The door goes. It’s Monica. A’m no expectin hur n we don’t say anyhin at first, but she looks softer, like suhin’s changed. We hud been heavy textin each other n it wis progressin towards the inevitable, but she hud gone quiet the last few days n patched us. A’d been starin intae the messages tryin tae analyse our chat. Every time the phone wid ping A wid hope it wis hur, but nuhin. The usual chaos starts unfoldin n yi furget – Monica always hud tae compete wae that. A never sent a second text. ‘Well, are you goin to ask me in?’ She walks by, no waitin fur an answer, n touches ma hand wae hers just enough tae let me know. A close the door n turn, then she’s pullin us closer n givin me the look so there’s nae doubt. We kiss in the doorway n A kin smell hur perfume, the same wan she always wore. It’s hur smell, the wan that used tae haunt ma pillow after she left.
‘Alan, I’m sorry for keepin you waiting. I wanted to … I was just …’
‘No sure?’
‘I was sure. Just scared.’
‘Scared ae wit?’
‘Scared of what it means.’
A smile n laugh, brushin hur fringe oot hur eyes. ‘What dis it mean?’
‘I dunno! That I maybe … like ya!’
‘Same.’
‘Well, I can’t hang about here much longer. My year abroad is starting in a month – what do you think?’
‘What dae A think aboot what?’
‘Would you come with me to France? I’m going to get my own place, and I’d be grateful of the company.’
A wee serious look crosses hur face. This is gonnae be hur new beginnin but – the end of hur life here. Monica wid move on n while a fool in love dares tae dream it isnae so, our paths ir awready forkin n we’re hangin on tae some past thing, suhin that never really wis. Even though yi know it’s fucked, it’s hur face that A just cannae let go. There’s suhin wrong wae us though, some betrayal ae fate. Two ae us, destined tae move on in separate directions, but holdin each other back, tightly.
Wae every second that passes she sees these thoughts in ma face. ‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want you to come. I’m not just asking you to tag along. I’m asking you to come with me. It’s different.’
‘A know that, but this is your big plan …’
‘Think about it then?’
‘Course A will.’
‘Okies. So, I’m heading out with a few friends tomorrow night. You want to come?’
‘What friends?’
‘A couple of mates from uni.’
‘Which ones?’
‘Not Dominic! Just a couple of girls n guys. They’re all cool.’
Deep doon A’m inclined tae avoid these kinda situations. Tae say naw makes yi look para n antisocial but A’ve got this wee feelin, like the types she hangs aboot wae irnae our people n we irnae theirs. Sittin among those types n puttin on ma more proper English register isnae so appealin. Cos A’m knee deep in wae the boys again n aw the shite here is buzzin aboot ma fuckin nut. While Monica’s crew ir talkin aboot studyin, their gap years, which postgrad they’re gonnae dae or how many weans in Africa they’re gonnae build huts fur, A’m thinkin aboot ma ain shite n A don’t feel like tartin it up. Hi, I’m Alan Williams, left school after my Highers and studied Sociology at college in Newcastle, lived in a city-centre flat and enjoyed a few years of easy education before uni, while gaining life experience in a different city. Degree level next? Why of course! Economics, Arts and Humanities, Linguistics n Languages … blah blah fuckin blah. Maybe it’s spiteful tae think like this. It isnae really the case. These cunts huv led different lives tae us n it’s only the night, sittin before Monica Mason, that A feel envious ae the lives they take fur granted. A don’t want tae sit wae strangers who ir gonnae judge me n feign a mild interest in ma daft wee college course. A cannae really talk on their level yit. A’m no stupid, A’ve got opinions n aw that. A know aboot politics n other topics ae polite conversation – but ma opinion is like a trained monkey tae these cunts. Frankenstein’s creature, an eloquent mutant. A hybrid specimen. Working class wae a brain n an accent, that guarantees the split forever.
‘Course A’ll go.’
We’re passin through Bellgrove station n the train’s bouncin. Loads ae young cunts ir drunk n talkin shite n there’s dressed-up elder couples headin through intae the city fur different nights oot. Saturday night wis never the same energy as a Friday tae us. It held residual sufferin ae deathly roughnesses, eckto-weekender re-burns where we hunted fur more Class As n a bottle ae wine tae try n revive us in the chase fur that elusive buzz. That wis back when our spirits wur unbroken n our hearts wur still on fire. We barely went oot in the toon on Saturday nights – we wur somewhere in the stratosphere, on that definite downward trajectory towards earth n the sufferin below that awaited yi on Sunday. When cunts git excited aboot Saturdays, they wur speakin a different language tae us, the Friday Feelin shamans of eld.
