A Taylor Wimpey estate replaced the great manor. Three streets ae red-brick semis n white rough-casted detached hooses. The place we know as ‘the Mansion’ is the only real survivin part ae that original estate – the stables n farmhoose. Then, it wid huv been just servants’ quarters n a workin farm. The cobblestones, the eld barn, the farmhoose wae the arch on the left side leadin tae the room wae nae window n the stable blocks. The modern owners left in a hurry, leavin aw their sofas and the electricity and water runnin. That’s another mystery ae the place. They wur likely just normal people who lived their lives here in peace, but their hasty departure fed our imaginations n urban legends fur years tae come. Maybe they’ll come back wan day, the first indication that the night didnae swallow them whole.
Maws n das in the street received plannin permission letters aboot the flats being built behind the pre-existing estate. The new lords ae this mansion, our elder wans, knew that their new-found castle could only ever be a temporary sanctuary. The place hud been top secret at first. They decided tae keep it safe n hidden, knowin full well that any den that wis made in the woods wid always be found eventually n looted by rival or younger youths. Their prediction ae invaders who wid likely plunder n trash it wis bang on. As wae any other secret here, it didnae last long.
In actuality, it wis me, Danny n Addison who hud followed them towards their new hideout. We braved the darkenin woods n waited in the trees until they left, then besieged it. We broke every window n used a lead pipe tae smash a plasterboard wall tae bits. Within months everybody knew, the farmhoose wis burnt doon, every room hud been vandalised atop vandalism, wrecked and ravaged. Nights wae the CD player n warm shelter fae the single glazin wur over anaw. It became cold n damp seeped through it. Somecunt even pulled oot the eld fuses and smashed the electricity box n the place fell intae a permanent sodden darkness. We reduced our great mansion tae its bare shell, a hidden treasure turned intae a bus shelter, a mere roof over our heads fae the rain. Only when it wis destroyed did we realise the error ae our ways but then, as always, it wis too late. We wid never find another place tae hang aboot and we wur stuck in our ruined mansion, tae suffer the destruction ae our own hands.
The path clears the trees n disappears. Water fae the field hus made a small marsh wae the stone path submerged somewhere beneath. It re-emerges after aboot a hundred yards and winds up towards the courtyard. The gable end ae the first building faces me as A walk up. The roof hus fallen away and the eld slates ir covered in green moss n burd shite. A’m stopped in ma tracks as A turn right intae the courtyard. The rumours aboot developers buildin flats hus finally come tae pass. Aw that’s left is the stable block n the wooden balcony inside. The grand stones which formed the hoose, the archway n the barn ir reduced tae a pile ae debris n piled up in the middle ae the courtyard. Strange, tae think we used tae sit somewhere among that rubble.
A walk over tae the only remainin section. Half ae the stables huv collapsed towards the back and the ferns huv begun tae storm the keep. Renegade weeds grow fae the slates on the top and in the puddles beneath. The eld filing cabinet still lies trampled, purposely blockin unfamiliar feet in the dark. A step over it subconsciously and peer intae the darkness. It wis still aw here, the graffiti, rubble n ash, waitin fur a broom sweep that’s never comin. The metal troughs and gates hud aw been ripped oot n likely sold fur scrap. A mind that feelin when yi walked intae each walled-aff pen, where horses wid huv steamed n stamped behind, scared in case somecunt wid be lurkin behind them in the gloom, beneath the dirty sky-lit roof.
We hud been the last life tae bless the place wae presence, signs ae our temporary passin still here. AZZY W 2K4 still scrawled in red spray-paint but faded noo n almost gone. It’s become a modern nest fur the local wildlife, a pot fur the foot-soldier weeds which huv begun tae reclaim it fur the woods behind. Nature always hus the last say. The woods ir dark noo n A cannae see through gaps in the trees. There’s residual energy here, some unseen force like the Friday Feelin at work, pullin me backwards n makin me long fur those simpler days spent within these walls. There’s nuhin left here apart fae eld ghost stories n shadows ae that past, still flickerin fur me like our fires in the woods. A make ma peace n leave, walkin back after a moment ae silent reflection.
