The Road to Lisbon

by Martin Greig

  “Perhaps I also need looking after,” she adds.

  She traces her fingers along the scar tissue on my neck, a thoughtful expression upon her face.

  “Did somebody hurt you?”

  “The Tongs – a rival gang – put the chase on me. I fell through a skylight.”

  “When did you decide to . . . get out?”

  “Not that long ago.”

  I close my eyes and remember that Indian summer’s day, eight months past . . .

  . . . The street ahead is deserted. Silent except for the low rumble of our boots. We pass the Four Crowns for courage. Suddenly an empty ginger tin sails through the sunshine and clatters across the bitumen. A nervous flutter in my belly, I have to clench as my bowel threatens to turn to water.

  Out of the depths I cry to Thee, O Lord. Lord hear my voice! O let Thy ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication.

  Thank God Iggy isn’t here, it’s enough just worrying about myself. We all instinctively look up the side street but it’s just fleeing wee kids playing at being tough guys. I glance around me, at a hundred of my Cumbie comrades and I feel better. Proud. Then a wee bit embarrassed at having felt scared. No-one else seems scared, or at least they’re not showing it. Two hundred yards ahead a shopkeeper nervously pulls down the shutters before scuttling inside, dragging a Lyon’s Maid sign with him. No-one speaks, which heightens the tension hanging in the air. Is this real? Are we imagining this danger? What is all of this for?

  The sense of unreality is shattered by the ambush. Our scouts have failed us; we had no warning of the imminent attack. A fusillade of bottles shatter on the ground, then their infantry charges. Score upon score of them emerge from close mouths and they are not short of front. “COME AHEAD YA FENIAN BASTARDS!” Another team has boldly marched into their bit – bad enough. But even worse – 100 times worse – we are Tims on our way to Celtic Park; and for an Old Firm game, no less. And this the bluest, Orangeist of Hun areas, with the fiercest Prod gang in the entire city. They knew we were coming. We knew they would know we were coming. There was no danger we would take the roundabout route, no danger we would go a half mile out of our way to the Gallowgate when we could simply march directly up over the bridge and up Main Street towards the holy ground, towards Paradise.

  “CUMBIE YA BAS!”

  If you, O Lord, should mark our guilt, Lord, who would survive?

  But with you is found forgiveness:

  For this I revere you.

  We meet like opposing armies. Us versus them. Wallace versus the English. Jacobites versus Redcoats. The sounds of combat would make a hard case lose sleep. Whacks and smashes and thumps and clangs and sighs and moans and shouts and yells.

  My soul is waiting for the Lord more than a watchman for daybreak

  I choose my man. He’s smaller than me but he’s gemme and he’s tooled up good – a hatchet. But so am I. Out comes the pickaxe handle from under the Crombie. I’ve got a long reach and this is a long weapon. Means you can keep anything sharp from getting too close. Don’t want to end up looking like one of those stitched-together guys. Coupons like roadmaps. I swing and swing and swing. I miss but it unnerves the wee cunt. He’s not so brave now. The next swing disarms him. The next one glances off his back as he beats a retreat. I get my bearings. More and more Derry are pouring into the medieval mix. Where are they all coming from? I have to clench again. Then I remember. We are Cumbie. Pure mad mental. We never lose. We never run away. I won’t let my pals down.

  Let the watchman count on daybreak and Israel on the Lord

  So I face the foe, my blood up now, a battle cry on my lips as I step forward, swing, step forward, swing. All that nervous energy has transformed into adrenalin and I’m driving the bastards away, swatting them like flies. In the midst of battle champions are born and I am already a heid-the-baw, a man to be reckoned with. Whoosh, clunk as I break heads.

  We are winning.

  Israel indeed will He redeem from all its iniquity.

  Thrash, bonk. Your fathers helped break the General Strike, then swelled the ranks of the Blackshirts in the 30s. Swish, thunk. Four generations of Irishmen despised and oppressed. Swoosh, crack.

  They are starting to do a runner. They are defeated. And on their own turf as well.

  Glory be to the Father, to the Son and to the Holy Spirit.

