Read Between the Bridge and the River for Free Online Page B

Teflon.”
    “Winona Ryder?”
    “Och, she’s just a ratty wee junkie. Anyway, she never hurt anyone, she just stole a cardigan or somethin.”
    “Jack, you are a hideous specimen of humanity and I don’t see you blowing things up,” squeaked Robbie, the camp barman, as he poured himself an Advocaat.
    Fraser laughed. “That’s because he attacks the West with his god-awful literary style. Restaurant critique as jihad.”
    “Say what you like, but if these guys had a decent dental plan and took a bath every now and then, they’d be less likely to commit mass murder.”
    “Wouldn’t we all,” Robbie agreed.
    Ewan Grayston, the taciturn sports writer from the
Herald,
who was annoyed that the conversation had turned away from the intricacies of Scottish league division football, decided to end the conversation with the coup de grâce to Jack’s theory.
    “I can prove you wrong in three words, Jack.”
    “Go on, then.”
    “Andrew Lloyd Webber.”
    “Sorry?”
    “Ugliest bastard that ever lived, never hurt a fly.”
    “Aye, but he’s rich. Anyway, I would disagree that he never hurt anybody. I went to that fucking
Phantom of the Fucking Opera
when I was in London, and I felt a distinct pain in my wallet. Plus I was bored to death with that prick with the Halloween mask swinging on a light and singing the same song for three fucking hours, and my fucking ears were bleeding by the time I left. When I think about it now, I should report the cunt to Amnesty International.”
    And so they continued.
    There was always someone who was being raked over the coals in the Press Bar. They would be laughing at him now, thought Fraser as he sat in the back of the rattly, cold taxi on the way to Glasgow Airport.
    Bastards.
    The taxi slowed to a halt in the damp, wet traffic jam that consistently clogged the Kingston Bridge. Fraser, hung over and achy, fell into a light sleep. A white-haired old man in a red Indian costume appeared as if by magic. He sat next to Fraser, unnoticed by the taxi driver, whohad turned into a dog-headed minor ancient Egyptian deity. Fraser turned and saw the old man in the outfit of a Comanche shaman.
    “Bloody hell, Carl, Halloween already?”
    The dog-headed taxi driver turned around.
    “What’s that, pal?”
    The old man disappeared. The taxi driver lost his beautiful canine head and returned to being a thick-necked Glaswegian. Fraser was awake.
    “Nothing,” he said. “Just thinking out loud.”
    Fraser had been undergoing psychoanalysis for nearly two years. He hadn’t sought out his therapist, rather it was the other way around.
    Frasier had climbed the journalistic ladder with some ease. From working on the sports desk at the
Times
he had gotten a job as an on-camera reporter for
Scottish Sports Roundup
on Saturday afternoons, covering such Earth-shattering events as a goalless draw between Partick Thistle and Albion Rovers in the second round of the Scottish Cup. The producers of the local sports show, who also covered the news, were impressed with his easy charm and cheeky way with the camera. Soon he was promoted to weatherman on the nightly news, and like all weathermen, he pretended he was responsible for the weather, apologizing when it was raining and taking credit for the occasional sunny spell. It was a strange conceit but an industry standard. All weather-men do it.
    Usually the banter is helped along by the anchorman or -woman or both, who pretend to be angry if they’re not getting nice weather from the weatherman. This, of course, is insanity but it’s also the media, so it doesn’t matter. It’s all lunacy. Mob rule. Bread and circuses.
    One night before Christmas, Fraser was in the Press Bar enjoying much drink and ferocious calumny when he got a call. All cell phones had to be turned off in the bar and it was a strict rule that no one received a call on the bar phone unless it was an emergency. This Christmas Eve Fraser got a call from Gus himself. He was