The Young Team

by Graeme Armstrong

  She’s bang on n A’ve nae protests. Yi hud spent yir full youth learnin tae fight n act bold. Noo, yi huv tae unlearn it. Don’t retaliate, even if cunts ir right in yir face laughin at yi. Cos the wan cunt yi lift yir hands tae wid git hurt n you’d end up in court n then it’s finished. There wid be nae life beyond aw this n aw the struggle is fur nuhin. This is the new challenge. Tae keep that boldness inside n let it go.

  ‘Yir right. A’m sorry aboot the window n the blinds.’

  ‘I’m not bothering about those – it’s you I’m worrying about! I don’t want things to go back like they used to be. I honestly don’t think I could manage now … not back to all that.’ Ma maw looks older wae every word that comes oot hur mouth.

  A cannae offer any guarantees wit wid happen. This is the woman who taught me never tae make a promise yi cannae keep. A cannae promise everyhin is gonnae be awright, cos yi just never know aboot here. Ma maw doesnae deserve this shite. She’s lookin elder n less capable ae puttin up wae it. A wisnae wan ae the weans wae pure young parents. Somecunts’ maws ir only in their early forties when they’re in their twenties. Ma maw is in her late fifties noo, fae a different time. She didnae understand aw this – drugs n street violence – but she wis well versed in the consequences. In the past, moments like this A wid be fuckin ragin, phonin ma pals tae go n cause havoc, but there’s naebody really left tae phone. Where is the famous Young Team noo? A’m alone tae face ma past.

  A drive up intae the Toi’s scheme, the dodgy bit where they aw stay. A’m sittin at the end ae the street lookin aboot but A’m only makin maself angry dain this shit. There’s nae point goin smashin windaes like they wee dicks. A’m comin back oot the street n A see somecunt walkin wae a burd n a pram. A slow doon n edge oot by a parked motor. The cunt looks up fae his wean n catches ma eye. It’s Div Peters. A see him freeze n whisper suhin tae his burd. She grabs the pram n starts headin back the way they hud come. Div continues doon the street alone, walkin twice as fast as he wis. A roll the motor up tae the kerb beside him n slide the windae doon a wee bit. ‘Dae yi honestly think A wis gonnae try suhin when yi hud yir wean there?’ Div straightens up n looks in the windae but doesnae say nuhin. ‘Wit kind ae fuckin animal dae yooz think A’m ir?’

  ‘Azzy, aw that’s forgot aboot, fuck sake. A’ve hud the wee man noo n A’m no runnin aboot anymore.’

  ‘Yi think A’m ir? A moved away tae git away fae aw this fuckin shite.’

  ‘Wit did yi come back fur then?’

  ‘Usual pish.’

  ‘Well, yi did go wae Patricia Lewis.’

  ‘Aye, yir no wrong. Somecunt’s just put ma maw’s fuckin windae in.’

  ‘Fuck sake, cunts ir needin tae fuckin grow up.’

  ‘Aye, tell us aboot it. A’m no wantin any fuckin trouble. When wull cunts git that in their heeds?’

  ‘A’ll tell yi wan thing – yi hardly see a soul doon this way noo right. Most ae them huv weans n aw that or ir away workin somewhere, or wae burds n aw that. But Matty n Si ir still gawn fur it hammer n tongs. They’re both movin powers ae gear fur they Maynards noo. That’s how A’m no runnin aboot wae them. A’m no needin aw that aggro.’

  ‘Fair enough, man. Aye well, cheers then.’

  ‘A never hated any you cunts. It wis aw just a fuckin laugh, cuz, but it went too far wae yir boy gittin done. A wouldnae put ma name tae that. Fuck that Young Toi shite. It’s aw done wae noo. A hear Big Kenzie is expectin a wean anaw?’

  ‘Aye he is, man. Fair doos fur sayin that aboot Toffey. Cunts ir still determined tae drag me back tae the shite.’

  ‘Kenzie’s burd knows ma burd. Fancy that eh? The famous Tam McKenzie hus fuckin calmed doon.’

  Div looks aboot then leans in the motor. ‘A’ll tell yi wan thing fur free, Matty n Si ir still lookin fur yi. They’re worse than they used tae be, honestly. The two ae them think they’re fuckin gangsters noo. If you’ve tae watch fur anycunt, it’s those two fuckin dicks, awright? But yi didnae hear it fae me.’

  ‘Sound as.’

  ‘Just keep me n ma family oot it? Awright?’

  If a man comes tae yi in peace, it’s wise tae accept it.

