2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel (23 page)

The rules have changed.

He’s never seen one anything like as big. Actually, come to think of it, he’s never seen another one in anything but its resting state, which adds to the shock value, as when his own gets stiff, it merely sticks up. It doesn’t
grow
like that. Jesus Christ, it’s huge. The guy’s got his whole hand around it, jerking it up and down. Now he understands the ‘wanker’ gesture, as a closed fist around his own would totally envelop the thing and have a couple of fingers to spare.

In Primary Six, Stephen Brogan was having a pee at the far end of the urinal when Janny Johnny came in and wedged the door right to the wall, intending to mop the floor. This had the result that Zoe Lawson saw inside as she was walking past. She saw him from the back, that’s all, but
she saw him having a pee
, so that was that, pure slagging for Stephen.

The rules have definitely changed.

“Heh, Micky-boy, you might want tae think aboot movin seats,” says Davie Keenan to Michael McGhee, who is sitting directly opposite Aldo, on the bench against the far wall.

Micky shifts uneasily and slides along the bench closer to Craig Finnegan, who playfully pushes him back towards the imaginary line of fire.

“Micky’s just feart he gets a wash,” says Liam Paterson.

“Aye, very good,” Micky retorts. “Just cause you managed tae sneak oot wi the family towel this mornin, ya black bastart.”

Lots of them laugh, but Colin doesn’t. For one thing, he doesn’t consider it safe, as those who laughed all know each other from St Gregory’s; and for another, he’s still confused and catching up. It used to be that you were fair game if you were considered too posh, from a ‘boat hoose’, too soft, too smartly turned-out, too
clean
. At St Grace’s, those rules have been turned on their heads and most of the terms of abuse seem to centre upon lax personal hygiene and domestic poverty. You get slagged for
being poor
. You get slagged for
being dirty
, or ‘black’ as the preferred term has it. He can’t quite get his head around it, not least because he’s seldom observed these exchanges from any position of security against becoming the target.

“Yous don’t have a clue,” says Aldo, still giving his wrist a steady-paced workout. “Yous aw think it’s gaunny go shootin across the room like a fireman’s hose or hit the ceilin or some-thin. Shows you don’t have spunk or you’d know. It’s no like pish. Just a wee dribble compared tae pish.”

“Ten CC,” says Craig.

“Whit?”

“That’s how much. That’s why that band’s called Ten CC. It’s the amount of spunk that comes oot.”

“Is that right?” Aldo asks, fair tickled by it.

“Aye. I read aboot it. There was a band called the Lovin’ Spoonful, too—that’s what that meant as well.”

“Wonder if we can ask Miss Coleman aboot it when we get tae Section Six?” Aldo says. “Please, miss, how much spunk comes oot your knob when you shoot your load?”

Everyone is decking themselves. Colin finds it particularly funny, which is perhaps why he ventures a response before his natural caution can restrain him.

“Well, Allan,” he says, putting on a female teacher’s voice, “the best scientific method would be to have a ham-shank into this test-tube, and then we can measure it precisely.”

Aldo laughs, though none of the others had until he started. Colin notes that Robbie has been looking on with interest. He’ll be disappointed Aldo reacted well to the joke; more so that Colin has made a positive impact.

“You’re a cheeky bastart, Coco,” Aldo says, but he’s smiling, thank fuck. “Fuckin test-tube? A beaker more like.”

Folk have been calling him Coco since Primary Seven. He can’t remember how or when it started, or even who said it first. It’s good to have a nickname, and he could have done worse, but he can’t help feeling that somehow Coco is always going to be a wee guy’s name. He’s noticed that of all the boys called James, it’s always the bigger, stronger, harder ones who get called Jai, and it’s a name that needs to be conferred by others. If Noodsy decided to start calling himself Jai, he’d be the only one doing it.

“Liam would just need one of those pipettes,” says Mick.

“You can talk,” Liam retorts. “Knob like a knot in a hanky.”

“Whit’s Section Six?” asks Craig.

“You never seen it yesterday?” asks Mick.

“Woa-ho-ho,” says Aldo delightedly, still leisurely chugging.

Colin assumes Craig must have been sleeping or something. It was the first page everybody turned to as soon as they got their science textbooks, if only to confirm that what they had heard was true. It wasn’t up to much, right enough: just line-drawn diagrams, and the woman never even had any fanny-hair. Big disappointment, really, but the laugh was just in seeing sex stuff written down in a school textbook.

