2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel (24 page)

He stood out a mile in the playground when he first started at St Lizzie’s because he was about the only kid in the place who pronounced all his consonants and didn’t employ a glottal stop. It didn’t take long for the transformation to start, much to his mother’s initial dismay, but as long as he could demonstrate that he was able to switch it on and off, she generally didn’t worry too much.

Last night, talking to Jojo, he had found himself oscillating erratically between one and the other. He had instinctively slipped into his hometown dialect but had consciously reined it back at times. He was partly afraid she’d call him on the discrepancy, slag him for being the polite wee boy who learnt to talk like the others at school. But it had also been partly because he wanted to emphasise his distance from here, and from her. Being a prick and—you were right, Jojo—being a snob.

“Aye,” the driver says, indicating the heavy plant looming between them and their destination. “Looks like they’re tearin the place doon, right enough.”

Twenty years too late, Martin thinks.

He pays the fare and gets out on to the pavement, the hotel car park being blocked off by cones. The Bleachfield is on the outskirts of Paisley, on the road to Carnock and Braeside. The railway to Glasgow runs past to the north, crossing the road over an old iron bridge. There are houses in adjacent blocks, fifties-built bungalows with long front gardens, the better to distance them from the passing traffic and the eyesore on the other side of the carriageway. The residents will probably have a party once the action starts, with everybody dancing to the wrecking-ball swing.

Martin walks up the short driveway towards where the heavy machinery is ranged, and soon clocks Scot in a hard-hat, talking to a burly bloke wearing a luminous yellow jacket and boots with more tread than tractor tyres. It’s the burly bloke who notices Martin, then Scot looks to see what’s caught his eye. He grins and gives Martin a wave, holding up two fingers to indicate he has to finish talking but won’t be long. A few seconds later, the burly bloke nods and walks away. Scot grabs a second hard-hat from the track of a crane and turns to face Martin.

There are a few flecks of grey just visible beneath the hat, and he’s got a wee bit extra around the waist, though not much. His face hasn’t changed a bit. People always look younger when they smile, even Noodsy yesterday, but in Martin’s experience, the ones who smile the most are those whose faces age the least. From that first day at St Lizzie’s, Scot had been an ongoing source of cheerfulness and effortless reassurance that whatever you were getting all worked up about simply wasn’t worth it. Martin wonders where he’d be today if he hadn’t stopped listening. Most of his problems and fuck-ups in life had been down to being in too much of a hurry to get somewhere else, to
be
someone else. Scotty was the one guy who was happy being himself. The trendy crowd at St Grace’s were always striving for maturity, desperate to be taken as seriously as possible. Scotty was never striving to reach somewhere life would inescapably take him eventually, and gave the impression seriousness was a major impediment to enjoying life. One look and Martin realises how much he has missed the guy, how wasteful it’s been that so many years have gone by with little more than a few emails passing between them.

Martin’s instinct is to hug him, but it’s easily suppressed. They shake hands and smile, a little awkwardly.

“I
hope it’s a side,” says Chick Dunlop. “I heard 1S1 and 1S2 played each other when it was their second time at PE.”

“Hockey’s pish anyway,” says Kevin Duffy.

“Aye, but at least if it’s a side, you’re gettin a game, no just borin exercises wi a baw an a stick like yesterday.”

“And you should enjoy it while you can,” says Kenny Langton. “Because it’s meant tae be fuckin rugby next month.”

“Aw fuck, man. Rugby’s
really
pish,” Kevin moans. “And have you seen the state of the rugby pitch? Like a fermer’s field.”

“That’s because it
is
a fermer’s field,” Chick informs
him
. “Over the summer holidays. Coos shitin all over it an every-thin. So be fuckin grateful for a wee game ay hockey the noo.”

“A side’ll be a good laugh,” says Tarn Mclntosh. He’s got close-cropped hair, almost like a skinhead or an army recruit. He strikes Martin as a bit of a hard-nut, not remotely wary of his words or behaviour around either the class’s two giants or the boys from other schools, though his demeanour is a sight more cheerful than the headcases usually exhibit. “Did they pick teams, or did 1S1 play 1S2?”

“I think they played each other,” says Chick.

“We should sort oot teams and positions, well,” Tarn suggests. “So’s we can give 1S6 a doin. Plus, saves fannyin aboot once we get oot there.”

If
we ever get out there, Martin thinks.

“Aye, good shout,” says Kenny.

“Bagsy no me in goals,” says Kevin.

“Bagsy no me neither,” says somebody else.