  A Match Made in Heaven

  The eld barbers A used tae go tae is down the high street. It kin be a hotspot fur cunts yi don’t want tae meet but. Monday mornin is usually sound though, apart fae the odd dodgy cunt goin down tae sign on. There’s a wee eld barber workin n a couple ae young lassies, wee tidies just oot ae college. Hairdressin is the choice profession ae young women fae ma school. Whereas guys went tae ‘git a trade’, they talked aboot being health n beauty technicians or hairdressers or carers or social workers. A’m sittin on the benches inside, waitin. There’s an eld cunt wae a Daily Record sittin bumpin his gums over the last couple ae sports pages. The shop hus a fresh lick ae paint but it always smelt ae a mix ae fags, Barbicide n Brylcreem. There’s yellowed pictures ae good-lookin cunts fae the eighties wae mad suave fuckin doo-cuts n leather jakits n aw that. Only haircut yi seen in here is a short back n wallop. ‘Aye, son, over yi come. Wit yi huvin the day?’ the eld cunt asks.

  Fuck it. When in Rome, eat lions … ‘Zero back n sides, mate.’

  Ma motor is parked doon behind Farmfoods, just off the main street. A’m walkin doon the steps n through the alley. It’s stinkin n junky types hide doon it n shoot up. Yi huv tae dodge needles n tin-can sin bins lyin aboot on the steps. There’s a wee crowd ae junkies tucked intae a corner over the far side, behind the eld snooker hall that wis closed years back. They’re usually harmless n tend tae be wee frail cunts or pure snaggles that wouldnae gee yi any grief. A see them splittin up n sayin their mumbled cheerios, Big Issue style catcalls n yelled junky wisdoms.

  A walk past the cunts. Ma motor is tucked behind the buildin in a private parkin space. A’m avoidin the dug shite n the broken wine bottles n beepin the motor open. A hear cunts behind me n A kin see reflections in the glass. Two ae they cunts ir tryin tae bounce up n sneaky me. The motor key goes back in ma pocket n A fish fur ma Clipper fur ma fist. A feel a hand on ma shoulder n A spin roon, too quick fur these cunts. BANG. A hit the cunt a fuckin daddy-ho ae a right in the stomach n he folds in two, then falls straight tae the ground. The other wan is a burd n she’s squeckin undistinguishable words at me. The cunt is on the deck. ‘Wit yees fuckin wantin?’

  ‘Azzy … aww … fuck … yi nearly … knocked … me … oot … ya cunt.’

  It’s Finnegan n Toni. A help him aff the deck n dust the cunt aff. A try no tae stare as A recognise an eld Adidas tracky he used tae wear aboot five year ago, full ae wee bomber holes fae smokin joints then. Finnegan started as an apprentice mechanic. A heard he hud been paid aff in his second year n hud started down this road tae nowhere. Toni-Marie never worked. Her face is aw sucked in n she’s wearin a tracky top tae, n scruffy jeggins. The lassie’s hair looks like yi could fry chips in it n is pulled back in a rough ponytail. ‘Fuck sake, man … A didnae realise it wis yooz. Fuck ir yi dain wae aw they fuckin junky cunts?’

  ‘Eh … A sell them blues …’

  The two ae them look at each other. Ma face must show wit A’m thinkin. ‘Aye, man … sound.’ He’s still lookin shakey fae me hittin him. A feel bad n try no tae keep starin at them both. ‘Ir yi awright? A’m sorry fur whackin yi, fuck sake. A didnae realise it wis yooz.’

  ‘Aye it’s awright … A’m awright … When did yi git back?’

  There’s a wee slur tae his speech n he seems dazed, like he hud been takin blues himself the day before n they’re still hangin on him. He’s git the wee white dried flecks ae saliva at the corners ae his lips, just like Danny. A doubt he wis sellin anyhin tae they cunts. If anyhin, they wid be down scorin aff they elder cunts in the denim jakits n caps.

  ‘Just this week, cuz.’

  ‘Walkin doon n bang intae our Azzy Williams n aw that … ma eld mucka fae the Young Team. Magin that, eh Toni?’

  ‘Aye, son, magin that,’ Toni says, emotionless n starin somewhere in the distance.r />
  ‘Anyways … wit you two been uptay?’

  It feels like a daft question. A kin see just by lookin at the state ae them wit they hud been uptay. They’re in an industrial decline. A couldnae imagine wit Connor n Joanne Finnegan must be feelin. His da is a master butcher n hud always worked n brought in the bacon, literally. His maw worked in a shoe shop down the street – steady folk, workers. It wis nae real reflection on the parents, the lives we chose fur ourselves.

  ‘Nuhin … much … man …’

  ‘Yees workin?’

  They both just look blankly at one another n turn tae me n shrug, like work is already a foreign concept.

  ‘Cool … yees headin up the road?’

  ‘Aye, man … The real reason A came over was just tae ask yi … wee len ae a couple ae quid fur the bus … n fur a packet ae fag papers n Bluebells.’

