Just Duffy

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘Thanks, Mick. But I’m not completely cured yet. Another week the clinic said.’

  Hastily but reverently, like a jeweller putting diamonds in a safe, he pulled up his jeans and stuffed the precious thing away.

  ‘Duffy’s waiting,’ said Crosbie.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  In the living-room Duffy had set up a child’s blackboard on an easel. He had drawn a kind of map on it.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, as if he really thought he was a general about to brief his officers.

  It’s true though, thought Cooley, that we all live more in our imaginations than we do in the real world. There’s Mick dreaming of making well-off juicy widows happy in big soft beds. There’s Crosbie wondering if he should rape me first and then cut my throat, or do it the other way round. Here’s me thinking about them.

  ‘What about a drink?’ she asked. ‘There’s whisky, gin, and vodka.’

  ‘I could do with a beer,’ said Mick.

  ‘No drinking,’ said Duffy, sharply. ‘We must have clear heads.’

  ‘Is it all right if we smoke?’ she asked. ‘It’ll help to steady our nerves.’

  He nodded. ‘Give them ash-trays.’

  ‘Give them ash-trays yourself.’

  ‘Where are the ash-trays, Duffy?’ asked Crosbie. ‘I’ll get them.’

  Cooley did not trust his meekness.

  He fetched ash-trays from the sideboard. They had the name Caledonian Hotel on them.

  ‘Your mother smokes, doesn’t she, Duffy?’ asked Mick.

  Duffy nodded.

  Mick puffed happily. If Mrs Duffy liked smoking why shouldn’t she also like lying in bed with him?

  ‘Ready now, general,’ said Cooley.

  ‘Duffy doesn’t like you to call him general,’ said Crosbie, with one of his evil leers.

  ‘Then he shouldn’t act like one.’

  ‘You’re just being sarcastic.’

  ‘Take it easy, Cooley,’ said Mick. ‘We’re in Duffy’s house, remember. What do you want us to do, Duffy?’

  ‘That declaration of war on the town hall wall,’ said Duffy. ‘I did it.’

  ‘Johnny said it was you,’ said Mick. ‘I didn’t believe him.’

  ‘What declaration of war?’ asked Cooley. ‘When did you do it, Duffy?’

  ‘Last night, when you were asleep.’

  ‘I must have been sound. My God, you could have raped me and I wouldn’t have known. Maybe you did. What does it say, this declaration of war?’

  ‘It’s been scrubbed off,’ said Mick. ‘Tell her, Johnny.’

  Crosbie told her.

  ‘Jesus!’ was all she could say.

  ‘Those taking part in a war should know what they are fighting for,’ said Duffy.

  ‘You’ve said it,’ said Mick, nodding wisely. He scowled at Cooley. Just like a woman, he meant, giggling when men were talking seriously.

  ‘What are we fighting for, Duffy?’ she asked. ‘Free fags and free beer? Up the revolution.’

  ‘For truth and justice.’

  Again all she could say was ‘Jesus!’ Words like those, she knew, were heard with suspicion and distrust even if it was the Prime Minister saying them in Parliament. Here was Duffy, a dunce, saying them to a refugee from reform school recently cured of clap, a swan-killer, and a curly-haired penis. No wonder she was speechless, especially when the penis said, solemnly: ‘Me and Johnny are with you all the way, Duffy.’

  Duffy was staring at her with hate. She had never seen such a look on his face before. There was a change in him all right. Was it because Porteous had hurt his pride? Cooley’s own pride had been hurt a hundred times and she didn’t really hate anyone, not even Mrs Porteous, but then she had never had a message from God.

  ‘We know,’ Duffy was now saying, ‘that if the Russians and Americans stopped telling lies about each other and co-operated in peaceful activities instead of making nuclear bombs the world would be safer and happier. Forty million people die of hunger every year, while every day tons of food are wasted.’

  ‘I saw that on television,’ said Mick.

  Everybody had seen it on television, thought Cooley, but it had made no difference. ‘Are we going to fight the Russians and Americans?’ she asked.

  ‘Our war has to be fought here in Lightburn.’

  Mrs Porteous, thought Cooley, probably made donations to Save the Children.

