Espresso Tales - Alexander Hanchett Smith [84]
“This is it, Bertie,” he said quietly. “This is where the car was. Right here.”
Stuart pointed to a place now occupied by a large green Mercedes-Benz. Bertie stepped forward and stared into the car, as if expecting to find some clue to the disappearance of their Volvo. And as he did so, they heard a door open in the house directly behind them and a voice call out:
“Yous! Whit chu doin lookin at Mr O’Connor’s motor?”
53. Lard O’Connor
Bertie sprang back guiltily from the green Mercedes-Benz. He had not so much as touched the glittering car, but the voice from behind him, more of a growl really, would have been enough to frighten anybody, let alone a six-year-old boy on his first trip to Glasgow.
Stuart was taken aback, too, by the accusatory tone of the voice. “My son hasn’t done anything,” he said. “We were just looking.”
The man who had appeared at the door of the house had strode down the path and was now facing Stuart, staring at him belligerently. “Looking for what?” he asked. “Yous never seen a Merc before, eh?”
“I’ve seen one,” said Bertie brightly. “Mrs Macdonald, who lives at the top of the stair, has got a custard-coloured one. She offered to take me for a ride in it.”
The man looked down at Bertie. “Whit you talking aboot, son?”
“He’s just saying . . .” began Stuart.
“Shut your gob, Jim,” said the man. “Whit’s this aboot custard?”
“Oh really!” said Stuart in exasperation. “This is quite ridiculous. Come, Bertie, let’s go.”
Lard O’Connor
175
The man suddenly leaned forward and grabbed Stuart by the arm. “Not so fast, pal. You’re coming in to have a word with Mr O’Connor. He disnae like people hanging aboot his street. You can come in and explain yourself to the man hissel.”
The man’s grip on Stuart’s arm was too powerful to resist, and Stuart found himself being frog-marched up the garden path, followed by an anxious Bertie, his duffel coat flapping about his crushed-strawberry dungarees. Propelled by his captor, Stuart found himself in a sparsely-furnished hallway. “Through there,” said the man, nodding in the direction of a half-open door. “Mr O’Connor will see you now.”
Stuart glared at the man, but decided that the situation was too fragile for him to do anything but comply. He was concerned for the safety of Bertie, who was standing at his side, and he thought that the best thing to do would be to speak to this Mr O’Connor, whoever he was, and explain that they had had no intentions in relation to his car. Perhaps they had experienced vandalism in the past and had, quite unjustifiably, thought that he and Bertie were vandals.
They entered a large living room. The floor was covered with a tartan carpet and the walls were papered with red wallpaper. The room was dominated by a large television set, which was displaying a football game, but with the sound turned down. On a chair in front of the television set was an extremely overweight man, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal fleshy, tattooed forearms. As they entered the room, this man half turned round, glanced at them, and then flicked the remote controls of the television set. The football match died in a fading of light.
“So,” said the fat man. “So you’ve been looking at my motor. You fancy it?”
“Not at all,” said Stuart. “We had no designs on it at all.”
The man smiled. “I should introduce myself,” he said, glancing at Bertie briefly and then returning his gaze to Stuart.
“I’m Aloysius O’Connor. But you may call me Lard O’Connor. Everybody else does, don’t they, Gerry?”
Gerry, the man who had brought Stuart into the room, 176 Lard O’Connor
nodded. “Aye, they do, Lard. Nae respect these days. People have nae respect.”
Lard O’Connor raised an eyebrow. Turning to Bertie, he said:
“And you, young man. What’s your name?”
“I’m called Bertie,” said Bertie. “Bertie Pollock. I live in Edinburgh and I go to the Steiner School. And this is my daddy. We live in Scotland Street. Do you know where that is, Mr O’Connor?”
“Could do,” said Lard. “Is that a nice street?