Here’s the thing, halfway through the conversation I caught a glimpse of Rosie out the corner of my eye, wedged between two car bumpers. She was just staring at us, screwing her face up like people do when they are trying hard to hear. As if it makes a difference. Bonkers behaviour. My initial thought was to shield her from Miss Croal’s gaze for fear that she would cause everyone concerned unnecessary embarrassment. Least of all me. I didn’t want the conflict with Rosie so I let it go. I wrapped up the conversation and rebuffed Miss Croal’s offer of a lift. It was in everyone’s best interests.
The biggest disappointment with our conversation in the Italian class and the car bumper incident was that I believed Rosie to be above all the bullshit and innuendo that went on at the school. It was one of her more attractive qualities. I was angry with her for sinking to the same level as her peers. For actually allowing herself to be complicit in the tittle-tattle, for questioning my integrity, for being utterly ridiculous.
After that untruthful bile spread like an Australian bush fire, I cut myself off from the others at school, which wasn’t that difficult as friends could be counted on a hand with one finger, acquaintances on the other. Behind their looks a new narrative was being constructed, one beyond that of simple query and conjecture. In their minds each and every one of them had me sussed and, thus, tailored their chat, their stare, their silence accordingly. That was okay, for me what was worse was the laughter behind the hands. I couldn’t seem to get to grips with that. Or the exaggerated sniggers when I passed them by. Usually it took about five paces for it to begin. The sound of it pierced through me. And it wasn’t all about the cancerous lies either, it could have been about my hairstyle, my clothes, my shoes, the badges on my bag, the music I listened to (not that any of them would have known what I was listening to). The style of my headphones came under their scrutiny and chagrin also. Anything that took their fancy really.
Did I mention the ritual piss taking of my accent? I had to laugh myself at the poor imitation that some of them attempted to make. They couldn’t quite master the pronunciation of my southern English accent, especially ing words. Some particular elevated dimwits screeched out Scouse and Cockney accents. I tried to baffle them by refusing to talk or participate in class. I basically shut up. It didn’t work.
Warm hearted with a plentiful blend of black humour was what the book said about Glasgow. Obviously its researchers never ventured close to this place.
‘I don’t care what any of they dickheads say, Clem. It’s just me and you against they bastards.’ Rosie said.
‘What about Cora?’ I said.
‘She’s just a jealous wee bitch at times, don’t mind her.’
‘I don’t, it’s you I’m worried about.’
‘I’m not the one getting pure pelters at school all the time.’
‘I can handle it.’
‘They’re evil bastards,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry. It’ll be over soon.’
‘If any of them say anything to my face, I’m telling you, I’ll have them.’
‘I wouldn’t get too upset about it, if I were you.’
‘Wee fuckin NED numpties. Especially that Fran McEvoy, I hate that prick.’ Rosie said. I found this funny. A few months ago I wouldn’t have had a clue what an expression like ‘NED numpties’ meant. But I did agree with her about McEvoy.
‘Just leave it, Rosie.’
‘Well, it affects me an all, you know.’
‘I know, but let’s just leave it.’ We cuddled. ‘Let’s continue, shall we?’ We kissed.
‘But I’m pure shite at guitar.’
‘It’s okay, I’m a good teacher.’
Music
They came out of nowhere, and I mean nowhere. It wasn’t as if there was an abundance of snow on the ground. You’d have been hard pushed to form a proper snowball from the stuff that remained.
I filled up my iPod with some winter music and skipped off to school. Usually I met Rosie on the way, but this morning she was off to an art gallery with the rest of her advanced higher art class. I was flying solo. Or so I thought.
Twenty yards from the school gate.
Swoosh!
These things were frozen solid like ice. As I said, I didn’t see them.
Bang!
Back of the head, just behind the ear. Surge of pain. Hand goes to the hit zone, head turns to the direction of the thrower, my oppressor.
Swoosh!
Another missile in full flow, slow mo. Too late to duck.
Smack!
Direct hit in the eye socket.
Both hits demonstrating an accuracy and skill of a master marksman.
Compliments.
Bent double holding the eye, thinking the most horrid thoughts. Snot escaping from my nose, something seeping out of my eye. Hopefully just the water from the ice ball. It feels neither hot nor cold, which leads me to believe it’s blood. Or worse, a pus-like liquid. Danger juice. Don’t take the hand away. Leave it on there, press tight on it, keep the eye in place, don’t let the little bugger fall out. If you let it fall out you’re done for.
Forever.
Hold it in place. Don’t bother looking to see if it’s blood or water, just concentrate on holding it in place. Don’t concern yourself with the throbbing pain in your head either, the stinging and throbbing ear, the continuous ringing sound, the wet collar of your shirt.
Is it water or blood?
Hold that hand on the eye. Hold tight.
Don’t let the little bugger fall out and roll away. It’s not a ball, it won’t bounce back to you. It won’t bounce back into its home. Don’t let it roll away down a drain or onto the bumper of a passing car.
Listen to the song and stay calm. I’m sure it’s only water. M. Ward sings lovely songs. Soothing to the ear on a winter’s morning. A touch of brightness to an otherwise dull day. Embrace it.
