by Ross Sayers
Ah finish ma can and walk up the path tae chuck it in the bin. The echo ae harsh fitsteps on the groond makes me turn aroond. A dark shadow runs doon the slope, veerin in and oot ae the cycle path as if no in control ae its movements. As it reaches the bottom, the figure reveals itself tae be Daisy. Wan ae her legs catches another and she falls on her face, scrapin along the pavement fur a second afore comin tae rest at the entrance tae the tunnel.
Her bag rolls away fae her and her phone skites oot and lands in some weeds. She disnae notice, jist raises hersel tae her feet and grabs her bag. Fur a moment, she looks ma way, so ah step back, hopin the shadows willnae gie me away. Other Daisy disnae huv time tae wait and she leaves intae the light ae the underpass.
Thur’s naebdy aboot so ah rush tae retrieve the phone. Ah pick it up and wipe it doon tae get rid ae the gunk and dirt. The screen’s ruined, dozens ae cracks runnin in every direction lit it’s taken a bullet. Ah cannae get it tae turn on.
Somewhaur above, ah hear a blast ae Proper Crimbo oot somebdy’s windae. Ah look up tae see smokers leanin oot a flat windae, bathed in warm light.
‘Hiya,’ says a voice next tae me.
It’s the drunk guy who must’ve no quite understood ma directions tae the subway.
‘Evenin,’ ah say again. ‘Did ye no find the subway then, naw?’
He laughs and looks confused.
‘How’d ye know ah wis lookin fur the subway? D’ye know whaur it is like?’
‘Ah dae, mate, but ah’m afraid it’s jist shut. Well, thur is wan mair train scheduled but it’s a private hire.’
He looks perplexed again but ah could say anyhin right noo and he’d no really be sure aboot it.
‘Wur ye oot wi yer pals the night?’ ah ask.
‘Ah wis, aye. Gid lads. Craig’s a bit ae a prick but he’s fae Stirlin so whit dae ye expect?’
‘And whaur urr they noo?’
‘They went tae Bamboo.’
‘Ah’m sorry tae hear that.’
‘The bouncers said ah wis too steamin. Can ye believe that?’
He blinks and the effort ae it nearly hus him topplin ower. Ah reach oot tae keep him steady.
‘Ye know, ah actually can. They jist left ye though? Some pals.’
‘Ach, they’re no so bad. They’ll come and get me eventually.’
That’s when ah realise. Why Yotta broke wan ae the rules fur me. Why she sent me back a day early. You’ve got a life to save.
‘Whit’s yer name?’ ah ask the guy.
‘Richard,’ he says. ‘But ma pals call me Richie. Or Dick.’
‘Right, Richie. Ah need tae go, will ye be awright on yer ain?’
He disnae look convinced.
‘Hm, ah could dae wi some help gettin a taxi.’
The urge tae leave him here nearly overwhelms me, afore ah place whaur ah know his face fae. The Ark. He hud an early start the next day and ah gave him ma pint.
‘Fine,’ ah say. ‘But ah’ve no got much time.’
63
‘Come on,’ ah say tae him. ‘Jist a bit further.’
Richie stumbles and trips ower hings that urnae there but we’re nearly back up at Jacksons. Folk urr gathered at the pub door, smokin and drinkin fae glasses snuck oot when the bar staff wurnae lookin.
‘Look who it is,’ wan ae them says. ‘She’s lookin better at least. Here, did ye go and change, hen? Or did ye jist dry oot in the wind?’
Ah ignore the question and walk intae the street, throwin ma hawns oot at any taxi that passes. Richie sways on the spot, threatenin tae be blown ower be a stiff breeze. Flaggin doon a taxi on the last Saturday afore Christmas in Glasgow centre at hauf eleven at night? Ah must be hopin fur a miracle.
But then, oot ae naewhaur, one does pull up. Ah look tae the sky. Wis that you, Yotta?
‘Whaur dae ye stay?’ ah ask Richie.
‘Giffnock,’ he manages tae reply.
‘Aw, fur fuck’s sake, ye know how much that’s gonnae be? And ah’ve awready bought a hale pub a round the day. Ah take it ye’ve nae money on ye?’
He grins and shows me an empty pocket.
‘Sorry, ah got sacked fae ma work the other week.’
‘Right,’ ah say tae the driver. ‘Here’s thirty, will that get him tae Giffnock?’
‘Aye,’ the driver says. ‘Unless he spews.’
‘Fair point. Here’s fifty.’
