Born Free

by Laura Hird

  Hanging the washing out, I get my fishing gear together and walk along to the fishing shop. I spend about 20 minutes chatting to the manager, trying to impress him with my knowledge of fly-tying in the hope he’ll offer me a job. He, at least, humours me.

  Once I’m down by the water’s edge, with a hookful of juicy maggots, breathing in the vegetation, my mind starts to clear. I get lost in the bubble and rush of the strong, black current, utterly focused on the five-pound trout I know lives nearby. There’s plenty one-pounders to be getting on with but I let them go as they’re generally full of sewage from the bakers and food factory. I could take them home and stick them in the oven ready-stuffed, so to speak, but the sight of diced carrots when you cut open a fish, conjures up all sorts of unpleasant explanations.

  I sit there for hours. Even when it starts to get dark, I keep going, not wanting to stop. It’s much better once the sun’s off the water anyway. I spot a fox on the other side, sniffing, prickling and cowering about in the bushes. It starts to rain, but I still sit there, letting it run down the back of my collar and seep through my cords. I wait till I’m completely sodden before reluctantly calling it a day. I walk, blindly, along the pathway with only the light of the moon and the slight illumination from the lamp-posts high up on the other side to guide me. I take small, delicate steps for fear of treading on toads. I see birds snuggled into balls of sleep where the moonlight shines through arterial trees and bushes. I smell wet grass, mud, wild garlic, leaves breathing, wonderful, wild, indescribable smells.

  Then I’m suddenly out in the concrete again, staring across at the Wheatsheaf. I cross the road. The clock in the chippie says quarter to ten. Jesus, I’ve done just about a full shift down there. Immediately, I start feeling guilty about not getting anything for the tea. My damp clothes start to annoy me.

  In a moment of inspiration, I phone the house to see if anyone wants chips brought in. There’s no answer. During the few seconds I’m in the phone box, the rain turns into hard driving hail. It stings my face and forces me reluctantly to seek shelter on a bus.

  Angie’s in the kitchen, pouring herself a Diet Coke when I get in. She apparently got back at quarter to eight and was in the toilet when I phoned. Her coat is hanging on the kitchen door. There are dark wet patches on it.

  ‘I felt bad about snapping at you, so I came back early. Fuck knows why.’

  ‘I said I might go fishing.’

  Her hair’s wet too. Why is she lying? I wasn’t going to mention it but she starts on about how I’m a selfish bastard who doesn’t give a shit about his own father but tries to make her feel guilty about hers. Only Angie could make a man feel like a villain for taking his wife out for lunch and going fishing on his day off.

  ‘Hang on a bloody minute, here. If you got back in at quarter to eight, how come your coat’s soaking, eh? I’ve been out in the elements all day and there wasn’t a drop of rain till an hour ago. What time is it now, eh? Five past ten.’

  Oh no, bring on the pointy finger.

  ‘So what are you saying, eh? You don’t fucking trust me, is that it? For your information I went downstairs for fags. I got caught in the rain on my way back. Suspicious bastard.’

  She’s lying.

  ‘Give’s one, then.’

  I don’t know if she looks alarmed because I’ve caught her out or because she think’s I’m propositioning her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Give me a fag. If you’ve just bought a fresh packet, let’s see them. Give me one.’

  Grabbing her bag, she hurls an unopened packet of Marlboro Lights at me. Shit. The first time in years I’ve actually stood up to her, I’m in the wrong. Bloody typical.

  ‘Go on, then, fucking smoke one you bastard, you were so fucking desperate for them a minute ago, smoke one.’ At least I think that’s what she says. Her voice is so shrill and hysterical now, I can barely make her out. ‘… where the fuck d’you think I’d been, eh? Getting it elsewhere? Did old soft dick think I’d finally had enough? Would you blame me? Would you fucking blame me?’

  The neighbours must be able to hear this. Great, now everyone in the stair’ll think, ‘There’s that guy that can’t get it up,’ when they see me.

  ‘I guess I don’t have much to stimulate me.’

  ‘Oh, it’s my fault, is it? Well, hey, Vic, don’t worry. I wouldn’t screw you again if you had a gun at my head. I mean to say, come and watch Hissing Sid get big, you know, I’m not a fucking four-year-old.’

