The Crow Road (19 page)

‘Fergus!’ Kenneth yelled, pulling him away as Fergus kicked at Lachy’s legs. Lachy screamed, jerked back, spilling glass, arms flailing, face covered in blood.

‘Aah, ya basturt!’ he wailed, staggering. ‘Ah canny see!’

‘Lachy!’ Kenneth shouted, hauling his hanky out of his pocket. He went to Lachy, grabbed his shoulders. ‘Lachy; stand still! Stand still!’ He tried to wipe the blood from the other boy’s eyes; it was all over his jumper, dripping onto the carpet.

‘But ah canny see! Ah canny see!’

‘What on
earth
is going on in he - Oh my God!’ Mrs Urvill said, from the doorway. ‘Fergus! What have you been letting him do? And get him off that carpet; it’s Persian!’

 
 
 
Lachlan lost an eye. The Gallanach Glass Works, Ornaments Division, made him an artificial one. Fergus was soundly beaten by his father, and not allowed out for a fortnight. The Urvills granted the Watt family the sum of one thousand guineas in full and final settlement of the matter, the papers drawn up by the firm of Blawke, Blawke and Blawke.

Lachlan was still growing, and perhaps because of that during his mid-teens the eye kept falling out, so another, slightly larger, was made; Lachlan was allowed to keep the old one. He had a third glass eye, which he’d got from the hospital when the first one had been lost for a week (it was eventually discovered, months later, under a chest of drawers in Lachy and Rab’s bedroom, where presumably it had rolled during the night), but it was of inferior quality; duller and less lifelike, and he kept it as a spare.

He was the boy with four eyes, and he didn’t even need glasses. Or rather a monocle.

‘Keep an eye out for us, Lachy!’ and variations thereof became a popular phrase amongst his school-mates, though not to his face after the first boy to say it within Lachy’s earshot, if not sight, was held down by a half-dozen powerful young Watts and forced to swallow the brown-irised orb, and then to bring it back up.

 
 
 
Mary McHoan sniffed the air. ‘Prentice, you smell of petrol.’

Prentice collapsed into a seat in the living room. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

His mother looked over the top of the
Guardian
at him. On the television, a game of snooker was proceeding silently. Prentice sat and looked at it. Mary put the paper down, took off her reading glasses.

‘Where’s Ken?’ Prentice asked. He still had his black leather jacket on.

‘In bed, reading,’ Mary told him. She folded the paper, went over to her son, and sniffed the air above him. ‘And smoke! You smell of ... of non-pub smoke,’ she said, going back to her seat. ‘What have you been up to?’

Prentice leaned towards her. ‘Promise you won’t tell dad?’

‘No, Prentice,’ she said, smoothing her skirt. She took a coffee mug from the small table at her side and sipped from it. ‘You know I’m terrible with secrets; not like your father.’

‘Hell’s teeth. Oh, well,’ Prentice said. ‘Whatever; we got let off, so -’

‘Let off what?’ Mary said, alarmed.

‘We were in the Jac and Bill Gray said he’d heard the Watts saying - well, it was Ashley, he said, which was why I didn’t believe him at first - but he’d heard them ... they were all sitting, all the young ones; the Watts, anyway, sitting there being antisocial and morose, cause of Darren getting killed, and anyway, Bill heard Ash saying there was only one way to deal with it, or they’d never get over it properly, and they should all get sledgehammers and stuff -’

‘Sledgehammers!’ Mary said, clutching at her elbows.

‘That’s what I said!’ Prentice said, sitting forward, unzipping his jacket. ‘Sledgehammers? And Bill said yeah, he was sure; and crowbars, that sort of stuff; they were going to get it out of their system, and I believed Bill because he’s so straight; no side at all, and I looked over and they were all standing up and putting their coats on and drinking up, and I tried to talk to Ashley, but they were out the door, and Ash said something about coming along too, and it was Bill had the car, and he’d dashed for a pee, and by the time we got out to the car park they were tearing off in Dean’s Cortina, and then Bill couldn’t get his car started and we headed for the Watts’ house, but by then they’d been there and they passed us; we turned round, followed their lights, caught up with them at those new houses out by Dalvore, but they were just throwing stuff in the boot. I shouted to them, but they got back in and screamed off again, so we followed.

