Stonemouth полностью

Fraser nods. ‘Aye, ah think this was like the winter, too, he told me.’

Murdo gulps more beer. ‘Anyways; winter, summer, whatever, he’s like this for five or ten minutes with his haun gettin colder and colder an then he hears his pals comin doon the road, and does his pal no do whit he always does, an stick his hand through the cemetery gates, offerin to shake hauns with the deid? So Joe takes his haun — which is, like, totally freezin noo — and he grabs the hand o his pal, and gets it really tight and gives it a good fuckin hard shake. An of course there’s nae lights on the road then or anyhin, an he cannae be seen cos he’s in the shadows anyway an still behind the wa? Well, of course his pal screams like a fucken lassie and lamps aff doon the road, screamin blue murder and pishin his breeks, an Joe’s laughin so hard he’s nearly doin the same thing.’

‘An his mates,’ Norrie butts in, ’cos did he no tell them, like? Murd? Did he no tell them he was goin to do this fore he left the pub, aye?’

‘Anyways, his mates have to help Joe oot the cemetery cos his hand’s so cold he can hardly climb an they’re all laughin so much. An this guy — cannae remember his name — never sticks his haun through the cemetery gates again, even after they tell him it was just Joe. But, eh? Eh? Kind a guy he was. What a guy, eh?’ Murdo shakes his head in admiration and sups his pint.

We’re all laughing, forming a ring of hilarity around Murdo, whose big, beaming, ruddy face is grinning widely. Some of the laughter is a little forced, a little by rote, because of who Murdo is and the family he’s part of, but mostly it’s genuine. And I’m laughing, too, though not as much as I might be.

‘Ah’m tellin ye!’ Murdo says, loudly, looking around the faces clustered around him, soaking up the approval and general good humour. His gaze even slides over where I stand, on the periphery of the crowd, without his happy, open expression changing. Probably didn’t recognise me. ‘Ah’m tellin ye!’ he says again.

I sip towards the dregs of my pint. Yes, you are telling us, Murd. Only that’s not the way old Joe told it to me. When he told me this story it wasn’t about him personally at all; it was about one of his uncles who’d played this trick on one of his pals, years before Joe was remotely old enough to go drinking with his mates anywhere. The rest of the story’s similar enough, but it just never was about Joe himself.

I am so tempted to point this out — I really want to point this out — but I don’t. It’s cowardice, partly, maybe, but also just a reluctance to, well, throw a bucket of cold water over this warm wee festival of rosy-tinged remembrance. It irks me that history’s being rewritten like this, but if I say something now I’ll just look like the bad guy. I guess if Mr M was here he might set the record straight, but he’s not; Donald’s standing by the Murston table, talking to a couple of local businessmen. Best to keep quiet. In the end, after all, what does it really matter?

Only it always matters. I’m still not going to say anything, but it always matters, and I feel like a shit for not sticking up for the truth, no matter how much of a spoilsport or a pedant I might appear because of it. I finish my pint, turn away.

‘Aw, Stu? Stewart?’ Murdo calls out. I turn, surprised, to find that Murdo’s looking at me, as is everybody else, and a sort of channel through the crowd has opened between me and Murd. ‘You knew Joe a bit, did you no?’

‘Aye,’ I say. Nonplussed, frankly. ‘Aye, we used to go on the occasional hill-walk together. Aye, nice old guy.’

I’m horribly aware I’m sounding trite and slightly stupid, and I’m sort of lowering my conversational style down to Murdo’s level, almost imitating him. (I almost said ‘thegether’ instead of ‘together’, for example, body-swerving the more colloquial word so late in the brain-to-mouth process I came close to stumbling over it.) And was he a nice old guy? He was pleasant to me and kind enough, but he was still a Murston — the senior Murston — at a time when the family was settling deeper and deeper into its criminal ways, abandoning farming and even land deals, and diversifying into still more lucrative fields.

‘Must have taught you a thing or two, aye?’ Murdo prompts.

‘Cannae get everythin from a university education, eh no?’

‘Nup,’ I agree. ‘Sure can’t. Aye, he let drop the occasional pearl of wisdom.’

‘Aw aye?’ Murdo says, looking round with a smug look.

Fuck, I’m on the spot here. Since I saw his body in the funeral parlour a couple of days ago I’ve been trying to think of something wise or profound Joe said, and there’s really only one thing I can remember. Plus I feel like I’m kind of embellishing and improving the memory as I try to recall it, a process I’m pretty much bound to continue if I try to articulate it now.