— I’ll never hate you, Daddy! she screams and leaps from the couch and jumps on his lap.
My dad makes a big fist and plants it softly on her face. — Naw, no you, hen, cause you’re a wee smasher!
She reciprocates the gesture and they box and play-fight for a bit. I can’t stand this, because part of me wants to join in. I stand up and move off. — Give it five years, some hormones and a bit of perspective, I say, heading for the door.
— Who rattled your cage, Lady Muck? he bites.
Mum looks around slowly in stunned incomprehension as she skooshes the cascading spider plant. I point at my own forearm. — You read what it says on your own wrist if you think that you were never an idealist. You’re a coward, that’s all.
— Mind what you call me, hen, he snaps. — You’re crossing the line.
One of his favourite sayings. I get out and bound up the stairs, two at a time. I’ve become an outcast in this family. The little brat is the mainstay of their lives now; she’s like a drug, reducing them both to baleful, fawning idiocy as soon as she walks into the room. I’m the embarrassment, the troublemaker, and the one who reminds them of how they’ve failed. The money shelled out for Stirling University, which I flunked, now more for Midnight, who is probably fucking lame because of me forcing him to jump a fence that was too high for him just to keep up with that bitch Lara and Scarlet Jester, and I’m nowhere near as good as her.
I lie on my bed listening to Marilyn Manson’s, ‘(s)AINT’ from my favourite LP of all time, The Golden Age of Grotesque, and reading my Danielle Sloman. I saw that guy on his motorbike, the good-looking one, who lives in Spain. He had the creepy wee Jason stalker on the back with him. I wish it was me that was on the back, and my fingers rub against my crotch when there’s a knock on the door and he barges in, obviously still upset. I move my free hand to my book. — You should be oot in that stable kicking that horse’s erse instead of lying around here listening tae that crap.
I look up from Reluctant Survivor. — The vet said that Midnight was to rest. He’s not finished his course of anti-inflammatory drugs yet.
— Did eh say that you wir tae rest n aw? Eh should be in they stables ay La Rue’s, where eh kin git taken proper care ay.
God, change the fucking record! — I’ve done everything Dobson told me –
— Aye, that Dobson’s a waste ay space, he looks at me, — kens absolutely nowt. N how are ye gaunny beat that bools-in-the-mooth Lara wi a milkman’s hoarse like thon? Aw that parasite does is eat eat eat. Ye stick a nosebag in front ay him n eh’d keep eatin till eh burst. Ah hope you’re no overfeedin him.
— Oh please, do stop wittering on. I turn away. The coarser he gets the more proper I become. It’s practically the only game we play where I always win, as he ends up sounding like a village idiot.
But this time, he’s a thin smile playing across his face. — Tell ye what though, the weight’s fair flyin oaf ye, hen. That’s the wey tae beat that yin, ah kin tell ye! Keep up the guid work, he winks.
The horrible thing is that this is his way of trying to bond.
He leaves me and I feel defiled and unclean. I want to go out to the Burger King. He really knows how to get under my skin. What did my mother see in him? There’s nothing between them. I can’t even think what there once could have been. I think of the photos of them young, her pretty, him still the same. I try to imagine a man emotional and tender enough, even for a few fleeting minutes, to get a woman’s name carved into his skin. How I’d love to resurrect that man of then, if just for a day.
The alienation between him and my mother is such that he can’t even bear to spend any time alone with her on their anniversary. He’s therefore insisted that we all go out ‘to celebrate as a family’. He might have taken her, us, out to Edinburgh or Glasgow, or even Dunfermline or Kirkcaldy. Even the simple kindness of making that small effort is beyond him. He’s marched us down to La Ducal; the nearest you’ll get to fine dining in Cowdenbeath.
— Push the boat out, my tongue drips sarcasm at the news.
— La Ducal is lovely, Mum bleats in piteous gratitude.
— I cannae drive due to our friends in the Fife constabulary, he reminds me.
Funny, but it never seems to stop him when it’s work. I almost feel like volunteering my motoring services but no way: I’ll need a drink to get through this. — What about public transport? I ask.
— Ugh! Ming-ing! Indigo screws her face up.
— I cannae be bothered waiting on trains and the taxis are a rip-off, he explains. — It’s settled then. Cowdenbeath’s finest it is.
To be fair La Ducal is pretty good, a lot better than somewhere in a town like Cowdenbeath has the right to be. At least you have decent tapas and cappuccino. If you don’t look outside it’s possible to kid yourself on that you’re somewhere else. As the Sunday Post put it: ‘Good food, friendly service, nice surroundings.’ It’s a pity about the dining company, but you can’t have everything.
