This Road is Red

by Alison Irvine

  said. ‘I want to be like your ma and my ma. And my da, if he could. I want to work. I might be a nurse like your ma.’

  When he’d finished massaging her feet he lifted them to his face and kissed her soles. She giggled, and when he let go, she pressed them against his groin and Ricky thought the sudden silence between them would kill him.

  There was a knock at the door. Julie took her feet out of Ricky’s lap and they sat still on the sofa. The knock again. And then a scuffle at the letter box.

  ‘Hello.’

  It wasn’t a voice Ricky recognised.

  ‘Catherine, are you home, honey?’ A man’s lazy, drawling voice.

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘I’ll tell him we’re house-sitting.’

  Ricky stood up and when he opened the door he saw a man in his twenties with thin shoulders and a moustache. He carried a hold-all.

  ‘Catherine’s away,’ Ricky said. ‘I’m house-sitting with her sister.’

  ‘Okay, pal, it’s just that Catherine said –’

  The man knelt on the doorstep and took things out of his bag; an iron, a radio alarm clock, a watch.

  ‘She said she wanted a couple of Sony Walkmans. I can do her the two plus batteries for twenty-five quid.’

  He stood up and piled the batteries on top of the two Walkmans and held them out to Ricky. ‘I’ve got another man wanting them so you’ll have to take them now as I can’t guar- antee when I’ll get any more.’

  Ricky started to close the door. ‘You’re all right, pal,’ he said.

  ‘Catherine ordered them.’

  ‘She might have ordered them but she’s away and I’m no giving you twenty-five quid because I haven’t got twenty-five quid.’

  ‘Take them anyway and she can pay me when she gets back.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Catherine won’t be pleased with you. Or me.’

  ‘You’re a tryer.’

  The man smiled and scratched his cheek.

  ‘Beat it,’ Ricky said and closed the door before any trouble could start.

  Julie was in her sister’s dressing gown and coming out of the bathroom.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ he said and Julie said, ‘I thought we could have a bath. My sister’s got bath pearls. I put one in. It makes the water all silky.’

  He thought it was the most erotic thing ever. He lifted his arms and she took off his T-shirt and touched her finger to a bruise he’d got from sparring with one of the boys. She undid his jeans and he helped her pull them down, over his feet. He took off his socks and then as she undid her dressing gown and slipped it over her shoulders, he lowered his pants and was suddenly shy of his body. They hopped into the bath and sat opposite each other, bent-backed, cupping water in their palms and letting it fall on each other’s shoulders. She put her wet hands on his face and neck and chest. He wanted to say do you like my chest hair? Do you like my muscles? I can do one-armed press-ups, I can pull my chin over a bar. He smoothed her hair from her forehead and watched drops of water fall from her earlobes. ‘Look at you,’ is what he said and he couldn’t take his eyes off her tits.

  ‘The bath’s quite a squash and a squeeze isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Sit between my legs, turn round,’ he said and just as he was anticipating the feel of her wet back against his chest and her beautiful knees cupped in his palms there was another knock at the door.

  ‘Ignore it,’ Ricky said, ‘it’ll be our friendly door-to-door salesman.’

  But the knocking continued. Julie swished the pearly water with her hands and cocked her head as she listened.

  ‘Isn’t that Tommy?’

  ‘Julie! Ricky! Julie! Ricky!’

  It was indeed Tommy. And his shouts were urgent and loud.

  ‘Julie! Your da’s on the warpath!’

  ‘Oh God.’ Ricky and Julie crashed out of the bath and while Julie dried herself, Ricky put a towel round his waist and opened up for Tommy.

  ‘Oh Ricky, please,’ Tommy said and put his hand over his eyes.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m sorry, mate, Julie’s da rang my house and asked if you were there. I said you were, but then he said he wanted to speak to you and I couldn’t say you were on the shitter or anything because he would have just waited till you were off so I had to come clean and say that you weren’t with me. He’s rung Julie’s pal and knows she’s not there. You better get out sharpish.’

  Julie came out of the bathroom, dressed. ‘Get yourself home, Julie,’ Tommy said.

