‘Aye, that’s what your wife said and all, once me and ma mate had ridden her raw.’
‘Sam, I said that’s enough.’
‘You huvny got any mates, so I know you’re lying,’ says Cammie, returning to his mullet. At least, I think that’s what it is. I can’t expect them to teach me all the names, I must pick it up as quick as blinking.
The big man – Sam – hefts a whole salmon from the fridge. I hear his knuckles crack as he prepares himself, massaging the meaty length of his hands. Hundreds of tiny brown marks on the back of them. Freckles. I like how that rhymes with speckles. Mrs Coutts says they are a Scottish affliction. The freckles are speckled between gingery tufts of hair. Very clean hands, clean, clipped nails, but there is something grubby about the spattered brown.
First, the knife goes in the back of the neck, a deft twist and the head goes, then Sam slices wide, halving the fish. Another flash and we have fillets.
‘OK, so you lay it skinside, you take your tweezers –’ he takes a metal pincer from a hanging rack. ‘Grab here – see how they run along the length of the fillet.’
‘Ah yes. They are floating bones. Not attached to the skeleton.’
‘That’s right. Put one hand on the fish – firm, but gentle –’
‘Aye, like your wife said . . .’
‘Oh, gonny fuck-up, Cammie? Right, tweezers in other hand, and pull in the direction of the grain. See? Easy.’
‘May I try?’
He hands me the pincers. ‘Sure.’
I work my way briskly down the bright pink body, catching all the whiskers of bone.
‘Like that?’
‘You got it, pal. A natural.’
‘Well.’ Mr Maloney beams at us. ‘Abdi, pal – we’re a man down the day and we’re way behind. Plus, I need to nip over to our Newlands store later. So. I think we can dispense wi the formalities, eh? After all, this is on-the-job learning. But best no to mention it at college. Or the Big Boss either.’
I have no idea who the Big Boss is, but I nod and smile my agreement. I am a little boy and I am new here and it smells of fish and I seem to fit. Behind the metal doors with their spear-handles lie the cold stores. Mr Maloney takes me into one, points at boxes and rattles off instructions. Health and Safety prefaces each one. A box at a time, I drag the fish through, lift them on to the silver-topped tables. Crushed ice, the familiar jangle of scales running through my hand, the cutting of lemons and the trimming of parsley. It is better than wonderful. All morning, we work side by side, me and Sam, while Cammie serves in the store. At lunchtime, Mr Maloney says they will swap. Not me, I am to stay ‘in the back’ and – if the Big Boss comes in, for Godsake put your knife down. And put this hat on, eh?
‘So,’ says Sam eventually. ‘Where is it you’re from then?’
‘Cardonald.’
‘Aye, very funny, big man.’
He thinks I am a big man? I am tall, yes, but he is huge.
‘Somalia.’
‘How come you ended up here?’
‘I needed a job.’
‘Naw. I mean Glasgow.’
I know exactly what he means. But what do I say? However I phrase it will define me. I will wear my label as jauntily as I wear my netted hat.
‘There was a war.’
I wait for the next round of questions, before I say my family died and I had to leave. And then he will say how did they die and I will say . . . How much of myself must I expose before I am satisfactory?
He says, ‘Shite, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘I like war, so I dae. Reading about it. War stuff, know? Any war really. I’m reading a book about a Japanese prisoner of war the now. Old boy fae up north. Unbelievable what he went through.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you know the strangest thing – here, gonny pass me that knife there? The big one? Ta. Aye, the thing I didny get was how he coped. It wisny like they make out in the films – all heroic and that.’
‘No.’
‘Naw.’ Sam plunges the knife into the belly of a . . . trout? Is it trout when they are nut-brown and rainbow underneath? ‘He reckons the only way he got through was by looking out for number one, you know? Don’t carry anyone with you. If your mate coups over, just leave him where he drops and don’t look back. Fucking brutal, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he says it was the only way he could survive. In his heid like, you know?’
‘Yes.’
I lay my fillets skin-side down. I pincer-tweak and pull and focus on the translucent flesh. It is too pink. I have never seen a fish so pink.
‘So do you read yourself, Abdi?’