  ‘Skins, matches n yir bus fare?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘A pouch ae Amber Leaf anaw, if yir flush, Azzy big pal,’ Toni says.

  A cannae help shakin ma heed a wee bit.

  ‘Fuck sake, man … we wur doon fur a crisis loan on Friday … n we git refused …’

  ‘Fuckin refused,’ Toni echoes.

  ‘Aye … man … we’ve nae money,’ Finnegan says.

  ‘Huv yees no?’

  ‘Naw … man … well … kin yi sort us oot?’

  ‘A’ll gee yees a run up the road if yi want?’

  ‘Aww … fuck sake … man … wit a gentleman … eh, Toni?’

  She’s starin at the side of the building, ponderin the infinite mysteries ae rough casting noo, n doesnae answer. ‘Mon then,’ A say, almost regrettin ma offer.

  The three ae us walk over tae the motor. Me n Finnegan jump in the front. Toni slides intae the back. A’m aff n rollin within two seconds. These two cunts ir depressin the life oot ae me. A don’t even feel like A kin indulge in the same brutal honesty like wae Danny. His ailment is more along the lines ae an extended downer, tryin tae dig himself oot a downturn wae drink n drugs. Wae these two, it’s almost cruel tae point out their condition. ‘How’s yir maw n that, Finnegan?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘How dae yi no know?’

  ‘Cos … we don’t talk tae … them.’

  ‘That’s a shame, man. Yir maw’s always yir maw n that, mate.’

  ‘Fuck them.’

  Both ae them ir starin oot the windae. A reach the shop n stop.

  ‘Sure yees ir awright?’

  ‘Aye … man … we’ll be fine.’

  ‘Here’s twenty quid, mate. It’s aw A’ve got. Git yirsels sorted oot, fuck sake. Stop takin blues n runnin aboot wae fuckin junky undesirables.’

  ‘Aye, nae bother … mate.’

  Finnegan doesnae take his eyes aff the score note in ma hand. Toni opens the door n leaves without a word. He just nods before he opens the door n walks oot after hur, straight on an eld Nokia mobile makin the call. A go tae light a smoke, pissed aff n depressed. A hunt aboot the centre console fur ma fags. It’s then A realise that they’re away in Toni’s pocket.

  Supply and Demands

  Broonie is sittin on the bed rollin a joint. A’m sittin on ma armchair smokin a fag. Usually he wis blether, blether, blether n yi hud tae squeeze a word in edgeways. The day he’s quiet n fiddlin wae his mobile n tryin tae roach a joint at the same time. The cunt’s git a pair ae Diesel jeans on n a Fred Perry polo shirt n looks like he’s enjoyin the spoils ae his chosen occupation. How daft it seems tae me – when A wouldnae even wear flashy labels n jewellery. His passin pleasures ir things we took fur granted growin up; wearin aw the best gear n havin money in yir pocket. He never hud the benefit ae a maw or da who could hand him cairo without worryin. They wur tryin tae feed their own habits. Puntin gear, he’s makin enough tae drive an Audi n buy some designer clothes. This kind ae gain never lasts long. The look on his face says his wee empire is awready slippin away fae him, the same way as usual – wae somebody pullin the rug fae under yi.

  ‘Broonie, wit’s wrang wae yir face?’

  He laughs n gees his nose a wee tap.

  ‘Fuck yi then, ya wee cunt!’

  ‘Don’t be like that, eld son. Just fuckin business.’

  ‘Aww sorry, Scarface.’

  ‘Cunts huv let us doon, man. That wis aw.’

  ‘Much yi short like?’

  ‘Aboot three grand or suhin, aw in.’

  ‘You’re jokin.’

  ‘Naw, man. A’ve been sellin big bits, quarters n half oscars n single tickets anaw. Mind a ticket ae pure is a hunner quid anaw noo, fuck. No that forty quid shite we used tae sniff. Even council is fifty a gram noo. Then there’s that shitey thirty-quid-a-ticket shite gawn aboot but it’s cut tae fuck wae mephedrone.’

  A’ve only briefly encountered aw this new-wave drug shite. The legal high pish hus completely muddied the water. Aw these wee cunts think they’re takin ‘safe’ drugs, as if there is such a thing. Normal cocaine n ecstasy huv changed anaw. They’ve been revitalised n strengthened, tae keep up wae this new creed ae cheap synthetic drugs. Coke is aw ‘pure’ stuff – higher purity, higher cost. Aw this mad Mandy patter fur pure MDMA, which we barely seen back in the day. As purity goes up, dose hus tae come doon. Those first remarketed drugs didnae come wae warning labels. Cunts took rock-star lines instead ae spiders’ legs n ended up in trouble. Takin even four or five tenner eckies could be the equivalent ae takin fifteen or twenty ae the wans we used tae take. Yi end up wae serious anxiety, palpitations, overheatin, tachycardia, overdose, coma n death. These ir new generation problems. Young cunts adapt n know more than us noo. In the drugs game yir oot the loop in nae time at aw.

