Pure Angst

by Stephen Scarcliffe

  Billy looked down at the sorry state before him. He wanted to feel sympathy, he wanted to feel anger, but all he felt was satisfaction. Satisfaction at seeing him on the receiving end for once, forced into the same pathetic beaten state both him and his poor Mum had been forced into so many times. He felt a smile forcing itself at the corners of his mouth as Willie Graham shattered an empty beer bottle over the back of Jack’s head, before putting the toes to him with venom as Billy felt the urge to lay one in himself.

  “Thought ye were a fuckin boxer? Should have seen that ashtray comin then eh?” said Dougie before grabbing Willie Graham and dragging him back toward the bar. He pulled a cigarette from his packet, stuck it between his teeth and lit it before turning to Gordon Trevor. “Goggs get that shite out of ma pub will ye?”

  Billy stared on as Gordon Trevor hoisted his beaten, bloodied father up off the ground and rammed him head-first through the doorway. He turned and locked eyes with Dougie who looked down on him, his face clouded by smoke.

  “Well? What ye waitin fer!? Go on follow yer father. OUT! An don’t come back tae my house cause yer not fucking welcome anymore! What’s happened tae the bloody music anyway!?”

  As Billy turned to leave he caught the eye of the old guitar player who had begun strumming again with shaky hands.

  4 Years Later...

  6

  They stood over him, bewildered.

  “Is he deid?” said Joe, prodding at the lad’s limp body with his foot.

  As Billy looked down he saw the muddy Stanley blade lying just inches from Craig MacDonald’s hand. George had wiped him out with the golf club before he had had the chance to use it. He turned and offered his pal a nod of recognition for saving him from a tan down the face, but George was too busy prodding at the boy himself with that same four iron, checking for signs of life.

  “He’s jist knocked oot,” said George, kneeling to turn him over.

  The day had turned into a whirlwind from the moment the final bell had sounded on the final day of fourth year. School was out and neither Billy, George, Joe or Jimmy had any intention of returning. Between them they had racked up more detentions and referrals than the rest of the year combined and had been hanging on by the skin of their teeth since first year. A few bottles of cheap cider, copious amounts of glue fumes and a few joints later and they had found themselves at Craigroyston playing field, high as kites, along with the rest of the Muirhousers, doing battle with a mob from neighbouring Pilton. Now, however, the whirlwind had been dragged kicking and screaming to a halt as members of the two mobs gathered round Craig MacDonald, who lay unconscious on the floor with a hefty lump on the side of his head. MacDonald was the youngest member of a notorious family from Pilton, so reprisals were inevitable.

  Billy stopped and stared through bleary blue eyes as a clapped out grey Lada swerved toward the shopping centre later that afternoon. It nearly collided with a railing as it ground to a halt, forcing a group of young lassies to scatter amidst frightened screams. He tried his hardest to focus as the car door swung open. His eyesight was blurred and hazy, leaving tracing shadows behind all figures and objects. He pulled a thin Stanley of his own from his backtail and extended the blade as a furious Kevin MacDonald approached, followed by two bat-wielding friends.

  Billy steamed forward, thrusting his blade, but his co-ordination was completely gone. He didn’t feel the first blow as it bounced off his head, and as soon as the second blow struck the lights were out. He came to, in what seemed like seconds later, and looked up to the sight of Kevin MacDonald swaggering back to the motor followed by his two grinning friends. MacDonald turned to point a dagger-like finger at George, who stood there puffing and panting, blood spilling from a fat lip and a cut above his eye.

  “That’s for Craig ya cunt! Next time I’ll get ye somewhere where there’s nae witnesses ya fat wee bastard, do ye proper. Young Pilton Derry ya wee cunts!”

  7

  Sean Donaldson grinned as he checked himself out in the side window, admiring his chiselled jawline as he pulled up slowly at the side of The Gunner.

