Farewell Tour of a Terminal Optimist

by John Young

  “Connor, stop pissing about,” he shouts. “We don’t have the time.”

  I nearly fall and Skeates grabs me. He lifts me off and down the few feet onto the side pipe all in one go. I begin to think he may have been telling the truth when he told me he treated me with kid gloves at school. He’s beside me even before I can worry about the strength of the wobbly pipe. Soon enough we’re in the alley below.

  “This way.” He leads us along the passage to another wall. I was right: we’re trapped. I look at the wall thinking there’s no way I could get up there in any circumstances. Skeates wedges himself between the wall and a metal downspout and edges up to the first side pipe. He reaches down to me without saying anything, so I grab his hand. He pulls me up to him. We do this three times to the top. Then we run along a flat roof to the edge, where he lowers me down the other side using the same method in reverse. With each lift or lowering, my feet kick up behind me. Almost falling all the way, steadied by Skeates. I’m giggling nervously, but the giggles stop when I hear a shout from behind.

  “Hoy you two, stop!”

  I see a man leaning out of a window on the top floor.

  “Come on,” shouts Skeates. “Sod him!”

  I can’t reply; I’m too puffed to answer, so I follow him. We duck behind a small building, squeeze through the side of a fence and out into a park. He keeps going, dragging me by the scruff of my jacket, until we’re at the far side.

  “Happy days,” he says, as we find safety behind a big shrub. “Take a break mate, get your breath back. You’ll need it.” He looks around the leaves. “All clear, but we need to move.”

  The thrill of the escape and the potential chase have me all grinning and excited. “That was awesome.”

  “That was the easy bit. Now we have to get off the island.” Skeates laughs at himself and I keep grinning.

  Then I think of something. “Skeates?”

  “Yeah,” he says looking behind him, just in case of pursuers.

  “Why didn’t we just run out the front door? It’s not like there are armed guards, just a wee receptionist lady.”

  He grins. “Come on, Connor. Where would the fun be in that?”

  “Psycho!” I say.

  “You’ve seen nothing yet. First we have to visit the Slots-o-Fun cash machine.”

  My grin drops. Thoughts of the Trolls and Soapy leave me feeling cold. My chest is still heaving with the effort of escape and his intended raid on the Trolls’ arcade sends my heartbeat through the roof. I don’t reply. I seriously wonder about our chances of making it through the day.

  “What’s your worry, Connor, we’re off to see your dad!”

  My worry is that I’ve just run away from a legal hearing with the school nut-job, who I don’t trust, we’re about to rob some even bigger nut-jobs, and we’re stuck on a small island. I don’t tell him that. Instead I grin at him and say, “Smashing. Let’s get going!”

  Chapter 9

  Soapy

  We scamper down to Slots-o-Fun straight from our escape. Paranoia has set in, causing me to constantly look behind for the police. I seriously contemplate leaving Skeates to his own devices. I hate to admit it, but he frightens me and I don’t think my interests are uppermost in his mind. There’s the worry, too, that he might be setting me up for something. He is a schemer after all.

  Skeates tells me to hurry up and to stop acting like a maggot. Slots-o-Fun is a few streets down from the harbour and when we arrive we pause outside. I’m thinking of ways to avoid the place and Skeates is thinking of ways to knock it off.

  Weakening drizzle adds to the atmosphere of doom. Skeates looks unconcerned while I wrap my jacket around me like I’m an old woman. My favourite feelings of being near the sea, in the mist, are swamped by the dread I now have of confrontation with multiple big people with bad reps.

  “You sure about this?” I say.

  Skeates shrugs.

  “I don’t want to mess with the Trolls,” I try to keep the whine out of my voice. “Come on, there must another way of getting dosh.”

  “That’s not the point. I’m only taking what’s mine. Anyway, the Trolls are brain-dead mirror-watchers.” He does a funny walk wobbling from side to side and raising his shoulders. “I’ve been dooooown the gym,” he drones and laughs at his impression.

  I laugh too, through my nerves.

  “Dumbbell curls don’t make you hard,” he adds.

  “Yeah, but they’re still bigger than I am.”

