[31] Tall Boys and Wide Girls

It’s strange how you can see death in some people’s eyes, like an eerie sort of sixth sense that allows you to share some perverse metaphysical secret. I saw death in the man with the yellow hair. I wasn’t frightened by such insight but calmly sipped my whisky without taking my eyes from the sad figure. He returned my gaze and I detected a hint of fear in his eyes. Perhaps he saw in me an image of his own self. Was that why I could see so deeply into his soul? I tried to shut him out. I averted my eyes and looked down at the golden liquid in my glass. I raised it to my lips but again I met the cold stare of the stranger. My stomach turned and I placed my drink noisily on the bar. I closed my eyes and allowed my thoughts to flow freely, ignoring the dark images which haunted my tired mind. Such ghosts no longer held any terrors for me. Over the years I had become immune to the strange faces, contorted in pain, or was it anger?

Eventually I forced the warm liquid into my body. I felt its soothing hands caress my insides and my head began to spin. The man with the yellow hair coughed and spluttered noisily. He pushed a rolled-up cigarette into his mouth. His whole body retched violently as he inhaled at length. All the time his eyes were fixed on me. I estimated him to be in his late thirties but his state of disarray made such guesswork hazardous. I attracted the barman’s attention and requested a refill. He served me in silent disinterest. He was small and stout with a bushy red moustache and thick, unkempt hair. He had a pale, sickly complexion and ugly, protruding eyes. I found his whole being quite repulsive and he reminded me of a garden gnome.

“In the old days a barman took pride in his profession. Not like these amateurs today eh?” I complained to no-one in particular.

“I didnae ask tae work here big man,” he pushed the glass in my direction. It stopped perilously close to the edge and I silently admired his aim. “An if ye don’t like it, ye know whit ye can dae wi yersel big man.”

I watched him throw the money into a drawer, all the time shaking his head in disgust.

“See what I mean,” I took great pleasure in turning the screw. “It’s hard working, upstanding gentlemen like us who keep plebs like you alive.”

The man with the yellow hair let out a snigger which set him off in another fit of coughing. I felt pleased with myself as I watched the barman scurry into a corner and hide his embarrassment behind a tattered old newspaper. The bar was enveloped in an atmosphere of despair and deprivation. Broken glass littered the floor and the bar was covered in circular beer stains, sticky and hard set through time and neglect. An old paper plate overflowed with cigarette ash, discarded fag ends, spent matches and scraps of rotting food. I pulled my coat tightly to me and consoled myself with the thought that it was safer in the grubby bar than out in the deserted streets. My nerves were on edge and I was spoiling for a fight as the whisky began to take effect. I called the barman three times before he stopped pretending not to notice.

“I’ll have a bottle of the hard stuff and don’t give me any shit.”

“Ye’ve already had yer ration pal.”

“Look mister, there are only two punters in this boozer. Forget the rations and give me a fresh bottle.”

He turned his back on me and walked away, scratching at a gaping sore on the side of his neck.

“How much can I have then for fucksake?”

I began to regret my earlier outburst.

“Two glasses and nae mair.”

“Oh come on old boy. A bottle. Who’s to know?”

He turned and moved swiftly towards me.

“Don’t gae me that old boy patter big man. Ah know and that’s aw that needs tae know.”

I was getting nowhere. My mind raced as I contemplated my next move. I looked across at the man with the yellow hair.

“Hey you.”

I snapped my fingers and he jumped like a nervous kitten.

“What’s your name my friend?”

I moved slowly along the bar and placed my hand round his back. He turned his head and glanced nervously at my hand which rested on his shoulder. He was scared out of his wits.

“Don’t be shy now mister. I’m Stanley Goodfellow. My friends call me Stan. What about you?”

“Vincent,” he whispered.

“Ok barman, how much whisky can you allow my friend Vincent here?”

“He disnae drink whisky.”

“Oh yes he does. Don’t you Vincent.”

I tightened my grip and he shifted nervously.

“I don’t mind giving it a try.”

“How much whisky barman?”

He turned away once again, still scratching his neck.

“Ah’ll gae ye a bottle then if it’ll shut ye up.”

“Shut me up?” I whispered to myself and Vincent. “I’m only just warming up for my usual Friday night.”

