The Young Team

by Graeme Armstrong

  A cut through a bush n up ontae the eld stone path. It hits us as A’m walkin in the same woods n A shudder thinkin aboot it aw. Every generation hus a story where a young wan’s wandered doon here n ended up hangin themselves. A cannae picture that state, the fuckin clinical plannin n the mentality required. Goin n actually gittin a rope n thinkin, A’m gonnae put this roon ma neck n jump. It makes us sick tae think aboot it n just the practicalities ae actually dain it, the horror ae it. Every other week yi heard ae young folk killin themsels aboot here. The big flats doon Coatbridge hud seen aboot five cunts jump oot the high-rise windaes, just next tae McDonald’s. That wis their last sight. The eld red brick job centre n McDonald’s roof, the Jackson Barrier then oblivion. A feel empty as A walk on, pickin up pace towards the Mansion.

  A walk through the eld courtyard towards the buildings. The hoose is half knocked doon noo, the start ae a long-rumoured demolition fur flats tae supposedly replace it. The barn n the stables n the arch wae the room wae nae window ir aw still standin. The rain is pishin doon the eld slate tiles on the stable’s roof. A head towards the door. It’s still got the eld trampled filing cabinet lyin blockin the corridor. A step over it wae a crunch underfoot ae broken glass n litter. A kin hear a gentle sobbin. There’s a bottle ae vodka sittin half-full on the floor in the middle ae the room. The floor is aw black wae ash n there’s rubble lyin that’s fallen fae the roof. A’m lookin aboot tryin tae see where it’s comin fae, a barely audible whimper, like a wounded animal. A step intae the stable block n look up the aisle. Nuhin. Just ma name, painted in red n flakin aff the white-emulsioned wall wae damp n time.

  A look intae the first pen. Finnegan’s lyin in a heap wae a rope around his neck. A rush over tae see if he’s awright. He’s wailin, blind drunk n soakin fae lyin in a puddle beneath him. A swallow hard as A see the poorly tied noose roon his neck. A follow it up. He hud tied the rope tae the eld wooden banister ae the balcony above n jumped. The rotted banister hud snapped in two by fate, woodworm or the grace ae God. Instead ae oblivion, Finnegan’s dropped n sprained both his ankles. Who knows how long he’s been lyin here. A don’t think he even knows it’s me when A’m liftin him up. He’s just greetin n wailin senseless rubbish. There there, mate, yir gonnae be awright, A’m sayin tae him without conviction. He’s tryin tae sit doon, still steamin, n wid rather be left tae lie on the soakin ground. We’re oot the front noo, headin fur the main road. A polis wuman runs doon the path wae another guy polis. Finnegan falls n A’m shoutin fur help. Both ae them come runnin n she’s on the deck talkin tae him in his ear.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Stephen Finnegan. It wis his burd, Toni, that—’

  ‘Aye we know, son. He’s been declared missing. Are you a pal?’

  ‘Aye, A just found him. He’s tried tae … In the stables there’s a vodka bottle n there wis a rope roon his neck.’

  The woman polis is on hur radio, callin fur an ambulance. A’m lightin a fag n kneelin doon tae help the woman talk tae him. The paramedics turn up in ten minutes n roll him away on a stretcher. The polis woman takes ma arm on the way back tae the motor. A stare oot the back ae the motor intae the dark woods on the way doon tae ma bit n try tae compose maself as the polis walk up n in ma gate wae me.

  We walk intae the livin room. Finnegan’s maw starts gaspin fur air like invisible hands ir roon hur neck chokin hur. The polis wuman tries tae reassure her. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Finnegan, your son has just been located and taken to hospital as a precautionary measure. We can take you to the hospital now to be with him.’ Connor is pickin up Joanne fae the couch n followin them oot the door. He looks back before he walks oot n grabs ma hand tight n shakes it hard. He doesnae say thanks, but he looks like he wants tae. A dunno wit ma face looks like. Maybe showin the usual mix ae pain n futility that yi become accustomed tae aboot here, routine tragedy, run ae the fuckin mill.

  A’m strugglin tae remember hur face awready, knowin A won’t see it again. Suicide always leaves yi wae a gut-wrenchin feelin. Nae cunt likes tae talk aboot it. It’s uncomfortable. Even when yi huv tae tell cunts, it feels like a word yi shouldnae say n it scares yi, as if dwellin too long upon it could make yi catch it like some contagious disease. A try tae imagine walkin the path doon the woods, a last time, ready tae carry oot the ultimate act ae self-violence. Yi never know wit’s goin on in cunts’ heeds. They always say that. Yi never know wit’s goin on in cunts’ heeds is a fuckin cop-out. Aye we do. They wur sufferin n scared n frustrated n lonely n depressed n ashamed n ignored or put on a waitin list fur help. Or, they never sought that help n limped on, till they couldnae limp any more. There comes a point where cunts’ sufferin becomes hopeless n they want tae actually cease tae exist – tae cure their problems n current condition. The whole thing depresses me n fries ma nut. Yi wish they hud reached oot n grabbed yi n screamed they wur strugglin n yi wid dae anyhin yi could tae help them, as anybody wid, tae pull them back fae the edge ae their personal abyss, tae show them love n hold them tight n no let them go.

