Demo (37 page)

But Farkhanda's kept her word and no telt naybody. Sometimes she says, Is it no time you moved on, Clare, and got rid of the Peroxide Dread? She says it like it's got capital letters, like it's some kind a poxy disease.

What about yours? I say. You want me to get shot of it tay?

Suit yourself, she says. I'm no bothered.

But I don't think that's the truth; I think she likes to see a bit of her hair out in the open;
hidden in full view
was the way she put it. She gets a thrill bein there when people ask me about it. I make sure I don't look at her and say, Oh, I just like variety, so I done a couple a dreads different for a laugh.

Cool, they says. Or, I see. Dependin on the age a whoever's asking me. And Farkhanda smiles at me when we're on our own again. She's eighteen, same as me, Farkhanda, and she's started at university, so you would think she would stop wearin the hijab. But I've got a sneaky suspicion a bit of her wants to wear it. She's used to it now. A bit of her wants to
say to the world, I'm a Muslim, any objections? Come over here and give us them.

Aye, well. No really, but that's the feelin I get sometimes. At least she doesny have to wear the dead heavy black claes she wore last year for the big demo and right up to the so-called end of the war. I was worried she was gonny start wearin a chador, a burkha even. But it turns out it wasny her ma and da after all; it was a group Shenaz and her pals set up theirsels, Daughters of Palestine or somethin, to show their solidarity wi the Palestinians.

There must be better ways to give your support than coverin yoursel up, I says.

What? she says. Name them.

And I couldny think a nothin. Except signin the odd petition in the city centre on a Saturday and payin attention when it comes on the news. Mair houses bulldozed; mair weans shot for throwin stones.

Point taken, I says.

I'm dead jealous a Farkhanda bein at uni. I could a been there with her if I hadny blew it, no sittin my Higher English. Why did I no? It's hard to remember now. I was on a real downer after the Glasgow demo and what happened wi Julian. And then the war started anyway and I thought, what's the point? What is the fuckin point? But when my da heard I'd dogged it, he was that disappointed, I thought he was gonny greet, so I sat the rest a them. At least that's somethin, he says.

I tune into what's going on in the livin room again. It sounds like ma's gettin Elvis into his snowsuit, you can hear him squealin – I'm gonny get him a white one wi rhinestones and big flares – and my da's talkin to Julian about the American election.

Nah, my da's sayin, Bush is in. A dead cert. The Iraq factor's worked in his favour.

The polls aren't so certain, Julian says.

Well, we'll see. Only two days to go. You can nearly hear my da's brain tickin over goin,
Who does he think he is, this upper-class twat, comin into my house tellin me about politics?
Only he wouldny say
twat
.

That you all ready, sunshine? That you wrapped up warm for the winter's night? We'll need to get you a Celtic scarf, wee man; bring you up in the true faith. Eh?

Thank you very much again, both of you, Julian says. Tish and I really appreciate it.

Tish and I!
Tish and I…

Not at all, my ma says. He's a pure delight. Aren't you, Matthew? A pure delight. She squeezes her voice thin and high. And she must be ticklin him through his padded suit, cause Elvis obliges wi a
pure delightful
shriek, on the way out the door.

Hey, wee man, I wouldny be surprised if they heard that in Australia, my da says. Great pair a lungs.

I need out a here.

My da says, That bus goes through every damn scheme between Glasgow and Helensburgh. Take the train, hen, for Christsake.

And I should've, but I was still mad, so I stood in the cold at the stop on Glassford Street, across fae the Trades Hall, and got on this bus that's windin in and out every wee street behind the St Enoch Centre.

It was my ma's idea.

You'll be able to take Barney for walks down the shore, blow away the cobwebs. It'll dae you a world a good, she says.

Aye, what she really meant was it would do
her
a world a good. I know I'm pure daein her head in these days. Think of all the people, she says, that have died or lost everythin in the tsunami. Think a the weans in Iraq or Darfur. What have you got to complain about? She knows what buttons to press, my ma, makes me feel pure rotten. I'm in the wrong all the time the now.

But I'm lookin forward to seein Barney. He's a big daft slobbery bugger and he ayeways cheers you up. Last time I seen him, he put his paws right up on my shoulders and nearly knocked me flyin. They treat him like a wean, my aunt Patsy and uncle Davey, cause they've nay weans a their ain. Which is fine by me, cause it lets me off the hook.

