“Whit? Whit!”
Gallowgate stepped closer to the firelight. He arched his back, and Mungo could see the swollen outline in his denims where his meat lay pressed against his hip bone. Mungo lowered his gaze. Gallowgate took a draw on his dout, holding the tension, savouring the impatience of his saints. “Well, as it turns out, ah’ve only bloody tacked out and laid that floral carpet in her daughter’s room the year afore.”
“Aye. So?”
“A guid carpet-fitter never forgets his work. It turns oot ah had shagged her wee lassie on it as well.” Gallowgate tossed his head back in a smug way. He exhaled like a proud chimney.
It took a minute, then St Christopher let out a howl like a punctured dog. “Ah, ya dirty basturt.” His broken teeth looked dangerously sharp. He slapped his knee.
“Well. Ah’ve got nae memory for cunts. But ah never forget a well-laid carpet.”
Mungo didn’t understand the joke. He was glancing from one man to the other, but he knew now not to ask.
“Fifteen she wis. A wee ride just like her maw.” Gallowgate took a bottle of whisky from the plastic carrier bag. He drank it down in gulps as though it were only ginger ale. “Ah learned early, it’s the big fancy houses that ye’ve got tae watch out for. Wummin who nag their husbands for double glazin’ probably aren’t getting whit they really want.” He grabbed at the front of his denims, stroked himself, then throttled it, like he was trying to strangle it.
St Christopher stopped his howling. “Ah didnae know ye fitted carpets.”
“Carpets. Kitchens. Teenage daughters. You name it. Ah fit it.” He chuckled to himself.
St Christopher nodded in quiet respect. “Must be grand, to be a young man with everything to play for.”
“Aye, well. Ah’ve always been good with ma hands.” Gallowgate wrapped his knuckles on the side of his head. “It’s the rest of me that’s been a fuckin’ disappointment.”
“Still, you’ve yer whole life ahead of ye.” St Christopher reached for the whisky like a child demanding a bottle, his feeble fingers grasping the air. Gallowgate handed it to him and when he stopped his gulping and gasping he wiped his mouth and said, “Ye should never have been in Barlinnie in the first place. A young man like you, in jail?”
Mungo had seen Barlinnie Prison before. He had heard Mo-Maw threaten Hamish with it when he got too close to the law, with his stolen motors and bags of contaminated speed. He had seen it strike a muted fear into his brother.
Mungo’s face must have framed a question because Gallowgate was watching him before swivelling his eyes back towards the saint. “What the fuck did ye have to go tell the boy that fur?” Gallowgate flicked his dout at the man. “Ye’ll frighten the wee fella.” But something in his grin told Mungo he wasn’t angry with St Christopher. Nor would he mind frightening Mungo.
“Tell him whit?” The man hopped to his bare feet. He did a jangly dance as he searched for the lit cigarette in the folds of his dirty suit.
“That we were in the jail.” Gallowgate turned a sneering smile towards Mungo. “He’ll think he’s out here with a pair of right jakeys.”
Mungo picked at the scab on his knee. He pretended to be engrossed in it. “What did you get the jail for?”
“Breaking and entering,” said Gallowgate quickly. Something about him looked like he was lying, but Mungo could not tell for sure. “It was an accident. Ah fell through a skylight right into a warehouse. By the time ah found the exit ma arms were loaded with four dozen fitba tops.”
The saint made a noise like he wanted to contradict him, but Gallowgate kicked at the pebbles and sent a shower of them flying in the man’s direction. The swiftness of it made Mungo jump. “Aye. Breaking and entering, right enough,” agreed the saint reluctantly. Something about how he said it made Gallowgate snicker.
“How about you?” asked Mungo. His scab peeled away from the skin. “Why were you in the jail?”
The saint looked at Gallowgate and then back to the boy. He did not answer. Gallowgate spoke for the man. “Vagrancy.”
St Christopher looked offended but said nothing.
“They put you in jail for that?” said Mungo.
“Well, that and ugliness.” Gallowgate laughed as he pulled the charred lasagne containers from the ashes. “Who’s hungry?”
They were forced to wait a long time before the lasagne trays were cool enough to handle. The conversation ebbed as the men tried to eat around the burnt sections of meat and rubbery cheese. St Christopher put his dinner to the side like he was not interested. He took up the whisky again and filled his belly. Mungo thought the food tasted smoky and delicious. As the pasta expanded in his gut, he stared into the fire and thought about the jail and that poor woman and her horse. By the time he had swallowed the last of his dinner he was feeling heavy, tired from all the fresh air. His face must have been twitching freely because Gallowgate was staring straight at him.
“Ye must take some shite for that at school?”
“Sometimes,” said Mungo. He put his hand to his cheek and as the flesh twitched he began to pick at it with an index finger. He could feel the skin lifting away as he rubbed.
“Stop rubbing at yersel,” said Gallowgate. “How does that help?” The man came closer. “Move your hand, ah want to look at it.” Gallowgate cupped Mungo’s chin in his rough palm. He tilted his face towards the firelight. “Ah think it’s a wonder.”
“Don’t laugh at me.” Mungo tried to pull away from the rough hand.
“No, seriously. It’s like your face has a mind of its own. It’s showing what you feel on the inside without ye even asking it.” Gallowgate turned Mungo’s cheek to the fire. The small patch where the boy rubbed at his skin was dry and chafed along the high bone of his cheek. He ran his finger gently across the bone. “Does this help?”