‘This is melodrama.’
‘Don’t dare stand there and insult me.’
‘Look, I didn’t come here to argue,’ I said.
‘I don’t want to argue with you, Clem.’
‘Me neither.’
‘I thought you came here to thrash out a plan to relieve yourself from the clutches of McEvoy?’
‘I did,’ I said. She started crying. It was the first time I saw her crying. It disconcerted me. It doesn’t happen that often but I relent whenever tears arrive. I once caught a glimpse of mum sobbing when news first broke of our move to Glasgow, it was a hard sob with breaks in her breathing and high-pitched yelps; subsequently I caused no hassle of my own, although I so badly wanted to demonstrate my teenage angst. I played my guitar instead.
What I said about Brighton wasn’t meant. At least half of what I said wasn’t meant. Try telling Rosie that. Nevertheless it had to be said at some point. What was the point of putting off the inevitable? I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t troubled by her desire to see me inflict pain upon another human being; so maybe I was driven to trying to hurt her feelings. I fully understood the McEvoy situation had to be dealt with, but it was weird as hell to have my girlfriend, whom I regarded as a neo-pacifist, inviting and almost prodding me into taking punitive action. Not an attractive trait. Was this part of the Glaswegian female’s fabric? One who stands beside (or behind) her man while he dishes out reprisal and retribution? One who fights fire with fire? I don’t fight fire with fire. Unless I’m being scorched to cinder. The only time I have raised my fists in rage was a thunderous smack on Matt Seed’s chin because of his obsession with the word faggot, which was constantly aimed in my direction. Thud! Never did I hear that word muttered towards me again. I felt terrible though. I mean, one punch can kill a man. I didn’t want to be a one-punch killer.
‘Look, I’m upset. I mean, look at the state of me.’
‘I’m upset too.’
‘I didn’t mean to hurt you, Rosie,’ I said. We embraced yet again. My eye still beating. My ear still ringing. My desire to remain in this city eroded. ‘I’m just sick of this place at times. All the posturing. All this hard man shit. All the small men wanting to be big-time gangsters.’
‘I know,’ she said. I held her tight, feeling her tears wet against my shoulder. ‘I hate it, Clem.’
‘Me too.’
‘We need to get out of this place.’
‘We will.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise,’ I said, knowing full well it was a promise I could neither fulfil nor commit to. ‘And don’t worry about Fran McEvoy and his cronies.’ Which sounded as though I would take care of that lot, which certainly wasn’t the case.
‘I’ll try.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise,’ she said. I gave her a peck on the cheek, tasting her salty tears. I knew full well it was a promise she could neither fulfil nor commit to.
‘Everything will work out,’ I assured her.
‘For the best?’ she asked.
‘For the best.’
‘Come and we’ll get that eye sorted out.’
Cheek
She succeeded in touching my eye. I didn’t invite it, she just placed one finger on it and then stroked it gently with four fingers. My initial thoughts shifted to other people who may have been hovering around. For some reason I was fearful, acutely aware of where I was. I had been apprehensive on the walk to school but felt a strange sense of protectiveness when I entered the main doors. The corridors would act as a kind of safety buffer. But when Miss Croal put her hand on my eye my heart rate frightened me, I gulped my saliva much harder and I could hear a croak in my voice.
‘Oh, Clem, what happened?’
‘It was nothing Miss, I got hit with a snowball,’ I croaked.
I felt ashamed. Undeveloped for her caress. I wanted to be in control, be a man, show the world, her, that I could handle any eventuality, any pitfall that came my way. I was invincible. That I was immune to puerile schoolboy behaviour. Now I was the walking embodiment of just this, with the bruising to match. Before, she viewed me as an equal, a contemporary, someone who could debate, discuss and divulge. Now she wanted to take care of me, as teachers are programmed to do…at times. She pitied me, playing the conscientious teacher in their pastoral care role. I was now just another schoolboy. Blended and branded.
‘It looks very swollen, Clem.’
‘It looks worse than it is.’
