Nevin & I

Hurricane Katia had arrived early and the rain lashed our faces as we scrambled through the mud from the car to the cottage before struggling with the door and eventually getting inside, soaked through to find that there was no electricity. I was fine as I could sit in the corner and heat myself with the smug glow of my own self importance. Pat however had only a seething sense of his own inadequacy and so sat and shivered until I could sort out the fuel and wood situation – luckily I’d brought the unsold copies of my Paul LeGuen opus which allowed us an unending source of fuel for the fire. Now with light and heat we decided a few drinks were in order and so took off for an evening at the Crow.

We sat at the end of the bar, Pat nursing a sense of grievance not unusual in his tribe while I cocked a snook at the various local types who came through the premises – you know, farmers, milkmen, travelling tinkers… Then suddenly the pub door blew open and a hulking great figure stood silhouetted against the storm until it snuffled into the bar, a wriggling eel clasped between its teeth. It was the Traynor.

Missing since our imprisonment in Walter Smith’s underwater lair, Silence, we’d wondered where he’d gone. Some suggested he’d drowned in an escape attempt but I knew better, that he’d just tired of being locked up with such stultifying idiots in Kearney and McBride. Oh, and me. Who was to know though, that he’d fetch up poaching in Penrith?
‘Poaching is a fine way to live, Spiers’ he growled. ‘You should know that, isn’t your piece in this morning’s Times poached from other journalists and various lunatic ramblings on the internet? Christ, you should just credit your pieces these days to Matt McGlone – I could almost smell the Heraghtys drip trays when I read that today. What are you doing here anyway, I thought I was getting peace from you morons until you turned up?’
‘Oh Pat and I had our arses felt in Edinburgh and not in the good way so we’re taking a breather from the city for a while,’ I said as the Traynor leaned over the bar and poured himself an ale.
‘Yeah? Well don’t think you two idiots can come down here and ruin my new life. I’ll be watching you, especially you Spiers, prancing like a tit’ and with that he downed his pint and left, disappearing into the howling black night.
‘Well that was a turn up for the books,’ said Nevin. ‘Have I ever told you my story about when Rangers played Chelsea and…’
‘Yes!’ I shouted and we trudged back to the cottage, heads down against the wind, faces stinging from the rain.

We dried out in front of a roaring fire – we’d rather taken to burning books, it seemed to fit the times in which we are living back home in Scotland. Then we retired to bed, separate rooms which Pat insisted upon having been brought up a Catholic and not being used to integration but I got scared and crept into his bed in the middle of the night and we lay uncomfortably together until we were awoken by an almighty crash from downstairs.
‘It’s the Traynor, it’s got to be,’ I squealed.
‘Oh my god, he’s come to slit our throats, we’re doomed. By the way, have I ever told you that story about Rangers supporters during a friendly against Chelsea?’ whispered Nevin.
‘Yes!’ I rasped. ‘We don’t have time for that now, he’s coming up the stairs, offer yourself to him.’ Nevin stared at me in horror but there was no time for argument now as the bedroom door was being forced. I began to groan in fear, huddled tight against Nevin.
‘We mean no harm,’ I moaned as the door at last opened and we saw the grotesque frame of a drunken and evil monster standing in front of us.
‘Tom Devine, you terrible cunt!’ I cried, almost with relief.