Jack could see that Scot was trying to make him feel better in his own way, but he didn’t like the feeling. “You know I’m part Scottish myself. On my mother’s side. Do you think I’m a …”
“Neither. You’re just a loser. Sorry.”
Jack shrugged. “Yeah, guess you’re right.”
Scot laughed. “You’re not a loser because you got your ribs cracked, you’re a loser because you’re too big to be a victim. You have to be the big bad guy, deserving of a righteous beating, because if you’re not, then these playground bullies aren’t the heroes they pretend to be. You’re a loser because your life has shrunk so small you care what a bunch of snide gossipmongers think. Some sneering little turd calls you a coward, he can say what he wants, doesn’t make it true. Your effete contretemps happened two days after the referendum. Every Scot was bitter that weekend one way or another, and they all wanted to take it out on somebody. You rose to the bait and got a kicking.”
“So I should have ignored it. Saved a beating. Taken the jeers as usual.”
“Drinking that much with a cracked rib and a broken hand you were always going to get hurt, even if it was just falling down a hill on the way home. I just think you should stop beating yourself up. Being called a coward isn’t the same as being a coward, same as being called gay isn’t going to magically change your sexuality.”
“Actually, I think they may have called me that as well at some point.”
“Quelle surprise. You are on a man date drinking Martinis in a Southbank cocktail bar.”
They chinked the second round of classic cocktails poured by the barman, who called himself a mixologist and was discreetly eavesdropping.
“Playground bullies don’t always grow up. Hell of a lot of us have an inner brat gnawing at the bit to come out. And if these guys smirk over name-calling and tittle-tattle that really is all they are.”
“I don’t mind losing a fight,” said Jack. “I can pick myself up after that, I always have, and after a lot worse than that limp scuffle. But being lied about, I’m not built for that. I don’t know how to fight that.”
“You don’t need to fight a lie,” said Scot. “That’s the point. You could scream from the rafters what really happened, or who you really are, but you’d be yelling it at the very same people who enjoy stirring the pot. You think you can convince a liar to stop lying? That its wrong to lie? They either know already, in which case you’re informing them their spite is working, or they’ll be too embarrassed to back down, or they’re so easily led in the first place they’re too sheepish to leave the herd. Hell, some of them repeat the lie enough times they believe it themselves, that’s human nature. Once started, a lie can’t really be retracted. It just hangs in the air stinking the room out. It can be disproved, but ultimately that becomes one opinion against another, facts long gone by that stage. Living with it means ignoring it. You leave the room, and if people want to stay they can wallow in the stink without you. You do that, you stop being a loser.”
“I get upgraded to a weasel or a warrior?”
“Ah, we may have to think up a new definition for you. Actually there’s quite a choice.”
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