Marabou Stork Nightmares (4 page)

— Ooohhh! You'll get taken away, Roy, he telt me with wide-eyed glee at my fear.

Ah wis shitin it, nearly fuckin greetin n aw that. Brian kept taking the pish, but I'll gie him his due, he never telt nae cunt. The polis came roond every door and asked aw these questions. My Dad said nothing. — Never tell these cunts anything, he used to drum into us. It was the one bit of sense I ever remember him talking. He was really chuffed about the fire as well, because Mrs Pearson from up the stairs had her washing ruined by the smoke. It rose from the budget room to the drying greens above it.

— Serves the cow fuckin well right, like ah sais, the fuckin ignorant boot. Shouldnae be monopolism the fuckin drying greens whin thir's people wantin tae hing oot a washin! That's what she fuckin well gets!

It dawned on me that the auld man was probably prime suspect in the lighting of the fire. He was chuffed to have a cast-iron alibi; he was playing in his dominoes league match up at the Doocot when it started. He was so chuffed that I wanted to tell him it was me, but I resisted the temptation. The cunt could change moods quickly.

Sometimes me and my pals used to go out of the scheme, but it was usually just doon the beach. Me, Pete, Brian, Deek (Bri's brother) and Dennis, we would think aboot running away and going camping, like in the Enid Blyton books. We usually just got as far as the fuckin beach, before getting fed up and going hame. Occasionally we'd walk to snobby bits like Barnton, Cramond or Blackhall. The polis would always come around and make us go hame, though. People in the big hooses, hooses that were the same size as our block, which sixty families lived in; they would just go away and phone the polis. They must have thought we were gaunny chorie aypils or something. Aw I wanted tae dae was tae watch birds. I got an interest in birds, used to get loads ay books on them fae the library. I got this from my auld man, I suppose. He was really interested in birds as well.

I mind ay askin ma Dad if we would live in a big hoose like the ones in Barnton when we went tae South Africa.

— Bigger than thaim though son, much bigger. Like ah sais, much bigger, he telt ays.

The funny thing is that it was in the period when we were preparing to go to South Africa that I have some of the most vivid memories of John, my Dad. As I've indicated, he was a little bit crazy and we were all frightened of him. He was far too intense about things, and got himself worked up over nothing. I worried about the shotgun he kept under the bed.

Our main point of contact was through television. John would take the TV pages from the
Daily Record
and circle the programmes to watch that evening. He was a keen nature freak, and as I mentioned, particularly interested in ornithology. We both loved the David Attenborough style nature documentaries. He was never so happy as when programmes on exotic birds came on the box and he was very knowledgeable on the subject. John Strang was a man who knew the difference between a Cinnamon Bracken Warbler and, say, the Brown Woodland variety.

— See that! Bullshit! A Luhder's Bush Shrike, the boy sais! That's a Doherty's Bush Shrike! Like ah sais, a Doherty's Bush Shrike! Jist as well ah'm tapin this oan the video!

We were the first family in the district to have all the key consumer goods as they came onto the market: colour television, video recorder and eventually satellite dish. Dad thought that they made us different from the rest of the families in the scheme, a cut above the others. Middle-class, he often said.

All they did was define us as prototype schemies.

I remember the note he sent to the BBC, smug in his knowledge that for all the research capabilities he imagined them having at their disposal, their presenter had got his facts wrong. The reply was initially a great source of pride to him:

Dear Mr Strange,

Thank you for your letter in which you point out the factual error in our programme WINGS OVER THE BUSH which was transmitted last Thursday.

While this particular nature documentary was not made by the BBC, as commissioners of the group of independent film-makers who produced the programme, we accept liability for such inaccuracy in our broadcasts.

While we at the BBC strive for accuracy in every area of our broadcasting activities, errors will inevitably occur from time to time and keen members of the viewing public with specialist knowledge like yourself provide an invaluable service in bringing such inaccuracies to our attention.

The vigilant and informed viewer has a key role to play in ensuring that we at the BBC maintain our high standards of broadcast excellence and adequately fulfill the responsibilities of our charter, namely: to educate, inform and entertain.

Once again, thank you for your correspondence.

Yours sincerely,

Roger Snape

Programme Controller, Nature Documentaries.

The old man showed every fucker that letter. He showed them in the pub, and at his work with Group Six Securities. He freaked out when my Uncle Jackie pointed out to him that they had misspelled his name. He wrote a letter to Roger Snape saying that if he was ever in London, he would kick fuck out of him.

Dear Mr Snap,

Thank you for your letter in which you show yourself to be an ignorant person not spelling my name right. I just want you to know that I do not like people not spelling my name right. It is S-T-R-A-N-G. If I am ever in London I will snap you. . . into small pieces.

Yours faithfully,

John STRANG.

The only things which seemed to give Dad enjoyment were drinking alcohol and listening to records of Winston Churchill's wartime speeches. Pools of tears would well up behind his thick lenses as he was moved by his idol's stirring rhetoric.

