One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night (8 page)

‘An oil rig
is
a platform, Eddie. Oil rig, oil platform. Same thing.’

‘Aye, but I mean, they’ve stripped it doon tae
just
the platform, then built everythin’ up again fae there. I read somethin’ aboot it in the paper.’

‘But whit’s the point? Buildin’ a hotel or whatever on a big hunk o’ metal? Whit’s wrang wi’ dry land?’

‘It’s so it’s exclusive, big man. So’s scrotes like you an maself cannae get near the fuckin’ thing. Like wan o’ thae wee islands, whit dae ye cry them? There’s hunners o’ them. The Endives.’

‘Maldives, ya fuckin’ eejit. Endives are in salad.’

‘So that would be thousands of islands then?’

‘Aye, very fuckin’ funny, Eddie.’

‘Anyway, in the Maldives, ye’ve tae get a boat oot tae your hotel, an’ your hotel is
aw
that’s on the island. You’re isolated, away fae it aw. So they’ve used this oil‐
platform affair instead of an island. It’s like
buildin’
an island.’

‘Be fuckin’ freezin’, but, will it no’? The Cromarty Firth’s no’ exactly the South Pacific. Cannae see many folk lyin’ oot in their bikinis in May. Have tae wipe the snaw aff the sunloungers first.’

‘Have you been listenin’ tae a word I’ve said? It’s no’
stayin’
in the Cromarty Firth. That’s just where they’ve been rebuildin’ it. Fittin’ it oot, an’ that. When that’s aw done, they’re towin’ the whole shebang aff tae somewhere it’s warm aw year roon. Coast of Africa, I think.’

‘Oh, I get you noo. Wee bit hotter than Rosstown, then. Still, whit’s the point o’ gaun aw that way, tae Africa like, an’ then coopin’ yoursel’ up in this wan wee place the whole time? Seems a bit ay a waste, to me.’

‘Well, Charlie, that’s how we’ve no’ made millions oot the tourist business and Gavin Hutchison has. I mean, personally, I think it’s the stupitest fuckin’ idea I’ve ever heard in my life, but that just proves I know fuck‐
all.’

‘It doesnae take an oil‐
platform holiday resort to prove you know fuck‐
all, Eddie.’

‘Aye, very good.’

‘But I take your point. I wouldnae be seen deid in the place if it wasnae aw bein’ laid on.’

‘You couldnae afford it if it wasnae aw bein’ laid on.’

‘Good shout, aye. But you know what I mean, Eddie. It sounds hellish.’

‘Some place for a party, mind you. I think this could be a rerr terr, the night. Nae neighbours tae tell you tae keep it doon, nae polis, free drink.’

‘Aye, but if it turns oot it’s shite, it’ll be a cunt tryin’ tae get a taxi hame. Be a good laugh phonin’ for wan, right enough. Givin’ them directions: “Aye, you just take a right at the lights, then first left, then hauf a mile across the water. It’s the second oil rig efter the kebab shop.”’

‘Aye. “Name on the door’s Hutchison.”’

‘I have to say, though, Eddie, I still don’t mind o’ the cunt at aw.’

‘Who, Gavin?’

‘Aye. Drawin’ a total blank here.’

‘Come on, Charlie, fuck’s sake. You must remember him. Mind, the guy that got a knock‐
back aff Hound Henderson in first year at the Christmas party when everybody was up dancin’ tae the fuckin’ “Hucklebuck” or some shite.’

‘I mind o’
her
. Fuckin’ horrible beast, so she was. Christ, I hope she’s no sittin’ two seats in front. Did I say that loud?’

‘Naw, you’re awright. But d’you mind him noo?’

‘Naw. ’Cause it wasnae him, it was Paddy Grieg that got knocked back aff Hound Henderson that time.’

‘Fuck, so it was. Right enough. An’
he
cannae be on this bus, ’cause we’d’ve smelled him by noo. Fuckin’ hell, man. Paddy Grieg. I mean, gettin’ knocked back affa Hound Henderson it doesnae get any lower than that, does it? Seriously, you’d have tae stick your heid in the oven efter that wan, wouldn’t ye?’

‘Aye, Eddie, says you that shagged Linda Clark thon time.’

‘That’s different. At least I got a result.’

‘Some result. She’d a face like a melted welly.’

‘Well, you don’t look at the mantelpiece when you’re pokin’ the fire.’

‘Poor, Eddie, poor. And does your Margaret know you shagged Linda Clark?’

‘It was afore we were merried. I was eighteen.’

‘Aye, but does she know? ’Cause the two o’ them werenae exactly pals, like, were they?’

‘Fuck’s sake, keep your voice doon. Margaret’s got ears like fuckin’ radar, even if your Tina’s burnin’ them aff doon the front the noo.’

‘You leave ma Tina oot this. Answer the question: does she know?’

‘Am I still alive? Is Linda Clark still alive?’

‘I’ll take that as a No, then.’