I paid for the bottle and poured two generous measures. Vincent was reluctant to avail himself of my hospitality.

“Go on my friend, down the hatch.”

I emptied my glass in one swift gulp. Vincent smiled and raised his glass to his lips, pausing for some moments before following my example. Another fit of painful coughing quickly ensued. The barman looked up from his newspaper and shook his head disdainfully.

“Never mind him Vincent. He’s only jealous because he’s stuck behind the wrong side of the bar.”

“It’s years since I’ve tasted this stuff,” said Vincent.

He covered his glass with his hand as I tried to top it up.

“I’d better not. I’m not used to it.”

“Please yourself,” I replied, filling my own glass to the brim.

I stepped sideways away from the man. His clothes were caked in dry mud. His breath was stale and his few remaining teeth were black and badly misshapen. Our temporary acquaintance had served its purpose. I examined the whisky bottle. I had long since given up complaining about the absence of a label. As long as it tasted like the real thing I cared little for the brand.

A blast of cold air hit the back of my neck. I turned round and watched the two militia men enter the bar. They stopped and looked round the dark and untidy room. The barman jumped to attention like a scared rabbit.

“What can I do for you lads?”

His mouth was contorted in a sycophantic smile. The two men ignored him and started to walk slowly round the bar. They sported the customary blue uniform and protective helmet with yellow stripes. The younger of the two wore mirrored sun glasses. He held his truncheon in his right hand, hitting it against the palm of his left hand as he progressed. The barman nervously followed their every move.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in this place sarj,” said the one with the shades.

“I remember it well Malky.”

They examined the decor with disapproving shakes of the head.

“I used to drink here when I was a student back in the nineties.”

“Is that a fact?” replied Malky, sounding genuinely impressed.

“Thing is,” continued the sergeant. “I’m buggered if I can remember the name of the joint in those days. Hey mister.”

The garden gnome jumped to attention.

“How long have you worked in this hell hole?”

He scratched his neck as he tried to remember.

“Just over six months.”

“Six months,” the sergeant sounded disappointed. “What happened to old Charlie then?”

“He died some months back.”

“Is that a fact?”

The two men resumed their tour of inspection and the barman breathed a sigh of relief.

“Look at the state of this place,” said Malky. “I wouldn’t bring a dog in here?”

They had now reached my friend Vincent. He lowered his head and tried to appear disinterested. The two men stood behind him, one on either side.

“What’s your name mister?” said the sergeant, eyeing him up and down as he spoke.

“Vincent,” he whispered.

“Speak up,” commanded Malky.

“Vincent O’Donnell.”

“You’re not a bloody Paddy are you?”

He stood back and turned up his nose as he inspected the man.

“You’re a bloody mess pal. What the hell have you been doing with yourself? What have you got here then?”

He moved his truncheon forward and tapped it against the knapsack which lay at his feet. Vincent glanced down at the bag, then at the soldier, then at me. I turned my head sharply away and sipped at my whisky. He was on his own and I could not afford to get involved.

“My work,” he finally replied.

“Your work,” said Malky. “What kind of work?”

“I’m an artist.”

I detected a hint of sarcasm in his reply.

“An artist eh?” mocked the sergeant. “We don’t come across many artists in our line of business do we Malky?”

“Can’t say we do sarj. Let’s have a look then.”

They feigned respect and admiration as they pressured the man. I was reminded of a couple of school bullies deep into my past and all the time my contempt for the two soldiers grew in intensity. Vincent bent down and raised the knapsack onto the bar. He moved his hand inside but the sergeant grabbed him roughly by the wrist. Without a word he pulled the bag towards him and emptied the contents. Scrolls of paper and an assortment of pencils and brushes landed in an untidy heap. One or two fell to the floor and Vincent crouched down and carefully gathered them together. The sergeant began to unfold a canvas and slowly spread it across the bar.

“Well, well. What have we here then?”

He used a couple of empty beer glasses to hold it flat. I moved over a few feet, careful not to attract attention to myself. The painting was about six feet by four. It took some moments for my eyes to focus properly in the dark atmosphere. I was not disappointed. The painting showed a steep hill which stretched high and far towards the horizon. On top of the hill stood Edinburgh Castle, it’s walls sprinkled with gaping holes, it’s ramparts crumbling with decay.