‘Yes. I am reading a book just now. By James Kelman?’
‘Oh aye. Is he the one writes stuff about the LAPD?’
‘I don’t think so. This one is about a boy growing up in Glasgow. But some years ago – when you built ships here.’
‘Oh aye. Like a razor-gang one? Is it like that film Neds? What does he dae, this boy?’
‘He grows up.’
‘Is that right?’ For a moment, Sam stops gutting the trout and examines me with cool, cool eyes. Then he carries on. ‘Sounds like a riveting read.’
‘Yes! I like it very much. His words are . . . clean and honest. When I read it, it is like I am growing up with the boy – if you understand.’
‘Oh, aye.’
‘There is one bit, though . . . Well, I am not sure what it means.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘The boy and his friends go to a football game and it is all like tribes. They are screaming and so angry and the boy begins to get angry too.’
‘I bet it’s an Old Firm game. Is it? Is it Celtic and Rangers they’re watching?’
‘The Glasgow Rangers – yes! He says that, and he says another word called Fenian and then they are shouting “No surrender”. But I don’t understand what it is they are not surrendering.’
‘Oh man!’ Sam’s shaking his head and laughing. ‘Half of them don’t get it either. See . . . well, it’s a bit hard tae explain. You know Catholics and Protestants?’
‘No.’
‘Fuck. Look – have you ever been tae a church?’
‘Oh yes. I go every Sunday.’
‘Well, you must know then. Is it a Proddy one or a chapel?’
‘I don’t know. It is Christian.’
‘Aye, but . . . Oh man. Look: if you’re a Proddy you’re for Rangers and if you’re a Catholic you’re for Celtic, and the reason how they aye hate each other is . . .’
He rubs the back of his neck. ‘Ach, see tae be honest, it’s like a war and all, Abdi. It’s all a loada shite. I mean, have you seen them with their stupit flags?’
‘No. I have never been to football.’
‘You’ve never been tae the football? Fuck me; how long’ve you lived in Glasgow?’
‘Um . . . one year and a half.’
‘Right. You need to get to a game. How about me and the boys take you sometime?’
‘I would like that very much. Thank you.’
‘It’s no the season yet, mind. But see when they start back –’ Sam breaks off to shout: ‘Ho, fuck off, Frankie. Butchery’s over by.’
A youth lumbers towards us. He has black symbols on both his arms, and on his shoulder is half a cow. ‘Aye, but we’ve a massive big delivery in and yous lot are nearly done and Talking Baloney said I could use this space.’
‘Fucksake. First they tell us we’ve to cover the meat counter when it’s busy, now we’ve to chop up your fucking cows and all.’
‘I’m no asking you to chop up ma fucking cow. Just gie it a wee bed to lie on. All right, pal?’
The youth, Frankie, nods at me, flings the carcass on to a slab at the adjoining table. There is no head, no tail, no hooves, no skin. The way it lands, flank up, it could almost be human. The naked body is curled, one foreleg hangs limp over the edge of the table. It looks exhausted. My legs sway.
�
�I was saying to Abdi here we’d take him to a game sometime. Boy says he’s never seen a match.’
‘Oh fuck, aye.’
Frankie heaves the body over, so the ribs are exposed. I can see into the belly of the animal, see all its crude brightnesses. It is white against red, it is blue muscle and the pearly cling of its half-cleaved organs. It is a pungent smell of metal that overpowers our delicate fish.
‘Abso-dutely.’ He seizes his cleaver. Whets it against the sharpening block. ‘I mean, you’re no really a Glaswegian till you’ve went to the football.’
He lifts the blade high. The cleaver catches the light. Yellow light. Sunshine. A crack of blade through bone
the blade
the blade is a machete the light is flooding me. It is blinding my eyes and the smell, the smell is shit and terror and I look back. She is running I look back and I see Azira running and Rebecca is in her arms and I am running and we are on the truck, I am on the truck and the blades are flashing –
‘You a Gers man then?’
People pull me on and I reach for Rebecca –
‘Ho, Abdi, man – you a Gers man?’
‘Well, I’m assuming he’s no a Tim.’