— This is nice, Mum says. If they stuck her in Auschwitz in the forties she’d say the same thing.
— So how many years have you two been married? Indy asks, crunching on a breadstick.
— Eighteen and counting, Dad smiles, knocking back his wine and refilling his glass. I hold mine out for the same treatment. He looks warily at me, but tops it up all the same.
When the main course arrives, Dad’s mobile goes off. — Oh Tom, Mum thinly protests.
— Have to take this yin, he winks at her. — Excuse me a tick, girls. How goes? his voice spits into the phone. — Just a minute, he tersely says as he departs out into the street. I see him through the window, holding the phone like it was a robot device sucking the life out of him, moving like he’s burning or badly needing to pee.
I don’t know what he’s up to but I know it’s no good. The only reason I care is not because he’s ruined this already fucked-up night, but that he’s dragged me out to make small talk with these two while he hatches his pathetic schemes. — Wonder what he’s playing at? I muse.
— Need you ask? my mum says, then adds, — Work. He never stops, she rolls her eyes wistfully.
I want to shout into her stupid face, ‘What he’s up to is fucking somebody else, and that’s if you’re very, very lucky.’ But I don’t. And the only reason I don’t, I consider with a reflective shudder, is because I don’t even care enough about their sordid business and their dull lives. I want to go. To get out of Cowdenbeath, Fife, Scotland, and out of that house for good.
7.
APPEAL
THEY FAIR SET upon ays awright, yon time, they fuckin Dunfermline boys. Big Monty jist stood thair grinnin, n eh’s since goat mobbed up wi thum. A fuckin traitor as well as a liar. Accused ays ay instigatin trouble. Fair tanned ays in n it hurts ma pride as a Cowdenbeath man, tae come oaf second best tae they hoors. Aye, even if thir wis a tidy wee mob ay thum, it cannae be disputed thit me n Boaby Shek fae the Chinky took a hoor’s erse ay a panellin.
The kung fu films, ya hoor; when ah befriended um ah thoat thit the laddie Shek would be able tae hud ehs ain, mibbe ken some ay they moves. But aw eh does is read comic books n listen tae the likes ay Coldplay n Marillion n tell every cunt aboot the time eh studied engineerin at Heriot-Watt before eh flunked oot. Even hud ehs gaun doon tae Haddington wi um, n stalkin the lead singer Fish aka Derek Dick, at the boy’s hoose. Ah’ve ey been mair a fanny stalker thin a celeb stalker, but Sheky insisted. Worse thing wis thit ah wis the one thit hud tae go in n git ehs autograph, Boaby jist turned intae a twelve-year-auld lassie. Eh managed one partin shot, took um ages tae git it oot: — Any new … any new … new projects … any new projects in the offing? And then the cunt ran away wi embarrassment before the bemused Fish could reply. Left me oan the doorstep explaining tae the frontman thit it wis a minor form ay Tourette’s thit Boaby suffered fae, n the boy jist nodded sagely before eh goat shouted back intae the hoose by some supermodel bird.
But Haddington’s much pref
erable tae Dunfermline. Fife ma hairy hole; it’s an Edinburgh suburb. So even though ‘thon place’ hus bad memories, ah wants tae see what kind ay a gaff this hoor fae the East ay Scotland Table Fitba Association’s goat. So eftir a guid shower and change ay clathes, ah gits a quick one in the Goth. Thir’s a choice ay the 15, 30 or 19 buses tae Dunfermline up the road, but ah cannae be ersed walkin up thaire, so ah faw oot ay the boozer intae the station.
Ah keep tellin folks thit ah stey in Central Cowdenbeath. Ye kin gob n hit ma hoose fae the railway station platforms, ya hoor. Ye see the block ay cooncil dwellings wi the wheelie bins ootside, rubbish n recyclin; black for the black diamonds, blue fir the Blue Brazil.
Oan the choo-choo, wee Richey the Assaultee comes tae punch ma ticket. The boy’s a local legend; eywis in the Central Fife media fur gittin battered by youths, totally unprovoked, ah should say. Mind you though, some wid say thit the ginger heid wis provocation enough, no thit ah wid number masel wi they bad bastards.