  I let her go on, in the hope she’ll eventually get round to chucking me out. She just has to say it. I’ll take the kids. See how she likes living on a bookie clerk’s wages. I make twice what she does and still she grudges me the occasional bloody football match.

  ‘… look at you, sitting there taking it. You don’t even attempt to act like a real man. What was I fucking on the day I met you, eh? I must have been fucking pissed.’

  ‘You always were.’

  I see her arm go back, then in slow motion, the big glass ashtray come hurtling towards me. Unfortunately, I’m also moving in slo-mo, so don’t manage to get my hand up in time to divert its course to my face. Thunk! Right on my eyebrow, right on the button. The pain goes shooting down to my stomach and I feel like I’m going to throw up. She just watches, no doubt hoping she’s fractured my skull. Putting my hand up to my eye, I let out a long, delayed groan. Blood tickles down my wrist.

  ‘Jesus, woman. You’re completely insane.’

  My eye’s starting to close already. I can feel it swelling and throbbing but she just sits laughing.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I say, getting the duvet out the airing cupboard and lobbing it at her, ‘… you have the bloody settee tonight.’

  ‘Oh, you’re so masterful,’ she whines, as I thunder through to our room. Blood’s still dripping from my eye as I tear my clothes off. The bed-clothes are still on the washing line, so I can bleed all over the naked pillows and duvet. I don’t give a damn, I paid for them anyway. As I stumble blindly into bed, the pain is unbelievable but if I go through for painkillers, it’ll just start her off again. I lie there for ages, thinking that it must stop hurting eventually, but it doesn’t. I wish I was dead. The way I’m feeling, I will be by morning.

  Chapter Nineteen

  JAKE

  WE’RE SUPPOSED TO go to church – aye, fucking church – with the school at 11 this morning. It’s a yearly punishment they make you go through before freeing you for the Easter break. As it’s a Proddy church, though, Sean’s not going, so neither am I. The churchy bit of religion’s really boring anyway. It’s the football that matters.

  We agree to meet at the main door after registration, then just bugger off. It only takes five minutes but I’m gimping to get back to Sean’s before Eva goes out. As I try to make my exit, however, the headmaster drags me into his room.

  ‘A word, please, Mr Scott.’

  Here we fucking go. Closing his office door, he tells me to sit down. As he usually makes me stand with my hands behind my back, for a second I think he’s maybe come in peace. Then he starts on about the Mr Russell cupboard incident. Just recalling it makes me smirk, but I say nothing.

  ‘You obviously find it very amusing. Does it make you feel big, to treat someone like that?’

  Bloody hell, don’t tell me old Muirie’s a shirt-lifter as well.

  ‘Honest, sir. I was at the back of the gym, practising ma throws. I didnae even realise what’d happened.’

  ‘Come off it, Jake. He was put in there half-way through the lesson. If the janitor hadn’t been so conscientious at locking-up time, the poor man would’ve been in there all night.’

  Fucking beauty. I wish I could stop smiling. He’ll think it was me.

  ‘… come on. A teacher vanishes in the middle of a lesson, the pupils stage a mini-riot and you don’t find anything strange in that?’

  ‘But that’s what it’s usually like.’

  He tries to stare me out as he squeezes a squas
h ball. I bet that’s it. They’re just a bunch of poofs covering up for each other. I’m sweating with the strain of clenching my bum cheeks by the time he shows me the door. I always thought he looked a bit like Dale Winton.

  ‘I’ll need to speak to everyone again. I have to establish the facts for my report to the Occupational Health. I don’t know, another good teacher lost through stress whose wages we still have to pay from our budget. And your parents wonder why there’s not enough books to go round.’

  Aw, deedums!

  ‘Sorry I couldnae help you, Mr Muir.’

  ‘Well, if you do remember anything, slip a note under my door. Anonymously if you must. It’s easier to intimidate people into talking once I know who the ringleader is.’

  Fuck, it’s the perfect way to get back at Daniel. Then again, why should he get punished for the one decent thing he’s done in his whole life? That’s the thing. He’s maybe a cunt, but Mr Russell’s the real bad one, the real sick fucker. Why do only the male teachers fancy the young laddies round here anyway?