There are voices like flies, obscuring my vision. ‘A Tim?’ I hear an echo, weakly, and then they are gone, they are entirely gone and I am on the truck in Dadaab, with my hand reaching out for my daughter. I seize her and pass her on as we pick up speed and I am screaming ‘Wait!’ and we are getting faster. Azira is still running, others run alongside her. Her golden scarf is rocking. The flesh on her face rises up and down. Her eyes are all white, her teeth . . . I can see her fingers, her beautiful perfect fingers. My hand is out, please God this time I will touch her . . .
My arm is out, the other clinging to the shuddering framework. They will not stop now and if I jump we will never get back in. Over and over, Rebecca is screaming hooyo, her small legs kicking mine as she struggles to free herself from the woman who is holding her. Azira is slowing, or we are moving faster. A blade sweeps down beside my ear. An animal roar, a body falling. Warm blood spattering on my cheek. Christ, Frankie. Watch what you’re daeing. More men on horses break from behind, in front.
‘Grab my hand, baby,’ I yell, my body rupturing. The sinews in my shoulder snap, I fall too far, the dirt road rearing.
Wân ku jecelahay! Abdi!
She says my name and I am tugged back in.
The road rears higher. Recedes at a tremendous pace, it is years and miles as it streaks away and the men on horseback surround her and the others and it is happening as close as the skin over my eyes. I see their blades as they rise and rise, Rebecca screaming hooyo Mama hooyo until all I can do is crush her face into my chest, absorbing the violence of her and me and them and my weeping. Close your eyes, baby. Close your eyes, I whisper to Azira.
I love you too.
Lips pressing down on my daughter’s sobbing skin, praying to my God, to my fucking God forgive me, to my God I am praying to my God until my daughter goes crazy, punching me in the face. Madax! Her head! I turn, see an arc of blood flung high and a golden scarf that flows and twines and the blades and the blades if I close my eyes if I open my eyes I see the sun and the light and the blades and the blood you must open your eyes you must open your eyes and there is the blade and the blood and a man who is hacking and a man who is staring and a man who is screaming.
Who is screaming and screaming in falling red layers.
15. August
The Dale
The nhs in Scotland is split into health boards, of which Greater Glasgow and Clyde has the biggest budget – and its population the lowest life expectancy. In a city endemic with poverty and unemployment, provision of mental health services is key, particularly given that one in four Scots will experience mental health problems.
People in deprived areas, children in care, black and minority ethnic groups, homeless people and prisoners have a greater risk of developing problems such as depression, panic attacks, low self-esteem, drug or alcohol problems, self-harm, eating disorders, bipolar disorder and episodes of psychosis.
Although many conditions can be managed in the community, on occasion patients may require to be admitted to hospital for a period of assessment and treatment. Usually, this occurs on a voluntary basis, but there are provisions under the Mental Health (Care and Treatment) (Scotland) Act 2003 to allow for emergency hospital detentions of up to 72 hours, or short-term detentions of up to 28 days.
Leverndale Hospital, on Glasgow’s southside, has facilities for acute adult mental health care and an intensive psychiatric care unit. Low-security forensic mental health in-patient services are also based here. Originally called Hawkhead Asylum, Leverndale was built for the Govan District Lunacy Board in 1895 on lands once owned by the Royal Stewarts, and the asylum’s central 120-foot tower is a well-known landmark on the Crookston skyline.
Visiting times available on request. Access to NHS services is free at the point of need.
*
‘Open wide. Big, big wide. Come on, we need to get a move on. It’ll soon be visiting time.’
I zoom the spoon in aeroplane whorls. Rebecca’s too big for this, but we’re in a rush, and it makes her laugh. Anything, really, to make her laugh. I’ve been singing Madonna songs into a hairbrush (not ‘Like a Virgin’, obviously), letting her ‘style’ my hair with kirby grips and lurid ribbons, and – I’m not proud of this one – last night we had a burping contest, to see who could rift all their vowels the fastest.
I know. Amusing and educational. I should have stuck in at the teaching.
