‘We done it ourselves,’ Sarah said and the other new friend sat on a cushion and crossed her legs.
‘Close the curtains.’
Pamela went to pull the curtains across the shitty day and kicked the leg of a man lying in the corner, his body half in shadow.
‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘Who’s he?’
‘My ex, Liam,’ Sarah said. ‘He comes here to sleep.’
‘I thought he was dead.’
The man rolled onto his side and pulled a blanket over his shoulder. ‘I’m still alive, honey,’ he said. ‘Five minutes more.’
Pamela saw his sleeping feet sticking out of the blanket, a toenail showing through a hole in his sock.
‘We’re ready,’ Sarah said.
The Ouija board was well used. Sarah put a glass in the middle and the girls held hands.
‘Will we try and get the wee boy again?’ the other new friend said. ‘Close your eyes.’
The room was quiet. Pamela heard a slow breath from the man in the corner and then nothing. The fridge buzzed.
‘Darren, are you there today?’
Pamela opened her eyes and saw the girls with their eyes shut tight. The other new friend, Kirsty, swayed. Her shut eyes twitched hard.
‘Darren, are you with us?’ Nothing.
‘Right, well you’re obviously playing with your wee pals today,’ Sarah said. ‘Who else shall we do?’
They looked at Pamela. Pamela shrugged.
‘My granny,’ Kirsty said.
‘We always do your granny and she always says your granda’s a cunt.’
Sarah tapped the glass against the board. Pamela kept quiet but she thought loads. She thought about her da up there.
‘Right, will we do my uncle Tam then?’ Sarah said and the girls were quiet again. The man in the corner rolled over and yawned.
‘Shoosh,’ said Sarah.
Pamela closed her eyes and thought of her da. She could no longer see him in her head but she heard his voice and followed the sound of his voice. It was taking her somewhere.
‘Fucking Christ!’ Sarah shouted. ‘She’s took a fit.’
Kirsty was shaking, her eyes rolled back into her head, spit coming from her mouth. Great shudders in her body, her knees coming up and knocking the table, Pamela not knowing which way she was going to fall.
‘Lie her down,’ the man in the corner said. He was up, in his socks and boxers and T-shirt, pulling her, sliding her legs along the floor from under the wee table.
‘She’s got a spirit in her,’ Sarah said. ‘Oh my fucking God, she’s taken on a spirit.’
And Pamela thought of her dad.
‘Get a spoon!’
Someone was shouting. It was the man. To her.
‘You, get a spoon from the kitchen.’
Pamela ran and her legs were sick with fear. Her dad. Her dad. Her dad.
The man lay the shaking girl on her back and put the spoon in her mouth.
‘Get back,’ he said and knelt at her head, putting his palms on her forehead and cheeks as she thrashed about.
‘Get the spirit out,’ Sarah said and she was crying and screaming and shaking herself.
‘It’s not a spirit,’ the man said. ‘Somebody get an ambulance.’ Sarah phoned downstairs and the concierge said he’d send for an ambulance and the three of them waited while Kirsty fitted and sweated on the floor.
‘Vodka, Ponstan, Temgesics and hash,’ Sarah told the ambu- lance woman when asked what Kirsty had taken.
They’d done something else as well, Sarah wasn’t telling. Pamela didn’t even know what it was but had put it in her mouth and swallowed it with her vodka. She pressed her back against the wall and watched the procession out of the house; Sarah first, to open the doors, the ambulance woman at the head of the stretcher, Kirsty flat out with the drip in her, the other ambulance man at the back and the man in the corner last, carrying her bag and cardigan.
She stayed pressed against the wall as they closed the door, imagining her da, as crazy as ever, wondering about the spirit world.
Kat 1989
Kat filled the Belfast sink with water. She put a compilation tape into the cassette player in the kitchen and turned the volume up loud. She loved the Bunnymen. While she waited for the sink to fill she put away some clean dishes and stored an empty Irn-Bru bottle with the others under the sink. It was just a few bits of underwear and a couple of T-shirts she had to wash. She tipped a scoop of washing powder into the sink and stirred the water with a wooden spoon. Then she heaved the clothes around the sink with the wooden spoon, prodding at them as they puffed up out of the top of the water. She put the spoon down and rubbed two socks against each other then rinsed and squeezed them and put them on the draining board. They dried their clothes on the drying rail they kept on the veranda. Sometimes, in winter, the clothes froze as they hung, but it wasn’t cold enough yet for that.