  They left the flat in a few minutes and Ricky and Tommy snuck away to Ricky’s house while Julie walked to her own house, running her fingers through her damp hair, combing and shaking out the knots. Ricky silently wished her luck.

  The boys with the hatchets ran past them, shrieking and cavorting, and Ricky put a hand to his balls and his cock and thought he’d better appreciate them while they were still there.

  Helen McDermott

  I’ve been stuck in the lift with the dog. We weren’t allowed dogs on the flats. But I had a dog when I stayed on Avonspark Street so I got authorisation for me to take the dog into the flat. One day I was coming down with my Staff, and my Staff sensed there was a dog on the landing further down. The man who owned the Alsatian was going into his house and he took the Alsatian dog’s leash off so when my lift came down, the lift door opened, the big Alsatian seen the Staff and the Alsatian breenged into the lift and the two dogs were fighting and I was in the lift with the two of them. But the man, right enough, the man who owned the Alsatian came running out and he grabbed his dog because my dog would have done the Alsatian in. So what I had to do was, I’d watch for the Alsatian going out and coming in then I’d go down with my dog. I used to stand at my window and see him coming out the foyer. I seen him going on the field with his dog, right, and he’d walk his dog, right, and then he would come up to the flats to come in the flat so I used to time him to go in the lift. I’d wait maybe ten minutes for him to go into his house and then I’d come down with my dog. That was about four or five times a day.

  Ricky 1985

  He was on his way back from the biggest telling of his life, so far. Oh, Julie’s da, he didn’t stop for about half an hour, just pointing his finger in his face and roaring at him. Ricky saw his grey fillings and wet spitting tongue, his black nose hair and his shiny red forehead. Julie’s da wouldn’t let him move. He just had to stand and take it while Julie’s ma came in and out the room, tidying up and putting knives and forks on the table. Then Julie’s da called Julie in and the two of them stood side by side while Julie’s da read the riot act.

  ‘This girl is not a plaything for dirty wee scheme boys. Especially not proddy wee scheme boys. If you touch her ever again I will kill you with these bare hands. Don’t think I haven’t done it before. You think you’re some ticket with your boxing and your football, but listen to me, son, I could have you for breakfast, I could do you without even breaking a sweat.’

  Ricky doubted that as Julie’s da was in fact sweating quite heavily.

  ‘This is your first and only warning.’ He turned aside to cough, his fist bunched against his mouth and his hand gripping his thigh. He coughed and coughed. Julie and Ricky looked at each other and rolled their eyes and Julie touched her fingers to Ricky’s and squeezed his hand. That’s when he felt aroused. Oh Christ, please don’t let me get a stauner in front of Julie’s da, Ricky thought. He took his hand from hers and looked at the wall where he saw a picture of a sultry Latin woman with slicked-back hair. No, not that one, where’s the greeting boy? There he is. That’s more like it. The poor greeting boy.

  ‘That’s all I’m saying on the matter,’ Julie’s da said and he looked like he needed a sit down or a Viennese Whirl or something.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Doyle,’ Ricky started to say.

  ‘Son, spare me. Fuck off.’ He waved his hand and dis- missed him.

  ‘Catch you later, Julie,’ Ricky said. Julie smiled
at him.

  ‘Julie, you’re in for six months,’ said Julie’s da and Ricky shut the door behind him.

  In the lift on his way back he met his pal Innes and told him about his telling, the spit that flew from Mr Doyle’s mouth and him feart to move to wipe it off his face.

  ‘Oh you have my sympathies,’ Innes said.

  ‘She’s to stay in for six months. I can’t as much look at her any more.’

  ‘You’ll never guess what happened to me,’ Innes said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d been out with Mhairi one night. We’d been up the town and she had to be back by half-past ten so we were in the lift in her building and I was coming up to her door with her to see her safely in. And it was just us in the lift. But then it stopped. Broke down. There was nothing we could do to get it going again. We tried calling out but nobody heard us. Caretaker’s watching Sportscene or out sparko with his vodka so he never came. Nothing to do but stay the night there. Do you get me? I made a nice wee rug of my coat for us to sit on and a pillow of my jumper and kept her nice and warm. Do you get me? We were happy as Larry. Her ma was having a hairy canary right enough, but we were fine.’

