Trackman

by Catriona Child

  Have you heard of the Heart of Midlothian? Have you seen them in maroon? Have you heard of the Heart of Midlothian? They're the greatest team I know.

  You are a weegie, a fucking weegie. You're only happy on giro day. Your maw's a stealer, your paw's a dealer, please don't take my hubcaps away.

  We love you jam tarts, oh yes we do, we love you jam tarts, we do.

  I'm really missing the football today for some reason. I think it's because of the smell I got from the brewery when I went out for lunch earlier. It made me all nostalgic. I stood on the pavement for a few minutes and just inhaled the creamy, yeasty scent of fermenting hops.

  Start by breathing out, then breathe in.

  They keep knocking the breweries down so the smell is disappearing. One idiot even decided to invent some sort of filter to get rid of the smell from the breweries that are left. Taking the essence of the city away. Taking its soul away. I always breathe the scent in right down to my toes when I catch it these days, just in case it's the last time I ever smell it. I hated the smell as a kid; it used to make me feel sick. I love it now though.

  Davie hardly saw the games he went to after the funeral. All he could concentrate on was the seat next to him. The empty seat. After his grandpa had died, Lewis filled the gap. But after Lewis there was nobody. A square of cold plastic. Sometimes Davie would sit for the whole game with his hand on Lewey's seat.

  He never went back in there, but sometimes stood outside with his palms flat against the door.

  A few times he had to leave before the game was finished. The empty seat was a visual reminder of what was missing. He didn't need reminded. He could feel the empty seat inside him, everywhere he went. He almost never went back. He almost threw his season ticket away and said, Fuck it. He couldn't though. He'd been watching Hearts since he was a kid. His grandpa used to say, You've caught the Hearts bug. At the end of the season Davie renewed his season ticket, but he moved stand. The thought of Lewey's seat being occupied by a stranger was worse than it lying empty.

  Stuck here in the basement of the shop on a Saturday afternoon, I even miss the taste of the tea you get at Tynecastle. It's got its own distinct taste, you just can't recreate it anywhere else. The grey liquid that confronts you when you pull the lid off the plastic cup, then you dunk the tea bag a few times and brown currents radiate out from it, like blowing on paint with a straw. The way it washes down the floury grease of the scotch pies. The fat seeping out from the pores on your face.

  Fuck sake, I can't believe I'm getting nostalgic for those manky pies. It must be a bad day.

  You'll have good days and you'll have bad days. Eventually you'll have more good than bad.

  What I really miss is the routine and the distraction of it. The being able to lose yourself for ninety minutes. The way your emotions are decided for you by somebody else. It's easier that way.

  Hearts lose, I feel shite.

  Hearts win, I feel great.

  When a goal goes in, especially if it's against Hibs or the Old Firm, it's like being in the mosh pit at a gig: no sense of danger, just wild abandonment. It's all heightened too, as everyone gets that hit at exactly the same time. A rush of synchronised adrenaline. You can't beat it.

  It's not widely used anymore, but primal scream therapy is an option.

  fucksakerefereeyou'refuckingjokingwhatthefuckgetthatflagdownyou

  offsidegettofuckhandballthatwasneverabookingfreekick

  It's like I'm taken over by some alien being or poltergeist as soon as I pass through the turnstiles.

  fucksakerefereeyou'refuckingjokingwhatthefuckgetthatflagdownyou

  offsidegettofuckhandballthatwasneverabookingfreekick

  Some crazy creature which interferes with the connection between brain, mouth, arms and legs.

  One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg, one nod of the head.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket: text from Alfie.

  if ur in flat cn u bring me a knife sharp 1 frm kitchen

  knife, knife, knife, cut it, cut the cord, knife.

  Fuck sake, what's he doing?

  sorry @ work

  I remember why I brought my phone out onto the shop floor, and fish about in my pocket for the scrap of receipt paper.

  Astrid's number.

  I type it into my phone.

  Save it to both phone and sim.

  How long should I wait until I call her? Maybe a text would be better. Easier. Less scary than having to actually speak to her. My bravery comes and goes, and right now it's definitely gone. Worn off.

