2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel (32 page)

He remembers her having a right go at Da for something he said, but doesn’t recall what it was. “You never treated Joe and Brian like that,” she says.

“Aye well,” Da says back. “I wonder how no.”

Then she was greeting again, and Robbie fell asleep. Or maybe he just pretended to be asleep.

He got a get-well card from the school. Nurses brought it in to him once he had the tube out and he was sitting upright. They were all busy at somebody else’s bed when he opened it, which was just as well, because he wouldn’t have wanted anybody to see him. He was greeting, for fuck’s sake. Him. He doesn’t greet about anything, not even when Boma or his da really stoat him one. But this, fuck. Just kind of snuck up on him, greeting before he even knew it. All the names, man, and wee messages. They must have passed it round the social area, off their own backs, as opposed to something a teacher organised and made every cunt in the class sign. He can tell because it’s mostly boys, and it’s boys from all the classes, not just 3S6. They’ve had a whip-round as well: got him a fiver record token.

He doesn’t know why it made him greet, but he was pure bubbling like a wee wean. Then he got kind of angry about it. He resented the thought of folk feeling sorry for him, thinking of him as weak or like a fucking spastic or something. Well, he wouldn’t be having that. It was nice to get the card, but that didn’t mean anybody could take the pish. He would panel the first cunt to say anything out of order, no matter who it was.

But there was no escaping what the card told him about how it looked from the outside: he’s been a stupid cunt, and everybody
knows
he’s been a stupid cunt. That was the hardest thing about going back to school this week: embarrassment. Knowing every bastard’s looking at you and thinking about what happened to you. He’s felt it before, back in First Year when Big Tempo broke his nose and burst his mouth. This is far worse, because they’re not picturing a fight or all that blood spraying about; they’re picturing him splayed out on his bedroom floor with his neb stuck in a crisp poke.

Christ, looking back on it, the fight with Tempo’s almost something to be proud of by comparison, considering his stature now. Folk looking at the pair of them these days would think Robbie must have been pretty brave to have a go at all, never mind the outcome. Tempo’s mother must have been feeding him Popeye’s fucking spinach or something, because he just shot up in height and beefed out in build, too. And like his hammering of Robbie, it didn’t go unnoticed. Once folk were talking about it, it was only a matter of time before some hard cunt decided they wanted their go, and the smart money was always going to be on Jai Burns. Jai saw it as a day wasted if he never punched somebody, and he was the one that most wanted the reputation as the hardest in the year, especially with the likes of Kenny, Chick and Richie more interested in the fitba team or winching or whatever. It was a fucking miracle it took him as long as it did to start a fight with Tempo. It happened about halfway through Second Year. He’d had a few attempts, right enough, but Temps never rose to the bait. When it finally happened, it was because Temps was mouthing off, not the other way around. Temps is a mouthy bastard to everybody now, but he’d been careful around Jai up to that point. Robbie reckons Temps knew this was unavoidable and decided just to get it over with when he was feeling up for it. Mr Sullivan and Mr Blake broke it up, but Tempo was knocking fuck out of Jai when they did. Jai tried to make out otherwise to any cunt that would listen, but if Jai believed it himself, he’d have made sure it got finished properly after school, whereas he did fuck-all.

Tempo hasn’t fought anybody since. Nobody’s fancied noising him up, for one thing, but it’s mainly because Temps isn’t interested in fighting. He’s interested in fanny.

Robbie’s got on fine with him since their fight in First Year, which is even more surprising considering they never liked each other before that. It was a bit awkward for a while, as you’d expect, but fair play to Tempo: he could have been a pure cunt about it and he wasn’t. Takes the pish a bit, but he does that to everybody. It was Temps who came up with Robbie’s new nickname: Turbo. Turbo Turner. Sounds gallus, doesn’t it? A proper nickname, like Boma’s got. Just as well, too, because Christ knows what some bastard might have saddled him with over the glue-sniffing.

