Pure Angst
Stephen Scarcliffe
Published by Stephen Scarcliffe, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
PURE ANGST
First edition. December 30, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Stephen Scarcliffe.
Written by Stephen Scarcliffe.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
About the Author
I dedicate this novel to my partner Angela, who was always there to lend an ear, provide advice, and offer unwavering support and encouragement any time self-doubt crept in. My old dear for all the hours she spent scouring over content to assist with spelling and grammar, not to mention the rest of my family and close friends for their support. My editor Claire Wingfield, my proofreader Sophie Wallace and my cover designer Domi from Inspired cover designs. And last but not least I dedicate this novel to the memories of Frankie Mcewan and Pete Tinlin, two legends taken too early.
1
“£2.48, pal.” A dark hand appeared at the bottom of the cage. Billy wiped the sweat away with his sleeve before sticking a clammy hand inside his joggers pocket and pulling out a battered five pound note. After handing it over he took the change, before dumping the Jelly tots, Frosties and Irn Bru inside a plastic bag.
He snatched a look over his shoulder as a tall laddie began tapping a heavy metal wrench against the shop window. He had a maroon hood pulled down over his head, covering half of his eyes, and he let out a toothy grin as his friends paced restlessly behind.
“Do you know them pal?” said a voice from behind the bars.
“Naw.”
The dark skinned man smiled. “You’re no from round here are ye?”
“Jist moved.”
“Well, here’s a bit of advice fer ye. Wrap yer arms tight around yer face, crouch as small as ye can and hope they get bored. Ah’d help ye pal but there’s a reason this cage is here. Godless little bastards.”
Is that all ye’ve got? Jist gaunnae stand there?
The taunts seeped from his subconscious and began digging underneath his skin like the wooden splinters still there from the previous night’s beating. A sharp fire ignited in his gut as he gripped the glass Irn Bru bottle, clenched his teeth and let the rest of the bag drop to the floor. After putting his foot through the door, he slammed the bottle hard into the side of the laddie’s head as his pals stood back in shock. By the time the glass had shattered on the ground, the orange liquid fizzing up and spraying everywhere, Billy was already flying down the street for his life, the curses shooting past his ears like darts as the gang regrouped and took chase.
Weaving in and out of back streets that he didn’t recognise, he tried desperately to shake off the wild dogs on his tail, finally tumbling into someone’s back garden. He lay as still as he could at the bottom of the hedge, gasping for breath as they hovered with menace on the other side.
“You’re fuckin deid ya little CUNT! Cannae hide forever!”
2
“BILLY.”
He felt a jolt up his spine as the old man clicked his fingers hard in front of his eyes. “Aye, Dad?”
“Away tae the shops an get yer auld man some milk will ye? Ah want a coffee.”
His head dropped as his mother Angie appeared in the living room doorway, cutting a trembling figure. “I’ll go Jack. It’s no safe fer him.”
Jack pointed a stiff finger at his wife. “Stop fuckin mollycoddling him you! Billy, ye see these?” He clenched his fists and aimed a grim stare at his only son. “If you see those laddies, ye use thum. Yer a Wright. So man up and act like one.”
Billy's stomach churned as he passed through his gate and onto the street as a police siren sounded nearby. There was an air of rage and frustration hanging over Muirhouse as thick as the grey clouds up above that never seemed to budge. It was etched on the angry faces of passers-by that daggered you for looking unfamiliar, and entrenched in derelict corners where gaunt-eyed zombies paced. Trampled syringes littered back passageways adorned with jagged graffiti, and many of the flat windows were either smashed in or boarded up. From the looming high rises that seemed to hold their inhabitants trapped within their hideous structures, to the dreaded shopping centre itself, he could feel it everywhere. It was a different kind of hell to the one Billy endured at home, and yet for some reason it made him feel alive and on edge instead of suffocated.
He picked up a boulder as he reached the railing at the edge of the centre. To his relief there were no tooled up mobs, and he could feel his jangling nerves calming as he approached. An Alsatian came trotting past, its tongue hanging out, its chin caked in hardened saliva. He gave it a pat on its mane and then backed off as the straggly mutt growled deeply, as though it sensed the approach of danger. It barked several times in the direction of the large vennel before turning and trotting off down the street as a rusty Ford Escort spluttered past. The sound of boys shouting and a ball being kicked against the stone walls echoed around the centre. His heart pounded hard as they emerged, dribbling a tattered old ball about. There was a small ginger laddie with a freckled face, decked out in torn, denim dungarees, flanked by the tall one that he had clattered the previous day in that same maroon HMFC hoodie. The third was the biggest of the group, the ringleader it seemed, an absolute tank bounding about in a Scotland strip that served to accentuate his oversized belly, and light grey joggers with black knee-patches.
They were too engrossed in their frenzied kickabout to notice him. All he needed to do was turn around and follow the Alsatian’s lead.
Wee shitebag. Call yersel a Wright?
He took a quick breath, flung the boulder as hard as he could, and braced himself as it cracked against the wall behind them.
