‘Wit yi no smokin fur, Azzy?’ Wee Gunny says.
‘A’m aff it, mate.’
‘Dae you no take nuhin noo?’ Briggy asks us. Even fur this harmless wee cunt, his question is thick wae implication, accusation that maybe Azzy thinks he’s better than the troops noo. Somehow morally superior tae him, his family n the lads cos A’m makin an effort. It isnae spite, just ignorance. Wee Briggy knows nuhin else but substance abuse.
‘Naw, mate. A’m aff everyhin apart fae drink n fags.’
Wee Gunny coughs n whispers poof. There’s a wee stoned snigger fae the rest. These cunts irnae ma pals. They’re strangers, enemy. Aw they care aboot is drugs n that misery that loves company. Azzy Boy’s thin margin is worth them aw. Lest yi forget those fallen moments n airless breaths. Those long, slow, wasted days and black nights ae fear n panic. The money n that most important currency yi hud fritted away tae it. Yir cravin mind longs fur that taste ae oblivion, an end tae the monotony ae long, drugless days. Cunts will never really understand yir choices n will always huv a go. So A craft ma response. Some eloquent words tae represent the moment and the struggle. This is the fight fur that beautiful and sacred margin. Where yir family, future, hopes n dreams comes doon tae that second where yi say naw n bravely step intae no man’s land, amid a barrage ae sufferin, boredom n mockery n say no more. No thanks. A’m aff it.
‘Fuck yees.’
And it is beautiful.
Ma phone buzzes in ma pocket. It’s Danny Hoose. A’ve barely heard fae the cunt while he’s been runnin aboot sellin shit. Cunts took different paths n sooner or later, yi huv tae let them walk theirs n you need tae walk yours.
‘Alan, it’s Maria.’
A hear hur sniffin but n A know it’s no good news.
‘Wit’s happened?’
‘Aw, son … have yi seen Danny?’
‘Naw A huvnae, Maria.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘How? Wit’s happened?’
‘Agnes is away.’
‘Away where?’ A say without thinkin.
‘Away, away, Alan. I’m sorry, son. A know you thought highly of hur.’
‘Awright. Shit, A’m sorry. Danny awright?’ This is a daft question. A know he’ll be in fuckin pieces. Agnes hud looked after him constantly when he wis a wean n his maw n da wur workin. She’s been a gran tae us both. Suhin deep doon inside ae me anaw is broken hearin they words. Agnes is the last ae that generation. Ma gran hud died years ago n it hud cut me deep then.
‘He ran oot the door soon as we heard. Not seen or heard from him since, Alan. Will you phone me right away if you see him, son. Big Brian is in bits.’
‘Aye, A’ll go n look fur him, Maria.’
The tunes ir still bangin but A’m a wee boy again, lost in a garden, messy n full but alive. Dark green mint hus become a renegade n hus started tae pillage n spread oot ae its boundaries ae passin fancy n rare usefulness. Purple-headed chives grow between cracked slabs, their own unofficial plots. There’s a wee boundary fence hidden by wide green rhubarb leaves, which slugs huv eaten holes in. They used tae git caught in wee yoghurt pots filled wae beer, but they hudnae been lain fur years noo. The garden seemed tae grow without remorse. Its carers huv fallen away intae indifference n decay, but it lives on. Its green hands weave in the night. The neatly kept edgings, pruned bushes and turned flowerbeds ir replaced wae a temperate jungle. A imagine it wild n untamed but still wae aw the intended plants rather than the weeds which huv most likely begun their coup d’etat, insurrection n revolution. The eld shed fashions a coat ae fresh brown creosote in ma mind. The broken slabs huv aw mended themselves n the eld flakin bench is made ae smooth planed timber again, its varnish shining in that never-endin sunlight. Aw the rot n decomposition is replaced wae a perfected vision. Things which never started like that ir cleaned n fixed up. The eld shed is filled wae aw the correct tools, in the right places, n the rubbish n damp which accumulated is undone. It is the garden ae our childhood, a final n untainted place buried away deep inside us.
In a sentence, it retreats tae reality. It becomes filled wae jaggies. Aw the wood is rotten n broken away wae years ae corrosive time n damp seepin intae the delicate grains. Aw that’s left is an unholy alliance between the weeds n the fuckin mint.