The sun sneaks behind the hills just a wee bit earlier n the nights start tae come in around yi again, remindin yi ae the mortality ae summer. The summers ir where it’s at. Even a grey place like this, in the sun, kin light up temporarily, offer some consolation fur the constant dull shades n fuckin shine. Everycunt wid go nuts, taps aff, cargos n doon the fields n the parks, lyin hazy aw day n slidin home when the long evenings drew oot n started tae retreat, bringin those warm dusks in around the trees n the troops. Those wur the best wans, the young summers, six weeks ae warm, sweet nothingness. Yi kin never git those back. Even if yir oot ae work n every day is a Saturday, it’s never the same. Those days become long, drawn-oot Sundays. Yi huv tae work n tae work, yi huv tae gee up yir time. Wae nae time n a shitey job, yi live fur the weekend n yir fortnight at the fair n Christmas but yir time aff is spent worryin aboot work, so yi drink tae forget n remember the eld times. That’s how the eld summers wur special n how yi never git them back. There wis suhin sacred aboot them, suhin that drove yi on apart fae boredom n occasional adventure. Suhin meaningful among the madness, even though we wasted them, squandered ours drunk n in drug-induced numbness. Try as yi might tae work oot wit that wis, or tae feel that eld magic again, yi kin never git them back n there’s nae point dwellin on it cos it’s done. It wis but the blink ae an eye, but we’re no they wee boys fae the young team anymore.
It’s the end ae August noo, two weeks after the last party wae the troops. A’ve been keepin a low profile. There’s nuhin tae hide fae anymore really. A seen aw the Toi wans doon the street but they just looked at me n A walked past without a word. There wis a few whispers n tuts but none ae them acknowledged me as a threat. It’s the way yi carry yirsel, ma heed’s still up, but there’s nae challenge in ma eyes, nae aggressive swagger ae ma arms. A’m just a normal cunt goin aboot his business. That doesnae make yi invincible, no by any means. A wid always huv tae watch aboot here. Yi cannae fly wae the crows then just expect tae be forgotten. It doesnae work like that, cos just when yi think yir oot the woods, on a night oot or walkin roon the corner, somebody who still wants tae be a somebody wid be there n wid remind yi ae who yi used tae be. That’s how tae dae this properly – yi huv tae disappear, long enough tae be forgotten. How long is that? Possibly forever. Cos every time yi come back it wid always be the same n even if they’ve forgotten, you won’t huv. It’s too easy tae fall back intae eld routines, habits n wae eld friends. The grey depression ae the towns aboot here drives yi backwards, even if yir heed’s elsewhere n yir heart belongs there. Time slips away quickly when yir waitin fur that kind ae revelation n before yi know it yir right back where yi started, dain the same things wae the same people n startin aw over again.
A cannae imagine that noo. A feel different, no the same eld Azzy. A cannae really describe the feelin cos it’s new territory, uncharted lands within maself. A’ve git a new kind ae clarity, suhin fresh n scary. Fur the first time in years, A actually huv some kind ae progress tae fall back on, suhin tae lose – the silver thread. The last time, goin tae Newcastle hud been a step in the right direction. It didnae matter where yi left tae go, as long as yi went somewhere n did somethin. Yi huv tae ask fur forgiveness fae yir family n pals n community but yi huv tae forgive yirsel. That’s fundamental tae recovery. There wis a lot ae wasted time n missed opportunities aye, but there’s plenty time tae make amends. Wherever A wid end up, A won’t need tae watch ma back n A kin grow n heal. Cos there’s healin needin tae be done. No only fae aw that badness we hud seen n done but fae drugs n drink n aw the things that huv damaged the spirit ae a young man. Yi huv tae break free fae aw these demons n live tae the fullest yi kin. Cos if there’s nae redemption n nae joy then there wis nae point fightin fur yir life in the
first place. Everycunt who sees yi livin that proper life will be inspired by yi n you’ll help more cunts that yi wid know. It’s time tae defy this pre-Columbus notion that the world ends wae Lanarkshire, the schemes ae Glesga n the west ae Scotland, tae break free n go beyond. That’s where the Azzy boy wull be. Away livin without fear n makin the most ae every opportunity that comes ma way. Sky’s the limit, troops.
Ma maw seemed different these last few weeks, time seemed tae go backwards fur hur n some ae the worry in hur face relented. It’s still there n always wid be as long as A’m under hur roof. She hud, n always wid, dae hur best tae provide n keep me oot ae trouble but it’s down tae me noo. Ma choices ae the last month seemed tae change hur life fur the better. Maybe somewhere deep down she dares tae think this is it, that A’m on the straight n narrow fae noo on, no more gettin carried in drunk or waltzin in high on drugs. She fuckin hated that, n hur only son became a stranger before hur eyes, someone she didnae know or like fur years, but she hung on n didnae let us go. These dreams ae another life came fae hur somehow. She’s the true unsung hero ae this story.
