LITMIR.BIZ

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it.’

      He went to take a couple of the Tennent’s screw tops off the set of drawers and she wagged a finger at him. ‘Still have to pay for drink. You know that.’

      He shook his head, took out a fifty pence, left it in the porcelain dish by the bottles.

      The shebeen was big, one of those huge Victorian flats you got in Glasgow, every room converted to a bedroom apart from the kitchen. That was Iris’s domain. She sat on an old kitchen chair in the doorway, crates of bottles and big Chas the bouncer looming behind her. She’d told him once that the shebeen made twice as much money out the drink as it did out the girls, whatever that said about Glasgow. She didn’t mess about, Iris. Only sold whisky and beer. Take it or leave it. Tennent’s and Red Hackle.

      The real money was made after hours and on a Sunday. By midnight on a Friday or three o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, when the real drinkers started to get the shakes, she could pretty much charge what she wanted for it. He’d passed enough shame-faced women and rheumy-eyed men on the stairs to know how well she did. Drinkers always found the money from somewhere. Even if it meant their weans didn’t eat the next day.

      Janey’d built a joint with the grass he’d brought, good stuff, according to Robbie, taken off some American band playing at Greene’s Playhouse the night before. Half of it deposited into the lock-up at Central and half straight into Robbie’s pocket. He’d only charged him a quid. By the expression on Janey’s face should have been a lot more than that.

      She put the thin joint in his mouth, closed her own over the burning end, lips forming a seal, and blew the smoke deep into his lungs. He held his breath as long as he could then let out a cloud of the sweet-smelling smoke. Didn’t take long to kick in. He felt a bit woozy, good. Robbie was right. He took it back off her, had a couple more deep puffs and handed it back.

      Janey’d put a scarf over the wee lamp on the bedside table, lit a few joss sticks, stuck some pictures from magazines of beaches and expensive cars onto the peeling wallpaper. Anything to make the place a bit less like the back bedroom of a cold-water flat in Possilpark. ‘Atmosphere’ she called it. ‘Punters like it, younger ones anyway.’

      He sat down on the end of the bed, tried to untie the laces of his shoes. He giggled, was more difficult than he thought. He managed to get his tie and shirt off, tried and failed to unbuckle his belt, started giggling again. Janey’d put an album on the wee record player in the corner. Their Satanic Majesties Request. Had to keep it low, though. Iris didn’t like her playing music, couldn’t hear what was going on. Wasn’t his favourite, but tonight it sounded good. Grass, drink and the music were starting to work together, perfect equilibrium.

      Janey started dancing. Watching herself in the cracked mirror in the wardrobe. She was swaying to the music, singing along. She was a good-looking girl: long black hair, curvy body, funny wee button nose and a big smile. Too good-looking to be working here. Iris’s shebeen wasn’t exactly what you’d call high class. Punters were mostly labourers off the sites or men from the Iron Box factory with Friday night’s wages burning a hole in their pocket. Every time he tried to ask her about it, tell her to find somewhere else, she laughed it off. Told him she liked it here, had worked in a lot worse places.

      She caught sight of him in the mirror watching her, smiled and stuck her tongue out at him. He leant over and pulled her down onto the bed beside him. She laughed, pretended to struggle. He kissed her as she kicked off her platform sandals, wiggled out her hot pants. He kissed her neck, moved his hands down to her breasts, cock already hard against her thigh. Dope was really kicking in now; he felt heavy, slow, relaxed. He moved down her. She ran her fingers through his hair and he looked up at her, grinned.

      ‘You and me, Janey. You and me,’ he said.

      The record stopped, arm lifted, went back and then the music started again. ‘She’s a Rainbow.’ He was in her now, getting quicker, breathing heavy against her neck, getting there. She wrapped her legs around his back, moved in closer, whispered in his ear. ‘Come on, my wee darling. Come on . . .’

      He moved another few times, tried to hold back but couldn’t. He moaned, collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily into her neck. He lay there for a minute, then raised himself up on his elbows, looked into her eyes.

      ‘That was magic. How about you? You okay?’

      She nodded, slapped him on the back. ‘Let’s do another, eh?’

      He rolled off, sat up against the headboard and watched her. She was sitting cross-legged, bag of grass and fold of papers on the album cover nestling in her lap, long dark hair hanging down like a curtain over her face. She was a pro, could roll a joint in seconds flat, could even do it with one hand if she had to.

      He looked at his watch. Ten past twelve. He wasn’t going to any restaurants tonight, didn’t care, too stoned to go anywhere. Nairn could fuck off. He wasn’t his fucking errand boy. He wanted to be here, with her. She lit up another joint and took a deep drag.

      ‘As of ten minutes ago it’s my birthday,’ he said. ‘January second.’

      ‘That right?’ she asked. ‘What age are you, then?’

      ‘Thirty. Past it.’

      She smiled hazily, eyes glassy. Leant over and kissed him, put the joint in his mouth. He took a drag, felt a rush to his head. He couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate. He exhaled, lay back on the bed. Could hear Janey singing to herself as she built another joint. Could hear a closing door and the clatter of some punter’s boots walking down the corridor, Iris answering the door and the clink of bottles as she handed them over.

      Janey leant over him and gently blew a cloud of the grass smoke into his face. He breathed in, watched the headlights of the cars driving past making giant shadows that came and went. He listened to the rain battering against the window, remembered being in a caravan with his mum and dad when he was a wee boy. Janey switched the lamp off, snuggled up beside him. He watched the orange end of the joint glow and fade as she inhaled. He put his arm round her shoulders, pulled her in, let his eyes close and he drifted away.

      2nd January 1973

      THREE

      McCoy woke up freezing cold, all of the blankets wrapped round Janey, only a sheet between him and the ice starting to form on the inside of the windows. He tried to burrow under the sheets and fall back asleep, but it didn’t work. Combination of a hangover and the cold meant he’d no chance. He tried to shake Janey awake, but she was having none of it, just grunted and turned away, burrowed back down under the blankets. He got dressed quickly, picking up his clothes from where he’d dropped them, pulled the front door of the shebeen closed behind him and walked down the stairs. Half five. Too late to go home, too early to go into work. Maybe he’d check the restaurants after all. He’d nothing else to do.

      The city was starting to wake up, first buses rolling past, passengers leaning on the windows half asleep, bundled up against the cold. Despite the holiday New Year was over, back to normal, no matter how bad the hangovers were. Christmas lights hanging across the streets were still on, bells and holly weakly flashing on and off through the freezing mist and the snow that was starting to fall. A dog appeared round the corner of Sauchiehall Street, ran at the seagulls feeding on an overturned bin and they wheeled up and away, squawking into the sky.

      McCoy was freezing, been standing in under the canopy of the Malmaison since half six, stamping his feet and blowing in his hands to try and keep warm. So far he’d watched a road sweeper trying to gather up all the soggy chip packets and empty beer bottles strewn round the street, bought a paper off a boy selling them from a pram, and stood out the way as two blokes pushed a cart full of old carpet and underlay up Hope Street. He conducted a thorough search of every one of his pockets, still couldn’t find his other glove. He took the one he had off his left hand and stuck it on his right just as the restaurant manager turned up. Mr Agnotti, as he introduced himself. A right snotty wee bastard, as it turned out. Suppose you had to be to work in a place like that. McCoy’d only been in

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