Talk turns to what people were doing last night. Jim was working, but the other guys were out enjoying themselves, clubbing or in bars. Ferg was in Aberdeen at a not very good party; came back early. I am looked on with some sympathy for having had to endure an evening with the old folks. As no one can recall me having form in this — dereliction of the duty to party — the piss is not taken. I listen to what the others got up to, allowing a little for bravado and exaggeration.
This is so much like the old days. And, again, I have mixed feelings. In some ways it’s good and comfortable to be fitting straight back in like I’ve never been away, but, on the other hand, I’m getting this constrictive feeling as well. It’s the same places — like the bars and pubs on Friday night — the same people, the same conversations, the same arguments and the same attitudes. Five years away and not much seems to have changed. I can’t decide if this is good or bad.
After a long-feeling two minutes of deliberation, Phelpie goes a minimum pound. Actually there has been progress; on a majority vote round the table, Lee pulls out his Android phone and announces a one-minute maximum thinking-time limit. He leaves the phone on the table with the stopwatch function ready.
‘No fair,’ Phelpie says, though he’s grinning.
Phelpie usually takes for ever to decide on his bet, though I’ve seen him be quick and decisive enough when he really needs to be. When challenged on this studied glaciality he claims he’s just working through all the angles and probabilities, though none of us really believes him. On the other hand, as Ferg has pointed out (though only to me; not for public consumption), while Phelpie rarely wins big he never loses big, and he’s very good at restricting his losses. He plays like somebody who knows the difference between luck — which is basically mythical — and chance, which is reality. Phelpie knows when to fold, maybe better than any of the rest of us.
I end up going head-to-head with Ezzie Scarsen, a skinny, wee, shaven-headed guy I know only a little; a couple of years older than most of us. Works in the control room of the road bridge. He blinks a lot, which might or might not be a tell. I’ve got three tens and I think Ezzie’s an optimist; tends to over-bet.
There’s a sort of unofficial limit in these games, which has shifted from twenty to twenty-five pounds while I’ve been away. Just a fun game between pals, after all. We get to twenty quid apiece on top of the pot before he sees me. Ezzie has kings and queens.
‘Gracias,’ I say, scooping with both arms.
‘Aw, man,’ Ezzie says, sitting back.
I start shuffling.
‘Any jumpers this week, Ezzie?’ Lee asks.
Ezzie nods. ‘Just the one, a female, but no a fatality.’
‘That the lassie on Wednesday night?’ Jim asks.
‘Aye,’ Ezzie says. ‘One of the McGurk girls? Chantal. Youngest one, I think.’
There’s a round of shrugs, shakes and Nopes round the table as we agree she’s not on any of our personal databases, though we’ve all heard of the McGurk family; one of the larger tribes of the hereditary jobless from the Riggans estate.
‘You treat her?’ Lee asks Jim.
‘Been on Casualty all week,’ Jim says, with a nod.
‘Mazing how many people jump before the watter an hit the grun,’ Ezzie says, inspecting the interior of his wallet. ‘Even in daylight. At night, you’d unnerstan. Canny see where you’re headin. If you don’t know the bridge you can make a mistake like that. But daylight? You’d think they’d look.’ Ezzie shakes his head at such suicidal slackness. ‘We’ve had people get to just where the barriers start on the south approach and loup ower. You just land in the bushes; you’re lucky if you’re even scratched.’ He shakes his head. ‘Weird.’
‘I guess their minds are on other things,’ Ferg says, watching my hands carefully as I deal. No insult intended; he watches everybody’s hands carefully as they deal.
‘The lassie going to be okay?’ Lee asks Jim.
‘Not really supposed to say too much, Lee,’ Jim says. ‘But I think you could expect a full recovery. Be on crutches for a while, but I’d imagine she’ll be back dancing at Q&L’s again by the year end.’ Q&L’s is one of the town’s two clubs, in the old Astoria Ballroom.
‘Any idea why she jumped?’ Lee asks.
Jim looks at Lee as he lifts his cards, ‘And that’s us over the patient — doctor confidentiality line, right there,’ he says, smiling round at all of us.
‘Do you keep the tapes of people jumping?’ I ask Ezzie as the betting starts. ‘You know, from the CCTV?’
‘No tapes these days, Stu,’ Ezzie says. ‘All hard disk.’
Phelpie gets stopwatched.
‘You ever hand out copies to civilians?’ I ask.
‘Just the polis,’ Ezzie says, looking a little awkward. ‘Gie them a dongle if they ask for it. But we’re no even supposed to hand out copies to the families. How?’
I shrug. ‘Just heard something.’
‘D’you ever watch footage of old jumpers?’ Ferg asks. ‘When it’s a boring shift? Is there a collection of greatest hits?’
‘Canny really say,’ Ezzie mumbles, closely inspecting his cards.