“Bagsy no me an aw.”

“Hang on,” Kenny says. “Bagsy nothin. We need a keeper, for fuck’s sake. Who’s goin in goal?”

“The weest yin,” says Andy Brady, sitting on the opposite bench. “Him,” he adds, pointing briefly at Martin but barely looking at him. He makes his suggestion matter-of-factly, like it’s simply understood, though there is an unmissable contempt in his dismissiveness. Andy reminds Martin of Robbie. He’s scowly and sleekit, seldom smiling.

He is also, more pertinently, surely no taller than Martin, which one of his ex-St Gregory’s classmates takes delight in pointing out: “He’s bigger than you, Andy, ya wank,” says Scan Cassidy. “Same size, anyway.”

“Fuck off, you know what I mean: the poofiest. That’s who goes in goals.”

Martin says nothing, feels his cheeks burn, hopes nobody notices.

Kenny Langton has got to his feet and is looking back and forth between Martin and Andy. “You any good in goals?” he asks Martin, looking him in the face. He doesn’t add the expected ‘wee man’, which tells Martin a lot more about the guy than any of the stuff he’s heard.

“Shite,” Martin replies with a smile.

“Nae point in puttin you in goals, then. Well volunteered, Orb, good shout.”

“Me?” Andy cries, outraged. “Why me? I’m shite as well.”

“Aye, but you’re fuckin horrible and everybody hates ye, so there’s a good chance the other team’ll be tryin tae hit you wi the baw rather than score.”

“Fuck’s sake,” he moans, apparently knowing better than to contest the decision further.

“Orb?” someone asks.

“Aye,” says Kenny. “Orble Andy.”

They’re all laughing: the St Elizabeth’s and St Margaret’s ones because they’ve never heard this before; the St Gregory’s ones because they love hearing it again. All laughing except Andy, naturally.

He stares directly across at Martin and jabs a finger towards him, though keeping his hand close to his stomach, like he doesn’t want it widely noted. “You’re fuckin gettin it later,” he says under his breath. He looks like he means it.

“Well, thank fuck it’s no me in goals,” announces Tarn. “Ma hauns are still fuckin stingin after gettin the lash.”

“You got the lash?” asks Kenny. “When? Ya sneaky bastart!” he adds, laughing.

“Just at the interval there.”

“Whit for?”

“Fuckin caught havin a drag.”

“Where?”

“In behind Tech Drawin. Fuckin McGinty caught us, the assistant heidie. I was only gettin a wee puff ay Rab Daly’s dowt.”

“I was just away fae there,” says Chick. “I shared a fag wi some big Third Year lassie. Must have just missed ye.”

“Just missed McGinty, ye mean, ya jammy bastard. He lashed everybody.”

“Is he good at it?” asks Kenny.

“All right. Had worse at St Greggy’s, but the cunt gave us four—two on each haun. It’s the second yin that’s fuckin sair, man.”

“Aye,
I’ve
heard they can give ye four at a time up here,” says Kevin.

“Just for really bad hings,” says Tarn. ‘Cardinal Sins, the cunt says. “And smoking is the worst of them,’” he mimics.

“Maist ay them are pish at givin it, but,” says Scan. “Ma big brer says, anyway. Apart fae Kerr, the geography teacher. It’s supposed tae be fuckin agony aff him.”

“But he’s a wee skinny guy,” says Tarn.

“Aye, but he’s meant tae have some fuckin brilliant technique. He stretches it or somethin. I don’t know. All I’ve heard is you’re best tae keep the right side ay him.”

“So is that Tam the first tae get it, well?” asks Chick. “Anybody else had it?”

All heads are shaken.

“Congratulations, man,” Chick says. “First aff the mark.”

“Four nothin,” Tam adds, holding up both hands like he’s taking applause.

“Aye, but it’s a marathon, no a sprint,” warns Kenny. “We’ll catch up wi ye soon.”

“Come ahead,” says Tam, smiling.

“Naw, but seriously,” insists Chick. “Let’s see who can get the maist lashes.”

“Today?” asks Kenny.

“Naw, let’s make it tae the end ay the month.”

“Fuckin brilliant, aye,” agrees Scan.

“Aye, we should all chip in for a prize,” suggests Kenny. “Get a wee shitey plastic fitba trophy fae the sports shop up the Main Street.”

“That would be gallus,” agrees someone else.

“Aye,” chips in Andy. “An whoever has the least should get a fuckin doin from everybody as well.”

“Whit? Why?” Chick asks.

