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  N whin wi gits tae the Moncrieffe Suite, where aw the tables ur set up fir this round ay the contest, thir’s a buzz ay expectancy in the air. Pure sporting theatre! Ah’m stridin around, sizin up ma fellow gladiators whin ma hert twangs as ah sees the disgruntled collaborator Mossman, well in the Clark camp, rootin fir yon Perth cunt, ya hoor. Fuckin Dunfermline: the capital ay Vichy Fife. As ah head tae the toilet ah’m even treated tae Mossy’s wee stage-whisper tae Clarky, intended fir ma ain delicate lugs: — Ah hope ye annihilate that dirty wee jockey.

  Ah turn tae Kravy in the bogs as wir sprayin the porcilin wi urine. — Did ye hear that Mossman cunt callin ays a ‘dirty wee jockey’? At least some ay us tried tae make wur mark in the world ay sport!

  Kravy shakes it oot n zips up. — Ah thoat eh said ‘dirty wee jakey’, Jase.

  — That’s awright then, ah goes, thinking again ay wee Jack ‘Jakey’ Anstruther, n hopin, in spite ay muh Marxist-Leninist leanins, that if thir is a god, then the hoor’s a Fifer rather thin a Perth cunt.

  Bit fuck divine assistance: that Mossman’s ungracious behaviour wis aw the motivation ah needed. Ye could breeng in wi the likes ay him but Clark wis a different matter: the laddie hud some talent. Ma tactics wir tae play the passin game, retain possession, jist keep the Clark fellay away fae the table soas eh couldnae establish any momentum, thus frustratin the hoor. Ah kent the boy hud cavalier tendencies and thit eh goat a bit nippy if eh went too long without gittin a flick.

  So ah did jist that; keepin the baw, no in situations ay threat at first, but slowly weavin muh men intae place, n waitin till ah wis in a good position afore any goal attempt. Muh first yin came whin ah deflected a shot oaf his defender (meant, by the way) tae take the lead. The second wis a long-range strike fae the midfield whaire the baw wis jist oan the shootin line n the player trundled intae the net eftir it. Ya beauty! The Clark felly showed ehs displeasure in thon second concede, knockin ehs goalposts n net aboot, forcin the ref tae huv a wee word.

  Ah kept hud ay the baw n ran the clock doon, and it steyed at two-nil.

  The cunt nivir even accepted my gracious offer ay a pint ay black gold at the bar eftir. The drink eftir the contest is the symbolic cup ay friendship; even Sir Alex and thon wee fuckin dago cunt’ll share a bottle ay rid wine eftir a game, win, lose or draw. Nae time fir thon unsportin behaviour.

  16.

  GYPSY BOYS

  I’M PLAYING MARILYN Manson in my room, thinking about how I can get out of ‘supporting’ Lara in this Hawick competition. I’m zoning out to ‘Better of Two Evils’ and I hear a strange whistling then a clearing of a throat, noting that my father has materialised before me. He didn’t knock; he just opened the door and came inside. Now he’s standing at the bottom of my bed. — Can ah have a wee word?

  Try stopping him. — Whatever, I shrug.

  He turns down the sound on the stereo and lowers his bulk into my big wicker-basket chair. It creaks under him. In the last week or so, he’s talked to me more than he’s done in years. Evidently, he now considers me worth saving. Of course, it’s what he considers me worth saving for that’s the big worry. However, I cross my legs and make a passable stab at being all ears.

  — Ah’m hard on you, he concedes, then adds with a surprising degree of conviction, — but it’s only cause ah dinnae want tae see ye waste yir life.

  — It’s my life, is all I can think to say in retort.

  — Dinnae gie me that, he says gravely, as if he expects more understanding. — I’m hard on you, only because ah ken you’ve got what it takes.

  In spite of myself I feel the nauseating elation of his flattery rising up through my frustration. At least in his own inept way he’s trying. — I’m not a showjumper, Dad, I tell him, the words almost choking in my throat. — You can get me the best horse in the world and I’ll never be as good as the likes of Lara.

  — Aye ye will, my father retorts with a calm, empathic certainty that annoys me. — Ah’ve been watchin you lately, the way you’ve slimmed doon. The weight’s been fawing off ye!