  I scroll down the phone book, past Alfie and Allan and Andy and Angela, keep going down the list until I hit Astrid.

  Astrid.

  I stare at her number, trying to compose a cool sounding message in my head. The thought of texting her makes my stomach lurch. I put my phone away. Too soon. Too soon. I need to leave it for a couple of days. I don't want to look fucking desperate.

  I manage to drag myself through the rest of the shift, check my watch continuously for the last twenty minutes. Wishing my life away.

  Five.

  Four.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  Shift over. Home time.

  I grab my stuff from the staffroom and head out of the shop, feeling sorry for the people who are left doing the late shift.

  The smell from the brewery is still lingering in the air and I follow it. I walk past Haymarket station, and along Dalry onto Gorgie Road. It seems so quiet in this part of the city when there's no football on. No police horses on the pavement flicking their tails and depositing shite. No police in fluorescent vests. No crowd in maroon moving to and from Tynecastle, surging across the road, causing buses and cars to stop for them. Football fans always have the right of way. It's in the Highway Code.

  Now it's just handfuls of shoppers, mothers with buggies; folk who would normally stay away from this area on a Saturday are free to roam again for a couple of months.

  I feel movement in my jacket pocket.

  I'm scared to look at my mobile. What does Alfie want now? A new finger?

  But I'm wrong.

  It's not my phone, it's the MP3 player. It thumps against my chest like a second heartbeat. My jacket is glowing blue. I look like fucking ET: my chest all lit up like a light bulb.

  I stop and read the message scrolling along the LCD screen.

  must listen she must listen she must listen she

  I hold the headphones up to the side of my face and can hear the James Mason impersonator telling me the same thing.

  What the fuck? She must listen, she who?

  box phone box phone box phone box phone box phone

  I whirl around in a circle and clock the phone box a few yards down the road. As my eyes lock on it, the MP3 player gives one strong vibration in my hand. Mission sighted, captain, and locked on target. What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck? How does the MP3 player know there's a phone box here? Does it have GPS or something?

  listen she must listen she must listen she must

  I walk towards the phone box. There's a lassie sitting crosslegged inside it.

  How is it doing this? Is this a joke? I look around, is someone fucking me about?

  The lassie must be about fourteen or fifteen. She looks terrible: black make-up smeared down her cheeks and her eyes are all red. At first I think it's just her look, but as I get closer I realise she's crying. The MP3 player buzzes in my hand again.

  What? What am I supposed to do?

  must listen she must listen she must listen she

  No chance, she'll think I'm a freak. I turn to walk away and the MP3 player gives me an electric shock.

  Hey, watch it.

  must listen she must listen she must listen she

  I pull open the door of the phone box. It's fucking stiff and I have to strain to get it open.

  'Fuck off, can't you see I'm in here?' the lassie shouts before I have a chance to say anything to her.

&
nbsp; 'Aye, eh, sorry.'

  Nice language for a wee lassie. The door slides slowly shut, so I push it fully closed and head on my way. The MP3 player buzzes continuously in my hand.

  MUST LISTEN SHE MUST LISTEN SHE MUST LISTEN

  I don't think she wants to.

  It gives me another electric shock.

  Stop fucking doing that.

  I drop it, so it's dangling from the headphones I've slung around my neck. The fleshy bit under my thumb is all red from where it's shocked me. I still can't believe this is happening. It can't be talking to me. I'm way behind the times if this is what technology can do these days.

  YOU MUST TRY YOU MUST TRY YOU MUST TRY YOU MUST TRY

  Fuck sake, I pull the box back up towards me, any ideas?

  Jesus, I'm talking to it now. Is this what happens when you finally lose it?

  I can hear the voice from the headphones shouting at me. 'You must try' on repeat, like a self-help tape gone wrong.

  I turn round and pull the door of the phone box open again. This time I speak before she has a chance to.

  'Eh, would you like to listen to my MP3 player?'

  'No, you fucking perv, did I not tell you to leave me alone.'

