By the time the two were reunited in The Fort, 8 p.m. was long past and McBride was growing weary. He had revisited all of Dundee FC’s European Cup triumphs with John Black, who, if pressed, would probably have been able to name every family member of every player in each of the teams. He was a human encyclopaedia on the matches. Click the remote and he moved instantly from game to game, effortlessly replaying in precise sequence every one of the moments when his beloved Dark Blues swept up the park. Listening to him may have been tedious but it was at least restful. It was not necessary to speak, even if there had been an opportunity. All that was required was an occasional nod in appreciation or a sharp intake of breath at the beauty of what had taken place on the football pitch.
Richardson barged through the swing doors at the exact point when Dundee had scored their eighth goal against Cologne on the way to the semi-final, a memory that always brought Black close to the point of breakdown. Sometimes he was forced to turn his back on his listener lest the tear welling its way to the surface was detected.
The emotion of the moment was lost on Richardson, who was loudly apologising about his lack of punctuality while still ten feet away. ‘Forgive me, old son,’ he called out over the heads of a group who were also squeezing their way to the bar. ‘The bastard sub-editors who masquerade as journalists were playing their usual little game of not understanding some of my finer phrases, which is hardly surprising given their lack of education. You’d think they’d find jobs more appropriate to their abilities, like on a building site.’
Long before he arrived at the counter, McBride was aware of the heavy smell of tobacco smoke fitting like an invisible shroud over Richardson. He may have been running late but he’d still found time for a last cigarette outside before joining the other forced abstainers inside.
‘Real good of you to turn up, Richard,’ said McBride, elaborately pushing back his jacket sleeve to look at the time. ‘Just in time for a nightcap.’
‘OK, sorry, sorry. Want a whisky to go with the pint I’m about to get you?’ he offered by way of compensation.
McBride shook his head, declining the short and in resignation at his friend’s lateness. ‘Haven’t touched the hard stuff since I started trying to run marathons. We finely honed athletes have to watch these things.’ He knew this would trigger a predictable response and was not disappointed.
‘Christ, another marathon bore. I remember when you used to have two fags going at the same time in the office, usually when you were struggling to find one of your “masterly” intros to a story. Some of them were that laboured you went through the best part of a packet.’
It was McBride who was first to break off the cut and thrust. ‘So, what’s all this about you feeling crap? This is not the “Tricky Dickie” I used to know. Some woman been giving you a hard time? Or is it a case of you not giving them a hard enough time? Have you considered Viagra?’
McBride’s sparkling wit did not meet with the expected response. His drinking partner flushed and, for a moment, his gaze dropped. Then he fixed McBride with a despairing stare. ‘You’re hardly the person to be giving lectures on relationships with women.’
McBride didn’t need to be a clairvoyant to appreciate that this topic was going nowhere. ‘Take it easy, old mate – just extracting the urine. More to the point, where are the decent places to eat in Dundee these days? I’ve barely had an edible meal since I arrived.’ He knew he could not have chosen safer ground. Next to haranguing politicians, Richardson’s favourite subject was food. He could spend almost as long discussing it as he did devouring it.
For five minutes McBride was given an unwanted rundown on every new restaurant and hotel that had opened in the city in the preceding twenty years. It was a price worth paying for the mood of conviviality to return.
Having worked his way through the deficiencies in most of their menus, Richardson suddenly chose to drop the matter before reaching his ultimate in haute cuisine conversation, desserts. ‘So, Campbell, what’s this I hear about you and Adam Gilzean? My spies tell me you have business with him. True or false?’
It was one of the oldest tricks in the reporter’s handbook. Change the subject without warning and watch for the spontaneous response of the person you’ve just wrong-footed.
McBride was just as accomplished. ‘Been keeping your ear to the ground, eh?’ he replied with what he hoped passed for nonchalance. ‘Business would be too strong a word. He dropped me a line about my book, telling me his son is an innocent man. That’s it really. Don’t suppose that comes as any news because I gather he was a regular in the letters column on the same subject.’
‘Correct. He became a bit of a pain in the behind after a while. Don’t know who he thought he was kidding with all his protestations that his murderous son was some kind of saint. I wouldn’t waste any time on him – he’s just one of the regulars that everyone avoids.’
The dismissal of Adam Gilzean as a newspaper-office crank prompted long-forgotten memories for McBride. Every local paper attracts the oddballs with axes – most of them exceedingly blunt – to grind and when their letters are no longer published, they turn up in person at reception. Then they start phoning, usually at the times when normal people are asleep. Reporters would rather have their eyes poked out by red-hot needles than permit the number of their direct line or e-mail address to fall into the hands of such individuals.
McBride reflected that, although his bookstore conversation with Adam Gilzean had been hostile and one-sided, it had also been brief – a concept utterly unknown to the eccentrics who inhabit newspaper-office reception areas. Whatever Gilzean was, McBride told himself, he was no crank.
‘You’re probably right.’ He shrugged, having no desire to contradict Richardson. ‘I’d forgotten people like that existed.’
Richardson tapped the bottom of his empty glass on the bar and coughed theatrically. ‘Going without a cigarette is bad enough. Didn’t know I was also in a desert with no oasis.’
McBride held two fingers up to John Black, who was at the end of the bar struggling to cope with a group of loud women who appeared to have no idea what they wanted to drink or who might be paying for them. The man who owned The Fort grimaced and gestured back with two fingers of his own but started to pull a couple of pints anyway.
‘How long do we have the pleasure of your company for, then?’ Richardson suddenly asked. ‘What’s next on your high-flying agenda?’
McBride hesitated, genuinely uncertain but unwilling to open the subject up. ‘How long is a piece of string?’ he replied easily. ‘There’s not a lot going on at the moment so I’ll probably hang around for a day or two taking in the sights then head back down for Christmas. Depends if they want me to sign any more books in the area.’
They drank together for another hour then shared a taxi back into Dundee. McBride was dropped at the Apex Hotel before the cab headed north up Lochee Road and turned into a cul-de-sac on the slopes of the Law, the hill which dominates the city’s skyline and which had given McBride the title for his best-selling book. Richardson got out of the taxi and entered the newly built block of flats where he occupied a top-floor apartment.
From its main window, he could see out over the river to Fife, the pinprick lights of the late night traffic on the Tay Road Bridge and the Apex sitting on the waterfront. He gazed at the architecturally challenged hotel and wondered how long McBride would remain in the city and whether they would become friends again.