‘Jeez, I thought they knew where that guy lived that hit Darren, but Bill said he was from East Kilbride, and I said but we’re heading that way! And they just kept going; past here and up to Inveraray, and then I thought, God, I hope I know what they’re really going to do, and I told Bill, and he said Shit, let’s hope so.’

‘Prentice.’

‘Sorry. Anyway, I was right. They drove to Kinglas; Glen Kinglas, with us following, and they got parked in the lay-by, and we did too, and we all got out, and we all stood there for a while, and nobody said anything. Then they got the sledgehammers and the crowbars out, and we turned the cars and left the engines running so we had plenty of light, then Bill and I sat on the bank and watched them ... Oh, wow! Mum; you should have seen them! They smashed that fucking litter bin -’

‘Prentice!’

‘Sorry. But they did; they pulverised the mother. They whacked and smashed and blasted the damn thing to smithereens then tore them to shreds too; hammered the metal bins inside flat, turned the concrete shell of the thing to dust, and I’d asked Bill if it was okay, and he’d said, In the circumstances ... so I went to his car and got his spare can of petrol, because Bill’s really organised that way, and said, Was it all right? And they were all standing there, sweating and panting and looking just so
drained,
and Ash just sort of nodded, and I emptied the petrol all over the remains of the bin and Dean threw a match at it and Whumph! up it went, and we just stood there.

‘And then this cop stopped! I couldn’t believe it! What were the chances? And like only a couple of cars had passed; hadn’t stopped, though one had slowed down, certainly, but it had gone off again. And this enormous fu - great sergeant got out and he was, like
incandescent!
The bin was nothing on this guy! And we all just stood there, and I thought, Oh no, this really could end badly, because there was just him by himself, and he was cursing us up and down and the Watts weren’t taking it too well and I thought I could hear Dean starting to growl, and I finally managed to get a word in edgeways when he said who’d set it on fire and I said me and stepped forward, showing him the petrol can, and told him what it was all about; about Darren hitting the thing and it being like - well I tried not to use too many long words, but like, expiation ... and he listened, and I was like in that way when you’re really nervous where once you’ve started you can’t stop, and I was probably repeating myself all over the place and rambling and not making much sense, but I just kept on going, and he just stood there with this look like thunder on his face, all lit by the fire, and I stopped and said we knew it was wrong and we’d accept having to be punished for it — even though I heard Dean growling when I said it — but even so, although we might be sorry we’d done it, we were glad too, and that was just the way it was, and if we didn’t normally have respect for public property, it wouldn’t mean so much to us to destroy it like we had.’

Prentice swallowed. ‘And I shut up at last, and nobody said anything, and the fire was nearly out by this time, and the big sergeant just says, ‘Get on your way and pray I never haul any of you up for anything else.’ And I’m like, Yessuh, massa, and kicking dirt over the wee bits of the fire that’s left and the Watts are still surly but they’re putting all the stuff back in the boot of the Cortina and the big guy’s just standing with his arms folded watching us, and I’m thinking; Guildford Four, Birmingham Six, hell; there’s still a few good apples left, and we just got into our cars and drove away, with the big sergeant still standing there glowering like Colossus in our tail lights.’ Prentice spread his hands. ‘That’s it.’

‘Well,’ Mary said. ‘Good grief.’ She shook her head, glanced at the snooker, then put her glasses on and took up her paper again. ‘Hmm, well, I probably won’t tell your father that. Away and wash your hands, try to get rid of that smell. There’s plenty of milk in the fridge if you want cereal.’

‘Right-oh, mum.’ He came over to her, kissed her hair.

‘Yuk; what a stink. Go and wash, you vandal.’

‘Thanks for listening, mum,’ he said, on his way to the door.

‘Oh, I had a choice, did I?’ she said, pretending primness.

Prentice laughed.

