by Nick Laird
He met Wee Jim and Del from his scout troup at the Oldtown Corner. They were waiting for Jacksy, the same boy who would later shoot a bullet through each of Geordie’s calves. Del opened his rucksack and showed Danny seven or eight cans of Top Deck shandy and three Hamlet cigars. He hushed his voice, as if the contraband was asleep: We’re going to get wrecked. Just then Jacksy came slouching around the corner, hunched with his hands tucked tight in his jeans. Awright lads. His voice was lower than everyone else’s. He was a skinny cocksure kid who suffered from eczema. His hands reminded Danny of sunburn. He rarely took them out of his pockets.
They took a can each. Danny wasn’t sure if the Top Deck was alcoholic. It didn’t seem to say on the cans although it tasted like beer, but less sour. They decided to head over to the wide kerb outside Martin’s Chemists. There was a bench there and, after five minutes of standing around her, the old biddy on it got up and tottered off, clutching her shopping with both arms in front of her, as if the boys had been very taken with her cat food and her toilet roll.
The way things worked was this. After school, the boys would walk home together, anything from four or five to ten of them. Some days they’d ‘shoot some pool’ down Eastwood’s Pool Hall, other days buy brown paper bags of vinegary chips from the Brewery Grill and eat them in the back attic room of McGurk’s Undertakers, whose youngest son, Wee Jim, was part of the gang. James McGurk was not only an undertaker, but also, like Danny’s dad, an estate agent. Danny had often wondered if business for the latter was dependent on the former. He must benefit by being around when the relatives discussed the sale of the deceased’s caravan or bungalow or castle. In the back attic, reached by walking through two offices and along a curtain-corridor that ran along the side of the funeral parlour, Big Jim McGurk had stored or dumped about fifteen mattresses and a threadbare snooker table short several balls, mostly reds. There were also, propped along the wall, three display coffins. It lent the place the look of a particularly louche Pharaoh’s tomb. It was an odd place for an after-school club. One of them, Del maybe, had done a sign with a black marker–The Coffin Boys–and Blu-tacked it to the wall beside the big oak boxes. The top left-hand corner had come away and leaned outward like the gelled tufts most of them sported.
McGurk’s back room had been one of their places for years but became central after the hostilities broke out: on one side was Slim and his gang, and on the other, the third years. Slim was the rangy fourth year who’d stand outside McLaughlin’s with his sidekicks as they all waited for their buses out to the country. For months it had just been a bit of shoving and tripping but then there’d been some kicking and the third year boys, the Coffin Boys, had begun to cross the street in order to walk home. Then the older boys had crossed it too, and started to chase them up it. Then last week Wee Jim got a split lip from Micks, Slim’s lieutenant, at the bowling alley.
Sitting squashed on the bench (all four were jammed in), Danny saw Micks, in a Man U baseball cap, across the street. He was stood with his mum, a small plump woman with a tight black perm that looked like a helmet her glasses were securing to her head. Micks seemed to be looking towards something she was pointing at. She lowered her bare arm then and said something to him. Then the peak of his baseball cap turned towards them. Danny told them, but breezily so as they wouldn’t think him scared.
‘Here, boys, Micks McManus is over there.’
‘Fuck him. There’s four of us. Let him come and try it.’
Del was the worst possible combination for a friend: mouthy and very fast on his feet. The marches were starting. In front of them the Drumgavy Loyal Sons of William Flute Band were assembling. They were all in peaked military-style caps, purple with yellow piping, and purple jackets buttoned to the neck with yellow epaulettes, although the women and girls flapped in grey A-line skirts whereas the males sported trousers. All the banter had stopped now. The parents of the youngest flautists had waved to them and now stood waiting, a little anxious. The players ceremoniously lifted their silver flutes to their mouths and stood there in silence. Their heads were all inclined a little, as if each one were trying to see round the marcher in front. The crowd hushed suddenly when the bandleader, facing sternly forward, shouted something incomprehensible and very loud, then stamped his foot once, twice, and a hundred exhalations made the flutes all squeal together. ‘And they’re off,’ Del shouted, like a horseracing commentator.
