Dirty Old Town

by KUBOA

  On the count of three, the finalists threw down their hands. Billy’s was open, Brandon’s clenched.

  “Paper wraps stone,” Billy said and punched the air. “Yes.”

  Brandon was pissed off. Maybe he was losing his touch. Not that it mattered. He’d still get his turn.

  “Eeny, meeny, miny, mo.” Billy pointed at the three men in turn. Mouthed the rest of the rhyme to himself. Settled on the one in the middle.

  “Come on Billy,” Ian said. “They’re not going to say anything. Look at the one you chose. He’s pissed himself already.”

  The man in the middle lay in a puddle, his body shaking like he was freezing to death.

  It was the last time they were going to work with Ian, Brandon decided. He was worse than fucking useless. Didn’t have the stomach for this anymore.

  “Today,” Billy said, “I shall be using the belt, followed by whatever knives I can find in the kitchen.” He stood over his intended victim and pulled back his arm.

  Brandon heard a creak on the stairs, then another. Turned his head towards the door as it was kicked open. Found himself looking straight at a crossbow.

  ***

  Arash stayed at the bottom of the stairs. It was like his body gave up on him. He looked at the spikes on his weapon then gave the chain a swing. Let the ball take out a chunk of plaster from the wall. No way he could do that someone’s head.

  The others took the stairs three at a time. Strolled up like they were about to throw a few practise hoops.

  Ali went to take the door. This time Naz let him. He kicked it in with the heel of his trainers and they were out of sight before Arash could let out his breath.

  He heard the ping of the bow-string and the jolt of the crossbow, then nothing.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” someone was yelling. Sounded like Zeeko. “Where the fuck have you been?”

  There was a strange sound, like a gas leak.

  “No way man. Please. No way.” Someone was begging. One of the white kids. Should be saving his breath.

  Next he knew a human fireball was tearing down the stairs. Looked like he was wearing a suit and tie, but Arash couldn’t be sure. He resisted the urge to lift up his leg and trip him over - the way the flames were swirling round the body and those arms were gyrating, it would have been a mean trick.

  Arash watched the ball of fire run out of the door, cross the road and jump clear over the wall into the river. By the time he got there to investigate there were only a couple of ducks to be seen.

  From the house spilled the tinny sound of a hip-hop track, hitting the beat in perfect time with Arash’s pulse.

  ***

  “He just reversed into it like it wasn’t even there, Mum.”

  “Did you get the plate number?”

  Arash hadn’t worked through the whole story. He’d been too busy getting his mates to the hospital. “Nah, Mum. He was too quick.”

  He didn’t see it coming but he felt his cheek sting as the slap landed.

  “He just reversed into it like it wasn’t even there, Mum.”

  “Did you get the plate number?”

  Arash hadn’t worked through the whole story.

  He’d been too busy getting his mates to the hospital.

  “Nah, Mum. He was too quick.”

  He didn’t see it coming but he felt his cheek sting as the slap landed.

  It was the kind of slap he liked. Reminded him of who he was. Where he came from. "Thanks Mum." 

  He gave her a kiss on the forehead and ran up to his room without needing to be told, a great big grin spread right across his face.

 

  One Hundred And Ten Per Cent

  Vincent Love had been running all his life.

  Mostly he’d been running from things. Nowadays he aimed for finish-lines instead.

  Sitting by the side of the warm-up track he massaged his feet, pretending to listen to his coach.

  “Visualise the race,” Ronnie said. “Visualise, visualise, visualise.” Since going on a sports psychology course he’d been spouting shit almost non-stop, mostly in triplicate.

  Vincent nodded and picked up his trainers. Bright pink with gold laces and the logo spread across the toe. The Love Boot they’d called it. Paid him a pretty penny to wear the things.

  Course he’d have been earning a fortune if he’d been sponsored by one of the big firms, but without McAfferty and his gang, like as not he’d have been back in prison within a week of getting out

  McAfferty had heard of his potential from a prison officer down at Barlinnie’s gym.

  It all started the morning after Vincent’s first night in the cells.

  A Mr. Tweed from the ‘Life Not Life’ initiative gave him a face to face. Vincent could still remember the hair gelled into spikes and the power of the aftershave. Tweed asked him what he was good at.

  “Nothing.”

  “Everyone has a talent,” Tweed said.

  As it happened, he was pretty damned good at taking the faces of cunts like the man on the other side of the table and turning them into modern art.

  “Cookery?”

  Vincent shook his head and pursed his lips.

  “Cars?”

  “Nope.”

  “Carpentry?”

  “Move on to the D’s.”

  “Comedy?”

  “Hear the one about the dead copper?” The guy shook his head.

  Vincent was pleased with the way he was handling things. When the others got wind of his performance, they’d give him the respect he deserved. Leave him alone for a while.

  “Says in your file that it took a helicopter and four cars to catch up with you.”

  “That’s right.” Vince was proud of that. He might have gone down, but nobody could say he caved in.

  “You can run.”

