Best European Fiction 2012

by Aleksandar Hemon

  “That’s kind of you, Feargus. What do ye say to Mr. McCool, son?”

  “Thank you.”

  They got there eventually. Dundee was the furthest Liam’d been in Scotland. Wasn’t as if he saw much of it but—two grounds on the one street ’n’ that was it.

  Was Tannadice they were going to, not Dens Park. His da joked about making sure they got the right one. “Ye wouldn’t want the match to start to discover it wasn’t!”

  Mr. McCool laughed ’n’ all. “Aye—magine ye were stood there wonderin was that a new away strip Celtic were in!”

  A fair number of buses parked where they parked. Whereas Irish accents tumbled out of their bus, the Hibs bus, Scottish accents piled out of the other ones. It was all the didni-widni-kidni stuff Liam detested. All the effin bees ’n’ all. It could’ve been Japanbloominese ye were hearing, at times. To listen to them, ye wouldn’t’ve known these boys had any connection wi Ireland, that was for sure.

  Most of the men descended on the pub. His da said the two of them wouldn’t. They’d head on in ’n’ choose their spot just.

  The embarrassing bit came next: his da would never pay for him. Insisted on lifting him over. Always a struggle it was ’n’ Liam always got stuck. Was worse still when Sean was there ’n’ all ’n’ their da needed help. Thon shivery feeling as a stranger’s hands went in under your arms—

  They got in ’n’ climbed the steps.

  He loved this bit, Liam: the anticipation as you headed up the steps. Then: the immaculate green below. Perfect, normally, till the match started.

  What was noticeable this time was: the atmosphere wasn’t as good. Tannadice, compared to Parkhead, was a ghost town. At Celtic Park, they’d be playing records. “If You’re Irish.” Or “Hail, Hail.”

  “You’ll Never Walk Alone” too, of course. Wi sixty thousand scarves held aloft.

  His da lifted him onto a crush barrier ’n’ stood behind him. Liam leaned back, knew not to cuddle in. If it stayed like this, he’d have a brilliant view. He knew from other games you could have a perfect view to start wi—then other folk would come but ’n’ blot it out. It wasn’t fair. By that time too, it was always too late to find another place.

  The ground was filling up. United fans were getting their songs in while they could. Would be a different story later.

  Teams were read out. The fans booed one lot, cheered the other.

  “No surprises there!” his da & Mr. McCool agreed.

  “Naw, nae surprises there, eh?” the guy next to them gave it.

  A huge cheer went up. Drowned out whatever the guy said next. Players were running on.

  “United haven’t read the script, Liam,” Mr. McCool was soon saying.

  They’d the cheek to score first even.

  His da ’n’ Mr. McCool looked at each other. Was Partick Thistle goney be, the League Cup final all over again, looked lik. All the effin bees the men around them were giving it. Singling out the goalie they were. His da’d to call them to order.

  “Mind the language, lads—there’s boys present!”

  “Aw—sorry, Jim. Aye, nae borra. Sorry, big man!”

  They reached half-time without an equaliser. Liam couldn’t believe it. There’d been a few near things in the goal-mouth below ’n’ it was all he could do to remain on the barrier; the ball hadn’t gone in but. United might even’ve scored a second.

  It was a long cold wait at the interval.

  “Don’t worry, son,” Mr. McCool said. “A different story in the second half it’ll be—”

  That didn’t make Liam any warmer but, as he waited to be lifted again. Talking to someone about emigrating from Derry his da was. Scores from the other grounds didn’t help either: Aberdeen were up there challenging still.

  Second half started. All the action was at the far end now. It was all Celtic. Was hard to tell who was doing what but. Was the ball going in or not.

  Crowd behind Liam was straining to see. There was so much leaning forward ’n’ falling back, he wasn’t safe on the barrier. His da’d to keep telling folk to spare a thought for the boy. It kept happening but. Soon the weeboy was so scared, he hadn’t a hope of concentrating. Didn’t help that the men round about him were baying for blood.

  “United are hangin by a thread, Liam!” Mr. McCool said. “Like your tooth, son!”

  Then Celtic equalised.