  “Lookin good san.” he said to himself cockily as he pulled a small coke filled vial from his shirt pocket, unscrewed the top and tipped some onto the side of his knuckle. It felt good getting his hands on gear reserved for the privileged, out of reach for the cunts on the streets. Came direct from the top boy in Glasgow who his Uncle got his drugs from and it didn’t come cheap. He tipped his head back after sniffing it up in one go, wondering what the occasion was that had prompted Dougie to demand everyone be at The Gunner for seven on the dot that evening. Sean had sold the last of that week’s swag earlier that day so he could finally relax. The Ted Baker polo tops had sold like hot cakes and the Ralph Lauren Harringtons were always in heavy demand. The best fakes in Edinburgh that was for sure, a great little earner on top of the hash and speed, and as long as the big man was cut in he could charge whatever he saw fit. It was a win-win situation as he got them every week off the back of a lorry at such a good price that at fifteen quid a pop for the polos, tenner for the tees, and thirty for the coats, he was guaranteed a tidy profit. Folk were happy to pay, knowing that the real deal was way over the budget for most, and besides, when it came down to it who could tell the difference? Might end up shrinking after a few washes. That yellow might fade to an off-white colour after a while, but by that point hopefully they’d have the dough to top up the collection. Of course he would always hold back a few freebies for the boys every week.

  When it came to his own dress sense, Sean fashioned himself like he was a proper businessman. Suits. Long overcoats. Cufflinks. The works. Often he was the butt of the jokes for this bold dress sense, especially for a young man who had just turned twenty-three, but he didn’t care. Godfather 2 was his all-time favourite film and the birds lapped it up, the ones that were dizzy enough to fall for his charms, that is. It enabled him to create a persona for himself that set him apart from his more rough-edged partners in crime. Even the police had caught onto it, greeting him sarcastically as the young Al Pacino when they turned up to search his flat, a comment that planted a grin on his mug for close to a week. To Sean’s friends, however, his nickname was Preemo. The handle had came about from his insistence on labelling everything he deemed to be of high quality whether it be women, clothes or coke, Preemo.

  Sean bounded into The Gunner with a spring in his step, still grinning from ear to ear over last night’s ride, getting a semi just at the thought of it. “Why the long faces, has someone died?” he joked, pulling several tops out of a Safeway’s bag. “Right ladies, take yer pick.” As Willie eagerly rummaged through the freebies, Sean grabbed a beige cardigan and lobbed it at Bob Callum.

  Bob was a close confidante of Dougie’s. The two had known each other since high school and it was this trust that had led Dougie to place Bob in charge of the bookies when he had taken it over a year earlier. Bob was a bulbous red-faced man with a pot belly. A man of simple pleasures.

  “There ye go Bobby, double XXL just fer you big man!”

  Sean hadn’t noticed Dougie as he appeared behind him flanked by Gordon Trevor.

  “What the fuck’s goin on here?”

  “There Uncle Dougie, try that on fer size.”

  Dougie snatched the jacket and stuffed it back in the Safeway’s bag before doing the same with Willie’s. “Now’s no the time fer fucking fashion parades. Yer cousin was attacked at the shopping centre the day by Kevin MacDonald. We think we might know where the little cunt’s holed up so time tae strike while the iron’s hot.”

  Sean shuddered as Ryan Lockhart ghosted into the pack, grinning at him deviously.

  As Sean pulled his car into Boswell Terrace with Dougie in the passenger seat glaring into space and big Goggs and Ryan in the back, he felt the sweat seep into his shirt collar. Perhaps now he was twenty-three, Dougie felt it was time he cut his teeth with the darker side of the operation, prove that he could fully live up to his father Davy’s shado
w as he sat in his Barlinnie cell. Truth was, Sean saw himself as more of a lover than a fighter. His charismatic charm, slick, dark brown hair, sharp jawline and intense, hazel eyes gave him license to change his birds like the weather, and it wasn’t unusual for him to have at least three or four on the go at any one time. As he sat there trying to loosen his top button enough to draw breath, the coke making him all the more agitated, last night’s ride suddenly seemed months ago. That semi was now inverted.

  The only sound in the street was the voice of Tim Booth booming out of the third floor flat window as they exited the motor followed by Willie. Dougie barked at Bob to stay put and keep watch as he led the pack across the road. Sean could feel the butterflies buzzing around his stomach as they approached the service door. Normally coke made him feel confident, ready to face the world, but right at that moment it seemed to be having the opposite effect. He nearly jumped out of his skin as Willie Graham jumped on his back and shouted in his ear.

