R.I.P Robbie Silva by Tony Black

R.I.P Robbie Silva
     

    If I had to say when it started, when the shit really broke, I'd go for the day I met Gail. I was sitting in a drinker at the foot of Leith Walk tanning Tennent's – roughly one hour out my stretch – and retelling the morning's main event. Trust me, after nine months in the pound, a thing like this was an event .
    'So, I walks out the gates and goes into the first shop I sees, asks for a pack of smokes, I was gasping , like.' I got the nodding dog from Wellsy and Bandy Rab. It had been a while since I'd held court with the old crew – boys looked like they were right into it as well – I can feed a yarn with the best of them, known for it.
    'And the guy at the till, he's some fat fucking Jambo sitting on his arse with a gut spilling over the counter. Y'know the type, most exercise he gets is doing a couple of scratch-cards a day ...'
    Laughs. More nods. Bandy Rab shifted onto his other arse-cheek, leaned into Wellsy, making his pint shoogle in the glass; Wellsy gave him a wee frown that said cool the beans, man .
    'So, he gives me this look ...' I made the look; that's when I caught sight of the blonde with her eye on me. She was leaning on the bar, pushing out a belter of an arse in cut-down Levis, or was it hot-pants now I think of it? There was definitely a bit of a glossy pout about her lips anyway, I remember that, that and a fair rack as well. I've always been more of an arse man, but well, you notice a thing like that, don't you? She was with a couple of lads, an older bloke that looked a bit of a player and some gimp with a mullet and an AC/DC T-shirt.
    I splayed arms, made the gesture – funny how an audience will improve your performance – continued: 'Then he goes ... Back the way you came .'
    'Eh?' I said it the way I told him. 'And he's up out the seat, goes, I'm not serving you. '
    I felt the heat rising in my chest, the return of the red mist, as I retold the story – this guy had got my goat. Fucking sure he had.
    'So, I looks at him and he turns away, flags me off with the back of his hand like I'm some Calton Hill cock-washer or something.' I mean, I'm six-two and 15 stone. I'm solid too, all muscle, no jelly on me. I went inside this time with a 44-inch chest and bench-pressed it up to 46. Jed the Press they were calling me; no-one could fucking out-press me in there.
    I copied the Jambo's dismissive gesture for the boys – they shook heads, knew the score. I saw the blonde was still all eyes for me as well. Made me want to smile but you can't encourage them, makes you look too keen and that's the last thing you want, nothing'll blow your chances faster. A hoor of a business.
    I started up again: ' I don't serve your lot, he goes ... My lot , I says, and what the fuck would that be, mate? '
    I stood up at this point, fair getting into the swing of things, has to be done. It was a big deal to have anything to tell them; fuck all had happened in Saughton that's for sure and certain.
    'Now he's on his feet and fumbling about the counter, saying: Don't call me fucking mate, I'm not yer fucking mate, pal. He actually calls me pal . The fanny. Typical fucking Jambo – he's all right, he's all wrong. But then he arks right up, hoicks out this shooter, old fucking war heirloom ... and the cunt points it at me.'
    I hold my finger out in front of me like it's a gun and Wellsy and Bandy Rab get off the nodding dog patter and onto the Ren and Stimpy eyes, staring, just staring. It's a look that says and where the fuck's this going? Y'know, like they're not quite sure they aren't sitting with some serious radge that's gone and offed somebody in the last hour. No danger. I mean, I've no fear of doing another stretch, life on the out isn't that exciting at the best of times, but c'mon ...
    ' I'm warning you, he goes, and I'm like in total shock, disbelief y'know ... I'm half-an-hour out the fucking pound and this cunt's pointing a shooter at me ... Holy fuck , I says, stroll the fuck on,