Gutted by Tony Black

ghetto. Add Italian Gothic architecture to the mix, you’re in serious eye-catcher territory. None of that does it for me, though: they have my father’s portrait in there.
    C ANNIS D URY , W ORLD C UP S QUAD , S PAIN ’82 it says on the brass plaque beneath. Must stand about six feet high. He never stood that tall in real life. He never needed to. A finer example of the wee man complex would be hard to find. With this type the mantra is fight for the respect your size denies you.
    And he did. Not just on the park either. My mother, God bless her battered heart and soul, bore the brunt of it. Just the thought reminded me how much I’d neglected her since my father’s funeral. I knew I must call her soon; what was stopping me?
    The sight of the gallery, every time, reminds me that my father’s in there. Larger than life. Living on. As if I ever needed a reminder. On his deathbed he begged my forgiveness, but it made no difference.
    An old woman caught me staring at the spires and turrets. ‘Are you going in?’
    ‘Excuse me?’
    ‘I think it’s a disgrace!’ She shook her head. A baby-blue bobble on her tam-o’-shanter rolled from side to side. ‘An absolute disgrace.’
    I had no idea what she was on about, said, ‘You’re right . . . disgraceful.’
    ‘When I think of the paintings they have in there . . . kings and queens, done by masters, too.’
    I tried to get an inkling of where she was going with this, spotted a banner, a sculpted six-pack and a tranche of female thigh on it. The current exhibition was on naked celebrities.
    ‘This is just typical,’ I said. ‘We’re celebrity obsessed . . . It’s like Hello! magazine in oils.’
    The oldie smiled. ‘You’re a man of some sense.’
    ‘Some would say . . . a cynic.’
    A heart-stopping smile. ‘They’d be wrong, so they would.’
    I took the compliment, smiled back. ‘Well, I don’t know about the price of everything but I do know the value of nothing.’
    And did I ever. Nothing was my current score in the game of life.
    I traipsed on, passed the Sherlock Holmes statue outside Arthur Conan Doyle’s birthplace, crossed over to Greenside Place and onto London Road, then schlepped down all the way to the Holy Wall.
    I realised I’d forgotten my key.
    Rapped on the door.
    Nothing.
    Another rap, louder.
    Heard movement, bit of shuffling, then a ‘Shit’ and a ‘Fucksake’.
    When the lock turned in the door I saw one bleary eye pushed into the gap. ‘Who is it?’
    ‘Me, the one with his name above the door.’
    ‘Gus . . . bloody hellfire, get in!’
    Mac opened up. He stood in the daylight wearing a pair of budgie-smugglers, bright yellow ones. A ‘Makin’ Bacon’ T-shirt maintained his modesty from the waist up.
    I shielded my eyes. ‘Get some clothes on. Your skanky arse is the last thing I want to see.’
    He slapped his butt cheeks, called out, ‘What you on about? I’m a fine figure of a man.’
    ‘Aye, if the figure’s zero . . . a big round one.’
    ‘Och, get yerself hunted.’
    As he shut the door I saw plod had been at work. The pub had been turned over, drawers lying out, cupboard doors open, smashed glass everywhere. I was surprised they hadn’t had the floorboards up.
    ‘Holy shit,’ I blurted, ‘we’ve had company, then . . .’
    Mac frowned, pulled a checked dressing gown over himself, said, ‘You could say that. Not any company I’d like to see, though . . . Bastards left the place in some kip, haven’t they? It’s like Steptoe’s yard now.’
    As we moved into the bar area I stopped in my tracks. Loud barking greeted us. It lasted all of a few seconds until the dog came running through from the next room, started to jump at me, clawing and pawing.
    Mac said, ‘Better give him a hello, Gus.’
    I walked around the love-fest. ‘What, and encourage him? Uh-uh.’
    ‘But he doesn’t carry on like that with anyone else. Fair puts the shits up the punters, let me tell you.’
    ‘Are you going soft, Mac?