  “CAESAR!”

  Liam felt himself being swept off the barrier.

  “Big McNeill!”

  Took both his da ’n’ Mr. McCool to catch him.

  His da was livid—“Young fella could’ve cracked his skull open!” Fans were too busy celebrating but.

  “One each!”

  “M’ON THE TIC!”

  No way was Liam getting up again after that. He stayed down even though he couldn’t see. There was gaps between the men’s bodies alright. They closed but, every time the ball went near the box.

  Another four goals went in—Hood, Connolly, Murdoch, Hood again—Liam saw buck all but.

  “Five-one!—Are you pleased wi the score at least, youngfella?”

  Liam tried to say he was. Really but, for the last half hour, he’d been interested in nothing but his tooth.

  They hit the road. Only stopped for fish ’n’ chips. Perth was the name of the place. In the freezing cold, the steam off the food was something powerful. Heat made Liam’s tooth scream wi agony.

  “Eat wi the other side of your mouth then,” his da said.

  After that, the journey dragged ’n’ dragged. There was nothing to look forward to. If he didn’t see much on the way up, he now saw less in the dark, Liam.

  He felt a sharp pain sometimes when he forced the tooth wi his tongue. When that happened, pressing against the window seemed to help. The cold would take his mind off it.

  Two hours later nearly, he was still sitting there: poking ’n’ wriggling. Felt lik a crunch sometimes, it did. Then, suddenly, it gave. His da hadn’t to pull it.

  Liam showed his tooth to Mr. McCool.

  “Will ye be leavin it out for the Tooth Fairy?”

  Was the first Liam’d heard of any fairy—though he knew about under the pillow.

  “Don’t know about that,” his da said. “He’s had enough—all he’s getting—today.”

  Youngfella didn’t care but. He was so browned off he wanted home just.

  2.

  Day it all happened, Liam’d been out wi a ball—ball he got for Christmas—up round the corner at the garages. No one else was out so he’d spent the afternoon, once twelve Mass ’n’ the dinner were over, kicking the ball at the doors.

  He knew himself he was getting better. It felt great when he got a rally going, the ball hitting the door, then dropping down the slope, falling for him. He could feel himself shaping up, posing nearly, as he shot ’n’ shot ’n’ shot ’n’ shot at goal.

  He kept going even when it started to get dark. Wi the streetlights on, it felt like a midweek game, sure. Flood-lit.

  Felt so good, was only needing the toilet had taken him home.

  “There’s three dead in Derry,” his mother said when she saw him.

  “Is there?” he answered just.

  He felt lousy. There was nothing he could say but. Was lik the times his mum would tell him, “Your granny was sayin Tony Devlin died yesterday.” Or: “That’s Bridie Breslin dead.” He’d feel sad, sort-of. All he could ever say but was “Did he?” or “Is it?”

  The names meant nothing to him, that’s what the problem was. His mum, realising, sort-of, sometimes, would say, “You must mind Tony Devlin? Man who ran the butcher’s next to the newsagent’s? Married onto your Aunty Mary’s people?”

  “Naw, maybe you wouldn’t—” she’d end up saying.

&nb
sp; Was only him she asked, too. She never asked the young ones.

  Liam wished he could remember. Instead of being a dead loss.

  “There’s five dead now,” his mum said when he came down again. “Did ye wash your hands?”

  “Yeah,” he said, racing out.

  It was still bothering him but, as he looked to see who else was out. Ciara ’n’ Annette were playing: them clacker things. Sean was nowhere to be seen. Boys next door were playing kerbie, so Liam sat ’n’ watched.

  The number went up to eight. Then eleven. Then thirteen.

  The Derry ones were phoning Mrs. Henderson’s. His da still wasn’t in so his mum took the calls. Came out each time to tell them.

  “The rumours are true,” she announced at one point. “Bout the killings in Derry, I mean. There was even a bit on the news there.”

  “They haven’t put a figure on it. Your Uncle Dermot says it’s all round Derry but there’s thirteen dead. Thirteen dead ’n’ a whole lot injured.”

  Liam looked at her just. None of them knew what to say. He could see the shock too, sure, in the girls’ faces.

