Liberties (Part Two)

‘Danny! Whit the fuck ye dain runnin oot there wae yer scarf oan? Ah wis just stoappin tae tell ye where ah’m drappin ye.’ Joe shouts through the partition that separates the cab fae the back ay the van, tae me, ‘she’s shakin like a fuckin leaf in here. Ah’m no much better!’

‘Sorry, ah didnae mean tae. Ah wis burstin fur a pish.’ ah feebly reply.

‘Ah’m gonae drap ye as close tae the Cellic end as ah kin. Tell big fuckin rent-a-riot in there tae take that hat aff, an you take that scarf aff an gie him yer jayket. Fuck me man. Yous fuckin daft, yous cunts?’

Ah assume it’s a rhetorical question cause oan the evidence ay the last few ooirs, it needs nae answer. We dae as he asks an he stoaps again, openin the door, slightly at first, till he’s satisfied we’re aw kosher, then wide open.

Gettin oot the van ah notice a look fae Joe, like he’s disappointed or somehin; like ah’ve let him doon. ‘Fuckin mad bastarts. Watch whit yies ur dain.’ he sais, smilin but he’s still goat that despondent kind ay demeanour aboot him an ah cannae place whether it is disappointment or if he’s just internally lamentin the times when he’d be gaun tae the gemme, like us, rather than signin oan the dotted line fur a kitchen he probably disnae even fuckin want, fur his soor-faced wife.

His Misses is gien him whit fur in the van, gien it aw the amateur dramatics - inaudibly, right enough - as we walk taewards oor entrance. ‘He’s awright your gaffer, eh?’ Pearcey sais.

‘Fuckin bran new.’ McDade sais, ‘Fuckin Colin McRae in that van, by the way.’

Turnin roon, ah see the van burlin roon the roondaboot, ‘HOPE YIES GET PUMPED!’ he shouts, hingin oot the windae, laughin, an fucks off alang the road.

‘He kept that quiet, the fuckin dark horse.’ Pearcey sais.

‘Ah don’t think he really bothers wae it, he’s just at the noise up.’ ah sais.

We mingle through the crowd, gettin taewards the Broomloan Rear, where McDade sais we’re sittin. ‘That reminds me,’ he sais, ‘You’re the wean Pearcey. Ticket sais yer fourteen.’ an he hauns him the ticket an me, mine.

‘Aye right! How’ma gettin hit wae the juvenile ticket. They’ll no let me through.’ Pearcey protests, pointlessly.

‘Just haun it in tae the cunt, he’ll rip the stub aff an gie ye it back. They’re no gien a fuck whit age ye ur.’ McDade replies, wae some authority an that’s exactly whit happens when we get tae the turnstile an we’re in.

 

We’re beyond fuckin scunnered when we come back oot. We’d ran right oer the tap ay thum, dominatin possession, runnin thum fuckin ragged but we wur caught oot an put tae the sword by two goals oan the break. Jonas Tern an that big German prick, Jorg Albertz, it wis. Literally a fuckin Hun! Kin ye believe that? Ah wis gonnae point oot the irony tae Pearcey an McDade but couldnae be bothered wae the in-depth explanation it wid inevitably necessitate.

Pearcey, inexplicably an quite fuckin remarkably, hus managed tae get us a run back oer tae the East End oan a bus gaun tae the Cellic Supporters’ Club oan London Road through some cunt he’d met in the toilet. He sais some ay the boays ur jumpin oot at the Gorbals an walkin oer the bridge tae the Gallowgate fur a swally an aw.

It’s a result, nae danger; better than the wan we came tae this shitehole fur anywaiy.

Oan the bus, the boay Pearcey goat us the lift aff gies us aw a tin fae a slab ay Tennents that’s gettin passed aboot like a scud book. ‘Ah’m Stenzo,’ he sais, puttin his haun oot tae each ay us tae shake, ‘whit’s yer names lads?’ Pearcey dis the introductions an Stenzo asks us where we’re fae an that; whereaboots at Parkheid we usually sit when we go; an we aw agree that as much as the club needs tae progress an get wae the times, the grun’s never been the same since they demolished The Jungle tae make waiy fur mare seatin.

