Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) (17 page)

Chapter 38

Working Life:

  “So, Mr Marks, your probationary period has finished as from today. We are very pleased with you, perfect attendance, your clock-in times are excellent and I’m told by your manager you're good at your job and you’re getting to grips with the computer-system. We would like to offer you the job on a permanent basis.” Said by the double-chinned specky wholesaler manager Mr Mackenzie, as he leaned back on his leather office-chair, interlocking his fingers, all superior. Seeming to be the most vital man in the company, he was just a puffed-up nonce, oblivious to the only reason I had to work here: to feed my family, and keep a roof over their heads.

  “Thanks, Mr Mackenzie.” I paused, thinking of my long-term future: I could be stuck here forever. “I would be delighted to have the job, thank you.”

  I wasn’t delighted, far from it. Having no interest in getting out my bed when the alarm went off, or walking in and out of here every mundane weekday.

  Thinking of quitting entered my head on a regular basis, this wasn’t the place for me. Being somebody’s mug, somebody to be barked orders at by arse-holes. That was the treatment I got at the Mill, and look how that ended up.

  “Good, Joe, that’s good. As from now, your pay will creep up a little and you are allocated twenty-eight day’s holiday for the year, plus the usual bank holidays: Christmas, Boxing Day and New Year. After all, none of us like to work those days, do we?” Glancing up from reading paperwork on his desk, looking over his oval glasses, his double-chin desperate to fold over his buttoned-up office shirt. With his daily sweat patches and skin the colour of over-used chip fat, he was an undesirable man, to say the least. After a little more chit-chat about the benefits of being employed here, I was bored with him.

  “You can go back to work now, Joe. Thanks for your time.”

  Back to work, I tottered back into the dispatch position, longing for the day to end. It was Friday though, a couple of days-off coming up. A couple of days of noisy kids and a mood-swinging wife.

  There wasn’t much I could do right by her any more. There was a constant atmosphere, and it continued to piss me off, my patience and temper about to unravel at times. I did my own thing at home, cracked open a few tins, sat with my feet-up holding my new Sky remote, recently installed. That at least kept me entertained at home.

  My head was pounding that day, I had no interest in being at work. There was a big order to complete and a truck to load before I could switch off for the weekend. Mr Mackenzie decided he was donning the work-gear for the afternoon and joined the rest of the staff, barking unnecessary orders out, making my headache worse. I ached for that feeling of freedom for the weekend.

  Once home, I slipped my trainers off at the door, and sank into the comfort of the sofa.

  I couldn't be arsed with the family coming home frying my head, and decided to go for a pint.

 
Taking my phone out my pocket, searching for the contact, Brian. I had told May that Brian was a fellow work-mate. It was Tim. I wondered what he was up to. Keeping in touch by sending Whatsapp messages to each other, May saw his name pop up on the screen from time to time, so best she thought it was somebody else. It would only cause more arguing, knowing I was still in touch with him.

  “Alright, mate. How’s it going?”

  “Not bad, Joe. What’s the crack?”

  “Nae much. What you up to?” Hoping he had a thirst for pints and a good catch up, I missed the scruffy cunt.

  “Fuck all, not long woke up, late night.”

  “How about telling me about it over a few pints.”

  “Aye, why not? Where you thinking?”

  “Fountain?” I didn’t quite know why that sprung out as we both stayed in different towns, but we had to meet somewhere. I hadn’t been in there since I was on my ten week bender after Mom died, so many years ago.

  “Sounds dangerous. I’m up for it, I’ll grab a shower and meet you there. You bussing it?”

  “Aye, afraid so. I better jump in the shower before May gets home. Meet you there, ‘en?”

Chapter 39

Paranoia:

 
The Fountain was a proper man's establishment. Dull, with no natural light flooding in, full of good crack and boisterous punters. Owned by Margaret Williamson, the landlady. She ran the pub for the past eight years, and made you feel like part of the furniture.

