The Art Guy (18+) COMPLETE, FREE to READ

Two Years Earlier

Summer 1991

George McCaskill, more commonly known as Dod, was stoned. So far, so typical. Having discovered the myriad pleasures of weed at an early age, he'd made it his mission to spend his leisure hours, joint in hand and waxing lyrical on the world as he saw it.

Once, he'd agreed to let his best friend draw him, though he refused the whole being painted in the scud thing. Half-life was enough. He turned down the overalls, so he was naked from the waist up, sat back in the armchair, smoked and aired everything that was in his head.

Restful, you might say.

Luckily for Dod, he often found an audience for his musings. A lot of the time, they were equally as stoned, and it was debatable how much of each other's conversation they took in, but no, he didn't struggle to find someone who wanted to smoke too and would say 'aye' or 'naw' every so often.

He was due up in the morning at five am. The Fisher King's skipper had phoned his house earlier that day. They were meant to be going out the day after, but John Iredale wanted an earlier start. The weather forecast had changed, and there was a storm coming in. If they went out on Tuesday, they'd miss it. And there was another job to do, urgent like.

The phone rang again. Dod had the house to himself, seeing as his ma and paw had taken themselves off to his older sister's place in Dumfries, his ma desperate to see her wee granddaughter.

The person on the other end didn't bother to introduce himself. Folk ought tae know who he was just from an 'Awright?'.

Luckily, Dod did know. "Mick! What are ye doing here? Bored of the big smoke already?"

Mick had been working in Edinburgh for a couple of months, headhunted by some chef who saw the review of the Star Tavern in the Sunday Times. He'd told Dod he was welcome to visit him in the city anytime, but it turned out anytime was too difficult to arrange when one of you was working in a top-end restaurant and the other on fishing boats.

Plus, Dod wasnae really interested in the world beyond Dumfries and Galloway. In the world beyond Kirkcudbright, if he was honest. Everything he'd ever wanted was here—friends, a job, parties, a ready supply of soft drugs and a lassie he could lust after, even if she didn't feel the same.

Maybe she would one day.

It turned out Mick had a rare few days off, so he'd decided to come home. And now he wanted company, a drinking/smoking buddy.

Dod agreed, throwing in the usual proviso that he'd have to knock it off early-ish, seeing as he had to get up at four. Unfortunately, he wasn't always that good at sticking to the wee promises he made to himself. Mick would know that only too well.

They met in the Gordon Arms, the public bar quiet, seeing as it was a Monday. The new barmaid looked twice when they came in. Dod she was familiar with, but being an outsider, she'd never seen Mick before. He made a welcome change from the mournful, maroon-faced men with bulbous noses who came in night after night to drink pints with whisky chasers and moan that the world was going to hell in a handcart.

Dod was used to that kind of thing—where women's eyes would skim him and fasten instead on Mick or his best friend. Ach, it would be nice if sometimes they looked at him first, but it wasnae the end of the world. There was drinking to be done, and fun to be had. The night was young.

They batted off the usual folks drifting over to talk to them. An old school friend, someone who knew Mick's mum and wanted to know how she was doing. Dod could sense Mick's impatience. He must want to ask him something and do so alone.

Dod sighed. He had a feeling he knew where this was going.

The pub had quietened down. Even the hardened drinkers had drifted away. Mebbe it was too shameful to drink hard on a Monday, or to be seen doing it anyway.