  — I don’t want to talk about it –

  — Your mother goes on about anorexia and all that pish. That’s jealousy talking, that’s aw that is. She couldnae pass the confectionary coonter in that newsagent, and ah’ve seen her, at thon supermarket checkoot, he says in a derisory manner, — crammin they chocolates intae her puss, never able tae git enough, like some demented junkie. It’s sickening. That’s somebody that’s no right in the heid, that!

  It’s his wife he’s talking about. But he’s right. He is so fucking right. — Dad –

  — Ah ken that you’re different, Jenni. Ah know that ye go tae that leisure centre regularly and work oot.

  A spark of pique ignites in me. — Is nothing fucking private in this fucking place?

  — Hey! Mind the language! He pouts, then says in placating tones, — I’m no criticisin ye. It isnae meant tae be a criticism. Ah think it’s great. N it shows you’ve got discipline and pride. Cause you’ve got me in ye, his weather-beaten, leathery face crinkles. — You’re a Cahill, he boasts proudly. — Yir always welcome tae use my gym, you ken that though, eh?

  My stomach is churning. Observing my dad trying to be nice is much more disturbing than watching him being obnoxious. He just isn’t cut out for it.

  — You’ve got to think of your future, Jen. If you don’t think you’re gaunnae do it in showjumping, then you could do worse than learn the ropes ay the haulage business.

  What a truly fucking sickening thought. — I doubt that it would be my thing, I quickly respond.

  He laughs derisively and lights a cigarette, ignoring the No Smoking signs I’ve put around the room. The big pub ashtray is under the bed, where it’ll stay. I’ll not have him smoking filthy minging tobacco in my room. — Too common for ye, is it? Aw they nasty trucks n sweaty drivers? Dinnae forget that it was that business that put food on your plate and fed that useless four-legged parasite in that stable doonstairs. Aw they trips abroad, aw they tourneys, aw that equipment, aw this land. Ah dinnae see ye turning yir beak up at that! Ah blame masel fir spoilin –

  He stops mid rant, seeming to see what he’s doing. — Thanks, I say.

  — For what?

  — For reverting to type. You actually were starting to sound like a decent human being for a second or two there.

  — You … look, he says, fighting down his exasperation, as he stands and looks around for an ashtray. He gestures towards one of my plants and I shoot him a look that says ‘don’t even think about it’. He moves to the window, takes two quick puffs and flicks the cigarette outside. — Dinnae be like that. C’mon. Gie it a try. At least come in wi me and see how the business works.

  — I’ll consider it, I tell him, basically just to get him to go.

  — That’s ma girl, he says encouragingly. I lean over to the stereo and turn up my music and he takes the hint and leaves, screwing up his face and putting his fingers to his ears.

  17.

  BIKE CRASH

  SO WIR COMIN tae the outskirts ay the toon, and ah’m thinking again, thank fuck we’ve made it, that Kravy cunt is fuckin fearless, weavin in n oot ay traffic, aw they fuckin lanes, like we were icons oan a PS 2 game, but now Cooden is in sight! Wur tearin roond the bend at high speed … but then wir gaun naewhaire …

  … ah’m oaf the bike n ah’m sortay flutterin through the air like a butterfly, n ah seem tae be gaun that slow that whin ah come tae rest it’ll be like oan this bed ah pillays but then ah feel this impact, it’s like an explosion but yin comin fae inside ay ma boady! Then, for a bit, thir’s a strange peace. It’s like huvin aw the rest ah’ve ever been promised, before ah n git woke by a rustlin sound aw ower n aroond ays. Eftir a bit ah realise thit ah’m lyin stuck in the branches ay a tree.

  Ah look doon n thair’s Kravy sitting up, but slumped forward at the bottom ay this big oak tree next tae mine, like ehs huvin a wee nap. Thir’s like this big streak ah dark rid paint runnin up the tree a
bove him. It looks fresh. Ah cannae see whaire it’s come fae. Ah hear a craw screechin. Then ah see where the stuff oan the tree’s come fae, Kravy’s neck. Cause thir’s jist a rid stump wi a bit ay bone in it comin oot ay the boy’s shoodirs. Cause the hoor’s heid’s missin.

  Fuckin

  Eftir checkin baws, eyes, airms, legs n that order, n aye, thir aw thair, ah starts tae climb doon. Muh hands are tearin and bleedin oan the branch n the foliage but it disnae bother ays as ah feel fuckin weird: sortay numbed and wired at the same time. Ah gits tae the bottom ay the tree tae git a right look at Kravy. Ah moves closer.

  Aw ya hoor, aye, ah wisnae seein things.

