Born Free Read online

  Taking a long drink, he suddenly can’t seem to look at me. Oh shit, what’s wrong?

  ‘Please, tell me, I’m starting to get the fear.’

  ‘Fuck, Angie, I don’t know how to say it.’

  ‘Just say it, please.’

  He circles my fingertips with his thumb.

  ‘It’s just… you know what I was saying about married women?’

  ‘What about it?’ Christ, talk about dragging it out.

  ‘Fuck, Angie. I’m married as well, there, I’ve said it … and before you say, I know, I’m a bastard.’

  I feel such relief, I want to hug him. That needn’t change anything between us, need it? It just puts us in the same boat.

  ‘And how long have you suffered from this affliction?’

  He bows his head.

  ‘Three years … well, four actually. I’d like to try and explain what it’s like to you but it’ll just sound like male bullshit, you know?’

  ‘Can I decide that for myself?’ I ask, depleting the first of my two drinks.

  ‘It’s embarrassing, though, it’s such a cliché. I dunno why we got married. I was on the rebound, see, the married lassie, I didn’t make that up. It wasnae fair of me. We’re good pals, but there’s nothing else there, no attraction, never has been.’

  ‘At least you didn’t say she didn’t understand you.’

  He’s too into his spiel to hear me.

  ‘… it’s not just me though. She’s got a degree, you know, in textile design, but she can’t find work up here. She’s just temping. It’s like I’m holding her back. She thinks so too, I know she does. She just doesnae want to hurt me.’

  I’m flattered that he feels the need to be honest with me, but by the end of my next drink, tales of his poor saint of a wife are beginning to grate a bit.

  ‘I think I get the picture, Ray. I’m hardly one to talk.’

  Wiping a wet Diet Coke patch from my lip, he kisses me again. Out the corner of my eye I see the two barmaids smirking at us but I don’t give a damn. When he goes to the toilet again, I rush up for more drink.

  ‘Same again?’ asks the blonde one, pouring two doubles before I have time to reply. God, we really have been drinking doubles all along. I should be worried about being pissed but, at this precise moment, I don’t fucking care any more. It feels like my life’s been on pause since I stopped drinking.

  Raymond swallows his in one when he gets back, without even realising I’d got another round in.

  ‘That’s why I’m so into this stuff. I’m here till closing every night, just avoiding going back. Trying to work up the balls to end it.’

  ‘Is it that bad?’

  ‘I’m in here lunch time as well. And when I’ve been doing the banking. I’m having swifties all the time. The money I spend avoiding her, I could get another flat, you know. It’s fucking stupid.’

  ‘You never seem pissed.’

  Waving a packet of Extra-Strong Mints at me, he stumbles out his chair, supporting himself against the table to get his balance. He didn’t seem drunk until he started talking about it, but to be honest, I quite like it. Drinking seems to give men a bit of depth, a sort of tragic quality. Raymond walks slowly and carefully to the bar, slipping money in the jukebox as he goes past. It’s been silent for about ten minutes now. He makes a few selections as the barmaid milks the optics. Bringing them over, he leans on the table and kisses me.

  ‘You’re brilliant, Angie, you know that? I actually used to think you were a bit stuffy, you know, but you’re brilliant,’ and he skulks back over to finish picking his records. The intro to ‘Stairway to Heaven’ starts. He strums an invisible guitar on his way back.

  ‘How do you mean, stuffy?’

  He rolls his eyes as he tries to think what I’m referring to. His face seems to be going in slow motion.

  ‘Eh, no, y’know, not so much stuffy … more like just unattainable, untouchable you know … slightly intimidating, I suppose. But you’re not. You’re the same as me.’

  I’m not sure whether to take this as a compliment or an insult.

  ‘So does your wife know you come here? Does she drink much?’

  He roars out an exaggerated laugh. ‘You’re fucking kidding. She doesnae drink, oh no, not her. A poncey bottle of Chardonnay every fucking night, no, but that’s not drinking, see. She’s English, see. It’s all right for her.’ He shakes his glass in front of him. ‘I’ll tell you something. I get a damn sight more from this than I do from fucking marriage any day.’

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘I’ve been sober for three years. I dunno, tonight just seemed like the right time to finally say, “fuck it”.’

