by Irvine Welsh
Alison, laying down a tray of toast and tea on the glass coffee table, now saw her family home as a hotchpotch of furniture from different eras. In the small front room a seventies teak fireplace jostled for space with a Victorian mahogany chest of drawers, a contemporary oak-framed suite, while the blobs of a sixties lava lamp grew fat before launching themselves north. Her father, Derrick, had never been able to give up on an old piece of furniture, simply shuffling it around the house. Now his mind seemed as full of unconnected clutter as she watched him attempt to interrogate her brother, Calum. — You think ah dunno what yir up tae? Think ah wis born yesterday?
Calum’s disdainful look seemed to say: If ye were born yesterday that would make ye a greetin-faced bairn. So, aye, it sortay fits.
— Eh? Answer us!
Calum remained mute, having barely spoken two words to anyone since their mother’s death. Alison knew this wasn’t good. Nonetheless, she sympathised with her brother, hating it when their father was like this. She’d always considered him a clever man, but grief and anger had rendered him stupid. Had he any idea what a spaz he looked with that retarded tache, crouched hung-over in front of the lecky bar fire, that tartan dressing gown hanging over his thin shoulders?
Derrick couldn’t hold back another dose of cliché. — It’s just that ah dinnae want ye tae make the same mistakes ah did.
— It’s only natural, Cal, Alison supportively intervened. — Dad widnae be human if he didnae care … right, Dad?
Derrick Lozinska chose to ignore his oldest daughter, remaining focused on his son. Calum’s eyes were on the soundless TV where Daffy Duck silently scammed a bemused Porky Pig. — Ye ken fine well what that crowd are. Trouble. Big trouble. Ah ken. Ah seen yis, mind!
This couldn’t be contested. Their father regularly bored Alison by recounting his unfortunate witnessing of the Baby Crew in action. That ambush at the Crawford Bridge at Bothwell Street; mob on mob, then in pursuit of an escaping group of Rangers fans. Calum had been to the fore, with a piece of broken stone cladding in his hand. When she’d asked her brother for his version of the events, he hadn’t denied it, just retorted that Derrick and his dingul mate shouldn’t have been there, as nobody went that way but away fans and boys looking for an off.
Calum hit the handset, changed the channel. Alison looked at the screen. That auld bag wi aw the make-up oan her coupon’s reading the lunchtime news. Funny, she usually does the evenings.
— A brick in his hand! Ready tae fling it intae a crowd! Derrick appealed to Alison again. She dutifully shook her head, though the image of her brother holding a brick in the street inexplicably amused her.
As Calum looked at his father, Alison could almost see his derisive, silent thoughts: A piece ay stane claddin, ya radge, no a fuckin brick!
Derrick shuddered, shaking his tired head. — Borstal, that’s where he’s headed.
— They call it approved school now. Polmont, Calum informed him.
— Dinnae get smart! Disnae matter what they flamin well call it, you’re joinin nae casuals, no at this game or any other!
— Ah’m no joinin nowt! Tryin tae listen tae the news …
Calum’s attention was focused on a shot of a place Alison recognised. It was the Grapes of Wrath pub, down near the Bannanay flats, where Simon came from. She heard Mary Marquis in voiceover, — … spearheading a new campaign to prevent local publicans becoming the victims of violence.
Then there was a shot of this old guy, the pub landlord, sitting all spazzy in a wheelchair, drooling out the side of his mouth, talking like a wheezing dummy about how some thugs had done him over and wrecked the boozer. Alison remembered that one: it was rumoured to be three guys from Drylaw, but they were never found.
They cut to this stern-faced polisman, Robert Toal, of Lothian and Borders Polis. — This is just one of the disturbing cases that have recently come to light, where an upstanding member of the community was brutally assaulted and robbed on his own premises, in broad daylight. In this case, the victim’s injuries have left him disabled and unable to continue working in the licensing trade. It’s sad that people who provide a community service are no longer safe in their own hostelries. Unfortunately, cash-based businesses are extremely vulnerable to this kind of attack.
