by Alan Bissett
The TV fills the limp, blue darkness with chattering light, rising and falling across the cliff-face of my parents. Their eyes are lost to the loveless flow, the cue-track of laughter, the adverts flinging themselves into the hurtling path of programmes, or the other way around.
D’ye think Pepe jeans are better than Naf-Naf? Derek asks.
Pepe le Peu! I say.
Enough, Dad murmurs, automatically.
Derek glowers at him through the dimness.
Name a country, says Les Dennis, That you would
stairs rising to a glue-patch of darkness, and I can hear skulking, moaning sounds coming from it. Mum awake and roaming. Derek has a new haircut. He is being insistent about something.
Listen Alvin, I’m fed up. I’m gon oot. I’m sick ay tellin ma pals that I’m no well, just cause ay–
He glances upstairs; there is a crash and some muffled swearing.
Sick ay it full stop. Ma pals are aw oot havin a laugh, gettin birds. Whit am I daein? Babysittin ma Mam.
I gaze down at the carpet. A bleach stain.
Whit time does Dad get back in? I mumble.
Late. He’s oan the back-shift.
The darkness at the top of the stairs is silent now.
If she tries tay get oot, lock all the doors and windays. Ye ken the drill. Then just put on a video or somethin. She’ll soon faw back asleep. Ye’ve goat Dad’s number if there’s an emergency. He cocks his head. ‘Okay, pal?’
I nod.
C’mon Alvin. Ye’re 11 now. Auld enough tay help look after her. Canny sit wi yer face shoved intay a Spider-Man comic aw yer life.
I nod again.
He ruffles my hair. The hallway feels like a vacuum. The ear of the china dog on the phone table is chipped. So are most of the ornaments in this house.
One night oot we ma pals. That’s aw I’m askin.
Derek opens the door and goes out into a hubbub of 15 year olds, hands thrust into his jacket, their fags making smoke graffiti in the air. I watch them cross the grass and wander off, whooping. The throat of the stairwell is cold and narrow. Shaking, I climb the stairs.
She lies in bed like pale driftwood. Her skin is 34 years old, but shineless, worn. Her hand clings to the edge of the duvet. Her eyes are her only motion, the only tiny, wet sounds. A breeze makes a belly in the curtain.
Son?
I ignore her, tidying. Everything in its right place. More chipped ornaments. A china donkey. A ballerina on tippy-toes.
Son. I need ye.
Dust wafts through the light in the room. There is a smell of talcum powder and stale nicotine. I raise the duvet so that it covers her bony shoulders. Outside, cars speed past on the main road, the sound a pulsing rush. Here, there is stillness. Son, I need ye to do somethin for me.
Whit is it, Mum?
Her lips make a small clicking sound as she moistens them. Her pills lie spilled on the carpet.
Yer fuckin Dad–
She coughs. The window is open too wide. I close it.
Yer fuckin Dad willnay let me hae a drink. No even wan, the bastard.
Mum, ye ken why that is.
She raises a hand, slim as a flower stem, and points to the ceiling.
But I’ve goat a wee bottle ay vodka in the loft. I just use it for … for a treat. Will ye get it fir me, son? Wid ye dae that fir yer mammy?
I walk to the edge of the bed. Run my finger along the stitching of the duvet. She looks up at me, hopeful. Her tired lips are fighting with a smile.
You were eywis ma favourite, wee Alvy. Ye mind me takin ye oot in yer tartan shawl tay watch the stars? Ye mind the songs I used tay sing tay ye …?
Her eyes start to close. The spilled pills.
I pull back the duvet and get into bed beside her.
… yer tartan shawl …
I kiss her head. Her hair is papery on my lips. Her face closes.
… just a wee treat … dinnay hate me son … dinnay …
Outside the cars hurtle past. The sound of air whooshes and falls. Her mumbling finally ceases. I lie down next to her and sink into the pillow and
wake in Tyra’s garden?
An orchestra of birds is practising somewhere, so I know it’s either early morning or dusk.
Fuck, man.
Weak and shaky. My neck’s complaining loudly. I lift and sniff a rose which has been soaked in beer. The windows of Tyra’s house hang tall and desolate and her garden is a mess: broken window, cans floating in the pond. I imagine groans shuffling out from sleeping bags all over the house. Maybe I’m the first one awake. Maybe everyone’s died in the night and I’m the last man on Earth. The idea appeals to me.