A cold shiver ran through my body as I took in every detail. Starting at the top of the hill and spreading out towards the front of the picture, thousands of people fled in apparent terror. They began as unrecognisable specks in the distance, growing in detail as the eye followed the progress of the crowd. As the faces revealed greater detail I realised that they were screaming in obvious terror as they tried to escape some untold horror towards the castle itself. I shuddered as I took in the sheer revulsion and fear in the faces of the crowd. The two militia men were clearly similarly moved as they stared at the scene in silent astonishment.

“What the hell is this all about mister?” said the sergeant, his voice betraying his nervousness.

“I swear I’ve never seen anything so grotesque in all my life,” said Malky, no less inspired. “Why’d you paint it then man? What does it all mean?”

“It’s entitled Tall Boys and Wide Girls and I painted it for a very close friend,” said Vincent with a new found air of confidence.

For the first time I took in the peculiar shapes of the people represented in the painting. Each male was extremely tall and thin while the women were short and fat.

“Why are all the guys tall and the dames fat? What’s going on at the top of that hill?” Malky’s tone demanded answers.

“You’ll have to look further into the picture to see what it’s about,” replied Vincent with an air of superiority.

I watched the two men lean forward in unison, straining their eyes to look behind the walls of the crumbling castle. The artist stood aloof, clearly enjoying the moment. I suddenly found myself admiring him for the first time.

He was making fools of the two soldiers, despite the fact that they had clearly set out to intimidate him. Malky was first to raise his head from the painting.

“Well I sure as hell can’t see nothing. What are you trying to pull here mister?” he would not be appeased.

“It’s bullshit,” shouted the sergeant.

He pushed the painting away with both hands. The two beer glasses went with it, smashing noisily to the floor. He looked straight at Vincent and raised his right hand, pointing a finger inches from his face. His eyes stared wildly and sweat ran down his face.

“It’s nothing but bullshit and you know it,” he screamed.

I could sense a feeling of panic in the sergeant’s voice, like he was trembling inside, his words of anger trying to outweigh some inner torment. Vincent returned his gaze with a knowing grin which I found unnerving. The atmosphere in the bar room was decidedly edgy and I braced myself for whatever was to follow.

“Come on. Let’s get out of this shit hole.”

The sergeant pushed past his colleague and headed for the door. I breathed a sigh of relief and swallowed a large mouthful of whisky.

“Wait for me sarj,” cried Malky as he quickly followed. We watched them scurry out into the snow-covered street.

Vincent carefully rolled up the canvas and placed it in his knapsack along with the rest of his work. All the time a contented smile lit up his face and I wondered what was going through his mind. The garden gnome snatched angrily at the man’s glass and gave him a hate-filled stare.

“Ya fuckin smart arse. Who the hell d’ye think ye are comin in here an noisin up the polis?”

Vincent’s face resumed it’s former sadness. He threw the knapsack over his shoulder and walked out into the street.

“Bliddy troublemaker,” he continued to berate the artist after he had gone. “He’s probably wan o they Edinburgh bastarts himself.”

“What if he is? Some of my best friends come from Edinburgh,” I said, happy to contradict his tirade.

“Och ye know whit ah’m on aboot,” he continued, raising his voice as he turned his back on me. “It was them that started it aw. Can ye no remember? Them an their bliddy festival. Whit did aw that arty fartin aboot ever dae for us eh?”

He turned towards me once again and advanced slowly and deliberately.

“It was bad enough wi the Aids thing. But this? They should’ve quarantined the whole bliddy lot o them afore it was too late. We should’ve abandoned the bastarts and stuck wi the English when we had the chance. If we’d done that then nane o this wid ever a happ’ned.”

“I think you’re overreacting old boy.”

I poured another measure of whisky and tried to control the rage which was building up inside my head. Before the barman could respond the doors burst open behind me and once again I winced against the icy blast on the back of my neck. The barman took one step to his right and glanced over my shoulder. The look of fear in his eyes told me he did not like what he saw.

“Can I help you sir?” he resumed his pathetic, frightened voice.

“Where is he?”

I recognised the voice of Malky, the junior of the two militia men. I turned round and had to shield my eyes against the brilliant white sunlight which bounced off the snow covered street. The soldier stood with his arms outstretched, holding the two swing doors wide open. His dark silhouette gave him a sinister appearance.