  “Guess so.”

  Tweed sank into his chair and relaxed.

  ***

  In the end, he had to acknowledge that he owed Tweed everything.

  Five times a week they had him training.

  Soon broke the Scottish prisons’ record for all events up to 5000m.

  Wasn’t long until he was smashing British prison records, too.

  Earned him a special diet and extra time out of the cell.

  And that’s when McAfferty made his interest known.

  Two years to the London Olympics and Great Britain needed a golden boy. Better still, a rags to riches tale. Would give the home crowd something to cheer about. Might even help the country out of the doldrums.

  “100m suits you best. Put all your eggs in that basket, you might just hatch yourself a gold medal.”

  It wasn’t as if he had any choice in signing the contract for the running shoes. If he didn’t Wallis and Gromit would have made sure that the only events he’d be in would be wheelchair races.

  The money from the deal was enough to keep him clean when he got out. He even managed to keep up with his training.

  Soon he was running for the Harriers. Bagged the national record and the Olympic qualifying time at his first event.

  After that there was no stopping his bandwagon.

  ***

  Inside the stadium, the atmosphere crackled.

  Vincent listened in for a moment, took something of it for savouring later and then blocked the whole lot out.

  It was time to focus.

  A jog and a couple of sharp bursts freed his body and his mind.

  His legs had never felt better.

  The heats had been a stroll. Nobody got close. Meant he was fresh.

  Ronnie came over and rubbed his shoulders, pressing in his thumbs like he was trying to pop out his eyes.

  “Focus, focus, focus,” Vincent heard, then jammed in his earphones and pressed play on the MP3.

  The 1812 overture wasn’t everyone’s fix, but nobody needed to know what he
listened too.

  Reminded him of Father Anthony who took mass at the boys’ home, the only adult there who even pretended to give a fuck about him and Billy.

  Anthony ran the football.

  They had the worst team in the whole of Glasgow, but the best fighters.

  The father played them Beethoven before every match. “Fill your hearts with this, boys,” he’d say, “a message from the Good Lord himself.” Made bugger all difference to the scores, though they always believed they would win.

  ***

  Behind the starting line, Vincent stripped down to his red, white and blue and looked around.

  The crowd looked like the drawings he did as a kid, thousands of round circles filling the spaces in the stands.

  A javelin thrower ran up to throw.

  Vincent watched the spear fly through the air, its tail wagging like a dog’s. There was a collective intake of breath as it fell beyond the white line in the distance. Awesome.

  Cheers erupted over the track. The thrower waved and jumped. Wrapped himself up in a flag. One of the Eastern European ones that Vincent couldn’t identify. He ran to someone in the front row. Must have been one hell of a throw.

  When things died down, the starter called them to their marks.

  ***

  Run at the B of the Bang people used to say.

  Billy and Vincent practised that all the time. Never knew when a quick take-off was going to get them out of trouble. Got them noticed by a couple of the bigger lads - they put them in touch with some mates of theirs.

  Ended up giving them jobs down at the Red Road Estate.

  There wasn’t much to it, really.

  As look-outs, they spent most of the days bored out of their skulls, watching the entrances for coppers and rivals or anyone who looked like they were up to no good.

  Soon as they got wind that something wasn’t right, they bombed across to the dealers and everything shut down in seconds.

  Watching them covering their tracks always impressed the boys. It was the sort of thing that needed teaching in school. Like it should lead to a qualification in leadership or something.

  Getting a good start meant everything then, just like it meant all in the Olympic final.

  “Visualise,” he imagined his coach saying as they rocked forward on the line. Didn’t need to tell anyone he imagined the arrival of the flashing lights at the entrance to a slum.

  He was out of the blocks before anyone else. Took a metre out of the field right then and there. His legs felt good. His lungs were full. Now all he needed was to pick things up and get into the perfect groove.

  ***

  Picking up speed was essential in their next career.

  The drugs game paid, but not enough to buy the gear the boys in the home were wearing.

  By working as a two man operation they could work the hours that suited and share all the profits.

  First time he did it, Vincent’s heart pumped like a hammer. He leant against a wall on Buchanan Street, waited till he was happy with the target and set off.

  Most important thing was timing.

  Didn’t want to pick up too early or he might have missed. Too late and he was fucked.

  Billy had identified the woman.

  Mid-thirties, Vincent guessed. Kind of pretty and enough flash around her wrists and neck to blind a bat.

  Off he went.

  The bag, hung loosely at her shoulder, was soon in his grasp. His fingers clutched the leather and pulled. The momentum carried him into a sprint like a race car sliding smoothly through the gears.

  The shouts behind him faded quickly as he put distance between him and them.

  Focussing on avoiding benches and flower boxes, he soon disappeared from the main drag and off through the warren of backstreets that was home.

  That’s what Vincent pictured as his legs and arms found their rhythm, a lady, a bag and a purse full of cash.

  ***

  After winning only a silver medal in the European championships, McAfferty and Ronnie decided they needed the help of a sports’ psychologist. Made the journey to England to find the best they could get hold of.

