Marabou Stork Nightmares (17 page)

Bernard was constantly blowing my cool. I fancied myself as a hard cunt and it was fuckin shan to have
that
for a brother. It made me sick to listen to his lisping, camp patter as he read out his poetry. He always recited it to my Ma, who was embarrassed by it, but as a teacher had once described Bernard as 'gifted', she gamely encouraged him. That was years ago, in the primary, and he'd done fuck all since but ponce about. He worked as a barman in a queers' pub in the city centre and sold jewelry on a stall at Ingliston Market.

Posing in the fuckin stair, he'd read his shitey poems tae aw the young fanny who seemed tae fag-hag him:

The situation that is life
sustainable, yet renewable
its elements building blocks
in a completed construction
yet which cannot be identified as such in isolation

To persecute me for my sexuality
is to pander to the slavedeck of false illusion
when the tapes play mixed messages
through mediums yet to be discovered

Avanti! I scream, my Italian blood
courses through my veins
not to be denied

Aw this wis weird enough, but we'd sometimes get it after our meal on a Sunday, if the auld man went tae the pub. Ma would cook up things like curry and rice, always with chips or tatties and two veg oan the side ay the plate.

One Sunday I asked Tony and Hannah, rather casually, I thought, about Hannah's sister Sylvia, The Big Ride. To my shock my auld man said: — Ah think Roy's goat a wee thing aboot Hannah's sister. Heard ye mention her before, like ah sais, heard ye ask aboot her before.

— Naw ah nivir, I replied. It wasn't that I was being shy, I just couldn't recall mentioning the sow in front of them.

— Aye ye huv, like ah sais, mentioned hur before, he teased, his jaw stretching downwards like Mr Fantastic's. His smile just got broader and broader and as his teeth were exposed, he started to take on the appearance of the Alien in the films of the same name.

In Muirhoose nae cunt can hear ye scream. . . well, they can hear ye, they just dinnae gie a fuck.

He held that radge expression and I felt my face go red and I got a bigger beamer than I had in the first place.

— What a beamer, Tony laughed.

— Aye, right, I snapped.

Laughter filled the room, Kim's shrill tones effortlessly dominating the rest.

I felt my head pound and my pulse quicken. The smell of the food was vivid and intense. Ah'm fuckin Roy Strang. Ah'm fuckin . . . I took a deep breath and pulled myself together.

— Went beetroot rid, so eh did. Like ah sais, beetroot rid, my auld man laughed, jabbing fork into space.

— You'll be the next yin tae git mairried, Roy, Kim said in her banal, nasal way, — cause it'll no be me, that's fir sure . . .

Her nauseating intervention had the desired effect of getting everyone to focus on her romantic life. I suppose I should have thanked her. I resolved to shut up about The Big Ride. I had been weak and had obviously broken, albeit unintentionally, one of my own key rules: say nowt tae nae cunt aboot anything.

When Tony's bairn came, he seemed tae spend mair time back at oor place than ever. For some reason he started to come oan his ain oan a Sunday fir dinner. I think Hannah went tae her Ma's wi the bairn. I don't think he liked her family but I never worked up the bottle to ask him what he thought of The Big Ride. That was out of the question now. I was sure he'd fucked her, or at least tried to. This was simply because, knowing Tony as I did, I couldn't imagine him
not
trying it on with her. Equally, it was hard to imagine The Big Ride not giein him his hole if he did try it on.

Tony would sit in an armchair, glancing up fae the set as Bernard lisped oot his poems. There was one time he looked up and said derisively, — Poetry, schmoetry, pulling the ring on a tin of export. He was browsing at the highlights of the Dundee United v St. Johnstone match on Scotsport. In the words of the commentator it turned out to be a 'game of few highlights'.

— You understand nowt, son, Bernard simpered.

— Ah understand that your poetry is well short ay piss-poor, Tony smiled.

— So we're the world expert on poetry now, ur we Tony? So tell us all, where did you acquire this expertise? Tony, world expert on everything. Armchair renaissance man. As
au fait
with darts as he is pool, Bernard hissed in a derisive manner as I heard a key turn in the door. John had come back early from the pub.

