and how you made them. I checked my tongue and tested my throat. I had to pull myself together. I had to communicate. I looked round as we crossed a road; I saw the sign for Union Street where it was fixed to a low wall. I turned to Jamie and then the girl, cleared my throat and said quite clearly: ‘I didn’t know if you two ever shared - or, indeed, still do share, for that matter, for all that I know, at least mutually between yourselves but at any rate not including me - the misconception I once perchanced to place upon the words contained upon yonder sign, but it is a fact that I thought the “union” referred to in said nomenclature delineated an association of working people, and it did seem to me at the time to be quite a socialist thing for the town fathers to call a street; it struck me that all was not yet lost as regards the prospects for a possible peace or at the very least a cease-fire in the class war if such acknowledgements of the worth of trade unions could find their way on to such a venerable and important thoroughfare’s sign, but I must admit I was disabused of this sadly over-optimistic notion when my father - God rest his sense of humour - informed me that it was the then recently confirmed union of the English and Scottish parliaments the local worthies - in common with hundreds of other town councils throughout what had until that point been an independent realm - were celebrating with such solemnity and permanence, doubtless with a view to the opportunities for profit which this early form of takeover bid offered.’
The girl looked at Jamie. ‘Dud he say sumhin er?’
‘I thought he was just clearing his throat,’ said Jamie.
‘Ah thought he said sumhin aboot bananas.’
‘Bananas?’ Jamie said incredulously, looking at the girl.
‘Naw,’ she said, looking at me and shaking her head. ‘Right enough.’
So much for communication, I thought. Obviously both so drunk they didn’t even understand correctly spoken English. I sighed heavily as I looked first at one and then at the other while we made our slow way down the main street, past Woolworth and the traffic lights. I looked ahead and tried to think what on earth I was going to do. They helped me over the next road, me nearly tripping as I crossed the far kerb. Suddenly I was very aware of the vulnerability of my nose and front teeth, should they happen to come into contact with the granite of Porteneil’s pavements at any velocity above quite a small fraction of a metre per second.
‘Aye, me and one of my mates have been going round the Forestry Commission tracks up in the hills, goin’ round at fifty, skiddin’ all over the place like a speedway.’
‘Za’afac’?’
My God, they were still talking about bikes.
‘Where-ur we takin’ hum own-yway?’
‘Ma mum’s. If she’s still up, she’ll make us some tea.’
‘Yer maw’s?’
‘Aye.’
‘Aw.’
It came to me in a flash. It was so obvious I couldn’t imagine why I hadn’t seen it before. I knew there was no time to lose and no point in hesitating - I was going to explode soon - so I put my head down and broke free from Jamie and the girl, running off down the street. I’d escape; do an Eric so I could find somewhere nice and quiet for a piss.
‘Frank!’
‘Aw, fur fuck’s sek, gie’s a brek, whit’s ay up tae noo?’
The pavement was still below my feet, which were moving more or less as they were supposed to. I could hear Jamie and the girl running after me shouting, but I was already past the old chip shop and the war memorial and picking up speed. My distended bladder wasn’t helping matters, but it wasn’t holding me back as much as I’d feared, either.
‘Frank! Come back! Frank, stop! What’s wrong? Frank, ya crazy bastard, you’ll break your neck!’
‘Aw, le’m gaw, zafiez hied.’
‘No! He’s my friend! Frank!’
I turned the corner into Bank Street, pounded down it just missing two lamp-posts, took a sharp left into Adam Smith Street and came to McGarvie’s garage. I skidded into the forecourt and ran behind a pump, gasping and belching and feeling my head pound. I dropped my cords and squatted down, leaning back against the five-star pump and breathing heavily as the pool of steaming piss collected on the bark-rough concrete of the fuel apron.
Footsteps clattered and a