Tam tries tae smile at Broonie n tell him he’s jokin but Broonie’s heed falls intae his chest. The threat ae violence is suhin we huv aw experienced n though yi dae eventually adjust n become desensitised tae it, it never feels good. It’s worse than the actual violence itself – which is usually a quick series ae flashpoints that yi, usually, scrape through. The no knowin is more brutal, dark imaginings playin oot a hundred different scenarios in yir heed castin yirsel as both hero n tragic figure. You’d conjure homicidal fantasies aboot stabbin cunts in self-defence n how they would git yi. It’s unhealthy n it kin drive yi mad.
‘Chin up, son. A’ll help yi git rid ae that fuckin motor. It’s an A3, son … many miles?’
‘Seventy thousand, n it’s diesel.’
‘Fuck sake. You’ll git aboot six grand fur that. Pay that fuckin oompa loompa aff n keep the rest. Square Marcus up fur yir shite anaw.’
‘It’s no that easy, Tam.’
‘Aye it is. You’re only wan runner that’s caused a bit ae hassle. Turn up wae yir debt n say sorry n you’ll git a kickin n nae more. Let’s face it, yi deserve it fur being such a stupit wee cunt!’
This time Broonie dis smile. Tam kin always see the bigger picture n he hus a pure talent fur makin the big things seem trivial and makin yi feel better when aw hope is lost. Things ir always worse in yir ain heed.
‘How’s Michelle, Tam?’
‘She’s dain fine, son. No long tae go noo. She’s massive!’
‘Sorry fur draggin yi intae this pish, Tam. A know you’ve git yir wee wan comin n that.’
‘Broonie, it’s nae hassle, son. A wish A hud the money tae gee yi maself cos A fuckin wid. A’ve always hated aw they cunts. They’ve aw hud ma wee brur baw deep fur years. He’s that fuckin daft he thinks he’s pals wae them aw. He’s just that much ae a pussy that he’s nae use tae them. That’s how wee cunts like you git sucked in, Broonie.’
‘Aw A know, Tam. A’m done noo mate. No runnin aboot anymare.’
‘It’ll blow over eventually, kid. Git that brief away n pay yir debt. It’s yir only chance at no gettin a dooin.’
The three ae us share a deflated look. There isnae much left tae say the night. A hud wan more thing tae say, but A’m hoddin aff. A huvnae furgot aboot Wee Kenzie’s meetin wae Jamesy Maynard. John wis always a parasite, hangin on tae other people fur protection n fame. First, it wis Big Tam, then Danny when they wur runnin aboot n finally it wis Broonie. That’s the way he survives aboot here. When things go wrong he’s always stood scratchin his heed n the other cunt is left tae take the derry. The older we got the less A liked him. A think we’re well up on our opinions ae each other. A cannae take the cunt seriously. He’s a fuckin cardboard cut-oot bad guy. Kenzie acts mental in front ae aw the wee guys, who take it on a spoon. He wis probably beggin fur a run, desperate fur a spot at the bottom ae Jamesy Maynard’s empire. It aw stacked up but there wis nae hard proof, other than me seein them the-gither – that wis proof enough fur me.
It’s dark before ten noo – the summer seems tae be slippin away fae us awready. A’m drivin Broonie back doon tae his bit. He took the Audi aff the road n hid it up at Tam’s hoose up the tap end. It wid be the first thing somecunt wid look fur tae smash up if they couldnae git him. He isnae dain his usual runnin aboot so he’s completely skint. If somebody took the liberty ae bouncin aw over the roof or takin a sledgehammer tae the back panels, the motor wid be a write-aff n he wid lose his final bargainin chip. We pull intae Broonie’s street. There’s blue lights comin fae the far end. A pull the motor in behind a parked car. There’s a polis motor parked n an ambulance in front ae it. ‘Wit yi think they’re dain here?’
‘Fuck knows, mate.’
‘Wull A pull doon a bit?’
‘Aye.’
A edge oot, past a row ae parked cars, n roll the motor forwards. There’s a polisman oot wavin me intae the side. ‘We’re pult, Broonie! You git anyhin on yi?’
‘Naw, mate.’
A pull over tae the pavement n slide the windae doon. The polis walks up n looks in the windae wae a torch. ‘Where you been tonight, boys?’
‘Sittin in ma bit. That’s ma mate’s hoose.’
‘Yi better come with me, son.’
Broonie’s rippin aff the seatbelt n bouncin oot the door. A’m dain the same n runnin after him. ‘WIT’S HAPPENED?’ he’s shoutin noo. He’s runnin up n pushin by the polis. Two ae them ir tryin tae grab him n A’m tryin tae pull him back before he whacks wan ae them. Broonie is a big cunt noo n no easy tae hold back.
