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— Shhh, Duncan, my Ma laughs.

  These auld fuckers have caused ays total embarrassment and ah’m just aboot tae apologise tae Sabrina when she turns tae me n sais, aw sincere likes, — Your Mum and Dad are brilliant. I wish mines were like that.

  — Aye . . . ah goes.

  — Ah mean, mines are awright, it’s just that they never really go oot.

  Her bus is coming. Ah kiss her and promise that ah’ll see her sometime in the week, n ah probably will, but ye never really ken who yir gaunny meet.

  It’s a great fuckin life!

  Ah skip hame aw excited and nervous, then ah think, this is like a wee lassie, so ah slow doon n start being cool. Ye cannae bounce aroond like a wee bairn in a primary-school playground. Nearly fuckin sixteen. Cunts’ll never believe that ye goat yir hole unless ye act cool, cause that’s the best part ay it, no tellin every cunt ye goat it, but makin sure that they ken, sortay bein a quiet authority oan the subject. Cause the actual ridin itself is overrated, that’s for sure. Ye see them in they sex books in aw they different positions. Dinnae ken how they can be bothered wi that.

  Mibbe it gits better. Ah hope so. What do you think, Mr Black, sorry, Cunt Features?

  If the Lord wills it so, Mr Ewart. Anyway, I take it now that you will of course be making an honest woman of this Sabrina girl in a good Christian marriage sanctioned by the divine Presbyterian Church of Scotland?

  Of course not, Cunt Features. I’ll be riding everything in sight fae now oan.

  Then a wet drizzle starts up so ah’m hame and I’m waiting for my Ma and Dad to come back wi the chips. Hope they’ve goat me some, ah could handle that.

  That’s me done it, something that’s haunted me for ages is now aw sorted oot, but Gally’s gone and it’ll be a long time tae wait for him.

  Windows ’90

  Maria Ewart slipped a foot out of her shoe and let her toes knead the carpet’s thick pile. The luxurious furnishings of her friends’ home had much in common with their own. The Birrells’ house, like the Ewarts’, was fitted out with optimistic redundancy cash, a statement of confidence, faith or hope, that something would turn up, something to secure this new status quo.

  The highlight of the room was a huge gold-leafed mirror, which hung above the fireplace. It seemed to throw the whole room back at you. Maria found it too big; maybe she was still vain enough to regard middle-age and mirrors as uneasy bedfellows.

  Sandra broke her reverie by coming over and refilling her glass. Maria found herself marvelling at the manicured perfection of her friend’s hands; they looked as if they belonged to a child.

  They had come round for a meal and a drink: Duncan and Maria Ewart, come to see their old friends Wullie and Sandra Birrell. It made Maria feel mildly ashamed, but this was the first time she’d been back down to the scheme since they’d moved up to Baberton Mains, nearly three years ago. The thing was, most of the people they’d been friendly with had gradually moved out. And Maria was always going on about the people that had moved in to replace them, how they didn’t have the same feeling for the area, there was no community spirit left, it was a dumping ground for social problems and it had gone downhill.

  She was aware that this line of conversation depressed Duncan. Things had changed so much, but the Ewarts and the Birrells remained close friends. The two couples had never been great ones for going to each other’s houses. It was usually New Year or special occasions only. They generally went out to socialise, meeting in some lounge bar, or in the Tartan Club or the BMC.

  Duncan had to admire the changes Wullie had made since he’d bought the house from the council. The replacement windows and doors were predictable enough, but Wullie and Sandra had seemed to have acquired a style that you associated with younger people. The glazed wash on the walls had replaced woodchip and Habitat functionalism had replaced teak, but it still strangely seemed to fit them.

  Wullie had stalled in buying the house until such resistance became an empty and futile gesture. Rents rose and the discounted purchase price for tenants fell until he was, as many told him, cutting off his nose to spite his face. Eventually growing weary of being openly stigmatised by others on his side of the short road that split the old tenements from the flats, Wullie reluctantly joined in the replacement-doors-and-windows party.

  It was hinted that he and Sandra would be better off over the road in the flats, leaving the solid old tenements for those who wanted to ‘get on’. Wullie had quite enjoyed being obstinate and holding out for a while, until Sandra had started on him, adding her voice to the others. Now Wullie was glad he’d relented. Since he’d taken the plunge and spent his redundancy money on the house and the windows, Sandra was sleeping again, without alcohol or pills. She was looking better. She’d put on weight, but fattish middle-age suited her better than washed-out and scraggy. Sandra still tended towards being highly strung and Wullie got the brunt of this. Billy was away from home long ago, though Robert was still there. Her boys: she’d always put them on a pedestal.

