Part 6 of the Miserable Bastards Series

Mikey’s back, somehow looking worse than when he left.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

He’s bleeding from his lip and rubbing his eye. He looks like he’s been under police questioning for an hour.

“The polis found my hedgehog, called me a clatty bastard. I told her to get to fuck… so, er, she hit me.”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” says Frank as Bam comes round the bar and takes him by the hand over to a booth.

We all follow, and as I stand I feel a little unsteady on my feet. I’m getting a decent buzz from this whisky; let’s see what the fuck is going on.

I get there and Mikey’s cleaning himself up as Bam gives him another cross-examination.

“So, where is the hedgehog now?” she asks.

“Never mind that,” snaps Frank. “Where are the polis?”

Mikey is turning pale.

“Mikey?”

“Oh fuck, I just ran.” he says, looking over at the door.

“Christ, you, oot the back. Take some smokes, and we’ll shout you when it’s clear. Right, everyone else, back to where you were.”

Fuck’s sake.

We’re back to our seats, back to our places, trying to look innocent. This is one of those moments where it would be good to be drinking in a bar with windows.

It was an old rule of mine: don’t drink in a bar without windows or one with pool cues but no pool table.

“Fucking hell,” shouts Bam. “We’re sitting in here like a guilty party,” she turns up the music and starts moving, boogying, getting down.

And we’re all up. Even Pat is doing some kind of robot move.

Suddenly the door bursts open, and in walks a police woman, shorter than Bam. Face red, sweaty. This is Mikey’s attacker.

This.

She’s shouting.

“Where the fuck is he, where the fuck is he? Nae one, nae one. Nae one does this to Pam Wilson. PC Pam Wilson.”

I’m trying not to laugh. I look at Bam; she’s trying not to laugh. Frank’s going for the Oscar, straight-faced and smooth.

“What appears to be the trouble, officer?” he says in a radio DJ voice.

“Frank McTavish, I should’ve known that I’d find you in a shite hole like this. Where is he? I’m going to leather that wee arsehole.”

“No idea what you mean, Pam. How about a drink for old time’s sake?”

“A drink? I wouldn’t drink in here. Probably catch something. And it’s PC Wilson to the likes of you, alright.”

They are looking at each other, but no one says a word.

Suddenly the door swings open again, and a red-faced, puffed-up policeman bursts in.

“Pammy, Pammy, what the fuck…”

He stops as he sees this little standoff.

Pammy looks embarrassed. “I told you to wait outside, PC Findlay.”

“Come on, you. I’ve got reports of an aggressive mime threatening someone with an end of the world board on Sauchiehall Street.”

PC Wilson looks around the bar at everyone.

“I’ll be back,” she says and turns on her heels and storms outside. PC Findlay looks apologetic and leaves.

The door swings closed, and we all burst out laughing.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

“Careful, there’s maybe life in this place yet.”

I check the clock on my old phone; you can still make out the time despite the crack on the screen. 11:58. Near noon. Bam time.

“Another drink, please, pal,” I motion to Frank.

He brings me one over, and I slide him a couple of coins.

“You expecting Bam today?”

“I’m always expecting Bam.”

I take a sip of my drink; there is a moment’s silence, and the door opens. A chink of daylight, then the full effect with Bam standing in the door. Shadow cast across the bar.

“Alright boys?” She smiles.

I blink and squint out to the door.

“You’re fucking late,” says Frank.

“Aye alright, I’m here now, eh?”

The door closes, and she walks across the floor and around the back of the bar. Black hair cropped, black jeans, not a classic beauty, but beautiful nonetheless. Five foot five of dynamite.

And she knows it.

“Al, fancy seeing you here,” she laughs and smiles as she walks by. “Christ, it’s like a fucking funeral in here. Put some fucking songs on.” she announces.

She’s behind the bar and suddenly Angel of Harlem starts blasting from the speakers.

“Fuck’s sake,” she moans. “Old guy music.”

There’s a brief pause, and suddenly Taylor Swift is blasting out. She’s making some moves and pulling some shapes before Frank appears behind her, and they have a little sidestep tango before he leans over and turns the music down.

She gives him a grumpy look.

“Okay, let’s compromise,” and she puts on some Rocket from the Crypt.

“On a rope, on a rope…”

I smile. “That’s some music I can drink to.”

Bam’s laughing and turns to Frank. “Careful, there’s maybe life in this place yet.”

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon