‘Is that Azzy?’ Matty asks us.
‘Yi know who it is, ya fuckin goon.’
‘The infamous Toi’s at yir shop waitin fur yi! Runnin yir fuckin scheme as always, wee man!’
‘Only runnin you cunts dae is away, ya fuckin gypsy!’
‘Come take us a square-go then – or dae you only hit burds?’
A lose ma temper n start shoutin doon the phone. ‘Fuck yir fuckin burd! Think yees ir gonnae stab ma fuckin pal n git away wae it? Yir lucky A didnae stab fuck oot both yees!’
‘Aye, aye, Wee Azzy. You’ll be stabbin nae cunt, son. Y T fuckin B.’
A’m fuckin ragin noo. Uncontrollable.
Matty speaks again. ‘So, yi comin doon tae take us a square jigg? Or dae we needty bounce up n through yir maw’s fuckin door?’
‘Come tae ma maw’s fuckin door n yi know wit’s gonnae happen.’
‘How wit’s gonnae happen, like, wee man? Yir a fuckin pussy. You only hit burds, Azzy. No real cunts like us. Young Toi in yir fuckin hoose. Yi better git doon here right noo or A guarantee we’re comin through your maw’s door the night, ya fuckin beasty wee bastard! Maybe A’ll break her beak n see how you like it.’
‘Come tae ma maw’s door n A’ll fuckin kill yi.’
A hang up before A smash ma phone aff the wall. The next tune comes on, ‘Mumbai Traffic’, Ashley Wallbridge, the last wan on the CD. The rain starts pishin doon outside, dark clouds takin the rest ae the sky. A’m in a frenzy noo, huntin fur suhin tae pull on top ae ma long-sleeved Rangers tap. Ma eyes settle on the holy grail ae waterproof fashion. It’s git a few battle scars, just like the wearer, but no matter, cos this jakit is legendary: the Berghaus Mera Peak. A cannae think ae anyhin better tae wear as A stick ma wine bottle in the inside pocket. A fly doon the stair n run oot the door as A make the call. Aw this mad beast patter is designed tae wind us up n push us over the edge. They’re aw at it, tryin tae shame us tae fight. These Toi cunts ir ma particular devil tryin tae ride n fuckin torment me, tryin tae tempt me back tae eld ways ae violence n the never-endin wheel ae life here. In the end, yi huv tae give battle.
The Philosophical Difference Between Running and Walking
A’m runnin towards the shop but A dunno wit A’m gonnae dae when A git there. A’m flyin past aw the eld monuments ae home n travellin back through space n time, losin ma current self n findin ma lost self again. A’m runnin through the woods behind ma street where we used tae sook buckets wae the boys, tinfoil n spreaded dope when we wur wee guys, sockets n grass when we wur older. Yi kin still see glass bottles lyin aboot wae the arse smashed aff them n plastic two litres wae the heed chopped aff them like Mary Queen ae Scots. We used tae jump doon tae the burn n fill them wae the stinkin water n try n no drop the bucket n splash yir face when yi took it n coughed up. They ended up brown, full ae thick oils. The polis used tae appear doon the woods, two black uniforms wae wee blue radio squares n we wid aw split intae the trees n try tae make it intae the big woods, where the Mansion is. They go on fur miles, away tae the Golfy n the Toi’s scheme. If yi made it in there, yi wur sound. In these wee woods the polis wid pounce oot on yi n frogmarch yi straight doon tae yir maw’s door n take yir bit-fur-a-joint aff yi or pour yir wine oot.
It breaks ma heart that the Mansion is almost gone noo. Our ain fuckin castle, destroyed fur a block ae flats, but they couldnae demolish it in yir dreams, cos sometimes A wid dream ae the place, back tae its former glory n full ae ma eld pals wae nae polis n nae rain tae hide fae. Then A wid wake up n forget that it’s gone n that it’s years later.
A’m emergin fae the woods n havin the traditional wee look over the wall, tae see if the coast is clear. Nae polis aboot. A’m back on the street n swaggerin doon towards the church. Many a night we sat there, oot our nuts on eckies n fuckin freezin. Yir trackies tucked intae yir socks n yir jumper tucked intae yir trackies, everywan huddled the-gither tae keep warm. If yi wur gittin chased through the cemetery, yi always ended up there, in the eld section where the mad graves wae skulls n crossbones ir. The statue ae the Grey Lady still keeps hur silent vigil in the main bit. Even though yi knew the eld urban legend wis fuckin bollocks, yi still wouldnae look hur in the eye after half seven if yi wur yirsel, nae chance.