  Sometimes Wullie had a heavy heart when he saw the difference with Duncan and Maria. The way they still looked at each other, how they were always the centre of each other’s world. Carl was a much-loved guest at their party, but it was their party. Wullie, on the other hand, knew that his sons had, on appearance, instantly displaced him in Sandra’s affections.

  Now Wullie Birrell often felt useless. Redundancy seemed to be a term which meant more than just the loss of a job. He’d learned to cook, so that he’d have meals for Sandra when she came in from her part-time job as a home help. It wasn’t enough though. Wullie had retreated more into his own world, and this was solidified by his second major purchase, a computer, and he was taking great delight in showing Duncan how it worked.

  Like Wullie, Duncan was finding life hard without a job, struggling to pay off the mortgage on their small house in Baberton Mains. Had Duncan got a good, solid council house like Wullie’s and Sandra’s he would have stayed locally, bought it and done it up. The flats were useless though, nothing could be done with them. But it was tight. Carl helped out, he was doing well with his club and his deejaying. Duncan didn’t like it when the laddie gave him money; he had his own life, his own place in town. It had saved him from repossession on one occasion though. But that music! The problem was that the stuff he played wasn’t real music, it was just a flash in the pan, and soon people would want the real thing again.

  It wasn’t a proper job and it wouldn’t last, but then again, what jobs were proper jobs now? In some ways Wullie and Duncan both admitted that they were glad to see the back of work. The old plant still struggled along as a high-tech unit, employing only a handful of people. Paradoxically, conditions had got a lot worse, and most of all, the few surviving older hands agreed, the fun had gone out of it. There was an arrogance and smugness about the organisation, and it felt like being back at school.

  Maria was in the kitchen, helping Sandra with the lasagne. The mothers shared a concern for their sons. The world now had a greater superficial wealth than the one they grew up in. Yet something had been lost. It seemed to them a crueller, harsher place, devoid of values. Worse, it seemed that young people, despite their fundamental decency, now had to buy into a mind-set which made viciousness and treachery come easy.

  The women brought the food to the table, then the bottles of wine, though Duncan and Wullie looked at each other and clung reassuringly to their red tins of McEwan’s Export. They all sat down to their meal.

  — It’s aw that ye hear aboot at raves and clubs: drugs, drugs, drugs. Maria shook her head.

  Sandra nodded in empathy.

  Duncan had heard all this before. LSD and cannabis were supposed to be destroying the world back in the sixties, yet here they all were. But LSD hadn’t shut down factories and mines and shipyards. It hadn’t destroyed communities. Drug abuse seemed like one of the symptoms of a disease, rather than the illness itself. He hadn’t told Maria, but Carl had been on at him to try one of those Ecstasy
pills, and he’d been a lot more tempted than he’d led his son to believe. Maybe he still would. But Duncan was far more concerned about what he saw as the poor quality of music today. — That’s no music, it’s nonsense. Stealing other people’s stuff and selling it back tae them. Theft, Thatcherite music, that’s what that is. Thatcher’s bloody children, right enough, he grumbled.

  Sandra was thinking about Billy. He wasn’t into drugs, but her wee boy: battering people for a living. She didn’t want him to turn pro at the boxing, but he was doing well and making it big. His last fight was featured on STV’s Fight Night. An explosive victory, the pundit had called it. But she worried. You couldn’t go on battering people because eventually you got battered back. — Even when thir no aroond drugs, ye still worry. Ah mean, Billy wi that boxin: eh could be killed, with just one punch.

  — But he’s fit, he isnae around drugs, Maria argued. — That has to be good in this day and age.

  — Aye, ah suppose, Sandra agreed, — but ah still worry. One punch. She shivered, lifting a forkful of food to her mouth.

  — That’s what mothers are for, Wullie said cheerfully to Duncan, getting the frozen-eye treatment from Sandra as a result.

  What was her husband on about? Had he not seen his idol, Muhammad Ali? Had he not seen what boxing had done to the man?

  Maria sat indignantly erect in her seat. — See they’re aw going to Munich, with wee Andrew and . . . her eyes and voice lowered, — that Terry Lawson.