As fur the boys, everybody is dain their own thing noo. Wee Kenzie, Gunny, Briggy n aw the younger wans ir still playin the game. They’re still deep in it aw, sellin drugs n livin it. The young boys ir just gittin started n the drink is sweet n the burds ir stunnin. They hud nuhin tae worry aboot fur a few years yit. As fur the elder wans, they’re just gittin worse. Kenzie seemed tae fall naturally in at the head ae the pack. Status couldnae put him there before noo, so age hus. He could persuade aw the wee guys he’s mental, being a dealer n a bully aw he wanted. They wid believe him but the cycle wid eventually repeat n the maddest oot ae the young troops wid smash him. His fate wid be a predictable wan n nae interest tae anycunt. He wid find a wee scheme burd n git hur up the duff n disappear intae nuhin. Folk still tried tae help cunts like Kenzie, put time n effort intae listenin tae them tell yi over n over how they’re gonnae change, how next week, month, year it’s gonnae be different. It’s usually aw lies n even if the desire tae change is there, there’s nae willpower behind it.
Broonie is on the way noo. He didnae huv the heart tae be a gangster or a ruthless cunt. Most wid have been destroyed but wee bulletproof Broonie kicked back n refused tae gee in. Cos there’s suhin in him anaw, suhin that me n Danny don’t huv. He hus that purest survival instinct, that steadfast knee-jerk that when things hit rock bottom n wid kill most ae us, that means he endures n survives. That’s suhin special, hard formed n fought fur against his home life n his million n wan knocks tae his hard shell. Resilient, but never bitter. A hope in aw ma heart that his money n his wee burd wid take him far away fae here. Somewhere else, Elgin maybe, or further. Broonie’s peace wid be more difficult tae find, further pursued n less tangible but it’s oot there somewhere n he deserves it.
As fur Danny Stevenson, well, he’s a different kettle ae fish. He’s still talkin aboot Australia. He husnae won his own war against drink n drugs yit n until he does, he wid never be free. Every day, week n month that yir aff them adds tae the thin margin – and the likeliness yi wid stay aff them increases. Australia could be the makin ae him or the ruin. Cos if he wis tae make pals wae bams like us fae the north ae England or Ireland or Wales, wae matchin psyches n sensibilities, he may slip back tae the eld ways n the party wid come tae an end prematurely. People kin surprise yi soon as yi take them oot their element but. If yi kin bury the past n adapt n blend in wae other normal folk – rather than seekin oot clowns, who yi will inevitably meet – yi realise there’s so many good people oot there n yi kin build positive relationships n huv proper friends. Yir attitude n swagger go n yi become a decent human being, capable ae interestin conversation wae anybody – wae just a twist ae Scottish charm. Yi huv tae be yir own man n yi wid find a world ae opportunity oot there. As a sound Scottish cunt yi wid generally be well received. Plus, the burds love it. It’s no that shite being Scottish, Irvine.
People like Big Tam McKenzie irnae made tae run. He hud never dreamt ae another life, content tae live, work n die in Scotland. It wis true, yi could find yourself in much worse places, wae worse folk that ir a lot worse aff. Tam is proud workin class, happy tae work hard n earn his livin tae dae the best he kin fur his new wee family. That’s easy tae understand n value. His own past hus made him wise tae the downfalls ae our area n A’m sure that him n Michelle wid move on somewhere, but no too far. He wid forever be the king ae the young team, Big Kenzie. The last days ae his dynasty hud come wae the birth ae his daughter but he wid live forever in the memory n legend ae these streets.
Then there’s Monica Mason n Patricia Lewis. Patricia left n started afresh somewhere else, but she wis just continuin hur life here wae new faces. Patricia helped me take that first step over the door, rightly or wrongly, n fur that A’m grateful. If an opportunity comes up in life yi ought tae take it, so wit it didnae work oot. It’s huvin the baws tae try that’s important, both small step n giant leap. That paved the way fur this adventure. Monica Mason is hur complete opposite. She wid make a few real friends wherever she went, treat herself n others well. Hur life wid be a success cos it wis born oot ae struggle. A contented soul, far more than me, n deservin ae aw the good things in life that ir comin tae hur. Yir character is defined by the choices yi make and the life yi huv is often the result ae them. Plenty cunts wid sit aboot here n be bitter aboot the success ae plenty who deserve it. The pubs ir full ae philosophers who will tell yi over another pint that they know the way things ir aboot here, long as you’re buyin.