  “Aye right, so was the Titanic.” He says this like his mind is on other things, rolling his shoulders about. “And what about Goliath? Turned out he was a right fanny.”

  “So was Atlas – Heracles sure showed him.” I say.

  “That’s the spirit!” he laughs.

  “Ever been in a locked room with a mosquito?” I ask.

  “Eh?” then he smiles as he gets it. “See, easy.” But he senses that I’m still worried, so he turns to me, focused. “OK, let me sum it up for you.” He looks me in the eyes. “They’re nuts, no doubt about it, but I’m the real fruitcake – with sloppy icing and a big candle on the top, OK?”

  I don’t disagree, even though thoughts of the Troll Twins are freaking me out. Skeates is just a schoolboy. I stare at him, but I can see that he’s unconcerned. He always took on bigger people at school. His look frightens me as he builds for confrontation.

  “Connor,” he says, “the Trolls are all talk, teen wannabees. A few years down the gym downing protein shakes has turned them into deformed mutants, and in any case, they might not even be here. The Trolls only come to collect the takings on Thursday, and this is Friday. And Soapy from Shetland is a useless thug. So man up, and come on.”

  “Didn’t Soapy chib that boy Jenson last year?” I ask, feeling negative despite being impressed with his knowledge of the competition.

  “Jenson is a goat, now stop pissing about.” He turns and looks me in the eye. “Don’t forget: no money, no trip to Shotts to see your dad. So get with it.”

  I get with it and turn again to the arcade.

  “Why do they call him Soapy?” I ask.

  “’Cause he’s a clarty, shower-shy minger.” Skeates looks at me as if I’m simple in the head. He sees that I’m not laughing. “They call him Soapy because he’s soft as bubbles, Fairy Liquid! OK?”

  With great purpose he strides into the road and I follow behind, dragging my feet. Halfway across it occurs to me again that this whole escapade with Skeates could be a wind up. That Skeates has set me up for a kicking in the arcade. Why should I suddenly trust him after all that happened in school? Trust can’t be built on one dust-up and a conversation in a lobby! I look around for alternatives to following Skeates to certain death. Suddenly, he stops and I bump into him. We’re at the door.

  Surely he wouldn’t go to such extreme lengths to trick me? He could beat me up anytime, so why go to all this bother? It just doesn’t make sense. Somehow, despite years of evidence to the contrary at school, I don’t believe he’s lying now.

  He stays put and I wonder if he’s chickening out. I gladly turn to leave. He doesn’t turn with me; he stands and huffs a few times, big deep breaths like doctors tell you to do when they listen to your chest. He rolls his shoulders back and forward and makes weird noises pushing air through his teeth.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Suiting up.” He continues shoulder rolling.

  “More like screwed up, mate,”

  “I’m not radge all the time, unlike you, Crazy Connor. I need to, you know, get with it – act up, get into character, that sort of thing.” He always seems confident and I wish some of it would rub off on me.

  He huffs some more, puffs his chest out and pulls his shoulders back. It may be my imagination, but it works. The guy really seems to grow in stature, like the Hulk, twice as broad as before, twice as menacing. I know it’s only my perception, but I’m convinced. I hope it works on Soapy.

  “Let’s go,” he says.
>
  “But I don’t have a suit.”

  “You don’t need one. Believe me, Taytie, you’re as scary as they come.”

  I don’t feel scary – I feel scared. I follow him anyway; limping along, irritated at his use of ‘Taytie’ after I told him I hate it. Why am I following him? I try to justify this madness to myself. It’s exciting. He clearly believes that we’ll walk out of here with his money, leaving the thugs with their tails between their legs. That’s something I want to see – want to be a part of. His confidence is infectious. Plus, without his money we won’t get far and, now we’ve taken the first step of legging it, we have to keep going. If we don’t then I won’t get to see Dad. So come on, get a grip, Connor!

  Nevertheless, I’m still wetting myself when Skeates finally kicks the door in. It crashes against the wall making a great ‘I am coming to do you harm’ noise. The latch keeper swings and falls to the floor as we pass. There’s a mustiness to the room, a burnt-fuses type smell of badly maintained electrics. It’s dark, lit mainly by the flashing lights of the gambling machines. The deeper we go into the flickering cave, the stronger the smell of cheap aftershave.