A know A few folk in there anaw: Wee Toffey n Toni, Alice n Stevie Broon, the-gither again n forever. A heard even eld Billy the Kid finally kicked the bucket n is somewhere in there anaw. The blue Campsie hills over the back keep watch over them aw n the expanse ae floodplain that stretches as far as Lennoxtown. Those strong, silent, giant guardians that balance yir soul tae look at, as yi stand n pay yir respects tae the dead. Soon as it gits dark, the lights ae Cumbernauld light up like Times Square at Christmas, fuckin Hollywood. When yi drive the backroad tae Brackenhirst, the lights ae the city ir right in front ae yi, beyond miles ae fields n the eld railway bridge that the wind sweeps roon on summer evenings.
A’m goin the back way, doon the series ae lanes, an arterial system that carries blood vessel bams, floatin aboot wae wine n big fat bottles ae cider. We used tae stand here on Friday nights, up n doon them. This wan leads tae the Orange Hall. A’m keepin up joggin pace, past the eld garages wae spray-paint aw over them n the barbed wire fences n CCTV. The Union flag, flyin high as a reminder ae our loyal leanin. A’m doon the scheme noo, runnin past aw the eld terraced hooses, row after row lookin the same apart fae the shade ae yir roughcastin n the colour ae yir door. Ma granny used tae paint hers red n it stood oot, even if it wis flakey in the last days. There wur drops spilled on the landin that wouldnae disappear, even if yi brushed it.
A’m passin hur eld hoose. It’s long since sold on noo n new life is in it, different curtains n blinds ir up, no like when she wisnae well n they wur always doon. When she hud been in the hospital fur ages the hoose stayed dark, like it wis wise tae wit wis comin n hud already begun tae mourn hur passin. Maybe it’s hur garden that Danny’s gran’s reminded me ae, that the true source ae sorrow when she passed n it fell intae disrepair. New residents probably slabbed over the soil flowerbeds in the concrete, optin fur an easy-maintenance garden tae fit in wae their busy modern lifestyles.
Ma granny hud been proud ae hur garden, kept it nice n always turned the soil, even when she wisnae fit tae. A’m a wee boy again as A pass hur hoose, oot playin on an eld red scooter ae ma maw’s n aunt’s, kickin stones aboot doon the tarry, a rough car park behind the hoose wae eld wooden garages that smelled ae creosote n burnt yir nose. That’s where the cowfields start n led away tae the big gas-tanks. Yi used tae hear their siren every lunchtime n that wis when yi knew ma gran wis gonnae put on a tray ae oven-chips fur yi n gee yi them in a piece wae Mother’s Pride n red sauce. They’re gone noo anaw. A grow back up intae a man n weep fur ma past life as the hoose passes oot ae sight. A keep joggin by n on towards the end.
A’m passin the bottom park where we aw used tae sit. There’s nae park really, just a few eld broken swings n burnt crash mats. A heard they wur gonnae dae it up fur the weans tae go back doon n play, but it never happened. It wis left broken as a memorial tae those who hud destroyed it. Ironic, that noo some ae them couldnae take their own wee ones doon tae play n hud tae go doon tae the big wan at the Lochs in Drumpellier or up tae Polkemmet country park. We used tae git taken up tae Palacerigg as weans. Yi got right up tae the animals n they hud bison n a few real lynx, arctic foxes n aw sorts. They used tae huv Halloween walks wae cunts chasin yi n jumpin oot on yi n aw that. They even kidded on the wolves hud escaped wan year, got us ontae the treetop walk n then they bounced oot wae chainsaws n started them up tae scare us aw. Yi probably wouldnae be allowed that noo.
We hud practically nuhin, nae real parks, only the woods that offered a natural climbin frame n eld tree swings that git confused wae hangin stories, n whose blue ropes haunted yi in the night. Maybe Wee Toni died on a tree swing tryin wan last time tae recapture lost youth before it wis gone forever. It’s easier tae think that way n in some ways it makes more sense tae me. The Mansion
, somewhere ahead, waited fur us n it wis there we spent those last days of youth.
A’m nearly at the shop, the place where it aw began. The source ae our madness and first scared Friday Feelin wis the wee convenience store, next tae the hairdressers n the Chinese takeaway. There wis nuhin simple aboot the pleasures yi could purchase there cos their effects ir long and complicated, hidden fae yi at thirteen or fourteen. Ten Mayfair n a bottle ae Buckfast n a bottle ae Red Square Reloaded. That wis the first Friday Feelin, the first madness n the buzz tae go on-it. It’s that path that led me here, runnin doon the lane, a last time, towards the shops.
