The Young Team

by Graeme Armstrong

  ‘MERE! YA WEE BASTARD!’ the fat wan, Muldoon, shouts as he pulls himself up. The young wan we call the Roadrunner is aff n runnin nearly at me awready. A’m aff like a two-bob rocket but this cunt is fast, legs gawn like Sonic the Hedgehog.

  It’s just us two runnin among the skeletons ae trees against the snow. A’ve git a black AC Milan tracky on which isnae ideal camouflage. A’m oot ae breath noo but the Roadrunner is gainin on us n A think A’m caught. A run oot the woods n hear the whistle ae the wee blue fruit van. It’s chunterin up the street, no stoppin on the steep hill cos ae the ice. It’s git a wee platform on the back n open doors fur customers tae stand n collect their messages. Ma gran used tae gee me a pound fur a poke ae Spicy Bikers aff it n an Animal Bar or a wee cake ae chocolate, as she called it. A see ma escape n A sprint fur it n dive ontae the platform, lyin doon low. The Roadrunner tries tae charge up the hill, unstoppable as fuck like Robocop, n falls flat on his arse, his hat wheelin back doon the hill. A gee him two middle fingers tae the accompaniment ae the fruit van’s melodical chime. A only wish it wis The Great Escape theme tune rather than Yankee Doodle. That wid huv been magic.

  The Ghosts of Christmas Past

  A’ve hud a bad feelin aw day, which is even stronger than ma Friday Feelin – a force wae almost supernatural powers. Me, Broonie n Addison sloped as soon as the nine o’clock bell went. We met Danny, Kenzie n Finnegan later on. They call their class slots ‘sessions’ n we call ours ‘periods’. Yi wid hear them sayin, ‘session two or three.’ It sounded weird tae us cos they went tae the Catholic school. The day we hud been caught a beaut. Ma redgy teacher clicked on n the school phoned ma maw at work, tae let hur know n spoil hur day. Apparently, hur boss answered n put ma year head through wae a smug look. She hud been barkin at me since A came in the door.

  ‘Don’t you realise your wee wanders out of school raise questions at the office? I don’t care about that, Alan, but my boss does. Your guidance teacher says if your attendance drops much more—’

  ‘Awk, they always exaggerate, Mum.’

  ‘Alan, it’s a percentage – how can they exaggerate that? Seventy, to be precise.’

  ‘It cannae be … they musty got it wrong. They claim tae teach maths tae—’

  ‘Musty … that’s how the loft smells. You think you’ll get a good job talking like that?’

  ‘A’m no wantin wan ae yir fancy joabs.’

  ‘You will. When you find yourself a nice girl, n have a nice flat n a nice car, you’ll want to treat her, n heat it n fuel it. Won’t you?’

  ‘Obviously …’

  ‘Well then, you need to think ahead. All those daft marks in school result in all the nice things in life. Let alone security for your own family, one day.’

  ‘Right, A’m away oot anyways!’

  ‘Be careful, Alan, and be nice to Shaun, his mum isn’t doing very well,’ she says back, pure flat.

  By Shaun she means Shaun Brown, Wee Broonie. Ma maw, Angela, went tae school wae his maw, Alice. The two ae them hud been pals n hud grew up in the same street. Angela Williams’ parents, ma granny n granda, hud been brilliant folk. Ma Granda, Alan, who A wis named after, hud been in the Highland Light Infantry as a young man. He hud ended his career in the railway polis. A right good man. Ma Granny Anne hud been a textile factory worker n later a seamstress repairin wumen’s dresses. They hud two lassies, Angela n Abigail, ma maw n ma aunty.