‘You, me and Linda are the only folk that know. I’d everybody else that knew professionally murdered a few years back.’

‘So, is Linda Clark on the bus?’

‘You’re fuckin’ hopeless, Charlie. Linda Clark went tae Auchenlea High. She wasnae at oor school. Heidin’ fitbas must have knackered your memory.’

‘Ach, pish. I can mind as much as you. Wait a minute. I know who Gavin Hutchison is noo. Wasnae he the guy that knocked himsel’ oot playin’ tig wance, when he ran intae thon big pillar?’

‘Naw. That was me, ya daft cunt.’

‘Well, was he the wan that got stung wi’ a deid wasp in the art class, pickin’ it up?’

‘Naw. That was me as well. You’re takin’ the piss, ya fuckin’ prick.’

‘Hing on. I’ve got it. Was he the wan that got a doin’ aff Davie Murdoch?’

‘Noo you’re
really
takin’ the piss. Every cunt got a doin’ aff Davie Murdoch. I ’hink the Pope probably got his baws booted aff Davie when he came tae Bellahouston Park.’

‘Well, in that case, as I says, I don’t mind him at aw.’

‘Actually, noo I come tae think of it, I’m no’ sure I mind him masel’. I thought that was him wi’ the Hound Henderson cairry‐
on but it wasnae. An’ I thought mibbe it was him that spewed his ring in RE, mind, like the fuckin’
Exorcist
, but that was Ally McQuade. Fuck. Total blank.’

‘Tell’t you you were as bad as me.’

‘What the fuck, but. Free pairty. We’ll mibbe recognise him when we see him.’

‘Either that or we’ll just have tae kid on. “Awright, Gavin? Howzitgaun? No seen you for dunkey’s. Whit? You don’t remember us? Whit kinna pal are you, ya cunt?”’

‘You’ve some brass neck, Charlie my man. You don’t remember anybody. I’m surprised you remember me.’

‘Come aff it. I remembered Davie Murdoch, didn’t I?’

‘
Everybody
remembers Davie Murdoch. Same as Matt Black. Hard tae forget when they’re in the newspapers aw the time.’

‘D’you reckon it’s true aboot aul’ Dilithium, then, Eddie?’

‘Whit?’

‘Aboot him turnin’ ower a new leaf? Renouncin’ violence, becomin’ a painter an’ aw that?’

‘Fuck knows. Everybody changes, I suppose. I mean look, there’ Ally McQuade five seats doon, bein’ dead pally wi’ auld Mrs Laurence. He was a cheeky wee shite, used tae make her life a misery.’

‘He’s still a cheeky wee shite.’

‘Aye, but you know whit I mean. Davie was awright sometimes. I sat next tae him in Geography in second year. We’d a laugh noo and again.’

‘Whit are you talkin’ aboot, Eddie? Davie leathered you in Geography in second year. Dished you wi’ that big atlas.’

‘Aye, right enough. But still. He must have reformed or they’d never have let him oot, would they? An’ sure there’s that story aboot when he was released. Deek Patterson’s brother, Panda, attacked him ootside the jile an’ he never fought back. Just stood there an’ took it until the polis pulled Panda aff.’

‘Aye, I remember hearin’ aboot that masel’, Ed. Still, if Davie turns up tonight, I don’t see anybody puttin’ it tae the test by tryin’ tae settle any scores, do you?’

‘Well, I never cried him Dilithium Davie tae his face back then, so I’m no startin’ noo. He might have a flashback. A fuckin’ “regression”, know?’

‘Naw, I wouldnae worry, Eddie. On the off‐
chance that he’s actually there, if Davie went mental again, it’s odds‐
on it would be Kenny Collins that got the doin’. His mooth was aye writin’ cheques his arse couldnae cash.’

‘Him or Ally McQuade.’

‘Naw, at least Ally was funny. Kenny was just ignorant. Horrible wee bastard, so he was. Sneaky as well. No redeemin’ features. Face you could punch aw night.’

‘Shoosh. Keep your voice doon or he’ll come back up here again. I thought he was gaunny sit doon beside us earlier. I couldnae have handled him aw the way up the road.’

‘Aye, you’re right there, Eddie. My heart sank when I saw him gettin’ on the bus. I suppose that’s whit you’re signin’ up for, though, goin’ tae a thing like this. The drink might be free, but you’re still payin’ a high price puttin’ up wi’ some of the company.’

‘Still, it’s gaunny be mental seein’ some o’ thae folk again.’

‘That’s if anybody else turns up. The pairty could be just us that’s on this bus, plus this Gavin Hutchison bugger that we cannae remember anyway. I cannae picture Matt Black comin’ back fae America just tae see us arseholes again, eh? An’ Davie Murdoch – he lives in fuckin’ New York or somewhere. He’s no gaunny be there either. No tae mention aw the wans that are in the jile.’

‘Ach, never mind. Free pairty, innit? Overnight stay an’ everythin’.’

‘Aye. Overnight stay on an
oil rig
.’