  The Red Van has already emptied of coppers before I even realise its arrival. The shout had gone up but I was in a different dimension. I’m coming to now, rushing back into consciousness. My enemies lie stricken at my feet, cradling their bloodied heads, and as I look upon this scene the adrenalin rapidly ebbs and the familiar sickness floods the pit of my stomach. The darkness. Self-righteousness gives way to self-disgust. At this precise moment I know: I can’t do this again – ever. I don’t care who’s in the right any more, I can’t do this. The polis want the main men; they want me. No fucking way. I am off like a bullet, hurdling walls and tiptoeing along dykes and tearing through closes and dodging motors and leaping fences. Almost spent, I stagger by a tenement midden and am halted by a voice.

  “Tim!”

  It is Rocky. Unselfconsciously we embrace, panting for oxygen. Our breathing gradually slows. I am shivering with spent exhilaration and the relief that follows trauma. Rocky lights me a cigarette. Hands it to me. We are like comrades in arms back in the trench after a patrol. I take a long draw from the fag and we smoke in silence.

  We team up with most of the boys at our usual spot at the back of the Jungle. But Eddie and big Vinnie and Coco all got lifted, and a wheen of others. Eddie could get sent down, what with his record. The atmosphere is terrific, the tension almost unbearable and I’m drained of emotional energy. The special hatred that is the Old Firm. Eighty-thousand voices screaming for victory. The noise, the communal one-upmanship, the tribal formalities, the bravado. But underneath it lurks the horror at the very idea of losing to them, and everything spiteful and rotten that they stand for. I look upon their ranks massed in the away end, tinged with royal blue, and feel a pang of repulsion. A club that refuses to employ a Catholic in any capacity as a mark of honour. Nonetheless I can’t help but secretly wonder: what makes them tick? They are still people, after all. What makes them be like that?

  Thank fuck we got in on time. It’s all over within four minutes. Bertie and Boaby. Only the second fixture of the league campaign but already we can sense it: this season is going to be something special. Stein has got them motoring. They aren’t just cavalier and entertaining; at last they have become so dynamic, so incisive. I can’t stop thinking of a certain date: May 15th, 1963. Scottish Cup final replay. Celtic 0 Rangers 3. We melted away before the whistle. Celtic supporters. We melted away. Skulked off. But enough was enough. To be so utterly and completely defeated yet again, to feel that now familiar feeling of total dejection, to have to endure even more of their triumphalist bile; it was just unbearable. It all seemed so permanent, so never-ending. The Huns were so strong. Nil-three. How do we come back from this? Year upon year of pish, the club utterly rudderless, the fucking chairman still picking the team!

  Then the Big Man arrived. Stein. And everything would change. Everything. Starting with the ’65 cup final against Dunfermline. It was the opposite of the ’61 final, when Stein managed the Pars and they did us over. Take heed. Stein did us. Welcome him back into the fold. He’s a Prod but the fans don’t give a fuck. They’ve cheered plenty of Prods since day one. Leave the bigotry to the Huns. Stein is a Celtic man through and through. Loves the club. Cut him and he bleeds green. But more than that, he knows what to do. He’s a leader, a reader of the game, a tactical genius, a motivator. Sign him up and be done with it.

  Outside Celtic Park I make a bold statement but one that I instinctively believe to be true: “This is the best side Rangers have ever fielded and they are gonnae have to get used to second place. Fucking enjoy it, chaps.”

  The euphoria of the goals helps me forget the violence for now. However, deep dow
n I know that it will come back to haunt me in the dead of night. Deep down I know that I can’t do that stuff any more. But how does a fella get out? Seems like everyone I know is part of the deal . . .

  . . . Delphine gently places a lit cigarette to my lips. She lights one for herself. We smoke silently. Then we get up and wander through the shadows back to the camp.

  Day Four

  Monday, May 22nd, 1967

  I am awoken by the fine smell of the last of our Gorbals hamper – square sausage and white pudding – frying merrily alongside eggs and bread bought from the farmer.

  Mark has taken charge.

  “M-m-morning darling!” he says cheerfully as he hands me a mug of strong tea.

  “Thanks Mark. Good night?”

  “M-m-magic. What a laugh we had round the fire. Some of us went skinny-dipping in the m-m-moonlight.”

