Born Free

by Laura Hird

  ‘Dad’s gettin me Fifa 98 at the weekend. We’re gonnae see your shitey team play Celtic as well.’

  Jason grinds his cigarette into the concrete and spits a dirty big greaser on top of it.

  ‘What for? You hate the Jambos. Has your old man’s Lottery Instant come up?’

  ‘Nah, I think it’s more of a Japanese Endurance-type thing. How long can I watch really gash football for? How much shite can I stand? Be a good laugh anyway. It’ll just make Rangers seem even better.’

  Jason seems miffed that I’m getting something over on him. Despite the fact he’ll probably turn up on Saturday as well now. He’s an only child so his mum and dad are forever chucking money at him. Nodding his head thoughtfully, he squirts open another £1.29 tin of Red Bull.

  I’m sure dad just pretends to like Hearts to wind Mum and me up. He can’t genuinely think they’re a good team. They’re maybe near the top of the league at the moment, but they’ll blow it by the end of the season like they always do. It was Granda, Mum’s dad, got me into Rangers. When I was wee, he used to take me to the Orange March in Princes Street. It was brill – all drums and banners and bright colours. You always saw really good fights as well, you know, two people having an argument turning into a massive big pagger. I really miss Granda. He used to speak to me like I was an adult, even though I was only nine when he died. Towards the end, though, he started going strange, telling me he was going to leave the cooker on one night and gas him and Granny. I liked him and I didn’t want him to die, or kill Granny, so I told Mum. They wouldn’t let me see him after that.

  Jason finishes his fag as we walk down for registration. We’re in different classes, so I take the long way round to see if I can get a wee glimpse of Miss Barnes. As I prowl towards her class, my legs feel like they’re about to give way. When I get up to the door, I pretend to look behind me, so I can stare through the glass panel. She’s writing something on the blackboard, but turns round and smiles. I shite it along the corridor and down the back stairs. Fuck, I can’t believe she saw me. She’ll think I’m a fucking radge. I’m just going to wank for the rest of my life. It’s far less scary.

  As I get to the bottom of the steps, I feel myself being lifted off the ground. Shug the Slug’s suddenly in front of me, breathing his garlic halitosis into my face. Whoever’s had a grip of me lets go, and I crunch onto the hard stone floor.

  I grasp for my bag, to escape, but Shug stands on my wrist.

  ‘Uyah, uyah, dinnae. Leave eys alone,’ I plead, looking round desperately for help. I realise the guy that picked me up is Adam’s pal, Daniel, who we smoked blow up the canal with the other night. He’s doesn’t even acknowledge me now. Shug gives my wrist a final grind with his size-ten Caterpillars before releasing me.

  ‘Right, you dirty Orange bastard, where’s my fucking Loaded, eh? It came out yesterday and I don’t fucking have it yet. Have you any idea how irritating I find that?’

  Shug likes glossy magazines, men’s ones, particularly the ones with lots of tits in them. If I don’t buy them for him, he kicks my head in. Most of them only come out once a month, but there’s so fucking many of them these days, it costs me about six quid a week. And I have to wank on fucking Marie Claires!

  ‘Sorry Shug, honest. I didnae get money till today.’

  Digging in my pocket, I offer him the three quid dad gave me. He grabs it, but wants more.

  ‘Come on. Interest as well, you little cunt. It’s one day late and I’m going to have to go all the way up to the shops and buy it myself. Fucking shocking inconvenience.’

  I offer him the money I have left, about £1.33, that I was going to get chips and juice with. He takes it, then grabs my arm and twists it up my back till it feels like it’s going to snap. Jo’s pal, Rosie, comes down the stairs, glances at us, then walks out into the playground. Shug tightens his grip on my arm again when she’s gone. Daniel’s still not letting on.

  ‘Right, cunt. It’s FHM next Monday. If ah dinnae get it before school, I’ll bite your fuckin balls off.’

  Shug being Shug, I don’t doubt this. He pushes me away and gobs in my face.

  ‘Rangers fucking scum.’