The last of the Drumgavy majorettes were going past, twirling their batons and flashing the kind of smiles that would turn a dentist suicidal. Danny thought how this could almost be the stadium of the Denver Broncos, say, or the Washington Redskins, or some other fabled team, and that this could be the half-time of the Superbowl, rather than a Thursday lunchtime turning grey on Ballyglass High Street. Through the gap that the band were leaving behind them the boys could see, across the street, that Micks had been joined by Slim and Philly Stewart, a spindly ginger kid who, the rumour went, had been caught getting intimate with his neighbour’s labrador. The boys discussed it endlessly. Philly was pointing across at their bench. Next thing they were sauntering over through the gap behind the band. All of the boys saw it. Wee Jim exhaled an Oh fuck. Danny felt his legs go tingly, as if he’d just finished a long run. He also felt curiously secure by being in the middle of the bench, with Jacksy to his left and Del and Wee Jim to right. It was like sleeping in the middle of the tent when they’d go camping out at Drum or Davagh: even though you might hear noises outside or things brushing against the canvas, you knew you weren’t going to be the first to suffer.
‘Well girls, how are we today?’ Slim was standing in front of them, his crotch pushed out as if someone was behind him, trying to shove something into his bum. Micks had picked the rucksack up off Del’s lap. Del had made a sad little grab for it and Micks had pushed him, hand on forehead, back into the bench. He opened the rucksack carefully, as if something might jump out, and peered into it.
‘Top Deck, heh boys? Fucking shandy. You wankers. Here, I’ve been needing a new school bag. Slim, what do you think?’
Micks chucked the bag to him and he caught it one-handed. Del half stood up and tried to grab it again. This time Slim smacked him on the forehead, open-palmed, and Del flopped back onto the bench. Danny looked round to see if anyone was watching or he could see someone he knew. The bands were in full flow now and everybody was facing them. The bench was a few feet away from the edge of the pavement, so that when he looked to either side all he could see were people’s backs. Slim was swinging the bag round and round and bringing the trajectory nearer and nearer to the boys’ faces, before pulling it back. Jacksy reached up to shield his head. Philly Stewart, who was standing behind the bench laughing, slapped Jacksy on the ear.
‘Keep still or I’ll break your fucking necks.’
‘I’ve heard his bark’s worse than his bite,’ Del whispered.
Danny heard and felt a constriction of laughter move up from his chest to his throat. He managed to hold it there. Wee Jim was sitting very quietly and looking solemnly ahead. His eyes were shiny, as if he was about to cry, and his lip was still swollen, in profile, from Micks splitting it at the bowling alley a week ago. Philly flicked Del’s ear with his index finger, causing Del to flinch forward, within an inch or so of the rucksack that Slim was still swinging towards their heads.
‘What’d you say you poof?’
‘Oi, no need to be so rrrrough.’ Del growled the last word–rrrrufff–and Danny knew he was about to laugh out loud. Fuck. Just in time, at least for Danny, Wee Jim squeaked a laugh out of the side of his mouth. Philly punched the back of his head, hard, and brought Wee Jim’s forehead into the orbit of the rucksack. There was a heavy clunk and Wee Jim clutched his face. Slim started to laugh. He dropped the bag on Danny’s feet. Danny looked down. He noticed that Slim was wearing shiny silver trainers with Velcro fastening instead of laces.
‘Let’s go. These pricks are boring me already.’
Danny thought Yo
u’re the fucking prick, the fucking prick who can’t even tie shoelaces. Danny said, ‘You’re the fucking prick, the fucking prick who can’t even tie shoelaces.’ Everyone paused, as if someone had suddenly spoken in Hebrew or Swahili. Micks looked rooted to the pavement and Slim was waxwork in front of the bench, agog, his mouth wide like that of an especially vacant fish. He still stood with his crotch thrust out, the main man, the big swinging dick. Danny was at the level of his groin and it suddenly occurred to him how, if he wanted to, he could just lean forward and sock him in the balls. Danny leaned forward and socked him in the balls. A good, hard shoulder-to-fist punch. A dim thud, a keeling. Slim was doubled up on the pavement. Danny still had his arm out, locked in place like he was holding something up. ‘Oh fucccck,’ Del shouted and there was a scrabbling and rasping of rubber soles on pavement. The boys were up, weaving, scattered.