  Eddie comes to life with a series of hacks and returns our greetings with a grunt. He looks upon the coming day with mild dejection, then lights a cigarette and immediately coughs violently. His hair looks as though it has been fashioned from steel wool and his face is florid with bad living.

  “Then Rocky got off with that J-J-Josephine bird,” adds Mark, glancing over at Eddie.

  “Harry Hoofter,” murmurs Eddie, half under his breath.

  “W-w-what was that?” asks Mark.

  Eddie doesn’t respond except with a familiar spark sound as he opens his first beer of the day.

  “Where’s Iggy?” I ask.

  “He went away for a w-w-walk by the river last time I saw him,” replies Mark. “He wasn’t looking too c-c-clever.”

  I wolf down my fry-up, pull on my trousers and jersey, and survey the morning. The girls are all bathing in the river, their squeals testament to the temperature of the water. I light up my first fag, usually the best one of the day, but this morning I have a vague sense of unease. The sun moodily refuses to dispel the haar. Something doesn’t augur well.

  “I’ll go and see if Iggy’s okay.”

  I find him spewing his ringer into a little irrigation ditch. He looks deathly pale and utterly wrung out.

  “What have I telt you about bevvying too much?”

  “I know,” he manages, between baarfs. “God forgive me, I’d commit murder for a drink of Bru.”

  “You can’t handle it ya dumpling. There’s no shame in that. You just need to accept your limits.”

  “I know. I just got carried away. I was enjoying myself too much. Baaaaarf.” He looks up at me and smiles thinly, his eyes moist. “You’d think I’d be old enough in the tooth to have learned by now, eh big fella?”

  He leans over again. I look at his bent-double profile. Poor wee bastard. The vomiting subsides.

  “Here, I brought you some water.”

  I coax the bottle towards his mouth. He takes a few sips, then sits on the edge of the ditch.

  “You’ll be alright in a minute. And don’t worry, I’ll drive. Now when you feel a wee bit better get Mark to make you a cup of strong, sweet tea. And see if you can hold down some dry breid or something.”

  He nods his head at me, his big brown eyes full of gratitude.

  I use some of the water to brush my teeth, then I leave him and head further down the river, out of sight of the others. A slight breeze brings the cooler air, which has been sitting above the water, gently towards me. It smells refreshing. I undress and roughly lather myself in carbolic. Then I tentatively tiptoe into the water, and immerse myself fully beneath the surface. I keep my head submerged for a while. The coldness shocks the darkness from my consciousness; I find stillness within the roaring moving water. As I dry myself on the bank I feel invigorated. A pair of songbirds chatter to each other in the adjacent meadow. I think warmly upon last night and wonder if today isn’t going to be so bad after all.

  “You’ll be arrested if you’re no careful.”

  It is Rocky. He is perched upon the exposed roots of a willow tree a little further along the bank, languidly smoking a cigarette. His eyes are obscured by his Wayfarers so I can’t read his expression.

  “At least I’ll be nice and clean for court!”

  There is a lull, an unnatural awkwardness between two people who are so familiar to each other. The silence is loaded with portent, with anticipation. I feel a flutter of butterflies as I pull on my underpants and trousers. He takes off his sunglasses. I can see his eyes now.

  “Delphine told me you’re thinking about going to London, for art school?”

  “It’s just a daft idea. It’ll likely come to nothing.”

  “This ’cause you split with Debbie?” he asks, squashing the fag butt into the earth with his shoe.

  “We haven’t split . . . or at least, I’m gonnae win her back.”

  “Maybe you think you’re too good to work for a living.”

  “Naw.”

  “Well what then? You think we’re all chumps, graftin’? Think we get a buzz out of it? Do we fuck. But we get on with it. And you know what – there’s something good, something noble in sweating for your living.” He clasps his fingers together and stretches his inverted palms outwards. Then he continues: “I work piecemeal, and I work like a bastard – twice as fast as any other Joe. So I earn more, and I get to buy whatever threads that I want. And before the summer’s out I’ll have bought a new car. Think I might plump for a Cortina, the 1600 one. And one day I’ll earn enough for a good hoose for me and my wife. What the fuck have you got to offer her? Eh?”