We're startin to get out fae the tangle a wee streets at last, and the driver's built up a bit mair speed on the straight road
beside the Clyde. It's an old bus, rattlin and shakin along, and the seats are threadbare and lumpy. A woman across the passage is tryin to catch my eye, tryin to start a conversation, but you know yon way when you just don't want to talk to anybody; you just want to sit and think your ain thoughts. I keep my head turned away fae her and look out the window. It's a kinda hazy day, no exactly grey, but no sunny either. We're chunterin past derelict sites and warehouses mixed in wi loads a new designer flats bein built. The gentrification a the Clyde, my da calls it.

Anyway, I'm glad of the chance to get away; things have been tense at home, to put it mildly. It would be different if I wasny hangin about the house all day. Jed's right about one thing, if I'd a sat my Higher English when I was meant to, I could've been enjoyin mysel at uni wi Farkhanda the now. As it is, every Tuesday and Thursday I'm pure keyed up, wonderin if it will be Laetitia or Julian collectin the wean. Yesterday it was Laetitia. She makes a point of talkin to me, bein nice, but the nicer she is, the more my face willny behave itsel. It's like I've got Bell's palsy or somethin, same as Mrs Graham across the landin. Twisted and ugly. And to put the tin lid on it, my ma's aye sayin how great Laetitia's lookin.

She's fair came on, that lassie. Positively blooming.

Positively fuckin make you sick!

The thing is too, you can't help lovin Elvis. He makes you. No that I let on. It would be different if he wasny their wean. We have a carry-on when my ma and da's out the room. Him and me's pals on the QT.

There's the Armadillo. No so shiny the day; the overlappin plates of the metal roof look as if they could do wi a polish. It seems like a hundred years fae we marched there. Aye, and look at Iraq now. What was the point? I says that to Jed, when
we went to the pictures a couple of weeks ago and he says, Come with me. He dragged me by the hand along the road to an internet café, sat me down in front of a computer and logged onto the Sorry website. Hunners a photos of Americans, holdin up handwritten messages:
Sorry, World! We tried our hardest and Bush still got back in. We'll do better next time. Please don't hate us
. They looked dead normal, ordinary, like us. Makes you realize that's no the usual picture you get of America; Bush, Rumsfeld, Cheney, Rice, rampagin about the world
kickin ass
. Negroponte, for God's sake! The Sorry website cheered you up. Which I think was the whole idea. I've a feelin it was Danny put Jed up to it. A film and then a good talkin to about sittin my Higher English, applyin to uni. Aye well, maybe.

We pass the sailin ship moored on the river, but you canny see it right, only the tops of the masts; there's a big warehouse blockin the view. Wouldn't it be great to sail away on that boat; out the Clyde estuary with the white sails flappin, down past Galloway and the North of England; through the Irish Sea, past Wales then Cornwall; along the west coast a France, round the corner a Spain, intay the Mediterranean; up the boot of Italy to the mouth of the Arno, and straight up the river to Florence! Aye, you wish! I'm gonny go someday but. I'm definitely gonny go back. Me and the
David
have some catchin up to do.

I must tell Patsy about him and
Il Prigioni
. I like Patsy. She's a couple a years younger than my ma and – don't get me wrong – dead similar, but – well, she's no my ma. I can talk to her, for one thing. And for another, she doesny know nothin about me and Julian. My ma and her never spoke for years after they had a big falling-out. Danny thinks it was all to do wi Davey workin at the Faslane naval base. Which makes sense. Davey maintainin the Trident nuclear submarines; my
ma and da campaignin against them. I asked my ma how they patched things up. Water under the bridge, was all she would say. Life's too short.

