Marabou Stork Nightmares (16 page)

Bernard has come to see me in the hospital. He comes in every few days or weeks or months, I think: time has no meaning in my state. Bernard comes to read his poems to me. At last the sad queen has found a captive audience.

The only interesting thing about Bernard's visits is that he alone actually seems to believe that I can hear him. When the others talk to me their tones are strained, forced; full of self-obsessed pity, confessional and self-justifying. Bernard is the only one who seems completely at ease. We were never so at ease with each other. Why is he being so nice to me?

— Mind South Africa, Roy? Johannesfuckinburg, he spits. — I fuckin hated inhere. Mind you, there was bags of talent. Ah hudnae really come oot then but. That was the onewaste, these boys of all races . . . but of course, you scored more than me in that department, he giggles,— You mercenary wee closet rent-boy you.

EH? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU OAN ABOOT YOU SILLY FUCKIN QUEEN . . .

—Oh aye. Ah kent aw aboot you and Gordon. Poor old Uncle Gordon. Fascist prick. How the fuck . . .

— Oh, he tried it on with me too. With me first. Disappointed Roy? Oh yes, I'm a queen alright lovey, but a damn sight more choosy than that. I mean, it's a bit like you and Gran, both hetero's, right? Well, I'm assuming, possibly naively in light of your track-record, that you wouldn't go down on her arid old cunt. Right? His voice is teasy, jesting, rather than malicious.

FUCK OFF YOU HIDEOUS QUEER . . .

—No more than I'd take Uncle Gordon into my gob. But you did. didn't you, eh Roy? What else did that sick low-life do to you, Roy?

DID AH FUCK. . .WEDIDNOWT. . . IT WIS A WANK, THAT WIS AW . . .

—Sorry Roy. That was out of order. Do you mind ay South Africa though? I still think of it now. It inspired a few poems. that year did. Remember when Gordon took us to Sun City for that weekend?

I remember that. We took a short flight down from the City of Gold to the African Vegas, in the nominally independent homeland of Bophuthatswana. Gambling was, of course, illegal in the Republic. The Sun City jaunt was a little package Gordon put together to get John and Vet down there to do what he always tried to do; make them feel inadequate by showing off his wealth and his many business interests.

I remember it okay. It was a great time. We stayed in the Cascades Hotel, the most expensive and luxurious in Sun City. As the name of the hotel suggests, water was its principal theme. Its liberal use of the stuff produced rich, tropical, landscaped grounds. Kim and I spent ages wandering through this homemade rainforest, with its waterfalls, streams, paths and bridges. We were the only kids there and it was like our own private paradise. We found this little clearing by the lake where we would just go and sit, and pretend that all this was ours and we never had to go home. I was a bit of a cunt, and I'd make Kim burst oot greetin just by saying that we would be going back to Muirhouse. I wish I hudnae joked aboot it. Like me, she loved it in South Africa. But these gardens, they were like the promised land. In fact, the hotel grounds were a microcosm of the whole of Sun City. Vast quantities of water had been used to create this literal oasis in the desert, which had been landscaped imaginatively with flowers, lawns, exotic trees and streams all over the place.

It was a wonderful few days.

—with Tony and I being old enough to go out to the casinos and all that shite with Mum, Dad and Gordon

it was paradise

—the sickening greed and avarice, the front-line of South African exploitation, the playground where the settlers enjoyed the fruits of the wealth they'd ripped off

SHUT UP YOU FUCKIN POOF, IT WISNAE LIKE THAT, IT WAS BRILLIANT

—but even worse than the casinos was the fuckin cabaret. You and Kim were the lucky ones, tucked up back at the hotel. I had to sit in silence as we watched Doreen Staar's show.She was crude and extremely racist. I wrote a poem about that time.

OH GOD, SURPRISE, SURPRISE. HERE WE GO.

He bursts into a lisping rant: —This one's called: Doreen Staar's Other Cancer.

Did you see her on the telly
the other day
good family entertainment
the tabloids say

But when you're backstage
at your new faeces audition
you hear the same old shite
of your own selfish volition

She was never a singer
a comic or a dancer
I can't say I was sad
when I found out she had cancer

Great Britain's earthy northern
comedy queen
takes the rand, understand
from the racist Boer regime

So now her cells are fucked
and that's just tough titty
I remember her act
that I caught back in Sun City

She went on and on about
'them from the trees
with different skull shapes
from the likes of you and me'

Her Neo-Nazi spell
it left me fucking numb
the Boers lapped it up with zeal
so did the British ex-pat scum

But what goes round
comes round they say
so welcome to another dose
of chemotherapy

And for my part
it's time to be upfront
so fuck off and die
you carcinogenic cunt.