It wis Taz who ran up after gittin done n recruited us tae back him up, eight fuckin year ago. He moved away when we wur aboot sixteen n A never seen hide nor hair ae him again. He wid be away livin somewhere else, movin on – same as the rest. It’s been a long time since we hud aw ran aboot in a young team. That’s fur wee guys – it’s a stage, a phase ae needin tae belong. Aboot here, in Lanarkshire, Glasgow, the west n the rest ae Scotland – belongin meant yi wur in a fuckin young team wae troops fae yir area n yi got mad-wae-it n defended yir scheme. Who dae they think they ir? Standin up our fuckin area waitin fur wan ae us tae walk roon so they kin jump us. Thinkin they’re fuckin nuts cos there’s a motor full ae them, cardboard gangsters runnin nuhin. The Friday Feelin hus me n A’m possessed wae that eld spirit ae madness, the Buckfast n endless enmity wae our rivals, the Young Toi. Azzy the Williams, oan a mission, runnin it. Scotland’s most famous son, a man ae myth n legend tae come.
‘YOUNG TEAM, YA FUCKIN DAFTIES!’
The Toi wans aw turn tae see where the shout came fae. There’s five ae them aw crossin the road, aboot tae fuckin dae me in. Matty, Si, JP, Allen n McVeigh. A’ve git ma fuckin wine bottle prime position, ready tae whack the dial aff the first yin tae bounce up n fuckin try it. A’m standin wae ma arms oot, nae chance A’m runnin. They’re nearly at me n A see Matty whip a blade oot, the same camouflage serrated huntin knife he hud the last time. They’re feet away noo n he’s marchin towards us wae it in his hand. Five versus wan, the brave yin. ‘You’re fuckin gettin it fur slashin ma brother. You and yir fuckin best mate Danny,’ Matty is shoutin.
They aw stop dead in their tracks but n start backin aff. Their faces ir a fuckin picture cos A hear a famous cry, Fuckin Young Team! YT fuckin P! A turn tae see aw the troops, backin us up tae the fuckin hills. The full party hus emptied n they’re aw here. Danny, Broonie, Finnegan, Wee Kenzie, Gunny, Briggy n the new ranks ae younger wans whose names A don’t know. Ma troops ir the tap men noo – the elder wans. The wee young team ir aw here, backin us up, fulfillin their destiny tae be YT legends like us. They’re followin in our footsteps, like we hud in Big Kenzie’s. A’m still in the middle, troops beside us, arms wide, blue Berghaus on, bottle ae Tonic in ma paw, geein it fuckin laldi. The full YTP is here backin up eld Azzy boy in his greatest hour ae need. We’re twenty strong n runnin amok, back on patrol after aw these years – THE FAMOUS YOUNG TEAM.
The Toi wans huvnae moved forward n they’re aw hesitatin noo. Matty swaggers up, still wae his blade oot. ‘Phffft! Look the fuckin nick ae yi, Azzy. Needin aw these wee guys tae back yi up!’
‘Put yir fuckin blade doon then n take us a square-go!’
Aw the young faces ir lookin up at me wae a kind ae fuckin wonderment, pure admiration. This is the start ae that great journey fur them, the same as it wis fur us aw they year ago – but tae wit a dark place it hud led us aw, tae the very door ae our ain destruction, tae the limit ae our minds n bodies n intae this vast hopelessness. These young boys cannae be more than fourteen or fifteen. A feel complicit somehow in their future sufferings in this, our moment at the front ae the pack as elder wans n tap men, a right ae passage earned wae survival ae the streets. These wee cunts ir ma enlightenment n they return me tae maself.
‘Want us tae set aboot these cunts, Azzy big man? We’re wae yi, cuz!’ the wee tap man says.
A turn tae aw ma boys n laugh. The young wans don’t understand, they look ready tae dae a bit, as bold n daft as we wur. Danny n Broonie ir laughin cos they git it. They huv their ain plans n noo we’re the elder wans, content tae stand at the back, no longer concerned by the troubles ae the young team. A foreign species – elder wans – beyond violence n trouble, beyond drugs n drink, happy tae live our lives wae burds n holidays n work n motors. A sit ma wine bottle doon by the kerb.
‘Nah, wee pal. It’s finished.’
Matty overhears us n A see him throw doon his blade n start walkin up tae us. ‘It’s finished? Ma brur’s fuckin face isnae finished so nuhin’s finished, dafty!’