Aw the other lassies huv faded away, almost forgotten. They didnae bother wae any this shite. A heard Amanda is engaged tae a guy fae London she met in Ibiza. She’s aff doon there livin n no one hus seen hide nor hair ae hur. Big Rose hud been a cleaner n noo she works in the supermarket wae hur maw. Hur maw works on the deli counter n Big Rose in the warehoose. She drank in the local pubs n hud started livin the life ae an eld wuman too young. A heard she’s goin wae a cunt aboot thirty-five n they’re movin over tae Viewpark, intae a council hoose. That’s literally aw A’ve heard aboot them. Lassies just git hitched n disappeared. Or stayed n suffered like Wee Toni. Stories like hers, part n parcel ae why A cannae accept the place, like Tam. A cannae find peace here when that kind ae thing happens so regularly. Hur story hus changed the woods fur me, once a space ae our first childhood adventures n teenage transgression, tae a darker place A barely recognise.
Someday, maybe dream ae them again – that first time we wandered doon, wae the log n the wee campfire burnin, bottles ae wine n tunes on n the great Mansion rebuilt tae its former glory n aw ae us there the-gither wae nobody missin.
The day’s light hus started tae fade. A’m oot the front ae ma maw’s door smokin n lookin at a big sun set slowly behind the eld red roof tiles as Big Kenzie pulls up in his eld Golf GTI tae pick me up. Ma maw’s at the door noo n she’s greetin n kissin me n tellin me tae be careful. A’m doon the steps, the first ae many on this great journey called life. Big Kenzie is oot the motor n grabbin ma bag aff ma back. We both gee ma maw a wee wave n she watches us go fae the doorstep.
Tam’s lightin two fags n passin me wan n A’m smokin while we drive oot ae the village in silence n head ontae the M80 towards Glasgow. The tune playin is Wolfgang Gartner, ‘Redline’. It’s a new wan oot this year n sounds a bit space-age, but class nonetheless. Music is changing, people ir changing. The predicition hus come tae pass. It’s playin as we pass the Campsie hills on our right. They’re lit orange towards the west as the sun goes doon, castin their dark silhouette beyond the green fields. Ma eyes ir fixed on them till they fade oot ae view. They ir ma true north, the pilot stars that wull guide me home if A git lost, blue n forever.
The signs read ‘Airport’ noo, wae Glasgow stretched oot behind me n the Old Kilpatrick Hills n the Campsies towards the east n home. Before A know it, we’re in front ae the terminal. Big Kenzie is carryin ma bag over his shoulder n we’re smokin a fag walkin up tae the main buildin. ‘So, wee
man, this is it!’ the big yin says.
‘Aye, mate.’
‘Knew this day wid come.’
‘Aye? A didnae.’
‘A always knew, fuck sake. Yir destined fur bigger n brighter things, Azzy.’
We reach the smokin bit in front ae the buildin n smoke another customary smoke before A head in. There’s a wee moment ae silence between us, both thinkin aboot our lives n how they’re aboot tae change forever.
‘Scary shit, int it, son?’
‘Aye fuck.’
‘Phffft. Bold as brass fuckin Young Team wans,’ he says n winks.
Wae that, Big Kenzie shrugs it aff n stubs oot his fag wae his trainer. ‘Right, ya fuckin slopin bastard. Git tae fuck, away yir fancy travels thinkin yir better than aw us.’ He puts his rough paw oot n A shake it. The big man turns n swaggers across the road n disappears among the hurryin crowds. He spins back roon wae his arms fuckin wide n shouts, so that everycunt outside the terminal turns tae look n two polis start marchin towards him,
‘AZZY BOY! FUCKIN YOUNG TEAM, YA BAM!’
About the Author
Graeme Armstrong is a Scottish writer from Airdrie. His teenage years were spent within North Lanarkshire’s gang culture. He was inspired to study English Literature following his reading of Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting at just sixteen. Alongside overcoming his own struggles with drug addiction, alcohol abuse and violence, he defied expectation to read English as an undergraduate at the University of Stirling where, after graduating with honours, he returned to study a Master’s in Creative Writing. His debut novel, The Young Team, is inspired by his experiences.
First published 2020 by Picador
This electronic edition published 2020 by Picador
The Young Team Page 31