“So’s everybody has tae join in and wee snobby poofs like Jackson here cannae shite oot it.”

“Whit have ye got against Martin?” asks Scan. “Have ye finally discovered somebody ye think ye can batter, is that it?”

Eureka, Martin reckons.

“
Martin
Jackson?” Tarn suddenly asks. “That’s your name? You’re Martin Jackson?”

“Aye,” Martin confirms, a little uneasy at Tarn’s enthusiasm.

“Why?” asks Kenny, intrigued.

“I heard you fought Boma Turner once,” Tam says.

“Aye, that’s right,” confirms Kevin before Martin can respond. “Marty ended up wi blood all over the place, but.”

“It wasnae exactly—” Martin begins, but is interrupted.

“Fuck’s sake, man,” Tam says, laughing. “Boma’s whit? Two years aulder than ye an twice your fuckin size, but ye still…Fuck’s sake, man. Mental.”

Martin smiles bashfully, wanting the issue to close, wanting the attention to focus elsewhere. He tries again to say what really happened, but the dressing room is now a babble of voices stating variously how much of a scary and vicious bastard Boma Turner is, as well as listing the illustrious names etched alongside Martin’s on his list of vanquished opponents.

Martin got a doing from Boma, an absolute doing. It was over in seconds, and he doesn’t think he even landed a blow. But this is proof that on St Grace’s virgin territory, the reputations game can go both ways. He’s already heard via a St Margaret’s kid that it was Richie Ryan who once stood up to the deputy heidie and Father Wolfe at St Elizabeth’s. Once upon a time it must have got around Braeview that Boma Turner leathered a kid called Martin Jackson, but while the outcome has not been forgotten, it has been remembered as a fight rather than an assault, and it seems that to have fought and lost is better than never to have fought at all.

Martin doesn’t know where to look, but happens to catch sight of Andy again. All the threat has drained from his face and he is suddenly very interested in the toggle on his duffle bag.

“S
orry again about last night,” Scot says, once they’ve traded the standard hails and enquiries.

“Don’t worry aboot it. Wasnae as bad a place for a pint as I remember.”

“Aye, it’s no bad at all. Did you talk to Jojo, then?”

“Briefly,” he says, his guilt at lying massively outweighed by the greater need to keep the truth to himself.

“Briefly?” Scot asks, surprised.

For a paranoid moment, Martin wonders whether he might somehow know something. It’s a small town, and Jojo is to discretion what…Well, he can think of no equivalent. She’s an absolute. “We were never exactly best buddies,” he offers.

“Yeah, I know, but I thought you might have pumped her for information. She doesnae miss much in this toon.”

In his head Martin hears himself saying: “Well, I did pump her, just not for information.” He hears Scotty laugh, too, but in his head is where it stays. There’s no end of reasons why he can’t joke about it, not least the freshness in his mind of the disturbing alacrity with which they went about their act of making hate.

“So what’s the Hampden with gettin me to meet you here?” Martin asks. “First the Railway and now the Bleachfield. Is it a concerted campaign to bring me back down to earth and deflate my metropolitan ego?”

“Naw, and I’m sorry again aboot the prick remark.”

“Don’t sweat it. I was bein a prick,
lam a
prick. But what’s the script?”

“Well, it looks like I’m gaunny be stuck here all day, an we’ve got Helen’s sister and her man comin over for dinner, so…”

“So it’s the only chance we’re going to get to talk. Helen’s sister: Nicola, wasn’t it?”

“Well remembered.”

“If I cannae remember background details about the lassie I had a crush on, what can I remember?”

“Let’s not go there,” Scot says, a twinkle in his eye. Scot never went chasing the lassies, same as he never went chasing the future. Like everything else, he knew it would all happen when the time was right. “What’s for ye will no go by ye,” as Martin’s granny used to say. And what was for Scot turned out to be Helen Dunn. Still, at least it gave a degree of balance to Martin and Scot’s relationship: there had to be one thing about him he hated, the jammy swine.

“I could have waited till tomorrow,” Martin says. “I’m not shooting back. Told the office I’d need a week. I havenae taken any time off in six or seven months, so…”

“I wanted to talk to you aboot this before I inevitably end up talkin to the polis.”

“The polis? About what?”

“The hotel. It belonged to Colin.”

Martin feels as daft as the time he realised, after several years of using the end of a kitchen knife, that there was a jaggy bit inside the lid of a tube of tomato puree specifically for piercing the metal cover. “Of course. It was his dad’s.”