  'Aye, you did, but you look upset, eh? And I thought it might help if…'

  'Hey, mate, what are you playing at? You alright, hen? Want us to take care of him for you?'

  A couple of lads have been outside one of the pubs having a fag; I didn't realise they were watching me.

  'I was only checking to see if she was okay, that's all.'

  I back away from the phone box.

  'Aye, well, she told you where to go, didn't she?'

  Gorgie Road is still pretty busy, despite the lack of football fans heading to and from Tynecastle. How dodgy must I look? I've not got much of a defence either. Why were you harassing an upset school girl? Well, m'lud, my MP3 player told me to. No way, fuck this for a bag of soldiers. I wind the headphones around the MP3 player and stick the whole lot inside my jacket pocket. I get about ten yards along the road when there's the most almighty pain in my chest.

  Fucking hell. I'm having a heart attack. I double over and grab onto my knees for support. The MP3 player slips out of my jacket pocket and bounces off the pavement. It's going fucking mental, vibrating against the concrete; I half expect a crater to start forming underneath it.

  The voice from the headphones is so loud I can hear it from where they're lying on the ground, the volume has been turned way, way up.

  No. I don't want to get beaten up. This is all in my head. I'm imagining this. It's not real.

  MUSTLISTENSHEMUSTLISTENSHEMUSTLISTEN

  No, I'm going home.

  Trackman You are the Trackman You are the Trackman

  I'm the Trackman.

  I'm the Trackman.

  What does that even mean?

  Trackman You are the Trackman You are the Track

  Something stops me. I've never been anything in my life before and now I'm being told I'm the Trackman. I don't even know what the fuck that means, but I think I can make a difference today. Me. I can make a difference. I can be the Trackman. Fucking hell, anything's got to be better than being fucking Davie Watts.

  Okay. I accept. I pick up the player and head back towards the phone box. As I get closer the voice becomes softer and the vibrating slows. I can't be imagining this. It's real. I'm sure it is.

  The guys outside the pub have gone back inside. I don't know why I'm risking it, going back to the phone box like this, but something is telling me it's all good. I can help.

  The girl is still sitting inside. She's pulled her knees right up to her chest and is hugging them as she buries her face out of sight. She's wearing cut-off jeans with stripey tights on underneath. Her ankles are super skinny: sparrow legs. She looks up as I open the door for the third time, but doesn't say anything as I squat down in front of her on my haunches.

  'Are you okay?'

  'Do I look okay? Leave me alone.'

  'I'm just trying to help, honestly.'

  'You can't help.'

  'Go and just listen to this MP3 player for a second, and then I'll go. I promise.'

  'How come?'

  'To be honest I've no idea, but I think it might be good for you if you do.'

  'If you're some dodgy peedo, I swear to God I'll scream the place down.'

  'I'm not, honestly, look I'll stand out here, I won't be anywhere near you, eh?'

  She nods at me, and I hand her the headphones which she puts on. I stand up and push the door closed, hold the MP3 player in my hands. It doesn't do anything.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  I'm just about to open the door and apologise for being such a dick, when I feel pins and needles in my hands. I squeeze the MP3 player to try and stop the tingling, and the LCD screen lights up. It's playing her a song.

  Green Day Good Riddance (Time of Your Life) by Gre

  I watch her face through one of the grubby panes of glass. Her eyes glance up at me. She thinks I'm a twat; she's going to take the headphones off.

  I'm wrong. She closes her eyes and leans her head back, resting against the wall underneath the phone. The handset is hanging down and swings in front of her face.

  The player is warm in my hands, as if I'm cradling a mug of tea. There's a glow coming from inside the phone box. It's like one of those glow-worm toys that all the lassies used to have in primary school. You squeezed the worm's tummy and its face would glow fluorescent yellow. You had to charge them up by holding them next to a light bulb. When the teacher went out of the room, all the lassies would be up on top of the desks, holding their glow-worms up towards the strip lights.

  Sammy Lucas is having the shittest day ever.