I watch a butterfly for a few minutes, listen to the birds, feel the day warm up, the useless beauty of things. I think about nothing in particular, just look about, peaceful, swallowing, until eventually I stand up and head for home. Always home. There is no other place to go but home.
I bet if I could look at the street plans of Falkirk town centre, I’d see that it’s shaped like a loop. I suspect that’s why it’s called the boyracer circuit: they just go round and round, like little Scalectrix cars. Round and round. Which reminds me, shit, today me and the Lads had agreed we would be singing in unity – Brian’s voice basso-rumbling, Frannie’s high, squeaky, Belinda a clanking, disharmonious backing-track, while we eat, drink, be merry, tearing down the motorway and stopping for a ripe pish every 15 minutes. A competition soon starts over who can think up the most ridiculous insult – ‘Unlicensed Bug Lover’, ‘Dirty Big Purse Snatcher’, ‘Promiscuous Potato Peeler’, but I win with ‘Chrome Plated Wife Swapper’ (my reward, Frannie’s unfinished packet of peanuts) – as we drive and drive and unfurl our collective petroleum self and Dolby interrogates Brian about the chick he pulled at the party – a distant cousin of Tyra’s called Morvern who had dragonflies painted on her shoes and a spiderweb on her skirt – and Brian is describing every part of her anatomy except the ones we want to hear about. I ask Frannie if he pulled.
‘Only ma pole,’ he grumbles, then relates to us his horror at Dolby introducing himself to someone as Uriel.
‘Well, it’s ma name,’ Dolby complains, adjusting the plastic Han Solo on the dash, which is in difficulty, hanging by one foot and a blob of Blu-tac.
‘No,’ Frannie says, ‘it’s no. Yer name is Martin Dolby. Ye were born Martin Dolby. You will always be Martin Dolby.’
Dolby’s face closes and he shakes his head.
‘Thing is,’ I pipe up, ‘there’s probably some boyracer in Brazil with the name Uriel who’s desperate tay change it tay Martin Dolby.’
The three of them laugh, hearty, genuine, and a warm glow suffuses my chest until Brian growls, ‘We’re no fuckin boyracers,’ and everyone goes harumph.
accelerating across the surface of the land leaving a wake of crisp packets/Springsteen lyrics/tyre tracks to mark our passing while the Ibrox Twins discuss which Rangers Wives they (don’t) want to shag – ‘Seen his girlfriend? She could play for Rangers.’
Monday at school is abysmal. In my practice English essay I completely mix up George Orwell, Orson Welles and H.G. Wells (how easy is that?). I have to endure a common room on the boil with the news that Connor and Tyra are, officially, an item. On the desk at the back of my Modern Studies class I write
Is there anybody out there?
before initialling and dating it. Later in the day I get summoned back to Mrs Costa’s room and handed a scrubbing brush.
When I get home I find Derek sititng in the garden, a joint in one hand and his pinkie extended. His ginger beard and chest fuzz have grown out of control recently. ‘Whaur’s Dad?’ I ask, waving the smoke from my face. Derek just shrugs, rustling through the Daily Record
‘Upstairs,’ he says eventually.
‘Have ye had a fight?’
He doesn’t answer.
Our garden was slabbed with concrete in 1989. This was Dad’s idea, meant he didn’t have to cut the grass and pull t
he weeds every summer. Now the paving is cracked and cock-eyed, lying at slants as if an earthquake’s hit. Weeds creep through the gaps like bits of broccoli between teeth.
I pull up a seat next to Derek, noticing Dad’s slippers parked at the side.
‘Does yer boss no want ye back at work soon?’ I ask, pretending not to be concerned at all. ‘Ye’ve been back here three weeks.’
‘Long holiday,’ he says tonelessly.
‘Whit about yer rent?’ I continue. My family aren’t the greatest communicators, but I can guess their moods from only half-glances, since their faces pretty much, unfortunately, match mine.
‘Taken care of,’ he mumbles, clawing at his beard the way Dad does, the fingers hooked and inquisitive and quietly scratching out: Get. Tay. Fuck.
I snap, snatching his paper. ‘Gonnay talk tay me, fir chrissakes?’
Derek calmly removes his shades. His eyes are blazing. He leans over to me. ‘Our Dad,’ he whispers, ‘is going insane.’
