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  ‘I suppose so.’ I looked at my monitor. Simon Fraser’s details were up in a window at the bottom right of the screen. Address, phone number, energy usage, it was all there. Next to ‘employment status’ it said ‘retired’. Next to ‘occupation’ it said ‘psychologist’. ‘Are you psychoanalysing me, Mr Fraser?’

  ‘Sorry, it’s a difficult habit to lose. Was I that obvious?’

  ‘Just a bit. What’s your diagnosis?’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Might as well,’ I said.

  ‘Jim Cooper, you are by far the biggest wanker I’ve ever met.’

  We all need a theme for our lives, but this was a bit much.

  ‘Is that the sort of thing a psychologist is supposed to say?’

  ‘I’m retired and you’re not paying me, I can say whatever the feck I like.’

  Fair enough, I thought. I noticed Terry eyeing me suspiciously from across our desk. He had a what the fuck are you doing? look on his face. This was identical to the why did you puke on me? face he’d used yesterday. It was all about context with Terry.

  ‘I don’t suppose you fancy getting a pint sometime, Mr Fraser?’ I said.

  ***

  I wasn’t sure of the appropriate etiquette when meeting your ex-girlfriend's father, who was also a psychologist who thought he was coming to offer you advice on your parental issues but from whom you secretly wanted to extract as much information as possible about his daughter’s happiness or hopefully lack thereof, for a pint.

  I chose Monday evening, seven-thirty in Stube, a modern, smallish pub in Shawlands, which specialised in German beers (I’m fairly certain the German thing was subconscious). I also chose denims and a grey v-neck T-shirt. I’m not certain I chose for Terry to come along, but he was there anyway.

  ‘Is that him?’ Terry said, excited.

  I looked round towards the door as a guy of no more than forty-five, wearing a biker jacket and a look on his face that said he had gone up against the hardest life had to offer and lost, came in and ordered a banana daiquiri. ‘No, fuckwit. That’s not him.’

  I’d been surprised when Mr Fraser accepted my offer of a drink (almost as surprised as I’d been that I’d asked him). The only explanation I could come up with was that he missed his job and felt a need to screw with someone’s brain again. That was okay with me because, despite what he thought, it was me who was going to be searching for info, not him. I was prepared to bait the hook with a couple of childhood woes if need be, but the purpose of the evening was mine.

  I didn’t actually have any particularly huge issues with my parents, despite what Simon the Psychologist might think. We’d just never developed the knack of talking to one another in any meaningful sense of the word, that was all.

  ‘Did you not have more hair?’

  Simon Fraser was standing behind my left shoulder, an expectant look on his face.

  ‘Mr Fraser,’ I said quickly. ‘Hi, have a seat.’ He’d caught me unawares and I tried to regain some composure as he slid in next to Terry.

  ‘And who’s this sorry excuse for a man?’ He indicated Terry with a sideways nod.

  ‘Eh, this is my mate, Terry.’

  Mr Fraser turned and eyed a hurt-looking Terry. ‘You could stand to lose a stone or two, young man. Am I wrong?’

  Terry went pale, and started to tremble. ‘H-Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Can I get you a Guinness, Mr Fraser?’ I said.

  ‘Call me Joe, and I’ll have a lager. I feckin’ hate that bloody black stuff, blows you up like a balloon.’ He looked at Terry again as he said this.

  I hurried to the bar, leaving Terry to his fate. Why did he want me to call him Joe?

  I returned with three pints and sat down, not a little nervous. ‘Here we go.’

  ‘Good lad.’ Simon, sorry, Joe, took a deep draught then smacked his lips in satisfaction. ‘Terence here tells me you’re a wanker right enough, James.’

  I shot Terry a look, but he just shrugged. ‘Hah, does he now?’ I said.

  Mr Fraser smiled as he moved his glass back to his lips. He looked pretty much as I remembered him. He was wearing a faded black sweatshirt and a sports jacket that either he or someone else had clearly been living in for a while. His hair was still thick, if a little greyer, and sat in a straggled mop of disarray atop and around his head. I knew he must be well into his sixties by now, but his face looked as young as it had the last time I’d seen him. The laughter lines were perhaps a touch more pronounced, but his eyes still shone with sharpness and wit.

