Hymn From A Village

by Nigel Bird

  “Hear the one about the dead copper?” The guy shook his head.

  Vincent was pleased with the way he was handling things. When the others got wind of his performance, they’d give him the respect he deserved. Leave him alone for a while.

  “Says in your file that it took a helicopter and four cars to catch up with you.”

  “That’s right.” Vince was proud of that. He might have gone down, but nobody could say he caved in.

  “You can run.”

  “Guess so.”

  Tweed sank into his chair and relaxed.

  In the end, he had to acknowledge that he owed Tweed everything.

  Five times a week they had him training.

  Soon broke the Scottish prisons’ record for all events up to 5000m.

  Wasn’t long until he was smashing British prison records, too.

  Earned him a special diet and extra time out of the cell.

  And that’s when McAfferty made his interest known.

  Two years to the London Olympics and Great Britain needed a golden boy. Better still, a rags to riches tale. Would give the home crowd something to cheer about. Might even help the country out of the doldrums.

  “100m suits you best. Put all your eggs in that basket, you might just hatch yourself a gold medal.”

  It wasn’t as if he had any choice in signing the contract for the running shoes. If he didn’t Wallis and Gromit would have made sure that the only events he’d be in would be wheelchair races.

  The money from the deal was enough to keep him clean when he got out. He even managed to keep up with his training.

  Soon he was running for the Harriers. Bagged the national record and the Olympic qualifying time at his first event.

  After that there was no stopping his bandwagon.

  Inside the stadium, the atmosphere crackled.

  Vincent listened in for a moment, took something of it for savouring later and then blocked the whole lot out.

  It was time to focus.

  A jog and a couple of sharp bursts freed his body and his mind.

  His legs had never felt better.

  The heats had been a stroll. Nobody got close. Meant he was fresh.

  Ronnie came over and rubbed his shoulders, pressing in his thumbs like he was trying to pop out his eyes.

  “Focus, focus, focus,” Vincent heard, then jammed in his earphones and pressed play on the MP3.

  The 1812 overture wasn’t everyone’s fix, but nobody needed to know what he listened too.

  Reminded him of Father Anthony who took mass at the boys’ home, the only adult there who even pretended to give a fuck about him and Billy.

  Anthony ran the football.

  They had the worst team in the whole of Glasgow, but the best fighters.

  The father played them Beethoven before every match. “Fill your hearts with this, boys,” he’d say, “a message from the Good Lord himself.” Made bugger all difference to the scores, though they always believed they would win.

  Behind the starting line, Vincent stripped down to his red, white and blue and looked around.

  The crowd looked like the drawings he did as a kid, thousands of round circles filling the spaces in the stands.

  A javelin thrower ran up to throw.

  Vincent watched the spear fly through the air, its tail wagging like a dog’s. There was a collective intake of breath as it fell beyond the white line in the distance. Awesome.

  Cheers erupted over the track. The thrower waved and jumped. Wrapped himself up in a flag. One of the Eastern European ones that Vincent couldn’t identify. He ran to someone in the front row. Must have been one hell of a throw.

  When things died down, the starter called them to their marks.

  Run at the B of the Bang people used to say.

  Billy and Vincent practised that all the time. Never knew when a quick take-off was going to get them out of trouble. Got them noticed by a couple of the bigger lads - they put them in touch with some mates of theirs.

  Ended up giving them jobs down at the Red Road Estate.

  There wasn’t much to it, really.

  As look-outs, they spent most of the days bored out of their skulls, watching the entrances for coppers and rivals or anyone who looked like they were up to no good.

  Soon as they got wind that something wasn’t right, they bombed across to the dealers and everything shut down in seconds.

  Watching them covering their tracks always impressed the boys. It was the sort of thing that needed teaching in school. Like it should lead to a qualification in leadership or something.

  Getting a good start meant everything then, just like it meant all in the Olympic final.

  “Visualise,” he imagined his coach saying as they rocked forward on the line. Didn’t need to tell anyone he imagined the arrival of the flashing lights at the entrance to a slum.

  He was out of the blocks before anyone else. Took a metre out of the field right then and there. His legs felt good. His lungs were full. Now all he needed was to pick things up and get into the perfect groove.

  Picking up speed was essential in their next career.

  The drugs game paid, but not enough to buy the gear the boys in the home were wearing.

  By working as a two man operation they could work the hours that suited and share all the profits.

  First time he did it, Vincent’s heart pumped like a hammer. He leant against a wall on Buchanan Street, waited till he was happy with the target and set off.

  Most important thing was timing.

  Didn’t want to pick up too early or he might have missed. Too late and he was fucked.

  Billy had identified the woman.

  Mid-thirties, Vincent guessed. Kind of pretty and enough flash around her wrists and neck to blind a bat.

  Off he went.

  The bag, hung loosely at her shoulder, was soon in his grasp. His fingers clutched the leather and pulled. The momentum carried him into a sprint like a race car sliding smoothly through the gears.

  The shouts behind him faded quickly as he put distance between him and them.

  Focussing on avoiding benches and flower boxes, he soon disappeared from the main drag and off through the warren of backstreets that was home.