  Dougie turned, jammed a finger against his lips and ordered Willie to the buzzer, his eyes wild. His pal’s encouragement had produced the desired effect, shaking Sean out of his frantic state. He took a deep breath and focused.

  You’re the man Sean. You’re the fucking man. You can handle this.

  The door swung open and the pale-faced stranger appeared to shrink into his own body at the sight of the entourage that stood before him.

  “Look like ye’ve seen a ghost pal. What’s wrong wae ye?”

  “N-nowt Willie.”

  “Brought a few friends. Dinnae mind do ye? Would’ve said but Ah knew fine well ye wouldnae have buzzed me up if Ah had.”

  It was a sparsely decorated flat with a Bob Marley poster on one wall and several Playboy centrefolds pinned up on the other. The charcoal carpet was covered in fag burns and hot rock holes, not to mention tobacco, empty cans, skins and lighters. Willie Graham swaggered into the middle of the room and pointed at a picture of a blonde Playboy model on all fours with a large grin on her face, as Jamison turned his speakers down to a murmur with a trembling hand. “Check the fuckin erse oan that by the way.” He turned and raised his eyebrows at Jamison. “Bet ye hud a few ham shanks over her when ye were inside ya cunt!”

  Aye an wae a room like this that’s the only action this cunt’s getting...

  “Aw aye what’s this then?” Graham pointed to a pile of base speed sitting on a record case in the corner of the room, the crystals scattered across the cardboard.

  “Ye dinnae mind do ye Ray?”

  “Naw Willie. Go right ahead.” Jamison’s face dropped as Willie proceeded to dab away at the base, smothering his gums with it till there was none left.

  Sean glanced at his uncle who looked close to losing patience with the pleasantries. It was clear as he looked around the room that there was no sign of Kevin MacDonald, just Ray Jamison the speed freak and two shifty looking lads sitting on the edge of a bed. One was gnawing away at his knuckles the other was rubbing his hands together with discomfort. Both were wearing matching Lacoste jumpers that had no doubt originated from his counterfeit ring. He smirked to himself as he pondered how he had transformed the fashion sense of the local headcase and nutter. Suddenly, everyone was dressing like they were football casuals or mods. Everyone except Sean that is, he had a style all of his own, that was the way he liked it.

  “Need tae calm doon oan this shit man. Yer lookin like a zombie! Aw skin an bones.” Willie looked Ray up and down with disdain before grabbing an opened bottle of beer and swigging it till there was none left. He burped loudly before wiping his mouth with his sleeve and casually dropping the empty beer bottle on the carpet. “Kevin MacDonald, Ray. Been hearin he’s been comin doon here quite a bit since he got oot. Would that be right son?” He locked his hands behind his back before fixing a stare on him.

  “Who? Kev? Naw.” Jamison shook his head nervously. “Seen a bit of um when Ah wis in the jail. That wis it. Seen um aboot once since ees been oot. Bit of a radge. Ah try an avoid um.”

  “Funny how ye refer tae um as Kev, an no Kevin. Ye must be friendly wae the cunt?” Goggs shifted restlessly.

  “Wouldnae lie tae me would ye Ray?”

  “Naw Willie of course no. Ah’ve known ye fer years man. Why would Ah do that?”

  “What dae ye ken aboot the scrap at Pennywell shops earlier the day?”

  “Ah dinnae ken anythin about that Willie, honestly.”

  “Laddie’s talkin shite Dougie. Ah can read um like a book,” sneered Lockhart as Dougie stood silently, eyes switching their way around the room like they were set to a timer.

  “How about these two? No fuckin sayin much ur they?” said Goggs through gritted teeth. “Where are you two fae then?”

  “Pilton,” replied one of them.

  “Aw aye, that’s fuckin interestin. What dae yous ken aboot Kev’s whereabouts?”

  “Fuck all,” he replied defensively while his friend stared down at the floor, his whole body shaking with fear.

  “What wis that? An look me in the eye this time.”

  He sat up straight, looked him straight in the eye and responded twice as defensively. “Ah said fuck all. Ah dinnae ken where he is awright? Fuck all tae dae wae me anywey.”

  Sean cringed, knowing fine well what came next.