  ‘So, Mr Fraser ...’

  ‘Call me Joe.’

  Why? ‘Joe, sorry. Thanks for coming out.’

  ‘To be honest, son, the only reason I’m here is that your call came at a good time. Louise is a lovely girl, but retirement has shown me 24 hours-a-day is too long to be in anyone’s company. At least, that’s what she says; she’s been trying to get me out of the house for ages. She doesn’t understand my love of Bruce Lee films, you see. Would you believe she’s made me move the DVD player into Paula’s old room?’

  ‘Okay, wow.’ I glanced at Terry, who had moved as far along the booth’s seat as he could, and was now cramming himself tightly against the wall. But, crucially, Paula’s name had been mentioned, and not by me. I couldn’t afford to pass this opportunity up. ‘Paula’s room, really? That’s shocking. How is—’

  ‘I mean, have you seen the Fist of Fury special edition? It’s feckin’ marvellous. How that young fella managed not to hurt himself is a source of constant amazement to me. Only thirty-three when he died as well, probably ages with yourself. What a loss. From a bloody headache tablet too, how tragic is that? He kicked the shit out of Chuck Norris but got himself killed by a feckin’ Paracetamol. There’s your argument against a fair and just world, I’m tellin’ ye.’

  I guessed Mr Fraser hadn’t been out for a pint in a while. Either that or it wasn’t his age that led him to retire.

  ‘Hmm, yes ...’ I started.

  ‘Same age as me, you know.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Bruce Lee, same age as me. Born four days before I was. He’s been dead for thirty-odd years and I’m still feckin’ here. What the hell is that all about?’

  ‘I ... don’t know, Joe.’

  ‘Me feckin’ neither.’ He downed the rest of his pint in one and whacked the empty glass on the table. ‘My shout.’

  Once he was out of earshot, Terry leaned over the table and whispered: ‘He’s fucking mental.’

  I could only agree. ‘Seems to be. Look, this was a shit idea, so let’s just humour him till he goes away, okay?’

  Terry didn’t look convinced. ‘One more fat jibe and I’m away.’

  ‘Shift over, ye big cream bun. Can an honest man not get his seat back in a pub these days?’ He was back, and he was carrying a tray. ‘I got us a wee Drambuie to keep the beer company, lads.’

  Terry found the strength to speak. ‘Uh, thanks Joe, but we’re working in the morning; we’d better take it easy.’

  ‘Aye, right. Your mate here is chucking it all in ‘cause his hormones told him to, and you obviously don’t give a shit about your job or you’d be looking after your appearance a bit better. Nobody promotes a sumo, lad; they can’t afford to widen the doors to the boardroom. Cheers.’

  Terry shrank back into the relative safety of the wall and it was left to me to move the conversation forward.

  ‘So ... Joe, when did you retire?’

  ‘Just shy of a year ago. Did I ask if you’d been losing your hair?’

  If I’d ever been on him I would have been going off Simon Fraser very quickly. ‘Yes, well, happens to the best of us.’

  ‘Not to me, lad. Mine’s actually getting thicker. It’s a medical phenomenon, according to my chiropodist. You’d be as well admitting defeat and shaving yours off. You’re not doing yourself any favours trying to cover up the baldy bit there; it smacks of denial. I’ve always said the only way to cope with deficient genetics i
s to embrace them. In saying that, you’d probably look daft with a skinhead, so you’re fecked either way.’

  I understood it was every father’s right to make their daughter’s suitors feel like amoebas, but I hadn’t seen Paula for twelve years. If I recall correctly, I was on the verge of saying: at least I’ve got a few years left before Alzheimer’s hits, or something equally insensitive when Joe (or whatever his name was) spoke again.

  ‘How’s your dad, James?’

  ‘Eh.’

  ‘And your mother, how is she?’

  ‘Eh.’ This was fast becoming my favourite word.

  ‘Terence, have you met James’ parents?’

  ‘Eh,’ Terry said, the copycat.

  ‘I’m going to guess you have. Do they strike you as good people?’

  ‘Erm,’ Terry said, adding some variety.

