out? Were his parents proud? Hadn’t Gary said he’d joined the police? There were so many holes in David’s knowledge of the past, of the collective past of this town, there wasn’t a hope in hell of him ever catching up, even if he wanted to. He wondered if Neil would come along tonight, and thought it would be good if he did.
He looked at his watch.
‘Shit, it’s coming on seven o’clock,’ he said, quickly arsing the rest of his pint and nudging Gary. ‘We better get a bend on. I’ve gotta get back to the B&B and get something to eat before I head back out.’
‘We could just stay out,’ said Gary. ‘It’s only just down the road to Bally’s.’
It was tempting, but David had had seven or eight pints and nothing to eat, and he needed to freshen up and get his shit together for meeting Nicola. Christ, he hadn’t thought about Nicola for hours. He tried to picture their kiss from last night, but it seemed blurry and murky already in his memory, as if viewed from the bottom of the Keptie Pond. He hoped he’d get the opportunity to refresh that memory tonight.
Both David and Gary got up to leave, Jack waving his pint glass at them nonchalantly as they pushed their stools back. ‘I’ll give you a phone through the week, Gary,’ he said. ‘Sort out the details for this talk at the school.’ Gary looked pained at the reminder, but smiled thinly anyway.
‘Cheers Jack, nice meeting you again,’ said David.
‘Aye, and all the best to you too, David. Enjoy yourselves tonight, the pair of you. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
They pushed through the smoky babble of the pub and out the door, into the fresh air of a beautifully sunny Scottish evening. David felt the sun on his face and couldn’t believe how good the weather had been recently. He patted Gary on the shoulder and arranged to meet him in an hour and a half in Bally’s along with the other dregs of Keptie High School’s class of ’88. The thought didn’t fill him with dread, and as he walked purposefully up to the High Common he even started to hum a nondescript tune.
6
Reunion
Nicola downed another double gin and tonic and looked around. This had been a mistake. Not the idea of a reunion as such, but the sticky-floored venue they’d chosen was a massive miscalculation. Within ten seconds of entering the place she’d almost been puked on by a rubber-limbed boy with curly hair and the baggiest jeans she’d ever seen.
Bally’s was packed with kids old enough to be her offspring. Nicola knew it was a cliché to think that, but she couldn’t help it. It was the nightclub that time forgot. Nicola hadn’t seen the likes since they stopped showing The Hitman and Her , that ridiculous late-night celebration of the old-school, small-town disco mentality hosted by Pete Waterman and Michaela Strachan in the late 80s. These days Waterman was doing a television documentary about trains and Strachan was presenting wildlife programmes. Nicola felt similarly out of touch with her past in the face of the flashing lights, mirrorball, dry ice (dry ice, for Christ’s sake, she thought) and wrought iron and perspex that filled the large cattle-market dancefloor and sheltered booths arranged around it on two levels.
The reunion had hired out the ‘executive suite’ area of the club, which was little more than a handful of booths cordoned off with one of those old-style barriers – twisted rope tied between small stands. A squat, burly guy in a black pilot jacket stood guard over the entrance. They did have a section of the bar to themselves, which meant that at least they didn’t have to jockey for position and beers with the rest of the scum, avoiding the resultant arse-pinching and lewd comments that would entail.
Nicola was taking full advantage of the bar. She ordered another double gin and tonic and looked at the people filling the executive suite. There were about twenty-five here already, and they were expecting the same again
He looked at his watch.
‘Shit, it’s coming on seven o’clock,’ he said, quickly arsing the rest of his pint and nudging Gary. ‘We better get a bend on. I’ve gotta get back to the B&B and get something to eat before I head back out.’
‘We could just stay out,’ said Gary. ‘It’s only just down the road to Bally’s.’
It was tempting, but David had had seven or eight pints and nothing to eat, and he needed to freshen up and get his shit together for meeting Nicola. Christ, he hadn’t thought about Nicola for hours. He tried to picture their kiss from last night, but it seemed blurry and murky already in his memory, as if viewed from the bottom of the Keptie Pond. He hoped he’d get the opportunity to refresh that memory tonight.
Both David and Gary got up to leave, Jack waving his pint glass at them nonchalantly as they pushed their stools back. ‘I’ll give you a phone through the week, Gary,’ he said. ‘Sort out the details for this talk at the school.’ Gary looked pained at the reminder, but smiled thinly anyway.
‘Cheers Jack, nice meeting you again,’ said David.
‘Aye, and all the best to you too, David. Enjoy yourselves tonight, the pair of you. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
They pushed through the smoky babble of the pub and out the door, into the fresh air of a beautifully sunny Scottish evening. David felt the sun on his face and couldn’t believe how good the weather had been recently. He patted Gary on the shoulder and arranged to meet him in an hour and a half in Bally’s along with the other dregs of Keptie High School’s class of ’88. The thought didn’t fill him with dread, and as he walked purposefully up to the High Common he even started to hum a nondescript tune.
6
Reunion
Nicola downed another double gin and tonic and looked around. This had been a mistake. Not the idea of a reunion as such, but the sticky-floored venue they’d chosen was a massive miscalculation. Within ten seconds of entering the place she’d almost been puked on by a rubber-limbed boy with curly hair and the baggiest jeans she’d ever seen.
Bally’s was packed with kids old enough to be her offspring. Nicola knew it was a cliché to think that, but she couldn’t help it. It was the nightclub that time forgot. Nicola hadn’t seen the likes since they stopped showing The Hitman and Her , that ridiculous late-night celebration of the old-school, small-town disco mentality hosted by Pete Waterman and Michaela Strachan in the late 80s. These days Waterman was doing a television documentary about trains and Strachan was presenting wildlife programmes. Nicola felt similarly out of touch with her past in the face of the flashing lights, mirrorball, dry ice (dry ice, for Christ’s sake, she thought) and wrought iron and perspex that filled the large cattle-market dancefloor and sheltered booths arranged around it on two levels.
The reunion had hired out the ‘executive suite’ area of the club, which was little more than a handful of booths cordoned off with one of those old-style barriers – twisted rope tied between small stands. A squat, burly guy in a black pilot jacket stood guard over the entrance. They did have a section of the bar to themselves, which meant that at least they didn’t have to jockey for position and beers with the rest of the scum, avoiding the resultant arse-pinching and lewd comments that would entail.
Nicola was taking full advantage of the bar. She ordered another double gin and tonic and looked at the people filling the executive suite. There were about twenty-five here already, and they were expecting the same again
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