‘A’m fuckin tellin yi, it’s done.’
He puts a hand up n pushes ma face, still feart tae crack us wae the YT at ma back. A put ma hand oot fur him tae shake. ‘Shake ma fuckin paw n it’s finished. A’m no tryin tae start.’ Matty cracks us a beauty n A ride it. Feeble as per. ‘Git yir fuckin hand oot n shake ma paw, ya prick. Yi gonnae dae this forever? Grow the fuck up, man. A’m tellin yi A’m no wantin tae start. A’m sorry aboot yir brother’s face.’
‘N fuckin wit! Yir fuckin sorry! Aye right!’
‘A’m tellin yi, it’s fuckin done. Nae cunt is wantin trouble.’
‘Fuckin Azzy Williams has shat it, finally! Wit a fuckin pussy you ir, mate! You used tae be a decent cunt tae. The tap fuckin man oot the younger wans!’
‘Mon, boys,’ A say as A leave those cunts standin n walk back up the lane towards Danny’s gaff n the party wae the full YTP beside us. The Toi wans ir still shoutin suhin, but A don’t turn back tae look. A put ma arm roon the wee tap man n he passes us his wine. ‘Wit’s yir name, wee man?’
The transformation is complete n A’m transported tae a moment eight year ago when A seen the big troops standin behind us. That’s us noo n the young team is no more, we’ve passed through n above n beyond somewhere without realisin it. There is almost nae violence left in me – but wit is left is reserved fur the status quo, that attitude, the solidarity amid the decline. The defiant ‘Don’t gee a fuck.’ It’s that A want tae fight. Our conditionin, two hundred years ae hard labour, made us believe this shite is aw there is fur us – our lot, the drink n drugs, anaesthetic n elixir tae this social nightmare. A didnae believe that. No fur a minute. We wur aw deceived by the lure ae the Friday Feelin n aw the rest ae the great deception. We built our barriers tae a future high as mighty barricades n defended them, sometimes wae our lives. A hud been at war, but ma war wisnae against the Toi, but maself.
Airdrie Boys
A wander through the woods wan last time, up the eld fadin paths towards the Mansion. There’s piles ae brown leaves under ma feet n the end ae summer is in the air. Yi kin smell the long grass that sways in the wind n soaks yir ankles as yi make yir way through. A barbed-wire fence sits at forty-five degrees n seems tae lean drunk intae the field. A huge conker tree is the sentinel that watches yi as yi start on its path. Its spikey green fruit is scattered aboot the wide trunk. Yi kin see where wee guys hud split them n acquired the prizes inside, big fat brown pearls. A never minded actually playin the game, just seein who could git the biggest wan n polish the starchy remnants ae its green body armour on yir jumper n stick it in yir pocket, after, of course, yir many boasts tae yir wee chums that yours wis the best n theirs wis shite. The weans huv aw long since run hame cos it’s gittin dark. The long nights started tae retreat backwards n the darkness came in earlier around the parks, garages n eld closes once again.
The eld paths hud formed the infrastructure ae the wooded acres ae ground. It hud aw centred around a big Georgian mansion – a real wan, rather than our namesake. A hud dreamt wit this big hoose wid huv looked like. Ma gran’s grandmother wis a domestic servant there, but both took its secrets tae the grave wae them. There is nae picture or memory that survives. The hoose itself is a ghost that haunts the woods. If yi look closely, there’s still clues tae its existence. There’s still garderers’ cottages, noo modern bungalows, dotted around the edges ae
the estate. Still eld stone paths almost swallowed by the convergin weeds n reed grass, which survive cos ae the burn that trickles through the far side ae the field. Bushes n trees huv claimed back a set ae great stone pillars which must huv formed a gate. Yi wouldnae even notice them noo, unless yi awready knew they wur there.
Some ae the stories survived, mind you. The oldest ae the gardeners’ cottages wis always said tae be haunted. Ma maw hud spoken wae wan ae the owners, who said the rumours ae the Grey Lady ir fact, not fiction. Perhaps testament tae the fact, nobody ever stayed long in that hoose. This is the true ghost story that inspired the urban legend ae the statue in the cemetery. Ma gran hud spoken aboot the ghost n a great hoose wae kept gardens, trees n paths through the woods. Noo, yi couldnae fit two abreast on the eld camouflaged paths. Maybe when we’re aw gone there wid be nae record ae the place n the woods wid huv their revenge n the natural equilibrium wid return. Maybe even the Grey Lady wid finally gee up the ghost n let the new buyers huv their peace.
The Young Team Page 30