My rattling heart reaffirmed that I was what she thought I was. Even though it was early in the morning I was petrified that one of Rosie’s mates, Cora I mean, would saunter around the corner and misconstrue this as a physical display of affection. A crime. The end for both of us. Or worse, one of the NEDs would get an eyeful, put two and two together and come up with eighteen. Or worse still, McEvoy. In any case word would spread quicker than a prostitute with butter smeared thighs. Words like ILLICIT, ILLEGAL and SACK would be swirling around before morning break. Did this woman not know what she was doing? Was she unaware of the danger she was placing herself in? Was she so blatantly naïve?
‘Is it sore to touch?’
‘A little.’
The pain was much more intense than what any hand could have achieved. Her fingers never left my eye throughout this exchange, it seemed like time had become obstructed, all movement had slowed down to a funeral pace. I was terrified that we would be caught. Please take your hand away Miss. Miss, please take your hand away. I don’t think you should be touching me. You are overstepping the boundaries. You’re going to get caught. Take a step back from this woman. Take a step back from this man. This boy. Distance yourself from this crazy woman. My eyes flicked left. Right. Right again. Left. And back again. I was transcending discomfort. She could feel it, no doubt. She could feel it.
‘Have you had it checked out?’
‘No, it will be okay in a few days, or so.’
I could hear noise. She could hear noise. Voices in the distance. Approaching. An enquiry. A walking gaggle. A real-life fire alarm. Danger. Voices. Then her fingers left my eye. Not abruptly, but tentatively removing each finger one by one, touching my cheek in the process. Or did I just imagine that? Both of us each took a baby step back. The voices came closer. The fucks, wankers, fannies and bastards were perceptible now.
‘Who did this to you?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Come on, Clem.’
‘Seriously Miss, I don’t know.’
‘Why would you protect those who did this?’
A mob of third-year boys passed by sniggering into their blazers and making furtive little comments. I heard the name Cora being mentioned more than once in a disparaging manner. My name also. If indeed English Cunt counts as a name. I heard Rosie’s name, then McEvoy’s. Their role model. Sniggers, giggling, laughter, hyperbolic comic hilarity. I was a laughing stock and these were just the third-years. There was more to come. A tsunami of abuse and mockery. Waves of danger.
‘I honestly don’t know who did it.’
‘Was it that group of fifth- and sixth-year lads?’
‘Who?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Conor Duffy?’
‘No.’
‘Then who?’
‘Not Conor.’
‘The lads who wear the tracksuits?’
I stared hard at the floor.
‘Those NEDs?’
‘Yes, the NEDs.’
A pause. A look. A stare. A glare. A tangible untruth in the air.
‘No.’
‘Clem, look, you know you can confide in me, if you feel unsafe.’
A hand. An extension. A recoiling. A reach. A retreat from those who teach.
‘Thanks. I really appreciate that.’
A statement. A sentiment concaved. A bell. Ringing. Saved.
I think that was the last time myself and Miss Croal held a proper conversation. The shit and fan stuff happened soon after, smattering
the metaphoric excrement on the faces of those in close proximity. The stench of it never to leave us: pervasive and intrusive. I’m not too sure what her take on it all was, nevertheless I’d be unhappy if she didn’t vindicate me. That bell was the trouble that started it all. Well, that and a multitude of other things, and others. The bell rang, saving both of us. I made my way to maths. Shit subject, hard as hell. A safe haven…
McEvoy and a few of his lackeys were loitering about twenty yards from the door of the maths class. Nike, Burberry, cheap gold and wrist tattoos all exhibited. Wrist tattoos, the summation of life on the arm…in Cantonese, Arabic or Japanese. Instant inspiration at the flick of an eye. This crowd were an anomaly in this school, non-uniformed mavericks. They weren’t waiting on anyone in particular. Surely not me. They certainly weren’t waiting in an orderly fashion to enter no maths class either, basic counting maybe.
More sniggering at the bruise. McEvoy said something, which I couldn’t penetrate beyond a growling grunt. The others laughed. Not wanting to look sullen, frightened or sad, I smiled. This sent him into an internal tailspin. His next action disturbed me and sent me into a similar spin of my own. He took his index finger and slowly dragged it from the top of his cheek to the bottom. Meticulously. Then the same stroke on the other cheek. All the time his eyes never once deviating from mine. It was a shuddering threat. A clear message of intent.