Ah pass the rest ae ma Liverpool winnins tae the driver and shove Richie intae the backseat. The back ae his legs urr covered in muddy spots fae puddles he’s stepped in. Ah straighten him up and pit his seatbeat on fur him.
‘Thanks so much,’ he says. ‘Whit’s yer name?’
‘It’s Daisy,’ ah say, glad tae be tellin the truth again.
‘Daisy. That’s a nice name. Thanks Daisy, ye’re wan ae the gid guys.’
‘Well, mibbe no yet,’ ah say. ‘But ah’m tryin.’
Ah slide the door ower wi aw ma might and hope he didnae leave his fing’rs in the latch. The taxi takes a right and heads doon towards the bus station.
Then ah start runnin.
Sauchiehall Street is alive and kickin wi people goin every which way. Ah pass through it as ah run doon Cambridge Street, which soon turns intae West Campbell Street. Ah take a left on tae Bath Street then a right on tae Renfield Street.
Ma lungs huvnae hud tae work this hard since the bleep test in high school and it feels lit ah’m aboot tae bring them up in a wet pile. Every time ah need tae stop fur the red man ah’m glad ae the rest but ah know ah’ve no got the time. Ah rush in between cars and taxis and drunk folk shoutin “Run, Forrest, run” at me. The taxi drivers shout at me as well, and their comments urr a bit mair obscene.
‘Slow doon, you,’ some guy says. ‘Santa’s no due fur a few days yet.’
Huv ye been a gid gurl this year?
The sweat under ma oxters and doon ma back is makin ma dress stick tae me. The people ah pass look at me wi bleary eyes and don’t even pretend thur no starin. Some urr headin tae the clubs, the dancin, so the night disnae need tae end. Some urr probably headin fur McDonalds whaur the real action is.
The huge electronic advert screen above Central lets me know ah’m gettin close. Ah can see the pack ae bodies fae here. The taxi rank queue is a snakin beast that ye don’t want tae get tangled up in.
Ah turn the corner. Some eyes fall on me, seein anybody new as a threat that jist wants thur space in the queue. Near the front, angry, raised voices get louder. The folk further back in the queue step back, no wantin tae get caught up in any fightin.
‘Whit the fuck dae ye hink ye’re daein, pal?’ a man shouts.
‘It wis them!’ says the woman he’s wi. ‘It wis them, they pushed in. Ah saw it!’
The couple behind them urnae backin doon.
‘We wur here first,’ the other guy says. ‘So either get back or ah’m gonnae knock yer fuckin teeth oot.’
‘Dae it, John! Knock his teeth oot!’
Ah make ma way tae the front ae the queue, everybody too concerned wi the argument tae notice somebdy stalkin roond the ootside, lookin tae jump in.
Ah see Frances, next in line behind the arguin group. A taxi rolls up tae the rank.
‘Don’t ye fuckin dare,’ says wan ae the guys.
And lit that, it kicks aff. Wan guy reaches fur the taxi door handle and the other man tackles him tae the groond. Thur partners start hittin them, the pair ae them noo rollin aboot on the groond, afore they realise they’d be much better smackin lumps oot each other.
‘Frances!’ ah shout. ‘Frances!’
She disnae hear me. Ah cannae get near her. The taxi rank swarms roond the fight and the bodies urr packed too tight thigether fur me tae power through. Ah start runnin aw the way roond.
‘Bastart,’ wan ae the fighters shouts. ‘Stupit
bastart.’
As ah get roond the side ae the crowd, ah see Frances again. She looks terrified. Her eyes dart aw aroond and her arms wrap aroond hersel. The taxi driver opens his windae and shouts tae her.
‘Here, hen,’ he says. ‘Ye can get in if ye like?’
She seems unconvinced fur a second, then looks at the foursome scramblin on the groond. Two polis urr comin across the road fae Central Station, and ah’m aboot twenty feet away.
Frances makes a run fur the taxi. She gets the door open, but wan ae the women manages tae get hersel upright and grabs her.
‘Fuckin bitch,’ she screams.
She grabs two hawnfuls ae Frances’s jaiket and tries tae yank her aff the taxi. Frances does her best tae cling tae it wi her fing’rnails but fails. The woman spins and lets her go lit a hammer thrower at the Olympics. Frances is tossed intae the middle ae the road, whaur another taxi is comin at speed. She loses her balance and lands on her side. The driver’s no seen her. Frances isnae gettin up.
Ah charge towards her, pick her up and throw her oot ae harm’s way. The lights fae the taxi urr blindin.