A’m dragged away fae those summers in Agnes’s garden, back tae the cold winter’s night. Orange sodium n purple haze flood intae the turquoise canvas ae ma dream. The tunes n the patter ir incessant n don’t mix wae ma mood. They’re aw laughin away n chattin shite. Ma chest goes that fluttery way n A feel a panic attack creepin up n punchin me in the gut. A’m spinnin, but this time A’m aff everyhin n A fight it wae steely resolve n those fuckin breathin exercises. Deep diaphragm breaths in through the nose fur five, hold fur five, n back oot the mooth fur five, repeat and stand by, stand by. Combat breathin, they call it. That is ma fragile peace. Every time it’s a fuckin battle within me, ma camouflage ae normality, a hard shell under which tae suffer. A’m alone n even though A’m aff it aw, A’m no fully rid ae the fear ae fear. It’s a curse that finds new ways tae git at yi. Everythin’s on tap ae me. The weight ae the world, sittin on the middle section ae ma chest makin us breathe shallow n feel like A’m sinkin. Gas imbalance. Ma heart starts racin, A’m sweatin n A feel like grippin on tae the door handles, adrenal response n sympathetic nervous system. A huvnae smoked dope fur a month but that doesnae matter noo because it hus a grip ae ma larynx n lungs. No wavin but drownin again, suffocatin.
Just before A disappear beneath that black sea ae fear, the garden comes back tae ma mind. Every wee detail ae this space soothes me n A return there. The eld smells keep me from goin intae full-blown panic mode n losin it. A think aboot the menacin mint, the bitter n recognisable scent ae those sharp, dark green leaves n the sweet onion ae the chives. Their fat purple heads, like golf baws. The smells ae flowers A never learned the names ae. There’s a distant sniff ae creosote fae the shed, the eld wood n dust inside. A wander doon the back tae the forgotten greenhoose n smell the paraffin lamp, rich soil bags, tomatoes. There’s garden magazines scattered on an eld wooden workbench, seed packets, bamboo shoots, green twine n rusty black scissors tae cut it. A breathe deep through ma diaphragm n try tae relax n hang on. It passes, but only after A wrestle wae it. We remain n survive another death n breathe. In fur five, hold fur five, oot fur five, stand by, stand by.
‘Wit’s wrang, mate? Yir awfy quiet!’
‘Ignore us, man. Just thinkin aboot shit.’
‘Don’t think too hard, el son.’
‘Aye yir maybe right, kid.’
‘Anycunt wid think you’re gawn saft, Azzy!’ Wee Gunny says behind a joint.
‘Fuckin rap it, Gunny. Drap me aff, Paul.’
‘At your bit?’
‘Naw, doon the scheme.’
‘Where yi gawn like?’
‘Never you fuckin mind. Just drap me aff.’
Toffey gees me a funny look when A’m gittin oot n shakes ma paw. He’s a decent wee cunt, a different character fae the rest. A feel like shite, panicky n depressed cos ae the bad news. Maria’s phone call is on ma mind. A know where he’ll be.
The eld hoose is in darkness, wae the venetian blinds n curtains drawn. A doubt they’d be opened again while the hoose is still Agnes’s. Ma mind holds such a vision ae the place. Aw the varnished shelves wae whimsies on, no as polished as they hud once been. The layer ae dust a whisper ae things tae come, ashes tae ashes. The eld patterned carpets, a relic which assured tradition n promised warmth. There wis a new gas fire underneath an eld mantelpiece, wae a gold carriage clock which hud stopped ticking. Family pictures formed the border roon the edges ae the room. There’s eld faded navy leather couches. Strangely, it’s the images ae Agnes Stevenson’s livin room, scullery, landin n garden which stick wae us, an undiminished space ae childhood. A kin remember us aff fur the Easter holidays sittin watchin Ben Hur fur aboot three hour wae Agnes. She wid always huv a wee Creme Egg fur us both or a couple ae pound fur the va
n. Ma hand goes tae the latch in the thick darkness.
A hear a gentle sobbin as A reach over the gate n slide the lock’s bolt oot ae place. Danny is sittin in a heap at the back door, flakin red. A kin see a bottle ae Tonic at his side n him fumblin wae a packet ae skins in the cold. He looks up tae see me n tries tae dry his tears. A don’t say nuhin, but go n sit on the raised landin next tae him where we used tae fit our legs through the metal bars ae the railing. He passes us the Buckfast, silent apart fae sobs. The thick essence ae the brown wine seems tae soothe yir very soul, the warmth rushin intae ma cheeks. We pass it back n forth n A light two fags at the same time n gee him wan. The two ae us, grown noo, sit lookin at the far streetlights. Those infinite rows ae orange lamps flicker like they always huv. The wine keeps us warm as we sit broodin, a last time, on forgotten n lost youth.