— Ah ken what's shite and what's no. Your poetry isnae shite, ah'll gie ye that. It needs tae improve a hundred per cent before it can be elavated tae that category.

John had come in and sat down and he started slapping his thighs. — Eh's goat ye thair, Bernard. Ha ha ha. Like ah sais, goat ye thair. Yill nivir beat oor Tony whin it comes tae words, like.

— I refuse tae be drawn intae a war of words with stupid people, Bernard said condescendingly, exiting with a camp flourish. I suspected that he was enjoying this performance and felt a twinge of admiration for him which I quickly stifled, reminding myself that he was a sick, diseased beast.

— Hi! John shouted. — Whae're you fuckin well callin stupid! Ah'm askin ye! TRY GITTIN A PROPER JOAB INSTID AY DAEIN AW THAT POOFY SHITE THIT NAEBODY'S FUCKIN WELL INTERESTIT IN!

The front door. slammed loudly.

—John! Tony! Vet moaned. — Ye cannae keep gittin oantae the laddie. Leave um alane. At least ehs poetry's hermless. No like some ah could mention, she looked over at me with a sulky pout.

— What's that supposed tae mean then? I asked.

— You ken. They bloody casuals. Yill end up in the jail. You wi that joab in computers n aw. Thing ay the future.

— That's right, Vet! That's fuckin well right! John snapped. — Fuckin casuals. Jeapordisin a fuckin good joab tae hing aroond wi they radge cunts. Computers n aw, like yir Ma sais, the thing ay the future. You want tae buck up yir ideas, son. Like ah sais, buck up yir ideas.

I looked at him coldly. — Ye ken what ah've been daein at work fir the last six months? Ah set up this programme tae call up files when a man reaches retirement age at sixty-five and a woman at sixty. That was aboot a week's work. Fir the past six months ah've been tryin tae train doss-brained cunts how tae operate this simple procedure, which is like gaun tae the toilet, daein a shite but rememberin tae take yir keks of first n wipe yir erse eftir.

The reverence that people who know fuck all about them have for computers disgusts me. Anyway, for me my work was just a refuge: a place to go where my head couldn't be nipped by my family. By either of my families, I suppose, because the cashies were my family n aw now. I could set anything up; that wis barry, you just got on wi it. I set it up, and some smarmy cunt peyed five times as much took the credit. It didnae bother ays though. What did get oan ma tits wis tryin tae teach the system tae doss-brained cunts.

— Aye, bit it's a still a joab! A well-peyed joab! Dinnae tell ays you're no stuffin money away!

Vet cut in, — C'moan John, that's no fair, the laddie earns chs keep.

The cunt was on shaky ground here. He was always tapping ays up in the week; cash for fags, drink. — Aye, well right, but that's mair thin kin be said ay some. That bloody Bernard. A fuckin buftie!

— Total fuckin embarrassment, Tony said.

— It's no natural, like ah sais, no fuckin natural, John said. — Yir no tryin tae tell ays that ye think it's natural, tae huv sex wi another man? He looked at us all in turn, stopping at Vet.

What's natural? I shrugged, more to support my mother who looked quite upset, than Bernard, who I didnae give a toss about.

—Jist as well eh nivir came fae me, John said.

Cheeky cunt him, with Elgin still at the GORGIE VENTURE FOR EXCEPTIONAL YOUNG MEN, me in the casuals and Kim, perennially a few years behind in her school work, now working at the baker's. Ally that to our hall-of-mirrors look and he's got a fuckin nerve thinking that he's spawned some sort of master race.

Vet looked coldly at him, — Might as well huv come fae you.

— What's that meant tae mean? Eh? Ah'm asking ye! What's that meant tae mean?

— Your fuckin faithir, that's what that's meant tae mean!

This was a sore point with Dad. His old man had been put away for interfering with young boys. Nae cunt really talked aboot it.

— Whit aboot ma faither . . .

— He went that wey.

— MA FAITHER DIDNAE GO ANY FUCKIN WEY! MA FAITHER WISNAE A WELL MAN! Tony and I had to restrain him as he raised his hands to Ma. I'd forgotten his strength and he took me out with an elbow to the nose. The pain was overpowering and my eyes kept filling with water. In no time he had Tony wrestled to the ground and was holding him by the hair, threatening to put the boot in.

