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  ‘Well, Terence, I’m not a master of the art,’ Simon replied. ‘But let’s just say I know enough to make damned sure anyone who hurts me or mine will certainly live to regret it.’

  My attention stopped wandering.

  Simon held me in his gaze. ‘I never lie, James, so believe me when I say this.’ I gulped as Simon paused before going on. ‘Life will get much easier if, and only if, you add three Drambuies to the next round.’

  ***

  ‘I seem to recall laughing a bit more than you did,’ Terry said, finishing his coffee.

  ‘Aye well, he can be a bit intimidating, too.’ I tried not to blush.

  ‘Anyway, we’ve got something we need to discuss,’ Terry said.

  ‘We do? What’s that?’

  ‘Your leaving night.’

  Chapter 8

  The Basement had been bought and sold numerous times since I worked there. It was called Chico’s and offered free salsa lessons with your sangria for a while, though it didn’t take long for the owners to realise that mixing cheap wine and fruit juice with extended bouts of vigorous jigging-about led to a hell of a clean-up job at the end of the night. After that, someone tried to turn it into a place for the beautiful people, calling it Benson’s and charging seven quid for a gin and tonic. This being Glasgow, that lasted all of five months before the receivers were called in.

  There were a few more attempts by various optimists to get the place to turn a profit, but I’d stopped paying attention years ago. It therefore came as a surprise when Terry told me that, not only had it reverted to its original name, but The Basement’s lease had been bought by none other than Sammy Sutherland, the guy who first hired me. As soon as I heard this, the venue for my leaving do was decided.

  My last day at Combined Utilities should probably have conjured mixed feelings. I’d spent two years at that desk, with those people; I even liked some of them. All I actually felt was relief when it hit five o’clock. I could not wait for that part of my life to be over. I had no idea what was going to happen next - that was the point.

  ‘Are you all weepy, then?’ Terry asked as we wandered towards The Basement, a dozen or so colleagues trailing dutifully behind.

  ‘If you don’t know the answer to that you don’t know me very well, mate.’

  ‘Not about leaving that place, you twat. I’m talking about the flat.’

  I had accepted an offer and was moving out that weekend. ‘Yeah, a bit I suppose.’

  We arrived at the corner of St Vincent Street and Union Street. It wasn’t on my usual route to the bus stop and, despite having worked less than a thousand yards away for the past couple of years, I hadn’t passed this spot for ages.

  It was as though twelve years had disappeared. Not literally obviously, I wasn’t mental, but the black, wrought-iron archway with the lantern on top framing the stone stairway was an almost exact copy of the one that used to be there all those years ago.

  I wasn’t sure if it was nostalgia for the place and its associations or just that I had forgotten how lethally steep these stairs were, but I actually felt a little light-headed as we descended and approached the heavy wooden door.

  Now for the real test, I thought, as I grasped the iron handle and pushed the door open. ‘Hah!’ I declared as I heard the loud creak of the hinges that had, back in the day, warned us to put out our fags because there were customers on the way. How the hell had Sammy managed to replicate that?

  ‘Are you all right?’ Terry asked. ‘You look like Richard Dreyfuss at the end of Close Encounters.’

  ‘Hmm?’ I was too busy smiling to answer properly. It was identical, all of it. The same orange lighting, so dull it seemed almost smoky; the same scuffed wooden floors and bars; the same motley assortment of wobbly-looking tables and chairs; the same beige, Artex-covered walls adorned with the same eclectic collection of old photos and bric-a-brac. Christ, it smelled musty; did they actually have a spray for that now? There was even a beat-up old piano in the corner by the toilets, reminding me of my tragic drunken attempts to serenade Paula Fraser by playing If I Had a Hammer on its predecessor during more than one staff drinks session.

  It was a bloody masterpiece. It was also empty, but for two bored looking staff standing either side of the bar-hatch, playing cards.

  ‘See if you can find a table,’ Terry said. ‘There might be one in the corner if you’re quick. I’ll get the beers in.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I said, rolling my eyes. The only times I had ever seen this place so quiet was when the doors were locked. I assumed word hadn’t got round yet.

  As the rest of our colleagues followed us in and their banal but animated conversation filled the air, the pair of staff - one guy, one girl - adopted a look approaching terror. I sympathised, guessing this was the biggest single group they’d dealt with since opening.