  Suddenly she felt angry with Duffy. He didn’t give a damn for anybody, not even his mother. He did good deeds out of principle, not kindness. He had said he liked the man upstairs but that was because Ralston was dying. Hadn’t he once told her that the whole human race would destroy itself and deserved to?

  ‘What do you want us to do, Duffy?’ asked Mick.

  ‘Tonight we are going to break into the public library and tear a page out of as many books as we can in two hours.’

  Even Mick was aware of some incredibility and irrelevancy in such a proposal. ‘Is it a kind of competition, Duffy?’

  ‘Books contain lies,’ said Duffy, with a vehemence that surprised Cooley.

  He was wrong, too. Books contained imaginations or fantasies, which weren’t the same as lies. Everybody that read the silly story about the girl in the milliner’s who was really the daughter of a wealthy lord knew it was silly. They enjoyed it, especially if they were women, because their own lives were so dreary. Didn’t most people dream of winning the football pools? It did no harm.

  ‘Flockhart told us not to believe everything just because it was in print,’ said Mick.

  So even Mick had benefited from his education. Wonders would never cease.

  Cooley waited for Duffy to do the really difficult part of the trick, which was to explain how it was all symbolical.

  He shirked it, and began to talk about the plan drawn on the blackboard. ‘This is the window where we’ll get in. It’s a lavatory window.’

  ‘Is that symbolical?’ asked Cooley.

  ‘Won’t it be snibbed?’ That was Crosbie.

  ‘I took the snib off this afternoon.’

  ‘Smart work, Duffy,’ said Mick.

  ‘We’ll need a ladder,’ said Cooley.

  ‘If we stand on Mick’s shoulders we can reach it.’

  Mick hunched his shoulders to show how big and strong they were.

  ‘What about Mick?’ she asked. ‘Is he to stand on his own shoulders?’

  ‘Mick will stay outside, to help us down.’

  ‘Fuck it, Duffy, it’ll be freezing cold,’ said Mick.

  ‘I want you to go to Chuck’s and wait there.’

  ‘I’ve only got about 30p.’

  ‘I’ll give you a pound.’

  ‘You’re not frightened, Duffy,’ said Cooley. ‘After three cokes Mick will blab out everything.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her, Duffy. I can keep my mouth shut.’ He winked at Crosbie.

  Duffy didn’t notice but Cooley did. Mick wouldn’t go to Chuck’s but to Fat Annie’s.

  ‘We’ll gather the loose pages in black plastic bags,’ said Duffy.

  Crosbie took out a lighter and flicked it into flame. ‘They’ll make a good bonfire.’

  ‘No, Johnny. There must be no other damage, and nothing must be stolen.’

  Mick grinned. ‘It’s a funny war, Duffy, nothing to be damaged and nothing to be stolen.’

  ‘Why don’t we burn the place down?’ asked Crosbie. ‘Then the school. Then a shop or two.’

  Cooley couldn’t resist saying: ‘And Porteous’s factory.’

  ‘No,’ said Duffy. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Duffy,’ said Crosbie.

  ‘You’re the chief, Duffy,’ said Mick.

  Again they exchanged winks, and again Duffy did not notice.

  That he thought he could get this pair of freaks to behave with restraint showed that in spite of the accurate map, the careful plan, the confident speech, and the calm manner he really was a Babe in the Wood. Not yet, he had said. Did he
intend later to use them not only for arson but for murder too? Could she imagine him inciting them to burn down Mrs Porteous’s house, while Mrs Porteous and Margaret were in it? Yes, she could. She should be doing something to prevent it therefore. But what?

  ‘Why didn’t you bring big Molly, Mick?’ she asked.

  ‘She wanted to come. She wants to look after you, Duffy, while your mother’s away. I said it was all right by me.’

  ‘I’m leaving tomorrow night,’ said Cooley. ‘Tell her to come then. Duffy could do with some company.’

  ‘It’s for Duffy to say. What about it, Duffy?’

  Duffy was leering at Cooley in a way that reminded her of his disciple Crosbie.

