They call theirsels the YT Burds or the Team Lassies. They huv their ain enemies, the lassies who jump aboot wae other young teams. They mostly move aboot the town freely. A tidy is a tidy, after aw – regardless ae wit scheme she comes fae. There’s gorgeous scheme queens n then the loyal crazy burds that ir practically troops. They’re mad anaw n would fight wae guys as easily, n wur nae less mental. Every young team hus at least wan burd who’s a juggernaut in a tracky. She wis never a looker but yi would never say it tae her face. If yi tried tae batter in tae her mad-wae-it regardless, she would probably punch yir cunt in … if yir lucky.
‘Mon, Addison, ya dick,’ Broonie says. Addison is standin on the phone tae a lassie. He wis always dain this. He’s a good-lookin, trendy kinda guy – a perfume boy drenched in Ultraviolet n always wearin the best ae gear. Popular wae the lassies, hence the constant telecommunications wae them, but that doesnae earn yi the respect ae the streets.
‘A’m coming, fuck sake, Broonie.’
‘Hurry up, mate.’
We reach the top ae the park. There’s nae park really. Crash mats cover the ground round the swings n they’re littered wae black n blue blobs, where wheelie bins hud been burnt n melted. The swings huv been vandalised tae the extent that the council huv removed the chains n seats. Noo aw that’s left is the bare frames, which ir like notice boards, aw penned n tippexed like fuck. The climbin frame is spray-painted like fuck anaw. YT, scrawled aw over it n names ae ghosts fae young teams past. The place is fucked, plain n simple. The council huv long since gave up tryin tae fix it fur the weans. It, like the whole place, is forgotten.
Aw the troops sit on the other side ae a wee metal fence behind a wee shelter belt ae trees. A kin see waterproof jakits n fitbaw trackies n a mix ae Rangers n Celtic taps. There’s a few lassies laughin n we kin hear the din the rest ir makin, shoutin, singin n laughin. The elected edgy hus obviously alerted the team tae our presence. Big Kenzie, Eck n Taz appear at the front n somebody shouts, ‘Chill oot fuck, it’s only the younger wans.’ As this passes aboot the group, more heads appear fae behind the bushes n trees fur a swatch. There’s aboot twenty-five young wans congregated. Roughly fifteen guys, and aboot ten lassies. We walk through the trees the-gither, the six ae us. Our wee clan among these tribal chieftains and the eligible lassies. Wan ae the lassies is hoddin a wee MP3 speaker n switchin between ‘Dancing in the Dark’ n ‘I’ll Get Over You’. That’s the extent ae hur repertoire. ‘Fuck sake, we runnin a crèche noo, troops?’ some dafty says, gittin a laugh fae the crowd.
‘Well yir maw doesnae complain, when we aw turn up at hur door!’ A say wae a cheeky smile.
People ooh n ah, the lassies giggle, n Big Eck walks up tae me. A stand brave, still smiling. ‘YASS! You fuckin tell ’um, wee man,’ as he extends a hand. The guy who made the comment, Peter Dickson, walks forward, tryin tae growl at us. Eck slaps him across the face. ‘Sit doon, Dickson, ya fuckin dick.’ He looks ragin. ‘That’s Kenzie’s wee brur n his pals, ya dafty.’ Big Kenzie swaggers over at the mention ae his name.
‘HAW, YOOZ!’ Big Kenzie shouts, addressin the masses. ‘This is ma wee brur n his pals, nae cunt, n A mean nae cunt, gees them shite, understand?’ The crowd mutters assurances n goes back tae their own chats. Our six split n start mixin wae the troops. Eck winks at us, n him n Tam start talkin aboot an elder lassie who’s pickin them up in hur Seat Ibiza. The ages range fae us at fourteen n fifteen, right tae eighteen n nineteen. Big Kenzie n Eck ir seventeen n eighteen, respectively. They ruled the roost, but they’re aff. They both disappear, back up the red ash path n oot ae the park. Our only real friend left is Taz, but he’s distracted, tellin two lassies the tales fae last week. He waves me n Danny over tae chat.
