Children of Albion Rovers

by Laura Hird

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t!’

  ‘It helps with my painting. It inspires me … honestly … so he lets me use it.’

  He imagined her brother being part of a drugs cartel. A gang of Jamaicans high on crack chasing him down the street.

  ‘No, seriously Jenny. I don’t think you should use it if it’s David’s.’

  She unravelled the knot at the top of the bag.

  ‘I do it all the time. He doesn’t mind. He grows his own.’

  He wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Won’t your mother smell it when she gets back?’

  ‘She’s not back for two days. Anyway, she doesn’t mind, she smokes it herself.’

  He watched her sticking Rizlas together as he guzzled his whisky.

  ‘Do you like grass?’ she asked.

  ‘I tried cannabis, you know the resin stuff, years ago. It didn’t really do anything though, just made me laugh. This is my major vice.’

  Gesturing to his whisky, he took a long drink and kissed the glass.

  ‘I thought everyone smoked it.’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Apparently not,’ she mimicked, laughing. Was his speech becoming slurred? The grass would calm him down.

  Crawling across the carpet, she rummaged in a bag by the door and cursed to herself.

  ‘I forgot to get cigarettes.’

  ‘You don’t need tobacco with grass, do you? Surely it’s better without. It would ruin it.’

  ‘I thought you’d never smoked it.’

  ‘It’s common knowledge Jenny, is it not?’

  He hadn’t meant to patronise her but if she was going to make him smoke the stuff anyway he wanted to make sure he felt something this time.

  Standing up, she poured him another huge whisky then walked over to the CD player and changed the disc. The Doors.

  ‘Is this OK?’

  ‘I was a bit before their time I think.’

  ‘You’re not that old.’

  He was hoping she’d say that. The tune was vaguely familiar though he wasn’t really a great fan of that kind of music. Weren’t they the band whose lead singer used to wank on stage? It sounded like he was singing, ‘Show me the way to the next little girl.’

  As she rolled the joint she asked him if he’d watched Some Like It Hot on television the night before. It was her favourite film. When he told her he’d gone to see it when it first came out she looked aghast.

  ‘When was that? It was years ago, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No, 1960, 1959, something like that.’

  She lit the joint and inhaled deeply.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask how old you are.’

  ‘That’s very decent of you.’

  ‘Methuselah,’ she whispered.

  ‘You didn’t seem too perturbed about my old age a few minutes ago.’

  Ignoring his statement, she stood up, replaced the Doors CD with Carmen and took several large tokes on the joint until rich scented smog gushed from her nose and lips. This music sounded much better. Handing the joint to him she watched as he performed a ten-second session of staccato sucks then stared at her with a lockjaw grin as he held it in his lungs. Whooooooh! He felt it immediately. It felt wonderful, like a blanket of calm. Smiling normally now, he felt impressed with himself for not having had a coughing fit. A large gulp of whisky heightened his sense of machismo, then he repeated the process and handed the joint back to her. Taking a deep drag on it she fell into a daydream, jaw slightly ajar.

  ‘That’s the first time I’ve smoked in eight years,’ he said, consciously trying to keep his voice deep.

  Her pupils fixed on him and she looked tantalisingly raddled but didn’t seem to register that he’d spoken. He tried again.

  ‘I used to smoke fifty fags a day, then I stopped. Just like that …’

  Clicking his fingers to emphasise the point, they made no sound.

  ‘… plus, I learned a very important lesson in self-control when I stopped smoking.’

  ‘And what was that?’ she asked, seeming to pull herself together and edging across the carpet towards him, sleepily.

  ‘What was what?’

  ‘This important lesson in self-control?’

  Oh yes, self-control. What had he being saying about self-control? He didn’t have a clue so he listened to the music. It sounded even better now. Humming along, he tapped his glass in accompaniment. She looked up at him, bemused.

  ‘I take it you like Carmen then?’

  It made him realise he’d been singing out loud but despite his embarrassment he managed to summon scorn from somewhere.

  ‘Oh, you know. It’s terribly hackneyed nowadays. It’s almost too embarrassing to listen to.’

  ‘Shall I put it off?’

  It really did sound good.

  ‘No, don’t worry about it.’