The tallest one tore his way toward him, his gangly body making itself as large as possible as it flew at its target. Billy met him head on and they tumbled to the pavement, both trying to seize the upper hand as the other two circled. After overpowering him, Billy mounted him and pounded him with lefts and rights, bursting his nose open as he put every ounce of his weight behind the onslaught. He felt a sharp stinging sensation, first in his side, then in his arm. He looked up to the sight of the snarling wee ginger lad taking pops at him with a rusty screwdriver. He rolled out the way in a panic as the tool flashed past him and stabbed into the concrete, falling right into the path of the big man who brought the boulder crashing into his skull. He slumped to the deck, everything went blank. By the time he came round the three of them were laying the boots in at will as the shopkeeper appeared. “He’s had enough! Leave um be or Ah’ll phone the Polis!”
A set of angry glares forced him back within his cage, peering fearfully through the mucky glas
s. Billy tried to catch a breath as he spat out a tooth and clutched at his stinging arm that was leaking blood. As they walked away laughing, joking, and recounting the scene with pride, Billy pulled himself to his knees, blowing hard. “Where are ye’s gaun!? Come back here ya cunts!”
After looking at one another with disbelief, the small one came steaming at him, aiming a wild kick at his head which he managed to anticipate and catch before pulling him down to the ground. Billy lost all control, bashing him about the head with the rock as he pictured that screwdriver plunging into his arm and puncturing his side. He bounced to his feet as the other two edged forward. “MON THEN!”
He ran straight into a powerful right hand. After wobbling backward, he threw himself at the big lad in the Scotland strip again, now running on pure adrenaline and pride, before finding himself bear hugged hard against the wall. He slumped to the deck again and covered up. When he moved his arms away from his eyes seconds later, the big lad was standing over him with a wide welcoming grin covering his sweaty face.
“You can fight like fuck wee man. What’s yer name?”
“Billy Wright.”
3
George Donaldson grinned at the steaming fish supper as he emerged from Drylaw chippy. The fish was huge, wrapped in that chewy batter he loved, drenched in chippy sauce, perfect.
He reluctantly parted with a few chips as the scavengers circled before pulling away, making sure no-one touched the crusty bit at the end of the fish that he loved. The problem was George liked his chippies a little too much.
“Want a chip Billy?” said George as he took in the sight of the new kid on the block shuffling about awkwardly in his upturned jeans and scuffed old Nikes that looked ready for the bin. On closer inspection they were Nicks, not Nikes.
“Nah.”
Billy spat on the ground before looking into the distance with a sharp glint in his eye. He was a loner, that much was obvious. Clearly didn’t want anything off anyone.
“George asked ye if ye wanted a chip so have a fuckin chip, you,” barked wee Jimmy Thomson, the vicious little terrier. Within seconds they were nose to nose, both faces still bearing the cuts and bruises of the previous day’s scrap.
Just as George stepped in between to defuse the situation that was threatening to go off like a lit aerosol can, he stopped dead at the sound of the motorbike. He stared, with mouth gaping open, as a big, broad shouldered biker with a skin tight leather coat covered in patches pulled up in front of the chippy. George had fallen in love with motorbikes the moment he stole his first, a wee shitty 50cc which he razzed around Ferryhill field all day long before buzzing the last of the petrol, lying down and staring up at the clouds through hazy eyes.
His dad Dougie had promised to buy him a top of the range Honda as soon as he hit eighteen, and yet here it was, bright red, shining and gleaming at him. Screaming out to be snatched.
“That’s mine.”
“Ah want a backy!” shouted Jimmy, igniting a crazed pushing and shoving match. George barged through the crowd as he observed Billy’s balled up fists clenching themselves tighter and tighter.
“Ye up fer it?”
His angry blue eyes softened slightly, revealing a glimmer of vulnerability beneath the fierce front. “Goan then.”
“He can steal it. He can prove umsel, eh!” shouted Joe from behind. Joe Harrison was a thin, lanky, pigeon-chested character with a mouth that knew no limits, and he was still smarting from Billy gaining the upper hand on him not once but twice.
Billy attempted with great difficulty to pull himself onto the bike but the pain from his patched up arm was telling.
George peered inside the chippy, and then sighed as he looked at what was left of his supper before dumping the remains on the concrete. He mounted the bike, kicked off the safety, and started the engine as Billy pulled himself on and clasped himself to his back. George felt a wide grin stretch across his face as it roared beneath him, sending a surge of adrenaline shooting up his spine like an electric bolt as the furious biker charged through the chippy entrance.
The rest of the gang scattered as the bike kicked into gear, hurtling them off the pavement with a force that George barely managed to contain, leaving a livid madman ranting and raving in their wake.