The eld ScotRail carriages huvnae changed. The patterned seats ir still there n there’s orange n beige confetti coverin the floor, where the school weans huv ripped their tickets tae shreads n flung them in the air. Monica is wearin a purple pleated skirt n a cream collared shirt, wae a couple ae gold rope chains hangin doon, black suede ankle boots. A noticed hur noticin ma own white Oxford shirt, navy skinny-fit trousers n dark broon Chelsea boots. She’s no really seen me dress elder n looked impressed when a turned up, suited n booted. We’re goin tae a vegan place, the Flying Duck, roon fae Buchanan Bus Station. A hud three bottles ae Miller before A came oot, just tae git the juices flowin. Hur pals ir awready there. We bounce aff at Queen Street n head up the red-tiled stairs.
We reach the Flying Duck. The entrance looks like an eld close, wae mentions n graffiti aw over the walls. Monica waves over tae a group sittin in a wee alcove. There’s five ae them, two lassies n three guys. The lassies ir wee trendy chicks n the guys ir pure classic uni types, Hey, guys! What’s your chat? We reach them n wan ae the lassies is shoutin over the tunes. ‘Monica, whet wheew! Who’s this dark n handsome gentleman then?’ A gee a wee smile n try no tae look like an awkward dick.
‘Alicia, this is Alan that I was telling you about!’
‘She’s always talking about you!’ the other lassie says.
That’s ma cue tae step forward. ‘Hiya,’ A say tae the lassies n direct a ‘How yi doin?’ tae the guys.
They aw seem sound n say awright. Alicia starts pointin at each ae them. ‘Alan, this is Joey, Craig n Phil n Jo.’
‘Nice to meet you, mate,’ Joey says.
‘Hi, Alan!’ Jo shoots after him.
Phil and Craig gee me a disapprovin glance, nod n continue their convo.
‘Nice tae meet yees.’
Monica sits on a stool n A go n steal wan fae a different table. There’s mostly indie tunes comin fae a DJ in the corner. Joey is a heavier boy wae an oversized black jumper on n cream chinos. He looks quite a jolly cunt, pure harmless. Craig n Phil ir skinny cunts. Phil’s git a checked shirt on n black skinny jeans. He’s git fair hair, styled up. Craig is taller n thinner again, wearin a printed T-shirt wae dress trousers n a cream cardigan, bit ae a stylish cunt. He’s git black hair n plastic tortoiseshell glasses on. The two lassies ir checkin me oot a wee bit n A’m just smiling, tryin tae be friendly n that. Monica stands up n runs hur hand across ma shoulders. ‘I’ll get them in. What you all having?’ she says.
‘Guinness!’ Joey replies, lookin aw chuffed, the jolly wee cunt. A watch hur go tae the bar. Alicia n Jo laugh.
‘You been going out long?’ Phil asks.
‘Just seeing, mate. Been on n aff fur years.’
‘Did you meet Dom?’ Craig shoots back.
Dom n fuckin Mon. Classic fuckin duo.
‘Nah, mate. A wis doon in Newcastle livin fur three years. Just came back.’
‘Were you at uni?’
‘Naw just college. Hangin aff a bit fur uni!’
‘That’s cool! You have your own place down there?’ Joey asks.
‘Aye, bud. Me n the girl
A wis wae hud a place by the river in Gateshead.’
‘Fancy!’ Jo says.
‘What you doing now?’ Phil asks.
‘Lookin for work.’
‘Cool,’ he says without enthusiasm.
Craig lets a wee smirk roon the edge ae his lips. Jo n Alicia seem tae notice n growl across at him. He’s a smart-faced cunt. A wid be two fuckin minutes in sortin both these slap-abouts. A’m tryin hard though, fur Monica’s sake. They’re hur uni pals n A huv tae respect that, even if they don’t respect me. A imagine maself penalty-kickin that Craig in the face before Joey clears his throat.
‘Phil, I do believe you are rather a cunt!’ he says.
‘Shut up, fat man.’
‘Phil, don’t start please. Be chill,’ Jo says.
Monica arrives back wae the drinks n A gee hur a wink.
‘There you go, boys!’
‘Cheers, Mon!’
Jo comes n sits next tae me n hur n Monica blether away. Phil n Craig leave fur a smoke n it’s just the five ae us. Alicia whispers in ma ear. ‘Take no notice of them, son. They’re dicks! A’m fae Ayr, those two dicks are fae Milngavie n Bridge of Allan respectively. Up their own fuckin arses.’
A smile n gee hur a wee nod. ‘Don’t worry aboot me. A’ve dealt wae worse in ma time.’
‘We just hang about with them cos Jo was fucking Craig for a bit. They’re the tag-alongs here. Joey is from Rutherglen as well. You’re cool-as here, mate.’