  Relaxing again she leaned her arm on his leg. He watched her take a few sips of water. Water?

  ‘What happened to your drink?’

  She pressed the glass down on his thigh and traced the rim with her finger until it began wailing.

  ‘I don’t drink that much. I prefer smoking. It makes me feel sexy.’

  His resistance to imminent seduction had greatly decreased. Why was he resisting anyway? He couldn’t recall but it annoyed him that she thought she was taking advantage of him. What had they been talking about before? It was something safe he was sure. Oh yes!

  ‘So what’s your favourite bit in Some Like It Hot then?’

  What an absolutely and utterly bloody boring question. No wonder she looked distant. She obliged him with an answer regardless and they began reciting their favourite lines from the film. She probably would have laughed at anything but he imagined she found him hilarious and was subsequently encouraged to go on and on and on …

  ‘… and that bit where Jack Lemmon’s in bed in the train and all the women climb up there for a party. You know, “Watch that corkscrew!”’

  He knew he sounded nothing like Jack Lemmon, in fact he was speaking in a glaikit West Coast accent for no apparent reason but it seemed absolutely hilarious. He couldn’t stop. The inane comments started coming thick and fast, punctuated only by his uninhibited snorts of laughter.

  ‘Haw haw … noiboidy toakes lak thet. Haw haw Tony Curtis doing Cary Grant, did you realise, haw haw haw … know the bit I mean … noiboidy toakes lak thet … haw haw haw.’

  Oh my God! What was happening? He was losing it. She laughed embarrassedly along with him at first but then began to look a bit bored. In an attempt to curb his bizarre outbursts he sucked extravagantly on the joint as she proceeded to roll another, then glugged down a mouthful of the whisky. It tasted fucking marvellous. The music whirled around his head as he watched her carefully cocoon more grass in a mosaic of cigarette papers. He kept going off on little gouches but another hit of Grouse soon perked him up. He stared at her until she looked back.

  ‘What’s this we’re listening to now?’

  She screwed-up her face in non-comprehension.

  He elaborated. ‘This music. It’s fantastic. What is it?’

  Still she didn’t quite comprehend.

  ‘Carmen. Are you joking?’

  ‘Naturally,’ he said, thinking he’d never heard the music before but it sounded wonderful. As she handed him the unlit joint she threw him another puzzled look.

  ‘Here, I think you better spark this one up.’

  Lighting it, he sucked at it greedily, interspersed with little sips of whisky until his head was spinning. As he got lost in the familiarity of the music she re-filled his glass. Oh yes, here it was. This was a good bit.

  ‘Big boy, remembah, you must re-meeem-beerr …’, wey hey! ‘… stand up and fight until you hear the bell, stand toe to toe, trade blow for blow …’ off he went, more Terry Wogan’s ‘Floral Dance’ than Paul Robeson.

  ‘… keep punchin’ till you make dem punches tell …’

  Christ, he really could sin
g loud and his voice sounded brilliant. Really deep. Really powerful.

  ‘… show that crowd what you know …’, he serenaded, expecting her to look impressed, however, as soon as she sensed his glance she beckoned for the joint. Had he been hogging it? What the hell. She probably smoked it every day.

  ‘… until you hear that bell …’, he conducted himself, gesticulating wildly, trying to get her to join in, ‘… that final bell …’ Despite her look of displeasure, this was the best bit so he sang it, inexplicably, in a shrill falsetto voice, screaming the final word, ‘… stand up and fight like heeeeellll!.’ The singer finished a second or two after him. The CD was in Spanish or Italian, however, he preferred the American version about the boxer.

  Oh shite! The look of alarm on her face suggested to him that he may have gone beyond the beyond. Grass really wasn’t his scene. It made him feel wonderfully relaxed but this was counteracted by the knowledge that his sense of coolness and control were way out the window. It wasn’t the drink. A fair skinful had been consumed but he could handle that. He’d been handling that for the past 25 years.

  ‘You’ve never considered teaching music then?’ she sniggered.

  Reaching over impulsively, he took her hand and pulled her towards him.

  ‘You’re leading me astray, Jenny, I’m not used to this Bohemian lifestyle, you know.’