They cut back to the quashed and downcast Dickson, wretchedly declaring, — All I wanted was to do was ma job ay work …
Cut to an exterior shot of the Water of Leith, the sun glinting off the river offering a sedate ambience, before the camera rose slowly to a bleak, disused factory on its banks, evoking an air of ruined menace, and finally, back to Mary in the studio. — A sad tale indeed, she sympathetically declared. — But now over to the sports desk, as we’ve a full Scottish football fixture card this afternoon. Tom?
— Indeed we do, Mary, said a svelte-looking youngish guy in a suit, — and it’s John Blackley’s Hibernian who have the unenviable task of trying to derail the all-conquering Aberdeen bandwagon of Alex Ferguson. But if the Hibs boss is nervous at the prospect, he’s doing a good job of concealing it …
And they cut to Sloop, trademark ginger hair greying slightly at the temples. Alison remembered how he’d come to the school one time, to present some prizes on sports day. She was glad of the Hibs feature; it allowed father and son to continue their temporary truce.
Alison didn’t really get the casual thing. Spending money on decent clothes, then rolling around in gutters brawling, it seemed perverse and self-defeating to her. Her dad, after initially approving on the grounds of smartness of dress, soon grew hostile. He confessed that whenever he saw Calum’s eyes peeking girlishly out from behind that daft fringe, it just enraged him. Made him want to take a pair of scissors to that hair. There was an insolence about it, he argued.
Nonetheless, Calum and Mhairi were going through some kind of hell. They were young, angry and scared. I’m not doing much better, Alison thought, picking up a magazine.
As the feature on Hibs finished, Alison saw Derrick draw in a creaky breath and steel himself, knowing he was going to start on her brother again. — You’re gaun tae nae fitba, n that’s that. Ah dinnae want ye joinin up wi they … he spat the word out, — casuals.
— Ah’m jist gaun tae the fitba wi ma mates!
— Aye, like ye did wi that rock in yir hand? No way. You’re still fifteen, no long fifteen, and livin under this roof. God, if your mother was here – Derrick stalled, instantly wishing he could take the words back.
— Well, she’s no! Calum sprang to his feet and headed out the door, upstairs to his room.
Derrick weakly crowed his son’s name, letting it dissolve into a sigh. He turned to Alison with a perplexed shrug. — Ah dunno what tae dae wi them, Alison, ah really don’t.
— They’ll be okay. It takes time.
— Thank God you’re fine, Derrick said. You were always a mature, sensible lassie, he noted, with a swell of pride.
You don’t fucking know me, she thought, as she heard herself register a faint protest. — Dad …
— Always was the bright one. Aye, you took charge. Stepped up tae the mark. No Calum and Mhairi but; they’re finding it tough. Ah really worry, Derrick shook his head, — that that laddie’s gaun oaf the rails.
— Isn’t he no just daein the same things you did at that age? They’ve got new clothes, new slang, different music, but that’s aw superficial. They’ve probably got the odd psycho that’s destined tae go down, but for each ay them you’ll have a dozen ordinary laddies who’ll go through it, n come oot the other side with nowt worse than a few good stories tae tell.
Derrick smiled appreciatively at his daughter. — You’ve got a point. He appeared to acknowledge her wisdom, then shook his head. — But it’s nonsense; he has tae be telt. Ah hate tae say it, but he’s no strong like you or me. There’s something ay the victim aboot him, he contended.
All Alison could do was look at her father, sat there in his dressing gown.
— Ah mean, Derrick said, dis
comfited and pulling his garment closer to him, — it makes him easy prey fir the less scrupulous types; the yins that ken that when aw the ugly stuff goes doon, it really is every man for themselves.
— You’re just being paranoid.
— Naw, cause ah ken who’s gaunny be the one in five hundred tae git huckled in the rammy n dae the serious jail time or trip n faw n git trampled intae a vegetable. That boy needs put right!
Alison wondered how her father was going to do that, sitting in his threadbare slippers and dressing gown. Why didn’t he just shower and dress like he used to, instead of slouching around like this every morning?
The front door opened and Mhairi came in. Alison took her sister into the kitchen, anxious to make alliance, to discuss what was to be done about the men in their family. For cover, she turned on the kitchen table radio.
As Duran Duran performed ‘The Reflex’, and Alison talked of the discord between their father and brother, she could see that she was losing Mhairi’s attention. Then her sister put her hand to her mouth, and Alison turned, to watch Calum scuttling down the drainpipe outside the kitchen window, dreeping the last of the distance into the backgreen.