  Trafficking Jams

  Me n Broonie wait in the car park fur them tae show. They turn up in a Focus RS. A recognise the cunt next tae Marcus right away. Wullie McLean is quite a solid cunt, even though he’s wee. There’s a growl permanently welded tae his face n he’s git bad skin – sausage supper fur breakfast kind ae pores. ‘Awrighty, boays! It’s the fuckin young team, eh Marcus!’ Wullie says, lightin a joint. The McIntires ir heavies, but Wullie looked more like a rough junky. He’s still mad but n worth watchin. Broonie looks nervous n it’s catchin.

  ‘Aye the fuckin YT boys right enough, Wullie!’ McIntire says.

  ‘Happnin,’ we reply.

  ‘Wit’s happnin, lads?’ Marcus asks, pullin a face so that Wullie cannae see.

  ‘Nuhin, mate.’

  Marcus clears his throat so yi know suhin is comin. Wullie’s sittin smokin his joint oblivious. ‘Right, here’s the sketch. There’s nae point beatin aboot the bush, wee man. The Maynards say they’re finished wae yi, Broonie. Somecunt hus stuck yi in n telt them that you’re workin fur us n that we’ve teamed up wae the McLeans.’

  ‘Who the fuck hus done that?’

  ‘It’s nane ae our families. Neither ae us deal wae them, son. Yi know that fuck. That’s how A’ve went n got Wullie, so yi kin hear it fae the horse’s mouth!’

  Wullie seems tae wake up at the mention ae his name. ‘Aye it wisnae us, troops. Fuck sake, A wouldnae waste a bullet on that Jamesy cunt. They Maynards huv been after us fur years but he’ll never catch us, know?’

  ‘Somecunt’s stuck yi in, Shauny boy,’ Marcus says again, while he lights a joint ae his ain.

  ‘Who but?! Fuck sake! They’ll fuckin kill me, Marcus.’ The panic is clear on Broonie’s face. We both know Jamesy Maynard isnae a dafty. He’s the bogeyman fae the stories aw they years ago. None ae them ir dafties.

  ‘Naw they’ll no fuck, calm doon. Jamesy knows wit happens when he messes wae us.’

  ‘Aye that’s yooz but. No me, fuck. Wullie took the gear n A’ve tae pay the fuckin debt?’ Marcus gees Broonie a look tae remind him ae his place. A kin see ma mate’s frustration. It’s obvious noo. He’s been played by them aw.

  ‘A cannae gee yi any coin or gear back fur Maynard, Broonie wee pal. Sorry, no can do. It’s a family business matter, yi understond?’

  Broonie wis bumped, plain n simple. Marcus sits n smokes his joint n doesnae look at him as he speaks. ‘A telt yi no tae worry. Jamesy Maynard isnae gonnae touch yi, wee man.’

  ‘Sound then.’

  ‘Just deny it if yi need tae. Pay yir bill n settle up. That’s aw yi kin dae.’

  ‘Or dodge him like fuck, wee guy,’ Wullie says.

  ‘A’m no dodgin no cunt. A’ll tell him the sketch n pay ma bill n that’s it.’

  ‘Don’t tell him nuhin. Just wanted tae let yi know tae watch … just in case. This is the game, son!’ The RS flies aff doon the street. Broonie turns tae me shakin his heed. There’s nae
help fur yi in deep holes like this. The only law applicable is the law ae the jungle, street survival n natural selection. Pawns like Broonie ir readily sacrificed in defence ae these miserable kings n main pieces.

  ‘Don’t fuckin start, Azzy.’

  ‘A didnae say nuhin, did A?’

  ‘Aye well yi didnae need tae, ya big cunt. A know they’ve drapped me right fuckin in it.’

  ‘So, wit yi gonnae dae?’

  ‘Well, Jamesy is defo after us noo, fuck. A’ve no even heard fae him, mate. That’s worse. No even chasin me fur the bill. Marcus n that huv fucked me. Mon, man, take us up the road.’

