Big Boy Did It and Ran Away (21 page)

On this particular occasion, Ray had enjoyed the hospitality of the late Mr Darcourt and his housemate Ross, after a quick pint following the last lecture etcetera etcetera. He’d spoken to Simon a few times before that, and sat next to him in a couple of classes, silently entertaining each other by scribbling oh‐
so‐
hilarious remarks and doodles about the lecturer on their notepads. However, this had been the first time they’d really got talking, and they’d enjoyed one of those youthful, beer‐
fuelled meetings‐
of‐
the‐
minds that gave the impression university was bung‐
full of fellow visionaries. Sitting in the Queen Margaret Union bar, named at the time after the statutory dead black South African, their conversation covered every aspect of life: music, books and films. (Ray made a judicious rule of never bringing up the subject of computer games in Arts faculty company. Might as well turn up in an Anthrax T-shirt with a copy of The Foundation Trilogy under your arm.)

They seemed to agree on a lot of things, though as tended to be the case with such conversations, each participant probably switched off during the bits when his counterpart was enthusing over something he didn’t like or hadn’t heard of, impatient for his own turn. Memory subsequently retained only edited highlights. Ray, for instance, didn’t remember Simon eulogising about This Mortal Coil, but he must have held forth on the subject that night because he would later play It’ll End In Tears repeatedly until Ray wanted to track Liz Frazer down and force her at knifepoint to sing in a proper fucking language, he didn’t care which one.

Arguably more important than what you liked was agreeing on what you hated, and nothing forged a bond quite as strong as a shared detestation of a prevalent orthodoxy. In this case, their unifying sacrilege was that they both despised The Smiths, a heresy that distinguished them as being terribly individualistic and raised them above what Simon described as ‘all the bequiffed, designer‐
miserablist twats poncin’ around the QM hopin’ someone notices the volume of Oscar Wilde stickin’ out their jacket pocket’. In the mid‐
1980s, The Smiths were the student equivalent of stadium rock. Saying you hated them was, in that context, about as daringly iconoclastic as saying you hated the Spice Girls, but it still felt good to unload about it. Listening to Simon unload was even better.

Scorn was Simon’s true idiom. Nobody did withering derision quite like him, and it was a treat to hear him train the heavy armoury on what they both regarded as legitimate targets. On form, he was like Jerry Sadowitz without the warm sentimental streak, and the bigger the audience, the better the performance. Ray had a quiverful of barbs of his own, eliciting delighted approval from Simon when unsheathed, but he was limited in his dislikes. The scope of Simon’s contempt was boundless.

‘There’s nothin’ more depressin’ than wakin’ up next to a lassie and spottin’ Meat Is Murder lyin’ next to the turntable. My own fault for not askin’ I suppose, but they should really have the decency to tell you. I mean, they’d tell you if they’d any other disease. No, actually, there is somethin’ worse: pickin’ up Meat Is Murder and findin’ an Everything But The Girl album underneath. You’re fuckin’ doomed at that point. Before you get out of that flat, you’re gaunny hear all about her parents’ fuckin’ divorce and two hours of how nobody understands her, and all for the sake of one shag. Not fuckin’ worth it.’

Simon had had sex. The contemporary significance of this could not be overstated. Not only had he had sex and talked about it matter‐
of‐
factly (assuming, which Ray loved, that Ray had had some too), but he’d even had bad sex. As far as Ray was concerned, while this was not unthinkable, it hinted at a degree of experience and maturity which at that stage he couldn’t even aspire to. The idea of actually getting to do it seemed purely conceptual to a fairly shy seventeen‐
year‐
old who was only in the QM bar because (like every other seventeen‐
year‐
old in the place) he’d lied about his date of birth when he registered for his membership diary. This didn’t mean he couldn’t identify with what Simon was saying, mind you. He’d only been a student for a term and a half, but it had been time enough to teach him that possession of an EBTG album, badge, T-shirt or Tracy Thorne bowl‐
cut was nature’s way of telling you not to strike up a conversation with that particular girl unless you feared you were feeling just too damn positive for your own good.

Still, Simon moved in a world where student girls lived in flats and had casual sex, even the scowling depressive ones, and that world was a lot further from Ray’s than Houston was from Hillhead. For that reason, it thrilled him to be in Simon’s company, speaking, drinking, laughing, on terms. He knew it didn’t mean he was now one step from having sex that he could complain about with female Smiths fans, but it meant that he no longer had to worry about feeling like a sixth‐
year schoolboy out of uniform. It constituted a validation of proper student status.

