McCann case 4

He was close enough to the other workers to be part of the huddled group of smoker, but far enough away not to get involved. Non-smokers stumbled from ASDA with their polystyrene cups with lids on them, hoping to grab a mouthful of fresh air and some winter sunshine. But it was permanent shadow and low-level mildewed facing brick in the alley that ran to the back of the store. A wind trap designed to drive the rain into your face and get you back inside before the end of your tea-break.

He fished around his pockets for his fags. He remembered the first few pints that went down very nicely in the Drop Inn. Then he could remember games of pool and walking home in the rain. But he couldn’t remember the Bottle of Buckfast. Or how he’d ended up sitting outside his tenement flat on the stairs a couple of flights down from his front door. A neighbour shaking him awake. But he couldn’t remember which one or if it was the ghost of Buckfast past.

Rhona’s screech was as loud as she was fat. ‘Then he said, “Lead the fucking way then, if yer man enough”…’ She sucked on her fag, looking please with herself as her punchline brought a few sniggers and some nervous laughter.

But the guy that usually worked the meat counter was stubbing out his fag on the wall, letting it drop onto the uneven and puddled rain-drenched tarmac and making the move to get back before she’d finished speaking.

The others soon followed. He watched their high-viz hurrying. Their pace quickening as they reached the corner of the store, making the dash to get back a race against the clock and each other.

Out the corner of his eye, he noticed Rhona making another stab at getting her arse up off the wee wall she was sitting on and standing without wobbling and drawing the wrong kind of attention to herself. If he’d been a gentleman, he’d have reached out an arm and offered his hand.

She looked him up and down when she got up. ‘Whit yeh fucking looking at?’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing much.’

‘We better get back.’ Her voice rose and became girlish as her moon face looked up at his. ‘Wee McGrorty…’

He inclined his head and sniggered through his nose. ‘Fuck wee McGrorty.’  

Her head dipped and she waddled away, but turned back to get him. ‘Aren’t yeh comin?’

‘Aye,’ he held a hand up. ‘In a wee minute.’  

‘Suit yersel.’

‘I always dae. I’m no a willing part of the meat grinder.’

He wasn’t sure if she’d heard him, but she doubled back before the corner and before he’d finished his fag.

Eyes shining. ‘Yer mad.’

He took compliments wherever he could get them, but he’d stubbed his fag under heel, it was freezing and wet and he was ready to follow her inside.

‘Yeh keep yersel tae yersel,’ she declared squinting at his face for a reaction.

He took a deep breath and pulled his chin in trying to stand a little taller. ‘We aw dae.’

‘Aye, but yer a bit older and don’t take any shite.’ She waved a hand. ‘Gie me wan of them smokes.’

He shrugged. ‘I would. But it’s about two quid a fag. And it takes us suckers about quarter-an-hour to make that much dosh trying tae kill oursel, outside rather than inside.’

‘Yer funny tae.’  

It had been a while since he’d been considered noble and funny. He parted with his fags and matches quicker than a schoolboy giving a bully his dinner money.

She shimmed sideways, drawing on her cigarette, hey eyes darting to moving shadows in the glass windows of the restaurant attached to the cinema. ‘I’ve ne’er really noticed yeh before.’

‘Aye, I’ve been around.’ He flicked a stray bit of tobacco from his lips. ‘Whit about you?’

A catch in her voice. ‘This is my first job…since huving wee Darren.’

‘Yeh like it?’

‘Fucking hate it.’

He sniggered. ‘Aye, we aw dae. But the total arse-lickers make a pretence of loving it.’ He took a long draw of his fag. ‘I used tae think we could dae something about it.’ Grimacing, he shook his head. ‘I used tae be a social worker.’  

She squeezed his arm, her eyes, nose and mouth playing a wee tune of belief and disbelief before settling into something neutral. ‘A social worker? Did yeh? I mean, whit did yeh gi’e it up for?’

‘I didnae. It gi’e me up.’ Weariness settled onto every syllable. ‘PTSD.’

‘PTSv?’ Her mouth couldn’t hit the same notes from memory. ‘Whit’s that?’

‘Long story.’ He shrugged. ‘Better get back. It’s called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Guys in the Falklands and that usually got it when they’d seen too much killing. I knew where the bodies were buried inside the bureaucracy—and they made my life a living hell. I’ll write a book about it, wan day.’

Her fag flickered on the path to her mouth as she took a quick draw. She snatched a look at his face. Her eyes softened then hardened again. His jaw tightened under the scrutiny. But like him she was watching the end of the lane as if expecting a bogey man to appear.