—Dinnae Dad! I shouted, trying to stem the blood, tears and snot that leaked out of my face.

He let Tony go, and pursued Ma into the kitchen. She had grabbed the kitchen knife and was screaming: — COME OAN THEN YA FUCKIN SHITE! AH'LL FUCKIN KILL YE!

I ran upstairs to their room and grabbed his shotgun from under the bed. I thought about going back downstairs and confronting him, bolstered by the weapon, but he was radge enough to try and take it from me, and then somebody would be well fucked. I locked myself in the toilet with the gun, and didn't leave until the screaming had died down.

I heard the noise of the front door slamming. I put the shotgun back. Tony was alone downstairs. — Ma and John's gone up the pub. Aw lovey-dovey again. Ye comin up? He asked, clicking off the telly at the handset.

Was I coming up? No. I was going deeper. Deeper into trouble. Deeper into the Marabou Stork nightmares.

DEEPER

DEEPER

DEEPER– – – – into the narrow alley with Jamieson, following the stench of the diseased, decaying carrion on the ugly, waddling bird. The alley is dark, the air is surprisingly cold. Something is moving in the shadows amongst the large, stinking rubbish piles. Something very evil and nasty.

— Expose yourself, you sick, twisted demon! Sandy screams into the darkness. — You think you can destroy the game!

— No fucking chance of that, Johnny Stork! I hiss — Sandy and I are wise to your foul plans. We know that you want to destroy the colour, the noise, the fun and the gaiety associated with . . .

The words stick in my throat as the large predator emerges from the shadows.

— I'll bet you felt that, Roy, I'll bet you felt me kiss you then.

Patricia. Thank fuck. What are you playing at ya daft cunt?

—You know what I think, Roy Strang? I think all you need is to feel wanted. to feel loved. Let me in, Roy. Let us all in. You're surrounded by love, Roy. Your family, your friends. Let us in.

FUCK OFF YA DIPPIT CUNT!

DEEPER

DEEPER– – – – – – – –but not too deep. Not back to that fuckin alleyway with the Stork. No yet. But naw, I didnae go up the pub with Tony that night, didnae go tae see my Ma and Dad. I sat in on my own, enjoying the rare feeling of having the hoose tae masel. It gave me time to think.

I had been having some minor hassle at work. That cow Hathaway confronted me aboot my activities with the cashies. I'd been done and fined for my part in what I thought was a minor swedge, but which the papers called a riot. Hathaway called me through into Colin Sproul's office.

Sproul was an intense, tormented looking guy. It had been him who had interviewed me for the job when I'd first started. He always came across as a fair-minded cunt likes. It was blatantly obvious that he had been pushed into staging this daft performance by Hathaway.

— Eh. . . hello, Roy. We just wanted a little word with you, Jane and I.

Hathaway gave me a toothy false photo-flash smile.

I nodded.

— Your work's been excellent, Sproul began, — absolutely first class, he beamed with an almost awestruck smile. He shook his head in mock disbelief, — I still don't know how you managed to incorporate that geographical cross-referencing report into the S.S. 3001 system. That was genius.

I felt my face redden with a simultaneous surge of gratitude and resentment towards Sproul. I was about to say something when I looked at Hathaway's face. She was livid and she couldn't control it.

— Yes, it was rather well done, she said briskly, — but I'm sure that Roy would acknowledge the tremendous support and assistance he had from the rest of the team.

That was bullshit; I'd developed that procedure in complete isolation. I said nowt but.

— Oh quite so, Sproul nodded.

Hathaway's face took on a slyer demeanour. — You see, we want people to be able to get on at Scottish Spinsters', to develop with the organisation. You understand that, don't you, Roy?

— Aye, I said. .

Sproul smiled benignly, — You see, we're a very old institution Roy, and still pretty conservative in our own way . . . some would say a little too conservative . . . he turned to Hathaway, looking for some sort of endorsement, but got only a sharp glare of disapproval, — . . . but that's by the way, he nervously coughed. — Your work, though, is excellent, excellent. And while you're outside this building, outside office hours; what you do is your own concern. . . but at the same time . . .