Unfortunately, he feared it would be immediately revoked again when some more of Simon’s friends turned up and it was suggested that they ‘hit the disco and really make a night of it’. Ray could imagine his Clash T-shirt metamorphosing into a school tie and blazer as he pondered how best to phrase the admission that he had to get home to Mummy and Daddy’s house for hot cocoa and a biccie before night‐
night.

He settled for ‘I don’t think I can make it but I’ll hang around for one more pint,’ neglecting to further elaborate. Simon, however, was insistent.

‘Come on, man, you’ve got to. We’re just gettin’ started here.’ That was in between making enthusiastic introductions, depicting Ray to his intimidatingly grown‐
up‐
looking pals (greatcoats, stubble and roll‐
ups) as a soulmate of exquisite taste, intellect and wit. Ray was therefore now even more fearful of being ‘found out’ as a wee, Ayrshire‐
dwelling virgin who’d merely cracked a couple of well‐
timed gags about Morrissey and been bluffing when he made out he’d heard of Pere Ubu and Frazier Chorus.

‘I’ve nowhere to crash,’ he said, which deftly avoided the issue of where he’d normally be crashing: viz, a semi in the sticks.

‘It’s cool, you can crash at ours, can’t he, Ross?’

‘Aye, nae bother.’

And so Raymond’s Big Adventure in the Land of Vicarious Cool continued.

‘Ours’ turned out to be a terraced townhouse converted into six student bedsits. ‘If you get here the right time of day, you can hear the same Smiths album being’ simultaneously played on four different shitey tape decks,’ Simon claimed. ‘At least I think it’s the same album. Every track sounds the fuckin’ same to me.’

The three of them ate endless rounds of toast relayed in turns from the communal kitchen, washed down with black and watery tea (no milk, natch; one last tea bag heroically giving its all for six cups). Music was played, of course, a handful of shared favourites punctuating an eclectic plethora of obscure selections Simon insisted Ray would love. As it turned out, his strike rate was pretty high. It was an education for Ray, not only in terms of being introduced to a number of new bands, but in realising that while he thought he knew about music, to Simon it was a scholastic discipline. He provided a running commentary on every track, like the Shakespeare annotations that often took up more space on each page than the text itself. Innovation was everything: if it had been done before, it was worthless, pointless. In other company, Ray might have been able to make a case for the ain’t‐
broke‐
don’t‐
fix‐
it ethic of the finely crafted song, or the sheer visceral impact of a well‐
timed power chord, but on this occasion it would have been like suddenly announcing he was a Jehovah’s Witness and trying to flog Simon The Watchtower.

Pere Ubu, as it turned out, were not bad, but Frazier Chorus were absolute steg.

Ross retired to his room when the tea and toast ran out, which was long before Simon’s enthusiasm for furthering Ray’s musical horizons. Eventually Simon did decide to go to bed, a spontaneous decision taken while Ray was down in one of the bathrooms having a pee. When Ray returned to the room, Simon was fast asleep in the only bed, and utterly unrousable. The only reaction Ray found it possible to elicit, via nudging, was a low, threatening growl. Asking whether he had any spare bedding seemed overoptimistic.

Ray was consulting his watch and trying to remember how early the buses started when he heard a toilet flush, and was able to intercept Ross on his way back from syphoning off the beer. Fortunately, it turned out he had a spare sleeping bag. ‘I keep it in case Simon has guests,’ he said archly.

He woke up around nine, after about five hours’ fitful kip. The bedsit’s curtains didn’t reach the bottom of the window, so the wintery sunshine had beamed directly on to his face where he lay on the floor. If that hadn’t done it, his bladder would have probably roused him soon anyway, after five pints and then all that tea. When he looked at Simon’s bed, he was surprised to find it empty. Simon hadn’t struck Ray as the type to clap his hands and jump up when the alarm went off, but he vaguely remembered him saying something about meeting a guy to buy an amp.

Simon barrelled into the room, buttoning his shirt, his face still damp from washing.

‘I’m gaunny be late for this guy if I don’t head now. You needin’ to go too?’

‘I’ve missed my first lecture. Next one’s not until eleven.’

‘Lucky bastard. Just let yourself out, yeah?’

‘Sure. Where’s the bog again?’ Better be sure before his host departed; last night was still very hazy, and he didn’t want to walk into somebody’s bedroom by mistake.

‘There’s two. One on the first‐
floor landing, and another off the downstairs hall.’