‘It’ll be fine, big man. It’ll be better than that, in fact. Forget the oil rig: it’s a
resort
. This guy obviously knows what he’s doin’, knows how tae make folk feel comfortable. That’s how he’s rakin’ in the millions, an’ I’m fittin’ fuckin’ wardrobes.’

‘Good guys get shot in the shoulder,’ Ally was explaining. ‘It’s the first rule of engagement for action movies. Allows that aw‐
naw‐
he’s‐
been‐
hit fright moment, renders the hero apparently vulnerable, gives everybody a quality wince, but crucially does no real harm. Headshot is obviously oot, as is the chest; leg wound limits mobility, stomach puts you on a dead‐
withoot‐
medical‐
attention timelock, and forearm is just too wimpy. Thus, the upper‐
arm‐
to‐
shoulder area gets it every time, and doesnae affect either the aiming or the punching ability of the aforementioned good guy. Bruce Willis in
Die Hard
– bullet in the shoulder courtesey of Alexander Godunov. Michael Biehn in
Terminator
, courtesy of Arnie. Linda Hamilton in
T2
.’

‘That was a stabbing weapon.’

‘True enough, but same difference. Arnie himself in
Commando
.’

‘Grenade blast, if I remember correctly,’ Mrs Laurence clarified. ‘But nonetheless, it
was
the shoulder.’

‘Indeed. Then there’s Arnie again in
Predator
. Danny Glover in
Predator 2
. Danny Glover again in
Lethal Weapon
. Carrie Fisher in
Return of the Jedi
. The golden era was, of course, your Joel Silver Eighties – I suppose that should be Silver era, shouldn’t it? – but the rules are still bein’ observed today. Nick Cage in
Con‐
Air
, Guy Pearce in
LA Confidential
, Robert De Niro in
Ronin
.’

‘Yes, but it goes back a long way before the Eighties. Before cinema, even. Might I offer Jim Hawkins in
Treasure Island
?’

‘Of course. Knife through the celluloid sweetspot on the mast of the
Hispaniola
. An’ if we’re openin’ it up to books, there’s Frodo Baggins in
Lord of the Rings
, with the added discomfort of the blade breakin’ aff an’ giein’ him the Orc equivalent of tetanus for a good two hunner pages. But it’s important to stress that this is a convention we’re talkin’ aboot, not a cliché. Admittedly, there’ an awfy fine line between the two, but good guys gettin’ shot in the shoulder is the right side of it.’

‘What would be a cliché, then?’

‘Eh, let me think. Aye. Bad guys comin’ back for one last fright. See, your hero gettin’ wounded is part of the mechanics of the story – the baddie comin’ back is just a cheap shock. Fortunately, the
Scream
movies put a bullet in the head o’ that wan. Literally.’

Ally was well into his stride, feeling buoyed by the experience of having a sensible conversation with Mrs Laurence: it constituted valid, independent confirmation of having achieved grown‐
up status. Never mind jobs, money, wives or weans: you knew you were a man when you could contradict your former English teacher without her giving you a punishment exercise.

Well, not that sensible a conversation, maybe, but an enjoyable one. Mrs L had surprised him by confessing her devotion to action flicks, unwittingly triggering an onslaught of Ally’s in‐
depth theses on the genre. This was something that seldom required much provocation, and under these circumstances he was really going for it, making the most of that Vader‐
to‐
Kenobi moment: ‘Now
I
am the master.’

‘You know, I never really had you down for a post‐
structuralist, Alastair,’ she said.

Ally laughed, thinking back to all the things Mrs Laurence had called him in his time. That had not been one of them. It seemed he wasn’t the only one pleasantly surprised by their mutual civility.

‘Ach, naw,’ he told her. ‘This isnae deconstructionism, it’s pure, anorak‐
class obsessiveness. Aw the theorisin’ goes right oot the windae when I’m actually watchin’ a film. I
want
to get carried along for the ride, which is where clichés ruin it, but conventions are part of the structure.’

‘Suspension of disbelief.’

‘Aye. That kinna thing. I’ll swallow any scenario, as long as the film sticks to its own bullet‐
deadliness quotient.’

‘Its what?’

‘An action film establishes its own rules of gunplay. In some, every bullet is potentially lethal – even the old shot to the shoulder can look worryingly close to the upper‐
chest area. But in others, machine guns can seem the least deadly weapon known to man. To illustrate, at one end of the spectrum there’s your Tarantino movies: reputations aside, there’s not
that
much gunplay, so when somebody lets off a shot, it’s for real, and it’s usually fatal. High bullet‐
deadliness quotient. At the other end, there’s your John Woo movies: zillions of rounds goin’ off an’ the only thing they ever hit is glass. Low bullet‐
deadliness quotient. In a high BDQ film, if the baddie draws a bead on somebody, get ready for ketchup. In a low BDQ film, that’s just a bad day for the janitor. And both types are fine by me, as long as the rules are followed consistently.’