Before too long the bus is stoappin at the Gorbals, pullin intae a street just aff Ballater Street. We elect tae join the splinter group gaun up the Gallowgate fur consolatory pints an say cheers tae Stenzo an his mates, who ur gaun oan tae the Cellic Club fur a few.

No really knowin any cunt, we tag alang at the end ay the squad, maist ay thum still wearin their colours - includin McDade, who’d took aff ma jayket an stuck his hat back oan as soon as we’d goat by the turnstiles an wur walkin up the stairs tae oor seats - an head oer the wee fit bridge tae Glesga Green.

Ah spark the last ay the joints ah’d brought, takin a few digs an offerin it tae McDade who uncharacteristically, knocks it back an runs ahead tae ask wan ay the other boays where he goat his trainies fae -- some mad, obscure Nike Air Max he’s adamant ye cannae get in this country. Pearcey’s fuckin aboot tryin tae tie his laces so ah hing back, waitin fur him, tae gie him a toke ay the joint.

By the time he’s goat his act the gither, the rest ay the troops ur aff the bridge, oot ay sight, maist probably stridin acroass the Green, as the craw flies, their collective thirst, a lump ay solid iron, an the pubs ay the Gallowgate, a fuckin electromagnet.

Ah’m puffin the last ay the number as we walk aff the other side, flickin it tae the grun as we step oan tae the tarmac path. It lands at the feet ay a boay who’s hingin aboot wae his mates. The boay’s the auldest there; aboot ma age, fuckin five o’cloak shadow an that, but the rest ay thum ur wee guys, cannae be much aulder than sixteen or seventeen. ‘Here, wis that a joint?’ he sais, inspectin the dowt at his fit, ‘gies a bit fur wan aff ye mate, eh?’

‘Ah cannae buddy, that wis the last wan.’ ah sais, lookin back. He looks at us fur a second, like he’s thinkin ay whit tae say next.

‘Sound ma man,’ he sais an puts a fag tae his mooth, ‘gies a light then, wull ye?’ he sais. Ah look acroass the Green tae the rest ay the group who ur away in the distance; a green an white blancmange wobblin oer the crest ay the hill.

Walkin back taewards him, ah go intae ma poakit an get ma lighter oot, offerin it tae him. He cups the flame ay the lighter in his hauns an sparks his snout an ah put the lighter back in ma poakit. ‘Here, is that a Cellic scarf ah just seen in there?’

‘Naw.’ ah immediately, an waeoot thinkin say, an zip it back up.

‘Aye it fuckin is, you’re wae the rest ay they bead rattlin bastarts that just came by here, int ye? Brigton Derry, ya bam.’ the cunt sais an belts us, right square in the mooth afore ah even know whit’s happenin.

Wee Pearcey sees whit’s happenin an tae be fair tae him, he’s steamin right in, jabbin cunts; any cunt he kin get a haud ay while ah’m registerin whit the fuck’s gaun oan.

Efter ma initial shock, ah’ve goat a haud ay the cunt, gien him ten rapid tae the dish. His gang ay wee fuckin piranhas ur flingin in sly punches an kicks though as ah scuffle aboot wae the cunt. Ah’m fuckin bootin an elbowin the bastarts tryin tae keep them at bay as well as tryin tae assert some control oer ma assailant. He’s no gaun doon though, an mountin somehin ay a robust defence as he lands another two dull yins tae the side ay ma heid.

Pearcey’s chasin three ay the younger wans alang the path efter punchin them aboot like empty tracksuits, leavin me wae the other two an their apparent leader.

The tide’s turnin an ah’m gettin the upper haun, feelin that he’s tirin. Pearcey’s makin his waiy back taewards us, the wee bams he’s dispersed tentatively foallien at a safe distance, the fuckin shitebags that they ur.

Ah’ve goat the cunt noo, haudin him back against the railins. He’s no fur gien up though, still strugglin, unwillin tae leave it when McDade rushes in fae naewhere an digs him in the jaw.

It’s no until ah take a step back that ah see the blood. The right side ay his face is wide open, right acroass his cheek, exposin the inside ay his mooth.

His teeth ur cherry red, blood drippin aff them an gushin doon oer his shooder an chist, as the shroud ay flesh an skin that is his face, is sliced open, like an envelope revealin a seldom seen profile.