  Fortune favoured ma aunt. She hud met hur ain good man, married young n hud ma cousin, Stacey. Bill Davies is a lawyer, Glasgow Uni graduate. He’s a flashy bastard, drives a Mercedes and wears square-lookin suits, usually pin-striped. He’s git a fat face wae sunbed wrinkles around a starched collar. He is definitely the breadwinner. Abigail played the obligin housewife well. She hud never really worked a day but wanted fur nuhin. They’ve git a four-bedroom hoose on the outskirts ae town. Ma maw is just a wee quiet hard-workin wuman n ma da died years back. Didnae know the cunt n ma maw barely mentions him. He’s just a vengeful ghost that floats aboot the place n sometimes haunts ma imagination. Most ae ma pals huv das but plenty aboot here didnae.

  Nae family is perfect. Mine defo isnae but beside the usual petty differences n family shite, there ir folk who huv it bad. A didnae huv it bad, no by any standard. Alice n Steven Brown ir alcoholics. They hud aw ran aboot as weans, but in their twenties – while ma maw worked n ma auntie met Bill – they hud gone the other way. Ma maw told me the story. Why ma friend Shaun wore different trainers. Why his hair is naturally thinner n he shaves it aff. Why his mum n dad never came tae his school plays, nativities, parents’ nights or anyhin else. Why he wid huv a fifty-pence mix-up aff the van but nae warm dinner on the table every night. He wis wan ae the weans wae their primary school uniform on who trailed the streets after dark n bedtime.

  A’m thinkin aboot aw this shite walkin in the cold. The troops ir doon the street somewhere tryin tae git a cargo sorted after their day ae doggin it. A’m in, changed n trackied up n ready tae join the perty. Due tae a lack ae disposable funds, it’s either taxis both ways or a bottle n a taxi back up. Easy choice fur the Azzy boy. Sah, it’s shanks’ fuckin pony. A’m trekkin doon tae find them in the cold.

  There’s sleet fawin fae a dark sky. The fat chunks ae snow ir sporadic n wet but that cold it feels like they burn ma skin before meltin n runnin away. A’m walkin by an eld boozer wae ma hood up. It’s yir typical Scottish pub, toilet stinkin ae pish, faded tartan carpets, dark wooden furnishings n coloured glass surrounds. The tough-lookin bastards n eld pishy drunks alike standin outside smokin look resigned tae their fate. They shuttle between here n the Wullie Hill bookies a few doors up. A pass wae ma heed doon, still chewin over family business. A wee voice among the heavy rasps makes me look up. Under a flashin, flickerin light, among a gaggle ae these eld bastards, the voice ae an angel floats by n around them. A follow the light doonwards. The pile ae dead flies in the casing makes it look momentarily like a halo. ‘Hi, son, how’s you?’ the angelic voice asks. A’m lost, still takin in the swirlin details ae hur face among the metallic snowflakes.

  ‘A’m good tah, n wit aboot you, Monica?’

  ‘A’m no bad, mister.’

  An elder boy comes oot the pub fuckin steamin. He’s breathin doon hur neck n A git the impression he’s been chattin hur up. A raise ma eyebrows n turn tae leave. Ma eyes ir drawn tae the faces ae these cunts ootside, aw stinkin ae drink n laughin. A try tae push by them but A’m stuck in the middle ae them noo. Oot the corner ae ma eye A kin see that cunt tryin tae kiss Monica, n hur pullin away. He’s laughin, puttin his filthy paws aw over hur. She’s pushin him back. The eld boys ir aw cheerin the young guy on, n he’s aboot thirty. A bounce up tae them. ‘Haw you, fuckin leave hur alane! She’s only sixteen, ya dirty bastard.’ The prick just sees me as a wee guy, a familiar look.

  ‘Shut it, wee man, n piss aff.’

  A kin feel it buildin inside. That feelin that starts in yir chest n goes tae yir heed n brings the red mist doon. Monica jumps past them aw n we walk away the-gither. A flag a passin black taxi n it pulls over tae let us in.

  ‘Uh, thanks fur that. That guy wis fuckin creepin me oot, son.’

  ‘Wit wur yi dain in there wae that cunt anyways?’

