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  He couldn’t go like that.

  It wasn’t a case of simply dying. It was pissing and shitting yourself and being too sore to eat, drink or even move. It was relying on others to wash you and wipe your arse. To be trapped in the one place you didn’t want to be. To know that people didn’t really want to come and see you like that. And their faces if they did come. Trying to conceal the horror at your appearance. Giving useless words of encouragement while dropping off flowers and grapes. No point in bringing a ‘get well’ card. Have you got a newspaper? Do you want me to change the channel? Moans from the other beds, respectfully ignored. Draw the curtain, would you? People in real pain. Torture. And the stink. Shite and vomit. Sickness and death. Oh god, the stink.

  The drive back to his house was a meaningless blur in time. Barney locked his car and stood daydreaming at his reflection in the window.

  His illness would be the big topic of conversation where he lived. People would only have one thing to say to him from now on. And if they didn’t, he’d see the pity in their eyes. He could picture it plastered all over social media too. All the well wishers and advice and gossip.

  He shook his head. Fuck that. Not him. No fucking way.

  CHAPTER 3

  Reeling from the Punch (Part 1)

  Barney had never been a big drinker but it’d seemed natural to head straight in through the doors of his local pub, the White House, to take stock of the doctor’s diagnosis.

  “Alright Barney,” said Doug, the barman. “Not seen you in a while, mate. What’ll it be?”

  “Whisky,” said Barney in a low voice. “A large one.”

  “Tough day, pal?”

  Barney pulled out a high stool at the end of the bar. “Aye, you could say that.”

  “Anything you want tae get off your chest?” asked Doug, not knowing he’d just hit the nail on the head. “It seems half the reason I’m here these days. Should get ma’sel a degree in psychology and charge professional rates for listening tae punters’ woes.”

  Barney shook his head and Doug was savvy enough not to press him further. Pouring out an Old Putney with a dash of water, he slid the glass to Barney. “On the hoose, mate.”

  “Oh, cheers,” said Barney, taking a sip. The drink made a small fire inside him. He coughed and tapped his chest. Was that the whiskey or the cancer?

  Doug moved back up the bar but kept his eye on Barney, who put down his glass, tilting and rolling its edge on the old wooden counter. For a long time he did nothing except stare into the golden brown liquid.

  “Hi Barney, pal,” said a voice. When Barney looked up, he saw two of the old regulars, Mick and Willie sitting at the other end of the room. Barney nodded but said nothing, returning to his drink.

  Ten years before, Mick and Willie had been part of the famous ‘happy day’, when an opportunistic clientele decided to lock a mouthy new barman in the cellar and - over a mere twenty-four hours - drink the place dry.

  “That’s no like Barney,” said Mick. “Seems a bit upset.”

  Willie’s eyes were like two piss holes in the snow and he had a nose that wouldn’t have looked out of place pulling a sleigh. He was already too bloated with drink to see anything other than happy hour which, according to his calculations, was about one more drink away. “You git thizz roond, Mick... and I’ll git the next,” he said with a hiccup.

  “Aye, right,” said Mick. “I ken what yer up tae. By the time we finish ma roond it’ll be happy ‘oor, and ye’ll have saved yersel some dosh. Short arms and deep pockets. That’s your trouble.”

  Doug laughed and continued drying glasses as Willie smiled and swayed from side to side.

  Like every other pub in Scotland, the smoking ban had come into effect over ten years ago. However, unlike every other pub in Scotland, the decor in the White House had not been touched. The fabric on the back of the benches and seat pads were ingrained with every kind of tobacco; the smell of smoke, spilled beer and spirits hung thick, and would never go away; a bit like Mick and Willie.

  Barney sipped his whisky but the answers weren’t coming and the drink wasn’t making him feel any better. He didn’t want to go home. But he couldn’t stay here either. Mulling over everything was only getting him down. He downed the rest, got off his stool and left the pub without so much as a goodbye.

