Marabou Stork Nightmares (22 page)

— I think I'll go for a walk, Sandy, eh, try to find more pieces of wood for the fire, I said. I felt nervous and ill-at-ease, I had to get away from all of this.

— Top hole, Sandy shouted and winked as I edgily departed. What was he on about?

I found myself walking deeper into the dense woods. I crouched down in a clearing and tried to gather my thoughts. They kept taking me back though;

Harsh daylight.

We drove her into town and she went home. It took her a few days to report it to the police. We'd been rehearsing our story, which was straightforward. We had some bevvy and drugs and had a party. She was up for a bit of fun, and took a couple of us on. It was only in the morning when we started joking that she was a dirty slag, that she got all bitter and twisted and started all this rape fantasy stuff. We got rid of the video we'd watched and the records we'd listened to that night, so that she would make a cunt of herself if she told the polis what we had oan.

We were taken in for questioning, but we were all veterans of being interrogated by the bizzies. There was no way they were going to get anything out of us, especially with our lawyer in attendance. We had employed Conrad Donaldson Q.C. as our defence. Donaldson was the best criminal lawyer in the toon, and he assured us that they had no case. We just had to keep our nerve. Even when we were formally charged, it didn't worry us too much. The polis were a dawdle, their hearts weren't in it; the worse flak I had was from my family.

— Well, that's it now, ma ain laddie, Dad said. — Sick. A sick person. Like ah sais, a common criminal.

— It was her but, Dad . . . well Lexo wis a wee bit over the top, but it wis her . . . she wanted it . . . I pleaded.

I recall Bernard raising his sick queen eyebrows and pouting distastefully. It was flick all to do with that pansy. I wanted to obliterate that faggot. Ma rushed to my defence though, — Eh's no that kind ay laddie, John! Eh's no that kind ay laddie!

— Vet! Fuckin shut it! Like ah sais, jist fuckin shut it! Dad snapped, his eyes crimson. He turned to me and I felt the re-emergence of a childlike fear as those huge crazy lamps seemed to be reaching right into me, to be probing around in my soul . . . — Ah'm gaunny ask ye this once, and jist once. Did you touch that wee lassie? Did you hurt that wee lassie?

— Dad . . . it wisnae like that ... ah nivir touched her . . . a wis jist thair whin she pointed the finger at everybody. It wis a perty. . . everybody wis huvin a good time. This lassie, she wis crazy, high oan drugs n that, she jist wanted tae screw everybody thair. Then in the mornin a couple ay the boys started callin her a slag, now ah ken that wis a bit oot ay order, but she goes aw spiteful n starts takin it oot oan ivray cunt. Ah nivir did nowt. . .

— That's whit it wis! Ma screamed at John. — A slag! A fuckin slag's gaunny ruin ma laddie's life! N you're gaunny jist stand thair n take that slag's word against yir ain flesh n blood!

John let the implications of this sink home. He'd always said that the Strangs had to stick together and Vet had captured the moral high ground. — Ah'm no sayin that, Vet, like ah sais, ah'm no sayin that. . . it's no meant tae be like that, like ah sais, it wisnae meant tae be like that . . .

— Eh's a good laddie, John! Eh's goat a joab in computers . . . thing ay the future. Wi eywis brought um up right! It's jist that rubbish eh's been hingin aroond wi, they idiots fi the fitba . .

Dad's eyes glared like spotlights and his Adam's apple bobbed like a buoy in stormy seas, — We'll see tae they cunts. . . ah'll git ma fuckin shotgun now . . .

Thank fuck Tony was round with one of his kids, wee Sergio, — Naw John, naw. It'll just cause mair hassle gittin involved now. It's up in the courts. It could prejudice the case.

Dad's face twitched as he slowly grasped this. He hyperventilated a little on the spot and I thought he was going to hit one of us. Then he seemed to settle down. — Prejudice the case . . . that's right, Tony. . . aye. Naebody's gaunny dae nowt. The Strangs'll dae thair fightin in the coort. That's whair aw the fightin's gaunny be done, like ah sais, up the coort.