There was a knocking at the door. Her hands were wet and she grabbed a dish towel. A man stood at the door. His nose was long and his cheeks thin and he wore a heavy blue wool coat.
‘There is somebody home!’ the man said, all smiles. ‘I was knocking and knocking. I could hear your music so I thought there must have been someone in.’
‘Sorry pal, I didn’t hear you.’
‘You students and your loud music. You’re all the same. What are you listening to?’
‘It was Echo and the Bunnymen. Now it’s The Smiths.’
‘Oh aye, The Smiths. Morrissey. To die by your side, what a heavenly place to die.’
He looked into her eyes and flirted with his own. ‘I like
Billy Bragg.’
‘Do you?’
‘Aye.’
He took a hold-all from his shoulder and knelt down to open it, his hands tugging at the zip and pulling out some of his gear and resting it on the top of the bag.
‘See this, I can offer you any of this – clock radios, Walkmans, Tippex – very, very cheap, or, if you tell me what you need, I’ll get it for you, darling.’
He looked up at her and his chin jutted out as he smiled.
‘No thanks pal,’ Kat said.
‘Are you sure? I can get you clothes from Next. Next is good quality gear. What do you want? Jeans? Tops?’
‘Do I look like I dress in Next? Look at me.’ Kat laughed and looked down at the long, holey jumper that she wore over her leggings.
‘You look lovely. Stationery, then?’
‘I’m all right for stationery, ta.’
The man sniffed and put his things back into his hold-all.
‘Is there anyone else at home who would be interested?’
‘Nobody’s at home and nobody’s interested, sorry pal.’
She wanted to close the door now, in case he got nasty. She didn’t think he would, because he seemed like a harmless chancer, but things could turn easily. She shut the door on him as he went across the landing to the Kenyan and the Indian students’ door. The boys wouldn’t be taken in but there were a few new arrivals who needed telling.
‘I’m only saying this for your information, to put you in the picture. You can do what you like. We can all make our own decisions. But this is what I would advise you not to do while you’re staying here.’
The new students watched Kat, some took notes, some screwed their faces up as if they couldn’t quite hear or quite understand. Perhaps she was speaking too fast. A Malaysian couple sat at the back and their boy played on the floor with the pool-table triangle and balls.
‘Don’t use the ice cream van. The one parked out by the bus stop. It doesn’t sell ice creams. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it move. Just leave it be. That’s none of our business. Don’t buy drugs from anyone in the area, don’t borrow money from anyone in the area, stay out of the pubs and stay out of the bookies. Now, shoplifters will come round the doors selling stuff that they’ve nicked. Or they’ll ask you what you want and steal to order. If you get involved with them and they get a fine they wi
ll come back asking for a contribution to their fine and if you don’t give them a contribution you will start getting problems. I’m not saying don’t do it but if you do get involved with a shoplifter this is what’s going to happen. Okay?’ The students nodded their heads. The wee Malaysian boy put his face through the pool triangle. They seemed raw, these new students; girls from the Islands, boys from the Highlands, postgrads from India, Kenya, Nigeria, Spain. More families like the Malaysian family, come to Red Road from miles away to study hard.
‘Lastly, for food, there’s Frank’s the Chippy or the Five-in- One,’ Kat said. She pushed her fringe out of her eyes and counted on her fingers. ‘The Five-in-One does pizza, chips, jacket potatoes, burgers and...’
She stopped and looked at John.
‘Kebabs,’ John said.
‘Aye, kebabs. And Frank’s the Chippy does pizzas too.’
Kat told the students that if anyone wanted to join the Labour Party club at Strathclyde University or Glasgow Tech they could come to her or her flatmate and she would sort them out. And the meeting was over unless anyone had any questions.
‘Is there a telephone in the building?’ somebody asked.
‘No,’ said John, ‘and there’s no swimming pool neither.’ The students were silent as they stared at John. ‘Just a wee joke,’ he said and he tapped the wall with his knuckles and left.
Pamela 1989
‘Pamela?’
