Marabou Stork Nightmares (18 page)

Hathaway smiled grimly,—It's come to our attention that you're a member of a soccer hooligan gang.

— Eh? I said incredulously. Soccer hooligan gang. Stupid fuckin fat dyke.

— We're not accusing you of anything, Roy. It's just that certain rumours have been circulating about you, rumours which could be detrimental to your future career progression, Sproul told me.

— Aye, I sometimes go tae the fitba likes. Ah dinnae get involved in any bother though.

— Roy, said Hathaway, with a sombre tone and expression, — we've seen your name in the papers. You broke a man's jaw, it said.

I gave her a tired look, and shook my head wearily. — I'm sick tae the back teeth of these rumours. Yes, I was at a match in Glasgow with some friends. It can be quite rough through there at the games and these men, obviously drunk, started spitting at us when they heard our Edinburgh accents. We just walked away. One guy though, he followed me and started kicking me. I lashed out in self-defence. Unfortunately, that was the part of the incident witnessed by the police officer. Surprise, surprise, the Strathclyde Police took the word of locals over a man from Edinburgh. I thought, though, that my own employers would be a wee bit more inclined to give me the benefit of the doubt on this issue.

I saw Sproul's eyes light up and his lips stretch into a grin. Hathaway looked dejected. She wanted old thick schemie Roy Strang to hang himself, but naw, I wasnae gaunny gie the cunt the satisfaction.

The following week I got arrested at Middlesbrough at an English second division match. We were just doon for a bit of mischief. There was little happening at Hibs v St. Johnstone; the baby crew could handle the Fair City Firm wankers with ease. We had headed south for a wee break and turned over a pub. I bottled some cunt.

I remember Lexo saying to the barman, — Eight Becks, mate. Then he noticed a squad of scarfers come in from a bus. — Naw, make it Grolsch, eh, he said. He turned to me and winked, — Heavier boatils, eh.

They certainly were.

Thank fuck that one didnae make the Scottish papers.

So things were sorted for a bit. It was going well, I reflected, as I sat alone enjoying the solitude in the house, stroking Winston Two. — I'm not a bad Hibby-Wibby Boysie-Woysie, am I, Winners? No! No! I'm just Roysie-Woysie who does the computey-wuteys, eh? A firework exploded outside; Winston Two whimpered and ran under the sideboard. It was Guy Fawkes' night soon. Winston hated fireworks. It was something tae think aboot. I was still up for wasting that cunt ay a dug and ah wis intae daein it really soon.

That night Ma, Dad and Tony came back pished. Kim came in later, her neck covered in purple love-bites, an even more far-away and vacuous look on her face than normal.

— Ye should've bought him a packet ay crisps, Tony smiled at her.

She self-consciously touched her neck and smiled, — Aw this? Dae ye notice it? Kin ye see it that easy?

Dad looked angry, but said nothing. I watched as his knuckles went white gripping the armchair. When Kim went up to bed, he turned to Vet and said: — You want tae huv a word wi that lassie. Actin like a slag, like ah sais, a fuckin slag . . .

— Dinnae be fuckin silly, John. She's a young lassie bichrist.

Eventually Ma turned in, leaving John, Tony and I in the front room. John looked at us emotionally, it was as if he was almost ready to cry. — That's some fuckin woman. Your mother, he pointed at me, then at Tony, — your mother n aw. A fuckin great woman, the best yir ivir likely tae find. His voice got higher. — Youse remember that! Whativir else yis dae, yis eywis treat that fuckin woman wi respect, like ah sais, respect. Cause that's the best fuckin woman yis are ivir likely tae see in yir fuckin lives! Your fuckin mother!

— Aye Dad, Ma's sound . . . I said sombrely.

— Like you say John, she's the best, Tony nodded.

Dad stood up and went over to the window. His voice took on a compulsive, mocking bent as he thumbed over his shoulder at the outside world. — Ah ken whit they cunts think ay us. Ah ken aw they cunts. Ken what they are? Ah'll fuckin well tell ye what they are, he slurred, — Rubbish. Not fuckin quoted. That's these cunts: not fuckin quoted.

He had always been paranoid about the neighbours and had started to keep a dossier on the other occupants of our block and the one behind us. He had recently bought a personal computer from a mate down The Gunner, and I was press-ganged into showing him how to set up files on the neighbours. I didn't want to encourage him in this pointless lunacy, but to refuse cooperation would have caused a bigger scene. Dad would watch the neighbours' comings and goings and record their
modus operandii
on his files, some of which became quite detailed.