He squeezed my hand, almost crushing my bones in his fervour. — Ah jist hud tae ask son, ah jist hud tae ken. Ah nivir doubted ye though, son, nivir fir a minute. Ah hud tae ask though, son, tae hear it fae yir ain lips, like ah sais, fae yir ain lips. Ye understand that, son?

I nodded. I didn't really understand. I didn't understand fuck all. I didn't understand why I felt so bad. I hated that slag, I hated every cunt: everyone that fucked me around. It was me against them. Me. Roy Strang.

I didn't understand why whenever I thought of her I wanted to die.

Ah never did nowt.

— Wir gaunny clear yir name! We stick thegither, the Strangs. Wir gaunny win! Roy, Vet, Tony, wir gaunny win!

I remember him shaking a clenched fist in the air.

It was a long time before it got to court, and it seemed longer still. I couldnae work. I took all my annual leave from work, one month, and I just sat at home. Kim was there with me. She had lost her job at the baker's shop; been caught with her fingers in the till. We sat at home and chain-smoked. I'd never smoked before, just cause everyone else in the hoose did. I hated cunts who smoked cigarettes: fag-smoked cunts I called them. It seemed to me that the fags actually smoked them; covered them in filthy, rancid, tarry smoke.

Now here I was.

I'd never felt so low, so drained. All I wanted to do was to sit and watch telly. Kim talked incessantly, always about guys she had been seeing. It got soas I couldn't make out what she was actually saying, couldn't pick out the words, I could only hear this eeehhheeeehhhheeeehhh, this constant nasal monotone in the background; a dull, relentless soundtrack to my depression.

Whenever I went out, just local like, doon tae the shops, I felt that everyone was looking at me and I knew what they'd be saying under their breath: Dumbo Strang interbred mutant fuckup sick psychopathic rapist vermin . . . I stayed in as much as I could.

But I couldn't stay in forever. It was just so oppressive. I tried to keep in touch with the rest of the boys on the blower. Lexo and Ozzy were eywis oot, swedgin, partying, acting like fuck all had happened. Demps had gone to ground as well. When I called him and he heard my voice, he put the phone down. He stopped answering after that; his line was disconnected a little later.

I felt like a fuckin prisoner in this madhouse. Kim was a pain during the day, but my depression had inured me to her bleatings, which were fuck all compared to the crazy circus which went on around me all evening when Ma came back fae her joab at the auld cunts' place and Dad came in from John Menzies. He was usually late, he took all the overtime he could get. Thankfully Bernard had finally moved out to a flat, but Tony was often round.

One time Dad came in particularly buoyant. — Caught one sneaky wee bastard the day Vet, tryin tae steal comics. Broke doon in tears, like ah sais, in tears. That's how it starts Vet, the criminal classes, like ah sais, the criminal classes.

— Perr wee sowel . . .

— Ah sais tae um, yir no such a big man now ur ye, ya crappin, thievin wee bastard! Like ah sais, no such a big man now!

— That's a shay-ay-aymmme . . . Kim whined, — a wee laddie . . .

— Ah, bit that's no the point, Kim. Ah did that fir ehs ain good. Psychology Kim, yuv goat tae understand, psychology. Ye lit thum away wi it, thill nivir learn. Cruel tae be kind, like ah sais, cruel tae be kind. Should ah huv jist lit um away well? What if somebody hud seen n ah hud loast ma joab? Should ah? Ah'm askin ye? Should ah huv jist lit um away?

— Naw . . . bit. . . Kim protested.

— Naw bit nuthin! If ah hud loast ma joab, then what wid've happened? Thank Christ thir's somebody here whae kin hud a joab doon! Like ah sais!

This kind of shite went oan constantly.