  Professor Dave Bell had seen his beloved Manchester United though thick and thin. Hit the dizzy heights of World Club Champions with them. Couldn’t get better advice anywhere.

  Vincent didn’t see the need.

  The university guy might be able to spell ball, but he was sure he hadn’t a clue about how to kick one.

  They shook hands across the table. Reminded Vincent of Mr Tweed.

  Professor Bell had a beard. Stroked it a few times before speaking, then cleared his throat.

  “If you were a fruit, Vincent,” he began, “would you see yourself as an orange, an apple or a banana?”

  “Who the fuck you calling a fruit?”

  The table wasn’t broad enough to stop the fists making contact. Three good swings and Professor Bell was on the floor.

  If it hadn’t been for Wallis and Gromit stepping in like they did, who knows what mess he’d have made.

  The splatters of blood looked to Vincent like the blots the prison therapists made him look at. He wondered what the psychologist would see in them when he came round.

  As it turned out, there was no damage done. The professor never spoke to the press about the incident and never put in a charge.

  Vincent figured that McAfferty had a way of persuading people that seemed to win over even the most stubborn characters. Wondered if it had been those same powers that had seen his main rivals pull out from the games one after another.

  ***

  All he could see was the lane he was running in, stretching before him like a tunnel through a mountain.

  His arms and legs pumped for all they were worth.

  It was the time he felt free. Free of it all. The past behind, the world a dream, the wind whistling in his ears as if he had them pressed up to a pair of conches.

  Like the last time he and Billy ran from the home, bags over their shoulders and life opening out before them like a river emptying into the sea.

  Shame it hadn’t worked out the way they expected.

  It was Father Anthony who made their mind up for them.

  Vincent was taking a shower after being sent off during a match. Wore his swimming trunks in the shower-room as if everyone else was there.

  Last thing he expected to see was the good father paddling in with his feet bare.

  “The referee was a fool, son,” he said. “Don’t let a little sending off get to you, now”.

  Vincent couldn’t have cared less about the referee or the fight. Wasn’t as if it was the first time.

  He stood and put his face in the water, let it run into his mouth and trickle out again.

  “Let me put the hand of God upon you, son. Let me…”

  “What the fuck?”

  It wasn’t the hand of God that was in his trunks, Vincent was pretty sure of that.

  Slamming his forearm into the priest’s jaw, he sent him flying onto his backside. Pressed the button on all the showers and got the fuck out of there.

  ***

  Telling Billy might have been a mistake. His brother had a temper as short as a match.

  But Billy kept his head together. Decided they should leave.

  They were making enough money on snatches to look after themselves. Nobody was going to feel up his little brother ever again.

  ***

  “Everything you’ve got,” Ronnie would shout at him at training. “One hundred and ten per cent.”

  Though he couldn’t read to save his life, Vincent knew his numbers all right. Knew you couldn’t give more than you had, that 110% was just more bollocks.

  “And run through that line like it isn’t even there.”

  The line was coming close. Vincent could sense it, but not see it. His thoughts were in a different place.

 
***

  Billy should never have gone after a man of the cloth. The green half of Glasgow was never going to let a thing like that pass, even if it was done by one of their own.

  Maybe if he hadn’t chopped off his cock and left it on the altar, they might have let it go. Dropping his balls in the font probably didn’t help.

  Neither of them knew the men that came after them.

  Mid thirties, big and stupid looking. Not the sort to be messed with.

  “Billy fucking Gallagher, you’re dead.”

  It was like the B of the bang all over again.

  They ran their lungs out. Headed for the river hoping they could lose them.

  Vinvent could tell Billly was falling behind, but kept going full pelt.

  Saw a boat pulling away from its dock. An easy jump and they were clear. Threw himself on deck and rolled over to take a look.

  Billy, almost there, reached out. No way Vincent could stretch that far.

  The gun went off.

  Sent Billy sprawling.

  Collapsed face down.

  Didn’t so much as say goodbye.

  ***

  Vincent, dashing for the line, thought of Billy. Pictured him throwing himself forwards to the boat. Flying through the air and taking his hands, safe and sound and bound for glory.

 

  Merry Christmas

  (I Don’t Want To Fight Tonight)

  “Do I really have to go down there?”

  “It was you promised your ma a pearl necklace.”

  “Aye, but I meant we was going to buy one.”

  “You daft banana. Price of those things, I’d have to get a job.”

  “Some dads have jobs.”

  “And some don’t. Now get the fuck down there before I tan

  your arse.”

  Craig held on tight to the chimney and looked inside.

  “It’s pitch black Dad.”

  “Fuck’s sake, son. The torch.”

  He’d borrowed his brother’s cycling lamp and fixed it on to an old sweat-band so that he could wear it round his head. It was his own invention. Allowed him to see where he was going and keep his hands free at the same time.

  Craig flicked the switch then looked down. His fingers gripped the brickwork.

  “I’ll never fit.”