When the boy goat a start at ScotRail the high heid yins couldnae believe thir luck. An abused ginger stepchild wi a pair ay een that made yon Bambi look like the shark oot ay Finding Nemo, and eh wis comin tae work fir thum in front-line employment! Of course, they wanted Richey as poster boy fir thir anti-violence against staff campaign. Telt the hoor ehs look possessed jist the right amount ay pathos. Said thit eh could be a celebrity, like thon black hoor wi the bottom-ay-coke-boatil glesses fae the Halifax.
Richey weighed up the proposal, balancing the pros and cons, but opted tae stey relatively anonymous. Said that eh didnae want tae be even mair visible tae ‘disaffected youth in the local community whae already see me as a bit ay an authority figure thanks tae the uniform’. His words, ya hoor, no mine.
Heard the story ay ehs stepfaither tons ay times, the boy wi the fast, hard hands. Even tried tae cooncil the cunt in the Goth oan mare thin yin occasion. In ma ain wey, ah wis yon Alexander Shuglin wi the black gold standin in fir the E. Anywey, Richey apologises fir stampin my ticket. — It’s no me that’s chargin ye, Jason, it’s ScotRail, the perr cunt pleads, big eyes waterin, like ah wis gaunnae machete um oan the spot. — See if it wis up tae me …
— Nae worries, man, ah tells um.
Eh looks at ays n goes, — You’re a true friend, Jason. Ah count you as a friend. Ah hope you feel the same?
— Aye, Richey, course ah dae, ah tell um. Thank fuck it’s time tae disembark. Thon cunt wid talk umsel intae a doin; ah wis feelin ma bile rise n ma fists involuntarily clenchin n unclenchin jist bein around the cunt.
Dunfermline. Oot the fuckin train n yir stuck at the bottom ay a fuckin hill ootside the toon. How kin this be Fife’s top toon whin it’s no even oan the main rail line? Ah’d rather huv one ay they Kirkcaldy cunts thin yin ay they hoors any fuckin day, ah kin tell ye.
It’s a big hoose, like one ay they granite-type yins they goat up in Ebirdeen. It’s jist gittin dark whin ah’m chappin oan the door n a fat wifie in a big print dress comes tae answer. She’s goat short, black hair n beady eyes n the sort ay voice thit says ‘see how superior ah am tae a wee dwarf ratbag like you’. — Yes?
— Eh, ah’ve come tae see her man. Mr Mason. Eh, Oliver, ah elaborate, thinking thit the hoor shouldnae pit ehs first name oan the paper if eh doesnae want ays tae yaze it.
She pits a lemon-sucker ay a coupon oan n goes inside and shouts, — Oliver! Someone for you!
A minute later this boy wi thinin grey hair comes tae the door. Eh squints at ays ower a pair ay glesses. Looks a wee bit like an aulder version ay the Neebour Watson. — Who are ye and what d’ye want? eh snaps at ays.
Ah shows um the letter. Eh takes ehs specs oaf n pits thum in ehs cardigan pocket. Eh reads it, then looks at ays wi disgust oan ehs coupon. — You come to my home, upsetting my wife, disturbing me with this trivial matter!
— Sorry, neebs, but yir letter says thit ah jist hud a few days tae appeal. Dinnae trust yon post so ah thoat ah’d come in person, ken.
— Channels, Mr King, channels! In writing and to –
Cause the boy minds ays ay the Neebour, ah git a bit emboldened and cut the hoor oaf. — Bit ah thoat, mibbe be mair civilised, meet the chap, take um fir a pint up the East Port or something, state ma case, man tae man …
Eh thinks aboot this fir a bit as eh looks ehs up and doon, then stares at ma feet for a second or two. Then eh looks ays in the eye. — Hmm … alright, I’ll be round the East Port in five minutes. The lounge. They do a nice pint of Guinness there. You a stout man, Mr King?
— I’m mair thin partial tae a wee drop ay the black gold, Mr Mason.
— We’re getting off on the right foot here, Mr King. See you in five, the wee boy winks.
So ah’m sittin in the East Port n ah sets up the Guinness and sure enough auld Olly Mason comes in. Ah points tae his settled pint and he smiles. — Sorry, Mr King, misjudged ye a wee bit there. Thought you were one of these maverick types. I’ve no time for those who would try tae ride roughshod over procedure, Mr King: a right way and a wrong way to do everything. Nonetheless, your presence here shows that you have passion for the game and we always need that in Scottish Table Football.
— It’s ma life, ah tell um, takin the opportunity tae move strategically closer tae um, tae make room fir a bunch ay workies that come in.
— Well, as irregular as this is, I’m prepared tae give ye a hearing.
— Yir a gentleman, sor.