The worse thing about the auld man was that he watched the fuckin telly aw night, he never seemed to sleep. When I'd go downstairs, insomniac myself with depression, I'd find him there, gaping at the box. Any noise outside and he'd shoot to the window, checking it out. His files were increasing; he'd opened up new ones on the block of flats two down from us.

I had another look at some of his handiwork.

23/8 MANSON Single Parent: Donna (17) Child: Sonia (less than six months.)

I always feel sorry for young lassiesin this position, even if most of them just do it to get a flat from the fuckin stupid communist cunts on the council. This lassie seems good and the bairn is always clean. There is usually a drugs risk in this situation though, with the scumbags who hang around lassies in such a situation.

Verdict: Possible drugs threat. Continue surveillance.

Dad had got involved with a local group called Muirhouse Against Drugs: Brian's old man Jeff was the President; Colin Cassidy was its secretary. I don't think Jeff knew what he was letting himself in for, getting those cunts involved. — Ah've goat detailed files Jeff, like ah sais, detailed files, oan a loat ay cunts in the scheme. Ah'm prepared tae make them available tae the group at any time, my Dad once told him.

The anti-drugs group was now all my Dad spoke about.

— Ah think the thing aboot Muirhoose now is it's goat tae the stage whair the kid gloves huv goat tae come oaf, Jeff. It's nae good jist drivin these cunts oot the scheme; the council jist sticks thum back here again. What we need are five good men wi shotguns, like the yin ah've goat up the stair. Jist go roond n blaw these cunts away, like ah sais, jist blaw them away. That's what ah'd like tae dae, that's what would happen in a sane world.

— Eh . . . aye John, Jeff said nervously, — but it isnae a sane world . . .

— You're tellin me it's no! We've goat ma laddie thair whae's workin in computers n he's treated like a leper in this fuckin scheme because ay some slut. Yuv goat aw they junkies stoatin roond, protected by the polis n featherbedded by the fuckin council! The shotgun solution's the only one, like ah sais, the shotgun solution. N ah'll tell ye this n aw Jeff, see eftir ah'd wasted aw that junky trash, ah'd be right up the council n ah'd blaw they cunts away n aw! Fuckin sure'n ah wid. Cause the junkies n the single parents n that, they're just the symptom ay the disease, like ah sais, jist the symptom. The real source ay it is these cunts up the City Chambers. Not fuckin quoted, these cunts!

I couldn't go out but I couldn't stay in; no wi that shite gaun on.

So one day I ventured out and took a bus up the toon. Walking down Princes Street my attention was caught by a series of black posters with a huge white Z on them. They hung from hoardings along the Gardens side of the road.

The first one had:

I felt as if I had been punched hard in the stomach. I couldnae get air, the blood seeming tae run right oot ay ma heid. I stood in Princes Street, shaking.

— THEY DINNAE KEN! THEY DINNAE KEN THE CIRCUMSTANCES! THEY DINNAE KEN WHAT IT'S LIKE! I found myself shouting, drawing puzzled, furtive looks from shoppers and tourists who moved to avoid me. A group of Japanese visitors looked on for a few seconds, and one actually took my picture: like ah wis some fuckin festival street theatre. — FUCK OFF YA SLANTY-EYED CUNTS! FUCKIN TORTURIN BASTARDS! ah shouted. They turned away and made hastily down the road, no doubt cursing ays in Japanese.

Composing myself, I wandered on. The whole ay Princes Street, on the gardens side like, was decked oot wi these fuckin Z posters. Each slogan ripped through me like a psychic machete, but I was compelled to read them all:

There were other ones; photaes ay bairns. Bairns that had been abused, making oot that what we had done wis like what aw they sick cunts that touch up bairns dae . . . like wi Gordon n South Africa n me. . . when ah wanted tae greet n he sais that ah wis dirty n that nae cunt would believe ays

cause wi that cunt Gordon it wisnae like how ah telt it, it wisnae like that at aw, that wis oan the surface, thir wis another part ay ays . . .