  Friday tea-time was always what I’d dreaded most when behind the bar. It felt like every single office worker in the city suddenly appeared at five-past-five, every one of them expecting a pint or a long-vodka to appear instantly before them as they prattled on about shit it was obvious even they didn’t care about, in an attempt to impress one another. Fucking yuppies, I never could take to them; thank God they were pretty much extinct. Although, I supposed we were their natural, if less well off, descendants as Terry wrote down everyone’s order on a beer-mat and collected tenners for the kitty.

  ‘Lager, lager, Breezer, Breezer … okay, tangerine Breezer, lager, Breezer, Breezer, lager, lager, Smirnoff Ice, kudos on breaking with convention there, Christine …’

  As the bar-staff heard Terry recite the drinks they visibly relaxed. Not so much as a white wine to contend with, all beers and bottles.

  I took a seat at one of the two large round tables opposite the bar.

  It was a deliberate gambit, sitting down first. It was my night out and I figured it would be interesting to see who would choose to sit beside me. Terry aside, I hadn’t spent much time socially with my colleagues. Of the fourteen other people there, I knew four well enough to regard as sort-of mates (at least during office hours). Six, I classed as acquaintances, people I wouldn’t be scared of getting stuck in a taxi queue with. Two, I actively disliked and knew the feelings were mutual, and the other two I was fairly certain I had never seen before in my life. Patrick hadn’t joined us as yet but had threatened to come along later, presumably after heading home to change into his other braces.

  I was starting to feel a little foolish as I sat there alone and everyone else crowded together at the bar, their backs to me. C’mon Terry, I thought, don’t leave me sitting here like a prick.

  Just as I was about to give up and go outside for a smoke and a sulk, they turned around en-masse and I saw that Terry, at their centre, held a large, gift-wrapped box in his chubby arms, which could only have come from behind the bar. The bugger must have nipped down with it at lunch-time.

  ‘Here you go, Jimmy boy. A wee something from us to say cheerio.’

  ‘Aw guys, jeez-oh.’ I was genuinely touched.

  ‘All right, don’t be a poof about it.’ Terry laid the box on the table in front of me, and I saw there was an oversized white envelope on top. He took the chair next to mine as a tray of drinks appeared. ‘C’mon, open it,’ Terry said, passing me a pint.

  Manners dictated that I should open the card first, but manners were never my strong point and I tore into the shiny red paper as the rest of the seats around the tables filled with eager onlookers.

  ‘Oh, very funny,’ I said, once the contents were revealed.

  ‘We thought it might come in handy, given your dynamic new lifestyle choice.’

  ‘Aye, cheers, how very thoughtful of you all.’ I smiled, sort of, as I held up the maroon, quilted smoking jacket. Also in the box was a pair of matching slippers and a ludicrously long, extravagantly curved pipe and a pack of Old Holborn tobacco.

  Terry reached into the box and picked up the pipe-tobacco. ‘We needed to kno
w you had one decent shag in your future.’

  I shook my head as they all laughed. ‘Where the hell did you find a smoking jacket in Glasgow?’

  ‘Veronica’s uncle’s in the trade.’ Terry nodded over the table to a tiny brunette, one of the two people I’d never seen before. She smiled shyly as Terry went on. ‘She got us a deal.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, wondering what trade her uncle could possibly be in. ‘Well, cheers Veronica. Thank your uncle for me.’

  ‘Okay,’ Veronica said, blushing.

  ‘Right.’ Terry took control of proceedings. ‘This is a round-and-a-half occasion. It’s your night Jim, so the first choice is yours.’

  Fair enough. ‘Tequila,’ I said.

  ‘Predictable but valid,’ Terry said. ‘Craig, sixteen tequilas with salt and lemon, and get them to turn the sounds up.’ He handed the pint pot with the kitty in it to Craig Thomson, one of my taxi-queue acquaintances.

  A round-and-a-half night was as it sounds - halfway through each round of pints or whatever, you get a round of halves. Short of the dreaded cocktails it was by far the most reliable way of getting hammered anyone I knew had come up with. Tradition, at least for Terry and me, held that each ‘half’ round should consist of a different shot, and that each member of the company took turns in making the selection. Only when it was your turn again were you allowed to repeat a beverage, making it highly unlikely I would make it to my second tequila that night.

