‘One-legged? That would be a feat.’ Kenny laughed. ‘Oh, get it?’ He giggled, his laughter fed by the adrenalin that was still feeding his system. ‘A feat? One-legged?’ He laughed some more. Forced himself to calm down and joined Calum on the ground.
Calum flinched as if expecting another blow.
‘Nah, you’re awright, mate,’ said Kenny. ‘The moment has passed.’ He looked down at Calum’s leg.
‘How’s the knee?’
‘Fucking agony. Don’t know if I can stand on it.’ He made a face as he tried to flex the whole limb. ‘Aaaah,’ he groaned. ‘Can’t move it.’
‘Shit, man,’ said Kenny. ‘You’re going to have to get that seen to, Calum. And soon. We’re talking ligament damage.’
‘You for real?’ Calum squinted over at him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You face up to a road-rage merchant. Near break my leg... and now you’re offering sympathy?’
‘About the leg thing – I’m really sorry,’ said Kenny. And he was. He could see that there was more to this young man than abusing other road users. There was something about the way he held himself. The calmness before the fight and then the refusal to give in despite being quickly taken out of the action.
‘Yeah, what was that move?’ Calum asked. ‘I’ve done some martial arts...’
‘That was from the street, Calum. I could see in a blink that you were the dangerous one. I had to take you out quickly so I could concentrate on the lesser fighter,’ Kenny said. ‘Your brother’s a pussy by the way.’
‘Who you callin’ a pussy?’ The shout came from further down the street. Mark must have reconsidered his flight and returned to see if there was any fight left or if his brother was okay.
‘You’re a pussy, Mark,’ Calum shouted. ‘You fucking ran.’
‘See how quick he took you out, brother. I wasn’t going to wait for that.’
‘So you fucking ran.’
Kenny stood up and looked down the street. Mark was hunched over behind some cars. Despite his obvious fear he was making his way back up towards his brother. Can’t be all bad, thought Kenny.
He took a step towards Mark. Mark took a couple of steps back, stopped and then took a step forward.
‘I’m not a pussy,’ he repeated, looking about seventeen years old.
‘What age are you?’ Kenny asked.
‘Twenty-two. How?’ Mark scowled.
Kenny tutted. ‘No, buddy, the question is, why?’ It was one verbal tic that pissed Kenny off; too many people these days used ‘How?’ as their default question.
‘Eh?’
‘Brought up by Red Indians?’
‘How?’
‘Mark, shut the fuck up,’ Calum joined in. ‘You’re comin’ across as a total loser.’
‘Aye, ya dobber,’ shouted Mark. ‘You’re the wan wae the fucked-up knee.’
Kenny groaned. He was going to be here all night.
‘Mark,’ Kenny shouted. ‘Get your arse up here.’
‘No fuckin’ way. You’re going to do me like you did him.’
‘As I said to Calum, the moment’s passed. Now I just want to be pals.’
‘I’m no that stupid, mate. Once you’re in that car and offski, I’ll come and get my brother.’
Kenny shook his head and took the few steps back to Calum, who was now sitting on the kerb. His face was shaded with pain, but he was resigned to the situation, waiting to see how it worked out.
‘You going to be alright?’ Kenny asked.
Calum raised his eyebrows.
‘I know, I know, why should I care?’
Calum read something in Kenny’s expression. ‘Might not be able to work for a few weeks.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a bouncer in the evenings. Work with a security firm covering a few nightclubs in town. I’m a student during the day.’
‘The bouncing thing figures. You look like you could take care of yourself... and you won’t get hit by that same move again,’ Kenny smiled. ‘What are you studying?’
Calum made a face. ‘Philosophy.’
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘“I have had women, I have fought with men; and I could never turn back any more than a record can spin in reverse. And all that was leading me where? To this very moment...”’
‘Bet girls love those lines. Who said it?’
‘Jean Paul Sartre.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Fucked if I know.’
They both laughed.
‘What’s going on up there?’ shouted Mark. ‘You two fallin’ in love, or somethin’?’
‘Shut the fuck up, Mark,’ Calum and Kenny both replied at the same time.