  As I stumble off, wiping his phlegm from my cheek, Daniel finally comes back to life, slings me a red-card tackle and I slap, face-down, onto the stone floor. As my nose bangs off the ground, this horrible, cold, rushing, pain goes right through my head. Daniel and Shug strut off, laughing, fucking bastards. Rosie’s a cow as well, she could have stopped them. I actually quite like school but cunts like that make me not want to come back.

  Blood’s plopping out my nose onto the ground. I fumble into the toilets, and check out the mirror. The bottom half of my face is completely covered in blood. It looks sort of cool but my head’s so sore it’s making me feel sick. I have to lean back and dowse myself with wet paper towels for ages before it stops. I’m still cleaning up the mess when a laddie I don’t know comes in and asks if I’m OK.

  ‘Aye, aye, it’s fine. I just get these nose-bleeds sometimes. I don’t know what causes it.’

  He tries to look up my nose.

  ‘Will I take you along to the nurse’s? Your face is a funny colour. D’you feel awright?’

  ‘Aye, honest. Thanks, anyway.’

  He’s still looking at me, but his expression’s changed now.

  ‘Is your second name Scott?’

  How the fuck does he know?

  ‘Yeah, what about it?’

  ‘I live in your stair, second floor. We moved in last month. Ah’m Sean.’

  Oh, my head is so sore. Even trying to smile is painful. ‘Yeah? That Mrs Anderson’s a cow, eh?’

  ‘Too right. She complained about the noise when we were trying to move in. Her house stinks of cat shit. You can smell it on the landing, eh?’

  By the time we leave the bogs, Sean and I have slagged off all the neighbours, he’s invited me down for a shot on the Internet and I’ve enlisted him in the Mr Russell Campaign. It’d be dead handy being pally with someone in the same stair. I’m sure Mum said they were Catholics but he might still be all right.

  I walk round to try and catch Jason before he goes into the next lesson. My head’s hurting too much to go to French. I can’t understand it at the best of times. Foreign words seem to cause a two-mile tailback in my brain. I mean to say, male and female words, have you ever heard such shite? They teach you useless stuff anyway. If I was in France I’m sure I wouldn’t be going about asking folk the time and demanding baguettes and jotters. Things like, where’s the nearest cybercafé or when is the next flight out of your stinking Froggy country, would be far more useful.

  I stand at the end of the corridor in case the teacher or any of the sneaky lassies see me and think I’m skiving. I’m too embarrassed to say I’ve got a headache, it’s just so poofy. After about five minutes, Jason skits down the main stairs and straight into the class. I holler his name down the corridor but the teacher goes in behind him and shuts the door. Fuck, I wanted him to chum me home in case I blacked out. I’ve seen it on Casualty. If you bang your head and fall asleep, you can go into a coma. Dying doesnae really bother me, but being fed baby-food, having to get Mum or Dad to wipe my arse, just being able to gurgle and not even being able to play Fifa doesn’t sound too good.

  Why didn’t I ask that Sean laddie what he was up to? I feel dead alone, like I’ve maybe only got about ten minutes to live and nobody cares. The pain just keeps getting worse.

  As I look out the window, I see Shug, Daniel and a couple of their henchmen coming back across the playground. I run up the corridor and out the main door, onto the street. Maybe I should tell someone about getting my head kicked in all the time. The way I’m feeling, I won’t have to worry about it for much longer.

  Mr Russell’s at the bus stop with swotty Simon from fourth year when I get up to the main road. Hiding in the doorway of one of the derelict shops, I spy on them till the bus comes. They’re laughing away together like a right pair of
old nancies, in public as well. I always kent there was something funny about that Simon. His dad’s a screw, mind, so what d’you expect? As suspected, they both get the same bus, a 33. Mr Russell lives just up the road, Simon’s from Longstone, so fuck knows where they’re going. Probably to hang about in some public toilet. No point in phoning him before I go home then, I suppose. If I’m not dead by tonight, I’ll make up for it. Keep ringing while they’re trying to shag.

  As I open the door to our flat, I hear screaming and giggling. Jo comes out Mum’s bedroom, done up like Marilyn Manson. She looks bored when she sees it’s just me.

  ‘What’s this then? Home for a wank?’

  Bitch, I’m going to do it in the bathroom with the taps on from now on, she must hear. Rosie comes out behind her, looking like a sexy vampire. Maybe it wasn’t her I seen this morning.