The voice came from the blue sky.
‘Pamela?’
Some fucker pulling at her leg and the voice coming at her again from the blue sky.
‘Pamela?’
And then she smiled with her eyes closed.
‘I’m not leaving her here. She can hear me,’ the voice said.
‘But is she straight?’ Some cow’s voice who Pamela didn’t recognise.
‘I very much doubt it.’
‘Do I look full of it? Because I am full of it.’ Pamela tried to sit up but branches got at her face. ‘Ah, fucking sticks, sticks in my face.’
Nicola put her hand on Pamela’s face. ‘Come here, pal,’
she said. ‘Come this way and we’ll sit you up.’
Pamela let herself be rolled out of the hedge. She put her arms around her friend and hugged her shoulder.
‘Hello Nicola.’
‘Hello Pamela.’
Pamela smelled her friend and kept her nose in her neck. She felt her friend’s hands untucking hair from her collar. It was long again.
‘What are you playing at, sleeping in the hedge?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Ten in the morning.’
Pamela laughed. ‘Oh no, I’ve overslept.’ She felt her wet face.
‘Blood.’ It upset her. She wiped at it.
‘It’s not blood,’ Nicola said.
Pamela looked at her fingertips, wet but not bloodied.
‘What is it then?’
‘Rain,’ the other girl said.
‘Aye right, rain.’
‘It’s been raining, Pamela.’
Pamela laughed again and shook her head. She looked up at the blue sky with fat clouds at its edges.
‘Do I look full of it?’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘Your pal doesn’t like me.’
The girl walked away and took something out of her ruck- sack. Nicola moved from her knees to the pads of her feet and put her hands under Pamela’s shoulders. She helped Pamela stand and when she was standing steady she flicked a hand over her clothes, removing dirt and leaves.
‘Will we get you home for a wash?’
They walked towards Sixty-three block. The other girl had headphones in her ears and was putting a cassette into a Walkman. Pamela needed a shite but she didn’t want to say. She walked a bit faster.
‘That’s it,’ Nicola said and held onto her hand.
A fire engine screamed around the corner. The girls were close enough to see the firemen in the cab.
‘Noisy fucker,’ Pamela said.
They followed in the wake of the fire engine and watched it stop.
‘That’s your block,’ Nicola said.
They didn’t go into the entrance because the fire engine was parked outside and the concierges were holding their hands out to stop people. There was smoke in the sky so the girls walked around the building to have a look. Smoke like a snort of breath came from one of the verandas. A bubble of smoke, in- effectual against the building’s grey bulk. It turned into wisps the farther it got from the veranda and slipped into the clear blue air. A small fire. But still a fire. People watched from the ground, their faces tilted up towards the grey. Pamela looked at the men standing at the foot of Thirty-three block, smoking their cigarettes, talking through their own smoke. She saw one man. He was leaning, his face in the sun’s shadow.
‘Isn’t that your ma’s house?’ Nicola said.
‘Eh?’
‘Is that your ma’s veranda, or the one below, I can’t tell.’
‘It’s not my ma’s veranda,’ Pamela said.
She looked again at the man she recognised with his dark hair and the sun’s shadow on his face, leaning against the wall of the building, a flat foot against the wall. He was looking at her. Straight at her. His hands were in his pockets. She won- dered what he had in his pockets for her.
‘Are you sure?’ Nicola said.
‘Aye, I’m sure, it’s not my ma’s house. See you after.’ She walked towards the man and shook her leg as she walked because it was stiff from where she’d lain in the hedge. The man didn’t stop looking at her and when she got into the shadow with him she saw that he was smiling at her and he was waiting for her. She would go with him to wherever he suggested, have a shite, and do what he wanted to do.
Her neighbour, Keith Smith, ran past her. ‘Pamela, your ma’s house is on fire,’ he said as he ran, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes brave.
‘All right, Mr Smith,’ Pamela said under her breath, as the man, Liam, Sarah’s ex, held out his hand for her and she leaned forward to kiss his lips and give him her tongue.
Kat 1989
Six fifty-five A.M. Fern was waiting outside the shop and nearly finished her cigarette. Kat helped her pull up the shutter, drag in the newspapers and rolls and pull the shutter down again. They sorted The Suns and The Heralds and The Daily Records and the one Guardian and started putting piles of magazine inserts into the newspapers. It was like John Menzies. Fern’s gold bracelet tapped against the inserts as she worked. Kat yawned.