‘I feel we should share a smoke,’ said Kenny.
Calum grinned. His eyes moved down the road in the general direction of his brother. He shrugged.
‘Sorry about the car chase thing and the road-rage crap.’
‘You’re better than that, Calum,’ Kenny said. ‘Why’d you do it?’
‘Mark’s always hyped. Always got to prove he’s the big man. But it usually ends up with me stringing along and protecting him, or…’ – he looked down at his leg – ‘...taking the beating.’ He shrugged again. ‘Blood’s thicker than water, mate.’
‘Aye,’ Kenny stood up and wiped the dirt from the seat of his trousers. ‘But when the person with the blood connection is thicker than shite, you have to let them go to it on their own.’
‘You learned that lesson?’
Kenny said nothing. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and plucked out a business card.
‘Once you’ve got your knee in a brace give me a call. I could use somebody like you. You can bring your pussy brother once he’s grown up a wee bit.’
‘Who are you callin’ a pussy?’ the shout came from down the street.
7
Next morning, Kenny was up at his customary time. He’d never needed an alarm clock. Regardless of how late he went to bed, he was always fully alert at 6:30am. He ground some coffee, filled the espresso pot and left it to work its magic while he had a shower.
He sent off a quick text to Alexis: You okay? He didn’t expect an immediate reply, thinking she must still be sleeping, but every couple of minutes he looked at the screen just in case.
The gym was his next stop and some core work. Another shower and he was off to see the nearest thing he had to a family.
‘Aww, they’re lovely, son,’ Aunt Vi said as he handed her a bunch of flowers. There was no sign of any disappointment she might have felt at his no-show the previous evening. Her features were arranged in their usual set-up meant to convey warmth and welcome. This was a look she’d worked hard at, as if trying to compensate for the bulldog features of her husband.
‘Didn’t think garages would have flowers at this time of the morning,’ Uncle Colin said, looking like he’d just read Nostradamus and he’d taken it that the world ending prophecy was meant for him alone.
‘Just as well I know a florist then, isn’t it?’ Kenny offered the older man a thousand-watt grin, knowing that a sign of that much pleasure would truly piss him off.
‘Och, it’s good to see you, son.’ Vi placed a hand on his arm. They were not a demonstrative family and this was as close as she came to showing affection. Kenny smiled in answer, feeling some surprise at how pleased he was to see her.
Sitting on the cream, leather three-seater sofa, Kenny looked around the room. Apart from a TV of biblical proportions, it hadn’t changed since he was last here. Still the lace coverings on every surface and a collection of porcelain dolls dotted here and there. He was desperate to ask about the letter, but he didn’t want his Aunt Vi to feel that it was the only reason he was here.
‘You’ll ha
ve had your breakfast?’ Uncle Colin said, lowering himself into his chair and reaching for the TV remote. Most people would turn the TV off, but as Kenny expected he changed channels and turned the volume up slightly. The TV flicked from news, to sport, back to news and then settled on a reality He’s-the-Father-of-My-Baby-and-He’s-Shagging-My-Mother show.
‘Colin,’ Vi said, ‘don’t be so rude. We have a guest.’
‘Guest? Where? All I can see is that great lump of a boy who ate us out of house and home.’ It was a familiar refrain and Kenny saw the mouth move but didn’t allow the words to register.
‘A wee cuppa, sweetheart, and then you can tell me everything you’ve been up to.’ Vi leaned forward, hands clasped together as if she was talking to a five-year-old.
‘That would be nice, thank you,’ said Kenny. To run from the room as if his jacket was on fire would have been his preferred action, but he sat back into the cushion of the chair. If nothing else, Vi was owed the courtesy.
‘You still ducking and diving?’ asked Uncle Colin, eyes fixed on the screen. ‘Made your first million yet?’ The words were conversational, but the tone suggested a serious lack of interest in the answer. He was playing the role his wife was looking for from him. If it was left to him, Kenny would still be standing at the door.
