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Three days later,the week Tony Haigh gave me is over. I’m expecting him at any moment. I try not to glance at the door every time it opens.
I remember Tony. I’ve known him for years, though it’s been a while since I saw him. He made a vivid impression on me when I was a little girl. He was the handsome friend of my big brother and came round here all the time. I’d watch out for him then, though he never so much as glanced in my direction. I had a monster crush on him, not even slightly diminished by being shooed away all the time. It’s not that Tony and Marty were unkind, just that they had better things to do.
One of the highlights of my childhood was the year I was eleven and went to the big school. Marty, my brother, was already there, in his final year. Tony, too. They used to walk to school together, and for that one year that we were all at the same school, I got to go with them. My dad insisted.
“See your sister across the road, mind,” he’d yell as we left the pub.
So I would trot along with them, trying to join in the conversation about football or the latest phone or whatever while they managed to ignore me. But I was there. I was with them. And the envy of every girl in the school.
Tony Haigh was a heartbreaker, even then, And I was in love. Besotted. I wept for a week when he left school and got a job doing something vague for Ethan Savage.
Marty wanted to leave Glasgow for the bigger world outside, so he joined the army. It had been his dream for as long as I could remember, and he was so proud the first time he came home wearing his uniform. I thought he might burst with it. We didn’t see much of him after that. He was off to exotic places, having a great time. On his rare visits home he’d have tales to tell and always a present for me. A bright silk scarf, perhaps, or some glittery trinket acquired from a souk. But the dream became nightmare. There was a knock on the back door, men talking in low tones. They left, so I went to ask and found my dad weeping in the kitchen. Marty died, horribly and brutally and senselessly. He was a hero, they said. My dad saw it differently. He never got over it.
Years passed. I got used to not having a brother, and now I’m getting used to not having a dad either. I have to look after myself, but it’s hard. Still, I go on, because I have no choice.
No one round here has choice. Poverty is everywhere. The only people with enough to live on are criminals. There might be the occasional lottery winner or pop idol. Even a footballer or two. But they are the exceptions, the lucky ones who escape. Most just join the endless grind, the struggle to stay alive.
Like me.
I thought I saw a way out, a solution. So I grabbed it. And found myself in this mess.
I pull another pint of his favourite bitter and set it in front of Reggie. He passes me the money then shuffles off to join a game of dominoes in the corner. I busy myself with sliding dirty glasses into the dishwasher.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” I call over my shoulder when the door opens behind me.
“No rush,” comes the reply, the voice familiar.
I turn. “Tony.” He looks impossibly hot, for a debt-collector. “I…please, come round.”
He nods and lifts the flap to join me behind the bar.
“Molly, I have some business I need to attend to. Can you hold the fort?” I hope I don’t sound as flustered as I feel.
The barmaid arrives from the cellar, laden with two boxes of cheese and onion crisps. “Aye, hinny. We shall be fine, lass. Ye just get on.”
Tony follows me into the sitting room in my private quarters. “I brought your accounts back.” He produces the pen-drive from his inside pocket and lays it on the table. “Everything seems to be in order.”
“I told you, I keep my books up to date.”
“So you did. All you need to do now is explain why the takings look good but the bank account is over seven grand light.”
“It isn’t. I mean, it is, but only because I have the money here. In cash.” I rush to the set of drawers beside the fireplace and dig in the bottom drawer for the envelope containing the money I borrowed. I dump it on the table next to the pen-drive. “It’s all there. Count it.”
Tony narrows his eyes. “Where did you get this, Jenna?”
“The bar,” I reply. “We had a good week.”
“The best week ever, if you managed to cream off seven grand.”
“It’s what I owe. We’re straight now.”
He inclines his chin. “It seems we are. You surprise me, Jenna.”
“I told you I’d pay.”
He flicks through the wad, mentally counting. Then he shoves it into the inner pocket of his jacket. “Okay. Ethan will be pleased.”
I sink onto the sofa, relieved. “Please tell him I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