‘Happnin, ma main wee muckers! YASS, these ir the boays A wis tellin yi aboot, ladies.’ The two lassies turn n smile at us. They’re both a couple ae year elder than us. A recognise the two ae them fae our bit. The first is tall fur a lassie, aboot five eight. She’s a brunette, wae fair highlights runnin through hur straightened hair. Hur long legs ir standin crossed against the cold. She’s git on a red puffer jakit, wae ripped, faded jeans. Hur face is gorgeous, high cheek bones n big green eyes. She’s git on the perfect amount ae make-up. Most lassies caked themselves in the stuff, their necks generally a different colour fae their faces. They huv that plasticky look, like somebody’s moulded them fae plasticine n smoothed oot the edges. Monica Mason is a stunner, nae denyin it. She’s git the kinda face yi turned back tae look at but she doesnae pure know it.
Guys around the other ir like flies around shite. Patricia Lewis always hus a wee entourage ae admirers buzzin around hur, usually the tap men n everyone else fallin in behind. Big blue eyes, natural platinum blonde, big boobs n slim. She’s git big hoop earrings n a cheek piercing. There’s a millimetre gap between hur two front teeth. Underneath an Inter Milan tracksuit top, there’s the green n white hoops ae a Celtic fitbaw tap. She’s wearin white Adidas tracky bottoms n wee pink Lacoste trainers. Hur lip gloss is pink and glittery. The two ae them pass a half bottle ae Glen’s vodka between them straight, then take a swig ae Irn-Bru tae git the taste away. A laugh as Monica screws hur face up. Patricia hands hur a draw ae a Lambert & Butler, which obviously helps. The two ae them look up at us. Patricia glares wae hur usual scowl, but smiles n winks. Monica gees us a wee cheeky smile anaw. Yolt. ‘Wit’s yir name then, wee man?’ Patricia asks us.
‘Azzy Williams,’ A say, aw confidence.
DJ Pulse, ‘Poison’, is playin oot wan ae their phones.
‘Nice tae meet yi, Azzy Williams,’ Monica says.
‘A’m Danny fuckin Stevenson – the wan n only.’ Two ae them laugh. He bounces away steamin tae talk tae another burd.
‘You one of the young wans that punched fuck out ae Big Si?’
‘Aye, fuck. We backed Taz right up n aw that.’
‘So yi mad then?’ Patricia asks us. This time A wink. Monica giggles. Patricia gees us the sexy scowl, like she’s kiddin on she doesnae fancy us a wee bit. A kin hear Danny talkin tae another wee burd behind me, Emma Black, huvin a similar convo aboot last week’s antics. A turn roon tae see him nippin her, two ae them standin under a tree. The lassies follow ma look n both laugh.
‘You hopin fur a kiss the night, son?’ Patricia says.
‘Ah never say never n aw that!’ A say, wae Monica catchin ma eye. She looks doon ever so slightly, n gees us this mad look. A hear a commotion. The two lassies’ heads turn n mine follows.
A hear Addison’s whiney fuckin voice, ‘Gees it back, ya dick!’
‘Yass, new phone fur me!’ an elder wan says, pretendin tae talk on Paul’s expensive new Cybershot. People ir turnin tae see him gittin victimised, defining him fae then on as a victim n someone who kin be bammed up tae further their own celebrity, in absence ae the tap men. Addison retaliates in the only way he knows how.
‘Get it back, ya fuckin tramp.’
Andy McColl, one ae this guy’s mates, steps forward and whacks him twice wae two right hooks. We watch in slow motion as Addison’s nose splatters n he folds. He’s on the deck, nearly greetin. The first dick, Mark Bailey, is still holdin the mobile phone tae his ear. The two lassies look at me cos they know it’s ma pal. A hand Monica ma wine bottle.