  We pull intae Broonie’s street n sit n smoke a fag before an Audi S4 flies roon the corner. Jamesy Maynard n another big cunt start pointin at us oot the front windscreen. Fuckin flee, Azzy! That’s Maynard! Broonie’s shoutin, panicked. A’m pushin the gear stick doon intae reverse n flyin backwards, A floor the accelerator n J turn wae a screech. There’s a learner behind me in a Corsa n she stalls hur motor, tryin tae dae a three-point turn. There’s naewhere left tae run. Jamesy n the big cunt ir bouncin up tae the motor noo. A kin see Broonie lookin aboot fur an escape, like a trapped rat. They’re at the windae n Jamesy just chaps it casually, laughin. Broonie lets it doon just an inch.

  ‘Broonie son, wit the fuck yi tryin tae run fur?’

  ‘Cos they’ve telt me you’re gonnae fuckin dae me in.’

  ‘Wit, cos you’ve been fuckin set up a peach?’

  Broonie pauses a minute, unsettled by the calmness ae the cunt. ‘Aye.’

  ‘Did A no fuckin tell yi wit they wur like? Noo you’ve done their fuckin dirty work n helped them bump ma gear.’

  ‘A’ll pay yi every penny back that they’ve took.’

  ‘A fuckin know yi wull.’

  ‘A didnae tell them the gear wis yours. They worked it oot n took it.’

  ‘Obviously, they’re no as daft as you, wee man. Did yi think yi could run aboot sellin ma pure n they wouldnae find oot?’

  ‘Listen, Jamesy, aw A want tae dae is pay ma fuckin debt n stop aw this pish. A’m no wantin tae run aboot n be a fuckin gangster. It’s aw gawn too far noo!’

  Jamesy n his big thug ae a pal laugh tae wan another. Once yir in wae these dodgy cunts shiftin weights, yi couldnae just say, Aw a don’t feel like playin drug dealer this week. Yi huv yir regular order tae fulfil. They cannae force yi tae sell the drugs, but they kin expect yi tae collect yir bit on a Friday n pay yir existin n future debt. There’s nae peaceful resolution – nae easy way oot once yir in wae them. It’s quicksand. The more yi struggle tae make money n free yirself, the deeper yi sink until yi git grassed on, caught or done in.

  ‘You’ve git wan fuckin week fur that ounce money they taxed, son. A want the full bhuna. A’ll even let yi aff wae half yir usual bill this week tae make back the money. Don’t say A’m no good tae yi, Broonie wee man.’

  Wae that, they disappear, walkin back tae the Audi n reversin oot the street. Broonie breathes oot. ‘Thank fuck.’

  ‘Aw great, it’s been put back a week. How you gonnae git that dough? Yir fucked noo, son.’

  ‘A’ll sell ma motor. A should git five grand fur that. A’ll pay ma debts n use the rest tae run.’

  We share a look n A shake ma heed. ‘Is this where it’s got tae?’

  ‘A’m due it, mate. It’s gonnae happen n A’m honestly no wantin tae git the face took aff me.’

  ‘Yi won’t mate. No if yi play it right.’

  ‘Somecunt set me up, mate. They’ve aw been a step ahead.’

  ‘Who but?’

  ‘Nae idea, cuz. A needty git movin mate. Catch yi the morra.’

  Broonie disappears in his gate wae his tail between his legs. He wis startin tae sound more desperate. Chances ir, he wid play it aw right, sell his motor, pay his tick n wid still git done, just fur his cheek.

  A’m sittin back in ma motor smokin a fag when ma phone goes. It’s Danny. ‘Awright?’ A say, quite surprised tae hear fae the cunt.

  ‘Is that you, Azzy?’

  ‘Aye, son.’

  ‘Wit’s happnin?’

  ‘Fuck aw, mate. How ir yi?’

  ‘Better, man. Comin aff it. Just heard aboot Toni-Marie. Cannae believe it.’

  ‘Fuckin grim int it.’

  ‘Uft,’ he says n goes quiet. ‘Felt depressed hearin it.’

  ‘Yi sound different, mate. Better awready!’

  ‘First week, sir. No slept a wink. A feel worse but A feel better anaw. Up n doon like a fuckin yo-yo, man. A’m back tae front.’

  ‘Blues n everyhin?’

  ‘Aff everyhin, nae green, nae blues, nae drink. No touched nuhin in four days.’

  A kin tell he’s genuine n A hear it in his voice, the struggle n the energy ae withdrawal that pulls yi backwards towards life at sick-makin speed. Yir mind goes fast n yi speak fast n find brainwaves yi furgot existed. Yi cannae sleep worth a fuck but when yi dae, yir dreams ir vivid nightmares wae increased brain activity n changes tae yir now unsedated sleep state. Often, the unsettlin experience ae aw this will make cunts dial numbers fast tae score suhin tae settle them n git back on that eld ghost train. Danny’s in the trenches ae addiction noo, fightin bravely like A once fought fur that thin n glorious margin.

