Grimms64

Jaz is gagging for the first pint of the day, but is stuck in traffic, enclosed in a bubble of the front seat of a red Volkswagen. Del is driving. They’re following a security van as it picks up and drops off money. The route takes it from Paisley Road West through the Clyde Tunnel onto Dunbarton Road down to Dunbarton, near the Sheriff Court and back along to Partick. It’s boring. They’ve been following the schedule for over a month and it’s the nearest thing Jaz has gotten to a real job. He knows exactly where the white van is going to stop. How long the security guards will take, and can even pick out which security guard is doing the delivery by the way they walk. He’s on a need-to-know basis, but it’s obvious they’re going to rob the van.

‘Drop me off here,’ he tells Del passing his house as they shadow the van coming through Dalmuir. ‘I’m gonnae go for a pint. Fancy it?’

The security van stops next to the pavement at the Linen Bank and the bigger of the two security guard gets out. It’s right next to Maggie Scott’s and too good an opportunity to miss. They watch as the security guard takes a stroll to the door of the bank.

‘Nah,’ Del sticks the handbrake on. Parks beside the chip shop at the canal. ‘You batter in,’ he jokes as the vinegary smell wafts in. ‘And have one for me.’ He shrugs, ‘You know what Dougie’s like, he’ll quiz me. Want to know what colour of knickers those playboys are wearing.’ He nods towards the humph-shouldered security guard, carrying his satchel. ‘It’s a fuckin’ lark.’  He takes a deep drag of his fag and mutters something else, glancing sideways at the mirror and through the side window into the traffic.

Jaz scoots out of the passenger door and pulls his denim collar up against the rain. They’ve a fleet of four cars they use in different lockups. He feels the growing elation of a man sneaking away from work early and feels a little sympathy for Del, but as the wheel man his job is to drive. Jaz did what he is told and supposes his growing ability to monitor the police frequencies on the radio receiver installed in the car might later be a more useful tool than swapping channels between Radio 1 and Radio Clyde.  

Jaz is in the bar almost every day. The same old hard, pre-occupied, faces in the pub glancing up at him when he pushes through the door. A pint waiting for him, and Drew, the barman, limping over with his hand out waiting to get paid. ‘Have wan for yerself,’ Jaz says, since he’s flush with cash.

‘Cheers,’ says Drew. The pint tumbler near the till, dings with his tip.

Jaz’s favoured niche is a perch at the end of the bar, his back to the toilets, where he can watch the door and hide his own bleakness. He lights a Woodbine, the same old stance and tired jokes fluttering into life from the tables close by and dying more quickly than the Bluebell match he uses, static whooshes of background music, Cliff Richard and the Shadows from the transistor as life move on in a fug of smoke without them. Out of the corner of his eyes he spots somebody he recognises.

Rab slumps forward at the corner table. His back against the cushioned rest he sits with a pint of lager half-finished in front of him, from where Jaz is standing, it looks flat. His friend is slumped forward, thin shoulders rounded and bulging like a deformity, his elbow on his knees and forehead clasped in his hands, gouching. He’s on the nod and only a coughing spell brings him out of it. His eyes startled awake and he rocks backwards and forward. His lips crinkle as he tries to put a rollup into his mouth, but a hacking cough defeats his effort. His head turns, his plukey face has waged a war with blackheads and lost and hair hangs lank as greaseproof paper used by the chippy. ‘Jaz,’ he shouts in recognition. ‘Is that you? C’mon over, my man.’ His bony hips squeaks sideways and he lifts his pint and puts it to his lips, eyes flickering towards the bar.   

Jaz settles his bum on a three-legged stool across from Rab and  puts his pint beside the ashtray. ‘Whit’s wrang with you?’

‘Just too much to drink.’ Rab sniffs and his smile is almost shy.

‘That’s no’ drink. Whit you on? Hash?

‘Nah, I’m just tired.’

‘I can smell shite talkin’,’ Jaz growls. ‘Whit are yeh in here for exactly?’

‘I thought I’d come and see my mate. Nae harm in that, is there?’

Jaz leans across the table. ‘Whit is it that LSD? You seein wee green men.’ He flutters his fingers in front of his face. The raised voice catches the interest of the barman who looks over and there’s a shifting in seats as the regulars tune in to a programme that they’ve seen before but is always watchable.

Rab realises his ruse and what he is saying is going nowhere and what’s going to happen is going to happen and it seems pointless. ‘It’s heroin,’ he whispers. ‘I wiz hopin’ you’d lend me £25 to give to Tam Daly or he said he’s gonnae break my legs.’

‘Fuck off,’ says Jaz. He takes a sip of his pint, nibbles his lip. He doesn’t know Tam Daly well, but he knows who he is, an older guy that lends money out of the Atlantis, and one New Year had come home with his da and had a drink in his house to welcome the bells. Meant to be a bit of a hard nut. But he doesn’t like Daly threatening his former mate, and the way that reflects on him.

‘Yer brother, the Tash, owes at least double that amount,’ Rab’s tone is a plea bargain. ‘And he’s on the gear, as well.’

Jaz swivels on the stool. ‘Wait, and I’ll get yeh a pint.’ His blood sings with the need to act and he wallows in a sentimentality he is meant to feel. Nobody is allowed to mess with his brother, unless it is him. He’s been given the opportunity to act and that hurting notion in a just cause pleases him.