Danny too was on his feet. He heard Jacksy scream ‘Nice one Williams,’ and then he found himself pelting up the main street towards his dad’s office, even though it was closed and his dad miles away. He glanced back and saw Micks pounding after him. The other boys had gone, probably down Molesworth or up the Burn Road, legging it, laughing. Danny was pinballing through the crowd, shouting ‘Sorry’ as he went, as much to Slim as to the tutting people he was knocking into. He was electric, shocked. What the fuck had he done? He’d cut his own throat.
Danny took the entrance into the gravel car park behind his dad’s office and ran to the wire fence at the back of it. There was a gap in it that his dad had been going on about getting fixed for years. Danny, giving thanks for his father’s laziness, had one leg through it when he heard Micks’ brays from the other side of the car park. He didn’t appear to be using words. Danny ducked his head down through the gap and felt a tug at his neck–his yellow Nike T-shirt was caught on one of the cut wire prongs. Micks was running across the car park, sending up little flurries of stones as he ran. Danny yanked the rest of himself through the fence and heard the T-shirt rip. He legged it over the field. It sloped down over the course of a few hundred metres onto Monkey Lane, which ran alongside the Glencrest estate. Clambering over the gate at the bottom of the field, he paused and glanced back up the hill. Micks was standing behind the fence watching him. When he saw Danny look back, he waved, perfectly normally, as if he was waving him off from his doorstep. It was terrifying.
Danny made as if to walk down Monkey Lane and out onto Taylor Road, but instead crouched down after a few metres and doubled back behind the hedge that ran along the field. He could cross the Glencrest estate to his own road. He squeezed through the straggly privet, popped out the other side (the branches folding their arms again behind him) and hunkered down on the pavement. His T-shirt was now an off-the-shoulder number. And his breathing was raspy, like his dad’s when he was angry. Staring at the pavement he noticed minute red bugs, a score of pinpricks, meandering over the paving slab. They didn’t seem to have any sense of direction or purpose, veering off this way or that. Danny smeared one into the grey with his thumb. It left a tiny scarlet blur. He stood, pulling his T-shirt up to cover his thin shoulder, and started to dander across the estate. It was Protestant, this place, and therefore pretty empty. Everyone was either at the marches or on holiday. The houses were private, not council, and built only a couple of years ago though already the pebbledash white was discolouring–like snowfall thawing out to slushy grey. A kid’s bike had been abandoned on its side on one of the neat front lawns and the wheel was still spinning. Danny had an urge to cross the lawn and press his hand against the rubber, to stop its ticking, but he walked quickly on to the estate’s entrance. He was about to exit onto Milburn Road, his own, when Philly Stewart walked past on the far side of the road, heading towards Danny’s own house. Did he know where Danny lived? Danny didn’t know. Philly was doing his simian shoulder roll and staring blankly forward. Danny felt his legs go, and he leant into one of the redbrick entrance pillars to steady himself. Philly’s peculiar gait made it seem he was pushing an imaginary wheelbarrow: his arms hung out by his sides and his shoulders were arched and lowered. He pushed it on up Milburn as Danny spun slowly around on a crack in the pavement and headed back into the estate.
Danny was walking swiftly again but unsure where to. He’d have to hang about in the estate, find a hole in the ground and sit in it for a year or so. When he passed the house again with the bike outside, its wheel spinning slower now, he heard a car from somewhere nearby, pulling away sharply. He glanced over towards the screech of tyres and saw, instead, Geordie running along the top of the T-junction. Danny shouted ‘Geordie’ and set off after him. Geordie slowed down and he caught up. Geordie looked edgy as always.
‘All right Williams, how’s things?’