  “Offer who, exactly?”

  He realises he has become animated, so he pauses and coolly lights another cigarette – always in one motion from a match, then begins again: “Look, let’s get this straight. You went with Delphine last night. And you and Debbie. It’s ending, isn’t it?”

  “Naw!”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “I mean . . . aye. Prob’ly.”

  He clears his throat as he stubs out his cigarette. Inhales. Here it comes.

  “One time you asked me if it was alright for you to go out with her. Do you mind?”

  “Aye,” I reply, straightening myself up to face him.

  Tell me this is not happening.

  “Well one day, no today, no tomorrow. Prob’ly no for at least a whole year. But one day, I’m gonnae ask you the same question.”

  There is a long pause as the enormity of what he has said sinks in.

  “Rocky, you and Debbie went out together ages ago. When yous were just kids. It was years before I took up with her. You can’t compare it.”

  “I can.”

  “You can’t. I’m crazy about her. She’s the best thing in my life. What did you have – puppy love?”

  “Haud the bus. You think the feelings you have at 16 don’t matter? That they can’t stay with you? Have you had any idea how hard it has been for me, with yous two going out?”

  “But yous split up.” My voice sounds thinner, more whining than I expected. “You chucked her I seem to recall. You were chasing that wee bird from Anderston.”

  “That’s all true. But I was just a daft boy back then. Now I know what I want. And yous are breaking up. And there’s no point in all three of us continuing to be unhappy.”

  “But you’re supposed to be my best pal, Rocky. Does that no count for anything?”

  “Of course it does. That’s why I’m being up-front with you. And I’ve no touched her, that’s the honest truth. I’m no a liberty-taker.”

  I walk over to him. He won’t rise to it, won’t get to his feet. So I do it anyway.

  He gets up, water in his eye where I have punched him.

  “I’ll no fight you Tim.”

  I hit him again. Same place. A guy of Rocky’s rep just standing there and taking it. It’s unnerving.

  “Deep down you knew this was coming.”

  I go to hit him again but this time he leans back and avoids it. He steps back and adopts the pugilist’s poise. We exchange blows, I connect with his face three times, he with mine t
wice, more to repel me than anything more. Then we end up on the deck, wrestling and writhing in the dust. Rocky is strong and down here my slight height advantage means nothing. He rolls us over and I am in the shallows, the water gushing over my face, throwing me into a panic. He drags me up and pins me to the dry ground, sitting on my chest. I struggle. He yells into my face from point-blank range.

  “THAT’S ENOUGH! THAT’S ENOUGH! THAT’S ENOUGH!”

  I let my body go limp. He gets up. I sit up.

  “Your nose,” he says.

  Blood is streaming down onto my naked chest. I take out my handkerchief and apply it. He puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “Tim – ”

  “Get your haun off of me!” I yell as I get to my feet. “Get your fucking haun off of me!”

  He relents, sits by the willow tree and regards me.

  “Tim, I’m sorry . . .”

  “You’ll just have to find someone else,” I state.

  “I’ll no meet someone else. You will.”

  “Me? No you will. You always do.”

  “You’re the one who will likely move onto art school. Meet someone on your level. You always think I’m the big hit with the birds. But I’ll never meet anyone as good as Debbie.”

  “She’s my girl.”

  “She’s no. She never was.”

  “What are you talking about? We’ve been going out for near-on two year!”

  “But she belongs to the Gorbals. You don’t.”

  “What?”

  “You’re getting out of this life. And that’s brilliant. But the Gorbals, it won’t forgive you. And Debbie – you can’t take her with you.”

  “Naw. Because I’ve got her, you want her.”

  “Naw. Don’t you understand? She doesn’t even prefer me; it’s just that . . . she knows where she is with me.”

  “You just can’t stand me having someone you can’t have. You had to end up on top, be the boss man as usual.”

  “You’re wrong,” he says, his voice trembling with emotion. “You always think the worst of me. I can’t help the way I feel. Neither can she.”

  The last three words are like being kicked – physically kicked – in the stomach. I have to sit down. I have my back to him as I watch the river flow by for a moment.