‘Right, son. It’s OK. Let him be.’
‘Wit’s happened?’ A ask the wan in charge.
‘There’s been an attack.’
‘Who but?’
‘The gentleman was found outside the house.’
Broonie’s nearly greetin noo wae rage n fear. He’s pacin to n fro n the wee polis looks scared in case he blows a gasket n attacks him. ‘A wee old guy?’
The polis nods. ‘He didn’t have ID on him. He’s still being treated in the back. We’ve just arrived on scene.’
‘Do you want me tae tell yi if it’s him?’
‘That might be a start.’ The polis chaps the back door ae the ambulance n the paramedic opens the door. ‘OK for an ID?’ Broonie is pacin wae his heed in his hands n fumblin tryin tae light a fag. A gee the polis a nod n step up on the steps n in the thin door. A know it’s Stevie Brown right away. A kin tell wae his eld chunky trainers n worky jeans. They’ve git a breathin mask on his face n A kin see aw the damage. There’s stamp marks on the wee auld cunt’s heed. He’s a fragile eld alky, no fit fur this kinda punishment. There’s blood pishin oot his face n the young lassie paramedic is hookin him up tae machines. A turn away n walk back oot. Broonie’s right at the back door tryin tae see.
‘Wit is it, Azzy? Is it ma da?’
‘Aye.’
‘Wit’s happened tae him? Hus he hud a faw?’
‘No sure,’ A say, glancin at the elder polis, ‘but they’ve got him noo n they’re takin care ae him.’
‘We’ll give yees a lift. How’s that?’ the younger polis says.
Broonie’s pacin again. A kin see his mind desperately tryin tae work it aw oot. The ambulance flies aff wae the sirens on. We jump in the back ae the polis motor n it starts up n follows behind. Broonie’s heed is in his hands noo. A see the polis notice it n startin tae wonder the obvious. ‘Shaun, is it?’
‘Aye.’
‘Is everything OK, son?’
‘Hardly, fuck sake.’
‘I mean with you. You in some kind of trouble?’
‘Your dad’s been attacked, Shaun.’
Broonie looks up wae tears in his eyes n his nose aw runnin. He wipes it n puts his heed back doon. Honour amongst thieves. They spot it right away.
‘Somehow, I don’t think your dad has many enemies.’
‘Shaun, if you don’t talk tae us, son, they’re going tae get away with it.’
When yir on the other side, like Broonie, yi couldnae just decide that yi respected the rule ae law. It wid make it worse. The polis wid be yir best pals at this point but eventually, yi wid git yir letter through fae the Procurator Fiscal, cited as a witness tae stand against the likes ae the McIntires or the Maynards. Then yi wid be branded a grass n git popped fur real. If they didnae take yi oot, wan ae their army ae runners like him who ir indebted or desperate wid slash or plug yi fur a favour or a tick bill.
‘A dunno who fuckin done it.’
‘Aye, but you know who’s after you, n that’s a start.’
‘A’ve nobody after me.’
‘Well, that’s a debate between you n your conscience, isn’t it?’
‘We’ll drop you at the hospital and you can think aboot it.’
They drop us at the front door n drive away without another word. A kin see the pain on Broonie’s face. The polis’ words cut him tae the fuckin bone. There’s nae such thing as justice, no really. Only polis n courts n jails n workin class cunts w
ho git caught. They’re just tae keep the place lookin tidy, so the real criminals that wear suits n run the country kin keep their second homes in London, go a few holidays a year n make sure their kids kin ski n that. Families would be at court, smokin nervously outside, n there’s always a usual-suspects line-up ae dodgy cunts who knew each other n bams yi know fae school, mullin aboot. They wait n wait, while well-paid law graduates, who kin ski fairly well, float aboot supercilious as fuck in their long black robes. The polis, the agents ae the law, ir there tae protect the lawmakers n tell other cunts tae keep the fuckin noise doon. The rich n successful n the brightest exam-passers judge the poor n the wretched n the furgotten who seem boorish n uncivilised, fit only tae be sent fur social reports n fined n sentenced n remanded in custody. Courts ir ritualistic as churches, arcane n ceremonial.
‘A cannae say nuhin tae them, Azzy. They just want the tally on their figures. A’m gonnae go in n find him, mate. Yi gonnae sit?’
‘Course, son.’
‘Cheers, mate. You’ve stuck by us through aw this fuckin shite.’
‘Broonie, YT boys fur life, cuz. Big Tam’s got yir back anaw.’