  Eh’s nae fuckin heid.

  Thir’s jist a stump ay neck, ah kin see the spine, it’s been severed cleanly like by a fuckin guillotine, blood still bubblin fae it, pumpin up oot ay the body which is twitchin away like eh’s comin up oan a pill. It’s still like eh’s muckin aboot, playin some sort ay daft trick, n ah’m looking around fir the heid, expectin tae see it wi a big grin. Thir’s nowt but, Kravy’s gone.

  Ah feel rain droplets hittin my heid n shoodirs, n ah look up. Yin lands rid oan muh white T-shirt. It’s Kravy’s blood, sprayed up intae the leaves n branches ay the tree, now droapin back doon oan ays.

  Turnin roond n lookin up the bankin, pittin ma hand ower muh eyes tae keep the sun n blood oot ay thum, ah see the bike lyin oan the road where it skyted ower. A car’s stoaped and cause ah’m covered wi Kravy’s blood this auld boy in a checked jaykit’s goat oot n eh’s shoutin at ays, sayin, — Ur ye hurt?

  — Naw, ah’m awright, ah shouts back.

  — But you’re covered wi blood!

  Ah start tae laugh at that. — Aye, ah say, for some reason thinking ay the lassies Soakin Wi Rain n Roastin Wi Sweat. Ah could be the felly fir the threesome wi thaime, right enough. — Ah’m Covered Wi Blood, ah admit, lookin at the claret oan my ripped airms n no really kennin or carin whether it’s mine or muh boy’s. — But muh mate … eh’s loast ehs heid.

  — It’s easily done, the speed those things can get up to, the auld boy goes. — It’s so dangerous driving a motorbike. Was he on drugs?

  — Jist a wee bit ay tarry n a pint at the Sally up in Perth, ah say as the boy moves ower tae the verge. Eh sees Kravy’s body and goes, — Oh my God … it’s a real person, his head’s missing … oh my God … n eh starts tae boak n lurches back tae the motor. Then eh’s straight on the mobby.

  Aw ah kin think ay is ehs ma in the hoaspital, n for some reason her gash that Kravy came ootay aw they years ago, so cruelly exposed by the Young Team oan thon Blue Brazil website.

  N ah kin see whit’s happened, ya hoor; the sharp edge ay that road sign thit says ‘REDUCE SPEED NOW’ hus been bent ower, by some Young Team vandal, nae doots, n Kravy’s come oaf the bike at speed wi me n ehs heid’s been in line wi it …

  Aw naw.

  The sign has an edge ay rid blood oan yin side, specklin oot across it. Like a fuckin guillotine; Central Fife, totally fuckin medieval, ya hoor.

  But whaire’s ma boy’s heid?

  Ah dives right intae the thick bushes and rows ay nettles, lookin for the heid, it’s still gaunny be in the crash helmet, it’ll no huv gone far, surely. Then ah hears the cloppin ay hoof oan the road n voices n the auld boy’s sayin, — Don’t look, girls, come away …

  N ah hears Jenni, — But it’s our friend … then she shouts, — Jason! Are you okay!

  — Please, stay back, there’s been a terrible accident! the old felly says.

  Ah’m waist-high in jaggy nettles but turns n looks up n ah sees Lara’s hudin back, looking aw shocked but Jenni’s comin forward. — JASON!

  Ah goes, — Aye, ya hoor, ah’m awright, bit ah cannae find ma mate’s fuckin heid, eh no.

  So ah’m still rummagin aroond in the big forest ay jaggy nettles lookin fir Kravy’s heid in the rid helmet, but ah feel muh legs gaun n ah try tae squat doon for a bit, jist like, tae rest fir a bit, but ah feel ma stomach risin up n me cowpin forward, n when ah wake up ah’m in the fuckin hoaspital, ya hoor!

  18.

  HEAD

  HIS FRIEND WAS so good-looking; the beautiful boy who left this town on his motorcycle and made a new life in Spain. I had visions, dreams, of him taking me there with him, on the back of it, or anywhere away from here.

  But to my great surprise I’m relieved that Jason’s alright; that it’s his friend who’s gone and not him. — I’m going to go and visit Jason up at the hospital, I say absent-mindedly, as I load some crockery into the dishwasher, first pushing Indy out the way to get the door open, as she’s slumped over the worktop, reading a comic.

  — That ham shanker. It would have been better off if he’d went the same wey as his daft mate, my dad moans, as he spreads himself some peanut butter on his oatcakes.