CHAPTER 7

We passed the lay-by near the Cowal Road junction doing about ninety. I watched as we went by. Nothing; it was just a damp, deserted parking place with a big new concrete litter bin (replaced with unusual alacrity, in less than six months). We swept past, trailing light spray. It was a dim, grey day; light drizzle from the overcast, mountains hidden past about a thousand feet. We were on dipped-beam; the instruments glowed orange in front of the delicious, straight-armed, black-skirted, Doc-shoed, crop-blonde, purse-lipped Verity; my angelic bird of paradise, driving like a bat out of hell.

 
 
 
‘Yo; Prentice. Get you out of bed?’

‘Oh, you guessed.’

‘It’s a gift. Pick you up at one?’

‘Umm ... Yeah. Where are you, Lewis?’

‘At the Walkers’, in Edinburgh.’

‘Oh ... Is Verity there?’

‘Yeah; she’s coming.’

‘Eh?’

‘She’s coming; to Lochgair. Charlotte and Steve are off to the States this morning, skiing, and Verity -’

‘Skiing, to the States? Sheesh, that pack-ice gets -’

‘Shut up, Prentice. The upshot is Verity’s going to be Festival Perioding with the Urvills. She’s going to drive us there.’

And me insane, I thought.

‘Great,’ I said. ‘No Rodney?’

Lewis laughed. ‘No Rodney. Verity is finally a Rod-free zone.’

‘Couldn’t have happened to a nicer chap.’

‘Agree grade and comments. See you thirteen hundred hours.’

‘Yeah; see you then.’ I put the phone down.

There was a dartboard above the phone with a picture of Thatcher taped over it. I kissed it. ‘Yeeeeee-HA!’ I shouted, leaping back into the bedroom.

‘Shut up, Prentice,’ Gav moaned, muffled, from his bed. He was invisible under a heap of duvet. My bed was on the other side of the room, away from the window, and so not quite as cold as Gav’s in the winter. I fell into it, bounced. (Technically I should have Norris’s solo room because I’ve been in the flat longest, but that room’s small and noisy; also, Gav doesn’t snore and he’s quite happy to retreat to the living room couch if I have female company ... That’s another thing; there’s only room for a single bed in Norris’s room). ‘Put the heater on, ya bastard,’ Gav mumbled.

I leapt up, ninja’d over to Gav’s bed and wheeched the duvet off.

‘Aw ya -!’ He grabbed the duvet back, cocooned himself again. ‘- bastard!’

‘Gavin,’ I told him. ‘You are a skid-mark on the lavatory bowl of life. But I respect you for it.’ I turned, grabbed my dressing gown and made for the door; with one mighty ninja kick, the side of my right foot connected with all three switches of the fan heater at the same time and it hummed into life. ‘I shall make some tea.’

‘Dunno about tea; fuckin good at makin a noise.’

‘Thank you for sharing that with us, Gav. I shall return.’

‘What’s the weather like?’

‘Hmm,’ I said, staring at the ceiling, one finger to my lips. ‘Good question,’ I said. ‘The weather’s like, a manifestation of the energy-transfer effected between volumes of the planet’s gaseous envelope due to differential warming of the atmosphere at various latitudes by solar radiation. Surprised you didn’t know that, actually, Gavin.’

Gavin stuck his head out from under the duvet, giving me cause once more to marvel at the impressive way the lad’s shoulders merged into his head with no apparent narrowing in between (this appeared to be the principal physical benefit bestowed by the game of rugby; the acquisition of an extremely thick neck, just as the most important thing one could take to the sport was a thick skull, and from it an intact one still in satisfactory two-way communication with one’s spinal cord).

Gav - who probably epitomised thick-skulledness, though admittedly would not be amongst one’s first fifteen when it came to offering proof of heavy traffic within the central nervous system - opened one bleary eye and focused on me with the same accuracy one has grown to expect from security forces aiming baton rounds at protesters’ legs. ‘What the fuck’s made you so unbearable this morning?’

I clasped my hands, smiled broadly. ‘Gavin, I am in a transport of delight, or at least shall be shortly after one o’clock this afternoon.’

There was a pause while Gavin’s duty-neuron struggled to assimilate this information.