thought David as he sat drinking his pint and feeling relieved. He looked at Gary and felt sorry for him, but rather him than me, he thought.
Gary crumbled under the pressure and agreed to try and speak to some of the older kids sometime in the next week. Jack unearthed a pen from somewhere in his jacket and wrote Gary’s number down on the margin of the newspaper. He had got what he wanted but didn’t seem in any hurry to leave.
‘Either of you lads ever see Neil Cargill these days? You used to hang about with him, didn’t you? The four of you, in your own wee gang.’
‘Never seen him,’ said David.
‘Not in years,’ said Gary.
‘Did you say you were here for a class reunion?’ said Jack.
‘Yeah, just down the road at Bally’s,’ said David.
‘I think it’s called the Waterfront now,’ said Gary into his pint.
‘I’m still getting over the name change from Smokies,’ said Jack, chuckling to himself. ‘That’s what happens when you live in a place like Arbroath as long as I have, the pubs all change their names so frequently that there’s no point in trying to keep up.’
‘That happens in Edinburgh too, right enough,’ said David.
‘Do you think Neil will be at the reunion?’ asked Jack.
‘Doubt it,’ said Gary. ‘Haven’t seen him around in ages, don’t know what he’s been up to.’
‘Shame,’ said Jack. ‘It’s always good for old friends to catch up, relive old times.’
‘You think?’ said David.
‘Of course,’ said Jack. ‘Don’t you?’
David had doubts but said nothing. He tried to picture what Neil Cargill would look like now. He was always the most direct, no-bullshit, no-nonsense member of the ADS when they’d hung out together, something matched by his physique – stocky, barrel torso; short, powerful legs; and a dark, serious face that turned veiny when he got agitated. He had never been any good academically and that, combined with dyslexia diagnosed too late, had meant that he’d re-sat a year at primary school. He was a year older than the rest of them, yet he was still in remedial English. He’d had a much older brother Craig who at the age of eighteen, when Neil was only eleven, had somehow managed to wrap his car around a tree on the back road to Arbirlot on a clear spring evening. The police estimated he must’ve been doing over ninety miles an hour. He died instantly. Neil had carried that weight around with him, occasionally falling into sombre moods only to snap out of them with bursts of aggressive excitement at nothing in particular.
Despite all that, Neil had been a good friend to the other three, always reliable and willing to back them up in a stand-off, which was pretty handy because he was one of the hardest kids in town when it came to fist fighting. And despite being short he definitely looked his extra year, easily swanning into offies, pubs and Breakers’ snooker hall confidently at the front, getting the round in and covering for the rest of them. Driven by a need to impress his parents – who were much older than David’s, Colin’s or Gary’s folks, and who were burdened by the same desperate sadness over Craig’s death that Neil carried – he’d set his heart on joining the Marines from secondary school onwards. The Condor base just outside Arbroath was home to the 45 Commando Unit, and they did a lot of recruiting from the local schools, but it was made pretty clear that only the fittest and hardest need even bother applying for the Marines, the rest could fuck off to the regular army or fuck off entirely. Neil had no problems with fitness or hardness, but he did struggle with the basic literacy and numeracy requirements, until finally, with the help of a rather hippyish dyslexia specialist that he paid for out of his own Saturday job wages, he passed the Marines’ entrance exam in June of 1988. Basic training started two months later, so Neil had spent the summer relaxing and drinking.
So had the Marines worked
Gary crumbled under the pressure and agreed to try and speak to some of the older kids sometime in the next week. Jack unearthed a pen from somewhere in his jacket and wrote Gary’s number down on the margin of the newspaper. He had got what he wanted but didn’t seem in any hurry to leave.
‘Either of you lads ever see Neil Cargill these days? You used to hang about with him, didn’t you? The four of you, in your own wee gang.’
‘Never seen him,’ said David.
‘Not in years,’ said Gary.
‘Did you say you were here for a class reunion?’ said Jack.
‘Yeah, just down the road at Bally’s,’ said David.
‘I think it’s called the Waterfront now,’ said Gary into his pint.
‘I’m still getting over the name change from Smokies,’ said Jack, chuckling to himself. ‘That’s what happens when you live in a place like Arbroath as long as I have, the pubs all change their names so frequently that there’s no point in trying to keep up.’
‘That happens in Edinburgh too, right enough,’ said David.
‘Do you think Neil will be at the reunion?’ asked Jack.
‘Doubt it,’ said Gary. ‘Haven’t seen him around in ages, don’t know what he’s been up to.’
‘Shame,’ said Jack. ‘It’s always good for old friends to catch up, relive old times.’
‘You think?’ said David.
‘Of course,’ said Jack. ‘Don’t you?’
David had doubts but said nothing. He tried to picture what Neil Cargill would look like now. He was always the most direct, no-bullshit, no-nonsense member of the ADS when they’d hung out together, something matched by his physique – stocky, barrel torso; short, powerful legs; and a dark, serious face that turned veiny when he got agitated. He had never been any good academically and that, combined with dyslexia diagnosed too late, had meant that he’d re-sat a year at primary school. He was a year older than the rest of them, yet he was still in remedial English. He’d had a much older brother Craig who at the age of eighteen, when Neil was only eleven, had somehow managed to wrap his car around a tree on the back road to Arbirlot on a clear spring evening. The police estimated he must’ve been doing over ninety miles an hour. He died instantly. Neil had carried that weight around with him, occasionally falling into sombre moods only to snap out of them with bursts of aggressive excitement at nothing in particular.
Despite all that, Neil had been a good friend to the other three, always reliable and willing to back them up in a stand-off, which was pretty handy because he was one of the hardest kids in town when it came to fist fighting. And despite being short he definitely looked his extra year, easily swanning into offies, pubs and Breakers’ snooker hall confidently at the front, getting the round in and covering for the rest of them. Driven by a need to impress his parents – who were much older than David’s, Colin’s or Gary’s folks, and who were burdened by the same desperate sadness over Craig’s death that Neil carried – he’d set his heart on joining the Marines from secondary school onwards. The Condor base just outside Arbroath was home to the 45 Commando Unit, and they did a lot of recruiting from the local schools, but it was made pretty clear that only the fittest and hardest need even bother applying for the Marines, the rest could fuck off to the regular army or fuck off entirely. Neil had no problems with fitness or hardness, but he did struggle with the basic literacy and numeracy requirements, until finally, with the help of a rather hippyish dyslexia specialist that he paid for out of his own Saturday job wages, he passed the Marines’ entrance exam in June of 1988. Basic training started two months later, so Neil had spent the summer relaxing and drinking.
So had the Marines worked
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