Just a Fan (36 page)

But
would
he want to settle down at all? I knew Connor had always been an active man, with a very busy, fast-paced life, going from one film set to another, and attending parties and premieres in between them...could I even
see
him slowing down his career to contemplate family life? Or was it impossible for such a thing to happen? I couldn't know for sure whether or not I was destined to remain the supporting girlfriend all our lives while he worked on film after film...

I didn't even know how
I
felt about this whole "settling down" business. Of course I liked the idea of marriage, but to me it had always seemed as some faraway, idealistic notion. I had never thought that I might get married at a more
recent
time...how would I cope?

As the others were sitting down at the elegant little garden table, I felt a tug at my sleeve. I looked, down, and there was Connor's nephew. He blinked up at me inquisitively, and I smiled down at him, encouraging him to speak. He opened his mouth, and told me in a quiet, serious voice: 'Ma name is Ewan and ah support Celtic.'

'That's very nice, Ewan,' I replied in a gentle tone, resisting the urge to lean down and squeeze him, with that endearingly thick accent of his. 'Do you like football, then?'

'Aye, ah do,' murmured Ewan, and then shyly took hold of my hand. 'Can ah have a besket from the table?'

I sighed fondly, already feeling rather affectionate towards Connor's little nephew.

'Of course you can,' I sighed, unable to resist that baby-voiced Scottish. 'Of course you can...'

Chapter 24

Bad Memories

Although Saturday dawned rainy and gloomy, towards the evening the stormy-grey clouds were all blown out of the sky by the icy wind, which then died down to a faint, chilly breeze that whistled over the old chimneys.

That evening, Connor and I were halfway through our little walk around the places he had known when he was young; places he now wanted to show me. So far he had revealed to me the small park he used to spend time in with his friends, the street corners they used to loiter about and smoke on, the innumerable shortcuts and alleyways he knew that led to different roads...This part of the town was like a maze to me, especially in the dark with the taller buildings rising close together, separated by tiny, narrow passages that led who knew where - but Connor seemed to know it like the back of his hand. Under the glow of the streetlamps, he led me along quiet streets and tiny closes, never once losing his way. I could only admire his effortless sense of orientation, and keep hold of his arm as he talked to me at length about the good times he had spent here.

'We always saw ourselves as the cool ones,' he chuckled somewhat nostalgically, reminiscing about his old friends. 'We were all there with our leather, shades and cigarettes...and I had no idea at the time how long it would take me to give those up...' He broke off with a laugh.

'I never knew you used to smoke,' I told him, surprised.

He grinned at me. 'I quit as soon as I started getting onto the big films,' he replied. 'I promised myself I would, if I ever managed to make a breakthrough...'

'And so you did...' I finished for him, impressed, giving him a smile of admiration. He screwed up his face guiltily.

'Well, I did still light up sometimes - but only when I was feeling
really
stressed,' he admitted, then added: '...which I have not done in several months, now.'

'Well done you,' I answered, putting an arm around him affectionately. 'I see you haven't quit the leather or the shades, though.'

Connor laughed, his lovely, rolling chuckle echoing slightly from the nearby buildings.

'No, I haven't!' he replied. 'I'm not so willing to let go of -'

'
Hey
!'

Both of us turned in the direction of the loud, cheery shout from across the street. Just outside the painted, lit-up front of a pub, there stood a large man with a bottle of beer in one hand and a smoking cigarette in the other, looking right at us. I glanced up at Connor, confused, and found that he had a broad smile of recognition on his face.

'It cannae be auld Ten-Pints, back again!' the man exclaimed.

'Is tha' you, Rob? Rob Finlay, from doun the road?' Connor called back, the stronger dialect dropping back into his speech.

'Come over 'ere, ya dirty celebrity bastirt!' came the jovial invitation.

Giving me a half-apologetic, half-encouraging smile, Connor led me across the street and onto the opposite pavement, in front of the pub. The man - or Rob, as Connor had called him - was grinning, the tip of his cigarette briefly glowing red in the semi-gloom as he raised it to his lips.