Eh pits the gless ay black gold tae ehs lips n takes a sip. Ehs ratty wee eyes focus oan me. — One thing I will insist, though, is that due to the somewhat irregular nature of this appeal, everything that passes between us is treated by both parties in the strictest confidentiality.
— Goes withoot sayin, neebs. Ah’m sure thit yir gaun oot oan a limb here n ah appreciate it.
Eh nods impassively. — State your case please, Mr King.
So ah talks aboot the specifics ay the case, n aw the while ehs lookin at ays, like ehs measurin ays up. — If you don’t mind me asking, Mr King, what height are you?
— Five two, well, five one and a half if ye want tae split baw hairs.
Eh sits back in the chair n eh’s nearly purrin like a pussy. — Marvellous … and you’re so very slight and slender, I’m guessing around seven and a half stones?
— Nearer seven, ah telt the hoor. — Cannae pit oan weight, no fir the lack ay tryin. Used tae be a jockey, ye see.
— Ah … cut short by injury, was it, your career?
— Mair a wee growth spurt. At fower seeven ah could’ve been officially registered as a dwarf. Total short-ersed heaven, ah contends, enjoyin the black gold. Ah’m nae fan ay Dunfermline as a toon, but this East Port’s a fair auld oasis. — Aye, ah explains, — then ah hud this daft wee growth spurt n that wis me five two before ah kent it. Story ay ma life, the extra inches eywis gaun tae the wrang department!
Olly boy looks like eh’s sizing ays up again. — Yes … that’s about the same height and weight as my daughter was, he sniffs, lookin a wee bit sad. — The amazing thing is, you’ve even got the same colouring and similar features to her. Those eyes … gazelle-like, I always used to say …
— What happened tae her?
— A tragedy, King, a tragedy. Olly shakes ehs heid n sips at his pint. — A young girl cut down in her prime in a horrific road-traffic accident. She’d been at one of those bloody raves and the idiot driving the car was probably out of his head on drugs … well, he lost control and my Kathleen was taken from us, he sais aw wistful n pathetic, ehs voice brekin up.
What could ye say tae thon? Eh tells me thit she wis jist nineteen n aw, same age as Lara. She wis ehs pride n joy, the boy explains.
Then eh pills ehsel thegither. — Sorry to go on, he says then looks at ehs watch. — Listen, why don’t you come back to mine for a malt? We’ve still got lots to discuss.
Well, a huv tae say that ah’d kind ay thought that wis it, but obviously no. — I can ensure that the reinstatement takes place, he turns and
looks at ays like a polisman as we walk past the Carnegie Halls lit up for a performance, — but I cannot condone vandalism. You had nothing to do with the damage to the noticeboard?
— Oan muh ma’s life, a plead in sincere tones addin, — Word oan the street is it wis a disgruntled element within the Cooden support, wi it bein a Pars noticeboard n aw.
Olly thinks aboot this for a wee bit. — Yes, sadly we in Dunfermline have our share of bad eggs too, Mr King. But I can see that you’re cut from different cloth.
So wi gits back roond tae auld Olly Mason’s n thirs nae sign ay the wife. Eh seems tae read ma mind. — June’s at the Rotary club, she’s always there. Eh leads ays intae this big front lounge. Then eh picks up a photae oan top ay the piannay. It’s a young lassie. — Kathleen, eh sais, hudin it in front ay ays.
Ya hoor sor, a lovely wee bird n aw. Life kin be gey cruel. — Aww … ah goes, soundin like muh ma hearin aboot a dug that’s been run ower.
— Follow me, Mr King, he says n then the hoor bounds oot and up a big auld staircase n ah’m strugglin tae keep up wi um. N thir’s nae sign ay that fuckin bevvy yit.
— Jason, ah goes.
Eh stoaps n looks doon at ays fae ower ehs shoodir. — Let’s keep it on a semi-formal basis until we’ve done business, that is if you are the type of person I can count on to do business with?
— For sure, ah sais.
Eh nods in conspiracy n wi go intae a bedroom. It contains nae Margaret Thatcher but thir’s loads ay lassies’ clathes hingin oan the racks. — Kathleen’s place … just as she left it … I never … eh starts sobbin softly, takin oaf ehs glesses n rubbin ehs eyes. Then eh picks up one ay the hangers wi a Next top oan it n holds it against ays. Lookin at ays for a second, eh pills it away. — You wouldn’t … no, I’m being silly … forgive me, King, put it down to the lunacy of the bereaved … when you’ve lost everything you go to a point beyond desperation, you’ll attempt anything to alleviate the pain … foolish, I know …