It’s closin time n we’re aw walkin oot. The other lads ir steamin but A’ve been watchin ma drink, determined no tae end up wrecked n makin an arse ae maself or Monica. Jo n Alicia ir standin wan on each side ae me. Jo is restin hur heed on Monica’s shoulder n laughin away. It’s been a good night. Their company wis sound. They hud been talkin aboot travelin the world, mad plans n just current affairs n shit that ma troops wouldnae talk aboot in case somecunt laughed n slagged them. They hud aw made me feel pretty welcome. Phil n Craig ir just wee dicks – they’ve been floatin aboot tryin tae pull a few burds at the bar tae nae avail. A see them bouncin oot the door, both mad-wae-it, glancin over tae me n back. Joey is rollin his eyes n pullin faces at them. A’m no gonnae fuckin start noo. Monica is smilin away n keeps givin me wee looks n nudges tae let me know she’s thinkin aboot me, even in the crowd. She looks aw happy that A could sit wae hur pals. Course it’s important tae hur. A see the two fannies walkin up tae me n Joey. Joey starts tae talk first. ‘Good night, lads?’
‘Shut it, fat man!’ Phil shoots back, steamin noo.
‘Shut up, Phil, you massive dickhead!’
‘What you saying anyway, Williams?’ Craig asks us.
The last cunt who called me Williams wis Big McGiver. YOU BOY, WILLIAMS! A smile thinkin aboot the big cunt n just laugh. ‘A’m no sayin anyhin.’ Fannybaws.
‘Good, because I don’t know what Monica is doing with you.’
‘Yeah, Dom was cool as!’ Phil says.
Joey looks insulted fur me.
A just laugh n let it lie. ‘Dom is ancient history, lads. Nuhin against him.’
There’s nae point startin n wastin a good night. A kin see Monica smilin in ma direction fae over his shoulder, n it’s me goin home wae hur.
‘Yeah, Dom was a top guy.’
‘Mon loved him.’
A kin feel it buildin like always. There’s a point ae no return, but A know they’re just tryin tae git a rise oot ae me, so they kin show Monica that A’m still a fuckin dafty. The real battle wae these cunts is just verbal. They would never lift their hands tae yi n if you hud tae dae it tae them, you’re the arsehole. ‘She didn’t love him that much if she finished with him. Did she?’ Joey says and winks at me.
‘They finished because he went to Australia. Mon was going to go with him.’
‘So fuckin wit.’
‘So fuckin wit,’ Craig repeats in an exaggerated neddy voice.
A common insult. Slag the way A speak, make a social assumption n judge me. Judge ma family, ma prospects, ma financial status n ma intelligence. Yi know wit they say aboot assumptions. The night, A just laugh, light a cigarette n turn n walk over tae the lassies n say our goodbyes. A smile n put ma arm roon Monica Mason n we walk towards the taxis at the end ae the street.
The Crooked Branch Above the Burn
A wake up, still half dreamin, light a fag n flick it somewhere near the ashtray. A know the sun is up n it’s daytime n Monday mornin but A’m hidin fae maself. Ma only way oot ae here is tae git a job elsewhere n go. A cannae focus on lookin n dain applications wae ma life unravellin yit again. This place is ma personal labyrinth n soon as yi return, yir runnin aboot the hedgerows, lost as fuck n dodgin a minotaur a minute. A hear ma maw runnin up the stairs n know suhin is comin. A kin fuckin tell by hur hurried steps n wae every wan ma half dream disappears. Ma hand goes tae the fag packet n A pull another wan oot n stick it in ma gub n start sparkin wae the lighter. The eld yin usually chaps the door, but she just bursts in. A open a single eye tae look at hur. ‘Wit is it, Mum?’
‘Get dressed, Alan.’
‘How?’
‘Just do it, will you?’
‘Fuck sake, wit’s happened?’
‘Stephen’s mum n dad are at the door.’
‘Finnegan?’
‘Yes, Alan.’
‘How?’
‘Because Toni-Marie has killed herself and Stephen is missing. They’re asking to see you right now. Get up n put some clothes on.’
Ma heed’s fuckin racin n A think fur a minute this is just wan ae the periodic nightmares creepin intae a lucid dream. It isnae tae be, no this time. A drag extra hard on the smoke. This is not a drill, the stress hormones in ma mind scream as A feel panicky n regret lightin the second fag. A try tae keep focused on suhin, so A don’t lose it but A git that overwhelmin feelin when yi hear bad news. Pure evil washin over yi n makin yi feel nuhin but dread. A’ve felt that feelin before. It’s shock hittin the emotional seawall deep within us. These knocks desensitise yi tae misery, each wan makin yi stronger n more resilient n acceptin ae the next, but robbin yi each time ae a precious piece ae yir humanity and future happiness.