  That’s what Vincent pictured as his legs and arms found their rhythm, a lady, a bag and a purse full of cash.

  After winning only a silver medal in the European championships, McAfferty and Ronnie decided they needed the help of a sports’ psychologist. Made the journey to England to find the best they could get hold of.

  Professor Dave Bell had seen his beloved Manchester United though thick and thin. Hit the dizzy heights of World Club Champions with them. Couldn’t get better advice anywhere.

  Vincent didn’t see the need.

  The university guy might be able to spell ball, but he was sure he hadn’t a clue about how to kick one.

  They shook hands across the table. Reminded Vincent of Mr Tweed.

  Professor Bell had a beard. Stroked it a few times before speaking, then cleared his throat.

  “If you were a fruit, Vincent,” he began, “would you see yourself as an orange, an apple or a banana?”

  “Who the fuck you calling a fruit?”

  The table wasn’t broad enough to stop the fists making contact. Three good swings and Professor Bell was on the floor.

  If it hadn’t been for Wallis and Gromit stepping in like they did, who knows what mess he’d have made.

  The splatters of blood looked to Vincent like the blots the prison therapists made him look at. He wondered what the psychologist would see in them when he came round.

  As it turned out, there was no damage done. The professor never spoke to the press about the incident and never put in a charge.

  Vincent figured that McAfferty had a way of persuading people that seemed to win over even the most stubborn characters. Wondered if it had been those same powers that had seen his main rivals pull out from the games one after anothe
r.

  All he could see was the lane he was running in, stretching before him like a tunnel through a mountain.

  His arms and legs pumped for all they were worth.

  It was the time he felt free. Free of it all. The past behind, the world a dream, the wind whistling in his ears as if he had them pressed up to a pair of conches.

  Like the last time he and Billy ran from the home, bags over their shoulders and life opening out before them like a river emptying into the sea.

  Shame it hadn’t worked out the way they expected.

  It was Father Anthony who made their mind up for them.

  Vincent was taking a shower after being sent off during a match. Wore his swimming trunks in the shower-room as if everyone else was there.

  Last thing he expected to see was the good father paddling in with his feet bare.

  “The referee was a fool, son,” he said. “Don’t let a little sending off get to you, now”.

  Vincent couldn’t have cared less about the referee or the fight. Wasn’t as if it was the first time.

  He stood and put his face in the water, let it run into his mouth and trickle out again.

  “Let me put the hand of God upon you, son. Let me...”

  “What the fuck?”

  It wasn’t the hand of God that was in his trunks, Vincent was pretty sure of that.

  Slamming his forearm into the priest’s jaw, he sent him flying onto his backside. Pressed the button on all the showers and got the fuck out of there.

  Telling Billy might have been a mistake. His brother had a temper as short as a match.

  But Billy kept his head together. Decided they should leave.

  They were making enough money on snatches to look after themselves. Nobody was going to feel up his little brother ever again.

  “Everything you’ve got,” Ronnie would shout at him at training. “One hundred and ten per cent.”

  Though he couldn’t read to save his life, Vincent knew his numbers all right. Knew you couldn’t give more than you had, that 110% was just more bollocks.

  “And run through that line like it isn’t even there.”

  The line was coming close. Vincent could sense it, but not see it. His thoughts were in a different place.

  Billy should never have gone after a man of the cloth. The green half of Glasgow was never going to let a thing like that pass, even if it was done by one of their own.

  Maybe if he hadn’t chopped off his cock and left it on the altar, they might have let it go. Dropping his balls in the font probably didn’t help.

  Neither of them knew the men that came after them.

  Mid thirties, big and stupid looking. Not the sort to be messed with.

  “Billy fucking Gallagher, you’re dead.”

  It was like the B of the bang all over again.

  They ran their lungs out. Headed for the river hoping they could lose them.

  Vincent could tell Billy was falling behind, but kept going full pelt.

  Saw a boat pulling away from its dock. An easy jump and they were clear. Threw himself on deck and rolled over to take a look.

  Billy, almost there, reached out. No way Vincent could stretch that far.

  The gun went off.

  Sent Billy sprawling.

  Collapsed face down.

  Didn’t so much as say goodbye.

  Vincent, dashing for the line, thought of Billy. Pictured him throwing himself forwards to the boat. Flying through the air and taking his hands, safe and sound and bound for glory.

  Sleeps With The Fishes

  Always felt sorry for Anne Frank.

  The way she lived. In hiding from those animals.

  And here we are, history repeating itself like we’ve learned nothing.

  It was Anne that gave me the idea.

  When you’re persecuted and in hiding, when there’s nothing to do but eat, listen to the radio, read and sleep, you might as well write it down. Sure, there’s little chance the pages will see the light of day and, sure, if I make it out alive no-one will pay a blind bit of attention, but don’t I win both ways? Get out of this mess, the prize will be the freedom itself. Fail and maybe I’ll be able to watch down from heaven and see my book piled high in the shops and filling whole window displays on the High Street.

  I say looking down from heaven, but you just don’t know that, do you? Depends who you believe. I was brought up Christian, see.