  He’s asking me if I’d be jealous if Molly came here, she thought. Well, would I? Would I want him to suck my wee hard pears instead of her big bags of haggis? I love him, don’t I? But shouldn’t he be introduced to the joys of sex by somebody like her who’s all body and no brain. If his mind is inflamed and disordered by repressed desire, what better poultice than Molly’s big soft white loving body?

  ‘Sunday night, about eight,’ he said.

  After the shitty business in the church, thought Cooley.

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ said Mick, grinning.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Lightburn Public Library was a new brick building all on the one level for the convenience of the many infirm old ladies who used it. Its front looked on to a quiet street consisting mainly of the backs of shops. Behind it was a wasteland of whins, broom, nettles, and long grass. At that time of day Lightburn became a morgue, especially on a chilly wet night. It seemed to Cooley they could have played bagpipes without disturbing anyone.

  Leaving his hat and coat under a bush Crosbie went first. A practised shopbreaker, he climbed agilely on to Mick’s shoulders. The window was easily pushed open. Though it was small he quickly squeezed through, head-first.

  Cooley hoped he got his head stuck in the lavatory pan.

  But they soon heard him saying it was a piece of cake.

  It was then Cooley’s turn. Since, as well as small boobs, she had narrow shoulders and a skinny arse she had no difficulty in wriggling through, but as she descended on the other side one of her arms went into the pan, soaking her sleeve to the elbow. Never had she felt such a fool, not even when she had discovered she had gonorrhoea. She could have killed Crosbie for tittering.

  They heard Duffy repeat his instructions to Mick, who was to be back at five minutes to eleven.

  ‘Mick’ll not go to Chuck’s,’ whispered Crosbie. ‘He’ll go to Annie’s.’

  ‘Maybe Friday night’s somebody else’s turn,’ she said. ‘What does his mother say?’

  ‘Christ, Cooley, she doesn’t know. She’d cut off his balls if she did.’

  ‘Somebody should tell her then.’

  ‘Somebody will.’ Crosbie chuckled, as if he intended to be the clype himself.

  Cooley lit a cigarette.

  ‘Duffy said we weren’t to smoke.’

  ‘Duffy can go to hell.’

  ‘You shouldn’t talk like that about Duffy.’

  ‘You can go to hell too.’

  But when Duffy came through the window nimbly, with hardly a hair out of place, he at once ordered her to put out the cigarette.

  She was minded to mutiny.

  ‘Duffy said put it out.’

  She wouldn’t have admitted it but she was afraid of this little runt. Maybe one of his headaches was coming on. It was these according to Mick that made him homicidal. Also she still had to get the ten pounds from Duffy. So after a few defiant puffs she threw the cigarette into the lavatory pan.

  Duffy shone his torch. They saw it floating.

  ‘Take it out,’ he said.

  ‘Take it out yourself.’

  ‘Duffy said take it out,’ said Crosbie.

  Was it his knife that was prodding her in the back? She picked up the soaked cigarette. ‘Where will I put it?’

  ‘We should make you eat it,’ said Crosbie, chuckling.

  ‘Put it in your pocket,’ said Duffy.

  She had to do it. She had no confidence that he would be able to, or would want to, restrain his swan-killer.

  They went through the swing doors into the library.

  Duffy showed them what he wanted done. He took down a book, tore a page from the middle, dropped it into a black plastic bag, and then replaced the book. He did the same with three other books.

  Thinking of it it had seemed stupid, seeing it done it seemed stupider still.

  ‘Is that all, Duffy?’ asked Crosbie.

  ‘That’s all, Johnny. Just one page.’

  He allotted them their sections. Cooley’s was Romantic Fiction.

  Crosbie had already begun. He had been ordered out of the library several times. This was revenge, but what pleased him more was that he was obliging Duffy.

  For the first dozen or so books Cooley herself found some satisfaction in that what she was doing, though stupid, would give annoyance to Miss Purvis.

  Soon, however, she was imagining that she had done well at school and this was her working as a librarian. Her hair was tidily arranged and she was wearing sensible clothes and shoes. She was polite to the crabbed old cunts who grumbled because the books they wanted weren’t available. She was respectful to Miss Purvis. After work was over she would go dancing with David Martin. They were to be married and inherit the shop. They would be members of St Stephen’s church. Between the pages of her hymn-book she would keep leaves of lavender.