  — Terry’s awright, Duncan said, — eh’s no a bad laddie. Eh’s goat that new lassie now, and she seems nice. Ah ran intae them, up the toon, he told them. Duncan always stuck up for Terry. Granted, the boy was a bit of a rogue, but he hadn’t had an easy life and he was a big-hearted laddie.

  — Ah dunno, Sandra said. — That Terry can be a wild bugger.

  — Naw, it’s like oor Robert, Wullie contended. — Aw that stuff wi the casuals and that, it’s just part ay growing up. The Jubilee Gang. The Valder Boys. Then the Young Leith Team and the Young Mental Drylaw. Now it’s the casuals. Social history, young boys growin up.

  — That’s the trouble though, eh’s growing up just like that Lawson! That’s whae eh looks up tae, Sandra spat. — He got arrested for football trouble as well. Ah mind! Ah mind awright.

  — They just pick up anybody at these games now though, Sandra, Duncan assured her, as he felt anger well in his own breast. — It’s like oor Carl wi that stupid bloody . . . the bloody idiot, wi that daft Nazi salute in the paper. It’s jist silly, stupid boys showin oaf wi thir mates. They mean nae herm. They’ve aw been demonised oot ay all proportion tae take people’s minds off what this Government’s been daein for years, the real hooliganism. Hooliganism tae the health service, hooliganism tae education . . . Duncan caught Maria and Sandra’s raised eyes and Wullie’s laugh, — Sorry folks, that’s me gittin oan ma soapboax again, he said sheepishly, — but what ah’m tryin tae say, Sandra, is that your Rab’s a rerr laddie, n eh’s goat a good heid oan ehs shoodirs. He’s a lot mair sense than tae get involved in anything really bad.

  — That’s right, Sandra, listen tae Duncan, Wullie implored.

  Sandra was having none of it. She put her fork down. — Ah’ve got one son beatin up men in the ring for a livin, and the other daein it in the streets for fun! What is it wi you stupid, daft bloody men, she sniffed and rose tearfully, storming into the kitchen, followed by Maria who turned back and pointed at Duncan, — And your son actin like a fascist blackshirt! Aye, that Terry’s hud a hard life. Soas Yvonne, n she’s turned oot awright. Soas wee Sheena Galloway, n she’s never been in the jail or oot ay her heid oan drugs like the Galloway laddie! Maria followed Sandra.

  Wullie and Duncan rolled their eyes at each other. — One nil tae the girls, Wull, Duncan said sardonically.

  — Dinnae mind Sandra, Wullie apologised to his friend, — she’s always like this eftir one ay Billy’s fights. Dinnae get me wrong, it does worry me, but eh knows what eh’s daein.

  — Aye, Maria’s the same. She saw aw this stuff aboot Carl in one ay they music papers, talkin nonsense aboot aw the drugs eh takes. Eh telt me that it’s aw rubbish, they jist say it for publicity, cause it’s what the press want tae hear. Eh used tae come in some states before eh goat intae aw this rave n fantasy tablet stuff. Now eh looks really fit. Ah’ve seen um some mornins when eh’s been up half the night, no trace ay a hangover. If it’s killin um then it’s makin a bloody good job ay it, that’s aw ah kin say, Duncan nodded and looked off into the distance. — Ah’ll tell ye though, Wullie, ah could’ve killed him that time wi that salute in the Record. Ah mean, ma faither doon in Ayrshire, Wullie, eh loast half ehs fuckin leg fightin they bastards . . . Aye, ah took a drive doon thair, and eh didnae say nothing, but ah knew eh’d seen it. Ma auld faither, the disappointment oan ehs face. It wid’ve broke yir hert . . . Duncan seemed almost ready to cry himself. — Never mind, he laughed, steeling himself and pointing through to the kitchen, — let them huv a wee snivel. Ye got Billy’s fight oan video?

  — Aye, Wullie said, picking up the handset. — Watch this . . .

  The image flicked onto the screen. There was Billy Birrell, face set in hard concentration, staring across at Coventry’s Bobby Archer. Then the bell went and he flew out of his corner.

  Billy Birrell

  The Hills

  Ah’m flyin here now, even though there’s a fair wind up. I’m running right intae the bugger, straight up the hill, always getting the hills in, daein the distance, like Ronnie says, always like Ronnie says. We get the hills in. We dae the distance. We build up stamina. Always we; it’s brutal. And in the ring as well, We can hit harder than that boy. His punches cannae worry Us. But I’ve never seen Ronnie take a punch in the ring after the bell, or without a headguard.