  ‘And yet they don’t know he’s packed-in his job. What does that say to you, Terence?’

  ‘Pfhrrew?’ Terry’s vocabulary was starting to make my own look positively limited.

  Joe looked back at me. ‘Any comments, James?’

  ‘Call me Jim.’ It was the only bit of actual language I could manage.

  ‘Fair enough. Jim, why haven’t you spoken to your family about this big decision of yours?’

  Come on, I had been expecting this. This was why I thought he thought he was here, after all. ‘Ach, just ... reasons, you know?’

  ‘D’you know, James, sorry, Jim, back when I was working that comment would have fascinated me. I would have instantly started to make assumptions about you and about your parents. I would already know, purely from that statement and your body language, that you knew deep down you had, purely through your own actions and choices, ended up as a disappointment to yourself. But, because that’s a pretty difficult thing to admit, you’ve instead chosen to transfer that disappointment onto your parents and what you assume were their goals for you. You think they’re ashamed of you, and you therefore distance yourself from them. You tell yourself you’ve done okay in life with what you had to work with, and whatever mistakes and bad decisions you’ve made haven’t been your fault, but rather the fault of the restrictive society, and by inference the family, you grew up with and live in. Now, with this rash decision to give up your job, you think you’re finally taking a stand and giving yourself the opportunity to experience the life you think you should have had all along, but weren’t allowed to. On the surface, you think it was your parents and “society” who prevented you from doing this fifteen years ago when it would have made more sense, but, deep down, you know it was only you who stopped you, really.’

  Holy fuck, Alzheimer’s had left the building. Even Terry looked more awestruck than scared.

  ‘Is ... is this common?’ I couldn’t be the only one who had suffered like this, could I?

  ‘Yes, Jim. It’s so common there’s even a medical term for it.’

  ‘There is?’ I said. There’s nothing more satisfying than being able to put a name to your neurosis. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’re a wanker, Jim.’

  Terry spat Drambuie all over the table and began to choke. Joe didn’t break eye contact with me, but raised his arm and battered Terry so hard on the back he almost head-butted his glass.

  ‘Hgrmm, cheers, Joe,’ Terry coughed after a couple of deep breaths. ‘Went down the wrong tube.’

  ‘No worries, lad.’ Joe was still looking me squarely in the eye. ‘The first

  step to freedom is accepting your wankerdom, James.’

  Terry didn’t choke this time, he just burst out laughing. It occurred to me that Terry was only classed as my ‘best’ friend because he happened to be my only one.

  ‘Did you call your patients wankers?’ I said.

  ‘Not often, James. But I did charge them sixty quid an hour. I’m enlightening you to your wankishness for free.’

  ‘Well, eh …’

  ‘Hah, Terence, would you look at his face! Paula told me he was a gullible wee shite but I didn’t think he would be this easy.’ Terry joined Joe in his laughter.

  I was confused. ‘So I’m not a wanker?’

  Joe stopped laughing and fixed me with his gaze once again. ‘Oh no, Jim. Be in no doubt, you are by far the biggest wanker I’ve ever met in my life.’

  I really, really wanted to call Joe a wanker, but realised it wouldn’t have much impact. ‘Okay, ha ha, cheers, good one,’ I said as petulantly as the Drambuie I’d downed would allow.

  ‘Ah, you’re not a bad lad really, Jim. Paula was right about that.’

  I straightened my shoulders and took a silent count. If I wasn’t mistaken that was three times Joe had mentioned Paula so far. I decided it was my turn.

  ‘Speaking of Paula, how’s she doing?’ I was pleased with my tone: fairly innocuous, relatively innocent.

  ‘Ask her yourself, she’ll be home in a few weeks.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘What did you pay for it?’

  ‘Eh, fifty thousand.’

  The estate agent nodded mysteriously and stuck his pen in his mouth as he turned, walked out of the bedroom and headed back towards the kitchen. Not knowing what else to do, I followed him.

  ‘You’re leaving the white goods?’

  I hadn’t thought about this. ‘You think I should?’

  ‘It’s worth throwing them in. It’s basically a starter home, so chances are your viewers will be pretty skint.’ This was hardly encouraging.