  Kneeling in front of him she stroked his hand as he let his gaze run over her eyes, her lips, her small, tight breasts, her eyes, her lips and back to her eyes, watching her warm to him again, remembering why she’d invited him in the first place. The same thing worked in class. Twenty-nine pupils with their noses in books and the two of them in the midst of it, sitting across from each other, doing this – this visual intercourse.

  Her fingers travelled, ever so gently, up and down his thigh. God, she worshipped him. It was so obvious.

  ‘You should stop that, Jenny. I’ll forget myself and do something unprofessional.’

  But she merely did the same thing with his other thigh, gesturing to the floor with her eyes, luring him, inviting him.

  Moving across the carpet she lay on her side with her head cupped in her hand. Adopting the same position he lay opposite, looking from her eyes to her lips to her eyes to her lips. As her mouth opened she let out a sharp, hot breath against his cheek. Pulling her head gently towards him, he watched her close her eyes and wait for his kiss, remaining like this, his face barely an inch from hers until she looked again to see the reason for the delay.

  ‘What do you want me to do to you Jenny Russell?’

  ‘Anything …’ she gasped. ‘… everything!’

  His fingers traced the outline of her thighs, hips, waist and down again. With each upwards motion he pushed the tight, little t-shirt she was wearing further up her body until her belly and the seam of her bra were exposed. Her lips were red and full and trembling, unlike his cock which, despite his arousal, didn’t seem to be reacting at all. Listening to her breathing get heavier he watched her nipples strain through the white cotton, letting his fingers brush under them, feeling their fullness and heat as he continued his action up and down her body. She put her mouth to his neck and moaned her warm breath against his shoulder as his hand slowly circled her breast.

  ‘Do you like that?’

  ‘Yessss.’

  Lying back he pulled her on top of him. Coins spilt from his pocket and clattered onto the polished, timber floor. His cock was still not interested. Her tongue found his mouth and began examining his teeth and circling his tongue. As he rubbed his hands up and down her back more loose change spilt from his pocket. Her tongue was out of control, pushing into his mouth. It felt as if he was kissing Medusa and as he combed his fingers through her hair he imagined serpents rising to his touch. Her tongue was almost choking him. No, no. In an attempt to stop her probing he shut his mouth. Still no activity downstairs. Her tongue tried to break the barricade of his tightly closed lips. No, no, no. More coins drummed onto the floor. Fuck! He pushed her off him and sat up, flustered.

  ‘Sorry, I’m like a fucking fruit machine here. Hang on.’

  He emptied what was left in his trouser pockets into his jacket with the few coins he’d salvaged from the floor. A perfect vision of youth waiting to be defiled waited on the floor below. Lying on top of her with a worried determination about his soft prick, he kissed her smooth, baby-skinned belly, violently squeezing her firm, new, rounded breasts, muttering obscenities, trying to entice his prick to react, avoiding that off-puttingly inquisitive tongue. God, she was a terrible kisser. As he pushed her bra up her beautiful little, firm, new, rounded tits jumped out, begging to be sucked, fucked, fucking little bitch. Rubbing himself against her thigh – fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck what was wrong with him. Thinking of the ugly women and fat women and dirty women and old women he’d given the rides of their lives to in his time. Thinking of the red, varicose baby’s arms they’d given him. He bit and sucked and kissed and nibbled and licked and imagined her sucking him off and imagined himself shooting all over her face and hair and sucked and bit and squeezed as she growled and squealed and pleaded for it. His mind grasped at favourite bits in porn films with women being taught how to suck cock and shagging two women as they lay on top of each other and their double pussies and fucking women’s arses as they stabbed their cunts with dildoes. Jenny was grasping for his balls. He pushed her hand away. And women and men, women and women, women and lots of men, men and lots of women, men and girls, girls and girls, girls and horses, plump housewives in latex boots with spiky heels. Again she made a grab for his prick. Feeling a slight twitch, he ground against her hip bone to sustain momentum. Heavily made-up women with leaky mascara, women with mammaries the size of overladen shopping bags. Again, again, oh fuck, it was working. It was alright. Thank you God, oh yes, oh yes, he was going to hump the shit out of her. Dirty, filthy films with lurid names – imprisoned in silk panties and spanked to orgasm, all orifices filled, bend me over and choose your hole, strict aunties licking naughty nieces, girls sucking flashers, spank me harder and shag me. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck …

  BZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

  ‘Wha …?’