  “Definitely no like Barney,” said Mick.

  “No at all,” agreed Doug.

  “Who?” said Willie. “You got that r-r-roond in yet? Mine’s a double.”

  Barney took a meandering route through the city by way of Duddingston and Holyrood Park. Arthur’s seat was strangely quiet for September and he found himself walking the rocky track to the summit, something he hadn’t done for years. At the top, a thin golden sunbeam sliced through the grey clouds, a brief ray of sunshine that was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Not unlike his life, or Stephen’s, for that matter.

  Barney began picking out obvious landmarks: Calton Hill, the Scott Monument, and the Castle, and was able to draw a line through all the places he knew or had run through during his training for fights or as a young tearaway, part of the Young Niddrie Terrors or YNT as they were more commonly known.

  He remembered how, as kids, they used to jump on the number fourteen bus, getting off at Princes Street to hang about the shops and grab a Macky D’s. Barney and his pals had run riot there; chased out of shops for stealing and fighting with kids from other places who’d got wide with them. They’d also met girls from exotic locations such as Penicuik and Glasgow, and tried to get their phone numbers or “bag off” somewhere discreet. They were streetwise and fearless. Nothing could stop them. Exciting times. Barney had left more than just memories on the streets of Edinburgh.

  Barney, Tam and wee Euan were standing outside McDonald’s dressed ‘mod style’ in their parka coats and drainpipe trousers. They’d been knocked back from seven pubs already. At only sixteen, none of them had enough facial hair to convince the bouncers they were of legal drinking age. As they loitered without intent, three punk rockers walked past. Big men, rough looking, with wild hair and hard faces. Tam had a notorious mouth on him but nothing to back it up with. Barney whispered through his teeth not to say a fucking word. Wee Euan pawed at Tam’s arm like a scared puppy, urging him to keep quiet. Tam looked at him the way you might look at a bogey before flicking it off your finger. But he didn’t say anything... not until they were about to turn the corner anyway.

  “Shite bags! Away an throw shite at yerselves!” was what he came out with.

  The punks stopped. Barney breathed in and held it. Wee Euan took a step back but to his relief, the punks didn’t even turn around. Instead they walked on and around the corner. Tam started to laugh and looked to his pals as if to prove his point. Barney let out his air in a whistle. And then the men came charging around the corner at them, two with coshes and the other with a plank of wood with a nail in the end. Barney’s first instinct had been to go straight for them, trusting his pals would do the same. But Tam and wee Euan were already bolting past Frasers at full pelt towards Shandwick Place and not looking back. While two of the men tried to catch them, the biggest one took a swing with the stick and caught Barney in the thigh. The nail went all the way in. Barney’s leg spasmed and he fell to the ground. The punk put the boot in and Barney took a few kicks to the gut. With one of the wee cheeky bastards done, the punk bolted off after the others, leaving his tool behind. When Barney pulled it out, blood spurted over the pavement. By the time he’d got himself to the hospital his thigh had swelled to the size of a melon around the wound. The nurses cleaned the injury and wrapped it. Then he was given a tetanus and told not to play such silly games with his friends in future.

  CHAPTER 4

  Reeling from the Punch (Part 2)

  Barney had started to cross the road halfway down Princes Street when a green blur shot past on two wheels and gave him a start. A cyclist in spandex turned back to shout, “Watch where yer going, ya cunt!”

  He’d been daydreaming again. Walking without purpose or direction. He looked about him. Bus lanes, tram lines, cycle lanes... what the hell was this street coming to? He stepped onto the pavement and leaned against the railings overlooking the gardens and up to the castle. The old rock walls were even blacker than usual against the green of the hill and the leaden sky. A castle within a city, set upon an extinct volcano. The city he’d been born in. That distinctive and dramatic skyline was part of his life. His eyes ran along the battlements to the flags flicking up and down in the late summer winds. All this time and he’d never actually been inside. He started to cough. Just a little at first, a mere itch in the throat which might have gone away, except that it caught fire like kindle and grew into a violent fit that caused his eyes to water. He took some time to get his breath and then walked on in the direction of the mound.