  At some point, later, his mum came out of the Hendersons’ ’n’ assured them the O’Donnells were all okay.

  Jesus. It hadn’t even occurred to him! Liam, when she said it, realised.

  Her own family were all okay ’n’ all. None of them had been on the march.

  Some of their uncles ’n’ cousins on the O’Donnell side had been but they were all home safe but, she told them. Their Uncle Dermot was just off the phone to say they were all home safe. Their daddy had got hold of Dermot ’n’ all. Had phoned the Creggan from a phonebox.

  When he got home from the Hibs, their da, you could tell from the look on his face it was really bad. You’d’ve thought, to look at him, someone in the family had died.

  Now Liam felt even worse. Bout not realising how bad it was.

  It was no time before Mrs. Henderson was at the door again. His da took the call this time, apologised for any inconvenience. Mrs. Henderson insisted but it was alright.

  Turned out Dermot had phoned again ’n’ John Hume had read out the names from a bit of paper. There was twelve names, thirteen dead but. Folk weren’t sure who No. 13 was. Could be one of two people.

  The weans were all in their beds, of course, when News at 10 came on. They could hear Big Ben but up through the ceiling, your man Reginald Bosanquet doing the headlines.

  For once, the weans had been good ’n’ went up. Was as if they knew to. Sean was the only one to act up. Ciara & Annette were soon shooshin him but, urging him to be good for their mammy & daddy. Wasn’t there thirteen dead, they said.

  It was no time before they could hear their da ’n’ all. Raging he was. Calling the soldiers for everything. Their mum they could hear trying to calm him.

  When Liam went down for a drink, his da called him in.

  “Mere ’n’ see this, son—”

  He didn’t need to be told, Liam: the man on the TV, wi the balding head, was Eddie Daly. The Eddie Daly his da had gone to school wi. Father Daly now. He was waving a white hanky, Father, ’n’ the boys behind him were carrying someone.

  “Jackie Duddy, that is. Dermot told me on the phone. Seventeen years of age! Jackie Duddy’s his name. And Father was shouting ‘Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!’ trying to get him to an ambulance—”

  Jackie Duddy. Liam knew instantly it was a name he’d never forget.

  He remained sitting.

  His mum & dad were letting him, he realised at some point. Were letting him stay up. He listened to the army boys being interviewed, his da blowing his top. Then listened to his da & his mum trying to take it all in. Trying to piece it together.

  Thirteen dead. Six from the Creggan alone.

  ■

  The next night, when their da came home, he was livid.

  They all knew at work he wasn’t long over, he said. Not a buckin one but had had the decency to ask was his family all okay? “For all they know, one of my brothers could’ve been shot!”

  “They’re all Catholics too. Each ’n’ every one of them. Did they ask about Derry yesterday but? Did they buck! Not a single one!”

  “That’s the Scots for you—”

  Their da stayed in that night, something he never ever done. Even wee Cahal commented.

  Their mum & him were running through the names still. Trying to work out which Gilmore it was. Which Nash. Which McDaid. There were two by the name of McKinney.

  It wasn’t just grown men. There was seventeen- & nineteen- & twenty-one-year-olds, which made it even harder. Ye had to work out who they might be connected to. Whose youngfella it could be.

  Liam listened to the names being repeated, over ’n’ over. It was goney be another list you’d have to know by heart. He could tell already.

  They’d a name for No. 13 now. Boy’s family, God love them, had been told it wasn’t him & it turned out it was.

  Liam’s mother & father kept coming back to Jackie Duddy. They never shut up about Jackie Duddy. Bout Father Daly carrying him. Trying to get him to an ambulance. Having to wave his hanky to stop them getting shot.

  Fr. Daly who his da knew. From when they were schoolboys together.

  3.

  The first home game again, after that, was the following Saturday.

  The funerals had taken place in the meantime. Dermot had described on the phone for them what people had felt: all them coffins, all laid out before the altar.

  Their mum & dad hadn’t given over—even here in Scotland, even—bout what everyone was calling Bloody Sunday. They went on ’n’ on about Bernadette Devlin punching Reginald Maudling. Bout other ones setting fire to the British Embassy in Dublin.