  I’ve actually admitted it to a new person. I can’t believe it. Raymond drapes his arm across my shoulder and droops against me.

  ‘You did that for me? You came off the wagon for me? Ma fucking wife wouldnae do that.’

  Just as I start to feel fate has led us to each other, they start calling last orders. Jesus, it’s 20 past 11. We’ve only had about five or six drinks. Raymond goes back to the bar, weaving slightly. When he returns this time, though, there’s a sense that the end is nigh, for tonight anyway.

  ‘Ah dinnae want to go home,’ he whines, cuddling me again. We kiss, more desperately than before and I start to feel quite fraught. We’re soon getting hassled by the bar staff to drink up. They seem slightly annoyed with us for some reason. I want to tell them I’ve not felt like this for years, I’ve not felt so fucking good. What would they know about it, though?

  When we finally stumble out onto the street, the door is immediately bolted behind us. Raymond pins me against it, growling into my hair. His hands are up, squeezing at my breasts, nipping my nipples through my new bra.

  ‘This isn’t a one-off, Angie, is it? You won’t go all cold on me on Monday?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s likely.’

  He kisses my forehead and takes a step back.

  ‘I want it to be special the first time, though, not like this.’

  I’m a bit puzzled.

  ‘… well, you know. More special than against the door of a pub.’

  The sentiment is lovely but, to tell the truth, I don’t really care about it being special. I just want him to fuck me. It’s only just starting to sink in what’s happened tonight. I can’t believe I’m not going to see him all weekend. I must tell them I want to start working Saturdays again. I’m starting to miss him before he’s even gone. Could I finally have met my soulmate? Christ, wait till he sees me with my kit off.

  Chapter Nine

  JONI

  WHOEVER TOLD ME the Barracuda was great was a fucking liar. We had to pay to get in, bottles of K cost three times what they do in the Paki shop, and the men here are all absolutely minging. It’s not fair. The two Jackies from French got off with a couple of gorgeous Norwegians here a few weeks ago. They showed us photos and, honestly, wee Jackie’s one was Christian Slater’s double.

  Typical, the night Rosie and me decide to come, it’s crap. There’s hardly any other women here, and the ones that are all look like hairdressers or footballers’ wives, real old boilers. They stare at us like we’re open sores.

  The men are mostly greasy Arab types, hanging about in wee groups, not drinking, just standing staring at everyone in a really creepy way. The few white men are all either ancient or hackit, or have indentations on their wedding fingers where their rings usually are. Honest, Rosie pointed one out to me and I’ve spotted about five since.

  Rosie gets chatted up right, left and centre. The Arabs are round her blonde hair like flies round shite. The music’s so loud, and their English is so bad. She’s just sitting insulting them – ‘Is it against your religion to use deodorant?/Won’t you get your hands chopped off for coming in a place like this?/Do you have your own corner shop?/Do you share a bedroom with your granny and seventeen sisters?’ I just sit with my drink and listen to her. It’s like I have a sign on my head that says
, ‘Please ignore me’, not that I’d get off with any of these smelly bastards anyway. It’d be nice to knock someone back nonetheless.

  We give it till half-ten before deciding it’s not going to improve. Twenty quid down the drain and not a Norwegian in sight. When I get outside, Rosie’s got her perfume out and is spraying it all over herself.

  ‘Fuck, these bastards don’t half stink. I’ll never get a bag-off smelling like this.’

  ‘So what’ll we do now then? Just walk about till someone tries to get off with us?’

  We try a couple of pubs opposite the ABC but they won’t let me in ’cause they say I don’t look 21. Rosie goes in a huff because, being a blonde, she can get in anywhere. That seems to be what it comes down to. I’d dye mine but, with my luck, I’d end up looking like Jimmy Savile.

  We wander round to a pub in Bread Street, but come straight back out as it’s tiny, the barmaid looks like a prostitute, and a group of drunken schemie pensioners are flirting with a topless go-go dancer.

  This is getting desperate. We decide to try the Grassmarket but hear loud music coming out the Cas Rock Café on the way down and decide to give that a shot. It’s more like it. A couple of Irish guys accost us almost immediately and buy us drinks. Mines is gorgeous, sort of like Sean Hughes – big Bambi eyes, beautiful pale skin. Rosie’s is a skinhead – a wee bit overweight, OK-looking but no Ewan McGregor. She doesn’t look too happy but, fuck it, I’ve just sat through two hours of the Arabian Nights. It’s my turn now.

