Bloody January

by Alan Parks

  ‘Didn’t take long for you to go native, eh? Come on. Found someone that saw him.’

  McCoy followed him up the rubbish-strewn steps to the next floor. Soon realised it made the one below look cosy. No fires up here, few candles, that was it. He could hear groaning, someone crying. There was a smell of piss everywhere. Eamonn walked towards the back, McCoy keeping up, didn’t want to get separated. A girl was sitting cross-legged on a filthy mattress in the corner, boy passed out beside her. Candle illuminated a pretty face, mid-teens, illuminated the scars and cuts up her skinny arms too. She had a wee puppy in her cardigan, head poking out between the buttons.

  ‘This is Beezy,’ said Eamonn. ‘Recognised your man.’

  ‘That right?’ said McCoy, sitting down on his hunkers. ‘Where’d you see him?’

  She looked at him, didn’t say anything, companion grunted and rolled over. He reached in his pocket, found a couple of quid.

  ‘You know the Hamilton?’ she asked, putting the money under the mattress. ‘Up by Parkhead?’

  McCoy nodded. Old fever hospital that had been shut for years, half derelict now.

  ‘In there. There’s people living there, security clear them out every couple of weeks but they cannae find everyone, place is massive. Me and Ivan were staying there one night and this guy – Tommy?’

  ‘Aye, Tommy.’

  ‘He was dossing there. Hadnae any money, nothing, so we gave him half a loaf we had. Asked us if we wanted some acid.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  She gestured behind her. ‘Ivan took some, I didnae fancy it. That guy Tommy said he’d been on it for days. Didnae surprise me – his brain was pure scrambled.’

  ‘How?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Kept talking about his “mission” and how he had been chosen to do it. Wasn’t making any sense. Said some guy called Alistair was guiding him, that he was communicating with him on a different plane. Usual acid shite.’

  ‘Did he say what this mission was?’

  Ivan sat up, leant over. ‘Said he had to free someone and then he could free himself. That the time was coming for him to leave.’

  ‘Leave?’ asked McCoy. ‘Leave where? The Hamilton?’

  Ivan shook his head. ‘Here. The Earth.’

  *

  They must have been waiting outside his flat. Biding their time, choosing their spot well. They’d had a lucky break too. The streetlights had failed on Gardner Street, road was pitch black. McCoy’d dropped Eamonn off back at the Grates, then Wattie off with his landlady. Was closing the car door, yawning, looking forward to his bed, and before he knew what was happening someone had bent his arm up his back and was pushing him up the street and into the wee alleyway that ran between the tenements. He tried to turn to see who it was, but the guy was good: every time he turned, he pushed his arm up higher, increased the pain. He could hear more than one person behind him, had to be two or three of them. They ran him into a wall, hard; he knocked his head, felt the blood burst from his nose and went down. And then the kicking started. He tried to get his hands up but a good few went into his head before he managed it. The kicks kept coming. He felt a tooth break, a boot slam into his kidneys, sound of grunts and heavy breathing. He pulled himself into the wall, tried to make himself as small as possible, but one of them grabbed his foot and pulled him out into the lane so they could get into him easier. He looked up, thought he saw someone he recognized, and then a boot hit him square in the side of the head and that was that. His hearing went, everything sounded like it was happening far away, could still hear the grunting as they kicked in at him but it was getting fainter and fainter. He could feel the blood pooling in his mouth and the steady thump of the kicks. Then nothing.

  NINETEEN

  8th July 1951

  He started to cry when he saw her coming out the kitchen door. She’d the plate held out in front of her, white linen tea towel covering it. He looked round at Stevie, but he had his head down, he couldn’t do anything about this, nobody could. She took the tea towel off. The smell hit him and his stomach rolled, couldn’t breathe properly. Her voice was soft, reasonable.

  ‘Now, are you going to eat this, young McCoy?’

  He was sobbing now, shaking his head, tears and snot running down his face.

  ‘There are children in Africa that are starving and you won’t eat the good meal God has provided.’ She set the plate down in front of him, pushed the spoon into his unwilling hand. ‘Your behaviour is an insult to me, to those starving children and to the Good Lord himself. This plate will keep reappearing until you have finished what is on it. Now eat.’