Upstairs, Dad is face-down on the bed, spread like a starfish, surrounded by photographs. Dozens of them.
‘Dad?’ I say, and he makes a surprised noise, turning around. His eyes are mild, red and ringed. He wipes at them manfully.
‘Sorry son,’ he whispers. An effort to smile. ‘Just me an yer brother havin words, that’s aw. He sometimes disnay ken when tay leave somethin be.’
I nod, looking down at him.
Dad sighs and picks up the photos, an out-of-tune orchestra of faces.
‘God, how did things get so fucked up?’ And he gives a short laugh, scratching at his beard just like Derek.
‘Dad?’
He looks up.
‘Dad, dinnay go the same way as Mum. If ye do, I will hate ye. I will hate ye completely. And there’ll be nay way back fay it.’
He holds my gaze, and it grows so icy and still that I feel the slightest motion from either of us will smash it to bits. He opens his mouth to reply, but I say, ‘Do you understand?’ and then leave
to disappear in Belinda with the Lads, Frannie keen to head out to Cally Park, ‘tay check if the flowers are in bloom – nyuk nyuk!’ his sex drive emerging like a bee from the winter, so we stop at Haddows for Bacardi Breezers (where Dolby is asked for ID, haha) then cruise into the slow swarm of Callendar Park, relaxing our patter.
We get out and start walking. The Bacardi Breezers make ringing clinks as the sun flits across our faces. We climb the fence to the playground and lark about on the swings, pushing each other down the chutes. I feel like a kid. It’s great.
A quartet of girls strolls past.
‘Hey,’ Frannie whispers, ‘mind they girls I gave ma number tay?’
Wendy has clocked me, is smiling wickedly.
‘Well, we made a wee arrangement …’
I wander over, trying to subdue a grin.
‘Are you Ally Ferguson?’ she gasps. ‘Can I have your autograph?’
‘Very funny,’ I retort. ‘Whaur did they dredge you up fay?’
She tuts, adopting Wounded Look #6. ‘Never forget I’ve seen your willy, pal.’
They burgle our Bacardi Breezers, we colonise their ghetto blaster. It’s all dance music, worse luck, save for one tape which is Brown Eyed Girl recorded twelve times (what is it with girls and that song?) and there’s an easy feel to proceedings, vaguely expectant. The Lads are acting like Roman emperors being fed grapes by concubines, the girls preen like flowers contested by bumblebees. Each side thinks the other is doing all the running. Pointless chat fizzes like lemonade. Chilled-as-fuck lemonade.
‘Whit song will be the first dance at yer wedding?’ one of the girls asks, running her hand along the grass.
‘In the Army Now by Status Quo,’ Brian replies.
‘Jump by Van Halen,’ says Dolby.
The girls tut and ask them to think of their wives. Frannie does so. ‘Wow, she’s fuckin gorgeous.’
I just laze, getting drunk, watching a kid watching a beetle, thinking and thinking about the Stirling University prospectus which plopped on my doormat this morning.
‘We Don’t Need Another Hero by Tina Turner?’
‘Hello, Hello, We are the Billy Boys?’
‘The theme tune fay Only Fools an Horses?’
When I turn for a Breezer, Wendy is looking at me, her gaze heavy and true. Something clicks, a sort of tripwire deep in a primal place. Something shared and silent.
‘Comin for a walk?’ she says quickly.
We hold hands. Because of the trembling, I find I’m talking about Madonna albums louder than I should be. The ghetto blaster drones at Wendy’s side.
‘Let me get this straight,’ she says. ‘Ye’ve never listened tay Ray of Light?’
‘Is it better than Like A Prayer?’
‘Miles!’
‘I dunno,’ I shrug, ‘Like A Prayer’s quite a standard.’
‘Quite a standard,’ she repeats, posh.
‘Less ay your cheek.’
She leads me into a shady bower, dappled with leaves and a quiet cool. I wave away a wasp. We sit, and she plays Ray of Light, lecturing me on its merits like a teacher, then she turns, puts her hand in my hair, and the weight of our eye contact drags us further down. ‘Put your body close to my mind,’ she murmurs. Or something. Her words seem to melt in the heat as she leans, kisses the space under my chin, and soon we are
uncurling. Breathing. Our bodies, slightly slick, slide against each other. Birds are jabbering tiny sounds in the air and the sunlight is real and Wendy lies on top of me, her chin in her hand.