  Nope, sorry Ron, we’re always alone in the ring.

  It’s steepening and I can see the top, and all the obstacles in my path. Almost all of them. Morgan’s comin up, but I can’t even look at him, I’m going right through him, and I think we both know it. Just like Bobby Archer, lyin by the side ay the road behind me. Aw they are is stepping stones tae Cliff Cook. I’m coming for you Cookie, and you’re gaunny get well done.

  Old Cookie, Custom House’s finest. I like the boy as well, probably more than I can afford tae. But by the time we get tae each other in the ring, we won’t like each other. Whoever wins, we’ll have a drink n chat aboot it after. That’ll be right, we’ll never speak tae each other again ootside threats and insults.

  Naw, we will. It’ll get better. It did the last time, when ah done him as an amateur. I left it late tae go pro, but no too late, Cookie. Ah’ll dae ye again.

  The incline’s rising and I’m feeling it now in the calves, Ronnie’s got a thing about calves, legs, feet. ‘The best punch comes not from the soul but the soles,’ eh keeps tellin me, right up through the body, arm, doon tae the hand and ontae the chin.

  He’s had me daein a lot of combination work has Ronnie. He reckons ah rely too much on the one big shot tae pit them oot. Ah feel it peyin off but, it hus tae be said.

  Also my defences worry him: I’m always going forward, always cutting off the ring, using ma power, stalking, hunting them down.

  Ronnie tells me that when ah come up against real class ah’ll need to backpedal sometimes. Ah nod, but ah ken the kind of fighter ah am. When ah start gaun backwards it’ll be time to wrap it. Ah’m never gaunny be that kind of fighter. When my reflexes go and I start takin shots, that’s it, I’m right away fae the game. Cause the real courage is tae put your ain ego on hold and stoap at the right time. The maist pathetic sight in the world is a scabby auld fighter being tortured like a wounded bull by some youngster he’d have whipped in his sleep a few years earlier.

  Make the top, and onto the slow decline of the back road down towards the car. Takin care no tae pill any muscles on the wey doonhill. The sun’s dazzling ma eyes. As the groond levels off in front ay ays, ah finish on a sprint, crashing through the
sporting high, makin me feel like I’m coming up on a pill. Ah’ve stoaped and ah’m filling ma lungs with cool air, thinking that if Cookie tries to do the same in Custom House or Morgan in Port Talbot, the poor cunts’ll no last long enough tae get intae the ring wi me. And Ronnie’s towelling the sweat off me, helping me wrap up like he’s a new mother and I’m his firstborn. We’re off in the car back doon tae the club.

  There’s a lot of silences with Ronnie. I like that, cause I like time to get my head right. I don’t like it when the shite of modern life flies through your nut. It’s brutal and it drains yir energy. The real fights are fought in yir heid, that always hus tae be right. And you can train yourself in your heid as well as your body; train yourself tae sift oot or bury aw the shite you get bombarded wi daily.

  Focus.

  Concentrate.

  Dinnae let them in. Ever.

  Of course you can take the easy way oot and fill yourself wi smack or bevvy like some ay them roond here. They gave up years ago, the sad losers. Ye lose pride in yerself n you’ve goat nowt.

  Ah hope Gally’s off that shite for good.

  The E’s are different, but naebody kens what they’ll dae tae ye in the long run. Mind you, everybody kens what fags and beer’ll dae in the long run; they’ll kill ye, and naebody’s in a hurry tae ban these. So what are E’s gaunny dae that’s so different: kill ye twice?

  Ronnie’s still no speakin. Suits me fine.

  The world looks good if yir oan one, up dancing tae Carl’s music at his club, although he’s got a wee bit too robotic, what’s it he calls it, too techno-heided for me: ah liked it better when he was on that mair soulful trip. Still, it’s his tunes and he’s daein awright. Getting noticed, getting respect. Goin roond the shoaps wi him, the clubs, n ye kin see it’s no two schemies anymair, it’s N-SIGN the DJ and Business Birrell, the boxer.

  Aw we’re gittin is the same respect that oor faithers goat for bein tradesmen, for workin in a factory. Now people like that, punters that were once seen as the salt ay the earth, are taken for mugs.