  ‘I hurt my head.’

  ‘Aw, deedums,’ she whines, ‘see iz poor wee nose.’

  ‘Poor Jake, d’you want me to rub it better for you?’ slags Rosie. I wish she meant it.

  ‘You don’t need to do that. Jake’s quite an expert at rubbing it himself, aren’t you? That’s why you’ve got a sore head. You’re probably going blind.’

  ‘That must be how I’ve never seen you with a boyfriend then, eh?’

  With a curt ‘piss off’, they float back into Mum’s room. What’s worse? Letting that pair slag me off or going into a coma? I follow them. It looks like the burglars have been round. Clothes are everywhere, drawers are exploding.

  ‘You auditioning for Scream III or what?’

  ‘Away and play with your fucking computer.’ Jo grins at Rosie. ‘You should make some friends, Jake. If there was a power cut, you’d have to commit suicide.’

  ‘Go an fuck yourself. Know what? Your turning into Mum. You’ve even started wearing her fucking clothes – Norman! Norman!’

  Jo leaps on me and holds my hands above my head. Rosie sits on my legs and starts tickling me. I struggle to be let free, not because I’m not enjoying it, but because I have a shiny patch on my trousers under my anorak and don’t want another one in front of my own sister. Then Rosie moves up my body and sits against my willie. It’s hard instantly. The more I wriggle to get free, the worse it gets. If Jo wasn’t here, it would be fantastic. As soon as I start to put a bit of rhythm into my movements, though, she jumps off.

  ‘We better stop, Jo, He’s getting a bit over-heated.’

  My entire body feels like it’s blushing, as I pull my anorak over my zip. My willie feels like it’s about to burst. She must have felt it. If it hadn’t been so embarrassing, it would have been about the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  Rosie and Jo start putting things back into drawers, not folding them, just stuffing as many in as will fit. As my excitement subsides, my head starts throbbing again. Rosie smiles over as I rub my temples.

  ‘Did I see you with Daniel this morning?’

  Jo spins round and glares at her.

  ‘… aye, Jo, your Daniel. I seen them.’

  How the fuck do they know that cunt?

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Jo fancies him rotten. She knocked him back, but it was just to make him more keen.’

  ‘Fucking shut up. Dinnae listen to her, Jake.’ Then she comes and sits beside me. ‘Do you know him, but?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  This isn’t real. My own sister fancies the guy that just tried to kill me. What if she starts going out with him? What if him and Shug start coming round here?

  ‘What’s he like? Do you know where he stays?’

  This isn’t fucking true. If I tell her Daniel’s a bastard, it’ll just make her fancy him even more. She’s funny like that.

  ‘He’s all right. In fact, I really like him. He’s a brilliant guy.’

  Jo looks repulsed and I know I’ve done the right thing for everyone’s sake. Rosie looks like she believes me too, so maybe she just didn’t realise what was happening this morning. I think she really likes me. She would have definitely stopped them if she’d known.

  Jo tells me to disappear cause they want to get changed. Why can’t Jo just fucking disappear? Rosie probably wouldn’t have minded me watching. I go through to the bathroom, look at my stupid purple nose in the mirror, then turn on the taps.

  Chapter Eight

  ANGIE

  WORK’S FUNNY PECULIAR. Being completely over-dressed in my new outfit and full face doesn’t help. The punters all look like they notice something’s different about me, but nobody bothers to comment. Worst of all, Raymond doesn’t mention anything about our drink tonight. It’s like we’re just pals again. Again? Who am I trying to kid? I’ve been thinking about it so much I’ve already convinced myself we’re more than that. I’m chain-smoking just so I have something to fidget with when he’s talking to me. It’s ridiculous. I can hardly bring myself to look at him. He probably thinks I’ve gone off the idea, the way I’m acting.

  Just before closing time, he comes up behind me as I’m cashing-up.

  ‘You’re not going home dressed like that.’

  My head’s in bits. Running through the figures five times, I get radically different totals. All I can focus on is Raymond drifting about behind me, coughing, humming, smelling gorgeous. On my seventh attempt, the totals tally with my first shot, so I hastily staple the two sums together and chuck them on his desk. My whole upper body is trembling.