'Ach, it's been well long,' Rob said, reaching out his now-free hand.

'It has indeed,' agreed Connor, shaking it firmly. Rob then laughed and waggled his hand, as if Connor's grip had been overly strong.

'Still got tha' mean reight hand, same as always!' he remarked jokingly. 'Ah've niver forgotten it - ah still remember ye had a killer upper cut 'n' no one could trust ye with a bottle in yer hand...'

Connor laughed along with him, but I could tell that he was a bit uncomfortable talking about this - and even more uncomfortable talking about this in front of me. This Rob couldn't seem to master tact, probably since he appeared to have had one too many already. I felt slightly uneasy myself; even though he was not as tall or well-built as Connor, he was a large man, and his hints at some of Connor's past actions intimidated me just as much as his physique.

'So - what ye doin' oot here?' asked Connor, steering the subject in a different direction. 'Why're ye no' inseide?'

Rob made a sound of distaste. 'No' allowed to light up in there anymore,' he grumbled. 'Ah have tae stay oot here. Bu' fuck it, ah dinnae care.' He took a large puff of his cigarette to prove his point, then squinted at Connor. 'What brings Ten-Pints MacGowan back here, anywie? An' who's the bird?'

I blinked in surprise, and felt Connor bristle slightly, but I decided not to be offended since the guy was half-drunk already.

'Ah'm jus' passin' through,' answered Connor. 'And this here is Lillian, ma girlfriend.'

Rob's blunt eyebrows raised, strong jaw clenching and unclenching in interest. 'Oh, aye? Ah thought ah haird ye were more after th' supermodel types...' he remarked. That stung... 'Ye know, ah've been hearin' a
lot
aboot ye, lately,' Rob continued pensively, taking a swig from his bottle. 'Ah saw ye in them big posters on buses roond 'n' aboot...some o' the lads even went tae see a few o' yer mouvies.' He gave a perplexed laugh. 'Seems like one day ye're collapsin' in the gutter, the next ye're off tae those poncy actin' auditions, and then the next yer fuckin' world famous. Why couldn't tha' happen tae one of
us
?'

'It wasnae that easy,' Connor contradicted quietly, his tone civil but his tense pose indicating he was slightly annoyed. Rob shook his head in disappointment.

'After all me 'n' the lads did for ye,' he said. 'We got ye tae hospital when tha' scunner ripped yer elbow open weth his beer bottle. Ah cannae count the number of teimes we dragged ye oot o' the gutter when ye were unconscious...we've no' haird from ye since ye went tae London, years ago when ye got tha' mouvie role. Shuirly ye owe us more than tha', MacGowan...'

Connor sighed angrily. 'Rob, we all helped each
other
,' he reminded him, a new, sharper tone coming into his voice. 'How aboot all the teimes ah dragged
you
oot o' the gutter? An' when ah backed ye up in a fight?'

Rob gave a throaty chuckle. 'MacGowan, ye
started
half o' those fights!'

'Ye know very well tha' in those teimes we jus' had tae fend for ourselves,' Connor growled. 'Ah went off tae tha' audition because ah wanted tae
escape
. Ah didnae
want
a life jus' goin' from pub to pub, drinkin', fightin', and gettin' thrown oot of everywhere! An' I happened tae get the lucky chance ah needed to get awie!'

Although his words had marked
me
, Rob didn't even seem to have heard, taking another long swig.

'Well, ah'm never gonnae ask ye for an autograph, tha's for sure!' replied Rob, then my heart leapt fearfully as he looked at me, giving a discomforting smile. 'Ah bet ye dae get yer pick o' the lasses, eh no? Haha. What dae
you
think, hen?' Not sure what exactly he was asking me, I didn't reply, instead looking up at Connor. He was perfectly still, but his hand was firm on my arm, and the telltale reddening of his cheekbones suggested that he was on the verge of losing his temper. Rob, on the other hand, seemed entirely unaware of these warning signs - I almost believed he was
provoking
Connor in some way.