“That’s the bit where they dae sex education,” Mick tells Craig. “It looks a pure laugh. The teacher has tae tell ye aboot cocks gettin up fannies an aw that.”

“Looks shite tae me,” Colin ventures, buoyed by his previous success. “Be better with a scud-book.” He’s winging it a bit on this one, as the most he has seen of a scud-book was a fragment of a ripped page his cousin found down the park once. It was sun-bleached and wrinkled from damp, but he’d been able to make out that the photo was of a naked woman with her legs open, though the weathering effect was like looking at it through net curtains.

“Aye,” says Robbie eagerly, making his first contribution. “Ma brers fun wan doon the Craigy Park.”

Aldo laughs, which is a response Robbie was neither wanting nor expecting.

“How come folk ayeways find scud-books doon the Craigy or up the Carnockside? You never hear somebody sayin their big brer bought wan oot a shop or they fun it in their uncle’s hoose. They aye find it at the park. Maybe scud-books grow in parks, like fuckin mushrooms or somethin.”

They all laugh. Robbie joins in. Colin knew he would, even if inside he was raging. Robbie always laughs when the big men crack a joke, no matter if it’s on him.

“They did, but,” Robbie insists. “I got a look at it. The fannies never looked like the picture in Section Six, but.”

Liam leans across, suddenly curious. “Could you see their baws?” he asks.

“Whit?” responds just about everybody.

“Lassies don’t have baws,” a few of them splutteringly point out, barely able to believe their luck that a classmate could have laid himself open like this.

“Well, that’s what I thought, but that’s what it fuckin says in Section Six. Christ, I had to look for the tits to be sure which diagram was the wummin.”

The hilarity grows, but Colin suspects he’s not the only one trying to remember details from a diagram that they only got to glimpse before Miss Coleman called the class to order.

“Fuck’s sake, Liam,” says Aldo. “You’ve a wee sister. Have you no seen her in the scud?”

“Aye, but she’s fuckin nine. Lassies’ fannies change when they get aulder.”

“Aye, they get gammon flaps. They don’t grow baws.”

“I know
that
. They don’t grow
baws
baws. But they get
some-thin
. The book says they’re called ogaries. I was just wonderin if Robbie saw them in his brers’ scud-book.”

Robbie looks a wee bit put-upon now, like he’s not sure how to answer this one. Colin wonders if this means he was making it up about the scud-book.

“It was mostly just hair you could see,” he says, a bit of a climbdown. “That’s what I meant aboot different fae Section Six.” He attempts to climb back up again by adding: “But ma brers say ye get these scud-books fae Denmark that show ye pure everythin.”

“Are they from parks in Denmark?” Colin asks.

They all deck themselves, but
he
can tell Robbie didn’t like this. He’s aware Robbie could decide to get nasty about this later but feels strangely safe amid his new classmates’ laughter.

“Only wan way tae settle this,” Aldo decides. “We get Caroline McLaughlin in fae the lassies’ changin room and get her scants doon. If any ay them’s got a hairy fanny an a set ay ogaries, it’s gaunny be her.”

“Aye,” says Liam, “and if any ay them’s got baws, it’s gaunny be Margaret-Anne McCall.”

§

Karen fumbles reluctantly with the buttons on her blouse, feeling more self-conscious today than yesterday, on the first occasion she had to get undressed here in the changing room. She knows it could be worse—the boys apparently don’t have separate shower cubicles, and have to get in and out of their underwear in front of each other. She only has to get changed into her shorts and T-shirt, but it still feels very uncomfortable. She doesn’t imagine anybody is going to be particularly staring at her; there’s much more worth looking at elsewhere, but that in itself is part of the problem.

As they undress, Karen reckons that she’d have been able to tell which of her new classmates would turn out to be wearing a bra even if she had seen them only from the back. They’re the ones who are first off with their gear, chatting away as they pop open buttons, and conspicuously facing away from the benches and pegs as they do so. Karen can’t help thinking that it’s because they want the others to notice, like it’s a status symbol. She wonders, conscious of all these willingly displayed over-the-shoulder boulder-holders, does having breasts help you develop confidence and popularity, or does having confidence and popularity help you develop breasts?