This last period is science, which is usually all right, sometimes a laugh. He’s sitting with Noodsy, who he hangs about with a lot these days since Noodsy moved house to just up the back from Robbie’s bit. Next to Noodsy is George Sanford, who used to be called George Spamford because he was in the remedial group. General George, they call him now, because he isn’t in any O-Grade classes, not even arithmetic—just general science, general maths, general English…

They get Mr Boyd for science. He’s a dozy bastard—literally on a Friday afternoon, because that’s the day the teachers hit the pub at lunchtime, and he’s the one who gets the most bewied. He must be pretty puggled first class back in the afternoon, but by the final double period he’s ready for sleeping it off, especially if the room’s warm and there are no windows open. Even if he doesn’t actually nod off, he’s not at his most observant, so it’s usually an easy shift to wind down the week.

It’s raining outside, which is a bugger, because it puts the knackers on their favourite Friday afternoon game of taking it in turns to go out the window. Noodsy started it a few weeks back. Just climbed out because he was bored, went for a walk about and then came back in. Didn’t even need anybody to keep the edgy—just keeked in to see what Boyd was up to and then chose his moment to return. What was dead funny was that Boyd must have noticed something was different but couldn’t suss out what it was. You could see it in his face after Noodsy came back in. He was like, “Was that seat not empty a wee minute ago?” Fucking funny as fuck.

It became a game the next Friday when Noodsy did it again, except this time he fucked off with Robbie’s jotter. Came back in and told him he’d planked it next to the nearside hockey goals, which meant Robbie had to climb out and get it back before the period was finished and his work was due in for marking. Now they have challenges: one of them planks something at afternoon interval and the others have a race to get outside and find it. Nobody’s been caught yet, but fuck knows how not. One time, Boyd went up the back and shut the window because of the draught, with General George still stuck outside. Fair play to GG, though, he just walked back in through the school and right in the door of the class.

Boyd says: “Where have you been?”

GG goes: “I was taking that book back to Miss Coleman, like you tellt me,” all put out at the accusation and leaving Boyd standing there looking confused. Aye, he might be in the remedial group, GG, but the cunt’s not stupid.

With the rain on, they’ll be left with their other favourite pastime, which is stealing school gear. There’s not actually much that’s worth stealing, not that that’s ever stopped anybody, but the kind of pointlessness of it did lead to a new game. Now the idea is to see who can plank the biggest and most stupid thing in somebody else’s bag, with extra credit if they leave the place without noticing. Sometimes they notice and go home with it anyway, for a laugh. Science is the best for this game, because it’s the class with the most gear, though Robbie wishes they’d got into it back in home Eeks. Secretarial Studies has potential, but the teacher, Miss Hannon, is a bit too sharp-eyed. Shame, really. It’s an ambition among them all to get a typewriter out of there, or at least to get one inside some other cunt’s bag, just to see the look on his face when he goes to lift it.

Boyd hasn’t been to the pub. It’s the week afore payday, so that’ll be why. Surprisingly, the lesson really flies in. Boyd being more on the ball than usual, he gets round to setting up some experiments for a change, instead of setting them an exercise and snuggling down for a kip. Still, at times like this folk’s guards are down, so you have to take advantage. The opportunity arises when it comes time to start dismantling the equipment. Everybody’s busy with something or other, plus there’s nothing suspicious about being on the other side of the room from your own seat. Folk always sling their jackets and bags in a big pile on the worktops running down either side of the class, and these days if you’re seen hovering about them, folk know to check their gear before heading for home. A lot of the stuff has been shifted along to make room for equipment or for folk getting into overhead cupboards, so nobody cottons on when Robbie starts lifting the odd coat or bag. He then makes a point of helping Scan Cassidy put away some beakers, then goes back to his seat. The last few minutes take pure ages because he can’t wait for Boyd to give them the nod. He usually lets them get ready to go home a few minutes before the bell, specially on a Friday, but he’s still blethering about the experiment as the clock approaches four. Must be only a minute-to when he finally says, “Pack up.” Everybody jumps for their gear, but Robbie says to Noodsy to stay put a wee minute and watch big Kenny Langton over the other side.

Scan Cassidy nearly ruins it because he picks up his jacket first and finds he needs to unhook a toggle from the shaft, but fortunately his coat was at the top. Kenny lifts up his bag with both handles, finds it snagged, and gives it a real tug. Four coats and two bags rise up into the air like they’ve come to life, causing some of the lassies to let out a screech. They’re all threaded through a four-foot metal clamp-stand, the base of which has been planked inside Kenny’s bag. The bag’s zipped up just shy of all the way so the shaft pokes out, but he wouldn’t have noticed because the first coat was covering the gap.