  Four teens hang over the back of a poker machine watching their mate lose his cash. I recognise them from the year above at school. If Skeates knows them, he doesn’t show it. They watch his arrival with nervous interest.

  “Urggh, what’s that smell, Connor?” asks Skeates as we reach the change counter. Inside this area is another door, a frosted Perspex one, which is shut.

  I don’t answer Skeates’s question because I’m distracted by the homemade tattoos on the face of the skinhead sitting behind the Perspex window. I’ve never met Soapy before, only heard stories about a knife he carries. I wonder if this is him. The security screen seems unnecessary as the door to the counter area is lying open and I don’t think anyone is likely to give this hard-case any guff. Skeates clearly doesn’t agree and I take a step back. Someone’s phone is linked to a speaker on top of a fruit machine, blaring out Biffy Clyro, ‘Bubbles’ at a deafening volume, hence the lack of action from the dodgy skinhead when Skeates kicked his front door in.

  “What’s that smell?” Skeates asks.

  “What smell?” says the skinhead.

  “Like rank perfume, it’s bouncing,” says Skeates.

  “That’s me Blue Stratos aftershave. Lassies love it,” he says.

  “You smell like a polecat, Baldy.”

  Baldy’s face reddens and he jumps out of the office, looking keen for some early aggro. And he gets it. Skeates has Baldy on his back, holding his nose, in a jiffy. Skeates turns to the wasting teens, “You lot, piss off.”

  They piss off sharpish.

  The speaker is still blaring out Biffy.

  “‘Bubbles.’” Skeates smiles. “Talking of which, where’s Soapy?”

  OK, this isn’t Soapy.

  Skeates grabs the nearest fruit machine and tips it over, making the phone and speaker fall to the floor. The phone smashes, Biffy are silenced, leaving only the hum of dodgy electrics. Skeates drags the heavy machine over to Baldy who, sensing squashy danger, raises his eyes back in a panic towards the Perspex door. No sign of life behind it. Skeates looks down at Baldy again and points towards the door. Baldy nods.

  “Right, Baldy! Do you want to walk out or be carried?”

  “What?”

  Skeates points to the exit, the way we came in. “What’s out there?”

  “Eh, what?” he stammers.

  “What’s out there?” asks Skeates.

  “What? Dunno.”

  “Your claggy arse!” Skeates lifts him up like he’s nothing and shoves him through the exit. Then he turns towards the office and the closed screen door behind.

  I stand concrete still and stare at the door Soapy is supposed to be behind.

  Skeates approaches the counter area quietly at first, tiptoeing behind the screen. He reaches the closed door and listens. He shrugs his shoulders so I presume he can’t hear anything. Then I jump as he smashes it in with his boot. It swings halfway, thumps against something I can’t see, swings back. Skeates laughs and kicks the door again, then dives through and grabs hold of a heavy object and drags it out. This is Soapy, I guess, with his trousers round his ankles. He has headphones over his ears, those big ones that make sensible people look like dobbers. Skeates rips them off and throws them into the darkness of the office.

  “Soapy, you’re stinking!” says Skeates.

  Soapy struggles on the floor, still trying to pull up his jeans.

  “Now Soapy, where’s my money?” Skeates yells.

  “You’re supposed to be locked up,” says Soapy.

  Skeates laughs.

  Soapy is still squirming about on the floor, trying to pull up his trousers. Skeates kicks him over so he rolls onto his back. Skeates bends down to root around in Soapy’s pockets and pulls out his knife. He pops it into his pocket.

  “The Trolls will kill you, Skeates.” He says it like Skeates is going to worry about it.

  Skeates replies with a laugh. “I’m not going to ask you again. Where’s my cash?”

  “It’s not here.”

  “Did I ask where it’s not?” Skeates kicks Soapy over again. “I asked where it is.”

  Soapy begins to gain control of his pants with his good hand. “Alright! Skeates, alright. They took most of it to their house. The rest is in there, under the till.”