‘I’m keeping busy, Uncle Colin,’ Kenny said, fighting with the volume of the TV, which suddenly rose in pitch when a member of the audience ran up on stage and started punching the man who was shagging the mother. The rest of the audience were cheering him on, their faces brazen with the need to see someone pay. Lynch-mob TV, thought Kenny. Don’t you just love it?
Both men fell silent as the drama carried on. Guards rushed on to the stage and a man was huckled off it. Now the daughter was haranguing the mother and the presenter was standing between them, pretending to calm them down. His face had that smug I-Fucking-Love-My-Job look on it.
‘Right, son. Here you go.’ Vi walked in carrying a tray. ‘Still like your tea, son?’
‘You can’t beat a nice cup of tea,’ said Kenny, who’d barely drunk a sip of the stuff in the last two years.
‘I’ve got some croissants there as well, son. Just you tuck in and Colin,’ – her voice raised slightly and some steel came into its tone – ‘if you’re going to watch that crap, go and watch it somewhere else.’
‘This is my house and I’ll watch what I like, Violet,’
She just looked at him.
‘Right. Fine.’ He stood up. ‘Banished to my own kitchen,’ he moaned as he walked out of the room.
‘He’s a lovely man, really,’ Vi said as she took his seat, pointed the remote at the TV and turned the sound down. ‘Just hides it well.’
‘I heard that.’ A shout came from the kitchen.
Vi rolled her eyes and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘He’ll be standing at the kitchen doorway listening to everything we say. Nosey old so-and-so.’ As she spoke her eyes were shaped with a mixture of long-suffering wife syndrome and not a little affection. An affection that always took Kenny by surprise. His uncle was a man who repelled that particular emotion in almost everyone else.
‘He never had the charm of your dad, Kenny, but he’s always been a good man to me. He’s never let me down.’ Vi settled into her chair and with a smile offered her usual defence of her husband’s behaviour. There was a time when his Uncle Colin’s words would have had Kenny running out the door and kicking it on the way past. But now he could make allowances.
‘I’m sorry about last night, Aunt Vi,’ said Kenny. ‘A friend of mine was...’
‘S’alright, son,’ she replied. ‘You’re a busy man...’
‘He’s a crook, Violet. A bigger crook than his father ever was. I don’t know why you let him in that door,’ Colin shouted from the kitchen. Vi rolled her eyes.
‘What about that nice boy you used to be friends with? The one who became a policeman?’ This was the only way that Aunt Vi ever commented on his career choice. She’d bring up Ray McBain and hope the fact that he was a decent member of society might shock him into an act of conscience and make him turn his back on a life of crime.
‘Yeah, Ray’s fine. He’s an Inspector now.’
‘Yeah, the friend becomes a detective,’ shouted Colin from the kitchen. ‘Our two become a junky and a thief.’
‘Excuse me, son,’ said Vi and walked to the door. From there she looked down the hallway and addressed her husband. ‘He is the child of my late sister and I love him like he’s my own. I don’t care if he’s...’ – she struggled for the worst possible crime – ‘...a paedophile, I’ll still love him. I’ve not seen him for two years and it’s all because of you and your petty mouth. So, if you want me to carry on cooking your food, laundering your clothes or any of the other hundred wee jobs I do for you, then you’ll keep your mouth shut, Colin Hunter.’
She turned to face Kenny, bit her bottom lip and looked to the side as if waiting for a reply. The silence surprised them both. She raised her eyebrows and flushed; embarrassed at losing control. She returned to her seat.
‘I meant that, son,’ she said, her eyes moist. ‘I’ve missed you... I understand why you don’t want to be in the same room... but it would be nice to hear from you now and again.’
Kenny accepted this most gentle and most effective of rebukes. He looked over his aunt and felt guilt sour his mouth at his neglect of her. She hadn’t changed much since he last saw her. Her hair was still shaped in a blonde bob that came down to her shoulders. She still wore her favourite wool twin-set and long skirt over her thick-set body. She’d be around sixty now, thought Kenny as he read the lines on her forehead and the loosening of her skin along the jawline. Never one for much make-up, her face was bare apart from a warm peach colour on her lips.