  ‘It’s Emma’s big cousin from our bit. He text me askin if A wanted to go for a few drinks – so A said aye … but he wis gettin weird.’

  ‘Fair doos … Looked like a bam anyways. Where yi wanty go?’

  ‘Dunno, you tell me, Azzy Williams.’

  ‘Just the shop at the top ae the hill, mate.’

  ‘Nae bor, wee man,’ the taxi boy mumbles over Smooth Radio n Elvis, ‘Always on my Mind’. We’re lookin intae each other’s eyes, sayin fuck aw. Monica’s givin me that same look again. It’s as if she’s tryin tae figure me oot, but cannae yit. A think she likes us n A think A like hur tae. Hur lips ir magnetic n mine ir metal. A’m lookin at hur n she’s lookin at me. The two emerald circles ir sayin, ‘Wit ir yi waitin fur?’ The smile con
firms it. A go in slowly n she tilts hur heed the right way. We’re nippin like fuck in the back seat n the Azzy boay is a legend.

  We reach the newsagent n look aboot fur somecunt tae bounce in fur us. There’s a rough-lookin boy standin ootside, waitin on somebody like me. He walks up tae us, aw smiles n chat. ‘Awright, son, some weather ae? Wit yi needin oot the shop?’ At this point they’re always weighin yi up. If yi wur a gimp, it means a free cargo fur them n a sore face fur you. ‘Awright, el sannn … in that shop, two bottles ae wine n twenty Mayfair,’ A say, wae a wee bit extra force than usual.

  ‘Nae bother, pal.’

  The guy walks oot the shop n starts ramblin pish while he hands us the bag. He bumbles aff wae his can ae Super bought wae the change. We’re still doon the main street but noo we’ve nae money fur a taxi. The twenty quid ma maw geed us hus done us well. Twenty Mayfair, two bottles ae Tonic n a taxi tae bang intae Monica Mason. A score well spent, ma full week’s pocket money.

  ‘Thanks for the wine, Azzy! Buzzin!’

  ‘Nae bother, gorjis! Gittin back up this road then?’

  ‘Aye, son, it’s getting late … let’s drink these on the way n we kin go a walk.’

  The phrase ‘go a walk’ hus certain connotations. Lassies like that yi hud done it before n they kin always tell by the way yi look at them. Means yir no just a desperate virgin, usin them as a conquest n obviously that yi huv a vague notion ae their pleasure, as opposed tae just yir own. Like the Azzy boay, ladies.

  We start the long trudge home. The sleet hus stopped, but the ground is soakin n shiny under the orange street lamps n the purple sky. The Toi lies tae the east ae the main road where we’re walkin. There’s three wee residential side streets they kin appear fae. We’ve passed the first but there’s still two tae go, that lead intae their scheme. Should a full team ae them walk doon wan ae these, then yir caught. There’s more gangs than just the YT n the Toi tae contend wae. Any wan ae these wanderin on a drink-fuelled crusade intae the centre ae town could result in a kickin fur a lonely traveller such as maself.

  We reach our area n see a few heads standin at the entrance tae the lane across fae the wee shop n the bookies. We’ve drank aboot half our wine, so we’re feelin merry n A’m singin Orange tunes.

  ‘I’m a young Ulster soldier,

  From north of the border,

  I’m one of the UDR four!

  They’veee charged me with murder,

  Just me and no other!’

  The crowd starts walkin doon. A see a grey Berghaus among the unfamiliar trackies. That wee fuckin sick feelin passes through me, a mad cocktail ae adrenaline n Tonic wine. ‘That’s the fuckin Toi wans …’ A say tae Monica. She’s lookin para noo.

  ‘Shit, son, wit you gonna do?’

  They’re awready walkin doon, attracted by ma singin. The tap men ir already separatin and walkin ahead. There’s six ae them.

  ‘Fuckin run, Azzy. Don’t take the kickin.’