That one Caroline, from St Gregory’s, had her blouse off in seconds but seems in no hurry to replace it with a gym T-shirt, presumably in case anybody fails to notice not only her bra, but that she’s got something to fill it with. Admittedly she’s not got quite as much to fill it with as Margaret-Anne, a formidably stocky girl whose own lack of shyness seems less to do with confidence as raw aggression.

Of the bra-wearers, only the fat ones seem huddled, backs turned, reluctant to expose anything. Or the fat ones and Karen, to be precise.

Her mum bought her it for going to the big school, that being the given reason because the obvious one—showing signs of growing breasts—was non-applicable. It seemed bloody unfair. She was always the tallest girl in class, which made her feel awkward and conspicuous, but she had somehow convinced herself that the consolation for this would be that she’d be among the first to mature physically. It was the biggest girls who developed first, wasn’t it?

Well, no, apparently not always.

So there she was, still just about the tallest girl in her new class, still awkward, still conspicuous, still flat as a billiard table. She hadn’t seen the point of the bra, and had intended to stick with her comfy vests. That was until yesterday’s first PE lesson, however. There, amid all that cotton and lace, she could see divisions forming along the vest⁄bra faultline, and decided that the only thing her classmates would consider more weanish and uncool than a mousy wee short lassie in a vest was an unmissable big tall lassie in a vest. But her self-consciousness yesterday lest anybody spot her in her sleeveless wonder was positively carefree compared to how she feels now about unbuttoning to reveal this itchy and redundant article. She turns to face the wall so that anyone who happens to look can see it only from the back, hoping also that nobody remembers she wasn’t wearing one the last time. Her ringers turn to bananas around the buttons, her sudden haste to limit her exposure and get the T-shirt on serving only to make her more clumsy. She wonders if there’s any way of getting the T-shirt on and slipping the blouse off beneath it. Not with the length of
these
arms, she reckons.

“Heh, you,” says a voice, gravelly and harsh: Margaret-Anne. “Carol.”

Karen feels relief that it’s not her being addressed, then shudders as she feels a finger tap her shoulder.

“I’m talkin tae you.”

“It’s Karen,” she says. She has to turn round, and so pulls her blouse closed again, holding both sides of it tight across her sternum.

“Just wanted tae ask ye a question.”

“Yeah?”

“See if you’d nae feet, would you wear shoes?”

Karen is knocked a little off-stride by the oddness of the query, but is grateful that it’s not the challenge or accusation that Margaret-Anne’s tone suggested. It’s something she’ll have to get used to, she reckons: Margaret Anne’s got the kind of voice that would make ‘Good morning’ sound like she was trying to start a fight.

“Eh, no. Course not. How?”

“Cause I was wonderin why you’re wearin a bra.”

O
kay, take two for meeting Scotty. This time, at least, he can’t say he’s stuck at work, as Martin is meeting him
where
Scotty says he’s working today. However, as Martin makes his way there by taxi, he is harbouring doubts about whether Scot is taking the piss. It’s Saturday, for one thing, but the main suspicion, once again, is the venue. Is the bastard setting him up on a tour of the sites of ghastly personal memories?

“The Bleachfield Hotel, you say?” the driver turns around to ask. “Did I hear ye right?”

“Yeah.”

“Nae bother, pal, it’s just…I’m sure I heard somebody say they were knockin it doon.”

This acts, paradoxically, as an assurance that Scot
will
be there. He is an architect, after all.

“It’s aw right. I’m no lookin for a billet,” Martin tells him. As he says the words, he’s slightly surprised at what’s coming out of his own mouth, a stark contrast to how he’d addressed the cabby on his way to Heathrow just two days earlier. All these years of living in London have softened his accent, but more pertinently rendered much of his colloquial vocabulary dormant. It wasn’t a conscious process, more a gradual grinding down. In the capital, as soon as they heard your accent, they seemed to ask you to repeat yourself on a point of principle (though if you told them to go and fuck themselves, they never seemed to have any bother understanding that). However, even down there, any time he finds himself in Scottish company, he instantly reverts to the mother tongue. He’s aware he’s doing it, too, even though it’s not an entirely conscious act. He wonders if it’s a kind of politeness, a form of patronising or a sort of social camouflage, like Woody Alien in
Zelig
.