  Her hard-work and attitude made the place what it was. We all respected her. Losing her husband five years ago to throat cancer, the bar became her whole life.

  In her fifties, her face showed her hard life. But, she always dressed her best, taking pride in her appearance and had that sarcastic Aberdonian humour which entertained the locals.

  The main bar never changed over the years, with vintage, eighties décor. Paneled wooden walls, scattered with framed paintings of alcohol and newspaper cuttings of the great Granite City and AFC, Aberdeen Football Club.

  The wall just inside the entrance displayed photos of locals from the surrounding areas of Woodside and Tilly. The same people packed the bar that night.

  “Another pint, Tim?” We were situated around the near side of the u-shaped bar that dominated the room, close to the pool table. The jukebox blaring classic rock, pub filled with workers desperate not to go home, still in their scruffy working clothes. Tim was playing a cagey game of pool with Micky MacDonald.

  “Make mine a dram.” Tim was a whisky man, loved an expensive, peaty malt and loved it even more when he didn’t have to pay for it.

  Pennies were prisoners with Tim. I’m sure he had one of those safes hidden under the carpet, carved into the floorboards of his house, somewhere. Locked up with a number of safety features to stop anyone like him breaking in.

  “Micky, you for one?” I shouted, him in mid-shot as he stared down his stick, his chin sliding back and forth, lining it up like a pro, causing him to miss the crucial black, playing for a dram.  

  Banging the tip of the cue over the table, he returned my shout with a lingering look of disgust. I struggled to contain my laughter.

  “Fuck me. Joe, you prick!” Micky MacDonald, a leery character, oozed jail-time. In and out like a yo-yo over the years.

  He had a nervous twitch and slabs of paranoia. Always skittish, and on edge. Ready to erupt in argument with anyone who offered a serious confrontation, which was a common trait in an Aberdonian. His shifty demeanour came from years of watching his back in the nick and care-homes, where you had to sleep with your eyes open

  That afternoon was the first time I had met him, and we grew to know each other really well over the next few months, under circumstances I couldn’t predict.

  “Sorry, Micky. I’ll get you a drammy for that.” Holding my hand in the air in a gesture of apology.

  “Fuckin’ right you will, cheeky bastard.” Tim finished off the game with an easy pot on the black, snickering away at Micky, who was taking an adult hissy-fit, turning himself around in mini-circles, poking his head in and out, cursing “Fuckin’ wankers! You cunts!”

  “Aye, well-played anyway, Micky. We'll have a rematch later.” Tim stuck his hand out, but Micky brushed it aside comically and headed to the toilet.

  Micky was a wee nimble guy at five foot five, but exuberant, full of life and high as a kite most days. His runty frame and sloppy clothes made him look quite harmless, but soon as I spent ten minutes in his company, I saw something chilling about him.

  His ‘Desperate Dan’ chin and beady eyes told me he was the sort that could tear you apart just by dragging his fingernails across your cheeks, if he had to. The kind that would take a chunk out of your ear, if he felt it necessary.

  You knew exactly where you stood with Micky.  Most would give him a wide berth, but I took to him straight away. We had a mutual respect for one another. Cut from the same cloth, Tim as well, we all were.

  Tim and Micky were like Burke and Hare, with their sticky-fingered midnight runs. Their activity was never talked about in public, keeping their criminal operation working at full capacity, without unwelcome heat from the filth, or busy-bodies.

  Not sure how much the locals knew or rumoured about their antics, but they were respected,  left alone by the youth of the pub, and were well-liked by the older clientele.

  That night, the young team started to overrun the back of the pub, but kept their distance. They got rowdier as every hour passed, feeding the jukebox, more often than not heavy rock, or punk music. The pub had a hard-core image, sometimes you had to yell from your gut to get a conversation going.

  Getting close to 10 o’clock, I realised there were seven missed calls from May. We were all pretty drunk. Tim getting irritated with the racket spewing from the youths, hovering at the rear of the pub.