— Calum, she shouted, moving to the back door, to see his figure recede, ducking behind the washing that hung on the lines.
— What’s happened? Derrick shouted, emerging into the doorway.
— Cal’s went n sneaked oot n bolted, eh, Mhairi said, a smile on her face.
— What …? Ah bloody telt him! Derrick ran to the door, then, realising he was in his dressing gown, halted abruptly.
— I’ll find him, Alison said, her tone more condemnatory than she wanted, and grabbed her bag and headed outside. She looked around the undifferentiated backgreens. There was nothing but washing, hanging on lines.
Calum must have climbed the garden wall, onto the overgrown path by the side of the block of dwellings. It was a bit early for him to have headed up to Easter Road, so she was betting he’d be around the Foot of the Walk.
She saw him up ahead in the street talking to Lizzie and Tommy Lawrence. When she got closer, he made no attempt to move.
— Hi, Ali, Lizzie said, and Tommy echoed.
— Hiya.
— Youse gaun tae the game? Calum asked the couple, ignoring his sister. Lizzie looked at him, then Alison, as if Calum was mentally retarded.
— Naw. It’ll be mad up thaire the day. Fill ay bams, Tommy said dismissively. — Keep away fae that place the day, pal.
— That’s what Dad said. Alison looked at Calum.
— Ah’m no gaun back in, he told her.
— Dae what ye like. Ah’m no yir jailer, Alison said, hoping this altered tack would compel him to move towards reason. She looked at Tommy and Lizzie, and nodded to the cafe across the street. — Want tae get a coffee?
— Sound, Tommy said. Alison didn’t know if Calum would follow, but he did. They went into the Up the Junction cafe. It was busy, but one table was free and they squared around it.
Alison was asking Lizzie about her course, while Lizzie enquired about her work. All the time, she was trying to listen into Tommy and Calum’s conversation, to ascertain what her brother’s plans were. Was he really involved with that hooligan mob?
— Aberdeen are some team right enough, Tommy said. — Leighton, McKimmie, Miller, McLeish, Simpson, Cooper, Strachan, Archibald, McGhee, Weir, it’s unbelievable what they’ve achieved under Alex Ferguson.
— Aye, Calum agreed, looking sheepishly at Lizzie, and it was clear to Alison that he had a debilitating crush on her, — it’s crap that they’re so much better than Hibs.
— But ye cannae hate them in the same way ye do Rangers and Celtic, Tommy argued, — cause they’ve done it by fair means, no by pandering tae thickos wi aw that sectarian shite.
— Aye, Calum agreed, and his voice went high for an embarrassing moment, before he coughed violently at the frog in his throat, — they’ve sorted oot the Old Firm and conquered Europe, and there’s Hibs and Herts yo-yoing between the divisions!
— Is that aw youse kin talk aboot, Alison shook her head at Lizzie, — fitba?
— There’s other reasons tae go tae the game, no jist the fitba, Calum said.
Alison went to say something, bit her tongue.
— At least things are picking up oan the terraces, he grinned, and he seemed young again, a cheeky wee boy.
Tommy nodded in agreement. — Relegation’s good for a mob’s soul. Man U, Chelsea, West Ham, Spurs, aw they firms got forged through adversity; defending yourself fae local yokels huvin a dash. It did Herts good; Keezbo’s telt us aboot the crazy trips tae places like Dumfries. Ye hud police helicopters circling above Palmerston Park, the lot.
— Aye, the drop wis good in helpin tae build up the Hibs casual mob.
Alison knew Tommy was indulging her brother. He was too sensible to be associated with them, or even his old YLT mates. You could tell he was scenting a new future with Lizzie. She was up talking to the lassie behind the counter, who Alison recognised as having gone to Leith Academy. Tommy got up, and headed for the toilet. Alison took her chance. She looked at Calum imploringly. — Come hame. We’ll git a video. You, me n Mhairi. Huv a laugh n a blether.
— There’s nowt tae laugh aboot, n aw the bletherin in the world’s no gaunny change that, Calum said, sitting back in the chair.
