The back street had a feeling of a shortcut to it, a quick way to travel from the Briggait to the Barras. Mungo bought a poke from the chippy and leaned against the lamp post. He enjoyed watching the different types of people come and go: the hawkers and housewives, the slick yuppies and the slick junkies. A troupe of middle-aged dancers in tap shoes and silver leotards emerged from a side door. The women scuffled down the street, twirling and giggling, sharing some in-joke and passing around a single cigarette. They soft-shoed around Mungo, red lips smiling as they went.
On each of the trips Mungo had watched the pawnbrokers from different vantage points but he had never seen his mother, and he had yet to summon the courage to step inside. The claret exterior was covered in gilded letters, proudly offering the “best cash for ladies jewellery” and a “massive selection of engagement rings.” Yet when Mungo peered through the shuttered windows all he could see was stuff that looked like discarded tat. One window held televisions and stacked stereos, a jumble of dated electronics that were wrapped in their own wires as though they had been hastily removed. Another window held a mixture of cumbersome musical instruments and a smattering of labourers’ tools: a used angle grinder, old-fashioned wood planes, and a proud shelf of Stanley knifes that made Mungo think of Hamish’s boys. There was a display case of photo frames and trinket boxes, heavy bric-a-brac made in a tarnished metal that looked worthless to him, but when he peered at the little price sticker, it made him straighten up in shock. There was a display of fine-looking cameras, of a kind that Mungo had never seen anyone use in real life.
Mungo was pretending to consider a shelf of christening spoons, but really he was glancing up at the stocky man behind the counter. It was hard to see much of Jocky. The interior was dimly lit and he was tight-faced as he counted his money, safe behind the Perspex security screen.
Mungo had almost summoned the courage to step inside when a van bumped up the kerb with a shudder. A young workie in a black donkey jacket rushed into the shop, lugging what must have been a saxophone or a tuba in a battered case. Mungo stepped away and went back to the windows.
“Excuse me. Do you know how pawnbrokers work?” asked a posh-sounding young man.
Mungo was startled by the voice beside him. He turned to the young man. He had been standing before the Japanese cameras and had an intelligent, quiet expression that said he might even know how to use one.
Mungo answered him. “Naw. Sorry. I’ve never pawned anything myself.”
“Okay. Thank you.” The young man was tall and angular, his body drowned in an oversized black parka. His ebony hair was overlong but neatly parted. There was worry sitting in the corners of his mouth.
“Look, it cannae be that hard,” said Mungo. “What have you got for pawnin’?”
The young man slid his holdall from his shoulder. He opened it carefully and Mungo peered inside. Nestled amongst some soft cloths was a collection of porcelain ornaments; Mungo could make out a coy shepherdess and several frolicking kittens. “I don’t even know how much to ask for?”
“Me neither.” Mungo shrugged. “How much do you need?”
“As much as I can get. I’m starting at the hairdressing college next week. I wanted to buy some new scissors and that.”
Mungo’s eyes scanned the window again, he thought he had seen a pair of electric hair clippers somewhere. For a while they both peered into the pawnshop and watched the workie haggle with Jocky. The labourer was moving animatedly, as though he was recounting some yarn about the pedigree of the saxophone, but through it all Jocky’s face remained an impassive mask.
“My mother was never a big fan of pawnshops.” The man said it in such a way that he seemed to be talking to himself. “She found them quite a low place, dead common. A necessary evil, she said.”
“Why don’t ye ask her how they work?”
The young man’s eyes flickered to meet Mungo’s gaze and then they fled again. “Well. I can’t.”
The workie came banging out of the shop. He had a thin wad of notes in his grasp, “Ye’re a parasitic little pirate. Conning guid, hard-working folks out of their fuckin’ treasures. Ye should be ashamed of yersel.” He slammed the door with such force that the window shutters rattled in their casings. The workie turned to Mungo. “Listen pal, do yersel a favour. Whatever ye’ve got to pawn, take it elsewhere. Nothin’ but a robbin’ aul’ basturt in there. He’d have the teeth out of your granny’s heid.”
Mungo was at a loss for words. He felt winded. The labourer had thick, dark lashes and eyes of such a pale shade of blue that Mungo couldn’t help but stare. He had been unprepared for the rare beauty of this man. The man’s lips were generous against a powerful jawline, and even in his anger he was smirking, his eyes twinkling. “Can ye no talk, mucker?” Something in the knowing way the young man was smiling back at Mungo said that he was used to having this effect on people. “Is it a séance I’ll be needin’ to reach ye?”
Mungo recovered himself too late. He willed his eye muscles not to betray him. “Aye, I can talk. I heard what you said.”
The worried young man with the black hair stepped forward then. “Mister. If I shouldn’t pawn my stuff in there, would you know of a place I could take these?” He tilted the bag towards the workie, the man seemed unimpressed as he peered inside.
“Are ye robbin’ yer mammy’s good china to buy yersel some smack?”
The young hairdresser bristled. “No. Of course not.”