Capital Offence

Chapter 3

They’d drunk until closing time in Forrest’s Bar on the north side of Rose Street - a bar he’d been drinking in since he was fourteen. In those days closing time was eleven o’clock, with drinking up time allowed till ten past eleven sharp. As usual Joe and Ritchie were last to get one in and as ‘last orders’ was being shouted a double round was stacked up on the table. In the final few frenzied minutes, pints were being downed in one. 

“Ahm no sure if ahm up fer this,” gasped wee Malkie. “Ahm steamboats awready.”

And then they’re standing on the pavement.

“Smart bastard - he’s choried his,” muttered Joe, as Tam lifted two full pint glasses out from under his jacket. Conversation was barely coherent as the pub’s entire clientele milled about aimlessly on the pavement. Ritchie turned abruptly and retched up his last couple of pints into the gutter.

Rational plans were non-existent. Just mindless determination to locate more drink. So when Tam made one of his ponderous pronouncements there was ready enough agreement.

“See the Crooked Seam past Newtongrange. See me - Ah ken the boay oan the door the night. They’ve a late licence till midnight.”

“That’s twenty miles, ya loobie,” challenged Jamie.

“Ay, an so?”

“You’re some boay, you!” exclaimed Ritchie, wiping his chin.

“Come on, Jamie. Let’s have some fun,” Vaila whispered into his ear.

You didn’t argue too loud and long with Tam, and eight of them got on the four bikes, and set off. Jamie was on the Bonneville with Dave behind him, while Vaila was on the pillion of Tam Byrne’s Norton. They roared off up the Mound. Jamie watched Vaila ahead of him clutching her arms round Tam’s waist - no helmet and her wide skirt blowing all over the place. He knew he was being stupid. Somehow, though, it really didn’t seem to be that important.

They made it out of town, erratically but without mishap - a deafening procession through Dalkeith and Loanhead. At first, at each pub and hotel they passed, more crowds of revellers were enacting the same futile ritual, searching for the start of the rest of the night.

Then back into wooded valleys, as the A7 meandered its way south.

The Crooked Seam may have had a late licence, but there wasn’t much else to recommend it. It was an old hotel next to a garage and wrecker’s yard. Smashed vehicles stood around in pools of diesel and engine oil. These reflected the purple and red neon of the bar sign into refracted images which almost approached subtlety. Not that Jamie and Dave and the others would have noticed right then.

In a window two plastic Scotty dogs, one black, the other white, gazed out over the car park – an ancient promotional offering from the makers of Black and White Whisky. Their eyes flashed red, intermittently.  Tam stopped and gazed at them.

“See me - Ah ken whit Ahm havin. Thon’s fuckin’ irresistible, so it is.” The others doubled up with uncontrollable mirth, while Tam stared at the dogs as if hypnotised.

“At’s barry, so it is! At’s pure dead barry.”

The drunken laughter continued - the kind of alcoholic crease you get which doesn’t bear repetition in the sober dawn. It was also politic to laugh at Tam’s jokes, and for him to see you laughing. Tam led the way to the door, where his mate, the bouncer, was barring the way.

“Tam, it’s a function ya bam. I didn’t say I’d get you in for sure. Aw, shite...” The bouncer looked pale and apprehensive. “Goan then Tam, but caw canny, eh?” The mob started to file past. “How many of youse is there for fuck’s sake?”