  ‘Ignore it!’ He continued thrusting against her but despite trying to respond her body had tightened up.

  BZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZ

  Pushing him away she held her head up, listening, as if the sound wasn’t loud enough.

  ‘Ignore it. They’ll go away.’

  BZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

  Pulling herself free she sat up on the floor.

  ‘Shouldn’t I answer it? I don’t know who it is.’

  ‘DON’T!’ he yelled, trembling, annoyed and sounding exactly like a school teacher.

  BZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZ BOAZZZZZZ, nipped his brain.

  ‘It must be important. Maybe something’s happened.’ She got up and stood by the door, desperate to answer it but scared of his reaction if she did.

  ‘I don’t believe this. I don’t fucking believe this. I thought you hadn’t invited anyone else.’

  ‘I didn’t. Honest.’

  BZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZ BOAZZZZZZZZZ

  As he held his head and shrieked, his cock shrivelled away again. She stood fidgeting at the room door like a pupil waiting for permission to go to the toilet. Though devoid of any wish to have to entertain anyone else the idea was slightly more appealing than having her fish around in his cords and discover his deflated piece of loose flesh. After all that fucking struggle.

  BZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZ BOAZZZZZZZZZZ

  They looked at each other, distanced, waiting for the inevitable next …

  BZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZ BOAZZZZZZZZZZ

  ‘Answer it then! Go on!’ he ordered, as if she’d been disobeying him by not doing so.

  BZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZ BOAZZZZZZZZ

  ‘… before I pull the fucking thing off the wall,’ he muttered but she was half-way down the stairs before he finished talking. Tidying himself up he leaned back against the bed feeling wr
etched and impotent again. The sound of the front door being unbolted was followed by a young, male voice, then two people coming upstairs.

  ‘Honestly, Jonah, I don’t know where the key is. He’ll have taken it with him.’

  With part of her baby-skin belly still exposed, Jenny re-entered the bedroom with a half caste Asian youth he recognised from one of his previous fourth year classes. Shit. As the recognition dawned on Jonah an idiot grin wriggled across his face, his eyes darting around in their sockets like James Galway’s.

  ‘Exams coming up, are they?’

  Jenny looked naïvely impressed at his sudden concern.

  ‘Yeah, just three weeks now. Bummer, eh?’

  Jonah threw back his head, roaring in amusement, then squinted down at him.

  ‘Aaaaw, that must be how I failed them all. I thought I was just stupid. Pity they hadnae had swimming exams, eh?’ he winked.

  While he was contemplating a response they both left the room again. There seemed little point in an elaborate denial as that little shit wouldn’t believe anything he said. He merely sat, dazed, watching and listening to them out in the hall. Jonah was trying to get into the room opposite Jenny’s.

  ‘Awe, come on Jen. Give’s the key. C’mon. Dave said I could. Don’t let’s play silly wee lassies, eh.’

  Jenny was gripping onto the doorknob, blocking him with her back.

  ‘Come on. Stop fucking about. He’s not harvested it yet. I know he’s not. Gimme the key!’

  They struggled with each other until the door eventually flew open.

  Jenny crucifixed herself across the frame in weak obstruction but he pinched her hard between the legs, barging his way in when her body subsided in defence.

  She came back through to the bedroom, shouting in a whisper.

  ‘Tell him to stop. Get him out. He can’t go in the attic. David’ll go apeshit!’

  Fussing and trembling and near to tears she stuffed the bag of grass down the front of her trousers, waiting for him to do something gallant.

  ‘Look, it’s none of my business, Jenny. I can’t get involved. I shouldn’t even be here.’

  ‘Oh, thanks a lot,’ she whined, going back into the hall, casting a hopeless glance into David’s room and running back down the stairs. Jonah was pulling books out of the bookshelf and looking behind them, letting out little moans each time his search proved unsuccessful like the kind women make when they see seal pups on TV.