‘Gawn hod that fur us, wull yi?’
‘Wit yi gonna do?’ Patricia asks us.
A look aboot fur Danny, but he’s doon the field, away a walk wae that wee burd. Broonie is talkin tae a wee beachball ae a lassie aboot the same distance the other way. The only available hawners is Wee Kenzie n Finnegan. The two ae them huvnae even noticed yit, or if they huv, they’re makin sure nobody knows it. That prick Bailey draws the boot aff Addison’s chops. He’s whinin n wimperin fae the deck, n cunts ir laughin at him or tryin no tae look. Paul’s lyin in a puddle, new tracksuit filthy n a bloody nose. He’s just a cheeky wee guy, so nobody cares. These two cunts, Bailey n Andy McColl, ir bold enough tae say suhin back n fall intae their roles as replacement tap me
n. Just fuckin bullies n A hate those cunts. There’s a wooden plank lyin on the deck. It’s a big bit ae skirtin, that somebody’s dumped doon the field. A pick it up n it’s all eyez on me. These two pricks huvnae noticed me approachin. Wan ae their mates, Matthew Whyte, tries tae step in ma way.
‘Fuck you gonnae dae wae that, wee man?’ A swing the board n hit him in the face. There’s a nail through the wood, just a wee wan, but big enough tae go intae his cheek, leavin a cut where it’s hit him. He folds on the deck.
A throw doon the plank n turn tae McColl. ‘Fuckin mon then, ya dafty. Come ahead!’ A shout at the cunt. He sees me as just a wee guy, a younger wan, so there’s nae fear. The two ae us start scrappin like fuck. A git landed wae a right, but A barely feel it, full ae wine n adrenaline. Even wae a burst nose, A grab him by the tracky tap n header fuck oot his beak. His nose is splattered. It gets split up n is over before it really starts. Whytey pulls him back n whispers that we’re Wee Kenzie’s pals n backed-up aff the big man. He walks away n shouts tae his wee squad tae bounce. McColl, Bailey n Whytey start walkin up the road. They’re shout-in doon, Yir a dead man, Azzy, ya wee dick! Wait n see after school! Yir dead, wee man! A’m geein them the finger n tryin no tae git para. Commotion over, everybody else goes back tae stand-in aboot in their ain wee groups, chattin n swallyin. A kin see a few cunts n burds glancin at us, wonderin who the fuck yi ir.
A turn tae Finnegan n Kenzie, who’ve appeared miraculously noo the trouble wis past. ‘Where wur yooz? Ya fuckin pussy bastards! Yir mate wis gittin set aboot n yees stood n done fuck all.’ Both ae them hide behind cigarettes n look towards the deck.
A kin see Danny n Broonie sprintin up ahead ae his wee lumber fur the evening. ‘Wit happened, mate?’ Danny asks us.
‘That Bailey n that wur tryin tae fuckin steal Addison’s phone, n whacked him.’
‘Fuck sake, man. That’s shite,’ Broonie says, shakin his wee baldy nut.
‘Bastard, man! Cannae fuckin believe A missed it!’ Danny says.
Repercussions start tae flood ma mind as the adrenaline fades. A kin see people lookin at me, n A kin hear ma name floatin aboot among the young team, celebrity noo – a rising star. Patricia n Monica come over tae our wee sub group. A wipe the blood aff ma ain nose wae ma sleeve n take a drink ae ma bottle n spark a fag.
‘Fuck sake, son, you didn’t half go tae town,’ Monica says.
‘A hate fuckin bully bastards.’
Aw ma pals ir star-struck as they look at the two nicest burds fae the team. Taz walks back up wae another lassie. Somebody tells him aboot the events which just unfolded n he jogs up tae our group wae a MD bottle in hand.
‘Well done, Azzy wee man. They three huv thought they wur mental fur ages,’ Patricia says wae a wee wink n ruffles ma hair.
‘Oi! Watch the gel, you! Aye, they wur bang oot anyways!’