A Bridge Too Far
The charity shops ir still here but they’re quiet. Aw the shops ir. They seem tae change hands constantly, an endless cycle ae shitey start-ups n wan-aff fast food takeaways n off-licences. The only businesses that ir boomin ir the chemists wae their methadone scripts, seven ae them within three streets. Aw the big shops hud long since moved away intae Glasgow n the Fort. There’s nuhin left here. The TO LET signs take the look aff the faded n dark Christmas decorations. Yir faced wae graffiti n grey shutters n dark windaes wae eternal renovations which ir never comin. Noo the big businesses huv left, aw the folk that remain ir the wans that ir trapped here, the usual street dwellers, idlers, waifs n strays. Yi huv cunts on the bru that just spend their days traipsin the streets n goin intae Farmfoods n Iceland fur their daily bacon n messages. Yi huv the poor souls anaw, disabled folk n eld pensioners oot just lookin fur a moment’s company wae the usual bored shop assistants. Junkies, alkies n neds – us, tae the ootside eye. Aw the normal folk hud been driven oot ae the town centre, fadin one by one. The rest ir stuck here, forever wheelin roon this nightmarish carousel ae degradation that used tae be a proud n thrivin market town. Any dreams ae that huv vanished.
There’s a cold sun up but the air is different n smells ae spring, release n resurrection. A’m a month aff the drugs, walkin wae ma heed held high n feelin like a new man, the best A’ve felt in a long time. Clear heed, clear thoughts. Wake up in the mornin n eat a breakfast, shower n the day is ma own. Nae lyin in a stupor in bed smokin soon as A wake up, then that endless cycle ae chasin more stuff while tryin tae pay tick upon tick. That’s aw gone n it feels like another life n A spoke a different language then, a language ae drugs n addiction that aw addicts ir fluent in.
Instead, A’ve been goin tae the gym, oot walkin n joggin in the woods, spendin time wae ma maw n cuttin the grass. Dain normal shit that wis practically unthinkable before when yi spent every day usin drugs. The dark clouds ae depression n addiction seemed tae break n roll over. A still feel mad wee panicky episodes if A forget n take any caffeine or smoke too many fags, but apart fae that, A’m on ma way back fae the edge ae ma personal abyss. A kin look people in the eye again n A feel better. Besides the feelin good, there’s plenty work still tae dae. Gettin aff is wan thing, but stayin aff is another. The social ramifications ae sittin wae mates who take drugs daily is always goin tae be hard. Cos after a while this new-found faith n freedom wid be forgotten in loneliness n yi wid yearn fur the eld days wae yir brothers n drugs as yir daily purpose. That’s the test ae any recoverin addict. Yi huv tae summon that inner strength tae keep it gawn, long-term. Moments like these, when normality is hard fought n won, it feels so fuckin precious A cannae convey. So amazin tae just be maself again n dae normal stuff n A swear A’ll never take that fur granted. A feel saved, reborn.
We’re just wanderin aboot at our ain pace. We’ve git aboot fifty quid between us n we’re in n oot the pubs n goin fur a bottle. There’s nae fury tae our session the day. Danny seems tae be holdin up. A catch a wee sad glance when he thinks A’m no lookin n the extra wee gulps ae pints n neat shots show a man sufferin. A hud walked roon tae git him this mornin. His maw n da’s hoose wis dark n hud the ineffable residue ae death over it like a shroud. The happiness ae homes seems tae drain oot them when somebody is missin. Normality seems tae stall n the everyday colours ae life become cold pastels like a hospital wall or hospice reception.
His patter aboot being a mad dealer hus calmed the day. Much as A want tae be a good mate, the fact remains that sometimes yi huv tae put distance between those who wid git yi in too deep or take yi tae places yi don’t want tae go. The place Danny is headin is significantly worse than where A’m prepared tae follow. As the day wears on, A hear the extent ae his dealings. ‘Much yi been shiftin then?’ A ask.
‘A’m up tae a bar ae green, a few hunner blues n an ounce ae gear anaw.’
‘Fuck sake, Danny. That’s a few grand tae chase in. Far cry fae the eld soap bar n a few swedgers.’
‘A know,’ he replies, quiet.
‘Yi still dealin wae McIntire?’
‘Aye, mate. A’m thinkin aboot wrappin it.’
‘Aye?’ A say without conviction. A hud heard it aw before. People like Danny, who huv become used tae the money, always spout shite like this. It usually means they’re pissed aff or huvin a few bad weeks or got a sore face. Maybe his personal loss is geein him a sense ae perspective aboot it aw. It sounds heartless tae dismiss anybody’s desire tae change, but they just say it tae make themselves feel better in the meantime n expect you tae play yir part in listenin n entertainin it.
‘Good stuff, mate.’