— What do you think then, Roy?

He asks as if I can reply. He knows I can hear him. Bernard knows.

Bernard

— Went doon a fuckin storm at the club.

Bernard

I thought it was one of your better efforts.

I first met Lexo on the train from Glasgow Central to Motherwell. I was sitting with Dexy and Willie, out the road fae the top table and the top boys. This was my first away run with the cashies and I was determined to make an impression.

Dexy and Willie had been running with the boys for a while, rising from the baby crew. At first their stories bored me; they seemed exaggerated and I couldnae take their versions of the events, far less their supposed roles in the proceedings with any real degree ay seriousness. However, I got intrigued enough to check out some of the vibes at the home games where you had a substantial casual visiting support, and this was only really games against Aberdeen, and I became hooked on the adrenalin.

It was when Aberdeen were down with a huge crew that I was first bitten. The sheepshaggers had just signed that Charlie Nicholas cunt fae Arsenal, the soapdodger, and there was a heavy atmosphere. These cunts fancied their chances. I did a bit of mouthing and jostling up Regent Road, but there were too many polis aboot for any real swedgin tae take place.

On the train, on this dull Wednesday night, we were assured that it would be different. Dexy, Willie and myself were eager lieutenants, laughing sycophantically at any jocular top boy who played to the gallery, but remaining stern, impassive and deferential when a psycho held court.

Lexo went around the train giving a pep-talk. — Mind, nae cunt better shite oot. Remember, a cunt that messes is a cunt that dies. We're the hardest crew in Europe. We dinnae fuckin run. Mind. We dinnae fuckin run.

We didnae have tae wait long before meeting up with the Motherwell casuals. They were upon us at the station and I was shit-scared. I didn't know why; it seemed as if I'd been surrounded by latent and manifest violence all my life. This was different though, a new situation. It's only now I realise that behaviour always has a context and precedents, it's what you do rather than what you are, although we often never recognise that context or understand what these precedents are. I remember thinking; swallow the fear, feel the buzz. That was what Lexo said. Then I saw this thin, spectacularly white guy, almost albino, just charging into the Motherwell boys and scattering them. I steamed in swinging, kicking and biting. This cunt I was hitting was hitting me back but it was like I couldn't feel a thing and I knew that he could because his eyes were filling up with fear and it was the best feeling on earth. Then he was on his arse. The next thing I knew was that I was being pulled off one cunt by some of our boys, and dragged away down the road as polis sirens filled the air. I was snarling like a demented animal, wanting only to get back and waste the cunt on the ground for good.

At the game I was trembling inside with excitement. We all were. We laughed with liberating hysteria at any banal joke or observation made about the swedgin. I don't remember anything about the match, except wee Mickey Weir running up and down the wing, trying vainly to play fitba, surrounded by claret and amber giants and a blind referee. We lost one-nil. Back on the train with a police escort to Glasgow then Edinburgh, the match was never mentioned once. Aw the talk was aboot the swedge.

Lexo came over to us. Dexy, looking sheepish, got up to let him sit beside me. Hovering over the table, he was dismissed as Lexo snapped, — Nose fuckin botherin ye, cunt?

He departed looking like a timid dog. Dexy had not acquitted himself well in the swedge tonight.

— Fuckin wanker, he smiled, then shouted back down the train, — Ghostie! C'mere the now, ya cunt!

The albino-looking guy named Ghostie came and joined us. You would never think to look at him that the cunt was particularly hard, but every fucker knew him as a crazy radge. He was on-form at Motherwell. He'd been first in, he had given me the confidence. I'd never seen anything so fast, so ruthless and powerful.

— Whit's yir name, pal? he asked.

— Roy. Roy Strang.

— Strang. Got a brar?

— Aye, Tony Strang.

He nodded in vague recognition. – Whair ye fi?

— Muirhoose.

— Schemie, eh? he laughed.

I felt anger rise in me. Whae the fuck did this wide-o think he wis? I tried to control it. I knew who he was. Ghostie. The Ghost. I'd seen him in action; only briefly as I'd been too involved myself, but enough tae ken that ah'd never mess wi the cunt.

— Me n aw, he smiled. Fi Niddrie. Stey in toon now, though. Cannae be bothered wi the fuckin scheme any mair. Ye ken satellite dishes? he asked.

— Aye.

— Whit dae they call the wee boax oan the back ay the satellite dish?

— Eh, dunno likes.

— The council's, he laughed. I was pleased to join in.

That was the start of my cashie activities. The season was in its infancy and I was already known tae the top boys.