“Where’s who?” said the barman.

“The artist. The man with the painting.”

“I say would you mind coming in and closing the door old boy before we all freeze to death,” I said, having consumed enough of the hard stuff to risk bringing unwanted trouble on my already overburdened shoulders.

Nevertheless he duly complied. The young man stepped into the room and removed his sun glasses. He was sweating profusely as he glanced round the bar.

“He’s gone. You just missed him,” I informed the agitated soldier.

“Where did he go? Did he say where he was headed?”

“He just picked up his possessions and walked,” I was beginning to slur my speech.

“What’s the problem sir? Is there anything I can do?” said the barman.

“It’s my colleague, Sergeant McLeish.”

He removed his helmet and sat on the edge of a grubby table. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.

“He’s dead. He just dropped down and he . . . in a few seconds he was gone. Just like that.”

I poured another drink and raised the glass to my lips.

“Ah well,” I sighed. “Here’s to Sergeant McLeish. He was obviously an objectionable bastard but, well, he died like a true soldier. May Auld Nick torment his soul forever more.”

“You bastard!”

Before I could drink to the memory of the fallen soldier, Malky leapt from the table and raised his arm. Just in time I managed to move my face wide of the heavy truncheon which closed in on me. The momentum of his lunge threw him face down on the bar. I quickly moved behind him and threw my right arm tightly round his neck. With my left I grabbed the half-empty bottle and held it in front of his face.

“Look mister,” my mouth was pressed against his left ear as I spat out the words. “If your mate’s kicked the bucket then there’s bugger all I, you or the disappearing painter can do about it.”

He was crying like a baby as I pressed the bottle against his face. Through the side of my eye I could see the terrified barman slowly back away. I was very close to the edge and I knew that one wrong word from the soldier would send the bottle crashing down on his skull.

“I just want to speak to him that’s all,” he whimpered.

“Your partner looked very much alive when he left here five minutes ago. What makes you think the artist can help you now?”

“Before he died, he said something about the painting.”

He began to choke but I felt no inclination to relax my grip.

“He said he had to destroy the painting. Then he just dropped dead.”

I finally let him go and he slumped to his knees. He held his head in his hands and his whole body shook in great heaves as he wept. I jumped over the bar. The garden gnome was cowering in a corner, busily chatting on the telephone. I grabbed the receiver from him and ripped the telephone from the wall, bringing lumps of masonry and clouds of dust down with it. He crouched on the floor with his face hidden between his knees, covering his head with his hands as I stood over him.

“The keys. Give me the keys,” I shouted.

He made no sound. I grabbed him violently by the hair and forced him to look up at me. I still held the telephone receiver in my hand. He could not be in any doubt about my intentions as I raised it above his head. He let out a muffled cry and reached into the pocket at the front of his apron. I pulled the keys from his hand and moved over to the safe. I tried several keys before the door moved easily towards me. I helped myself to three bottles of whisky and several hundred Government issue cigarettes. I found an old sack. Quickly I dropped my loot into the bag and tossed it over my shoulder. There was no way of knowing how far the barman had got with his call for help so I had to move fast. I pulled the cash box out of the drawer and emptied the contents over the bar. Several coins spilled onto the floor. I picked up all the notes and pushed them deep into my coat pocket.

Quickly I scrambled back over the bar. Malky looked up at me with tear stained face. As I turned to leave he reached out and grappled frantically with my legs.

“Don’t leave me,” he begged. “Please don’t leave me.”

Both my hands were occupied and I had great difficulty freeing my legs from his determined grip. Somehow I managed to pull my right leg away from him and with one swift movement I kicked him with all the strength I could muster. The end of my boot caught him under the chin and I heard a sickening crack as the back of his skull crashed against the sharp corner of the bar. I took his wallet and thrust it into my pocket. I afforded myself one last look as I edged backwards through the door. The soldier lay lifeless, strange gurgling sounds coming from the back of his throat. The barman scrambled across the floor, frantically trying to retrieve some of the coins which had spilled out of the cash box.