  ‘You jammy bastard,’ Ricky said.

  ‘We were in there till seven in the morning. Had to smash out the wee window to get some air in. And that was the first night we’d spent together. In the lift. Do you get me?’

  ‘You jammy bastard,’ was all Ricky could say and feared his days with Julie were long gone.

  With his ma’s fur coat over him for warmth, he spent the night in the lumber room, and slept on till well into the day. The darkness suited him. The lack of sound was good too. Red Road would be full of weans and junkies and bingo women and he wasn’t in the mood. Julie, Julie, Julie; her knees on which he almost put his naked hands.

  ‘Come on, Ricky, up,’ his ma said when she opened the door and set down her washing basket.

  ‘Can you not wait till I’m out of my bed?’

  She didn’t hear him or she ignored him because she unhooked the drying rail rope and let it slip through the pulley. The rail dropped an arm’s reach from his head. She shook a pair of pyjama trousers from the washing basket and hung them over one of the rails.

  ‘Mind my eye,’ Ricky said.

  ‘Mind my way,’ his ma said.

  But he didn’t get out. He leaned on his elbow and watched

  her.

  She hung up his Sta-Prest trousers and his waffle trousers

  and a couple of his dad’s shirts.

  ‘They’ve come up well, your new strides,’ she said.

  ‘Aye.’

  Wet clothes dangled above him. He pushed a trouser leg out of his face.

  ‘I’m having a shower.’

  ‘Good. It’s midday. Go and box or something.’

  He took the pulley rope off his ma and hoisted it for her. The pulley squeaked. When he’d hooked the rope over the cleat his ma patted his arm and said, ‘Thanks, son.’ She asked about Julie.

  ‘Did you have a row?’ she said.

  ‘Not as such.’

  ‘Did she dump you? If she did that’s the biggest mistake that lassie’s ever made.’

  ‘No, Ma, no, leave it.’

  Ricky’s ma said all right then and pulled the creases out of a T-shirt that hung from the rail.

  He helped Alistair lay out the mats in the community centre, hauling each one from the pile of blue and it felt good to do something physical. It felt good too, to put on the sparring gloves and hit the speedball. He got a good rhythm going and only stopped when he saw Russell out the corner of his eye, staring at him. Russell annoyed Ricky. He always had. Perhaps it was because he had the hots for Julie. Perhaps it was because he was a better boxer than Ricky. Whatever, Ricky thought he was a wee dick.

  ‘What?’ Ricky said.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’re putting me off.’

  ‘Let me know when you’re done on that speedball.’ Rude. Full of himself.

  Sick of Russell staring, Ricky moved on to smack the punchbag. Alistair took him to one side and told him to drink some water and calm down.

  ‘Skip,’ he said and handed him a rope. Ricky drank and

  skipped and watched Russell be a cock at the speedball where some of the younger boys had stood to watch.

  ‘Ricky, shall we try you and Russell out with a wee practice spar?’ Alistair asked.

  ‘Aye, fine.’

  Six two-minute rounds. The boys put their kit on – gum shield, groin guard, head guard, sparring gloves – and checked their boots were tied. Alistair held their gloves together and then stepped aside.

  Jab. Jab. Jab. Ricky probed with his left hand, keeping watch for Russell’s right hook which Alistair said was the best in north Glasgow. He kept moving, tried to mix it up with a range of punches. But Russell ducked away from each one and got him with a body shot then came in straight away with an uppercut. Didn’t hurt.

  After three rounds the boys were fighting well. In fact it was a fucking brilliant fight. Two welterweights really giving it some. Ricky could see the wee boys watching at the edge of the mats. He could hear the squeak of his shoes and feel his breath coming in and out hard. He sniffed blood back up his nose and looked over the top of his gloves. Jab, jab, uppercut. Missed. Keep moving, keep fluent. A couple of body punches and in with a hook. Got him. It was a proper ding-dong fight. Ricky felt nothing, no pain, no fear, just adrenalin. They fought on. One round to go. Ricky was determined to outfight Russell. Fight your own fight, he told himself. Don’t let his punches rattle you. Mix it up. Keep moving. When Russell got him in the ribs and knocked the breath out of him he couldn’t help but lean into the pain. But then he got caught by Russell’s right hook, followed by an uppercut and then another right hook. Floored. It felt as if he’d been pushed down the stairs. Oh fuck.