‘Enjoy that?’
I nod thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, it was good. Had a nice beat to it. I reckon it is better than Like A Prayer.’
She pauses.
‘The sex, you idiot, not the album.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Um–’
She slaps me on the head, then does up her bra with an expertise which had totally eluded me ten minutes ago. She turns. Her back stretches, pocked here and there with tiny sticks, and I home in on the fine, red hairs which wisp at the base of her neck, the faint rouge tint in her skin, the tiny, bright mouths of sunlight which open in the green canopy above us. The scent of chlorophyll and sex. The distant, lazy drum of insect wings. The world seems to glisten with life, colour, choices. I think I’m in love.
Probably just hungry.
‘Ken, Alvin,’ Wendy muses, studying my face, ‘you’re actually no that bad lookin.’
‘No that bad?’ I repeat, aghast. ‘Fuck’s that supposed tay mean?’
‘Well,’ she says. ‘Another couple ay years, fill oot a bit, decent haircut. You could be quite a catch.’
My skin is starting to redden. I look away, doing up buttons. ‘Aye … well …’
I reach for a Coke and take a heavy, nonchalant slurp. Wendy stares at me, horrified.
‘There was a wasp on the lip ay that can.’
Movement inside my mouth. A dull buzz. I freeze.
‘Spit!’ she urges.
A small body grazing the inside of my cheek. ‘Spit!’ she yells. ‘Now!’ and I spray the Coke from my mouth, panicked. The wasp lies fighting in a dark brown puddle, its stinger punching the air like a sewing needle. I stamp it to mush, howling and covering my mouth.
‘Ye ken whit wid have happened if ye’d swall–’
‘I ken,’ I interrupt, raising my hand, ‘I ken.’
Walking back to camp, we’re laughing, but my nerves feel like they’ve been laced with acid. One wee sting and I would have been a goner.
Wendy asks if that was my first time.
‘Naw,’ I say. ‘Well, aye. There was this false alarm before.’
‘Ye mean like a pregnancy scare?’
‘Naw. I thought I’d lost my virginity.’
‘Aw,’ she says: then, ‘that’s an alarm?’
We talk, daftly enough, about the Broons. I confess to her my secret fantasy for Maggie, she confesses hers for Joe.
‘That waist!’ I gasp.
&n
bsp; ‘Those muscles!’ Wendy marvels.
She asks what my favourite film is and I say Jaws, and she says – get this, nearly ruining the whole moment –
‘Which one?’
‘Whit d’ye mean, which one? There is only one.’
‘No there’s no. There’s four Jaws movies.’
‘Naw,’ I stress. ‘There is only one Jaws movie.’
She punches my arm – I let her, though she’s clearly no Jaws purist – and it’s fun and the world has a new and sudden brightness, but that wasp. Its tiny sting sliding into the walls of my throat. My throat swelling, choking. The closeness of death. The sharks, the giant sharks.
Wendy is pondering the shadows we cast, long and scrawled, in front of us, and then she is smiling at me.
‘You’ve got a look,’ she says. She has gorgeous eyelashes.
‘A look? Like, whit sortay look?’
‘Ye look–’ she cocks her head, ‘hungry.’
‘I am hungry. I huvnay eaten since breakfast.’
‘That’s no whit I mean. Ye look like ye want somethin.’
‘Have I no just had it?’
‘No that. Naw, somethin bigger than that.’
‘Hm. So, whit exactly dae I want?’
Wendy winks.
‘Whit’s comin tay ye.’ Her hand snakes round my waist and stays there. ‘Ye want whit’s comin tay ye.’
and we split. Det
ach. Our fingers lingering. She fades across the green like a sunbeam as I bob back to the car with a helium grin. The grass makes a rustling noise and I am impressed, just convinced of nature’s talent as a performing artist, the potential for life to outdo itself just when you’d given up on it.
and that night, drunkenly happy, that state in which things bubble and pop with life and you wonder how anything could ever be bad again, Derek and me go wandering round Hallglen. Terrain sharp with memories. Its labyrinthine streets. Its ancient satellite dishes, like barnacles on a sunken ship. The lock-ups we used to smash footballs against and the places where we made dens or played hide-and-seek and the doors we chapped and ran away from, shouting, booting garbage down the street.