  I didn’t especially want to leave the flat, but needed the equity to stand any chance of supporting myself sans employment. I’d have to get another job, but it was unlikely I’d walk into the same salary in any other field. Not having a clue what field I wanted to walk into added to the uncertainty.

  Still, it was a good flat. The toilet was more a cubicle than a room, the cords had all snapped on the sash-windows and the gas fire in the living room barely managed to defrost itself in the winter, but I liked it.

  ‘You’re planning on painting before going to market?’

  ‘Not especially, no.’

  The estate agent sucked air in through clenched teeth. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’ Why would I want to spent time and money painting a flat I was moving out of? You did that when you moved in, surely.

  This guy was starting to bug me. He was at least five years younger than I was, and wore one of those shiny grey suits that made him look like a second division footballer on a night out. He reminded me of Patrick, with that same air of unjustified smarm and self-importance.

  ‘Hoping for a quick sale?’

  ‘Totally.’ It bloody better be quick. I’d nearly given myself a heart attack when I added up all my monthly debt payments. For years I’d let all the direct debits happen when I wasn’t looking then tried to make whatever was left last as long as possible. I got the fright of my life when I realised how much I was paying every month to the various vampires who’d seduced me into buying things I wanted. I had one salary cheque left in my immediate future, and if this place didn’t sell fast and big I was in bother.

  ‘Any smells?’ Patrick Two said. He’d told me his name when he arrived but I’d forgotten it.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Any odour issues? Drains, rotting garbage, that sort of thing.’

  Cheeky bastard. ‘No there are not. At least not when I remember to empty the bin.’

  Not a flicker of a smile. Dour cheeky bastard. He made a note on his clipboard.

  ‘Okay, I think I’ve seen everything I need to. Shall we have a seat and a chat about where we stand?’

  We went through to the living room, me sitting on the couch and him on the battered armchair I had inherited from my Auntie Margaret. I braced myself.

  He waffled a bit about market conditions and the like, but I started to fidget and he got the message.

  ‘I’d advise you go for offers over eighty-five or a fixed price of ninety.’

  Yes! I loved this guy. ‘Fixed price,�
�� I said. ‘Definitely fixed price. How long do you reckon?’

  ‘I’d imagine you’d have a couple of offers within three weeks or so. There’s a high demand for this sort of place in this area just now, and—’

  ‘Cool, let’s do it. It’s a deal. You’re hired. Do you want a beer?’ Christ, I might even end up with a couple of grand in my pocket. I loved this guy.

  ‘No, you’re fine, thanks. I’ve got a few other appointments tonight.’ Patrick the Second smiled for the first time. He looked quite sweet. I decided to stop calling him Patrick and call him something like Bobby or Jake instead; something friendly. ‘No worries, but that’s one I owe you, Jake.’ Shit, I hadn’t meant to say that last bit out loud.

  ‘Sure, no problem.’ Jake looked a little concerned as he got up and handed me a business card. ‘I’ll get things moving in the morning. Give the office a call if you’ve got any questions.’

  I glanced at the card as I shook his hand at the front door. His name was Gordon.

  ***

  I called Terry and invited him over to celebrate. Ninety grand would solve a hell of a lot of problems. Debt-free at thirty-three, how brilliant would that be?

  ‘Unemployed, homeless and debt-free,’ Terry pointed out as he cracked open a can of Stella.

  ‘Aye, but it’s still cool.’

  ‘If you say so. Personally I prefer to know where I’m going to be sleeping this time next month.’

  ‘You’ve got no imagination,’ I said. ‘In a couple of weeks I’ll have no bills to pay, no shitty job to get stressed about. I can go anywhere I want and do whatever the hell I like.’

  ‘And yet, what’s the bets you don’t go anywhere except a bed-sit, and don’t do anything except get drunk four times a week, which you do now anyway.’

  ‘I could travel and stuff.’

  ‘Where to?’

  I didn’t feel Terry was being as supportive as a good friend should. ‘America, Barcelona, Amsterdam, anywhere.’

  ‘Christ, you can’t even get past ‘b’ in the alphabet. You’re going nowhere mate, I guarantee it.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘So, what? You’re going to go away by yourself, are you? The lone traveller on an adventure of exploration?’