McAllan. He speculated if this was someone Jacqui knew. Father? The soldier?
The music cut mid-way through a verse. Instead a TV channel had been tuned in. He recognised the theme to the BBC News. Glancing at his watch he checked the time. Nine. He tip-toed out. Peering through the gap he watched the subdued scene. The blue drinks were abandoned. Jacqui and her sister were intent on the newscaster’s words. A map of Iraq appeared on the screen, centred on Basra. There was a smaller village highlighted. Then footage of an armoured car in a roadside, black smoke billowing. A small crowd had gathered to stare. Teenage boys wore Adidas trackie bottoms. They pointed and chuckled.
The women hugged one another. Dionne’s hand went around her sister’s waist. Simon could sense the grip: her knuckles were whitening. With a start he noticed the little girl, peering over the settee. She was staring straight at him.
‘Sarah, darling’, Jacqui said in a hushed voice, arm outstretched. There was a cigarette in her fingers, its tip wavering crazily. The girl shot over, jumping into her lap.
Simon retreated. He retrieved his shoes, just inside her bedroom doorway. He grabbed his jacket. Then he made for the front door, shutting it behind him as quietly as he could.
The housing scheme enveloped him with unknown street names. He could make out Arthur’s Seat, kilometres to the north. He headed in that direction. Still under the influence, he stumbled past the looming buildings. Occasionally he glanced into the warmth of homes. Faces caught his eye. A child wore a Spiderman outfit, aimed his wrist. Simon pretended to become trapped in a web. He saw a television with the same news channel. Next door Beyoncé strutted beneath dazzling lights. Eventually he found a bus stop. He gazed back over his path. He’d probably spoken to some of the residents at work.
He checked the timetables. Apparently he’d just missed a bus. The next was due in half an hour. A wind gust lashed through the metal panes. He cowered into a corner. He glanced at his feet, recognising he had stood in this very position waiting to head into work yesterday morning, not knowing what lay ahead. He wrapped his arms around his torso. He thought of the white glove. He held himself tight. He waited.
1. MONTY PYTHONThe first 'grown up' programme I remember being allowed to stay up and
watch as a special treat. I guffawed at the Terry Gilliam cartoons.
The older I got I grew to relish the other bits: the crazy slapstick,
the satire, the irreverence, the jokes that incurred establishment wrath
(and got 'Life of Brian' banned in Ireland until 1987 and Jersey until
2001). 
2. BRITISH PUNK ROCK PHENOMENON, 1976-79
3. BRITISH BIRDS
4. JIMI HENDRIX
5. RAYMOND CARVER