“HUD OAN!” yelled George. They screamed their heads off with delirious excitement as he ripped the arse out of the engine, flying past a line of parked cars as Billy grasped onto him, his scuffed, untied trainers and laces flailing in the air. He powered his way along the railway line, past the overgrown gardens of Crewe Road, and grassy verges littered with everything from strewn toilet roll to abandoned shopping trolleys and smashed up dolls’ houses. He felt his insecurities blur into the distance behind him as he surrendered himself to a sense of reckless abandonment. The sense that just for the moment, nothing mattered anymore. No longer was he the big one lagging behind, trying his damnedest to keep up, but an oblivious juggernaut spurred on by the thrill of the steal.
As they reached Ainslie Park School, he dropped the speed and brought it under control, before turning it around as it hummed away impatiently beneath them.
“Ye Ready?”
“Aye!”
Upon reaching Telford Park at the other end, George jumped off and let Billy take control after quickly showing him the ropes. He ended himself with laughter as Billy razzed it round the field, nearly bursting his way through the fence that sealed off the swings, as concerned mothers clutched at their bairns.
By the time the others appeared, clamouring for a shot, George and Billy had turned the top of the field into a mud patch. Just as Jimmy was eagerly trying to pull himself onto the bike, the siren pierced the air. They scrammed in the direction of the railway, as George tried his hardest to keep up with his smaller, nippier counterparts. No longer could he move like the wind but like a carthorse, his weakness laid bare as he puffed and panted. The bull, that’s what they called him. Everyone in the playground knew that George Donaldson was the hardest. Everyone knew he hit like a young man not a boy, with the build of a bulky teenager and hands like small shovels. Add to this common knowledge a fearsome family reputation and his loyal following, and it rendered him practically untouchable. Still, the aura he had built around himself was nothing more than a means of disguising the demoralising complex he carried around like a dead weight. What George saw every morning when he looked in the mirror before school wasn’t a bull, but a fat cunt.
His legs buckled as he reached the edge of the field, collapsing under his own weight and that of at least one police officer.
George looked up to see Billy, Joe and Jimmy disappear up the path that led into Easter Drylaw, before hearing a large clattering of bodies followed by screams and shouts. Seconds later he watched as they were marched out through the railway line and onto the field, kicking and struggling.
George bit his lip as he felt his arm getting twisted up his back, determined not to give them the satisfaction of hearing his pain. He felt the thud of the bodies hitting the ground and turned to the sight of Jimmy screwing up his bare toothed, rodent like face.
One of the officers, a barrel-chested man with thick sideburns and a jaw like Desperate Dan, planted his feet in front of them. George felt the tight grip release itself and sat up in the mud, clutching his arm in pain.
“Right. Who was it? Ye better make this easy on yersel’s boys cause we’ll stay here all day if we have to. I want to know who it was right now. An I’ve got no qualms about slappin it out of ye if Ah have tae. Got more important things tae be daein with my working day than wasting time on little arseholes like yous. Always the bloody runaround fae you wee thieving schemies. Bloody scum off the bottom of my big size 11 so ye are! Never amount tae fuck all, none of ye! Little bloody wasters.”
He was met with a wall of silence as he towered over them, laying it on thick, his face reddening as spit flew from his mouth, increasingly frustrated by their lack of interest.
“Cunt, Ah’ve no even
hud a shot yet...” said Joe, igniting a barrage of giggles. Giggles that were stopped in their tracks the moment the big ranting moron stood on his leg and applied all his weight.
“Aaah, ya!”
“Jist fer yer bare-faced cheek, Ah’m gonnae stand here until either you or one of yer pals owns up tae stealin that bike. And fer every minute no-one owns up I’ll apply more pressure. We’ve got plenty of time haven’t we guys?”
He turned to his colleagues, who offered smug sneers in response.
“It wis me who took it.”
George’s eyes widened as he turned round and looked at Billy, his casual, careless stare flanked by dirty blonde curtains.
The officer stepped off of Joe’s leg and grinned. “There. That wisnae so hard now was it? Guys, get that wee scaff in the back of the car. The rest of ye can fuck off, before Ah change ma mind.”
“Wis both ay us,” said George.
“Well what do ye know. These little bams actually have a conscience after all. Awrite big yin, you’re in the back of the car too.”
“Big yin? Look who’s talkin, eh.” Now the sniggers weren’t just coming from George and his pals.
“Got another smart arse here have we? What’s your name?”
“Donaldson. George Donaldson.”
George watched as the surname registered on each of their faces. Desperate Dan didn’t look too fazed, but the wanker who had just been twisting his arm like it was a pipe cleaner was visibly shaken. George looked up with an empowered grin, as the visibly shaken policeman looked down at the floor, knees wobbling, shitting it. George’s Dad, Douglas Donaldson was the most feared and respected figure around. From loan sharking to gambling, protection to drugs, Big Dougie had it all sewn up. When smack flushed the area at the start of the 80’s, it hadn’t taken long for him to seize control, solidifying his status as number one kingpin in the north side of Edinburgh. He had enforced his brutal regime on Muirhouse with such authority and conviction that every local business was now paying him protection, and it was fast becoming clear that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
Pure Angst Page 1