  Alistair called time, stretched his arms and brought the boys together, held the back of their wet necks and said, ‘That

  was one spirited fight, boys. I watched Marvin Hagler and

  Tommy Hearns last night and you were better. Keep it up.’ The boys nodded.

  ‘But lads,’ he said, ‘keep your fighting in the gym, eh? You’ve both got promise so don’t get sidetracked by anything going on out there.’ He flicked his head towards the door.

  Ricky and Russell said yes Alistair, they would keep their fighting to the gym, and avoided each other’s eyes.

  Despite being knocked down, Ricky felt better. He zipped his tracksuit top and slipped on his tracky trousers and, out- side, poured water over his head even though the day was a cold, damp one, the sky like a grey dish towel.

  Red Road was mental. Looking up at Thirty-three Petershill Drive he saw the glue sniffers from Avonspark Street doing their high wire act again. A crowd of people watched from the ground as the glue sniffers balanced on the girders that stuck out of the very top of the building. Arms out for balance. Black silhouettes tiptoeing against the dirty sky. One guy walked to the end of one girder and onto the beam that circumvented the building. Round he walked. Fearless. A gust of wind or a wrong step could send him falling to his death. Pumped, Ricky walked to the Broomfield Tavern to see if they would serve him.

  Matt Barr

  I remember getting caught by the police when I was running in the Germiston flats on the other side and my shoe fell off and an old grandpa with his shopping caught me and held me till the police came. I was the only one of my side to get caught but thirteen of the Germiston lot got caught so I was arrested with them. We got locked in the caretaker’s office at the back of the building and I was shaking – oh my God they’re going to bat- ter me – but then we started talking and I think they realised I was just a normal kid and they were normal as well, they weren’t really bad people when you talked to them. I got caught and done for that.

  Pamela 1985

  He must have jumped after his breakfast. Her ma had gone to her work at eight-thirty and she hadn’t returned
to tell her not to go downstairs, protecting Pamela from another death, as Pamela knew her ma would. So he must have jumped after he woke. Or perhaps he’d been up all night staring at the window from which he’d finally flung himself. Pamela knew it was a man because she saw his black boots sticking out from the white sheet. Police and the concierges stood near him. An ambulance with its open doors was parked close by.

  Pamela kept clear. She boked on the path to her friend’s building and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Looking up at the building she tried to imagine how anyone could let themselves fall down its sheer sides. Unless he was a junkie and out of it or thought he was flying or something, as had happened before, she’d been told.

  Her pal was waiting for her outside One-eight-three

  Petershill Drive. She didn’t wear her school uniform either.

  ‘My ma’s given me two pound,’ Nicola said.

  ‘Someone’s jumped,’ Pamela said and suddenly she cried. An arm around her shoulders, a cigarette. A sharp tug of

  wind and litter scuttled in circles. Something metal clanked against something else.

  ‘Let’s do the mats,’ Nicola said. ‘It’s too cold to stand around.’

  ‘Birnie Court. Away from the polis,’ Pamela said. And so they walked.

  They passed a man who had a dog on a lead. He was confident, the man, and when his shorn dog stopped to piss on the concrete, he scratched his face and said, ‘All right lassies.’

  ‘All right, Trevor,’ Nicola said.

  Pamela looked at the stripes on his trainers.

  ‘Jellies, lassies?’ he said.

  His hands went into his pockets.

  ‘Nah, you’re all right,’ Nicola said.

  The girls smiled and Trevor smiled back.

  ‘Tell your sister I was asking after her,’ he called as he walked away.

  ‘My sister’s pal,’ Nicola said. ‘He knows everyone. Can get you anything.’

  They did the mats and it was a buzz, a blast from the past, a reminder of how they used to be three or four years ago. They caught the lift to the top of Birnie Court and gathered up the four mats from the four doors. Nicola held open the landing window and Pamela pushed the mats out one by one. Then they ran down the stairs to the floor below, throwing all those doormats out too. On one floor they stopped to watch them crash to the ground, leaning far out of the window.