  We go over to the corner and they try to chat us up over the racket of the band. I just sit smiling and agreeing with God knows what. They get us more drink. Sean’s barking something in my ear but the music seems to be getting louder. The band must think they’re really brilliant. I shout that I can’t hear what he’s saying, but he just smirks and grabs me. His kisses are nice and gentle at first but, as he gets more excited, he plunges his tongue deeper and deeper into my mouth until I can hardly breath. I try to push him off, but it just makes him worse. I try putting my tongue in his mouth to stop his getting into mine, but he bites it and laughs.

  The fat one hasn’t even attempted conversation with Rosie and is trying to push her down onto the seat. She’s punching his arms and telling him to fuck off. I lean over to try and help but Sean grabs me again and puts his hand right up my dress. I squeeze my legs together, really tight to try and crush his fingers, but he’s much stronger. I plead with him to stop, but he just keeps probing and biting at me. It’s disgusting, I can feel his slavers running down my neck.

  Suddenly the table with our drinks on it collapses onto its side and Fat Boy rolls, wailing, onto the floor grabbing his balls. Bouncers start running over and Sean leaps off me and starts pegging it through the crowd. I think they’ll chase him but instead they grab Rosie and me and drag us outside.

  ‘Aw, mister, that’s not fair. They fucking attacked us. They tried to rape us in the middle of the pub.’

  The bouncer gives us both the finger.

  ‘Sorry, girls, we have a no-slapper policy, I’m afraid,’ and the door slams. Loads of folk are looking out the windows at us, laughing. I wish I had a brick to throw so the glass would splinter in their stupid faces. I’m fucking raging.

  ‘That’s fucking terrible, that. It’s like The Accused in there.’

  I hear the pub door being unlocked again.

  ‘It’s OK boys, they’re waiting for you,’ and Sean and Fat Boy are suddenly about ten feet away from us again. Fat Boy’s eyes are bulging. He comes limping towards Rosie like he’s going to pull her head off.

  We both take off, running into the path of a car on the way across Bread Street. The driver slams on his brakes and Rosie seems to stumble for a minute, like she’s been hit. I hesitate, terrified, as I see them catching up with her.

  ‘Hurry, hurry. Fucking Rosie, c’mon,’ I scream. It seems to shock her back to life. We nash all the way down Bread Street, past the hotel and the paintball place, up an alleyway beside the vet’s and squeeze behind a big industrial dustbin. Rosie is nearly crying and I’m so scared I’m getting a headache. Their big clumpy footsteps echo nearer and nearer, then run past. I’m really breathless but I try to hold it in, till we can’t hear them any more.

  ‘You’re a fucking bitch. How could you lumber me with that fat ugly bastard?’

  ‘I didn’t know. I couldn’t even hear what they were saying. My one put his hand right up my skirt. He was really slobbery. It was disgusting.’

  ‘Big deal, Five-Bellies was trying to get me to wank him off. He had his cock out in the middle of the pub. I just yanked it as hard as I could. Did you see his face?’ She starts laughing and I’m relieved that we’re not going to fall out in this time of great crisis. Jesus, how do guys always want Rosie to X2 them? How do they know? It must be her suggests it, it’s too much of a coincidence otherwise. When I work up the nerve to look out from behind the bucket, the alley seems clear.

  ‘What if they come back down again? Maybe we should just go home.’

  ‘Aw, Rosie. Dinnae be like that. Just ’cause you’ve already got John. What about me? Just a wee bit longer. I’ll take you for a pizza.’

  ‘Where about?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’ve never taken anyone for a pizza before. There’s loads of places round the corner though. Go on.’

  ‘One pizza, then, but that’s it. I’ve gone off the boil now,’ she says, hobbling out onto Bread Street again. I notice blood running from a gash on the back of her leg but don’t mention it or she’ll definitely want to go home.