But these were the best times. The worst were the boxing lessons he gave us. He had a thing about me being too uncoordinated, especially with my limp, and considered Bernard too effeminate. He bought us cheap, plastic boxing gloves and set up a ring in the living-room, with four confiscated traffic cones defining its perimeters.

Bernard was even less interested in the boxing than I was, but Dad would force us to fight until one or both of us broke down in tears of misery and frustration. The gloves caused a great deal of scratching, scarring and tearing, and it looked as if we'd been slashing rather than punching each other. Bernard was older, bigger, and heavier-handed, but I was more vicious and had quickly sussed out that you could do greater damage with slashing swipes than punches.

— C'moan Roy, Dad would shout. – Punch urn, punch um, son . . . Keep that jab gaun Bernard . . . dinnae fuckin slap um like a pansy . . . His coaching advice was always a bit one-sided. Before the fights he used to whisper to me: — You're a Strang son, mind that. He's no. Mind that. Right? Mind, yir fightin fir the Strang name. He might git called a Strang, but eh's no. Eh's a fuckin crappin eyetie bastard son.

On one occasion when I had marked Bernard's eye and swollen his lip, John could scarcely contain himself:—Keep that fuckin jab in ehs eye, Roy! Poke ehs fuckin eye right oot!

I kept jabbing away at that reddening queer face, my body tight with concentration as Bernard's eyes filled with petulant unease.

BANG

QUEER-FACED CUNT

BANG

TAKE THAT YA FUCKIN SAPPY BIG POOF

BANG

I opened up his eye above the brow with a tearing twist of the glove. I felt a jolt of fear in my chest and I wanted to stop; it was the blood, splashing out onto his face. I was about to drop my hands but when I looked at Dad he snarled at me to fight on: — GO FIR THE KILL, NAE FUCKIN PRISONERS!

I battered into the fearful face of my broken-spirited pansy half-brother. His gloves fell by his sides as I kept swinging wildly, urged on by John's frenzied cries. Bernard turned his back on me and left the room sobbing, running up the stairs and locking himself in the toilet.

— Bernard! Ye'll huv tae learn tae stick up fir yirsel! John smirked, a little worried as Ma would not be pleased when she came back from the shops in Leith and inspected the damage. On that particular occasion, I came off the best, but it wasn't always like that. Sometimes it was me who beat a humiliating retreat, overwhelmed by pain and frustration.

At such times I envied my younger brother Elgin, silently rocking or gently humming, trapped in a world of his own, exempt from this torture. Perhaps Elgin had the right idea; perhaps it was all just psychic defence. At times I envied Elgin's autism. Now I have what he has, his peace and detachment from it all.

As for me and Bernard, those fights made us fear Dad and hate each other.

Bernard was

Ber no I've no time for this.

Now the nurses are back. They're doing something to me.

THIS IS ALWAYS UNPLEASANT

Tum the cabbage, prevent him rotting away . . .

I have to go deeper.

Deeper.

DEEPER

DEEPER

Away from them.

Better.

Now it's time to go

to

the

hunt – – – – – – –

There is one lush green national park which is unique. Nowhere else in the world does such a park exist in a major city. Only a few miles separate the centre of the city from this park where game animals and the large carnivores which prey on them exist in the splendour of half a century ago

– – – Easter Road Nairobi got to stop this shite deeper deeper– – – –

The area of the park, around fifty square miles, is small in comparison

I'm not deep enough. I can hear her. Nurse Patricia Devine. She's confessing to me, her vegetable priest, he who cannot affirm or condemn. I've found my perfect role.

—You always think that the next one will be different and I suppose I let my emotions get the better of me, got all carried away and read what I wanted to read between the lines. He was so charming, so wonderful, so understanding but, yes, that was before he got me into bed . . .

Sobbing sounds.

— . . . Why am I telling you this. . .why not . . . it's not as if you can hear me, it's not as if you'll ever wake up. . .oh God, I'm so sorry I said that . . .I'm just upset. I didn't mean that, I mean some people do wake up . . .they do get better . . . I'm just not myself just now Roy. you see. l let this one get right into my head as well as into my pants. Letting them into your pants is bad enough, but when they get into your head . . . it'slike . . .

No

Don't want this

DEEPER

DEEPER

DEEPER– – – –Mwaaa! A loud, nasal sound. The sound of an adult Stork threatening a human intruder. I look around and Sandy Jamieson is boldly starting the ugly bird down.

— Net the bastard, Roy! Net the cunt! he shouts.

My psychic quality control is bloody bloody bloody damn well fucked and everything has changed and suddenly I'm standing with a ball at my feet on a football pitch. I slam it into an empty net. A couple of players in the same jerseys grab me in celebration; one of them seems to be Lexo, oh fuck naw, no Lexo, and I try to get free but he willnae let ays go and over the shoulder of his crushing bear hug I see Jamieson looking deflated, his hands resting wearily oan his hips.