‘Fucking wick. Me, Del and Jacksy and Wee Jim were watching the march down the street and fucking Slim and Micks and Philly came along and started hassling us. I don’t know what happened but I ended up smacking Slim in the balls. He’s going to go through me for a fucking shortcut.’
Geordie’s face broke into that overwhelming grin. Danny started to laugh, from relief.
‘Fucking hell, Williams. Slim’s hard as nails. They’ll be looking for you.’
‘Aye I know. And Micks chased me down through the back field onto Monkey Lane and I just saw Philly walking up Milburn towards my house. What you doing round here?’
‘Nothing really. Here, c’mere. Follow me for a sec.’
Geordie turned around and walked back in the direction he’d just come from. He walked up towards the back gate of an orderly corner house with two hanging baskets, ablaze with pansies and fuchsia and geraniums. The estate was still deserted, although a television could be heard blasting from the open windows of the house next door: the parades’ hullaballoo occasionally narrated by the respectful, deep-voiced and slightly bored observations of an anchorman.
‘Here. We can nip in round the back. It’s me uncle’s but they’re all down at the parade. I just been to see whether they’re around.’
Geordie pushed at the back gate with one hand and it swung open, banging against the pebbledashed side of the house. A pebble skitted off and landed on the paving stones, joining the others that were scattered across the path.
‘Will he mind? I mean just for an hour or so. I could just sit in the garden or maybe use his phone and get Karen to nip down and get me or something.’
‘Well he’s not here so he won’t know, will he? I just told you that, didn’t I?’
Geordie looked quickly at Danny who nodded assent. Round the back of the house there was an ornamental pond, much too big for the garden. Its water pump gargled, unseen amongst the overgrown foliage. Danny went to the edge of it. Two carp, luminous bars, hung in the dirty water. As Danny’s shadow moved over the surface they flicked away. Danny called out, not looking up: ‘Your uncle’s got two carp in here you know Geordie. My dad says they’re worth a lot of money depending on how big…’
Danny glanced up to see Geordie standing on top of one of the bins. He had his arm in through the small window of what must have been the downstairs toilet. The windows of it were all frosted over.
‘What’re you doing? We can just wait here ’til your uncle gets back or head off in a bit anyway. They’re not going to miss all the marches in order to get me.’
‘Naw, I always do this. It’s fine. C’mere. Give me a booster.’
Danny moved across and stood beneath Geordie. He interlocked his fingers and Geordie placed one track shoe, flecked with grit, into the makeshift stirrup. Danny lifted and Geordie went halfway through the window. A scrabble, rubber-screech on glass, and he was all the way in.
‘I’ll come round and open up. Hold on.’
Danny sat on the grass beside the pond. The pump had changed its sound and was now respiring hoarsely, unhealthily. He heard the back door open. There was no key being turned, just the scrape of a Chubb lock. The back door opened directly into the kitchen. Danny started to wipe his feet but
Geordie said, ‘Forget about that. Get inside.’
‘But I’ve mud on my gutties. I don’t want to get it on your uncle’s floor.’
The kitchen was spotless. Either no one here cooked or they were incredibly tidy. Danny said, ‘Do you think I could get a glass of water?’
Geordie was leaning against one of the work surfaces. His forehead was varnished with sweat and he looked obscurely worried.
‘I’m sure you could.’
‘It’s all right to be in here, isn’t it?’ Danny said, opening a cupboard to look for a glass. There was only a single cornflakes packet inside it. Danny accidentally slammed the cupboard door shut.
‘Is your uncle married?’ Danny went on, but Geordie didn’t respond. Danny turned on the tap and there was a loud rattling of pipes. He twisted the tap further to stop the sound but the banging increased. Sticking his head under the flow, he pursed his lips to catch the water. Running from Micks had left him incredibly thirsty. When he eventually lifted his head up, he said, ‘I must have drunk three pints of…’ but Geordie was gone. Maybe he’s finding the phone, Danny thought. He turned the tap off and walked out into the hallway. Then everything stopped.