  Her reverie was interrupted. On the other side of the shelves Crosbie was whispering. Duffy, busy at the History Section, was out of hearing.

  ‘Cooley.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘There’s a money-box in the desk. Bluenose keeps the fines money in it.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘This is Friday. All the week’s fines will be in it. Maybe a whole month’s.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You want money to go to London. Here’s your chance to get some.’

  ‘The desk will be locked.’

  ‘That’s nothing. Force it open. I’ll lend you my knife.’

  She wanted nothing to do with that knife.

  ‘If you like I’ll do it for you.’

  ‘What about Duffy?’

  ‘You go and talk to him while I’m doing it.’

  ‘How will we get it out without him knowing?’

  ‘I’ll hide it up my jouks.’

  If Duffy found out he’d blame Crosbie.

  ‘All right, Johnny. I’ll go and talk to him.’

  On her way over to Duffy she paused to look out of the window. All she saw were garbage bins outside shops, some lamp-posts, and rain stotting on the street. It was very dreary. Yet she felt sad. She was going to London, nothing would stop her, but she had been born in Lightburn and though she had told herself and it too many times that she hated its guts she could not help feeling sorry that she was leaving it, perhaps for good.

  She stood beside Duffy as he tore a page out of book after book.

  ‘All you’re doing,’ she said. ‘is ruining books.’

  ‘You’ll never understand.’

  ‘It’ll break Bluenose’s heart.’ Unexpectedly she felt sympathy for the librarian. Purvis loved her books in the way that mothers loved their children. She was often seen clasping bundles of them to her breast.

  ‘They’ll think it was done by vandals,’ she said. ‘Weirdo vandals. Proper vandals would tear the books to pieces.’

  She thought she heard a click as Crosbie broke open the desk.

  ‘You didn’t tell them about breaking into the church,’ she said.

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet whether or not to do that myself.’

  So anointing hymn-books with shit was too sacred a task for sinners like her, Crosbie, and Mick.

  ‘Have you filled your bag yet?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I got tired.’


  ‘Well, you’ve had a rest.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  It was hard, she thought as she went back to her shelves, to keep your own sense of humour when you were dealing with someone who had absolutely none. What Duffy was doing now, and what he was going to do in the chruch tomorrow night, were comical, but he could not see that, any more than a blind man could see his own face. Purvis, Porteous, and Milne were like him. Laughing at other people and at yourself was necessary if you weren’t to become shut-in and desperate.

  ‘I’ve got it, Cooley,’ whispered Crosbie. ‘I haven’t opened it but it’s heavy. There could be pounds in it. It’s all yours.’

  ‘Thanks, Johnny.’

  ‘You’d like me if you got to know me better.’

  Tell that to swans and cats and Sally Cooper, she thought.

  At last Duffy gave the whistle to stop. Cooley’s hands and armes were sore and tired. The three bags were full. Baa-baa black sheep, she thought. She felt a bit delirious. Maybe it was something she’d caught at the coup, or she wasn’t completely cured of the clap, or else it was simply too strong a dose of Duffy’s nonsense.

  Crosbie had a bulge under his sweater. Cooley screened him from Duffy. She had thought of a way to get rid of Duffy while the money-box was thrown down to Mick.

  ‘Better take a last look round, Duffy. Maybe some pages were dropped.’

  She had dropped some deliberately.

  ‘All right.’

  As soon as he was gone Crosbie stood on the lavatory seat and looked out. Mick was standing below. ‘Catch this, Mick. It’s the fines box. It’s for Cooley. She needs money to go to London.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we share it?’

  ‘No, it’s for Cooley.’

  ‘Does Duffy know?’

  ‘No. Don’t tell him. Hide it under bushes.’

  Mick caught the box and then the three bags.

  Cooley and Crosbie were out and down on the ground before Duffy appeared at the window.

  ‘Did you find any pages, Duffy?’ asked Crosbie.

  ‘The desk was broken into,’ said Duffy. ‘Who did it? What was taken?’

  None of them wanted to answer.