Broonie grabs me n hugs us before marchin away under the industrial halogen lightin ae the hospital. It’s always the same in the Monklands, aw fuckin pastel colours n cunts sittin burst open at the front seats ae A n E before yi git intae triage. A’m tired noo, fishin in ma jeans fur a couple ae quid tae stick in the vendin machine. The coffee wan is oot ae order, so A grab a couple ae bottles ae ginger fur us. Broonie’s through the other side but there’s a security door n yi need tae buzz tae enter. A’m sittin between a junky wae a broken arm in a sling n a boy wae a burst face. There’s a wee lassie across fae us in a gymnastics uniform wae an injury tae hur leg. She’s roarin greetin n hur maw is sittin strokin hur hair. Yi kin wait fur hours sittin here. There’s a wee red rotatin sign tellin yi that the average waitin time is two hours. Broonie comes walkin back oot. A kin see he’s holdin back tears. He holds the door fur me n A bounce up n head through tae the desk wae him. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s no dain so well.’
‘Naw?’ A swallow hard.
‘Unresponsive. They needty dae tests. He’s in the fuckin intensive care.’
We sit back in the waitin area. Broonie breaks doon. There’s nae front left, nae hard shell tae penetrate. He’s wailin unreservedly, lettin oot aw the pain. There’s wee nurses givin us sympathetic nods as they pass. ‘This isnae your fault, Shaun. You didnae make they fuckin animals come n dae this n if yi hud been there yi wid ae died defendin yir da.’ He’s sniffin n splutterin. There’s nuhin worse than a guy greetin. It’s fuckin true pain n cunts make an unholy wail fae deep inside them. A see everybody tryin no tae stare but it’s horrifyin n they cannae help look tae see where the awful noise is comin fae. Even the wee lassie in the leotard stops fur a minute tae look n hugs hur maw tighter.
‘What’s wrong with that man?’ she says, tryin tae whisper. Hur mum puts hur finger tae hur lips n tells the wean tae shhh n she goes quiet.
‘Just take it easy. He might pull through, son. He’s no away yit. He’s a tough eld cunt.’
‘A know, man.’ Broonie’s gone aw grey wae the shock ae it.
‘A’m sorry, mate. Here, there’s yir ginger.’
He sips at it like a wee laddie, reverted tae an infant sittin on the seats, swingin his legs n starin at the floor. The wilted frame ae Stevie Brown doesnae reassure. ‘Think he’s gonnae die, Azzy?’
‘A don’t know, son. A don’t think so.’
‘It’s been a bad wan but, int it?’
‘Aye, mate.’
Broonie’s shakin his heed. He’s preparin fur the worst. A know it anaw. As the shock subsides A start tae put the pieces the-gither. A couldnae share these thoughts wae Broonie but he knows it’s serious. Times like these, hope is just a defence mechanism against despair. We both know sittin here that it’s bad n as the hours drift by n intae nothingness it becomes more clear. A dunno wit time it is. Aw time drifts away fae me. Broonie crashes oot, system shut doon before reboot. His subconscious desperately tryin tae wake up fae this livin nightmare, tryin tae escape fae this reality. They say a guilty man sleeps easy. A don’t think Shaun Brown is guilty ae this. He is, again n as always, just another victim.
Ma pal looks peaceful but A cannae sleep. A feel older by the second sittin in these seats. Older n more weary, tae the extent that A feel like A might live oot the rest ae ma life here n die before A stand. Ma eyes ir poppin oot ma heed n ma skin becomes like the walls n floors in here, just dull pastels. Disinfectant n ammonia floatin up ma nose tae meet ma empty churnin stomach wae the gnawin pain again. A cannae transcend this reality wae dreams. There is nae future sittin in here, only the present that yir forced tae suffer. This is where it always ends, sittin in a fuckin magnolia room, waitin. The night, more inspiration fur bad dreams. It must be three or four in the mornin noo. There’s nae clock n ma phone’s died. A don’t want tae watch the clock anyway. Yi just huv tae sit these things oot, like a bad flight. Yi sit in yir fuckin seat n control yirsel, yir sore back, dry mouth n bangin heed, n be strong.
A want a smoke but A couldnae git back in the security door n A cannae leave Broonie. He’s git his heed practically on ma shoulder. The consultant walks back through n clears his throat loudly. A nudge Broonie till he wakes. He doesnae know where he is fur a minute, the mind clingin tae the fantasy ae the dream, seekin refuge fae the truth fur another two seconds. It’s back n it hits him like a skud right in the chops. He stands up n tells me tae wait wae a single, shaky palm. A know wit the cunt’s sayin. The arm comes up tae Broonie’s shoulder. The heed tilts tae show understanding, suhin human fur Broonie tae relate tae. A see the life drain fae ma pal, the shell completely undone. The wee boy is back fiddlin wae his hands n listenin tae wit the man is sayin tae him. Tryin tae understand wit’s happened tae his dad as he cries intae his jumper.