  ‘Jump up that close n phone Big Kenzie n that, then bail, hen!’

  She looks back aw the way n runs intae the flat door tae hide n phone the boys. They aw know A’m a Young Team wan. A kin see their excitedness at catchin wan ae us. They’re shoutin abuse doon the street at me. A take the lid aff n take a long swig then screw it on tight n light a snout. They’ve slowed doon, sayin A’m no runnin. It’s best no tae run, if yir defo gonnae git caught. When greyhound sees rabbit it, by instinct alone, wull give chase. Sometimes a full team would just walk by yi, but no wae our two teams. ‘You that Azzy Williams?’ Si O’Connor asks me, knowin the answer.

  ‘Naw,’ A say.

  ‘Aye he fuckin is! It’s that wee fuckin dick.’

  ‘Fuckin smash ’um, Si.’

  ‘Yir gettin ripped, wee man.’

  ‘Young fuckin Toi Boiz in yir area!’

  The torrent just keeps comin n A’m waitin fur the pack ae circlin wolves tae attack. They’re hesitant. A’m six foot tall n A’ve git a wine bottle in ma hand. A take a last puff ae ma Mayfair like a Cuban cigar. ‘Who ur yi then?’ that Si asks us. Fuck it.

  ‘A’m yir da, ya fuckin dafty!’

  He dives forwards n A swing ma wine bottle at his dish. BANG. He’s on the deck. They’re aw at me throwin punches n A’m gittin hit wae a fence plank. The wee nippy wans ir tryin tae drag me tae the ground. The plank comes flyin roon again n hits ma beak, which splatters everywhere. A’ve only drank a half bottle ae wine, so A’m feelin it aw. There’s nae alcoholic anaesthetic the night.

  ‘Y T FUCKIN B!’

  ‘GIT HIM, BHOYS! FUCKIN GIT HIM.’

  ‘TOI BOIZ, YA WEE DICK!’

  ‘INTAE HIM, BOAYS.’

  A’m on the deck tryin tae git back up. There’s trainers connectin wae ma face n body. A feel a Rockport boot stampin on ma legs n more trainers kickin ma face. A’m lyin foetal, still takin shots. A feel a bottle burst over ma shoulder. Ma face is aw blood n wan ae ma eyes is swollen over awready. The attack relents after a couple ae minutes ae pure punishment.

  ‘Young Toi, ya fuckin mutant!’

  ‘Fuck yir fuckin YTP, ya dafty! Toi Boiz!’

  A wait till they walk back doon a bit before A drag maself tae ma feet. There’s still shoutin in the distance. A’m totally fucked but A painfully raise both arms.

  ‘HAW YOOZ, YA FUCKIN PUSSY BASTARDS!’

  A kin vaguely make oot them turnin around.

  ‘YOUNG TEEEEEAM!’

  A feel a hand on ma shoulder n A nearly fall backwards intae the arms behind it. It’s the big fat community polis n his skinny pal, the Roadrunner. A kin hear the young wan on the radio in the distance. The big yin is talkin in ma ear n hoddin me up wae his arm. A’m strugglin tae stay awake, feelin dizzy n sick. Yir gonnae be awright, wee man, stay awake …

  Live and Kicking

  The diesel hiss sounds n the doors ae the school bus close after us. It begins its chunterin journey through rush hour traffic. Traffic is heavy n it’s a cold, wet mornin. The school bus driver is smokin his customary bribe fag n ma pals ir rollin a joint. Ma hood is up n headphones in playin Tupac n Big L, ‘Deadly Combination’. A’m no smokin any dope before school the day. Smokin hash makes yi sluggish n no ready tae fight. The elder wans hud praised ma courage in the face ae the enemy. There’s nae shame in takin a dooin aff a few cunts if yi stood yir ground n didnae run. Bottlin Si wis bold as fuck n A’m proud ae maself fur it. Ma maw came tae pick us up fae casualty in the mornin, worried sick. Noo, yi huv tae dae suhin back or cunts wid think you’d shat it n that wid be you finished.