The lackeys laughed while my expression had irrepressibly changed. As long as it wasn’t fear. Show them no fear. Dogs smell it. Don’t allow them to smell it, not even the slightest whiff. Give them your you’ll-not-fucking-intimidate-me gaze. Face your demons boy, I kept telling myself. McEvoy, the devil incarnate, indicating that he was going to draw a Stanley Knife, or something equally as sharp and accurate, from one part of my cheek to the other. Stating that he wanted to slash me, cut me open, slice a new smile onto me, disfigure me, destroy me. This repulsive piece of shit seriously wanted to leave his mark on me. Fran McEvoy’s signature embedded on me for life. For life! I wouldn’t get a job. Every ounce of existence would start to corrode and crumble beneath me. A rapid road to the gutter. In the depths of my despair I’d be able to chart it back to that pivotal moment outside the maths class. That moment I did nothing about it. Death by capitulation.
In silence, fear and anger I entered the class knowing that I had to get the hell out of that school. That same day. Directly after the maths class. Before the class. Shove the maths class. What was the point of concentrating on maths when the very fabric of my life was at risk? I sat down at that desk and wondered if I was being too histrionic. Just as I had reconciled myself with the fact that I was, McEvoy placed his head around the door and growled something at me before gesturing, once again, the self-same slashing motion. Then abruptly vanished.
‘You want to watch him,’ said a voice behind.
‘Aye, he’s a mad bastard,’ said another.
I gave it a further five minutes, waiting for the corridors to become weary. For the racket to fade.
‘Sir, can I go to the toilet, please?’
‘Don’t be long.’
I flipped my bag on my back, left the class, walked out of the school and vowed never to return.
That was the plan in any case.
Mobile
My heart vibrated. An incessant irritation in my chest.
Buzz, buzz, buzzing.
Like a queen bee on heat. Six calls from Rosie. Each one ignored. About fifteen text messages.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Each one read, each one internalised, each one ignored. I should have probably switched it off but the attention was what I was holding on to. Feeling desired.
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
Don’t Answer.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Wer R U?
I am just about to get off an overcrowded bus, which stinks of stale fags and booze. The unemployed, the disenfranchised, the socially diseased we are all here. Bonnie Prince Billy sings in my ears and I feel every pang of the man’s gut wrenching prose. Today is for suffrage and self-pity.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
CLEM, WER R U?
I am now flicking through the CDs in HMV. My mother will be ever so pleased. I am suffering the pedantry prose of Madonna’s newest creation. The death of music. And to think those poor Malian kids will have to miss out on their indigenous music for this tripe. It’s a shame. God love them. Only here because it’s freezing outside. Glasgow winters attack without mercy; they show no respect to age, health, wealth or emotional turmoil.
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
Don’t Answer.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
R U comin bak 2 skool 2day?
Not even a pack of rabid Rottweilers could drive me back into that place. My secondary education has ceased…as of today. Say my goodbyes to those who will miss me, it should take you about thirty seconds or so.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Wer the FUK R U?
I am here. In this city. This Godforsaken place. The place where the wind would slice open your head and people would slice open your face. I am here. This is where I am. Not through choice, want or desire but somehow I find myself here.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Hav I dun s’thing?
Join the queue. Each and every member of it has been guilty of doing something. The question is what have I done? Why does no one ask me that? But I understand the need for the question.
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
Don’t Answer.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Y R U Ignoring me?
Because it’s the only power I have left. The only thing I have control over. Silence and anonymity. I am ignoring myself. No one knows me here. Now, no one has any demands over me or wants to do anything to me, apart from the sales assistants who want to part my money from me.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Wots rong?