  It showed you how serious things were.

  Things were bad gettin.

  There was demonstrations in America ’n’ all, sure.

  Devlin was expected in Glasgow on Friday night. Woodhallside, or something.

  They’d seen the letters to the papers too. One, in the Scotsman, insisted the Ulster Catholics in Londonderry lived no distance from the border. So, the boy asked, if they didn’t go, didn’t move across, if they preferred to be second-class citizens in Northern Ireland when they could be first-class citizens in Eire, did that not tell you something?

  Their da flipped when he saw that. Was nearly writing in, himself.

  The Saturday was a Cup game. Against Albion Rovers.

  Sean was looking to go. Still hadn’t been for when Liam had got to Tannadice. Their da wasn’t having it but. Their mum didn’t say nothing. However much she felt for the weeboy, it was a non-starter, she knew. He knew it was a bit twisted, Liam, something in him felt pleased but—specially when Sean got joined for asking once too often.

  “I said NO, Sean, ’n’ I’m not telling you again! It’ll be a cuff round the ear ye’ll be getting. Do ye not realise there could be aggro? It’ll be no place for youngfellas—Parkhead—today.”

  Mr. McCool turned up at half one. When he saw Liam, he said his Kevin said hello. Didn’t say much otherwise.

  Then he minded the tooth. Liam’d forgotten, himself, until Mr. McCool mentioned it. His tongue felt for where the wound had been. Marshmallowy, it had been, really soft. Coppery-tasting. Now but, it had healed again.

  “Are you satisfied, weeboy?” their da asked when he came back downstairs. Talking to Sean, he was. “Hasn’t Mr. McCool left Kevin behind ’n’ all? I hope you’re satisfied now?”

  He turned to Mr. McCool. “Do us a favour, Feargus, will ye, ’n’ tell my two Parkhead’s no place for youngfellas today!”

  Liam drew him a look as if to say: He doesn’t have to tell me! Wasn’t me was pestering ye!

  “That’s right, boys,” Mr. McCool confirmed
. “Yir daddy’s right. Yir better off at home theday, Sean, son. Ye never know what could happen, sure—”

  “I hear there’s an International Socialist march in Glasgow planned—” he said to their da. “Ye ever heard o them boys, Liam? The International Socialists?”

  Their da said he hadn’t. He’d heard about the sixteen arrests outside the Bernadette Devlin rally the night before but. An’ about a boy called Pastor Glass who’d led a counter-demonstration. There was a photo in the paper. Liam’d seen it ’n’ all. The People’s Democracy, one placard read, is a Marxist Plot.

  “Have ye got the petitions?” Mr. McCool asked as they headed out.

  “Too right I’ve got them.”

  At quarter to four, Liam tuned in for the half-time scores, then listened to the second-half commentary. Sean joined him. It was okay: Celtic were two up, the Rovers weren’t at the races.

  The goals rolled in. Five-nil, it finished. Callaghan got two. Macari, Deans ’n’ Murdoch, one each.

  The boys couldn’t wait for their da ’n’ Mr. McCool. Would be great if Mr. McCool had time to come in. That way, they’d hear more. Would hear how Dalglish & Macari were doing.—The new boys.

  When the two men did return, their faces were tripping them. Even Bridget commented.

  “What’s wrong wi yous? I thought yous would’ve been pleased. The two boys here were followin it on the wireless—”

  Their da shook his head as if to say, Don’t ask. He was browned off about something, ye could see it.

  “They wouldn’t sign our petitions, Bridget, love,” Mr. McCool explained.

  “Aye—they call themselves Celtic supporters!” their da just-about roared. “And the buggers wouldn’t sign our bloody petitions—”

  Mr. McCool was nodding away.

  “They stand on them terracings, week in, week out, singing all the songs, calling themselves Celtic supporters—” their da continued, “calling themselves Irish—would they lift a pen but to put pen to paper? Would they buck!”

  “Language, Liam!” Mr. McCool tried to say. “Cool it in front of the youngsters, mucker—”