Free An Old Pub Near the Angel by James Kelman

dead.’
    ‘Export?’ asked John, rising with his empty glass. Mick nodded. He returned with two whiskies along with the beer.
    ‘Halfs! Can you afford it?’
    ‘Aye! Loaded!’ John sat down. ‘I’ve got a few quid. For the reception and the stag night and that.’ He raised the whisky glass to make a toast. ‘Well probably the last drink I’ll have with you as a single man.’
    ‘Aye. Good luck!’ They drank about half the whisky; then Mick winked. ‘Fancy getting blotto man? I mean really steamboats, fancy?’
    ‘Suits me,’ John grinned. ‘What about you though?’
    ‘I’m okay!’ he shrugged. ‘Got about four quid. Plenty!’
    ‘Don’t mean that.’
    ‘What do you mean? Betty? You’re jesting! She accepted all that years ago. Happy to see me bevied once in a while – makes her feel safe.’
    ‘Well then Michael, long time since we got drunk together.’
    ‘Probably the last . . .’
    ‘Don’t be so optimistic. Jesus Christ!’
    ‘Well, I thought you’d have more sense John, I really did. I mean you could’ve taken me as an example.’ He downed the remaining whisky and held up the empty tumbler. ‘First half for three months!’
    John smiled. ‘Yeah, suppose I’ll have to quiet down to a certain extent – screw the head with the money and that.’ He paused. ‘Betty looks after your money, I know that but you’d only punt it anyway so it’s in your favour.’
    ‘I know,’ agreed Mick. ‘I don’t have any grumbles about finance. No, not at all. Freedom! I mean whenever you get bored you’re off – London or someplace – that’ll have to stop. You like to buy clothes – that’ll have to stop.’
    ‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘I know all that’s got to stop to a certain extent . . .’
    ‘Certain extent!’ echoed Mick. ‘What’s this certain extent? Listen man I haven’t bought a pair of socks for six months . . .’
    ‘You always were a smelly bastard.’
    ‘I’m dead serious John. Look . . .’ he fingered the lapels of his jacket, ‘. . . I bought this eighteen months ago – only one I’ve got apart from that glen-checked effort with the fifteen-inch bottoms. Can’t even pawn it man it’s pathetic.’ He stared mournfully into his empty whisky glass.
    ‘Surely it’s not that bad?’
    ‘Whit!’ shrieked Mick, causing several heads to look around.They burst out laughing. Mick had to loosen his tie and open the top button of his shirt. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘same again?’
    ‘Now what about the stag night?’ John said when his companion returned.
    ‘Honestly man can’t make it. Would if I could.’
    ‘Okay then it’s finished.’
    They remained drinking and reminiscing until the first bell rang at 9.50 p.m.
    John said, ‘Listen Mick what you fancy doing now, I mean . . .’ he shrugged, ‘. . . we’re not really steamboats are we?’
    ‘No, you want to go for a meal or something?’
    ‘Well let’s get a carry-out first.’
    ‘Aye!’
    ‘I’ll get it and we can settle after,’ John said.
    They travelled by taxi to John’s single end in Maryhill. Immediately on entering Mick collected the key and went out again to the communal stairhead lavatory. When he returned a bottle of malt whisky and six cans of Export lay neatly on the table.
    ‘Jesus Christ!’
    ‘Drink we want – not an appetizer!’ said John, searching in the cabinet for suitable cups.
    ‘Okay!’ cried Mick, taking two tumblers from his inside pocket and one half-pint glass from each side pocket. ‘My contribution!’ he said, smiling proudly.
    ‘Silly bastard, you’ll get caught one of these days.’
    ‘No chance man – used to call me Fingers Henderson at school. Not remember?’
    ‘How should I remember? You’re years older than me.’
    ‘Ah don’t give me that patter. You joined the Scouts long before me.’
    ‘You’re a liar man, you got tossed out before I left the Cubs.’
    Mick smiled and sank into an armchair.
    ‘Pour us a drink,’ he said. ‘Can’t be