I’m sitting there, sipping a coffee, checking the weather for the day ahead. Within an hour I’ll be out of here and deep into the Ayrshire countryside.
There’s a guy up at the window. Got his nice new shiny MacBook out, sitting in the window. Tap, tap, tap. Sigh. Tap, tap, tap, and then a loud announcement:
“That will never do.”
I pick up my headphones and I’m about to put on a podcast when the door crashes open and in comes a man, six foot two and built like a brick shithouse, and a woman about five foot one with a face red as can be.
“There he is,” announces the fella, and they are looking at Shakespeare in the window.
The music stops in the café and the woman comes round from behind the man and announces:
“You fucking stop writing about me, alright? It’s creepy and I don’t agree to this.”
Shakespeare’s mouth has dropped open. He’s trying to say something, but nothing is coming out.
The other man has no such problem.
“You need to fucking stop this now, wee man, alright? You’re not doing yourself any favours.”
Shakespeare is closing down his computer, but it’s not going fast enough. I look around and everyone in the café is watching. Mikey behind the counter is just watching.
Shakespeare finds some bottle.
“Aye, what you going to do, beat me up? Oh, real tough guy.”
He’s slipping the computer into his bag.
The other man steps forward.
“Actually, I’m her solicitor and you’ll be hearing from us.”
The woman pipes up.
“We’ve given you every chance.”
Suddenly Shakespeare has turned a paler shade of pale and is trying to find the words.
The man and the woman turn and make to leave.
“Stop. Wait. I don’t know who you are.”
And he looks at me. I shrug my shoulders and he grabs his bag and darts through the door in one motion.
I take a sip of coffee.