  He looked down at it through a blur of tears. Cold lamb stew, lumps of fat and gristle in watery gravy, all of it mixed in with the vomit he’d thrown up into it yesterday when she tried to force a spoonful down his throat. He wanted his mum, his dad, wanted anyone, anyone that could make it stop. The dining room windows were open, summer sunlight coming through the trees, dappling the walls. Everyone was silent, almost two hundred boys with their heads down, thinking themselves lucky it wasn’t happening to them, at least not today. He picked up the spoon, hand shaking, and pushed it into the horrible mess on the plate, Sister Agnes looking down at him, an encouraging smile on her lovely young face. He got the spoon halfway up to his mouth, then dropped it, dry retching spasming his body. She hit him on the back of the head. Hard.

  ‘Stop that crying. You’re putting it on, there’s nothing wrong with you. Just get on and eat it. Sooner the better, we’ll both be here as long as it takes.’

  ‘Fuck off, you fucking cow, just leave him alone.’

  A collective gasp, forks stopping halfway to mouths. Stevie Cooper was standing up, an eleven-year-old knot of anger and hurt, fists balled at his sides. He leant over and pushed the plate of stew off the table. It smashed on the stone floor, stew and sick splattering Sister Agnes’s legs.

  ‘You’re a fucking cow, a fucking cow!’

  Stevie was screaming at her now, calling her everything, trying to get across the table to her. Father Kelly already running towards them from the back of the hall. Stevie started running, made a break for the open doors, thought he’d made it until one of the Christian Brothers stepped out from behind a table and tripped him. He went flying, crashed into a row of chairs and the brother was on him in a second, pinning him down.

  McCoy tried to run towards him, but Sister Agnes was too fast, grabbed him, nails digging into his left arm. He was struggling, but her grip was too tight, he couldn’t get away. Father Kelly was striding towards Stevie now, pulling his thick leather belt through the loops of his trousers. He raised it above his head and swung it down as hard as he could across Stevie’s face. He shrieked in pain, noise echoing round the big hall. All around McCoy, children sat bent over their meals, refusing to look, some of them crying, shoving the food into their mouths as fast as they could as Father Kelly dragged Stevie along the floor and out through the double doors.

  He must have escaped somehow. Everyone knew where Father Kelly had taken him, down to the lock box in the cellars. He’d get three days at least. Nobody got out the lock box, had a padlock on it, key on Father Kelly’s belt. He’d done it, though. He woke up and Stevie was standing at the end of the bed. He started to cry as soon as he saw him. He was covered in blood; it was everywhere, in his hair, all down his body, staining his white underpants red. One of his eyes was red too, white filled with blood.

  ‘Shove up,’ Stevie said. He crawled onto the bed and got under the sheets. ‘Don’t know what you’re crying for,’ he said. ‘I’m the one that got the doing.’

  They lay there all night, neither one of them sleeping much. Stevie in too much pain and McCoy too scared. The blood was gradually soaking the sheets. He was getting covered in it. He tried to roll to the other side of the bed, but it kept coming, he couldn’t get away. He could feel it on his arm, a cold stickiness, could smell it too. Knew if he turned round he would see Stevie covered in it, in his hair, his f
ace, everywhere.

  Worse than that, he was ashamed. Ashamed that he wanted Stevie to still be in the lock box, to not have covered him in his blood, to not be here in the morning when Father Kelly discovered he’d gone and that McCoy might have something to do with it.

  He must have fallen asleep somehow. He woke up, it was light, morning, and Father Kelly was at the side of the bed. The priest held Stevie in an iron grip, Stevie looking terrified.

  ‘You too, lad,’ Father Kelly said. ‘Thick as bloody thieves.’ He grabbed his upper arm, long nails pressing into his flesh. ‘Come on now.’ Nails pressing into his arm, pressing and pressing . . .

  McCoy opened his eyes. Bright light. Nurse standing over him holding a syringe, wiping at his arm with a swab.