Rebecca and I have developed a routine: Weetabix, bit of reading in the morning, then we work on our hand people (who began as drawing round your fingers and are now morphing into felt realities), then one episode of Scooby Doo or Dora the Explorer during lunch. Sums or stickering in the afternoon (each implement in my kitchen is now labelled and defined), an hour at the park – or soft play if it’s pouring. Then tea, bath, more reading and bed. Today is very different, though. For the first time in nearly three weeks, Rebecca is going to see her daddy.
Me too. Except I’ve seen him already, of course. The day they took him in.
I’d been on my way to the supermarket of all places when I got the call.
‘Is that Debs?’
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘It’s Sam at Morrisons.’
‘Who?’
‘I work with Abdi. You’re a pal of Abdi’s, right?’
‘Yes. Is everything OK?’
But it wasn’t. The supermarket called me because I was first in Abdi’s phonebook. Took me twenty-five minutes to get there, head buzzing with: Just went fucking mental. Chibbing butcher-knives an all sorts. By the time I arrived, an ambulance was there too. As was a police car. Me, wedging through the slow yawn of the automatic doors, running past startled shoppers, on into the back-shop. Calling Richard on my mobile as I ran, because he was the boss of them all, and could stop this. When I didn’t even know what this was.
Abdi was cooried under a metal table. Bloody hands nursing his head. I could see an empty wooden knife-block, its contents scattered and a cleaver grinning. I think he was still holding one knife at that stage. By the blade. A grey-haired cop was on all-fours, pushing his nose right in, while a paramedic crouched behind him. Full in his vision, all Abdi would see was metal and knives and uniforms. The place went quiet as I barrelled in. Just the hum of the fridges and Abdi keening.
‘What’s going on? Is he hurt?’
The cop looked up. ‘You the girlfriend?’ Wary as he said it, not waiting for my answer, but swivelling again to fix on Abdi.
‘No, I’m Abdi’s mentor.’ I went to move forward, but the paramedic straightened. Raised his hand, John Wayne style. ‘Whoah there, lady. I’d keep your distance if I were you.’
‘Abdi,’ I called. ‘It’s me, Debs. Are you OK?’
No reply.
‘Is he hurt?’ I asked the paramedic.
‘He’ll no let me near him, hen.’
‘Will someone tell me what happened? Has he hurt anyone?’
‘It’s like he canny see.’
‘He’s a breach of the peace for starters.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. He’s terrified.’
I doubled over, trying to see Abdi’s face. Or let him see me, at least.
‘Just stay back, please. Liaison Psychiatry Team’s been alerted.’
‘What?’
‘We canny get near him,’ said the paramedic. ‘How long you known him? Has he a history of mental-health issues, d’you know?’
‘Of course he hasn’t.’
A voice outside shouted: ‘You canny go in –’
A suited man pushed through the plastic sheeting separating the back-shop from the store. It looked like he was carrying a laptop case. ‘Can I help? Dr Gallagher.’
‘You from Psychie, doctor?’
‘No. My surgery’s across the street. Saw you guys’d been in here a while.’
‘Dr Gallagher?’ The cop was still on his knees, but backing slowly in the direction of the doctor. ‘I’m thinking we maybe need to –’
While they were talking, I started shuffling a wee bit closer. Kicked a blade by accident, and it slid and struck the table leg, and the clunk reverberated, became roaring, Abdi roaring, spewing and screaming insane phrases: ‘Isk gotta! Itsgatah!’
‘What’s got who?’ I raised my voice, not shouting.
‘ISKA DAA!’ His spine bucked, the table rose. The cop scrambled to his feet behind where I had sneaked in.
‘Right, we’re gonny have to use the CS spray.’ Hauling me away, reaching for his belt.
‘NO!’ Me, pushing the polis who was pulling me, and my arm kept going, was seized, twisted.
‘Enough! Now get back!’
Did I mean to rugby-tackle him? I don’t know what my body intended, but I fell on the fronts of my thighs, my belly coming with me, and we went for a slither across the manky floor. Boot-scuffs and mud, splats of gore. A gobbet of bone joint. No. It was the white of Abdi’s eye. I held out my hand.
‘Here you, come on. Come on out and see me.’
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