Kenny’s pure pishing himself. Boyd kind of rolls his eyes, but reckons no harm done. He sees this carry-on nearly every week, and there’s no way that lazy cunt’s making a fuss about something when the Friday bell’s about to let him head for the boozer. Kenny’s asking around to see who did it. Robbie says nothing, but Noodsy points to him, which Robbie is happy about because in the end he wants the credit.

They’re all still laughing about it—and all still trying to disentangle their gear from the clamp-stand—when the bell rings. Robbie reluctantly has to take his eyes off the scene over the other side as he turns round to get his own bag and jacket. He’s so distracted by what’s going on across the way that he forgets to check nothing’s been planked inside, but as soon as he lifts it, he can tell there’s too much weight. Tube that he is, he was so busy setting up Kenny that he forgot to be keeping an eye on his own stuff.

Usually, if you’ve clocked it early, the thing to do is sneak it back out your bag and act like nothing happened, but it’s kind of accepted that if the bell’s gone, you’ve either got to leave with whatever it is or at least take it out in plain sight, so that whoever did it gets the laugh. There’s a good atmosphere about the place just now, Kenny still pure pishing himself, so Robbie reckons it’ll go down well if he paps his bag down on the desk and lets everybody see what’s been planked on him.

“Fair dos,” he says, and unzips the holdall.

There’s a big litre-tub of glue sitting right in the middle of it.

For a wee second, Robbie feels like he’s the only cunt in the room: just him, the table, the bag, and this big fucking tub of glue. It’s probably because of the silence: there isn’t a sound, everybody shutting right up apart from one lassie still laughing at what went on before, and who hasn’t noticed the glue.

Robbie feels like he needs to hold on to the desk or he might fly off it like a wean on a spiderweb roundabout. His throat is swelling, water welling up. He’s going to greet. He can’t greet. He wants to turn round and look to see which cunt did this, but let’s face it, he knows which cunt did this, and he can’t let anybody see his eyes. He’s not giving the cunt the pleasure. Doesn’t want anybody to talk to him just now, either. Anybody talks, especially if they try to say something sympathetic, he’s going to greet, and if he greets, man, if he greets…

Everybody just starts filing out. Noodsy puts a hand on his shoulder. He goes to say something, “C’mon Turbo,” or whatever.

Robbie bats his hand away without looking at him. “Don’t fuckin touch us,” he says, his voice like a whisper because he’s too choked to talk properly. “Don’t fuckin touch us.”

Noodsy steps away. “I’ll wait ootside.”

Robbie says nothing. He keeps his head down and picks up the glue in both hands, turning his back to carry it to the cabinet as they all leave. Boyd hasn’t said anything, give the bastard credit. It’s not because he doesn’t want a fuss at four on a Friday, either. He knows the score, knows the worst thing he could do is make something of this.

The door closes after the last wean leaves, closing off the sound of everybody blethering. That’s the moment he can’t hold it in any more. Boyd’s still at his desk, but there’s quiet, stillness and Robbie’s back is to him, which is why it feels like he’s alone. He breaks down, greeting near silently, like coughs or big breaths.

M
artin makes it on to the carriage during the three-second window between the guard’s whistle and the doors sliding closed. There’s no ticket office any more, only what used to be the exterior exit stairway affording access to the platforms. Had the office still been open, he wouldn’t have made it, but it’s safe to assume that would be scant consolation to whatever poor fuckers lost their jobs when the station became unmanned.

He’s already dialling Karen’s number as the train pulls away. The two-minute dash across the road and up the stairs provides a temporary distraction from what just transpired, the cold of the night and the wind in his face like a bucket of ice-water over his head to wake him up from the warm, smoky fug of the bar. It makes him feel like he’s well clear of the place, that he’s thoroughly left it—and Jojo—behind, but even as he reaches for the’ mobile, he can’t help feeling that he is merely vindicating everything she said. He’s got some information out of her, so now he can move on. Even if that wasn’t his sole intention, it’s what has happened, and though he’s got a promising lead out of it, he feels something uncomfortably close to guilt about passing it on to Karen.