Sing it M.
It’s hard to hear through one earphone with the ringing sound going through the other. Cars and voices and laughter as well.
Who’s laughing? Who in their infinite wisdom is laughing at my misfortune?
Step forward; state your name, your aim.
This is the devil incarnate, the ice launcher himself. No sympathy for him. The creator of this mess can be heard out of my ringing ear. A compendium of noises now plays M.Ward, continual ringing and this wacko’s voice.
Sneering. Sniggering. Snarling.
KEEP HOLDING THAT EYE. I told you.
‘Howz yer eye?’ Scum 1 asked.
‘Ye need tae watch oot fur snowbawz roon here,’ Scum 2.
‘Aye, kood take yer eye oot way wan ay they things,’ Scum 3.
Laughter. Lots of laughter. Waiting for the kick. Waiting for the punch. The finale. The dénouement. The crunch. The slap on the jaw. The head-butt to the temple. The knee to the ribs. Blood or water?
‘Ya English cunt,’ some other scum piped up.
‘Up here stealin oor fuckin wimin,’ another scum quips.
‘Shaggin oor teechurs,’ the final scum says.
Footsteps on the move. Then they’re gone. Blood boiling. Let the good ear breathe.
Take out M. Ward, no need for a sprinkling of sunshine anymore. Revenge music is required. Hardcore stuff. Get yourself in the mood. Get yourself back to an upright position. Take deep breaths – in…out…in…out. In through nose…out through mouth… Take your time. Hand on eye. Hand shaking like a terrified leaf. A little leaf lost in a fairground.
Alone.
Hand hot from holding the eye in its house. Locking the door. Mind petrified to think about the consequences.
The revenge. Fearful of the reprisal. The reprisal of the monster with one eye and dodgy hearing.
He’ll come. Disabled or not. He’ll come.
Monsters can only take so much you see. Keep knocking and the monster will come out. Hibernation is over. The dormant will soon dominate.
Can feel eye rising. Swelling. So big it’s about to e
xplode.
Like a boxer after going the distance.
My distance is away from the school gate.
Got to get home. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but here. Hand on eye. Hold tight.
Earphones dangling. Good ear pulsating. Head bursting. Sweat streaming. Good eye drowning. Blood boiling. Brain simmering. Got to remain calm, focus. Focus for the future. Who was laughing at me? Was Fran McEvoy laughing at me? Did he take aim? Did he lay in wait and take aim? Did he tightly fashion two balls of ice together, lay in wait and take aim? Did he tightly fashion two balls of ice, together lay in wait, take aim and launch the snowballs at my head?
Did that McEvoy engineer to cause me pain and humiliation? Did he want to see me hurting? This goes beyond name calling, beyond pig-ignorant behaviour. Goes beyond what I’m capable of doing. Beyond what I want to do. Beyond what I imagine in my head, my poor head, of doing. Time to hand out my own form of punitive justice. Can’t let the bastard get away with that. Taunts I can take. Two ice bullets and degradation I can’t. Would be seen as impertinent to recoil from this, an invitation for more?
What next for the whipping boy? Got to show them I’m not afraid. Greater figures than me have made greater stances, taken greater strides. I shall not be perturbed.
Glasgow with its ‘No Mean City’ tag. Secretly proud of its tag. Wears the tag on its sleeve, on its collar, on its socks, on its arse. Surely No City Means to dish out this?
Glasgow, I didn’t mean to step on your toes. I didn’t mean to infiltrate. I didn’t mean to steal yer wimin. I didn’t mean to befriend yer teechurs. I didn’t. I didn’t.
Glasgow.
I didn’t mean to be here.
Advice
‘What in the fuck happened to your eye?’ Rosie said, with a genuine sense of concern about her tone. The bruising and swelling instantaneously erased much of the awkwardness that had been in the air following the Miss Croal issue. My bad eye saved the day.
‘It was nothing,’ I said, just delighted to see her.
‘Nothing my arse. It’s pure swollen up.’ She reached out to touch it; I flinched like they do in the movies. Very melodramatic indeed. I was playing the hero role: tortured, almost broken and self-pitying yet still alive and ready to fight another day. Did I mention handsome? (How handsome can one be with a shiner?)
‘It looks much worse than it is.’
‘Who hit you?’
‘A snowball.’
‘But there’s no snow.’
‘It was more like an iceball really.’
‘Fuck.’
‘That’s what I said as well. Among other things.’
‘I thought someone hooked you.’
‘More honour if it had been.’
‘Who did it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘My arse you don’t know.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Who are you trying to protect?’ she said, once again trying to place her fingers on the swelling. Trying to take care of me. A show of affection, which I spurned. ‘Let me see it.’
‘It’s nothing, seriously.’ She sighed. I sighed. We stared at each other for longer than we should have. She was reading me. She could tell from my expression that I was being dishonest.
‘Was it who I think it was?’
‘I don’t know. Who do you think it was?’
‘That little NED prick McEvoy and his cronies?’
‘Oh, I’d say you’re warm.’
‘What do mean warm? I’m roasting.’
‘I’ll give you hot.’