  The bus pulls up tae the back gates n A bail oot the emergency exit. Broonie n Addison ir trailin behind cos A’m chargin ahead, on a mission. By this time, most cunts in school huv congregated in their respective gangs outside the tech building, known as ‘the Smokers’ Corner’. Aw years, fae aw areas, mix in this rare moment ae unity, wae troops n snaggles n healthy burds n mad rough scheme cows alike. The only time yi see it like this is just before the five-tae-nine bell and at the mornin interval. At lunch everybody goes their separate ways, that wis nae use at aw. A’m marchin by the science buildin n past tech. A kin see people lookin at us awready, ma normal classmates n other younger wans whisperin. They kin see the determination in ma swagger n know wit’s comin. A pass a few younger Toi wans n A see them whippin the mobiles oot n textin n phonin like fuck. Azzy fuckin Williams is back, live n kickin.

  A kin see aw the Toi wans standin in their corner. Si, JP, Paul Allen, McVeigh, Niall Watson n Owens. They’re aw crowded roon Si n Jamie tellin a story, n they’ve git another wee entourage roon them ae wee tag-alongs n tramps fae other schemes n a few Fleeto wans nearby, who ir their backup n our enemies by default. A see Si’s hand goin tae his pocket. He gits a text aff wan ae the wee guys. We aw hear a commotion comin the other way. That wid almost certainly be Danny n that. We’ll only huv a few seconds before jannies, teachers n everyone else n their granny wid descend on the scene n it wid be over before it started. A’m on a raised bit ae ground,
a wee wall wae a muddy puddle on it. Everycunt turns tae see who they’re aw lookin at. All eyez on me.

  ‘YT FUCKIN POSSE!’ A roar before A jump aff the wall like a ninja n land on top ae Si. Danny n that arrive as A’m awready rollin aboot wae him. The Toi ir forced intae a corner n everybody shites themselves n pauses fur breath. The rest ae the pupils form the traditional circle roon the action. Si’s back on his feet but there’s nuhin he kin dae. They’re aw frozen tae the spot cos Big Kenzie’s at the front brandishin a bakey bat n they aw know he’s the tap kiddie. He swings it fur Si n it connects wae his shoulder. He’s screamin n hits the deck. ‘YOUNG TEAM, YA FUCKIN BAMS!’ Danny shouts n runs intae the battle. The Toi ir spread oot like a week’s washin.

  ‘NO SURRENDER!’ Wee Broonie shouts before runnin along the raised wall n jumpin aff. He takes JP doon wae him. It’s a fuckin free fur all. There’s square-goes happnin like fuck noo. Danny turns n lays Niall Watson oot n starts fightin two Fleeto wans. A start goin tae town wae McVeigh. We’re goin punch-fur-punch n he kin fight. A kin feel a few eggs awready. Paul Allen gets whacked a beauty aff Big Kenzie n laid oot on his arse. The only Toi wan left is Owens n he starts wailin like a fuckin wean shitin himself. Addison walks up n whacks him a dillion.

  There’s the red flash ae the Big Fat Janny’s jumper like a fire engine hurtlin towards us. A guidance teacher n the male PE teachers, who often took it upon themselves tae act like the bouncers ae the school, fly unto the breach anaw. A solid teacher tries tae grab Wee Kenzie n his big brur hits him a haymaker ae a right. The PE teacher is swayin roon the ring tryin tae recover fae Tam’s KO blow. Big Kenzie is standin firm, wae his bat in his hand again, n aw ae us ir runnin by him, tryin tae hide our faces wae tracky taps n beneath hoods. He’s standin wae his arms oot wide, laughin n no geein a fuck. The remains ae the Toi ir gettin scooped up by the female teachers, the Florence Nightingales ae school square-gos.