‘Cheers. Burstin’.’

Ray sat up and extricated himself from the sleeping bag.

Woof.

‘Did you hear that?’

‘What?’

‘Sounded like a dog.’

Woof.

‘I heard that. Fuck, that was inside.’

‘Does one of your flatmates have a dog?’

‘Do they fuck. Are you kiddin’? It would need a housin’ benefit book before the landlord would let it in.’

Woof.

‘That’s definitely inside,’ they both said.

Simon headed for the door, Ray hurriedly pulling on his jeans to follow. Just the movement of walking made it feel like someone was squeezing his bladder. When he emerged on to the landing, Ross was already out of his room and looking over the banister. Below them, they could see two females on the lower landing, also staring down towards the bottom hall. One was in a dressing gown, clutching a towel, the other dressed in jeans and a Bunnymen T-shirt.

Woof.

‘There’s a dog in the flat,’ announced Bunnygirl, looking up, an English lassie Ray recognised from his literature‐
in‐
translation class.

‘And there’s me thinkin’ it was an antelope,’ Simon replied. ‘How did it get in?’

‘Somebody must’ve left the door open,’ suggested Ross.

‘Fuckin’ Yasser Arafat probably. He never shuts it. Still thinks he’s livin’ in a fuckin’ tent in the desert.’

‘Don’t be so racist,’ the English girl countered. ‘You’re always on at Ali.’

‘I’m not being’ racist. Unless it’s a custom in Morocco to leave fuckin’ doors lyin’ open.’

‘He’s from Tunisia.’

‘Whatever. He’s the only one not here. His first lecture’s at nine, every day. Serves him right for daein’ medicine.’

‘It could’ve been the postman.’

‘Does it matter?’ Ross enquired. ‘What kind of dog is it? Has anybody seen?’

Woof woof woof woof growl.

‘Oh fuck.’

Attracted by the raised voices, the dog had emerged into view to investigate the source, then began bounding up the stairs when it saw all the staring faces. Both girls immediately retreated into the nearest room and closed the door with a slam. The alsatian (it had to be an alsatian, in accordance with the rule that decreed every uncontrolled, ownerless dog running wild in a public place must be one of those sabre‐
toothed and over‐
aggressive bastards) stopped outside it, standing up on two legs and scratching the paintwork.

Simon laughed, which caused it to turn around and bark angrily at him. All three of them dived into Ross’s room, it being directly behind where they’d been standing. ‘What the fuck is it doin’ here?’ Ross asked. ‘That prick Yasser. I’m gaunny tie the door shut wi’ his fuckin’ headscarf.’

‘I’ve got a tutorial at ten,’ Ross moaned. ‘I’m burstin’ for a pish.’

‘An’ I’m meant tae be meetin’ a guy on Byres Road in fifteen minutes. Doesnae look like any of us are goin’ anywhere until we get rid of Cerberus doon there.’ Ross opened the door a little, peering through the crack. ‘It’s stopped barkin’ anyway. I cannae see it, though. Think it might have gone back doonstairs. Christ, how we gaunny get rid of it? I hate thae fuckin’ things. Wan o’ them bit me when I was wee, never forgave the cunts.’

‘That’s whit your mammy tells you anyway. “You were gorgeous until that big dug bit you, Ross son.”’

‘Fuck off. This is serious.’

Simon laughed. ‘I know. No’ much point in me buyin’ this guy’s amp if I cannae play my guitar ’cause my arm’s been bitten off.’

‘I’ve got tae hand in an essay at this tutorial. I’m already on an extension.’

‘Well here’s your big chance. Chuck it doon there tae the hound of the Baskervilles an’ you can genuinely tell your tutor a dug ate it.’

‘One more word an’ I’m chuckin’ you oot my room. You think you could make it next door withoot gettin’ savaged?’

‘It’s only about four feet.’

‘A long four feet with the jaws of death closin’ in on you.’

‘How far’s the bog?’

‘You’d never make it, Ray. You’d have pished yoursel’ before you got there anyway.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Anybody got a ginger bottle?’

‘Don’t even think about it.’

‘Seriously,’ Ross implored, ‘whit are we gaunny dae?’

‘I know,’ Simon said. ‘We can phone Gerry roon the corner. Tell him to come to the house, then when he opens the door, the dug can get back oot. Either that or we can all get past while it’s eatin’ Gerry.’

‘Have you got a phone?’ Ray asked, wondering whether this was another of Simon’s gags or a genuine solution.