  Pulling my jacket over my arse, I run down the main stairs. I’m relieved to see Sean still there, despite me being about 15 minutes late. As I near the bottom, though, I realise who he’s with – the fucking man himself, Daniel, and Shug. Backing against the wall, I peer through the railings at them. I should probably go and help, but the more I watch the less it looks like he’s actually in trouble. In fact, they’re all looking pretty fucking pally, laughing away, about me, no doubt. It’s suddenly so obvious they’re all in it together, to get me good. How could I have fallen for Sean and all his shit? Still, I just stand there, praying that one of them will suddenly hit the other, but they don’t. I should have listened to Granda. Never trust a Catholic.

  Skulking back up the stairs, I go out the back way. All my barrie plans for the next fortnight are fucked now. As I run up the middle of the road, I hope some joy-riding radge will come speeding round the corner and kill me. For once, though, there’s not so much as a fucking cyclist.

  To avoid bumping into the three treacherous fuckers, I jump on the first bus that comes. I’m only going three stops, but the driver makes me go upstairs as it’s absolutely stowed out with kids obviously allergic to church like myself. It’s like T in the fucking Park. Everyone’s that loud, dangerous, hysterical sort of way, but the lassie behind me pushes me towards the one free seat, half-way up the aisle, right in the middle of the bastards. As I shuffle into it, I realise what all the hoo-hah’s about. Sitting in front of me are a Mongol couple, I don’t know what age, you can never tell. About a hundred kids are throbbing round – laughing, staring, screaming. At the next stop, even more kids squeeze on and join in. There’s adults down the front, but they, like me, just stare out the window, pretending nothing’s happening.

  Two laddies from fourth-year Remedial are kneeling in front of the trembling Mongols, prodding at them.

  ‘Fucking do it, do it again.’

  The male Mongol looks back at us all with a sort of indescribable scared, help-me look. It just gets them in even more of a frenzy.

  ‘Do it, do it, do it, do it …’ each one louder than the last, till my head’s swimming with it. The male Mongol, getting more and more agitated, suddenly smacks the female Mongol in the face. They keep chanting, wanting more, making him hit her again and again. It’s obvious he’s only doing it cause he’s shit-scared, but his girlfriend’s greeting cause she doesnae understand. Her arms are stretching out to him for a cuddle but the mob won’t let him stop. There’s red blotches all over her face where she’s been skelped. It’s a fucking shame. Even a couple of sixth-year lassies are sitting up on their seats, scranning chips, screaming,

  ‘Hit her, hit her, hit her, hit her …’

  They’re like they wild chimps you see in documentaries. When he clouts her, it hardly makes any noise at all, not like in films, but somehow it sounds much sorer. It’s sort of sick-making. Then Diabetic Elaine from English starts smacking the guy round the back of the head, not hard, just to annoy him. I cannae take much more of this. Watching it and no doing anything makes me as bad as the rest of them.

  My legs are jellified when I stand up. As I make for the stairs, a podgy hand reaches from the rabble, the chippolata fingers grabbing for help. I’m so scared, I just nash down the stairs and ring, ring, ring on the bell. I’d tell the driver what was going on, but what could he do? They’d probably just turn on him instead.

  The bus is still pulsating with screams and floor-stomping as it pulls away. Why did I not make the driver do something? I can’t get the vision of these desperate, fat little fingers out my head. If I’d just waited for Sean, I’d have missed the whole thing. Running away like that just seems so pathetic now.

  When I get to the stair, I hesitate outside his door, trying to work up the guts to knock. It feels like hours since I saw him with these two cunts, but it’s only been about 15 minutes. Maybe they’re in there with him, waiting for me. Maybe they’re taking turns at Eva in the meantime.

  Horrified by all the possibilities, I go upstairs and try to lose myself in FIFA. I play crap though,’ cause the stuff on the bus keeps coming into my head. Stress-relief wanking’s no good either, as I keep getting images of that Mongol lassie’s bashed face. I cannae wank about that. This is ridiculous. It’s the Easter holidays, for fuck’s sake.

