A half pint of Heineken flew past my head. Spatters of cold beer slapped my face. The heaving bar turned heads like a shoal of fish. I gazed through the coloured bottles of spirits onto the mirrored wall behind the bar. We were on a stag do in Edinburgh and it wouldn’t be right if the stags weren’t involved in some sort of physical altercation. The stag had already disappeared, most likely having his spinning head resting on porcelain.

“Oi, wanka!” boomed a large Scotsman.

I assumed that comment was directed to my womanising partner in crime, Pat. He’d been the Scotsman’s girlfriend.

“Pat! What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

Pat responded with a panicked shrug. Security caught the commotion and began bustling their way over. As usual it was my job to diffuse a situation, especially when it came to Pat. I took his drink in one hand and his arm in the other. He paused, resisting the urge to leave.

“Do you really want this? We’re leaving tomorrow afternoon.” I said.

A drunken Pat looked back at me. He was man-handled by an unnaturally large doorman, who lifted him off the ground like a sack of potatoes and carried him towards the exit. I swirled Pat’s brandy, the tinkling ice eased the embarrassment. I hung my head in shame following them out. I caught the reflection of the Scotsman on the glass exit. He was following us.

I remember getting into scrapes with Pat all the time. Pat had saved my life once. I was five and at a new school. One lunchtime a group of older boys spat all over the back of my new jacket. A dinner lady in striped overalls turned a blind eye as she ushered children into the dining hall. I turned and gave one the boys a hard kick in the shins. I was grabbed by the scruff on my neck and voice said,

 “Come on you little gob-shite!”

I was dragged towards the steel wheelie bin around the back of the dining hall. His cronies chuckling at my expense as I tried to pull off the bully’s grasp. Crinkled food wrappers and boxes littered the way; they caught under my feet as I to scampered for ground. I felt firm hands under my armpits and I rose higher off the ground, my calls for help drowned in the sound of children playing. My kicks to the bin echoed dulled metallic thuds as I attempted to struggle free. The cronies grabbed my legs and assisted with this unwanted ascent. I was close to the top, my hand me down trainers kept slipping off the wet rim. I was thrown in and landed onto a pile of leftover school dinners. I could hear the boys laughing. My eyes welled up. The bin started moving; I clambered up the sides, my fingers slipped from all the grease. The rumble of the misdirected wheels intensified, the bin went over a bump that made me lose my balance. I landed face first into week old cabbage, I heaved at the taste that settled on my lips. The sound of traffic became apparent. I was still moving and there was no longer any laughing. I could hear cars beeping and then I had stopped moving. The forward motion had stopped but I was now being rocked from side to side. I joined in with the rocking and swaying and I could feel the bin losing balance. The bin tipped over disorientating me with a loud clang; I crawled out onto the pavement outside the school, less than a few inches from the main road. A hand came in to help me. That was the first time I met Pat.

Pat was kerbside apologising to security for his behavior as slow traffic passed by. I acknowledge the doormen for escorting him out safely. Pat was humoring the doormen and they had taken a shine to his drunken charm. One of the doormen flagged down a taxi and he gestured Pat to get inside. As I took out my phone to update the other lads a firm hand took my shoulder.

“Your mate, he’s gonna get it, and you too if you don’t let me at him,” said the fuming Scotsman.

“He’s drunk, I apologise for his stupid behaviour.”

My instinct was telling me the Scotsman was going to take a swing at me, and he did. I dodged his cumbersome left jab and caught his arm across my right shoulder. I twisted his wrist, came around the side and side footed the back of his knee. He went down howling. I had two options, snapping his neck came to mind. The other was to let go. One of the roadside doorman had taken notice, Pat was held back as he made an aggressive move towards us.      

“Get in the taxi Jo. Being the hero again are we?!” called Pat.

“Let him go and get in the taxi, we’ll sort it out,” said one the doormen approaching.

I let go and the doormen took a hold of the Scotsman. I felt sorry for him, he didn’t ask for any this.

“He’s known for starting trouble around here,” continued one of doormen and with that my sympathy died. I clambered into the taxi with Pat.

“Where to gentlemen?” asked the driver.

“Anywhere that’s open and got birds,” said Pat.

“Don’t you think we should catch up with other lads?” I asked.

“Yeah,” replied Pat.

I called out to the cabbie, “one second mate, just need to catch up with the lads, you can put the meter on if you want.”

The driver nodded his head back at Pat, it was his way of implying ‘watch your friend.’ I checked my phone for any missed calls, I tried Ivan and Rich and there was no answer.

“Take us somewhere decent,” I said to the cabbie.

“OK, I know just the place.” 

I looked at Pat who shrugged his shoulders. The taxi began to pull away; there was a loud thud from the back of the cab followed by the sound of shattering glass. We all turned to see the now red faced Scotsman. The doormen had somehow let him slip.

“Go, Go, Go!” said Pat chuckling.

The panicked cabbie put his foot down.

“If he’s smashed my taxi..” said the cabbie.

Pat interrupted, “don’t worry mate, your insurance will cover it and it doesn’t sound like hit us.”

“For God’s sake, I’ve been ferrying drunk louts for 20 years and this is first time..” the cabbie continued to chunter as Pat struggled to contain his excitement.

“You come out for night with us in our home town,” I replied as the driver shook his head and lifted his jacket collars.  “How about you join us mate?” I continued.

“Who me?” he replied.

“Of course you, mate, we’re already out!” said Pat.

“Hmm, after that little incident I think I need one,” said the cabbie.

I asked the cabbie, “What do you think? You know any places with some decent single malt?”

“I know just the place, and ask your mate to behave. This isn’t the type of place where you’d want to start trouble. The locals will have you up in the highlands with your pants down.”

We laughed at the cabbies remark. We continued to drive down through the hilly streets of Edinburgh. Vintage lamp posts lit the way on windy roads and the occasional rumble of cobbles reminded me of the city’s history. Pat indulged in a little taxi banter and I was making mental notes on our heading and direction, spotting landmarks, mainly fast food joints. It was just in case we ran into any trouble and we needed to get back to where we were staying. We drove through a residential area, the frequency of properties reduced and we found ourselves in darkness, no street lights or road signs.