  Instead, I grab her hand and drag her into the first place I smell garlic bread coming out of. This Italian guy with really dreamy eyes comes over and leads us to a table. He’s really polite, pulling our chairs out for us, calling us madam and everything. Foreign men really know how to treat women. It’s dead busy and there’s this great racket of plates being clinked, diners talking, pizzas being thrown in and dragged out the oven, vegetables being chopped and meat being slapped about the place. There’s hundreds of different lovely smells – garlic, peppers, steak, chips, all hanging together in the air. The waiter hands us menus, then goes over to another really nice Italian guy who’s standing beside the cheesecakes. They both smile over at us.

  ‘Look at the fucking prices. Fourteen pounds for a pizza. Ten pounds for a bottle of wine.’

  I check my menu. ‘Aye, but it won’t be the same stuff we get. It’ll be posh stuff. Will we get a bottle?’

  ‘I thought you only had 20 pounds?’

  ‘Nah, I took another 30 from Mum’s electricity envelope this afternoon. There was nearly 200 quid in it. And Dad gave me money for us to go to the pictures the night.’

  ‘Won’t she notice? You better not say I knew if she catches you.’

  ‘She won’t catch me, she doesnae even check. I’ll just blame it on Jake if she finds out.’

  ‘Can we have a starter as well, then?’

  I get Rosie to do the order, as I feel really silly. It’s like we’re just playing at being out for a meal. He takes ages to bring the wine but, when it arrives, it’s worth it. Much nicer than the cheap stuff we nick out Scotmid, really cold and refreshing. We knock back our first glasses in one, then belch in unison and start giggling.

  ‘Oh, beamer, that nice guy beside the cheesecakes heard that … naw, it’s OK. He’s smiling over. Aye, I love you too, darling,’ and I blow a kiss at him. Rosie guffaws, splurting wine everywhere. A snobby older couple at the next table start giving us the evil eye. When I point this out to Rosie, it just makes us laugh all the more.

  Before long I bring the conversation round to John. She’s not even mentioned him since the video went missing. So much for us all living together.

  ‘Mum’s just being her normal awful self, but she’s going out tomorrow and she hasnae asked him to come round yet. I don’t even know if she’s spoken to him. I havnae seen him.’

  When the waiter brings our starters, I take one look at them
and tell him he’s brought the wrong things. He checks his notebook.

  ‘Wan tamat moassarailla an wanna seafoot cockteel, yuh?’

  We look at our plates in confusion, then Rosie tells him it’s OK.

  ‘I thought it was going to be all gorgeous stringy melted cheese. What the fuck is this? I only like tomatoes in a sauce,’ she whines, picking up a bit cheese, trying to take a bite and throwing it back down on her plate in disgust. ‘Fuck, it’s raw. It doesn’t even taste of anything. It’s like chewing on a rubber.’

  ‘What about me,’ I say, lifting something up on my fork that looks like a washing-machine part. I try to take a bite. It tastes like a washing-machine part. I spit it onto my plate. The rest of it’s mussels, which I really hate, and white things that are just like big lumps of fat. There’s a few prawns in there but I can’t bear to go near them as they’re touching the washing-machine parts.

  ‘I don’t believe this. I thought it was going to be shrimps and nice wee bits of fish.’

  Rosie’s looking worried now.

  ‘What’ll we do. We cannae just leave it all. They’ll think we’re stupid. It must be real food if it’s busy like this.’

  I hand her across my napkin. ‘Here, put some of the cheese in that. Heat it up in the microwave when you get home.’ She does as I say.

  ‘Really, you think it’s the same stuff you get on pizzas? It’s in wee bits, though, is it no?’

  She’s actually being serious. What a dippit.

  ‘It’s grated. Wee bits … fuck …’

  She stuffs it in her bag. ‘Aye, OK, OK. So you think I’m an idiot.’

  I spoon some of the yuck off my plate and under the table. Rosie yelps and grabs the spoon off me.

  ‘Stop it. One of your intestines just hit my leg. That’s fine. They surely cannae expect you to eat any more than that. It’s disgusting.’

  The snobby couple are nebbing at us again. I wish they would just fuck off back to Corstorphine. We’re paying the same for our food as they are. I nudge the waiter the next time he goes past and ask him to take our plates away. If I have to look at the entrails in front of me any longer, it’ll put me off my pizza.