Well, apart from the fact that some little ignorant, delinquent fucker threatened to disfigure me (for life) for the crime of…God knows what, and I am terrified to confront it head on – coupled with the impending uncertainty of the future – not much is wrong with me. A grey cloud has followed us up here. My father is working at a job even his son thinks is shit and beneath him, how degrading and shameful that must be? I’d hate to imagine. My mother is like another woman; gone is the cheeriness and blind optimism of everything crap. But with regards to your question, everything is just fine and dandy.
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
Don’t Answer.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Wot hav I dun?
Rosie, you have been yourself. ROSIE. The architect of all this, all this evil. You made me fall for you. Crave you. Desire you. You made me believe in my own narcissistic nonsense: the tortured guy, the music lover, the intellectual, the bookworm, the loner, the mysterious one, the introverted, the self-contained, the handsome and the self-assured. I believed in it all. You wanted all this so I provided it for you. All bullshit. Everything. Now I am being attacked and chided for this fraud.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Clem...
I hate that damn name. That middle class identity. A name that has brought me nothing but isolation and insult since I can remember. A name that can’t even be abbreviated. A malicious, moronic moniker. A name that has led to this. I place it all squarely at the feet of this name. It all starts with furtive little comments; then ridicule, then malevolence, then some bastard tries to impress some other bastards and, before you know it, that same bastard, or one of the other bastards, wants to leave a mangled mark on you. Clem.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Did s’thing hap at skool?
Did something happen at school? Of course something happened at school! Why the need to ask? I have no friends up here, have I? School is the only place where I indulge myself in the chat of others, if permitted that is. You’d hardly find me wandering the streets with a gaggle of mates now, would you? That school has no harmony with individualism, you are
not allowed to be different, or NOT like football. Or NOT have bigoted tendencies. It’s like Chinese Communism in action.
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
Don’t Answer.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Pik up ur fon!
I don’t want you to hear my voice crackle with anger and interpret it as an emotional defeat. That I was close to tears. That you ‘could hear it in my voice.’ You’d tell Cora how you could almost feel the wetness of my cheeks. How you could taste the salt. The simple reason is that I don’t want to talk. Today is not a talking day, it’s a day for solace and reflection.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Stop being an arsehole!!!
You are such a shower of offensive oafs up here. What gives you lot the right to comment on everything with a barrage of expletives? Or rebut with insulting invectives? It demonstrates a lack of vocabulary and an inability of expression. A less than appealing Glaswegian affectation. I think in this context though arsehole is an inappropriate word to use.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
I heard about McEvoy…Cunt!
Who’s a cunt? McEvoy or myself? Me or him? Clem or Fran? This is ambiguous, Rosie. Notwithstanding, it’s an effective and appropriate use of the curse. Possibly the strongest and most powerful in the English language. The word that brings about the most amount of disapproving gasps from people. Using that word can, in an instance, turn someone horribly against you.
I have often thought about that McEvoy cunt and tried to rationalise his actions, tried to look at it from his point of reference. To see things through similar eyes, to endeavour to understand: to see through those very eyes that tell me he is afraid of his future, of imminent unemployment, of leaving the security of school after fourteen years, of departing days that have been full of structure (and guidance), of having somewhere significant to go everyday, of getting to leave his unhappy home without being press ganged into ‘finding a job.’
I have tried to understand his frustration because those around him wear the latest high street fashions, go on foreign holidays, discuss their futures, have lasting relationships; jealous because his family couldn’t afford to buy him anything, to treat him or his siblings to any of the trappings his peers receive, sad because Fran’s parents blame their own children for taking away their own youthfulness and stripping them of any happiness they themselves could have garnered from life. Consequently these parents have rejected and neglected poor Fran. They have chosen to settle for a life of poverty and state handouts. Maybe it’s more simplified than that, he could have one of those abbreviated illnesses: OCD or ADHD or ODD or CUNT. Maybe he has autism, Asperger’s syndrome or some other form of cognitive chaos that has yet to be discovered and/or diagnosed. Maybe he just forgets to take his Ritalin on a daily basis. I have looked through these eyes and tried to examine why he does what he does, why he says what he says, why he carries a knife on him at all times, but no matter how hard and for how long I look the answer is always the same: McEvoy is a cunt. A first class, top of the range fucking cunting cunt.
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