I sit wi my nose to the window when we pass the cranes, but I canny see nay sign a work goin on. Except there's a half-built boat, grey, a ferry, by the looks a things, wi an open stern for the cars. When I sit back, I get a surprise again, catchin a faint glimpse a my reflection in the window. Nay dreads. I rub the short fuzz on my head to check it's true. Aye, it's true. It took me ages to pluck up the courage to cut them off. You get used to them; I couldny imagine bein without them. After I decided, I tried to get a hold a Farkhanda to come and help me, but she was tied up at the uni, workin day and night on the election campaign for the rector. She's been supportin Mordecai Vanunu, the Israeli scientist that blew the whistle on Israel's nuclear programme. She telt me all about him the last time she came to the house, but I canny mind the half of it. I was mesmerized, couldny take my eyes off her; she was so excited about the campaign, sittin on my bed, her hair round her shoulders, face all lit up, eyes big and shiny. She was rattlin through the reasons why the students should support Vanunu, countin the points off on her fingers one by one. She phoned me up pure ecstatic afore Christmas and telt me they'd done it. He was elected. Now all they have to do is get him freed fae house arrest in Israel. Oh, is that all? I says. Uni's been great for Farkhanda.

Anyhow, I had to cut my dreads off mysel. I'd already let them grow out a bit at the roots, so I sat down in front a my granny's mirror and took the scissors to them. I tried to concentrate on the hair and no look at my face; lifted every lock individually and crunched through it wi my ma's big scissors, leaving as much a the new hair as I could. I laid them
one at a time on the dressing table, stretched out longways, side by side, till there were too many and I had to stack them on top a one another. They looked like a bundle a ginger sticks.

My da was dead right; the bus
is
goin in and out of all the wee schemes round about Clydebank and Dumbarton. The road we've just came into could be comin up the hill to our house on Kirbister Street. They all look the same, the schemes; all the ones that haveny been
regenerated
.

I saved Farkhanda's braid and Julian's dread till last. Fark-anda should a been there; we would've had a good laugh at the whole operation. Instead, I lost my concentration and caught the full blast in the mirror of what I done to mysel; jaggy tufts a new hair and the four dreads that were left. State a me! Two big tears appeared fae nowhere and ran down my face; I felt dead sorry for mysel. By the time I cut the last ones off, my reflection was a blur and the colours all ran into one another; black and red and peroxide.
The Peroxide Dread.
Maybe it was just as well I couldny see mysel properly; wee bunches of new hair in rows with white scalp crisscrossin my head in between.

I met my ma comin out the bathroom, when I was goin in. She didny say a word, but her face said it all.

What? I says, and locked mysel in afore she could answer.

I made a point a no lookin at myself again till I'd washed my hair and dried it, and the separate wee clumps had merged thegether. Then I snipped away at it till it was all the same length, a soft fuzz like the nap on velvet or somethin. Russet velvet. I couldny bear to go back to my room and face the pile a dreads, so I went through. Danny was in. I seen my ma shoot him a warnin look, but he says it anyway.

Fuck me, if it isny Sinead!

Aye, very funny, I says.

Sing us a song now, won't you. A darlin song from the oul country.

Fuck off!

Clare, what is
wrong
with you these days? my ma says. There's no livin with you.

And that pure set me off. I ran into my room, threw mysel on the bed and buried my face in a cushion. I must a howled for three whole hours. They all came to my door at different times, my ma, my da, Danny, but I couldny stop sobbin. I heard my ma sayin, Leave her. Leave her be. Let her have her cry. And that made me worse; I wanted them to leave me and I didny want them to leave me. I didny know what I wanted.

Anyway, that was a week ago. I left the dreads like a bundle a twigs on my granny's dressin table for days. I couldny bear to handle them again. But yesterday mornin, I got up, took one look at them, ran through to the kitchen for a poly bag and stuffed them all in. Then I thought better of it and fished out Farkhanda's plait and Julian's dread, still attached to two of my ain dreads. I untwisted a bit of the hairpin skewerin Farkhanda's braid to my hair – she never did get round to sewin it on – and I bent it round the top of my mirror, so the black and the red hung down thegether. I'm gonny keep it there till Farkhanda's seen them anyway. It looks good. The red ribbon wove through the braid is a bit duller than it was to begin wi, but Farkhanda's hair's just as black and shiny. And mine's like a strand a really thick red wool.

I lit an incense cone and set it on the windowsill. I took Julian's and my dreads, one in each hand, and yanked them apart like a wishbone. The thread holdin them ripped and unravelled right away. It was weird lookin at the two of them separate in my hands. I closed my eyes and rubbed them baith
wi my thumbs; they felt the exact same, couldny a telt them apart. I put mine in the polybag with the rest, tied up the handles and stuffed the bag into the kitchen bin. I picked up a roastin tray fae the cupboard on the way out.