  ‘That’s it over now, go back to sleep, Mr McCoy, back to sleep.’

  5th January 1973

  TWENTY

  He could smell stale pipe smoke. Ralgex. Had to be Murray. McCoy opened his eyes and sure enough he was there, sitting on an orange plastic chair by the end of the bed, folded Glasgow Herald in his lap.

  ‘Still alive then,’ he said.

  McCoy tried to sit up, arms and legs felt heavy, he felt heavy. Tried to speak but his throat was too dry. Murray pulled the yellow cellophane off a bottle of Lucozade by the bed and poured a glass, held it up to his lips. He drank it down, fizzy and incredibly sweet.

  ‘Where are we?’ he managed, looking around.

  ‘The Western. You not remember coming in?’

  He shook his head. Took in the white curtains round the bed, distant noise of chatting, clattering pans. ‘I remember getting kicked to fuck, don’t remember coming here.’ His left hand felt funny, he held it up; two fingers bandaged together with a splint in between them.

  ‘You wouldn’t. Did you over well and good. You were out cold for a while. Your neighbour called it in, found you lying outside the close.’ He sat back on his chair. ‘You’ve been moaning away in your sleep, talking nonsense. Telling someone to run, and blood, and something about some woman called Agnes. What’s all that about then?’

  He shook his head. ‘No idea. Any more of that?’

  He drank the whole bottle, started to feel more human. He lifted up his bedclothes. They’d put pyjamas on him. Stripy ones. He pulled the jacket up, saw all the bruises and cuts and pushed it back down again. He lifted the waistband of the trousers up and peered down, balls were twice the normal size, nice shade of browny blue. Must have got a good few kicks in there.

  ‘A total of twelve stitches, two broken fingers and bruising similar to what you would find in a car crash victim, so the doctor says. He wants you to stay in for a few days.’

  McCoy shook his head and Murray sighed. ‘How’d I know you were going to do that?’ He stood up, looked at his watch. Ten to eleven. ‘Stay here the day, I’ll come back for you at six. Deal?’ McCoy nodded. ‘You know who did it?’

  ‘I thought I recognised one of them. Only saw him for a couple of seconds before he booted me in the head.’

  ‘Now who’d want to beat you up, McCoy? The usual queue?’

  He shook his head. It hurt. ‘I’ve been a good boy lately.’

  ‘That’ll be right. They took your money and your watch. Maybe it was just a robbery after all.’

  McCoy’s face fell. ‘My wallet?’

  Murray held up an empty wallet. ‘Uniform found it down the lane. Picture’s still in it, don’t worry.’ He put it down on the bedside cabinet. He looked at McCoy, at the stitches and the broken fingers. Left him it.

  *

  They made him sign himself out. Young doctor looking at him like he was mad. Sent him home with six codeine tablets and a strict warning. If he got a sudden headache or became sensitive to light, he was to come straight back. If he started pissing blood again, he was to come straight back. If either of the two taped-up fingers started to go black, he was to come straight back. He stood nodding as they told him, not really listening, just waiting for them to finish. Murray was beside him, car keys in one hand, his plastic bag of clothes in the other, like some dad come to fetch his kid home. Took a good twenty minutes to get up the stairs to his flat even with Murray helping. By the time they got to his door the sweat was pouring off him, never felt so sore and tired in his life.

  He must have looked bad. Murray even called him at home that night to make sure he was okay. Phone was only on the sideboard on the other side of the room, still took him twenty rings before he got there. Told Murray everything was fine even though it wasn’t. Everything hurt and the edges of his vision were blurry, but there was no way he was spending another night in hospital.

  He managed to get himself settled onto the couch, bucket beside him to piss or be sick in, half a bar of chocolate he’d found to eat, bottle of Lucozade Murray had left to drink. He pulled the bedspread over himself and took three of the tablets washed down with a good whack of Bell’s, hoped he’d sleep soon, hoped the dream wouldn’t come back.