  I go through to the kitchen for a glass of Ribena. Dad’s pills are lying out on the bunker. They’re supposed to make him happy but, if that’s him happy, he’s an even sadder bastard than I thought. Popping one out the metal packet, I pull the grey and green sections apart. Powder spills onto the bunker. Inspired, I carry the fullest end through to the living room and get the framed photo of Joni and me when we were wee, from the mantelpiece. Emptying the remaining powder onto the glass, I chop at it with the edge of mum’s video card. I’ve no idea why they do this in films, but it feels dead cool and it’s dead easy to work it into three lines. Rolling a minging old pound note from my pocket into a tube, I stick it up my nose and snort. The pain is shocking. Like I’ve been shot between my eyes. There’s a revolting half-swallowed paracetamol taste in my mouth and the pain, oh my God, just keeps spreading – behind my eyes, up my forehead, in my temples, like it’s burning into my skull. I’d blow my nose to try and get some of it out, but I’m scared I’ll end up with a hankie full of brains. I ease myself back on the settee – blinded. It feels like my head’s melting. Mum’s going to come home and find me lying here like Sean Connery at the end of Highlander.

  I sit for over an hour, waiting for my life to flash before me, waiting to see the light that folk that’ve died talk about but there’s still just this incredible soreness. When I do open my eyes again, it’s just a blur, like trying to see through rippling water. Once I manage to focus, I think it’s a miracle. My head’s still nipping, but it’s not even in the same solar system of pain as before. These pills must be really fucking strong. Next time, I’ll maybe just try smoking them.

  As I clean up the evidence, I start to feel a different kind of odd. Maybe this is the happy part taking effect. On the other hand, maybe you just feel naturally happy after a near-death experience.

  The doorbell goes as I’m hiding the dismembered pill in an old crisp bag. I’m so completely overjoyed to see Sean’s reflection through the frosted glass I forget about the possibility of Shug and Daniel being behind him with baseball bats.

  ‘You must be smoking better weed than me, man.’ He laughs at my Dracula eyes as he trots in with his joystick.

  Too embarrassed to admit what I’ve done, I blame it on hay fever. The bogging stuff I’m sneezing up by this time helps convince him. There’s blood in my snot and everything.

  I tell him about Muirie collaring me and my new all-teachers-are-poofs conspiracy theory. He’s dead impressed I didn’t grass Danny up, but only because Eva gets her blow from him. He’d been scoring for her when I ran away. They both think he’s a wanker too, but he only charges £25 a quarter. I
’m so relieved, I could swear allegiance to the Pope… well, perhaps not quite that relieved. I don’t bother mentioning the Mongols now as I don’t want to spoil my moment of born-again happiness by thinking about it again.

  Since nobody’s due back for hours, we spend the afternoon round mine, making dirty phone calls. It’s brilliant. You just hang up if men answer. The majority of women put the phone down as soon as you start, but there’s plenty that get really into it, to keep you going. I tell them I’m a fireman with a ten-inch cock. Sean’s a young black boy that wants to get his hole before his arranged marriage.

  It goes down a storm until the wifie in the hairdresser’s round the corner says, ‘I know who you are and I’m calling the police,’ after I’ve told her I’ve been watching her house as I choke the chicken. I sort of go off it after that. Thank fuck we were doing 141.

  We have two full-length games of FIFA, the first really boring, Germany versus Italy, as Klinsmann gets sent off in the first half. The second isn’t so bad, an Old Firm match which goes to penalty kicks after a 30-all draw. By this time, though, we’re so bored with it we probably feel like real footballers do at the end of extra time.

  We go down to Sean’s about eight, as Mum’s due back and I don’t want him subjected to her. Eva’s working on the computer, so we play Tomb Raider on the PlayStation, through the lounge. Lara Croft’s nothing on the babe in the next room, though, and I get killed all over the place.

  It’s half-nine before Eva comes through and, even then, it’s to ask us to keep the noise down. For a terrible moment I think she means the nyaffish peow peow sound effects I’ve been doing. When we shut up, though, she says it’s coming from the stair. It takes me a while to make out, as my ears are still ringing from explosions and gunfire. But gradually I hear a steady, regular, banging and groaning, like someone hammering a nail and hitting their finger every time.

  ‘It’s that Irish nurse next door getting screwed,’ whispers Eva. I get an instant willie twitch. God, it is, and it sounds like they’re really going at it. Faster and faster, then, with a wolf-like howl, it suddenly stops.