  ‘Well in, mate, A mean it, cuz. Proud ae yi. Yi wur fuckin upside doon last time.’

  ‘A know. A wis strugglin, Azzy. It’s fuckin hard, mate. Honestly.’

  ‘Mate, listen. Yi know A’m here if yi need us. Night or fuckin day, kid.’

  ‘Cheers, eld son. Come see us in a couple ae days when A’m no fuckin sufferin as much. No ready tae see anycunt, feelin aw sketchy n that. No maself at aw.’

  ‘Aw they mad feelings will settle. Yi know yi kin dae it. Yir best mate patched the drugs years ago – yi kin fuckin dae it! A know yi kin.’

  ‘Catch yi soon, mucka. Good tae speak tae yi. Cheers. Bye.’

  A’ve been drug-free fur three year noo, since A left fur Newcastle. A still drank, but only the odd time. When yir in Danny’s state, minutes, hours n days ir the hard fought n contested first ae that sacred margin, that wid grow steadily n become suhin meaningful n worth defendin. Sometimes being at the end ae a phone is enough, tae understand n listen n encourage n tell them tae hang on. It took a couple ae hard weeks then a few months ae serious commitment. Once yi hit a year, it’s a huge milestone, n that thin margin isnae so thin anymore. It’s a mighty fortress n yi hud laid the foundations strong n every stone is a day ae life you’ve lived aff it. It kin withstand aw sorts: social gatherings, bad days, break-ups, peer pressure n nights where yi huv a few drinks n hud furgot n want tae remember. Yir strong tower becomes impenetrable n no matter wit cunts fling at yi – nuhin wull stop yi. Three years later, yir almost in the clear n takin drugs is suhin unimaginable. Plenty cunts, even if they didnae admit it, ir happy tae see yi back on the drugs n swallyin drink so they kin use yi as an enabler tae their ain habit, purely as company tae their misery or worse, oot ae morbid fascination, just tae light the fuse n stand back n watch yi explode. It took major fuckin baws tae git aff anyhin n the rewards ir endless, cos at the end ae that thin margin is the promised land ae peace n redemption n precious normality. That’s worth fightin fur and livin fur.

  A’m drivin back up the road, by the Orange Hall, feelin momentarily more positive, when A see the arse ae the S4 stickin oot. Yi never usually see Jamesy Maynard’s motor up here cos, unofficially at least, this is a McIntire patch. Somecunt hud obviously been talkin tae him n hud threw Broonie right under the bus. A pull intae a space rapid n duck doon low n watch tae see who they’re wae. It reverses n drives past me. The big cunt is in the back this time cos John McKenzie is sittin in the front.

  PART VII

  Scrap

  There were 762 deaths by suicide in Scotland in 2012.

  Suicide rates generally increase with increasing deprivation, with rates in the most deprived areas of Scotland significantly higher than the Scottish average.

&n
bsp; Suicide rates in the most deprived decile were double the Scottish average.

  ‘Why is Suicide Prevention a priority in Scotland?’, Choose Life North Lanarkshire

  Favours, Debts and Faust

  Broonie knows his time is comin. He looks older the day. He’s sittin in ma bit smokin a fag, lookin oot ma windae. Jamesy hus been houndin him fur the tick money n the McIntires huv gone quiet. As always in these situations, A phoned Big Tam fur a few words ae wisdom, without tryin tae drag him intae this mess. It hud awready spiralled oot ae control. Tam told us tae come up tae his bit straight away.

  ‘It’s no worth it, is it, son?’

  ‘Naw, Tam. It isnae, mate.’

  ‘Boays, the McIntires ir wan hing, they’ve always ran aboot this scheme. His da wis a fuckin wide boy back in the day anaw. They’re aw gangsters, fuck, but this Jamesy Maynard is a different breed. He’s a real cunt, mate. Don’t fuckin mess wae him, Broonie. He dis stuff wae big families in the toon n aw that n jumps aboot wae proper heavies. Azzy, you stay back anaw, son.’

  A raise ma eyebrows behind a fag. It’s true. Yi don’t want any these cunts tae even know yir name. The closer yir proximity tae them, the more chance yi git noticed n sucked intae their murky world.

  ‘Aye he’s a dodgy bastard. A know that, Tam.’

  ‘Wit yi gonnae dae aboot this dough then, Broonie?’

  ‘A’ll needty sell ma motor, won’t A?’

  ‘Well there’s nae point huvin an Audi n nae legs tae work the fuckin pedals!’