  The drone of bagpipes broke his thought pattern and filled the street as a piper clad in full military dress started a rendition of ‘Scotland the Brave’ near Waverley Station. That drone always gave him goosebumps. It was the music he’d often walked out to as a young amateur boxer representing his country. Barney watched some tourists drop in a few coins and stand beside the chubby, red-faced piper for a photo. The street was bustling as usual but with the festival finished there was a certain peace about the place, as if the city itself had just closed its front door and was sighing in relief after entertaining some guests who’d well overstayed their welcome.

  Grey clouds pulled and stretched across the sky, tearing apart to reveal big gaps of pale blue. People of all ages passed with phones glued to their ears. Others sat in the tranquility of the colourful gardens, reading or just relaxing in groups. A few couples lay wrapped in each other’s arms and legs. One pair must’ve been eighty if they were a day. The old boy was right into his petting in the park.

  The doctor’s question came back to him again. Are you married?

  For the first time Barney noticed the tiny gap in his stomach. A little black hole that had started to grow. An emptiness he could not ignore. He had friends of course, and maybe he could’ve told them about his illness. But he didn’t have someone to confide in. Someone you could tell anything and everything. Someone who knew your deepest darkest secrets. Was that the reason he’d focused so much on his businesses, working long hours and keeping busy? To make up for the fact he didn’t have anyone? To fill the hole he’d done so well to cover up?

  He cut up behind the National Gallery, through Cockburn Street to the Bridges. A maroon and white bus (the colour of Heart of Midlothian football club) struggled up the hill and stopped at the lights. Barney had never been too keen on football but his boxing skills meant no one had ever given him a hard time about it. When he was a kid, if you didn’t like football, you were in serious danger of being thought of as gay and getting leathered. However, boxers were given equal respect. Maybe more so. The ability to be violent and tough was what proved you were a man where he grew up.

  Most of Barney’s friends were Hibernian supporters (the rival faction in the Burgh). A few, like his wee pal, Ben, an exceptional boxer, became involved in the hooligan side of things. They were called The Capital City Service. The CCS were well known for being a violent crew to come up against. Their deeds were legendary around Scotland. Mass brawls in the streets with rival fans, where not even the police would get involved; guys getting chucked over bridges and even out the top window of a double decker bus. Ben, AKA Southpaw, had been in the thick of it.

  While Southpaw had made a big name for himself on the street, Barney had made a name in the ring. His professional record wasn’t bad. Commonwealth champion had been as far as he went. A short career ended by niggling injuries and lack of decent promotion. But that was OK. Better to get out with your brains still intact than end up like so many of the old pros, scraping a living, drunk or dead.

  Some time later he passed through Newington and Prestonfield, picking up some flowers on his way into Craigmillar Castle Park Cemetery; the final resting place of his family. Barney paused at the black iron gates to tuck in his shirt and put a comb through his hair. Then he walked along the path to find his family plot and the headstone he’d got specially carved in their memory. He’d been here five months ago for Stephen’s anniversary and it seemed unreal that he’d be joining him in only a matter of weeks. He’d never been able to picture his body in a coffin. There was something so claustrophobic about it. As a kid he’d always feared being put inside one. Just a silly childish fear. As if he’d ever be lying in a coffin if he wasn’t already dead.

  Barney and Tam shouldn’t have been up there. Their gang had used wire cutters to break into a building site because that’s the kind of thing you got up to as a kid in Niddrie in the evenings when there was nothing else to do. They climbed ladders and explored the scaffolding but couldn’t see in the darkness where the contractor had neglected to fit a safety barrier. Someone called out “Barney!” at the exact moment he and Tam came to the edge of a level. Barney stopped to see who’d shouted his name. Tam didn’t, and fell two floors down to break both legs.