What Was Once a Game
Stacey’s sittin wae hur legs folded under hur on the couch, clutchin another cup ae tea. She cried when A told hur n A still huvnae been tae sleep. It’s gone five noo n the first light is startin tae smear the sky in the east. It’s a cold light this mornin n A don’t want tae see it. A’m still hangin on tae the dark, ma heart sinkin further wae the spread ae pastel blue against navy. The street lights always look different at this time. They lost that orange against purple look n just became strange-lookin, like a light left on in the daytime. The way A feel is better kept in the night. In the daytime, things huv a nasty habit ae becomin real.
A took Broonie in his door, past the polis n the crime-scene officers who wur leavin n headin away intae a Transit van. He cried himself tae sleep n A waited, alone wae ma thoughts. Yi huv tae hang on tae yir sanity on nights like this n endure this black duty. Inside the hoose wis quiet n awready didnae feel right. Wee Broonie, in this family-size ex-council hoose, but noo wae nae family but himself. A left, walkin by two uniform polis at the gate in a trance, n came straight tae Stacey’s bit. She pulled a jumper on n a pair ae jeans n hus been wipin the sleep n tears fae hur eyes since.
‘Aw, Alan son. A told yi they were out their depth!’
‘A know that, Stacey.’
‘A just can’t believe it’s come to aw this. Why did they dae it?’
‘Cos Broonie owes oot thousands. It’s been comin.’
‘Fuck sake. Poor Wee Broonie, man!’
‘Dire, int it.’
‘Sooner you’re out of here the better. This is the final straw, honestly. Just go n don’t come back.’
Stacey’s heed eventually falls on the cushion n A throw a cover over hur before A put ma trainers on n head back oot. The sun is up noo but it still looks that early way. A feel fuckin grey n A’m no thinkin straight, ma own mind malfunctionin n sparkin haywire. A’ve no hud enough tae eat n A’ve smoked too much cos ma chest feels that mad hollow way. A’m drivin half-sleepin back up the road. Even at this time in the mornin, A’m glad
A’m walkin intae ma bit. Ma maw wid be in hur bed but there’s piles ae ironed washin waitin tae be taken up the stairs. There’s food in the fridge n the place is warm n tidy. A think aboot that orphan Broonie alone in his hoose as A lie in ma bed. If yi huv a family who ir alive n well n that loved yi, yi huv more than some. A’m thinkin aboot wit Stacey said as A drift aff finally, intae an uneasy sleep full ae bad dreams.
A pull maself oot ma bed n go tae git ready right away. It’s Wednesday 25 July. A wisnae wantin tae lie aboot in ma pit the day, gittin maself aw depressed n shite. A eat a bowl ae Weetabix sittin in front ae the BBC breakfast news. The presenter is talkin away n A see a picture ae Broonie’s street, still wae the polis parked in front ae his gate.
A man died following a disturbance in North Lanarkshire last night … The man, named locally as Steven Brown, was found with head injuries and the police are appealing for witnesses … The death is being treated as suspicious … Anyone with any information or who was in the area at the time is asked to contact Police Scotland. The family has been informed.
Ma maw is standin over ma shoulder shakin hur heed wae hur hand over hur mouth. ‘This place has gone to hell!’
‘A know, it’s bad. A took Shaun home n the ambulance wis still there. We sat in casualty aw night but it wis nae use. He died aboot four in the mornin.’
‘God almighty! What kind of place is this, when this kind of thing happens on your doorstep? Alice first and Steven now. Poor Shaun, that boy never had a chance.’
A bounce oot ma bit n oot intae the motor. It’s a hazy mornin n the heat ae the sun hus yit tae burn through. Days like this we wid huv been aw the-gither, straight doon the woods tae sit aw day wae a few bottles n a bit ae dope. Ootside looks different the day. It’s always the same when suhin bad happens. Yi look at yir street, yir area n yir town wae new eyes, like another part ae the facade yi take fur granted hus been pulled doon. Somehow changed irrevocably, like yir ain reflection in the mirror – if yi dared tae glance in it.
A chap Broonie’s front door but naebody answers. There’s a telly on inside the hoose. The door is locked so A bounce roon the back n unbolt the gate. There’s still a washin hung oot wae Stevie’s jeans n eld HEAD jumper on the line. They make me feel sick as A walk up the steps n through the open back door. There’s a shroud over the hoose, that still greyness that only death kin bring, change in the very consistency ae the air that makes it thinner and more difficult tae breathe.
The Young Team Page 25