  Scurrying to the loo with my make-up bag, I huddle on the pan for a few minutes, trying to pull myself together. I can’t even make a fist. I’m jittering so much the application of make-up is extremely perilous and I almost put my eye out, twice, with the mascara brush.

  Raymond gives me a slow once-over and a wink of approval when I go back through. Fuck, I forgot to pluck that hair on my cheek.

  ‘I’m sorry, Angie, but come out with me looking like that and I will not be responsible for my actions.’

  Christ, a new frock and a layer of lippy and he thinks I’m Michelle Pfeiffer.

  We go to the pub up the road. He points me to a seat in the corner and goes for drinks. I ask for a vodka but remind myself to take it easy. A vodka, amazing. It’s good just to say the word again. I can taste it before he even hands me it.

  The first sip, I swear, gives me a rush, right up my spine, that explodes inside my chest like my air-waves are all reopening. It tastes so strong, it must be a double. Right away, fuck, what a feeling. I am come home.

  Raymond’s talking about the post-Grand-National party Head Office have arranged next Saturday. I’ve avoided the last two as the thought of sitting beside a free bar with Vic without drinking or speaking to each other didn’t really inspire.

  ‘We should go. Honest. Wear that. Ian Dawson’ll probably come in his pants.’

  Stuck for words, I swallow my voddie in one and stand up to get Raymond another and me a Diet Coke. He’s having none of it.

  ‘Sit on your arse and put your purse away, woman. Your no out with your old man the night.’

  I’m going to get steaming so quickly, I better watch it. Or maybe Vic’s just made me neurotic. I’m sure I’ll be fine, I always was. It was them was the problem. The next one slips down so painlessly, so gloriously, that it more than confirms that this is the case. Raymond doesn’t fart around with mixers so he’s knocking them back himself. The more I have, the stupider I feel for letting myself be scared off it for so long.

  With each drink, we get increasingly tactile with one another and the more inevitable it seems that something is going to happen between us. Suddenly realising we’re sitting holding hands, I stroke the bulging blue vein in Raymond’s wrist and glance my fingers up and down his arm. After 17 years of nothingness it still comes naturally.

  ‘I’ve wanted to do this for ages,’ he whispers, ‘I didn’t think for a minute you’d be interested.’

  Holding his cheek, I kiss him gently on the lips, just like that, no fucking about. He responds, his warm, soft pillows p
ecking gently round the side of my mouth. The boozy smell on his breath evokes all sorts of deeply buried memories and needs. These are the best bits in life. The brief moments between knowing you’re going to fuck someone and actually doing it. That ache. All life comes from that ache.

  A drunk woman at the next table suddenly prods us, demanding a light. Raymond uses the enforced intermission to get more drink. As I gaze at him waiting to get served, I imagine him fucking me on the bar, the bar stool, the floor. I could eat him. Handing me my drink, he slides back in.

  ‘Why do I never fucking learn?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Married women. You’re the bane of my fucking life.’

  I’m slightly taken aback.

  ‘You make a habit of this?’

  ‘Nah, no like that. It’s just my main big fuck-off relationship was with a married woman. You always hear women saying, “He kept saying he’d leave her”, you know, all that shit? That was me. Don’t get me wrong, it was amazing, really intense, but four years in, I’m wondering what the fuck I’m doing. Two years after we split up I was still trying to get my head back together. I’m still not out the woods. I just had this feeling I’d nothing to look forward to any more, till now.’

  ‘That’s exactly how I feel too, Ray. Can I call you Ray? Oh, all right then. You know, what did I have to look forward to – an “I Am Forty” badge, varicose veins, lung cancer?’

  What am I on about varicose veins for? Am I trying to shag him or what?

  He starts kissing me again. The booming jukebox just adds to my wonderful, happy, confident feeling. How could I let Vic deprive me of this for so long?

  My glass is empty, disconcertingly empty. I try to go up to the bar, but Raymond intercepts again and gets us another couple each.

  He looks rather forlorn as he sits back down.

  ‘I need to tell you something, Angie. I’ve got a confession to make. You’re too nice to bullshit.’

  Oh, God. I knew it was too good to be true.

  ‘Does it involve my husband … or Jeremy Beadle?’