Ah hear the brakes screech but it’s too late.
64
Ah realise ah’m still breathin but ah’m scared tae open ma eyes this time. Ah’ve woken up in some bad places lately and ah’m convinced this is gonnae be yet another.
Ah let the light in.
An IV drip punctures ma arm. Ma bed is closed aff by a curtain, pulled aw the way aroond. Beeps and grunts and fitsteps rattle fae somewhaur ootside ma makeshift cubicle. Ah touch ma hawn tae the back ae ma heid. Under ma hair, a huge, tender lump swells lit a tangerine.
‘Why did the daisy cross the road?’ says a voice.
Ah jump and ma heid hits the pillow and it makes ma eyes water. Yotta’s appeared in the seat next tae ma bed.
‘Tae save her friend Frances,’ she answers her ain question.
She looks up fae the magazine she’s readin and smiles. Then she frowns.
‘Aye, the punchline disnae really work but it wis meant tae be, like… clever.’
Whitever ah’m hooked up tae is warm and lovely and flows through ma bones. Ah could sleep noo if it wurnae fur the mystical subway worker by ma bed. Or mibbe ah’m still asleep.
‘Did ye know ah wis gonnae get hit by a taxi?’ ah ask. ‘Cause ah really wid’ve liked some prior warnin on that wan.’
‘Ah knew it wis a possibility. Tae be fair, if ah’d telt ye ye wur gonnae get hit by a car yesterday, wid ye still huv ran doon there lit Usain Bolt?’
Ah shrug. Ah really huv tae concentrate tae force ma eyelids up and stay awake. Yotta’s holdin a bouquet ae yella and white floo’rs.
‘Daisies,’ she says. ‘Too obvious?’
She gets up and places them on the table by ma bedside.
‘Yer mum and Frances’ll be in soon. Ah jist wanted tae say wan last gidbye.’
Ah wiggle ma toes and they ruffle the bedsheet near the bottom.
‘Does that mean ah’m rid ae ye?’ ah ask.
‘It does. Bet ye’re proper gutted?’
‘Ah don’t want tae hurt yer feelins or anyhin, Yotta, but ah jist want tae go back tae bein Daisy, and if that means no seein you again then that’s jist a sacrifice ah’m gonnae huv tae make.’
Yotta picks one daisy fae the bunch and starts pluckin a petal aff at a time.
‘Ye’ve iways been Daisy,’ she says. ‘Disnae matter whether ye look lit a Daisy or a Rose or a Lily. As long as ye iways remember who ye urr on the inside. That’s whit matters.’
‘That’s wan way ae lookin it it,’ ah say. ‘But you wake up the morra wi a face ye don’t recognise and tell me ye’re awright wi it.’
Petals scatter on the flair at her feet. Her fing’rnails urr long and thick and the whitest ah’ve ever seen. And yet her bosses send her tae dae aw thur dirty work.
‘She loves me,’ Yotta says, pluckin another petal. ‘She loves me not.’
‘Jist tae be clear though,’ ah say. ‘Ah dae get tae keep this face? Ye’re no gonnae swap it again?’
She laughs and grabs ma foot through the blankets.
‘Oh ah huv enjoyed oor time thigether Daisy,’ she says. ‘And aye, ye can keep yer face. Ah don’t really get a say anymair, as it turns oot. The higher ups wurnae too happy aboot me lettin ye… redo yesterday. Two Daisys runnin aboot. Could’ve led tae aw sorts ae problems.’
‘Whit, urr ye sacked or suhin?’
‘No sacked, jist… reassigned.’
Thur’s a murmur fae behind the curtain, and a door openin, and the sound ae hushed voices.
‘That’ll be ma cue,’ Yotta says. ‘Cannae hing aboot here aw day.’
We shake hawns. Ah feel that feelin, that weird feelin ah got the first time we touched. Lit Yotta’s no the same as anybody else ah’ve ever met. A spark that travels aw through me.
‘And remember,’ she says, ‘be careful on that subway. Ye niver know whaur ye might end up.’
The curtains open. Yotta disappears. Ma mum and Frances rush towards me wi smiles full ae worry and relief. They take turns huggin me and ah don’t like lettin go.
‘Frances,’ ah say, ‘ah need tae tell ye suhin.’
She shares a look wi ma mum.
‘Aye?’ she says.
‘Aye. Ye see It’s a Wonderful Life? Ah don’t reckon it’s a fantasy fulm.’
Frances pits her bag doon and drags ower a chair tae sit next tae me.