NO

I ran over into Rose Street, and hit the first pub I saw. The young barman looked at me warily; he must have recognised me as one of the cashies. I asked for a double whisky. I threw it back in a oner. It made me feel queasy; I just drank Becks like. I looked around the pub. It was covered in posters for the festival. Aw the fuckin shows that these daft cunts went tae. Then I saw it again. The Z poster, two wee lassies playin:

I was straight oot ay that pub. I went into another, perspiring heavily, my temples throbbing. I checked out the notices. Nae Z ones. I ordered a whisky and a Becks. I sat down in a corner. The pub was busy; it was dinnertime. I was too much in a world of my own to notice the voices around me.

— Busman's holiday, Roy? I turned around and saw this white-heided, rid-faced cunt in a suit n tie. It was Mr Edwards, my boss, or rather my boss's boss.

— Eh . . . aye . . .

— It's just that I thought that you'd find somewhere more exotic than the office local to drink in on your annual leave, he smirked.

I never even realised that this
was
the office local. The cunts at Scottish Spinsters' were as boring as fuck; I never socialised with the drab, middle-class twats.

— Eh . . . aye . . .

— Sorry, this is Roy . . . em . . . Roy; Roy from Colin Sproul's section, the cunt Edwards sais tae this big shag in a suit wi tons ay make up, n this slimy cunt in a suit wi dark, Brylcreemed hair n a moustache.

We exchanged nods.

— Roy's people are doing a wonderful job in dragging us out of the dark ages, into a new, exciting halcyon era of advanced technology, is that not right, Roy? he said, in that plummy stage drama voice which is a required accessory for the exercise of Edinburgh bourgeois wit.

— Eh . . . aye . . . , I went, as the others laughed.

— So you're one of Colin Sproul's mob in S.C.? The Bryl creemed cunt says, like an accusation. That sharp, posh voice, always sounding like a fuckin accusation. Ah felt like sayin: naw, ah'm Roy Strang, cunt. Roy fuckin Strang. Hibs Boys. Ah felt like smashin ma boatil ay Becks ower the cunt's heid, then rammin it in ehs fuckin smug pus.

Bit ah didnae. Wi these cunts, it's like ah'm jist invisible tae thaim n they are tae me. It all came tae ays wi clarity; these are the cunts we should be hurtin, no the boys wi knock fuck oot ay at the fitba, no the birds wi fuck aboot, no oor ain Ma n Dad, oor ain brothers n sisters, oor ain neighboors, oor ain mates. These cunts. Bit naw; we screw each other's hooses when there's fuck all in them, we terrorise oor ain people. These cunts though: these cunts wi dinnae even fuckin see. Even when they're aw aroond us.

— Eh aye, Systems Control. . . was all I could say. Systems control.

Why was that all I could say? Why did I need my mates to give me a context? Why couldn't I just turn this place over like I did to that working-class pub in Govan? Why couldn't I terrorise these cunts now, now that I had them in my sights, knowing that they'd shite themselves tae death?

— I've a bit of a beef on with S.C. at the moment. You know that death benefits network system your crowd installed?

— Eh . . .

— Uh, uh Tom, Edwards goes, — Roy's on annual leave. He won't want to hear this.

— You're a programmer, Roy? The shag in the suit asks.

— Eh, aye. Systems Analyst.

— Do you like it there?

— Eh, aye.

I fuckin hated it.

No. I didnae. I didn't feel strong enough about it to hate it. It wis jist a place you went to during the day, because they peyed ye tae. While I was there, I just floated around in a void of indifference.

— Roy was just made up recently from a trainee, weren't you, Roy? Edwards grins.

— Eh, aye, I said, feeling this tightening in my chest. There was a strange ringing in my ears, like when the telly's finished. I gulped my drink down. — Excuse me, I'm in a bit of a hurry, I said, standing up. — Got to meet someone.

— Well, she must be nice, you rushing off like that, laughed Edwards.