I slipped several times as I plodded through the snow towards George Square. As I turned into Queen Street I nearly fell over a body lying face down in the snow. I turned him over and looked down into the wide, staring eyes of Sergeant McLeish. I had witnessed many dead bodies before but never had I seen such an image of abject horror captured by the camera of death. My hair stood on end as I looked down at the pitiful face. I wanted to be sick but quickly forgot such feelings as I heard the distant wailing of a military siren. I rifled the sergeant’s pockets and soon his wallet joined that of his colleague Malky.

In a second I was scampering towards the old railway station. I was gasping for breath as I walked along the concourse in the direction of the disused rail carriage. I closed the door behind me and with a sigh, I slumped onto the cold, damp floor. I lay motionless for several minutes, gathering my thoughts and my strength. I must have fallen asleep. When I opened my eyes I was in complete darkness. My head throbbed and my muscles ached. I groped inside the battered old suitcase where all my worldly possessions were stored. I felt the soft, smooth body of a candle and found a book of matches amongst an assortment of bits and pieces collected during my years on the run. My hands were trembling with cold as I struggled to strike the match. Eventually I succeeded and I rubbed my hands together in front of the protesting flame.

I emptied the contents of my coat pocket and counted the money. Suddenly I heard a noise. I blew out the candle and lay on the floor, not daring to move. I could hear slow, steady footsteps move along the platform. Each door was opened and closed as the footsteps progressed. My heart raced as I knew the door to my sanctuary would soon be opened. I heard the shuffling of feet and the creaking of the door as it gradually gave way. There was a long, agonising pause. The only sound was the pounding of my own heartbeat. The silence was broken by a loud click and in an instant the carriage was lit up by the bright beam of a torch. I kept my eyes firmly closed and prayed for the first time in years. I could sense the beam moving slowly round the carriage and my whole body tensed as the light penetrated my tightly closed eyelids. The beam seemed to rest in that position for an eternity and I finally resigned myself to my fate.

“Have you any more of that whisky left Mr Goodfellow?”

I looked up at the man holding the torch. The bright light blinded me and I had to rub my eyes for some moments before recognising the face.

“Why you . . . I swear I thought my time had come. Where the hell did you come from?”

Vincent closed the door behind him and sat on the floor facing me. I opened a fresh bottle and swallowed at length before passing it to my friend. He accepted gratefully and raised it to his lips.

“Who are you anyway? Have you any idea the trouble you’ve caused tonight?”

He ignored me and carried on drinking. For someone who didn’t touch the stuff he was sure performing an impressive disappearing act with my whisky. Suitably watered, he passed the bottle to me and with deep breaths began rummaging through his knapsack. Then he made an announcement.

“Tonight, under cover of darkness, I intend to make my way southward.”

“You’re joking,” I sat up sharply. “You’ll never make it. They’ll cut you down at the border. That is if you make it that far, which I very much doubt.”

“I’ve no choice. If I stay around here I’m finished.”

“What do you mean finished?”

A smile of indignation formed on his lips.

“You mean you’ve got the B-Strain?”

“I’ve got one month, maybe two, I don’t know. But if I can get to London I can maybe buy my life.”

“But how? You’ll never make it. It’s the middle of winter and in your condition . . .”

“I know. But what’s the alternative? London is my only hope. I’ll think of something.”

All of a sudden I felt immense pity for the man. At the same time I could not help admiring his courage and resolve. I knew that if I was in his shoes I’d probably have blasted my brains out by now. I watched him pick at a crust of bread and wipe a tear from his eye.

“Look mate,” I sat up on my seat and looked down at him. “If there’s anything I can do, anything, I’ll do it.”

Despite my words I felt completely helpless. His silence was ample response. I decided to be more positive.

“What will you do when you get to London?”

“I’ve got friends there. Once I’ve sorted myself out I’ll make contact. It’s strange to think . . .”

His eyes lit up as he sat deep in thought.

“Go on,” I knew he wanted to talk.

“Ten years ago, before they closed the border, I lived in London. I was a student at the Royal College of Art. I even managed a few exhibitions of my work. Everything was clear then. I met a girl and fell in love. We bought a nice studio flat in Chelsea. She was beautiful. Monica her name was. A wonderful concert pianist. We were going to be married. Then it all went wrong. I was knocked out by a brick during an anti Government riot. I was rushed to the infirmary and, well, the blood tests told their own story. Within twenty-four hours I was taken back across the border. I wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye to Monica.”