  Another time he’d been on his way to the harbour to join his friends on a fishing trip. He was late and running fast when he rolled over on some uneven ground and twisted his ankle. He limped the rest of the way but took so long the other boys left without him. It was the next morning he learned of the accident. All three of his friends had drowned after their boat capsized. It was the first time Barney would attend the funeral of anyone his own age.

  CHAPTER 5

  A Formidable Opponent

  I t had been another one of those days where walking seemed the best thing to do. He’d arrived late at the doors of Edinburgh Castle and spent a few hours exploring. Might as well start ticking things off the bucket list. A bite to eat and a pint led him into an open mike night at Whistle Binkies pub. It’d been alright until some guy who called himself, ‘Big James the Karaoke King,’ got up and murdered, “My Way”. Of all the songs he could’ve sung, he had to pick that one.

  Barney started to cough and left without finishing his beer to go walking over the Bridges towards the New Town with the final lines, “And now I face, the final curtain...” being belted out by Big James for comfort.

  The soles of his shoes had never touched so much pavement. Earlier he’d roved up and down the Cowgate and High street, browsing mystical shops and secondhand book stores until he ended up in the National Gallery, passing some time gazing at paintings and weird sculptures that some people called art. The same feeling of not knowing what to do or where to go guided him to the swanky George Street bar, a place neither Barney nor any of his mates would have chosen for a night out.

  It was the kind of establishment that served fancy cocktails with umbrellas and sparklers, not real drinks. He was scrutinised by a pair of bouncers who looked more like male fashion models. Lucky they only had to deal with toffs and wannabes. Guys like that would be eaten alive by some of the clientele at the White House on a Saturday night.

  Down the stairs and through some french doors, Barney entered a dimly lit basement level room. The interior might have been decorated by Jean Paul Gaultier. Pink spotted wallpaper and blue neon beams collided with soft fabrics and curving couches that ran the length of the walls. There were even private booths with curtains for privacy. What went on in there after midnight?

  The people here seemed to be clones of each other. The guys all had the same gelled over hair style and were dressed in shiny shirts a size too small, tucked into neat fitting trousers and pointed leather shoes. The girls all wore tight dresses that only just covered their backsides. Cleavage was abundant and he could imagine Tesco Tam’s eyes popping out if he ever made it past the doormen into the honey pot.

  Everyone seemed to be staring at everyone else. A few were talking, but even then their concentration was more on the people around them. Barney brushed past a strong mix of cologne and perfume and pulled out a bar stool with a leopard skin seat. A mirror ran the full length of the bar. In fact there were mirrors everywhere. The clientele made good use of them.

  Two seats down to his right sat a stunner in a black dress. Legs crossed. Nice legs, toned, with black high heels. Her auburn hair was swept back. A sophisticated woman if ever Barney had seen one. Out of his league, of course. Women like that didn’t go for guys like Barney. They went for toffs and rich, smarmy guys who could buy them big cars and diamonds every week.

  A barmaid who might have been a model, if she’d only been taller, handed him a menu.

  “I’m no hungry, darling,” said Barney.

  The girl frowned. “It’s a drinks menu,” she said, opening it and pointing to the word cocktails.

  “Do you serve beer?”

  The girl rolled her eyes. “Yahha...”

  “I’ll have a pint then.”

  The barmaid gave a tut and walked down the bar to open a cabinet that seemed rarely used. She took out a tall, thin glass and proceeded to pull a pint with far too much froth at the top.

  “Can I get some beer with that?” said Barney.

  “Seven pounds twenty-five,” the girl said, holding out her hand.

  “I said one pint, hen, no two.” The barmaid looked bored as Barney handed over the cash.

  A female voice to Barney’s right said, “They’re not used to people with banter in this place.” To his surprise, Barney turned to see the stunner with the auburn hair looking at him. She stirred her drink with a cocktail stick and then placed an olive in her mouth.