‘I knew it was them.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Half the school are talking about it.’
‘Is nothing sacred in this place?’
‘Are you kidding, that prick McEvoy’ll be going around school acting like the dot bomb.’
‘The dot what?’
‘Like a fucking big shot.’
‘It seems you already knew what had happened?’ Then there was another longish pause. I could see her mind was in concocting mood.
‘We need to do something about it.’
‘The swelling will go down in a few days, it looks worse than it is.’
‘Fuck the eye, get some frozen peas. You’ll see again.’
‘We don’t have any frozen peas.’
‘Fuck the peas, stick your head in the freezer then.’
‘What are you going on about?’
‘I’m talking about Fran McEvoy.’
‘What about him?’
‘We have to do something.’
‘No, we don’t,’ I said.
‘He won’t go away you know.’
‘Guys like that always go away.’
‘Yeah, tell me when?’
‘Eventually.’
‘Not this type.’
‘What do you propose then, agent Scully?’
‘What?’
‘Oh, never mind…what’s the plan?’
‘We have two options. Either we do something and put a stop to all this shite once and for all or he’ll just continue with what he’s doing.’
‘What’s option number two?’ I asked.
‘Don’t really know that yet.’
‘Option number one I understand, I get it, but in reality what can I do?’
‘How do I know?’
‘You’re the one who said we had two options.’
‘Yeah, but I don’t know what they are, do I?’
‘Oh, okay, well thanks for shedding some light on proceedings for me.’
‘All I’m saying is that if you don’t do something about it, this is how it’s going to be for you everyday at school,’ she said, pointing to my eye. The affectionate gesturing had obviously evaporated. I didn’t tell her about my pulsating ear or pounding headache.
‘Do you think I’m not aware of that?’
‘You have to challenge him, Clem.’
‘What, to a duel?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘What can I do? I’m alone here. I can’t singlehandedly fight Fran McEvoy and his posse. Besides, it’s not part of my composition.’
‘You have me.’
‘What?’
‘You’re not alone, you have me.’
‘Are you telling me you moonlight as a vigilante now?’
‘I protect what’s close to me,’ she said. Another pause, more like impasse. We hugged. We pecked. She gently kissed my eye. The pressure of her lips made me wince. Sore.
‘We’ll think of something,’ I said.
‘It has to be something drastic, coz I can’t stand that bastard.’
‘Maybe it’s just about keeping a low profile.’
‘What do you mean? Not going to school and all that?’
‘No, but avoidance while I’m there would be a good start.’
‘It won’t work. He’ll know what you’re up to.’
‘He could forget about the whole thing and move onto the next victim.’
‘Don’t you get it? You’re prime meat because you don’t come from around here. You’re no threat to him, just fodder.’
‘So what are you saying?’ I asked.
‘You need to get to him before he gets to you.’
‘Attack him?’
‘I’m saying give him some sort of message that will make him think twice about coming near you again.’
‘I get that, but what?’
‘Come on, you’re a smart guy Clem, much smarter than that wee wanker any day.’
‘Words won’t hurt him, Rosie.’
‘No, but some good old fashion sticks and stones might.’
‘So you’re saying I should beat him up with sticks and stones? Assault him with weapons? GBH stuff?’
‘Believe me, he wouldn’t think twice about using them on you.’
‘What’s wrong with you people up here?’
‘And his little helpers wouldn’t just stand back and watch either.’
‘And what happe
ns after I beat the living daylights out of him, assuming, that is, that I can, and leave him all battered and bruised? What happens after his convalescence period is over, eh? Where does that leave me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll tell you, shall I? It leaves me in a much more precarious position than the one I find myself in right now. Not only that, but I’ll be entering into the world of criminality, and I didn’t come here to be a criminal. Jesus, I can’t believe this, all I want to do is get my qualifications from that excuse of a school and get the hell out of here.’
‘Hell out of here where?’
‘South, I don’t know, Brighton maybe.’
‘And what about me?’
‘Let’s not have this conversation right now.’
‘When do you propose we have it, then?’
‘Another time, just not now.’
‘Were you ever going to tell me what your plans were? Or were you just going to spring it on me one day?’
‘You knew. I told you right at the start. You knew.’
‘Yes, but I thought things might have changed a wee bit, given what we’ve been through together. The things we’ve experienced.’
‘We’re just going out with each other, Rosie, it’s not as if we’ve travelled to the ends of the earth or anything like that,’ I said. Silence, suddenly anger and hurt had popped in to say hello. ‘And you could hardly call what we’ve been through an experience. Even the term been through is inaccurate to some extent. We haven’t been through anything significant Rosie. This is delusional thinking,’ I said, with as much venom and dishonesty as my eye, ear and head would allow me to muster. I sensed the tears arriving. Shoulders shaking. Rage rising. A lethal cocktail, especially in Rosie.
‘I lost my fuckin virginity to you.’
‘What?’
‘I let you fuck me.’
‘How eloquent.’
‘I gave you my body, Clem.’
‘Are you looking for thanks?’
‘An acknowledgement of it at least. It’s a big deal, you know.’
Boy Who Made It Rain Page 10