  Hadn’t had one for a while, the dream about being back in the home. Sometimes it was about Sister Agnes and sometimes about the time Father Kelly broke Stevie’s arm after he got them downstairs to the cellar. Always the blood though, that was always there. In the dreams he was covered in it, he tried to wipe it off and it wouldn’t go, couldn’t get it off himself. Still woke crying sometimes, not sure where he was or what was going on. Must be talking to that bloody priest, bringing memories back.

  He felt the pills kick in, mind starting to drift. Wondered if this was what heroin was like. If it was, he couldn’t blame Janey. The pain slowly dissolved. Still couldn’t remember who the guy was he’d glimpsed as he’d been kicked. Almost had it, just out of reach. He lifted up the bedspread and looked down at his balls again, tried to tell himself they were getting back to normal. He took another slug of the whisky and stared at the TV. Some film with John Wayne. He’d no idea what was going on and he didn’t care, happy to just look at the colours, listen to the voices, feel the cotton of the pillow under his cheek. The whisky tumbler slipped out his hand as he drifted off and rolled along the carpet. John Wayne shot someone, the clock on the mantelpiece ticked on. McCoy slept.

  6th January 1973

  TWENTY-ONE

  He woke up with the TV running static, neck stiff from sleeping against the arm of the couch. Felt better, though. Still in pain but a lot better. Took him an hour to give himself a bath, trying to avoid getting the dressings and bandages wet. He dried himself off and stood in front of the wardrobe mirror. His whole body was blotched with black and yellow bruises; one around his kidneys was as big as a dinner plate. No wonder he’d been pissing blood. Balls looked better, though. He moved in and peered at his face. Not a pretty sight. Swollen nose and the last of the black eye he’d got from Chas.

  He’d just managed to get his skivvies on, after ten minutes of moaning and groaning, when there was a knocking at the door. Murray come to check up on him no doubt. He wrapped a blanket around himself and slowly made his way down the hall, leaning on the wall for support. Knocking came again.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming, give us a break,’ he said, flicking the lock and opening the door. Angela was standing there.

  She took her sunglasses off, looked him up and down. ‘Christ. You going to ask me in?’

  He held the door open and she walked past him, familiar smell of perfume and cigarettes. He followed her into the living room and sat down on the couch; just getting up and answering the door had half killed him. She was looking round, at the couch with the balled-up blankets, empty whisky bottle beside it, bucket, newspapers and an overflowing ashtray on the coffee table.

  ‘If I’d known you were coming, I would have tidied up a bit,’ he said.

  She took off her black maxi coat, knelt down and looked at him. ‘What the fuck happened to you, Harry?’ She held his chin, moved the side of his face into the light. ‘Look like you’ve been hit by a lorry.’

  ‘It’s no that bad.’

 
; She touched the big bruise over his kidneys. He winced. ‘You should be in the hospital.’

  ‘I was. You here checking up on the boyfriend’s dirty work?’

  She stood back up, walked over to the window. ‘It’s the sixth,’ she said. ‘I just wondered why you weren’t there.’

  Suddenly her black coat and dress made sense. ‘Shite. These bloody pills have knocked me sideways.’

  ‘Flowers there again,’ she said. ‘Big bunch.’

  ‘Your mum?’

  She shook her head. ‘God knows.’

  ‘Definitely no mine, that’s for sure. Might be Stevie.’

  ‘Always had a big smile for his uncle Stevie, didn’t he?’ she said.

  ‘Had a big smile for anyone, you know what he was like.’

  ‘The two of us miserable gits managed to make the happiest baby in the world.’

  She moved a pile of ironing he’d never quite got around to off a chair and sat down at the table. Started smoothing out the newspaper opened in front of her.

  ‘That’s three years,’ she said.

  ‘Doesn’t seem like it.’

  She opened her handbag, took out a hanky and dabbed at her eyes, trying not to ruin her make-up. Didn’t work, too many tears. Black mascara started running down her cheeks.

  ‘Come on, don’t do this, Angela. It wasn’t our fault. Not yours, not mine. It happens. You know it does.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Cot death is cot death, you know that. The doctors told us. You’re just twisting the knife in yourself. Wouldn’t have made any difference what state we were in.’