‘What did you do yesterday?’ Fern asked her. Kat said, ‘I went to the student union.’
‘After your vigil?’
Kat looked up and checked Fern wasn’t being snide.
‘I saw you,’ Fern said. ‘I was walking by and I saw a bunch of student types who looked exactly like you. And then I saw you with your wee boyfriend.’
‘You should have stopped.’
‘I didn’t have the time.’
Kat didn’t say this but she thought that apartheid in South Africa would never be abolished if everybody said they didn’t have the time.
The newspapers were full of the poll tax and Kat wanted to read more than just the headlines as she sorted out the papers. Dissent was gathering. People were angry, especially in Scotland where Thatcher had pissed on the poorest and made so many – so many – people jobless.
Fern pointed a finger at a picture of Maggie Thatcher. ‘I’m not paying her community charge,’ she said and tapped her finger.
Kat raised her eyebrows.
‘Me and Tommy Sheridan, we’re not paying,’ she said.
‘And the rest.’
‘I suppose you’ll be at the demonstration at Birnie Court.’
‘Yes I will. Will you?’
‘I live there, so I suppose I will be. Shall we open up? You get the shutters, hen.’
Kat pulled on the door and bent to heave up the shutters. Her arms were stretched above her head and she was just about to turn to
push the shutters right to the top with the bar that they kept inside the door when a man jumped out at her. He held a flick-knife at his waist, and told her to get inside the shop. Fuck. She did as she was told.
‘Open up the till and give me all the money,’ he said. The man was in his fifties and he wore a denim jacket and looked as if he was too old and tired for robbing but had no choice in the matter.
Fern was already behind the counter and she opened the till and took out the ten pound note and the five one pound notes and held them out to the man.
‘Any change? I want all the money in the till.’
‘There’s a fiver’s worth of change.’
‘Give it to me. And forty Mayfairs. All the Mayfairs.’
Kat watched Fern gather the change into her fists and put it in the man’s hands. He put some of the change into his pock- ets and a couple of coins dropped to the floor, which he didn’t pick up.
‘Now the fags.’ He stabbed his flick-knife into the air and
Kat stepped backwards, knocking a Pot Noodle off the shelf.
Fern gave the cigarettes to him and he backed out of the shop and when the door was closed Fern said, ‘Our usual start to the day. Couldn’t wait for his giro.’
Good God. When they were robbed they were to call the owner who would come to the shop, unlock the safe and give them twenty more pounds of change, as that is all he would allow in the till at any one time. And he didn’t allow too many packets of fags on the shelves or jars of coffee on display either. Just in case. And it always was the case that one day or the next, they’d get robbed, Fern told her. You’ll get used to it, she said and Kat felt embarrassed to be breathing so heavily and unable to stand still.
The police came but said to Kat, ‘You didn’t see anything did you? You wouldn’t recognise the man, would you? You’re a student. You live round here. You have to live in this com- munity and you didn’t see anything.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Kat said, but she saw the man later that day. He’d set up a card table outside the shop and he was selling the cigarettes he’d stolen, asking folk before they went in if they wanted to get them from him as he was much cheaper than the shop.
Donna McCrudden
It was quite frightening because I remember one day my daughter went down in the lift and there was someone drunk and smelling of drink. I think she was about seven, and the shop was just down at the bottom of my flat, and at that time the basement was down where the shops were and the lift went right down to the basement, out the basement into the shops and she was to get a loaf, and because we didn’t have stairs on our landing the lift was the only way to get out, or through your back entrance and down the back stairs. So she was in the lift and the lift door only opened so much and it got jammed and there was a drunk man in the lift with her and she started screaming and the next thing, she pushed the bread through the floor and the plain loaf was broken and all the slices of bread were on the floor and the lift went away. It went up to the top floor and you could hear her screaming all the way up. The lift went up to twenty-four. The drunk man must have got off at another floor. And the good thing was that the girl on the twenty-fourth floor was a friend of mine and she knew exactly who she was and got her back down to mine, in some state.
This Road is Red Page 15