  I'd been all over trying to find a phone box. It was your fault that Mum had my phone in the first place. A sixty-quid phone bill, all because your stupid parents had decided to move to England. The door of the phone box was really fucking heavy too, like someone was inside pulling against me. Inside it smelt of piss and beer but I didn't care. I wanted to speak to you.

  Sammy Lucas is sitting inside a phone box, crying.

  I put my coins in, but at first they came right through, and I was, like, for fuck sake, the phone's broken. But then I did that trick you taught me on the school vending machines, where you hold the coin at an angle and then sort of flick it into the slot.

  Brrr Brrr

  Brrr Brrr

  Brrr Brrr

  Brrr Brrr

  The ringtone was so retro, like my gran's ancient telephone that you still have to spin the dial on.

  Sammy Lucas thinks Craig Devlin is a complete fuckwit.

  I wish you hadn't answered.

  I hung up on you and hit the phone off the wall. I didn't want to leave the phone box, so I just sat there.

  Sammy Lucas has just been dumped.

  Then this random wearing a Virgin Megastore t-shirt opened the door, and at first I was all, like, fuck off, but he was kind of hot in a David-Tennant-Dr-Who kind of way, so I let him in.

  Sammy Lucas feels so bad she couldn't care less about some weirdo.

  He played me our song. The stuttered guitar at the start, like Billie-Joe is struggling to find the right notes, or just struggling to start the song. At first I didn't think I could bear to listen to it, but then his voice kicked in and I was back at the SECC, back at the Green Day concert. I could feel the crowd around me. Billie-Joe was singing about photographs and memories, and it was like you were right there in the phone box with me.

  Sammy Lucas is still buzzing from the Green Day concert. Your hair was all stuck to your face with sweat, and I could smell the stiff, newness of the t-shirt you'd bought at the merch stand. When Billie-Joe started singing that song, you took my hand, and I told you that you were hotter than Billie-Joe, even though it was a lie, and then somehow we were kissing.

  I could feel your piercing against my lips. You were right there with me, kissing me in the
phone box, and it was like you were kissing me for the first time and kissing me goodbye all at the same time. The lump inside me started to break and melt, and I knew that whoever the stupid bitch was it didn't matter. This was always going to be our song, and whenever you heard it you'd always be reminded of me. You'd have to think of me when you heard it. You wouldn't be able to help yourself. Sammy Lucas had the time of her life.

  The glow disappears and the MP3 player is still. The lassie pushes the door open with her feet, and hands me back the headphones. Her fingernails are chipped with black nail polish and I can't stop staring at them.

  What the fuck just happened? I'm all in a daze. I feel really weird. Like I'm not really here. I can't stop staring at her fingernails. I close my eyes and the chipped, black shapes are still there. Floating in front of me. I step from one foot to the other, stamping down on the pavement to check it's still there.

  One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg, one nod of the head.

  Solid ground under my feet.

  I'm here. I'm awake. Did that really just happen? Did it just play that lassie a song? Fucking hell, I must be going mad, I'm hallucinating.

  I pinch myself. Twice. Then once again for luck.

  I feel so fuck, I can't even describe it. Amazing, but like I'm not really here. I can't feel my legs, it's a standing-up-blowjob kind of a feeling. A knee-trembler. I'm ready to collapse but the warmth that's flowing through me is keeping me upright.

  'How did you ken?' the lassie asks.

  'What?'

  'How did you ken to play Green Day? That's our song.'

  I look down at the MP3 player lying motionless in my hands.

  'I'm the Trackman.'

  9

  Song 2

  He'd meant to text from the pub to say he'd be late, but he couldn't get a signal. He went outside to text, but she followed, distracted him.

  Davie dropped the orange juice.

  I'M HIDING OUT at the cemetery. I've spent the last hour or so reading to Lewey but I've read enough for today.

  Now I'm just sitting with him. I'm not ready to go home. Not yet.

  I can't go to Susan's again after being here. Not twice in a row. She'll get suspicious. Think I'm going under again. Make me phone Dr Richmond. Phone Dr Richmond for me.