  Nowadays you’re more likely to think it ends at the bottom of the ocean. Instead of clouds to sit on you have the backs of turtles. You can watch the world at the angle of refracted-light, just like the pike in my school physics book.

  Don’t get it myself. The idea of hanging about in the sky was hard to swallow, especially after the physics book, but water? How the hell could all the souls that have ever been fit into the oceans? It’s ridiculous – at least the sky goes on forever. Mind you, all the people on the planet could fit into the waters of Loch Ness, you can sort of see it and you have to keep an open mind.

  Open mind? The very idea makes me chuckle.

  If you can be bothered, you’ll find it all here. Don’t just chuck it out. Hold on till sanity returns and you’ll be able to claim the rights.

  Rights? There’s another joke. To them right’s just another direction.

  You’ll find a photo of me in the shoebox. There’s something melancholic about it. It’s the distant look of the eyes that does it. People never say my eyes are soft or beautiful or anything like that. They’re a bit slanted and close together if anything. They comment on the faraway look though. My wife used to say I was never with her, was always somewhere else, but she was wrong. I was always there, right in the moment.

  I miss her. Missed her as soon as they took her away.

  I’ve been hiding in this basement for the last eighteen months on account of a cruel twist of fate. It’s six paces from wall to wall at its widest. What natural light there is comes through the gaps in the floorboards above. It’s a good job carpets went out of fashion or I wouldn’t even have that. An un-shaded bulb hangs from the middle of the ceiling, one of the old-fashioned kill-the-planet kind, sixty Watts. I switch it on when I need to read or write.

  Dimitri, the owner of the flat, hasn’t been home for two days. If he’s not back by nightfall I’m going out to see what I can find. The rations have almost gone.

  The way I salivate when I hear the jangle of the keys, you’d think I was one of Pavlov’s dogs. At times like this, I wish I could open the hatch from this side, that the Victorian trunk covering it up wasn’t so heavy. Reckon I could push it over, but I’m not going to do that until it’s a real emergency in case I do any damage. They don’t make them like that anymore.

  If only my mother had gone into labour that little bit earlier, had eaten a curry or had one of those special teas, they might not have had to go for the caesarean. One day earlier, that’s all I needed. Could be out there now at the top of the pile. My sin, to be born on the 21st March.

  Aquarius.

  One day wrong. Could have been Piscean instead of a water carrier.

  Jade, my wife, was six months out.

  The Leos were the first to go.

  She said she’d write and I waited, just like thousands of others.

  When it got to a year, something in me stopped expecting. Don’t suppose any of us were waiting any longer. We had enough on our plates to give it much thought. It’s the living need looking after, right?

  I heard about the camp from a guy in the Leighton Arms. Said a friend of his had escaped. From one of the Scottish Isles he said, Skye or Mull or somewhere. The way he told it, they’d turned the whole place into a prison.

  At first, island life was OK. After a week the food was gone and not long after half the people came out in a rash, bright red, the colour of strawberries. Their glands swelled up, their temperatures soared and within days they were dead. That’s when this guy made a break for it, swam a couple of miles to the mainland. Wasn’t
going to hang around and wait for them to give him the pox. That’s the way I was told it, anyway.

  Didn’t want to believe it, course I didn’t, but it sounded right, the kind of thing they’d do to us, you know.

  I try not to think about her, but I’ve too much time on my hands to do much else.

  I do my exercises, one hundred laps then my back stretches so I don’t end up with a stoop. A hundred sit-ups and as many press-ups as I can manage and that’s me finished. I do them when I wake up in the morning, before my afternoon nap and when I smell the food cooking.

  If I ever get out, I’ll have a body fit for Hollywood. Imagine Kirk Douglas in his prime.

  Last time I was outside it was winter. It’s the one flaw in the ID scheme. They’ve got us all tattooed on our earlobes so we can’t get away with it most of the time.

  I knew people who sold their homes to pay them to get a water sign.

  If I’d known then, I’d have sold mine too. Got me one of those sixty nines or a wobbly H instead of these green zig-zags.

  It’ll be months until it’s cold enough for them to give permission for hats and hoods again. Soon as they do, I’ll be out there sucking up as much fresh air as I can.

  On a good day Dimitri brings down the paper to read. It’s full of crap, but better than nothing.

  If we’d paid more attention to the press in the first place, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess now.

  The catalyst to it all was a piece in ‘Astrology Now’, one of those collections of random information that seem to matter these days. Turned out that forty-seven per cent of the government were water signs. The figure for the whole of parliament was even more against the odds: sixty-five per cent were either Cancer, Pisces or Scorpio. Anyone with a grasp of probability knows that was a little unusual, but anyone with a basic grasp of common sense would have known it was a piece of nonsense.

  How the chancellor came across the information is anybody’s guess, but she used it in her blog to poke fun at the opposition.

  That should have been the end of it.

  It might have disappeared without notice had it not coincided with the vote on the war.

  There were enough rebels to put the result in doubt and without support from the opposition the Prime Minister would go down with his hobby horse. The chancellor seized her opportunity. Sending messengers scurrying around corridors, wheeling and dealing with anyone who would listen, she called upon them to rise up and be counted, test the waters as it were.