  “Take a look, Taytie.”

  The name annoys me, but I hobble into the office and root about anyway. I chuck a few receipts and empty drinks cans onto the floor. I see a cash tin at the back, pull it out, turn the key and open it.

  “What’s inside?”

  I count the cash. “One hundred and eighty quid and a few coins,” I tell him, knowing he’ll go ape at this. He was hoping for at least a few grand.

  He doesn’t say anything, just lifts his boot.

  “Aw, no way Skeates,” I shout.

  Skeates looks at me with ‘So what?’ written all over his face.

  “Just leave him, come on.”

  “Looks like it’s your lucky day, Soapy.” He glares down at him. “Tell those Trolls I’m coming for them.”

  Skeates turns and leaves, with me bringing up the rear.

  “You aren’t thinking about going after the Trolls, are you Skeates?” I say, trying to keep up.

  “I’m no hangin round for no one. But you’re right, the Trolls will be after you and me. They won’t be happy boys when Baldy and Soapy tell them that we just cleaned out their weekly takings, will they? The polis will be hooting their blue lights any minute about us two legging it from custody. We need to get going if we’re going to make it to Shotts to see your dad. A hundred and eighty quid will get us a comfy place to stay, but we’ll need to find another cash machine soon.”

  I’m really beginning to hate his banking system and there’s something I don’t like about the sound of the ‘comfy place to stay’. In particular, I have grave concerns at his reference to ‘we’ when he talks about the Troll Twins and revenge. This implies a common denominator that involves terror and pain. Above all, one thing really riles me.

  “Stop calling me Taytie.”

  “Eh?” He turns to look at me.

  “Stop calling me Taytie, it really grates, y’know?”

  “Alright, I got it. Chill out! Today we go to see your dad,” he smiles and I relax.

  I’m about to persevere and have it out with him: how much I hate that name, how much it hurts; but suddenly his face drops and that insult doesn’t seem too important any more as I turn to see two big blond lookalikes turning the corner and waddling into Slots-o-Fun.

  “You’d better learn the art of speed, Connor, or we’re toast.”

  Chapter 10

  Two Ducks

  We nip round the corner and shuffle in and out of shop doorways like dodgy crims, keeping a lookout for the Trolls. Slots-o-Fun is in a back street that runs parallel with the main shopping stre
et. We cross it and head down towards the harbour. It’s a small town, but it seems big to me right now with the effort I’m making to keep up with Skeates.

  “Ferry goes in thirty minutes,” Skeates says as we look behind at the two giants marching down Keith Street. Their arms flap from side to side with the swaying movements of their bodies.

  “You said they wouldn’t be here today,” I complain between puffs.

  “Yeah well, am no their secretary. Come on, down here. If they find us you can say bye bye to your dad for keeps.”

  “They’re bigger than you said.”

  “Yeah, I told you they’d been daaaawn the gym. Look – they’re like two ducks.” He laughs and waddles like a muscle-bound duck.

  I don’t laugh, even though it’s funny.

  He leads me down the narrow close to the back of the ferry terminal. It’s another cold, dreich day and my boots slip on the damp pavement. The mist is clearing in fits and starts, patches of clear mixed with blobs of fog.

  “Tickets?” I say.

  “Naw, kids go free.” He keeps moving.

  I follow him across the street to stand, backs to a wall, staring at the fifty-metre open sprint to the access gate, not to mention the further twenty to the ferry.

  “We can’t run across there, it’d be like hare baiting.”

  “Aye, we’d be sitting ducks,” he laughs. “Quack quack.”

  I wait for Skeates to come up with a safer plan.

  “Run to the gate and up the car deck. Keep behind the lorries so the uniforms don’t see you. Once you’re on the boat, hide in the stairwell. Ready?”

  I shake my head, so much for a safe plan. “No.”

  “OK. One, two, three.”

  “What happened to ‘No’?” I ask.

  He turns to stare at me with steely eyes. “Here are the options: stay on the island with those two.” He points up the street to two knuckle-dragging, angry blond twins looming out of the mist. “Or you can come for a cruise. It’s up to you, Taytie.”