Member-only story
In Scotland, Nothing is Free!
But learning this is hard for some.
The door to McArthur’s bar opens, and a heavily built man wearing a suit enters. He stands in the doorway and stares for a while as if uncertain. His grey hair was cropped short, and his clean-shaven face displayed a sickly pallor. The ill-fitting pin-striped cloth moves loosely with him as he walks to the bar. A scar on his square chin gives evidence of some past troubles.
He raises his eyes from the floor and surveys the beers on offer, scratching his chin as if unfamiliar with their names.
“Pint o’ of lager chief,” the man in the suit says.
“Nae problem, mate” The barman tilts the glass and lets the cool liquid fill it. Prison release, for sure, he thinks. “That’s four eighty mate.”
“Fucking hell! Is it gold I am drinking, son?” The man in the suit carefully counts the four-pound eighty in small change, pushing the coins across the bar. Then he retreats to a quiet corner, looking lost in his thoughts.
McArthur’s bar is quiet, which is not unusual for a Wednesday night. The barman looks around to see if the other two patrons need a drink. Old Moira sits at the bar’s end, sipping her vodka glass and irn bru. This is her usual nightly position and poison. In one hour, she will be so drunk that the barman…