  ‘N cunts huv bumped yi?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Who like?’

  ‘Wullie McLean.’

  A knew there hud tae be a fuckin catch. The McLeans wurnae as wealthy n organised as the likes ae the McIntires or the Maynards but that didnae mean they wur less dodgy particularly. There’s a squad ae them anaw n they run aboot shiftin weights. The elder McIntires huv businesses n fancy motors n aw that. The McLeans didnae huv anyhin like that, far as a know. ‘So let me git this right. Yir sellin gear fur Marcus McIntire … and sellin shit tae the McLeans.’

  ‘Kinda.’

  ‘Wit possessed yi tae sell gear tae that fuckin heedbanger?’

  ‘Cos it wis an ounce cash. Then when A turned up at the gaff, the full McLean clan wis there n there wis a shotgun sittin on the table. Noo, the Broonie boy is fuckin mad, but no mad enough tae tell him n five ae his cousins he wis gittin fuck aw! A wis just glad tae walk back oot the gaff.’

  ‘So he’s done yi?’

  ‘He’s said he’ll gees it back in gear. A swap, know? Ounce fur an ounce.’

  ‘That’s better than fuck aw.’

  ‘Aye, his stuff is shite but.’

  ‘Fuck it. Take it n bang it oot in cheap tickets. Cut yir fuckin losses fur a couple ae hunner quid n move on.’

  ‘Aye …’

  Yi kin always tell when Broonie is holdin back. ‘So wit’s the problem? Yi should manage tae git that sorted.’

  ‘Problem is, mate, the bit that git stole wis aff Jamesy Maynard n noo Wullie n Marcus ir joinin up n dain stuff the-gither. So, A’ve basically bumped Maynard fur them. Or at least that’s how he’s gonnae see it, if he ever fuckin finds oot. It looks like A wis part ae the whole fuckin set-up.’

  ‘Fuckin Maynard anaw. Fuck sake, sir. That cunt is mental, Broonie! Wit yi playin at? If the McIntires find oot yir dealin wae them, you’re finished, son.’

  These families’ mutual existence is always a tense affair n Broonie’s in wae them aw, tryin tae git clever. Once he’s reached his credit limit he would be on tae the next tae feed his greed n ain habit, mixin bits n monies n debts n customers.

  ‘A know mate, fuck sake. A try no tae muddle up the tick money. McIntire gees me ma big bits ae council cheap but Jamesy gees us the pure n A make some dough aff that.’

  ‘Fuck
sake, son. Aw heatin up eh? Don’t end up caught in the crossfire if they start fightin among themselves, mate.’

  ‘Just need tae hope A kin save up the dough tae pay aff Jamesy before he clicks on. If A dae that A should be in the clear. Plus, it’s only Wednesday yit. Hopefully git more dough in fur Friday tae soften the blow, if needs be, know wit A mean?’

  This is aw way above ma heed. A hud come across some ae these cunts, but A wis smart enough tae say awright n disappear. This kind irnae daft. They collect wee cunts like Broonie. The wee young runners git individual units tae sell – quarters ae dope, grams ae coke n aw the rest ae it. Broonie dealt these individual bits tae aw the wee guys n bought the big bits tae chop. Noo he’s supplyin the wee runners anaw n movin up the food chain. Runners feel special, cos they git let away wae a bit ae debt when they fuck up at the beginnin or they git a loan ae money. It’s aw just tae suck them in. When yi git tae this stage, yi cannae say naw n they huv yi right where they want yi.

  The Fundamental Difference Between Uz

  Fridays, like some other days, huv become lonely fur the Azzy boy. A’ve come tae loathe the once sacred Friday night. Aye, A might be treadin the right path n everybody kin see how well yir dain, aff drugs n barely drinkin, but there’s suhin missin. Some kind ae cavity that a past spent like ours hus left. There’s nae new pals tae go n dae other stuff wae. A dream aboot dain stuff we missed oot on when we wur younger. Campin n shite like that. Yir too eld tae dae that kinda stuff, or at least tae dae it in the same way. Yi heard cunts talkin aboot burds n mad adventure holidays travellin n goin indoor snowboardin at Braeheed n shit like that, different shit. We never done nuhin like that n if yi hud asked anycunt tae they wid just huv laughed. There’s nuhin tae talk aboot wae a decent burd – nae prospects, nae adventures. The mad scheme burds ir still attracted tae cunts who think they’re mental. We’re past aw that noo. Wit’s left? There’s nae mass exodus ae cunts changin their lives. The road tae redemption is always gonnae be a lonely wan.