  I don’t rise to his bait, but then my mother, who is sitting at the kitchen table doing her nails, chips in. — He has a family and friends of his own, Jenni. You have to wise up to people like that. They do tend to take advantage. They just can’t help themselves.

  — Like Dad did with you, I respond.

  — No! You don’t know what you’re talking about – she trills as I head out towards the door, then screeches in panic, — Come back here when I’m talking to you!

  I laugh loudly, continuing my exit. — Under no circumstances. You’re so inherently trivial and inconsequential!

  — What does inconsequential mean? Indigo asks, looking up from the comic. She’s now sprawled right across the worktop, like a cat.

  — It doesn’t mean anything, my mother shrieks. — It means that Jennifer thinks that she knows best, as usual! And you: get down from there and sit on the chair!

  I hear Indy saying something under her breath as I depart, then voices getting raised. I enjoy a buzz of gleeful satisfaction, happy that I’ve wound them all up. Outside, it’s a miserable day, dirty rain falling in sheets and you can feel the bronchitis incubating in your chest. So I drive up to the hospital in Dunfermline, where I went with Jason when he was admitted yesterday. When I get onto the ward there are screens around his bed. I feel panic rising inside of me, envisaging him fighting for his life, but they’re suddenly whipped open as a red-headed nurse appears. As she removes Jason’s bedpan I catch his bulging eyes ogling her.

  He registers me and breaks into a big, if slightly guilty smile. — Jenni!

  — Hello, Jason, I grin back. He doesn’t look too bad, apart from one side of his face, which has come up in big, blotchy white spots where he collapsed and fell into the stinging nettles.

  — Sit yirsel doon, he urges. — Heather wis jist seein tae muh, eh, pressin needs, if ye ken whit ah mean.

  — How are you? I ask, looking at the steady beam that ignites Nurse Heather’s face as she goes about her duties.

  — Ah’m brand new, but thuv telt ays tae keep still till they git the rest ay they X-rays back. Aye, Heather, fae Tayport, he says as the nurse smiles thinly at me and departs with the bedpan, Jason’s offerings covered by a paper towel.

  I sit down in one of two hard red plastic visitors’ chairs. Jason’s locker is stocked with Irn-Bru and grapes. He seems better than when they brought him in yesterday, a lot more settled. He thought he’d fractured his arm, but the X-rays revealed that it was just bad bruising. He had some lacerations on his back that needed stitches, but it was a really remarkable escape. — I can’t imagine what it must be like, I’m asking him, — to survive when your friend dies … tell me again exactly what happened.

  — Ah appreciate ye comin, Jenni, he says, — but ah’m no gaun through aw thon again, ah telt ye it aw last night.

  — Of course, of course, I nod sternly. — You have to rest, it must have been a terrible shock, I appreciate, looking at his big, confused eyes. — Still no word about his head?

  Jason suddenly slaps his own forehead with his good arm, and seems in real distress about this. — Nup, thuv hud Fife’s finest oot aw night n aw mornin combin the area n th
uv still found zilch. Ah cannae believe it; it’s in a rid crash helmet, for fuck’s sake!

  There’s something that’s so wonderful, magnificent and symbolic … about such a death. It excites me. — I love the idea of his beautiful head, like that of a disembodied angel, floating around looking down on us all. That perfect, wonderful face that won’t age or be corrupted by life; he’ll stay as beautiful as Kurt, Princess Di and Jimmy Dean, forever young!

  But this thought doesn’t seem to console poor Jason, who is so upset. — Aye, but ehs ma’s a green grape n shi’s wantin a fuckin open-casket joab! So ah’ve got tae find that heid. If the fuckin bizzies cannae dae it, n ah hae ma doots aboot Fife Constabulary’s commitment tae this case, then ah’ll need tae get oot thair masel!

  — You can’t, Jason, you have to rest, I urge.

  — Aye, ye talk aboot ehs beautiful heid, but it’ll no be that beautiful once the craws n rats n worms git a haud ay it, he says in horror. And it is such a terrible thought. — Yuv goat tae help ays, Jenni, ye huv tae dae me a big favour, he begs.

  I’m looking into those crazed eyes, which remind me of the fighting dogs back in the barn, and I feel that I can’t really refuse. — What?

  — Go tae ma hoose n tell muh auld boy that ah need some clathes. Then bring thum back here fir ays.