‘Overdose?’
‘She’s hung herself. Now get up n talk to Connor and Joanne.’
‘Fuck me, two minutes.’
‘UP!’
A stand up wae the fag between ma lips n hunt fur a pair ae trackies n a tap tae pull on. There’s a bottle ae water lyin by ma bed n A tan it, tryin tae separate ma lips fae each other before A go doon n face these cunts. A’m takin a last couple ae draws oot the fag n stubbin it. A bounce doon the stairs tryin tae sort ma fuckin bed heed oot n rubbin the sleep fae ma eyes. A’ve git a wee panicky feelin in ma chest but A’m tryin tae keep it doon below. Times like these yi huv tae be strong n A say a wee silent prayer tae God tae gee me the strength fur this shite. Ma faith is buried deep within us but A only flirt wae the notion ae a divine power at Christmas n maybe at Easter anaw. A think in passin A dae believe, cos this evil isnae random. It’s concentrated among cunts fae bad areas in their daily struggle n additional sufferings. Days like this, faith is aw yi huv tae cling tae, wae fingernails if necessary. Yi couldnae dae this alone.
There’s a mad atmosphere when visitors ir in yir hoose. Ma maw’s runnin aboot makin tea n bringin plates ae biscuits n shite – hostess wae the mostest. There’s nae script ae how tae deal wae this shite, fur any us. ‘How yi doin, Alan son,’ Connor Finnegan says fae the couch. Joanne is wrapped around him. She looks white as a sheet, pure para in case suhin’s happened tae hur boy as well as his burd. A bad omen ae things tae come. It feels that way.
‘No bad. Sorry tae hear aboot Wee Toni. Cannae believe that.’
Joanne doesn’t even look at me. She’s just starin intae a corner, knowin hur life will never be the same in some way. Maybe she’s startin tae regret chuckin Finnegan oot cos he wis usin, instead ae rallyin roon him n supportin him. Their high morals may be less important noo their boy is missin n his girlfriend is
dead.
‘We’re sorry too. We put Stephen oot when his mum found needles in his room.’
We aw pause tae digest this.
‘So Stephen bolted after he found oot?’
‘As far as we know, aye.’
‘Where did it happen?’
‘Down the big woods behind the golf course. Any ideas where he could be, Alan son?’
Any wan ae numerous doss hooses that junkies frequent tae score n shoot up. Places A huv nae knowledge ae. Chances ir he wid be local. Yi irnae thinkin right at times like these. No enough fur a man ae his means tae git taxi fares the-gither and make phone calls. Even a few quid fur heroin addicts is precious. A know where A wid be.
‘A’m no sure. But A’ll head oot the noo n see if A kin find him fur yees.’
‘Would yi, son? We’ve phoned roon the rest ae the boys but couldnae reach anyone. We dunno where tae start n his poor maw is frantic here.’
‘Aye, that’s nae bother, Connor. A’ll head oot the noo.’
A jump back up the stairs n stick ma eld trainers n a hoody on. Ma mouth is still stuck the-gither n A feel fuckin starvin but sick in ma stomach anaw. It cramps at times like these n makes us feel like A’ve git an ulcer. Stress, the doctor doon there said. Understandable really, on days like this. Yi could eat ome-prazole like Smarties n it wouldnae make a fuckin bit ae difference tae that gnawin feelin buried within yi. Ma convictions hold but it takes a phsyical toll, aw this, n the elder yi ir the worse it is, body and mind. It’s aw trauma, whether it’s happnin tae yi, or if yi bear witness tae it. Yi huv tae work n earn money in a stressful job n try tae be an adult n huv prospects n relationships n run a hoose. This shite piles on top n makes it too much tae handle. It’s aw a matter ae time n compression. Hard-boiled aye … but how long kin yi resist n keep intact, before the cracks start tae appear? A’m past that point ae no return. This is a salvage operation noo.
A wee burn trickles right doon past the Mansion, the eld stables n through the woods. The further yi go, the deeper the embankments git, until they’re at least twenty foot, cut intae the soil banks wae the burn flowin between them. The only thing that keeps it fae aw crumblin intae the tricklin burn is the massive roots fae the thick trees on either side. Their branches grow across and meet in the middle tae form a twisted archway in the canopy. A see a polis motor parked at the top ae the road, so A cut doon the estate n jump a back garden tae git intae the main body ae woods. A’m headin up towards the Mansion. If A wis him n A wanted tae run away, that’s where A wid go. It’s the beatin heart ae these woods where aw these arterial paths lead. A sacred young team sanctuary ae the past.
The Young Team Page 23