I was arrested at Parkhead for breaking a Weedgie's jaw; fortunately I managed to sling my knuckleduster. Our strategy for Glasgow games was to merge with the crowd and just start laying into every cunt to panic them. All it took was organisation and bottle. The organisation was really just about timing, moving at the right time. I stiffened some stupid fucker for the crime of being a total spaz-wit with loads of badges of the Pope and IRA on his scarf, but a couple of polis came straight after me. I ran through the crowd, but one sneaky soapdodging cunt stuck a leg oot and I lost my balance and fell and was huckled.

Ma and Dad were fucked off at the court case.

— Ah'm no wantin you gittin intae bother, Roy. Ye could lose yir joab, son. You're supposed tae be the sensible yin in the faimlay, Dad mused. He was in a strange position; concerned, but gratified that all those boxing lessons hadn't gone to waste. — Ah kent wi shouldnae huv come back here. We should've steyed in Sooth Efrikay.

— Aw, c'mon, Dad . . .

— Dinnae come oan Dad me. Like ah sais, Sooth Efrikay.

— Like ah sais, he droned on, — ye could lose yir joab. They dinnae grow oan trees nowadays, eh. Specially no in computers. Thing ay the future.

— Aye, right.

— N whit fir, eh? Whit fir? Ah'm askin ye! Fir they fuckin casual bampots. Ah mean, it's no as if thir even interested in the fitba these cunts. Ah see yis aw at Easter Road. It's aw designer labels wi these cunts, like ah sais, fuckin designer labels.

— Shite.

— Aw aye, ye kin shite aw ye want tae, bit ah've read aw aboot it. In the
Evening News.
Fuckin mobile phones, the loat. Ye tryin tae tell ays that's aw rubbish, eh? Ah'm askin ye!

— Aye. It's shite. Pure shite.

I was less scared of the auld man now. He seemed a sadder, weaker figure, broken by his brother's death and the end of the South African dream. He now worked as a store detective in John Menzies.

I was getting on, leading a compartmentalised life. The weekends it was clubs and fitba with the boys, and I had been shagging a few birds. Joining the cashies had been a bonus on that score. Although I was never happy with the wey ah looked, being a cashie I had access to aw the fanny I needed. Sometimes just skankers likes, but a ride's a ride. It was something to do eftir the swedgin; it was better than no gettin a ride. That fucks up a cunt's self-esteem. Too right. At work I was getting on alright, doing well in my day release in computer studies at Napier College. I enjoyed setting up programmes to run policies: it was a challenge and the money was okay. I still resolved to get into a flat in town and away from my family. The thing was that I was spending a lot of dough as well, mostly on clathes. Nearly every penny I had went on new gear.

The rumours about me being a cashie started to circulate at the work. It was a busy time for us and the newspapers were on our case. Big-time soccer violence in Scotland had always been aboot really thick Weedgies who never went to church knocking fuck oot ay each other to establish who had the best brand of Christianity. We were big news because we were different; stylish, into the violence just for itself, and in possession of decent IQs.

I enjoyed the notoriety. It was good seeing all the straight-peg cunts at my work look at me with respect and trepidation. I just kept quiet. Even when that nosey dyke cow of a supervisor Jane Hathaway tried to bait me by reading out incidents from the paper on a Monday, I just kept quiet. Nae cunt had the bottle tae come right out and ask me if I was involved. More than the notoriety, I enjoyed the sense of enigma.

There was plenty of opportunity tae make money wi the cashies, but I was only really interested in the swedgin. There was less risk in that. I sussed out quickly that the polis werenae bothered too much aboot crimes against the person as long as you never bothered posh cunts or shoppers. When you started tryin tae extort dough fae the pubs, clubs n shoaps, that was when the cunts got nippy. There wis nae wey ah wis gaunny dae time.

There was a big do at the Pilton Hilton, the Commodore Hotel; Tony was getting married to this lassie called Hannah. He brought her roond tae the hoose one night and announced it. She looked really nice, even though she was obviously up the stick. She was moving intae Tony's flat. I was surprised, because I was sure I kent her from somewhere.

— Aboot time ye wir settlin doon, John said, raising a glass of whisky. He insisted we all drank some as a toast. — Like ah sais, ye cannae beat the mairriage stakes. Didnae dae me any herm! He winked at my Ma who gave him a cloying smile.

Bernard said something simpering and Kim started tae greet. Ah jist said: — Nice one Tone, slapped the cunt oan the back and forced the rancid whisky doon wi loads ay lemonade.

