‘Phelpie, come on; it’s just a few quid. You never bet big, and you’re not short of a bob or two.’
Phelpie stretches, interlaces his splayed fingers, then cracks his knuckles. He has an even bigger grin on his face. ‘Truth is, Stu,’ he says, ‘I just like listening to the guys talk.’
‘What?’ My first thought is that Phelpie means he wants to get people talking off-guard so they’ll spill some beans that might be useful for Mike Mac’s business dealings.
‘Aye,’ he says, slowly, as though this is only just occurring to him as he speaks. ‘We play too fast sometimes, d’you no think? I mean, we’re there to play the game, right enough, but…it’s no why we’re really there, is it? I mean, you could just play on-line sitting in yer underpants, know what I mean? We’re there to have a chat, have a laugh, just be with our pals an that, eh? But I just think the guys can get a bit too intense with the betting and the money and that, sometimes, so I just sort of like to slow things up a wee bit. The craic improves. I’m no razor wit maself, like, but I love listening to the likes of Ferg an that, know what I mean?’
‘Kinda,’ I say, looking on Phelpie with a degree of respect — albeit slightly grudging and even still a little suspicious — I wouldn’t have expected to be exhibiting five minutes ago.
‘Ye’ve no tae tell the rest, though, eh?’ he says, winking at me.
‘Dinnae want them gettin self-conscious or that, eh no?’
‘Aye, cannae be having that,’ I agree. I make a mental note to be very careful indeed if I ever end up in a head-to-head with Phelpie over serious money.
‘See you later, Stu,’ Phelpie says, and wanders off.
I try to get a word with Grier a couple of times, but at the same time I don’t want to just rock up to the Murston table, not with the Surly Brothers using it as their base for expeditions to the bar and with the disapproving relations in attendance.
The third time, in the corridor just outside the function room, Grier looks like she’s going to walk right past me again, ignoring me, even after a perfectly audible, ‘Grier?’
I wonder if she saw me talking to Katy Linton?
I step in front of her; she almost collides with me. She frowns, makes to go past. ‘Stu, do you mind?’
I block her again. ‘Grier—’
She tries to get past me again. ‘Get out the—’
‘Grier, can we—’
‘No, we can’t. Will you stop—’ She stands still, hands on hips for a moment, glaring at me, then tries to slip past to my right. I grab her wrist, already knowing this is a mistake.
‘Fuck off!’ she hisses, shaking my grip off.
‘What do you think you’re doing, Gilmour?’
Shit; it’s Fraser, right behind me, hand on my shoulder, turning me around. I’m half expecting his other hand to ball into a fist and come round-housing up into my face, or sweep in towards my belly. My head cranes back on my neck and my stomach muscles tense without me even consciously willing such desperate preparations.
However, Fraser isn’t quite at that stage yet. He looks close to it, though; his face is redder than his beard, he’s a bit sweaty and he has a slightly crouched, boxerish stance, like he’s just ready for a fight. Grier gets past me, looks like she’s about to continue on her way down the corridor, then stops, stands, arms folded, glaring at both of us.
‘Eh?’ Fraser asks, when I don’t reply immediately. ‘What the fuck’s goin on, eh?’
‘Nothing, Frase,’ I tell him.
‘You okay, Gree?’ he asks her.
‘Fine,’ she says.
‘This arsehole givin you grief?’
‘I wasn’t—’ I start.
‘No. Let’s just—’
‘Cos I’m just the boy to give him some back.’ Fraser rubs a meaty hand through his thin auburn beard like he’s trying to work out how best to start dismantling me.
‘Don’t,’ Grier says. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘Look—’ I begin.
‘Naw, it’d be a pleasure,’ Fraser says, smiling thinly at me. ‘This shite’s tried to coorie in with Callum, then Joe, then Ellie; bout time he was taught a lesson.’
Grier takes his arm, starts to pull him away. ‘Let’s go back to the table.’
‘What if I don’t want to—’
‘Come on, Fraser, see me back,’ she says, pulling harder on his arm.
‘Aye, well,’ Fraser says, and really does do that shrugging inside the suit thing, like he’s making sure his shoulders fit inside there. He takes one step away, then he’s back in my face while Grier’s still tugging at him.
‘One fucking day, Gilmour,’ he says quietly, close enough for me to smell beer and smoke and whisky off him. ‘One fucking day.’ He wags a finger in my face as Grier pulls him away.
Slightly shaken, I return to the room. I sit down and say hi to a whole table of people I vaguely recall from school. They seem to remember me better than I remember them, which ought to feel flattering but instead feels embarrassing. One of the girls, the cute one with short black hair, looks at me like we might have once shared a moment but for the life of me I can’t recall either her name or the incident. Besides, she looks far too young. Hopefully just a false alarm, then; there are enough ghosts of misdemeanours past haunting this pile.