  ‘Lick, drink, suck!’ I shouted a few minutes later and, as one, sixteen adults who should have known better deliberately and with glee condemned their gullets to a serious bout of heartburn in the not at all distant future.

  By seven o’clock we had added Sambuca and Triple-Sec to the roster and everyone seemed to be having a fine old time. I’d discovered that the previously-unknown-to-me Veronica was the person who put those complaint letters on my desk every lunchtime, and thanked her profusely for no coherent reason. The bar staff settled into their roles and had our ‘main’ round memorised and our kitty beside the till for easy access. I knew this meant their tip was guaranteed whether we agreed to it or not but I didn’t care, partly because I had been in their position many times myself and understood, but mainly because, as the man of the moment, I hadn’t contributed a penny towards the rapidly dwindling fund.

  Patrick made a brief appearance - his request for a Malibu and coke throwing the barman for a moment - shook my hand man(ish)fully and wished me all the best for the future, before taking his drink from the bar and sitting beside Terry.

  As I watched my former boss say his hesitant goodbyes twenty minutes later, I made a mental note to ask Terry what they had been whispering about. I would have done it there and then but my new friend Veronica was in the middle of a story and it would have been rude to cut her off.

  ‘So Uncle Jamie said I should give him Stevie’s address then think no more about it, so I did. I haven’t had any bother from Stevie since, so it seems to have worked out okay.’

  I nodded carefully. ‘You’re better off without him, clearly. Make sure you tell your Uncle Jamie how much I appreciated the smoking jacket. It’s very classy.’

  ‘Aw, I will.’ Veronica gave me a big, innocent smile. ‘He’s always saying, if you’re my friend you’re his friend.’

  I guessed there was another side to that statement. ‘I’m glad we got the chance to become friends tonight, Veronica.’

  ‘Call me Ronni.’

  ‘Will do, Ronni. I need to go to the bar now.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Nothing but warmth in her smile, I mused, as I ran away. The very definition of blissful ignorance.

  ‘So, Mark,’ I said once I reached the bar. ‘Did I tell you I used to work here?’ I’d introduced myself to the barman while ordering a previous round. He was one of those guys who are big without being heavy and younger without seeming young - envy inducing, essentially.

  ‘Yes you did. What can I get you?’

  ‘I just needed to escape for a minute to be honest, mate.’

  ‘No bother.’

  ‘I might as well have a tequila, seeing as I’m here.’ Why waste a visit to the bar?

  ‘From the kitty?’

  ‘Christ, yeah. It’s my night.’

  Mark smirked and turned to the gantry to prepare the drink. ‘So what are you moving on to then, Jim?’

  ‘Eh, I’m not too sure, actually. I haven’t got anything lined up just yet.’

  ‘Bit risky, isn’t it?’ Mark placed a shot glass filled with clear liquid on the bar in front of me, with a salt cellar and a slice of lemon on a saucer beside it.

  ‘I prefer to think of it as romantic,’ I said, before downing the tequila and ramming the lemon in my mouth.

  ‘Romantic, how? You planning on shagging your giro?’

  ‘Ha ha. I just mean I’m looking on it as more of a grand gesture. I’m offering myself up to fate.’

  ‘Okay. Well, best of luck with that.’

  It’s annoying to be patronised by someone who’s a decade younger and has far more hair than you, and I was trying to think up a witty retort when a voice behind me said: ‘Tell me that isn’t Jim Cooper.’

  I turned to see a smartly-dressed, forty-something guy with close-cropped dark hair and a well-trimmed goatee staring at me, an amused look on his face. It took me a moment, then I blurted: ‘Sammy!’

  My former manager shook his head with a smile and extended a hand, which I readily shook. ‘You know, I think that’s exactly where you were the last time I saw you.’

  ‘More than likely,’ I said. ‘How the hell are you? I’d heard you bought the place. I can’t believe you managed to get it looking the same. How did you remember everything? I mean, you’ve even got the old violin on the wall.’ I was rambling.

  ‘Well, I did own a camera back in the olden days, Jim. It really wasn’t too difficult.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. That makes sense, sorry.’