‘Ah yi look fine, son! Is your face sore?’ she says, laughin.
‘Mine? Nah … just a scratch fuck.’
Taz is lookin nervous n it’s almost infectious.
‘Happnin, Taz,’ Wee Kenzie says quietly.
‘Fuck all, boays. A just heard wit happened, couldnae believe ma ears. You want tae watch, Azzy mate, that Whytey is Big Eck Green’s half-cousin. That’s how he gits away wae actin like a ticket.’
The hushed whispers n glances aw start tae make sense. A git that wee sick feelin in ma stomach but shrug it aff. There wis always somebody or their mad cousin gonnae smash yi or stab yi fur suhin or nuhin. That’s yir best n only defence aboot here, the boldness inside. ‘N fuckin wit, mate. A couldnae gee a fuck whose cousin it is.’
This wis obviously too much fur Taz tae hear in public. ‘Aye, well, nae bother,’ he says and makes a sharp exit.
‘Gonnae start callin him Casper,’ Danny says.
‘How’s aht?’ Broonie says wae a mooth fulla penny sweeties. The cunt wis always pocket munchin a fifty pence mix-up aff the van in a wee white paper bag.
‘Cos everytime there’s trouble he disappears, the cunt.’
‘Ha! Tazper the friendly ghost!’ Broonie shouts.
‘Taz is a shitebag fuck … ma big brur always says it.’
‘Aw here we go! The incredible tales ae Big fuckin Tam.’
‘Finnegan, shut yir daft mooth, mate. You talk aboot this big cuz tae no end! Dain they weights as if yees ir Scotland’s strongest men! Two ae yees ir built like bookie’s pens, man. Seen more solid burds in the Time Capsule swimmin! Skindiana Bones yees ur!’
Finnegan cannae come back fae that wan. ‘AHHH! SHUT DOON!’ everycunt shouts. We aw laugh. Even though Kenzie lives aff Tam’s coat tails, his ain patter is decent.
‘Calm doon, fuck. Am no worried anyways, troops! Know wit A mean?’ A say, glancin over tae the burds n winkin at the troops. The lassies laugh.
‘Welcome tae the team, boys. A think you’re goin to fit right in,’ Patricia says as she turns tae leave.
‘Aye, well nice tae meet yees again, by the way.’
‘You too, son, just be careful this doesn’t come back to haunt yi. Mon, Monica, A needty get up this road to watch ma wee cousin.’
‘Nice tae meet yees, ya cuttla stunners!’ Danny is shoutin.
‘Bye, Azzy Williams,’ Monica says, givin us that mad look again.
The re-enactments n the storytellin begin. A cannae be arsed listenin tae it the night. Finnegan n Broonie ir rollin a joint in the corner. A go over n chap a draw ae it. As the red n orange tip glows against the navy-blue sky, n the bombers fall like embers fae a campfire, ma story echoes like a ghost story roon our wee camp. People start headin hame or on tae elder wans’ flats n gaffs. Me n the boys walk up passin the joint between us, aw buzzin aboot our first night wae the troops.
Yankee Doodle Dandy
We’re sittin up the Mansion n it’s fuckin freezin, snowin n aw this. We’re tucked intae the room wae nae windae, aw sittin roon a big circular table, wae as many ramshackle chairs as we could gather. There’s a bar stool, a plastic school chair, an oil drum on its side n two breeze blocks n a railway sleeper makin a bench. The only light is aboot five or six tealight candles burnin on the wooden fittings ae the back wall. There’s a bucket kit in the middle ae the table n we’re pullin rounds wae it. We aw git para in here cos yi cannae see fuck aw ootside wae nae windaes. There’s a symphony ae shhh when suhin bangs in the wind or broken glass crunches underfoot. We’re aw chattin shite, tryin tae make light ae the drama fae the weekend.