At the wedding I got a right fuckin shock when I saw who one of the bridesmaids was. She was dressed in a long peach dress, matching one worn by another lassie and these two wee lassies. It was The Big Ride; Hamilton's shag. She was Hannah's sister, which I suppose made The Big Ride my in-law, or something.

I had clocked her in the church and I couldnae stop looking at her at the reception. I was staring at her. We were introduced, the two families. They'd aw been up at oor hoose before but I had been oot, I never really took any notice.

— So you're Roy, she said.

The fuckin boot didnae even recognise me.

I kept staring at her. As the night wore on, I never took my eyes off her. Eventually she came over to me. — Is thir something wrong? she asked, sitting down beside me.

— You dinnae mind ay me, eh no? I smiled.

She looked quizzical and started mentioning names. Most of them meant little to me, just cunts I vaguely knew through the scheme and the school.

— You used tae go oot wi Stuart Hamilton, I told her.

She blushed a little bit. — That was ages ago . . . she simpered.

— Did eh fuck ye, aye? I asked, looking her up and down. Good tits oan it like.

She screwed her face up and frowned at me. Her prettiness collapsed into ugliness. She was fairly heavily built as well, much broader than Hannah. She'd be a fat sow in a few years' time. Some lassies just kept getting bigger; it was like the daft cows didnae ken when tae stoap. — What? she said weakly.

— Ah mind ay you. You n Hammy n that Gilchrist cunt. Ye pilled ays up ootside the chippie in Muirhoose.

I saw her face register vague recognition.

— Aw . . . c'moan . . . that wis ages ago . . .

— Aye. Too right it wis fuckin ages ago. Like tae see yis dae it now. Whair is that cunt Hammy these days? Ah've been keepin ma fuckin eye oot fir that wanker.

— Ah dinnae ken, ah jist hung aboot wi um whin ah wis younger . . . that wis ages ago . . .

— Ye married? I asked.

— Used tae be, she said.

— Aw, ah goes, makin ma voice aw soft, — did yir felly find oot ye wir a slut? Wis that how eh kicked ye intae touch? Hus Tony fucked ye yet? Ah bet eh hus.

Her features seemed to draw in towards the centre of her face. — You're fuckin tapped, son, she hissed. — Fuck off! She stood up and started moving away. I just smiled. Then she came back and said: — We might be married intae the same family, bit ah dinnae want tae talk tae you. Jist stey oot ay ma wey. You're fuckin sick!

— Fuck off, ya fat hoor, I sneered, drinking in her rage as she turned away.

I kept noising her up during the reception. I was having a great time. — Hoor, I whispered in her ear every time I passed her.

One time she cracked up and confronted me, — You're fuckin spoilin ma sister's big day, she whispered in a harsh hiss. – If ye dinnae fuck off, I'll tell Tony!

— Good, I smiled. — Go ahead. It'll save me tellin um that his sister-in-law's a fuckin hingoot. . . Benny! I shouted, as my Uncle Benny, my Ma's brother, came across. The Big Ride departed.

— Ah wisnae crampin yir style thair Roy, wis ah? Benny asked, raising an eyebrow. — Tidy piece.

— Naw, nae danger. Widnae touch it wi yours, Ben. A right boot: really pits it aroond. Fanny like the Mersey Tunnel, I laughed. Benny joined in.

Later on I saw the daft sow starting tae greet. She left wi another lassie just eftir that. I went over to the married couple and enjoyed a dance with the beautiful bride. I then escorted her back to the handsome groom and gave her a peck on the cheek. — You're a lucky man, Tony.

— Ah ken that, Tony smiled.

— Great do this, by the way, Hannah, I said. — Your folks have done us proud.

— Aye, it's just a pity aboot Sylvia.

— Your sister? What's wrong wi her? I asked with fake concern.

— She's away. Wisnae feeling well.

— That's a shame.

I enjoyed that wedding. Dad got pished and punched this radge who was, apparently, trying to preach socialism at him. That was the only real upset. I also found Kim necking with this daft cunt in the corridor. — Dinnae tell naebody, eh no Roy, she said, obviously hoping that I'd broadcast to the world that she had a fuckin boyfriend. Bernard sloped off early, no doubt to indulge in the practice of arse-banditry. I ended up pished with my Uncle Benny and the two Jackies.

Not a bad night. I never saw The Big Ride again, although I asked after her regularly.

The house was too crowded, even wi Tony away. Kim had her own room and I was in a room with Bernard. That was bad patter; sharing a bedroom with a poof. Sometimes he'd move oot for a bit, but he always came back. Fuck knows why. I never figured out why he stayed for so long. I never figured out why I stayed for so long.