‘Urr ye jokin?’ she says. ‘How can ye say that? Thur’s bloody angels and aw sorts in that fulm.’
She keeps talkin and ah listen. Mum kisses ma foreheid and ah clench ma eyes and tell her tae be careful wi me since ah’ve got a misshapen heid at the minute.
On the flair, daisy petals lie scattered lit broken parts.
She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me.
65
‘Ye awright?’ Mum asks.
Only Fools and Horses plays on the telly, the corners ae the screen jist obscured by the wee tassels ae tinsel which line the edges. The radio is still on fae earlier in the day, neither ae us wantin tae turn it aff. It’s Christmas So We’ll Stop by Frightened Rabbit hums fae the speakers quietly, tryin no tae be noticed too much.
‘Mum, ah’m fine,’ ah say. ‘Jist lit when ye asked me five minutes ago.’
‘Well, ye got hit by a car, Daisy, so excuse me if ah fuss ower ye, awright? It’s no every day yer daughter gets hit by a car.’
‘That’s a weird way ye’ve phrased that, Mum, lit it’s some kind ae major life milestone.’
She goes back tae the kitchen counter and organises the food packagin intae regular bin and recyclin. She wraps the leftovers in tin foil and pits them in the fridge, whaur they’ll sit fur probably a couple ae oors til ah get stuck intae them when Mum’s away tae bed. She insisted on a full turkey between the two ae us, so we’ll be eatin fur days. Mibbe that wis part ae her plan tae keep me here. Either way, ah’m no complainin.
She continues tae buzz aroond the kitchen. Ah offered tae help but wi ma arm in a sling ah’m no much gid.
‘Whit’s on the night?’ Mum asks, loadin the dishwasher.
‘Doctor Who’s on in a bit,’ ah say.
‘Who is it these days?’
‘Peter Capaldi.’
‘Och ah like him. He wis gid in that other programme he wis in, the politics yin. Fuck this, fuck that, fuck you. Brilliant. Can we watch Call the Midwife as well?’
‘Ye’ll be asleep by then.’
‘Ah’ll rest ma eyes durin Doctor Who. Cannae miss Call the Midwife. Mrs Casey’ll be phonin right efter it’s done tae spoil it fur me.’
‘Ye cry every time ye watch that programme, Mum.’
‘Exactly, one mair big greet ae 2017. Then we go intae 2018 fresh. Nae mair greetin.’
; A gie her a thumbs up.
‘Nae mair greetin sounds perfect.’
She’s only pretending to like having you back, she’ll be dancing when you’re gone.
Ah still huv that voice in ma heid tellin me ah’m nae gid, but it’s no as loud lately. Mibbe Yotta’s right and we aw huv a voice lit that. Ah’m gonnae tell Siobhan aboot it in ma next session in January. Ah’m sure she hus a tell me about your negative voice smile in her locker.
Ah stick ma feet up on the table while Mum’s no payin attention. Mum’s latest read sits untouched jist past ma toes. The Time Traveller’s Wife. Apparently, “some lassie” asked fur it at the library, but she disappeared afore she could check it oot.
Mum fancied re-readin it so she took it insteid.
Wi the dishwasher loaded, the chocolate gateau defrostin on the countertop, and the oven trays steepin in the sink, Mum finally stands doon and joins me on the couch.
‘Ah’m glad ye decided tae come ower,’ she says. ‘Wid’ve been far too much jist fur me.’
Ah lean ma heid intae her shooder.
‘Widnae huv missed it,’ ah say. ‘Auntie Jean no fancy comin ower?’
‘Naw, she’s got a new man on the go actually, she’s at his. Suits me, ah don’t need her swannin aboot ma hoose in her bare feet. Urr ye no missin the swanky west end?’
‘Mum, ah hud a bit ae a realisation aboot the west end, as it happens.’
‘Aye?’
‘Aye. Ah dunno if ah belong there. That Ashton Lane? Jist folk cramped intae tiny pubs payin six quid a pint so they can take a photie ae the fairy lights and the cobbles. None ae they pubs urr anybody’s local. Ah need a local kind ae pub. Lit the Montgomerie Arms. Well, no actually the Montgomerie Arms but ye get whit ah mean.’
Mum sighs, then leans forward and ma heid falls fae its restin place. Her hawns cannae keep still, organisin the magazines on the table and the remotes on the arm ae the couch. Lit she disnae want tae stop and huv a rest. Because if she stops, if she hus nuhin tae distract her, she’ll finally huv tae hink aboot him.
Ah clear ma throat.