I enjoyed having the odd look at them:

15/5 BROWN

Father: Arthur

Mother: Franca

Children: Maureen (10 ish) and Stephen (6 ish)

Arthur works for GPO. Seems not too bad. Frances seems a nice woman, clean. The two wee yins are always well-dressed. Arthur sometimes plays darts at The Doocot.

Verdict: Decent people; no real threat to security.

15/6 PEARSON

Father: Alan (no longer living there) Mother: 'Fat Cow' Maggie Children: Debbie (16) Gillian (14) Donna (11)

That fat stupid cow tries to monopolise wash-room. Dirty cunt who does not wrap rubbish before putting it in chute. Caught her twice. Ignorant person with dirty mouth. Always ready to phone police. Alan Pearson a thief. Sold Jackie useless CDs at The Gunner. Lucky for him he has done runner. Debbie is a cheeky cow with a mouth like the mother's. A real slut, the kind of lassie who will end up in a ditch by the side of the road one day. Have told our Kim to keep away from this whore. The other sister is going the same way. The wee one is nice but should go into care before she turns out like the rest.

Verdict: Scum. Maximum security threat, repeat, maximum security threat.

While Dad's behaviour was obviously unhealthy, he actually seemed better after getting the computer, the effort of keeping up and monitoring the records seemed to dissipate a lot of his destructive energy. On this night, however, he was drunk and wound up. I kept thinking of Ma singing that Bond song, 'Nobody Does it Better'.

Like heaven above me,
The spy who loved me
Is keepin all my secrets safe tonight.

Tony raised his eyebrows at me as Dad started to pace up and down the living-room like a caged beast, muttering curses under his breath. Just as he seemed to be settling down, he sprang to the window and threw it open. He shouted into the night: JOHN STRANG'S MA NAME! FUCK YIS AW, YA CUNTS! ANY BASTARD IN THIS FUCKIN SCHEME'S GOAT ANYTHING TAE SAY TAE ME OR MA FAIMLAY, YIS KIN SAY IT TAE MA FUCKIN FACE!

— Take it easy, Dad, I said. — Yi'll huv the fuckin polis roond, eh.

He shut the window and said to me and Tony: — People in this scheme huv been makin a loat ay allegations aboot this faimlay. Well, ah want tae hear what these allegators have goat tae say for themselves!

— Ah heard they were gettin a bit snappy, Tony mused.

I started sniggering as John looked coldly and uncompre-hendingly at him. — Eh? he said.

— The alligators John, Tony said, opening his jaws wide and making exaggerated snapping motions.

There was a tense silence for a couple of seconds, then John's face burst into a smile and we all started laughing, Tony and I with relief as the tension drained away. — Huh, huh, huh, no bad Tony, no bad. It wis the great man hissel that sais thit ye cannae deal wi the maist serious things in the world if ye cannae understand the maist amusing.

Aye, right.

My auld man then stroked the servile Winston Two. — We'll show the cunts, eh boy? The Strangs, he said softly, — we'll show aw these cunts. We'll come shinin through. We eywis fuckin do.

The next day I bought some fireworks which I kept in my desk drawer at work.

Apart from nosiness and the odd bit of useful information it provided (I'd decided that I'd try and get a ride off Debbie Pearson, who was Kim's pal: Tony'd already been there) I had little interest in the auld man's daft obsessions. Anyway, the cashies was my time. The violence was brilliant; different from in the hoose. The excitement, the buzz, the feeling of your body charged up with it all. You could prepare for it with the cashies, get psyched up n that, but you didnae want tae live like that at hame. Ye wanted somewhair whair ye could shut the door n forget it aw.

I liked clubbing, but I preferred a swedge rush to anything. I didnae like drugs. I had a fuckin bad time on acid. We were up this club, this place at The Venue oan a Thursday night. A loat ay the boys were intae it: techno upstairs and garagey hip-hop doonstairs. I hated that kind of music, cause ah wis mair intae indie stuff, but I went along cause the boys were intae it and there was plenty spare fanny floating around. I took a tab ay acid and I sort ay freaked. It was awright at first, but it jist goat stronger and stronger and ah couldnae keep the bad thoughts oot ay ma heid. I wis thinking aboot that poofy cunt Gordon n believing that there were dugs coming and they wir gaunny tear ays apart. Ah kept seein the heid ay that flamingo in the stork's mooth and it wis shouting oan ays tae help it, in a sad, sick voice.