He laughed in defiance of the tears which now ran down his cheeks. I reached into my pocket and found a torn handkerchief. I handed it to him and watched in silence as he wiped the tears from his face. Then very suddenly, he leapt to his feet and gathered his belongings.

“Anyway,” he said. “There’s no sense in dwelling on the past. I’d better get moving fast.”

“Hold on Vincent. I’m coming with you.”

I opened my battered old suitcase and carefully placed the whisky and cigarettes inside.

“What are you running away from?”

“I’m wanted for helping the resistance. As we speak there’s a huge price on my head. If I can get to London . . . I’ve got friends there too.”

“But the border patrols. Wouldn’t you be better off without me holding you back?”

“I’ve got two Military ID cards and border passes. It would be a shame to let them go to waste now wouldn’t it. Apart from that I’m an old soldier myself so I know the drill.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Vincent laughed and threw his knapsack over his shoulder. He stepped back and raised his arm, inviting me to lead the way. We both had a spring in our step as we marched along the dilapidated station concourse towards George Square.

“With army documents we can be in London in under a week,” Vincent enthused, clearly excited at the prospect.

“This treatment, you do realise it’ll cost you a lot of money.”

“No problem,” he replied, patting his knapsack with the palm of his hand. “My paintings will fetch a tidy sum down south. Especially now that I am officially a dead artist.”

We both laughed easily as we strolled through the dark, snow-covered streets.

“While we’re on the subject of art,” I assumed a more serious tone. “That painting you took out in the bar, the one with the castle and the tall boys and wide girls, I think you called them.”

“My masterpiece,” he replied, raising his voice above the sound of thick snow crunching under our boots.

“What was it all about? I know I’m a bit of a philistine when it comes to art, at least the visual arts, but why did the sergeant get so worked up about it? His partner seemed to think it had something to do with . . .”

“I know.”

“What do you know? How could you possibly know?”

“The picture was actually painted by one of the aliens.”

“I thought you did it?”

“I did, in a sense. The alien took over my mind and well, I guess you could say we both painted it.”

“But what does it mean?”

“The poor creature was dying fast. He wanted to repay me for hiding him and protecting him from the authorities. So he asked me to let him into my mind. Then I painted my masterpiece.”

“Yes. But you still haven’t told me what it’s all about?”

“I’m not really sure myself. But what I do know is that every time someone tries to do me harm, all I have to do is show them the painting and, well, somehow my enemies have a nasty habit of dying soon after.”

“You mean it casts some sort of spell on them?”

“You could say that. It is only when they look deep into the picture. I don’t know. There’s something there. Something that protects me.”

“Boy I’ve heard some wacky tales in my time. But this sure does take some beating.”

Snow began to fall. It was very light at first but soon developed into a fierce blizzard. We settled for the night in a run-down farmhouse near Bothwell. We filled ourselves with whisky and sang ancient folk songs well into the night.

Five days later I arrived in London, tired and alone. I had buried Vincent in Epping Forest the previous evening. He was so near and yet so far. His demise was swift and painless. I held him in my arms as he died. He told me to take his works and sell them in the city. I took them to the Royal Academy. The faceless vultures were falling over themselves with glee. I had to endure their ceaseless fawning with a smile but laughed triumphantly as I left, fourteen million Dollars richer.

I’m happily married now with two young children. We own a large science farm in Berkshire and my native Scotland is now only a distant memory. Vincent’s painting still hangs pride of place in my drawing room. Several big international dealers have offered me millions of dollars to part with it.

“Why don’t you just sell the thing and be done with it?” my wife has pleaded time and time again. I know for sure that Vincent would have approved of my marrying his Monica but no amount of money would make me submit to the final sell-out. Vincent was right when he described her breathtaking beauty and I knew that one day I would have to tell her the truth and risk losing her the way he once did.

“It’s of great sentimental value my dear,” I would tell her for the hundredth time.

“I can’t imagine why,” she scoffed. “It’s so full of pain and suffering.”

I now look back over the past twenty years. The pain and suffering is all too clear in my mind. One day I’ll return to my native home. Monica will find out the truth. The whole world will finally know and my country, my people, will be repaid with interest.