unpretentious, mainly red brick or concrete rather than the sandstone or granite of the city centre and wealthier neighbourhoods. By now, most adults had returned from work and children had gone in off the streets, curtains were being drawn as people closed up against the encroaching night. A few teenagers were still hanging around waiting for something to turn up, but without much optimism that it would. A handful of couples were making their wayinto the city centre. Arm in arm, a pair of young women passed him, their tall shoes clicking briskly on the hard paving stones. A freshening wind ruffled his long hair. The haunting melody and lyrics of Van Morrison’s legendary ballad drifted into his mind -
the cool night air like Shalimar
.
Pensive and reflective, his mood was rudely broken.
Two young lads, short of something to do, decided to amuse themselves at Tim’s expense. Noticing that his trousers stopped an inch or so above his ankles one of them shouted, ‘Aren’t ye a bit old for short trousers?’
Tim made no response.
‘Don’t ye think you need a haircut Mate?’ asked the second youth.
No answer. The lads had kept a wary distance from Tim and he reckoned he could get out of this spot of bother by ignoring it – cautiously. Something along the lines of ‘talk quietly and carry a big stick’. All he lacked was the stick. Maintaining his pace he continued to walk on. The lads trailed after him without much conviction.
‘Give us a fiver, mate, and we’ll leave ye alone.’
Irritated, Tim abandoned his strong silent strategy. He turned to face the lads. They looked no more than fifteen or sixteen years old and quite small and skinny. Both had carrot coloured hair, aggressive freckles and features that were too large for their thin faces. They were clearly brothers and probably twins. He guessed they were jokers rather than thugs. It was no great risk to face them down – unless, of course, they were carrying a weapon.
‘You guys taking the piss?’
‘Looks like ye’ve already had the piss taken out of ye mate.’ It was reassuring that this remark was made as the two were backing away from Tim, ready to beat it should Tim go for them.
‘Very funny… You two are not contributing much to my evening. You could do worse than go missing.’
‘Posh ain’t we? Do you mean you’d like us to fuck off?’
Tim bristled. He didn’t like the ‘posh’ comment. It disturbed some distant, unpleasant memory. But by now he had concluded that the boys were not a threat. He kept his cool and decided to redirect their surplus energy.
‘Look I’ll give you a fiver if you can take me to a pub with decent beer,’ adding after a moment’s thought, ‘and maybe a few decent looking women as well.’
The offer had instant appeal to the carrot heads. ‘Yeah,’ they knew a couple of good pubs, though they couldn’t often afford to drink there themselves. Tim sealed the deal.
‘Ok, two quid now and three when we get there.’
The ill-sorted but picaresque trio set off towards the city centre. They exchanged names or, as the lads announced themselves as ‘Light-bulb’ and ‘Dipstick’, in their case, nicknames. Tim had attracted a few nicknames in his time, the one he was most coy about being ‘Spare Parts.’ He decided to pass on mentioning it on this occasion. The banter continued in a more friendly tone as they approached the river. They stopped just short of a bridge leading into the main commercial and entertainment area.
‘We’ll leave you here, Sir, if that’s ok,’ said Dipstick the noisier of the two, suddenly respectful as the pay-off moment neared. ‘When you cross the bridge you’ll find yourself in a main street, follow it round for about fifty yards and you’ll come to a pub called
The Bombadier
. It sells real ale, the stuff people like you like.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Can we have the rest of our money now, Sir?’
Tim searched his pockets for three-pound coins. Nothing
the cool night air like Shalimar
.
Pensive and reflective, his mood was rudely broken.
Two young lads, short of something to do, decided to amuse themselves at Tim’s expense. Noticing that his trousers stopped an inch or so above his ankles one of them shouted, ‘Aren’t ye a bit old for short trousers?’
Tim made no response.
‘Don’t ye think you need a haircut Mate?’ asked the second youth.
No answer. The lads had kept a wary distance from Tim and he reckoned he could get out of this spot of bother by ignoring it – cautiously. Something along the lines of ‘talk quietly and carry a big stick’. All he lacked was the stick. Maintaining his pace he continued to walk on. The lads trailed after him without much conviction.
‘Give us a fiver, mate, and we’ll leave ye alone.’
Irritated, Tim abandoned his strong silent strategy. He turned to face the lads. They looked no more than fifteen or sixteen years old and quite small and skinny. Both had carrot coloured hair, aggressive freckles and features that were too large for their thin faces. They were clearly brothers and probably twins. He guessed they were jokers rather than thugs. It was no great risk to face them down – unless, of course, they were carrying a weapon.
‘You guys taking the piss?’
‘Looks like ye’ve already had the piss taken out of ye mate.’ It was reassuring that this remark was made as the two were backing away from Tim, ready to beat it should Tim go for them.
‘Very funny… You two are not contributing much to my evening. You could do worse than go missing.’
‘Posh ain’t we? Do you mean you’d like us to fuck off?’
Tim bristled. He didn’t like the ‘posh’ comment. It disturbed some distant, unpleasant memory. But by now he had concluded that the boys were not a threat. He kept his cool and decided to redirect their surplus energy.
‘Look I’ll give you a fiver if you can take me to a pub with decent beer,’ adding after a moment’s thought, ‘and maybe a few decent looking women as well.’
The offer had instant appeal to the carrot heads. ‘Yeah,’ they knew a couple of good pubs, though they couldn’t often afford to drink there themselves. Tim sealed the deal.
‘Ok, two quid now and three when we get there.’
The ill-sorted but picaresque trio set off towards the city centre. They exchanged names or, as the lads announced themselves as ‘Light-bulb’ and ‘Dipstick’, in their case, nicknames. Tim had attracted a few nicknames in his time, the one he was most coy about being ‘Spare Parts.’ He decided to pass on mentioning it on this occasion. The banter continued in a more friendly tone as they approached the river. They stopped just short of a bridge leading into the main commercial and entertainment area.
‘We’ll leave you here, Sir, if that’s ok,’ said Dipstick the noisier of the two, suddenly respectful as the pay-off moment neared. ‘When you cross the bridge you’ll find yourself in a main street, follow it round for about fifty yards and you’ll come to a pub called
The Bombadier
. It sells real ale, the stuff people like you like.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Can we have the rest of our money now, Sir?’
Tim searched his pockets for three-pound coins. Nothing
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