As he flexed his thin, but wiry body, Alison realised that he’d grown physically more powerful than her. My wee brother could batter me now, she permitted. When had that happened? — Dad disnae want ye –
— He’ll dae nowt, n you’ll dae nowt either, Calum challenged, in a tight sneer, rising and shaking his head, a sour smile on his lips.
Tommy returned from the toilet, spoke a few words with the departing boy. Alison watched Calum nip outside and hurry up the street, as if Tommy Lawrence had just passed her brother a baton.
Lizzie rejoined them at the table. — Is he okay?
— He’s been a bit mental, pittin it mildly, since my ma went, Alison conceded.
— He’ll be awright, Tommy said hopefully, — Calum’s sound.
— Aye, Alison exhaled. — So what youse up tae?
— Going tae see Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Lizzie said.
— She chose it. Tommy was quick to make the point. Alison reckoned that was because more than one person had mentioned he looked a bit like Harrison Ford. She envied the couple, sitting in a warm picture house together, their love incubating in the silent hothouse dark. The odd smile and kiss, the squeeze of the hand, then intertwining as Harrison cracked the whip on-screen. She thought of calling Alexander, and then wished that Simon was here. She wanted to ask Tommy if he’d heard from him, but something stopped her. Her relationship with Simon was non-exclusive and more than a little clandestine. It suddenly seemed cheap goods compared to what Tommy and Lizzie had. His hand was resting on hers. The way they looked at each other …
Disinclined to play gooseberry any longer, Alison left them and walked down to the river, settling onto a bench. The sun was starting to fall over the disused warehouses in front of her, as the odd person and dog ambled by on the walkway. Her poetry book was in her bag and she took it out and looked through its contents.
The book now seemed pointless. Real life wasn’t reducible to the written word, and even spoken words, our interactions with others, just seemed like distracting drama. She lowered the book, and let her gaze fall across the still, black river. This was real life, when we were alone in thought, lost in memory.
She had barely noticed him coming towards her. When she did, he at first cut a tentative figure, growing more gallus as he slumped onto the bench a little bit apart from her. — Good book, aye?
Alison was too distracted to immediately get up and walk away. Instead she looked up. He was young; much younger than her even, just a laddie. He had a cheeky face, with busy eyes observing her from under the ubiquitous fringe. — So-so.
— You’re Calum
’s big sister, eh?
— Aye. Ye ken ma brar, like?
— Aye. Really sorry tae hear aboot yir ma, likes.
— Thanks.
— It’s shite, eh? My ma died two years ago. Ah stey at ma auntie’s now.
— Sorry … she said, then acknowledged, — Yir right. It is shite. She was going to add that was putting it mildly, but Kelly had half jokingly pulled her up for saying that a lot. She realised he was chewing, and he noticed her noticing, and offered her some gum, which she accepted. Moved to reciprocate in some way, she gave him a cigarette.
— Was meant tae be gaun tae Easter Road, but ah couldnae be bothered. Fancied a wee walk instead, he explained, bending in to accept her light. — What’s your name?
— Alison.
He extended his hand and she felt herself reaching out to take it. — Bobby, he nodded, then rose and awkwardly blew out some smoke. — You’re a barry lassie, Alison, he said quite ruefully. — Wish ah hud a sister like you, and he gave a small wave and went off down the walkway. He held the cigarette strangely, like he wasn’t a smoker. She watched him go, all the time wondering how this daft, sweet wee boy had left her on a riverside bench with her heart in fragments.
It had grown cold down by the water but she sat there for ages, until jakeys and perverts started hassling her for cash and sex. One really old, frail man, going past painstakingly slowly on a Zimmer frame, asked grimly, — Whaes fanny dae ye need tae lick tae git a gam in these parts?
It was time to go.
Crossing from Constitution Street, Alison came round the corner onto the Foot of the Walk. She saw him straight away, sat down on the bench under Queen Victoria’s statue, still and silent. It’s like he’s waiting till closing time tae smash the first lippy cunt he sets eyes on. — Frank. How’s it goin?
He looked at her as she joined him on the bench, his eyes narrowing into sharp focus. She could smell the drink off him, but his movements and thoughts seemed premeditated, everything deliberately executed; he was holding onto a form of sobriety through the exercise of his will. It took him a couple of seconds to respond. — Awright. Sorry tae hear aboot yir ma n that.