  “We got a cowboy here have we? Some balls on you son. Shouldae taken a leaf ootae yer pal's book an kept yer wee gub shut.” Goggs pulled a wooden bat from the back of his jeans and prodded it against the young man’s chin. His speed-fuelled courage appeared to evaporate in seconds. He raised his hands, pleading for mercy.

  Sean began to feel the adrenaline pumping in his veins.

  “Look, Ah dinnae want any trouble Ah...”

  “How many of thum were there the day Willie?” Goggs asked, not for a second taking his eyes off the youth.

  “Three or four Ah think.”

  “Three or four aye? Well Ah dinnae like the look ay this mouthy wee bam sittin oan the bed.”

  “Ah-Ah’ve got fuck all tae dae wae this.”

  “Aw aye. Is yer arse fallin oot now ye ken we're fuckin serious is it? Shouldae known tae begin wae shouldn’t ye. You cunts like tae hit young laddies in the heids wae sticks dae ye?”

  “Wisnae me, Ah swear!”

  Sean glanced around at the faces in the room that were all fixed on the boy who had been crazy enough to try and mouth off to big Gordon Trevor.

  “Do um Goggs!” barked Lockhart, with spittle flying from his mouth.

  “Ah’m gonnae gie you one chance tae redeem yersel ya little cunt. You tell me where Kevin MacDonald’s holed up an Ah might consider givin ye a pass. Now, what’s that? Ah cannae hear ye!”

  A few seconds hesitancy was all it took for Goggs to rattle him on the side of the head. His temple burst open as he slumped sideways onto his friend who started shrieking in shock as blood spilled onto his stonewash jeans.

  “Too late!” Goggs grabbed the knocked-out Piltoner and yanked him off his friend, dumping him onto the floor as Ryan Lockhart dropped to his knees and stared up at the other one who looked like he was having serious trouble breathing.

  “What about you, Princess?” Lockhart grabbed the boy’s chin and thrust his tear soaked face upwards. “Anythin tae proclaim?”

  “Ah’m beggin ye. Ah dinnae ken anythin...”

  Lockhart sat back before launching himself at the terrified youth with a powerful head butt clean on the nose. A sickly snapping sounded as he fell back onto the bed clutching his face. Within seconds Lockhart was on his feet, dancing back and forth on his tiptoes with a Samurai sword which he aimed in the direction of the broken nosed lad.

  “Please Willie make thum stop! We've no done nowt! We dinnae ken where Kevin is!” shrieked Ray Jamison, before finding himself shoved up against the window by the scruff of his neck by Dougie, whose eyes were now bulging with rage. He pulled a machete out of his leather coat and forced it up against Jamison’s groin area.

  “Either you deliv
er that prick tae me oan a silver fuckin platter, or Ah'll cut your fuckin balls off right here! Ye hear me?”

  Sean couldn’t tear his eyes away. His body throbbed with excitement.

  “Someone open that FUCKIN WINDAE!”

  Sean bounded forward, and snapped open the latch. The large window swung open and in a moment a petrified Ray Jamison was hanging out of it, Dougie’s bear-like grip the only thing stopping him from a fall three floors down.

  “Ah’m gonnae gie ye five seconds tae spill the beans or yer oot this fuckin windae. One! TWO!”

  Sean noticed him trying to mouth something but the words weren’t coming out. He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head upwards.

  “The cupboard. He’s hidin in the cupboard. Please just do um an let me go. It’s nowt tae dae wae me, honest.”

  After finding nothing but an empty cupboard, Sean burst through the door at the urging of his Uncle with Willie close behind. His legs could barely carry him as they clambered down the stairs frantically, the adrenaline and cocaine flowing in his system, the paranoia having vanished. After Willie flung the door open at the back of the stair they searched amidst the nettles, litter and weeds, wondering if he had taken toes through the gardens at the back, but neither was prepared to go on a chicken run through the angry looking overgrowth to find out. As they swaggered out the front Sean stood still as he heard a yell from above. The sickening thud that followed was muffled only by the hedge and the damp grass. Sean held his breath as the limp body slumped half into view.

  “Oh ya cunt ye,” said Willie as he crept forward, halted only by Sean’s wary hand. As Sean looked up he caught sight of Dougie staring down on them grimly. The search was over before it had even begun. It was time to get out of dodge – and fast.