Kenny felt a rush of affection for her. Must be getting old, he thought.
‘Sorry, Aunt Vi. It was never deliberate and it was never you. I just...’
‘I know, son. You don’t owe me an explanation. I know you’ll always be there if I need you.’
She smiled and, reaching forward, patted his knee. Her smile was laced through with empathy, apology and regret. Then she breathed, displaying some nerves for the first time.
She swallowed, took another deep breath.
‘The letter.’
8
Now that the moment had come, Kenny was unsure that he wanted to know what the letter contained. He was a grown man. He had proved he could survive and flourish despite everything. What did it matter what it said?
But there were so many questions. What really happened that evening? He lost both parents at the same time. He remembered worrying that it was all his fault. He picked through every conversation he had with both his mum and dad in the weeks leading up to that night and found a hundred things he’d said that might have been the cause. His twelve-year-old mind sought importance in the banal and found it. He moaned so much about his bike, he had flunked school, and he had been ‘lifted’ by the police for throwing eggs at passing cars. All or any of this was to blame.
Then came the nights he would lie awake certain that suicide was catching, that he would find himself with a knife at his wrists ready to slash and nothing would stop the muscle from carrying out the action. He became obsessed with a nearby bridge; maybe he would find himself climbing over the wall, like waking up from a sleepwalk, and then jump into the dark, cold waters below.
‘When your mum died,’ – Aunt Vi cut through his thoughts – ‘I was so angry. She was my sister. Why didn’t she come to me and talk? Then there was the guilt. Why didn’t I go to her and talk? It was so confusing.’ She rubbed at her forehead, her eyes shaded with the hurt. She closed them and refocused. Showing that the pain had never gone away, it was there like an unwelcome relative. ‘I can only imagine what you went through.’
‘It was a formative experience,’ Ke
nny said with a weak smile.
‘And then some... I worried that I didn’t offer you enough support and then when the letter arrived...’ She shrugged and Kenny could read her trepidation.
‘I was eighteen and a tearaway. If you’d given me the letter, who knows what I would have done?’
‘God.’ She held a hand over her heart. ‘Every time a knock went at the door I was convinced it was the police to tell me you and Ian had been killed in a gang fight.’
‘If it wasn’t for Ian, I would have been,’ Kenny said, remembering dozens of fights he had started. And the times Ian had backed him up. He was nothing but energy and anger. He yearned for the connection of fist on bone. The satisfaction of letting go consumed him. The only time he felt alive was when he was trading blows with another boy. ‘I must have been a nightmare child.’
‘Still. You were here. You were my sister’s boy. I needed that connection, and it felt... that your acting out was my punishment for failing my sister.’
‘Complications of the human mind.’
‘Is that a book?’
‘It should be,’ he grinned.
‘What do you remember of your father?’
‘Some... bits and pieces...’ He tailed off. In truth, he remembered much more of his father than his mother and it felt like some sort of weakness. Both parents earned his anger. Both abandoned him. The method was different, but the effect was the same. Whenever he tried to recall his mother’s face he struggled, but his father’s sprang into his mind as if he had just seen him an hour earlier. Did he think the suicide was more of a betrayal, was that it?
He knew from a young age that his father’s primary source of income was illegal. This knowledge caused him shame at first, but then... His dad took risks, his dad was an important man, people were afraid of him. He earned respect the hard way. All of which was of course a bath-sized portion of bullshit, but to an impressionable child was electrifying.
He wanted nothing more than to grow up to be just like his dad.
Saturday afternoons were his favourite time. Dad would take him to Firhill to see his team, Partick Thistle. Dad thought it was too easy to support the big two – Celtic or Rangers – and thought it was a sign of a free-thinker to go for the less obvious. He remembered moving through the crowds, viewing a world of bobbing heads from his perch on his father’s shoulders and how people used to gravitate around him. It seemed everyone knew Peter O’Neill and everyone wanted to speak to him. It made Kenny feel important that his father was such a man. Kenny could see that the backslaps, the handshakes, were hesitant; born of fear rather than respect.
Beyond the Rage Page 4
