the youth of today,’ said Mac, ‘another beautiful crop of schemie fodder in bloom . . . Fair gladdens the heart.’
I’d read recently that the cost of a home round here was less than one-tenth of what it was in the New Town. Of all the property-obsessed ramblings I’d read since our real estate tanked, this one caused me the most surprise: I was completely stunned that property round here was worth fuck all.
I parked on the street. Usual jumped into Mac’s lap. ‘Chrissake, beast . . . Trying to end me there?’ The dog planted a wet nose on Mac’s face, followed by a wet tongue. I laughed it up.
‘Better take him in, don’t want to give the local young crew any ideas about snafflin’ him for a pit.’
Mac let out a growl. The dog pinned down his ears: he got them ruffled. ‘Och, I’m only messing with you,’ said Mac.
As we got out the cold bit. I buttoned my coat and made for the front door of the weather-beaten concrete block. Who would call this a home? The windows were rotting away on the ground floor and yellowed net curtains, blackening with damp at their corners, flapped behind cracked panes. There was a light burning inside but apart from that there was no sign of life.
Mac picked a torn bin liner from the lawn. The empty Cally Special tins inside were frozen solid – never made it to the tip. He dropped the lot on a beat-up old fridge that sat by the house, shook his head. ‘Joint’s more than a wee bit neglected, eh.’
I scanned the street. ‘Take a look about – not exactly fucking Peyton Place.’
‘Aye, but this one’s the pick o’ the lot.’ He kicked the fridge door shut.
A bloke from the next garden, face wrapped in a Rangers scarf, leaned over the fence. His donkey jacket was about three sizes too big for him; he looked like he was fighting it for survival. ‘You after Big Ian?’ As he spoke he tugged his scarf down, revealed a mouth twisted to one side, a nose spewing grey hair.
I turned. ‘Yeah . . . seen him about?’
A tut, splutter. ‘You from the bookies or the buroo?’ I didn’t answer; gave him the once-over look his type are used to. He went on: ‘Nah, haven’t seen him the day. He was makin’ a fair clatter last night but haven’t seen hide nor hair all day.’
Mac cut in: ‘Clatter?’
The old gadgie tugged back his sleeve, brought a scrawny wrist out, scratched his hairline with a dirty fingernail. ‘Probably had a bucket in him. Came in rattling about after a night at the howf . . . He’s lost it since he got punted from the work.’
We’d seen that for ourselves at the factory. I scanned the house; there was no movement now. ‘What happened? I mean, do you know why he lost his job?’
The bloke’s eyes lit. He ran a manky mitt over his mouth: thought he might get a few sheets for his trouble. ‘He was on the wagons, had a big rig out there every night,’ he pointed to the street, ‘used to wash it and polish it when he wasn’t on a run . . . Fair buggered up his heid when that got taken off him.’
He was at it – nothing to offer. ‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ I said.
Mac was growing impatient. He edged towards the building, pointed at the door. I gave the neighbour a wide berth as I went. He called out, ‘Eh, got a smoke there, pal?’
I dug in my pocket and gave him a Marlboro.
He looked at it with derision. ‘That all you got?’
‘Do I look like a fucking mobile tobacconist?’
He took the tab, sparked up. He coughed away, hacked a gob of phlegm in the garden. I thought, Was I expecting too much looking for a thank-you?
At the door Mac leaned over and knocked hard. The crumbling paintwork lost a few flakes – like it mattered. There was no answer. Mac knocked again, a rusting bell by the door got a hit, then he looked through the letter box. He seemed to dwell there, breathed deep a few times then stood back.
‘Anything?’ I said.
His face looked pained. He pointed. ‘Take a look for
I’d read recently that the cost of a home round here was less than one-tenth of what it was in the New Town. Of all the property-obsessed ramblings I’d read since our real estate tanked, this one caused me the most surprise: I was completely stunned that property round here was worth fuck all.
I parked on the street. Usual jumped into Mac’s lap. ‘Chrissake, beast . . . Trying to end me there?’ The dog planted a wet nose on Mac’s face, followed by a wet tongue. I laughed it up.
‘Better take him in, don’t want to give the local young crew any ideas about snafflin’ him for a pit.’
Mac let out a growl. The dog pinned down his ears: he got them ruffled. ‘Och, I’m only messing with you,’ said Mac.
As we got out the cold bit. I buttoned my coat and made for the front door of the weather-beaten concrete block. Who would call this a home? The windows were rotting away on the ground floor and yellowed net curtains, blackening with damp at their corners, flapped behind cracked panes. There was a light burning inside but apart from that there was no sign of life.
Mac picked a torn bin liner from the lawn. The empty Cally Special tins inside were frozen solid – never made it to the tip. He dropped the lot on a beat-up old fridge that sat by the house, shook his head. ‘Joint’s more than a wee bit neglected, eh.’
I scanned the street. ‘Take a look about – not exactly fucking Peyton Place.’
‘Aye, but this one’s the pick o’ the lot.’ He kicked the fridge door shut.
A bloke from the next garden, face wrapped in a Rangers scarf, leaned over the fence. His donkey jacket was about three sizes too big for him; he looked like he was fighting it for survival. ‘You after Big Ian?’ As he spoke he tugged his scarf down, revealed a mouth twisted to one side, a nose spewing grey hair.
I turned. ‘Yeah . . . seen him about?’
A tut, splutter. ‘You from the bookies or the buroo?’ I didn’t answer; gave him the once-over look his type are used to. He went on: ‘Nah, haven’t seen him the day. He was makin’ a fair clatter last night but haven’t seen hide nor hair all day.’
Mac cut in: ‘Clatter?’
The old gadgie tugged back his sleeve, brought a scrawny wrist out, scratched his hairline with a dirty fingernail. ‘Probably had a bucket in him. Came in rattling about after a night at the howf . . . He’s lost it since he got punted from the work.’
We’d seen that for ourselves at the factory. I scanned the house; there was no movement now. ‘What happened? I mean, do you know why he lost his job?’
The bloke’s eyes lit. He ran a manky mitt over his mouth: thought he might get a few sheets for his trouble. ‘He was on the wagons, had a big rig out there every night,’ he pointed to the street, ‘used to wash it and polish it when he wasn’t on a run . . . Fair buggered up his heid when that got taken off him.’
He was at it – nothing to offer. ‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ I said.
Mac was growing impatient. He edged towards the building, pointed at the door. I gave the neighbour a wide berth as I went. He called out, ‘Eh, got a smoke there, pal?’
I dug in my pocket and gave him a Marlboro.
He looked at it with derision. ‘That all you got?’
‘Do I look like a fucking mobile tobacconist?’
He took the tab, sparked up. He coughed away, hacked a gob of phlegm in the garden. I thought, Was I expecting too much looking for a thank-you?
At the door Mac leaned over and knocked hard. The crumbling paintwork lost a few flakes – like it mattered. There was no answer. Mac knocked again, a rusting bell by the door got a hit, then he looked through the letter box. He seemed to dwell there, breathed deep a few times then stood back.
‘Anything?’ I said.
His face looked pained. He pointed. ‘Take a look for
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