‘Azzy, mate, A wouldnae worry aboot they three. They shat it fae you, mate,’ Wee Kenzie says wae a shark smile. The fact that he’s even tryin tae reassure me is makin me more nervous. It reminds me that there’s suhin playin on his ain mind n he’s tryin tae comfort himself by comfortin me.
‘Ah fuck it, mate, if they want tae come lookin fur me, they know where A’m ir.’
‘A hope they dae,’ Danny says. Everybody turns tae look at him. He’s smilin like fuck, but realises. ‘Aye no like that, obviously. A missed it last time, fuck sake!’
‘Mate, there’s nae point lookin fur trouble.’
‘Fuck them anyways, Azzy boy. Any shite starts n yir boays wull back yi up,’ Wee Broonie says. A know that tae be true but yi cannae help worry a wee bit. There’s Toi wans after us n noo A wis in-fightin wae our elder wans. A’m a sonar pulse on aw their radar. Me, Azzy Williams, the wee fuckin fly in the soup. The bold yin.
‘A’ll back yi right up, Azzy boy,’ Finnegan says.
‘You shat yirself, ya dick!’ Danny shoots back.
‘A know that, fuck sake, A got a wee fright. Next time A’ll be in aboot it, just you wait n see, Danny bhoy.’
‘A’ll be smashing the next dafty that tries it with me.’
‘Yir no a fighter, Addison mate,’ Kenzie says.
We aw look at him. It’s a race tae see who’s fastest.
‘Didnae see you dain much, eld son,’ Danny says.
‘Aye well same tae you, ya dick,’ he shoots back.
‘Least A
wis doon pokin a burd, no fillin ma fuckin nappy!’
‘Shut it, ya dick.’
‘Yer maw, ya—’ He’s cut aff.
A hear voices outside n a rustlin comin fae the doorway. ‘Shhh! Fuckin shut it!’ A say. We aw sit in silence n ir reminded ae the tactical disadvantage ae a room wae nae windaes. Me n Kenzie’s git a bit ae dope each, n even though mines is only a wee tenner’s bit, the polis ir always mad keen tae git yir name in their charge book. That meant a charge, a letter hame tae yir maw n a report tae the Children’s Panel every time. Azzy Boy hud awready racked up a fair eld few, aboot ten so far. A put ma index finger tae ma lips n move quietly tae the door. Soon as yi try tae go intae Splinter Cell stealth-mode n start creepin, somecunt wid let oot a nervous fart n aw these chimps wid burst oot laughin. Yi wur as subtle as a fuckin circus wae these clowns. A peer oot, Tom Clancy material. Spy-club original Azzy boay. Amid the snow, two black figures. The wee blue squares ae a radio n the crunch ae footsteps on the frozen ground. ‘It’s the fuckin polis, nae joke, nae fuckin joke.’ A whisper back intae the room.
‘Wit we gonnae dae, man? We’re gonnae git busted wae this dope!’ Wee Kenzie says, para rippin.
A gee Danny ma dope tae hod. ‘Toss that if yi need tae, mucker. Git ready tae bail up the back rapid, troops.’ Danny nods n sticks it in his Mera Peak.
‘Wit yi gonnae dae, Azzy?’
‘Watch this.’ Azzy boy wid take wan fur the troops. A glance doon tae make sure ma ain turbos ir tied n walk quickly oot fae ma hidin spot. They’re too busy lookin in the debris fur stashes n rustlin aboot in the big barn runnin adjacent. A sneak oot tae the beginnin ae the woods, stayin close tae the wall aw the way. A kin see the troops hidin in the arch, pishin their self laughin. The polis huvnae noticed me yit. Danny n Broonie’s heads ir pokin oot tae see wit’s happnin. ‘FUCKIN YOUNG TEAM, YA SCUMMY BASTARDS!’ A roar, geein them two middle fingers. The two ae them shite theirsels cos ma shout n the fat wan faws on the ice. A nearly pish maself laughin n start runnin like fuck.
The Young Team Page 3