  ‘Still a bit of a wanker?’

  Mark, who had taken a deferential step back to allow Sammy access, giggled.

  I took a breath and smiled, relaxing. ‘So I’m told, a bit more frequently than seems polite sometimes, to be honest.’

  ‘Aye well, the truth isn’t always pleasant. Incidentally, I didn’t buy this place, I just work for the brewery that did.’

  ‘Oh, right. So you’re the manager?’ Did it count as deja-vu if something really had happened before?

  ‘Excuuuse me, Mr Cooper,’ Sammy said, flaring his nostrils and raising his eyebrows. I’d been surprised back when I’d first started working for him when Paula told me Sammy was gay. It was only at times like this, when he pretended to be angry, than he allowed an element of camp to creep in. ‘I’d hope I’ve moved up in the world a bit in the last decade! I’m the Scottish Regional Manager, I’ll have you know. They asked me to get this place opened and running, given I’ve got some history with the old shit-heap. Anyway, what are you up to these days?’

  ‘Hah, funny you should ask,’ I said. I was sure I heard Mark snigger again from the back office. I was about to go on when an arm draped round my shoulder.

  ‘C’mon, Jimmy boy,’ Terry slurred in my ear, ‘it’s half time again, Ronni’s choice. I hope your gut can handle an Aftershock.’

  I groaned. ‘I’d better get back, Sammy. Catch up with you a bit later?’

  ‘No problem, Jim. I’m here for a while.’ I could hear the bemusement on Sammy’s face, even if he was polite enough not to let me see it.

  I sat next to Terry, ensuring a polite but safe three-body distance from Veronica, who kept smiling at me. We downed our Aftershocks, and I managed not to throw mine straight back up into the glass. It had never been a favourite.

  Another pint and a load of verbal bollocks later, I heard the intro to In A Broken Dream by Python Lee Jackson blast out of the speaker above my head. I looked over to the bar in surprise and saw Sammy standing next to the PC monitor on the corner shelf, where the double tape-dec
k had been back in my day. The track, by a relatively unknown Australian band whose manager, in 1968, somehow talked Rod Stewart into singing a couple of tunes for them, had been my all-time favourite song when I worked in The Basement. Sammy gave me a thumbs-up and I smiled back as I marvelled at his memory. Christ, I had even forgotten I liked that song. I’d forgotten it existed. That must have been a hell of a camera Sammy had, back then.

  I quickly drank the B52 Terry had passed me from the recently arrived tray of ‘halves’ and headed back to the bar.

  ‘Jesus, Sammy. Where did you dig that up from?’

  ‘The wonders of itunes, Jim,’ Sammy said. ‘I’m downloading Layla as we speak.’

  ‘Oh Christ, don’t. I’ve moved on a wee bit myself, you know.’

  He laughed. ‘Okay, but that’s 79p you owe me.’

  ‘Take it out of the kitty, if there’s anything left.’ I pulled over a bar stool and sat. ‘It’s good to see you, Sam. You’re looking great.’

  ‘It’s good to see you too, Jim.’

  I waited for a second, hoping he might return my compliment. Nope. ‘Yeah, cheers.’

  ‘So what are you up to, then? Where are you leaving and where are you going?’ Sammy placed an unasked for but greatly appreciated pint in front of me.

  Ten minutes later I had explained the situation, with an unexpected result, when I got the biggest fright of my life.

  ‘Jaysus, have I been in a Tardis and no one’s told me?’

  For the second time that night I turned to see a face from my past smiling at me. ‘Paula? What the fuck?’ I blurted.

  It was her, Paula Fraser. She looked ... like ... Paula Fraser. The hair was still long (though not quite so curly), the eyes still sparked and the bum was no doubt still gorgeous. And the smile, Jesus, the smile.

  I could hear, never mind feel, my heart gallop. My mouth dried up as my palms (and other things) moistened. All those halves suddenly ambushed my brain and turned it to mush, and I was very glad indeed I had a barstool under my arse to prevent an embarrassing collapse. Yep, it was definitely Paula.

  ‘Jim bloody Cooper and Sammy bloody Sutherland, either side of that bar. I hope neither of you have said deja-vu, yet.’