We’re walkin again n things don’t seem so bad. We irnae drunk, just enough tae keep us movin on a day like this. Me n Danny hud talked aboot the eld times, the way things used tae be, when we wur young. It hus always been us two n no matter wit happens, we’ll be mates fur life. We hud talked aboot the early days, like roon Agnes’s back garden or at primary school n sittin playin the Sega Mega Drive n then the N64 aw summer. Or when they put aw the James Bonds on telly when GoldenEye came oot wae Pierce Brosnan rather than Timothy Dalton. A kin still see the Martini advert that sponsored them, mad swirlin colours. That wis 1996 – thirteen year ago. We wur just wee guys then. Losin eld Agnes hus brought back a flood ae memories, smells n colours fae the past. Our childhood wis a happy wan, simple but rich wae the important things.
Ma thoughts ir broken by shoutin up the street. A’m shootin a stream ae warm boozy breath intae the cold March air n lightin a smoke. Danny seems tae be in a world ae his own anaw. We both return fae our separate daydreams n see Si n Matty O’Connor marchin doon the street towards us. They’re awready shoutin the odds aboot suhin.
‘Look, it’s fuckin Dumb n Dumber! Wit yi wantin, ya fuckin bams?’ Danny shouts.
‘Yees think we’ve forgotten aboot yees stealin our fuckin crop? Nae fuckin chance yees ir gittin away wae it!’
‘Still no sure that wis us, cuz!’ A say wae a laugh.
‘You’ll git smashed again, Azzy, ya wee dick!’ Matty’s shoutin.
‘Yer fuckin maw, ya pair ae gypsy bastards!’
‘Heard McIntire wis fuckin ragin. Yees paid the derry yit oot yir ain pockets, boys?’ Danny says, smiling. Matty goes intae his jakit pocket n whips oot a dumb-bell bar. The things ir some weight – a good whack wae wan ae them wid fuckin kill yi. Danny pulls us back when the cunt swings it, turns, and toe-pokes him straight in the fuckin baws. Matty folds, white as a sheet, n he’s on his knees. A volley him right in the dish n he’s oot the gem. Si’s tryin tae pull him tae his feet but he’s fucked. ‘Wit yi gonnae dae noo? EH? YT FUCKIN P, YA DAFTY!’ Danny shouts. Si’s shat himself. He’s still shoutin at his brur tae git back up but Matty’s bent in pain on the deck n whiteyd. It’s over n done, but Danny bounces forward wae his hand in his ain pocket. It comes oot wae his lock-back, awready flicked oot.
‘NAW, DANNY!’ A shout, but it’s too late. Danny whips it across Si’s cheek rapid. His lower cheek splits in two but doesnae bleed straight away. The cunt doesnae realise he’s been slashed until he feels his cheek. It’s like a leat
her couch spillin stuffin, a bad wan. A shut ma eyes n turn, walkin away fae it. Danny sprints away the opposite direction. Si’s screamin n his brother is roarin aboot who’s gittin stabbed. A keep walkin, heed doon n hood up.
Any Port in a Storm
A’m woken up in a cold sweat by Toffey standin above us. Ma heart’s thuddin as A see tracky bottoms n a wave ae panic sweeps over us. It’s Friday 13 March. Unlucky fur some. The wee cunt sits across fae us on ma chair. He’s no said fuck aw yit, just plonked himself doon n tossed a pile ae clean ironin ontae the floor tae use as a footstool. He’s lightin two fags in his gub n passin me wan over. ‘Happnin, son?’ A say, takin a drink ae stale tap water fae a pint glass next tae ma bed.
‘Fuck aw, Azzy, big man.’
‘Wit yi dain?’
‘Nuhin, mate. Everycunt’s lyin low. It’s aw over the computer aboot Danny n Si.’
‘It wis fuckin bad, mate.’
‘Aye A know, everycunt says Danny wis fuckin oot ae order. Aw the troops ir talkin aboot it, man. Aw the Toi n even the Fleeto wans ir after him, sayin he’s gonnae git plugged fur it.’
‘He’s no gonnae git touched, wee yin. The Fleeto ir fuckin miniature heroes. Wit aboot me?’
‘Dunno, mate.’
‘A’m second prize. Danny’s made fuckin sure ae that. Matty wis tryin tae fuckin do me in wae a dumb-bell bar.’
‘Yi heard fae Danny?’
‘Huv A fuck, son.’
‘He’s a fanny fur dain it.’
‘Course he is. He’s got wan ae us or himself done noo in retaliation.’
‘Yi hink so?’
‘Aye. They’ll up the fuckin ante noo.’
‘Wit dis that mean?’
‘It means we’ll needty watch oot fur each other. Make sure nae cunt gits sneakied when they’re by themselves.’
‘If they come lookin we’ll just fuckin doo them.’
The Young Team Page 16