It looks like another mooth oan the side ay his face; horrific an unnatural an the boay’s goat his haun up tae it, feelin the blood stream oer his fingers an ye kin see it slowly dawnin oan him whit’s just happened. ‘He’s slashed him.’ wan ay the younger wans shouts, ‘that cunt’s just slashed Clarky!’, he goes.

 

We bolt alang the Clyde path an McDade launches the blade intae the river as we go. ‘He didnae see that comin, the fuckin cunt, eh? Did ye see the state ay his dial man?’ McDade sais, breathlessly as we slow doon tae a jog.

‘Aye ah seen his fuckin face! Whit did ye dae that fur?’ ah sais, ‘ah hud the cunt oan the back fit.’

‘Whit fur? Cos that’s whit ye dae -- ye back up yer mates.’ he sais, lookin genuinely perplexed at the question.

‘Ah never fuckin asked ye tae. Ah wis dealin wae it.’

‘Aye, it fuckin looked like it.’ he sais.

‘Whit’s that supposed tae mean?’ ah sais, slowin doon tae a standstill, ‘let’s get wan thing straight the noo, you chibbin that boay’s oan you. Nae cunt asked ye tae. Where did ye get the knife?’ He shuffles awkwardly like a wee boay, the spatters ay blood oan his crisp, white trackie tap clear as day in the evenin light.

‘In the back ay yer gaffer’s van. It wis just lyin there so ah tailed it.’ he sais.

Ah don’t fuckin believe whit ah’m hearin an ma heid’s spinnin an ah’m just wishin tae fuck that ah’d never answered the door tae the cunt this mornin an ah’m thinkin aboot ma Ma, an ma Granda an whit ah’ve just witnessed, an whit they’d think ay me. ‘We need tae get oot ay here. We need tae split up. Ah’d get rid ay that trackie tap if ah wis you.’ ah sais tae McDade, comin back tae ma senses.

‘How? Fuck that! Ah’m still gaun fur a pint, ye intae it Pearcey?’ he sais an ah look at him, grinnin, laughin; fuckin indifferent tae it aw.

‘Fuck this!’ ah sais, an ah’m off, runnin full pelt away fae the mad bastart. Pearcey kin dae whit he wants, ah’m oot ay it.

‘AH ONLY DID WHIT YOU DID FUR ME IN THE PARK THAT DAY!’ McDade shouts efter me, an ah feel even worse cos that’s it: in his heid he’s done the right thing, the only thing he could, an ah’m fuckin guilty by association. Ye try an dae yer best by cunts -- yer mates, an gradually, whether ye like it or no, they pull ye deeper intae their shite; like walkin oan quicksaun, it sucks ye in, slowly, incrementally, until yer fuckin droonin in it.

The polis helicopter’s flyin aboot above me an ah’m para that it’s fur us so ah keep runnin. Oan ma trainies, there’s mare spatters ay the boay’s blood an ah tell masel tae mind an wash it aff.

Croassin Springy Road at Parkheid, ah slow it doon tae a walk as a polis motor swings roon fae London Road wae it’s siren an lights gaun. Ah keep ma heid doon, avoidin eye contact an as soon as they’re away ah start runnin again. 

 

It’s early evenin when ah get tae ma Granda’s, he’s sittin in the gairden oan his bench starin at the fire he’s goat blazin in a metal dustbin. His face an boady glow a fierce orange, reflectin the risin flames as he feeds it mare fuel.

He cannae see me, disnae even know ah’m here. He’s too absorbed in his ain wee world.

Ah’ve been meanin tae drap by an see the auld yin, that’s whit ah told masel anywaiy. He’s forever sayin tae drap by fur a cup ay tea or intae The Portland fur a pint wae him an auld Tam an Chic McHendry an that, like ah used tae.

Took me in there fur ma first pint when ah wis seventeen, so he did. He sais that’s whit a Da’s meant tae dae, take ye fur yer first pint, only ma auld man isnae here anymare so the onus wis oan him. He’s a diamond, ma Granda, that’s how ah feel like a piece ay shite fur showin up noo, like this.

The truth is, ah couldnae face ma Ma, the fuckin state ay me. Ma denims ur guttit in clabber an blood as well as ma trainies. Ah’ll sneak in later when she’s sleepin.

Ah walk oer, tae just behind the bench, close tae him, feelin the heat wash oer me, ‘Room fur a wee wan oan there.’ ah sais.