Ali Dempsey, one of the boys in the cashies, came n talked ays doon. — Yuv goat tae remember Strangy, it's aw jis a distortion ay light n sound. That's aw acid is, nae matter how bad it seems. It's jist the distortions ay light and sound n your imagination fires up tae fill in the gaps.

— Thir's shite in ma heid, Demps, I gasped. — My heart must be beatin too fast. . . ah'm gaunny fuckin peg oot here man . . .

— Naw yir no. It's cool. Jist stey cool. It's awright.

Demps kept it gaun fir ays. He talked ays doon. Then he took ays back tae his flat n sat up wi ays. Sound cunt Demps. Anywey, that wis me finished wi drugs.

The boys tried tae git ays tae take an ecky, bit ah wis jist intae Becks, eh. Besides, clubs wir jist a place tae come doon n talk aboot the swedge n mibbe bag oaf wi some fanny as far as ah wis concerned. Ah loved swedgin. It was easy, n aw; once you got beyond your second or third pagger, once you learned to get past your fear and pain and just go with it, just keep going, keep swinging and booting at anything that came your way, and inspect the damage later. I never got hurt badly; a few bruised ribs and a deep cut above the eye once at Pittodrie.

There were much harder cunts in the casuals than me, and guys who were much better swedgers. They knew that, and so did I. What I had though, was the attitude that marked out most of the top boys; it wasn't even bottle. It was not giving a fuck about anything.

As I've said, one of the best aspects of being a casual was the fanny. Most of the boys were good-looking or average looking guys. While I was ugly and knew it, I lost a level of self-consciousness as my status as a swedger increased and I did more shagging than most. I'd wasted a lot of time in my adolescence, after I'd shagged that dog in the budget room, just looking at myself in the mirror, wondering why my head was too big for my body, and why my body was too big for my small, stumpy legs. The answer was staring me in the face over the top of a
Daily Record
at breakfast time most mornings, I was the auld man's double. So I'd wasted a lot of time and now I wanted it more than maist cunts. I had access to half the decent fanny in the toon.

One afternoon, I finished work early and picked up a juicy bone for Winston Two at a butcher's in Leith Walk. I got home before everyone else and the beast cowered as he saw me enter. It was strange to think that I'd taken a mauling from that pathetic old thing.

—Winners . . . I panted, and the beast took this as his cue to relax and wag his tail. He gave me his head to clap and jumped up on his hind legs with his front ones resting on the kitchen worktop. His tail wagged and his tongue lolled as he scented the bone with that juicy meat covering it. — Yes, it's your's boy, isn't if, all for Winners. . . a present for Winners, I told him, as I hammered some six-inch nails through the bone and the meat. I put the bone in my Adidas bag and zipped it up.—Later boy, later, I told him as he sniffed at the bag. He continued sniffing. My boot made contact with his side and he let out a yelp and scuttled off.

Just then Ma came in from work. She did the dinners in an old people's home now. Kim got in shortly after her, with some cakes from the baker's. She said that she was going to take Winston Two oot for a walk before tea. — Winners needs to stretch his legs across the wasteland. Yes he does, yes he does, she said, crouching down and frolicking with the panting beast.

— Ah'll git ye doon the road, Kim, ah've goat some records tae droap oaf roond tae Bri, eh. I held up the Adidas bag.

As we walked I noted that a few strays were wandering over the wasteland. One was a filthy brown dog which howled constantly like a wolf. — Listen tae that, I said distracting Kim.

— It's an awfay shame fir they stray dugs thit thuv no goat good homes like Winston, eh Roy, eh it's a shame? Sometimes ah wish that we could take aw they dugs, just sort ay adopt thum aw, eh Roy?

As she babbled looking over to the strays, I slipped the bone out of the bag. Winston went straight for it.

— What's Winners found? Kim asked.

— Dunno, looks like a bone, eh, I replied.

— C'moan Winston, that's no fair cause you git fed enough n thir's aw they perr starvin dugs . . . you're a lucky boy Winalot. . . Kim bleated as the dug went crazy over the bone. — Winners, Winners, Winalot, Winners, Winners what you . . .

Kim's expression turned to one of horror as Winston yelped and a nail shot out through his top jaw.

The beast stormed off across the wasteland yelping and shaking his head and was instantly pursued by the group of strays.

— WINSTON! WIIIIGGHHHNNNNSTIN! Kim bellowed, but the dog ran around in agony, pursued by the snapping pack, unable to drop the bone.

The strays set upon him, unable to distinguish between his cut, bleeding jaws and the tender meat which hung from them.