He gave me a rather vulgar wink, and told me: 'See, ye're well bonny. Why're ye no' with a
proper
man, rather than with a clatty "celebrity"? Ah know Ten-Pints MacGowan, see - he's no' the pairfect gent ye meight think him tae be! Haha, no! MacGowan, here, he was so desperate he'd go with any bird, but then he'd find another two days later! Ye'd better watch yerself, lass, he'll be settin' his sights on someone else in a matter o' teime!'

'Shut yer hole, Rob,' snarled Connor, his temper already dangerously near the edge.

Rob's lack of common sense caused him to laugh openly at Connor, then say to me, gloatingly: 'The real MacGowan's no' who ye think he is - the real MacGowan's a vicious bastirt with no fuckin' dignity! He's crazy when he's drinkin', an' he'll fight any odd scunner! Ah can tell ye, he once cornered a puir lad in a back alley an' nearly -'

'SHUT
UP
!'

Before I could react or even
blink
, Connor pushed me backwards out of the way, his tightly-clenched fists swinging up to meet Rob's leering face.

It was a very real, and very ugly fight; nothing like the perfectly synchronized, meticulously choreographed fight scenes I had seen Connor execute before on the screen. Here he wasn't on a film set anymore - he was on a cold street in Glasgow again, and his temper had just gotten the better of him.

The beer bottle in Rob's hand had crashed almost immediately to the floor, his cigarette flying into the shadows as he raised his own fists to defend himself, becoming enraged in turn at Connor's attack. I stood rooted to the spot, powerless to move, speak or intervene. I was scared out of my wits - for the first time, I was witnessing Connor at one of the most dangerous stages of his anger. The two of them grabbed at each other aggressively, hitting and elbowing and pummelling, roaring out insults and curses. They both moved so quickly, terrifying me even more. Being a brawny man, Rob managed to hit Connor hard, mostly in the ribs and stomach when he couldn't reach his face. I was terrified that he would grievously injure him somehow - knock him out, leaving me alone and defenceless. They looked ready to
kill
each other, from the ferocious way they were grappling. Connor was scaring me, too; I had never seen him like this before, with his eyes burning and wild, face full of rage and hate and rancour. When clenched, his fists seemed larger and more formidable than ever as they came down against Rob, hitting him with a deadly accuracy that looked fearsomely reflexive, as if these movements had once been second-nature to him. The sweet, calm, gallant Connor I knew had gone, and in his place was a complete animal. He fought as dirty as a street thug, not even appearing to feel the blows that Rob rained on him. Every punch sounded heavy and awful, and a rising hysterical terror escalated within me - should I get help? Where would I go? What if Connor got badly hurt while I was gone? Should I leap heroically between them, to stop them?

But the half-drunken yells of Rob and the mindless, blind fury with which Connor battled the remnants of his past kept me frozen, unable to do anything but look on, helpless. A sickening crunch sounded - impossible to tell who it was. Connor's pale, until-recently-handsome face was contorted and spattered with dark blood around his nose and mouth, but still he fought on, undaunted.

When I thought I was about to die from sheer indecision and terror, Connor suddenly lashed out with a foot, landing a well-aimed kick on Rob's ankle. Rob promptly fell to the ground, howling in pain, and before I knew it Connor's hand was around mine and he was pulling me away, running with me from the momentarily recumberent figure of his adversary, and from the people who were coming out of the pub to see what all the noise was about.

As he pulled me along over the stony roads and pavements, behind us there came the faint but defiant cry: 'Ye kick like a lass, MacGowan!'

I had never been a competent runner; within a minute or two I was wheezing for breath, but Connor was still running, pulling me after him as if the ghosts of his previous life were hot on our heels.

'Connor...please...I can't...run...anymore...' I gasped. He did not reply, but he slowed his pace a little, dragging me into a small, grassy, wooded area which I recognised as the park. His long legs seemed not to have tired at all, but I could hear him panting as we came to a stop beside a bench. My hand was finally released, and he leant heavily against the back of the bench. As we were in the shadow of a tree, I could only make out his silhouette, dark against the harshly orange lamp nearby - but that was all I needed to see that he was hurt, and in more ways than one. I tried to stop my hand from shaking as I gently touched his arm.