  Micky was a breath away from dishing out a hiding to a random guy who constantly thrashed everyone at pool. Billy, a suave asshole, dressed in light, cream-coloured chinos and a tight-fit shirt, showing off his athletic upper-body. Light-brown skin with a bald head, he thought he was the boy.

  Moved around like butter wouldn’t melt, swinging his cue round his fingers in a kind of karate style. A bright, gold chain gleaming on his chest, and swaggering around with his pointy brown shoes, well out of place in this joint.

  He would be more suited to the west end of Aberdeen, with the stuck-up oil-tycoons. This was a working man’s joint. Only here to win drinks, and the odd game for money.

  Taking advantage of his natural gift with a stick, thinking he was The Fountain’s version of Paul Newman. He’d been on the table for the past two hours, beating Micky five times. The handshake after each game came unwelcomed, like the smirk from the outsider. He had no class about winning, cocky as fuck, and to my knowledge, no one knew him in here.

  “Fucking prick, this cunt.” Micky uttered to me, sitting a couple of metres away from the table.

  Minced on a cocktail of cocaine and vodka, every passing minute sent him closer to the edge. Paranoid after snorting a gram of coke, his beady eyes blatantly burning a hole into the outsider, arms crossed and fists tight, the inevitable coming

  The poor bastard didn’t have a clue what the inevitable would be. Micky’s fifty wing was on the table, he waited with patience.

Racking up the next game, one ball at a time, softly placed into the triangle, half-open bloodshot eyes lazily stared across the table. Engrossed on his phone, Billy blatantly ignored Micky.

  He ambled over, sniffing the leftover mixture of coke and bogeys running from his reddened nose, perching a coin under his thumbnail. I think he knew exactly how much pain he was prepared to inflict on this poor bastard that night. Guess he'd had enough by this point, coke and the relentless supply of vodka controlled his actions. It was inevitable he was approaching the breach stage.

  “Heads or tails, brother?” Asking quite politely. Billy, the stupid cunt, ignored Micky and kept texting on his phone. Me and Tim watched, both quite content to see this big-headed twat get a slap.

  “He’s going to do him here, just watch.” Tim slurred.

  “What the fuck is he away to do?” We knew there was a plan ticking over in Micky’s head, he hadn’t spoken for the last half-hour, downing nips, glued to his bar-stool, glaring in Billy’s direction, itching to pull the cue from his hand and wrap it around his neck.

  Comparing the two physiques, Billy being a well-toned athletic guy, automatically would be your choice victor. But, he was in a solid amount of trouble here.

  “Excuse me? Heads or tails, brother?” Micky asking again, pulling his shoulders back, poking his chin at Billy, standing face-to-face this time, politely asking once again. Tossing the coin high into the air, Billy’s face followed the fifty like a cat following a ball of string.

  His head came back down to eye-level. Before he could reply, Micky, veins in his skull pulsing, head-butted Billy, and he hit the floor.  Without a split second's thought, Micky launched himself on top of him. 

  Now the entire pub paid close attention to Micky MacDonald and the scuffle. A huddle of people arrived at the scene. Pinning him to the floor, Micky looked like he was trying to do the front-crawl, bombarding Billy’s face with fists.

  Still conscious, Billy tried to wriggle away, but the ferocity of the attack meant he was helpless.

  Two punters tried to pull Micky off. He wrestled them at the same time, wriggled out to punch one and kicked the other to the ground, leaving him winded.

  Turning his attention back to the outsider, he watched Billy trying to escape, dragging himself across the parquet floor, reaching the exit.

  Micky was a complete maniac once the switch flipped. He grabbed Billy’s feet, towing him back inside the pub, flipped him over, dropping his ten and a half stone weight over his biceps, and pinning him down. Stretching his right hand out, Micky scooped the white ball from the table and using an axe-wielding motion into Billy’s face, with saliva spewing from his mouth, he continued to pound. His uncontrollable rage was frightening. We had to stop him before Billy got killed.

  Micky MacDonald had previously done two stretches for GBH, grievous bodily harm.