By the time Large One, Derrick came on, the place was heaving. It had nothing to do with Large One, Derrick. The word was out that Shug Skinner was back in town.
‘HE-LLO FAW-KURT!’ Mooney bellowed into the microphone.
‘Freak!’ someone shouted.
‘I shagged your maw!’ shouted someone else. It was one of the Drive! fans, even though Drive! had already left the building.
‘I’d drink your pish!’ squeaked a wee lassie down the front. She’d been on the light box earlier.
Grant thumped out the tempo with a pair of brushes. He looked uncomfortable; he was trying to avoid the spray coming at him off the snare. Then Mooney came in on the guitar, and Stark on the fiddle. It sounded like The Dubliners meets Rising Damp. But nobody cared what it sounded like, not even the Posse. It was backing music for Shug. He didn’t, after all, have a clue about the lights, but he was a great dancer. He was swaying alone in the middle of the floor, cradling the syringe like it was his own true love. He danced expressively, almost balletically, pushing the hunk of metal away then drawing it closer, as if he couldn’t bear to let it go. It was quite a performance, Dug had to admit; Shug remained focussed even through Stark’s countless bum notes.
The applause was loud.
‘I! THANK! YOU!’ Mooney boomed. He pretended to tune his guitar till the noise died down. Then he stepped back to the mike. ‘This yin’s for my auld dear!’ he said. ‘It’s called The Slag!’ No one was listening. Shug was getting his photo taken with his fans. He’d be in the Herald next week. Again. Mooney turned to his brother. ‘Can ye no get this baldy fucker to sit down?’ he said.
There was a sudden ruckus at the door. Three men barged in. They looked identical: receding hairlines, bloodstained white T-shirts and arms like thighs. Dug found himself thinking of butchers, which was apt. It was the Bell Brothers. Their wee sister was with them, crying, getting dragged along by the wrist.
‘Where’s this Derrick Mooney cunt?’ shouted the largest brother. The meat cleaver he was wielding had bits of mince hanging off it. Shug shot a glance at Dug, who immediately pointed at the stage.
‘IT’S THE SINGER!’ Shug shouted, and led the charge. Grant scarpered. So did Stark. Mooney tried to vault the drums, but got his feet caught in the snare. He managed to get up before they reached him, though, his guitar banging off the walls as he legged it out the fire escape. The Bell Brothers kicked the drums out of the way, dragging their wee sister behind them.
Clatrell lost no time picking the microphone off the floor. ‘Anybody for a wee bit Rapper’s Delight?’ he said.
The joint was soon pulsating, The Posse, the whole lot of them, keening like a flock of Hasidic pigeons. Dug ordered another beer. He watched the remaining Drive! fans sink their pints and leave. Shug Skinner poked his head through the fire door. He walked straight up to Dug. ‘Nurse Buckle hasnae been in, has she?’ he said.
‘Eh,’ said Dug. ‘Don’t think so. Are you expecting her?’
‘Ye could say that,’ said Shug, and inserted his needle into the leg of his overalls. ‘I’m no really supposed to be out. Keep it to yerself, though!’
‘Got you,’ said Dug, and watched his new friend disappear through the back of the stage.
Half an hour later, Grant sloped in, followed by Stark.
‘Drink?’ said Dug.
‘Give us a hand with the stuff, will you?’ said Stark.
Stark’s car was parked round the back, next to a white Saab with a meat cleaver embedded in the bonnet. They laid the drums carefully in the back; the newspapers were already spread out. They had to leave the tailgate open – Grant’s bass drum was large. Dug was about to climb in when Mooney shoved past him. ‘Come on, youse,’ he said. ‘Handers. I want my money.’
They followed him through the back door of the pub, into the kitchen. It wasn’t long before the argument was in full flow.
‘Aye ye’re fucking right ye’ll be paying me!’ Mooney said. He was hyperventilating. His guitar was hanging off his shoulder, machine gun style. A few of the strings were broken. It was obvious the Bell Brothers hadn’t caught up with him.
Clatrell stuck his ladle into a pot and stirred. The bass line was thudding through the wall. ‘See this soup?’ he said.
Mooney was shaking with anger. ‘What about it?’ he said. There were bits of meat and carrot floating on the surface, just visible through the steam.
‘If ye don’t change yer tune,’ said Clatrell, ‘ye’ll be fucking wearing it.’
‘This is my Friday Night Delight,’ he continued. ‘Fuck the idiots through there in their baseball caps. Mutton broth, the kind of soup that sticks to yer ribs, and other parts of yer body, if ye get my drift. And ye know something else? I don’t need mouthy twats like you spoiling it.’
‘Fuck yer soup,’ said Mooney. ‘You booked us...’
‘You cheeky monkey,’ said Clatrell, and scooped a load into a bowl. ‘You’re asking me for money? Ye owe me five hunner quid for the fire door – mind you, you were too busy legging it down the road to see the Bell Brothers tearing it off its hinges. And ye can’t have missed the hatchet sticking out the bonnet of my new car.’
It was a case of mistaken identity. Stark coughed. ‘There’s a good panel beater in Denny...’ he offered.
‘What?’ said Grant. ‘Dalrymple Bash ’n’ Dash? They’ve been on strike since June.’
‘Eh?’ said Stark. He was blushing. ‘I didn’t know...’
Clatrell parked himself at the table and tore a hunk of bread off a loaf. ‘Stark,’ he said. ‘Get the Mooney contingent out of my sight. I can’t eat when there’s pricks like that watching me. Fancy a plate of soup, Dug? There’s plenty in the pot for folk with jobs.’
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