What Goes Around (Part One)

‘So, dae ye think he owed them money or somethin like that? Ah mean, c**ts don’t just fling c**ts aff ay buildins fur nuttin, know whit ah’m sayin?’ McDade opines, takin a draw oan the joint, ‘ . . . nae offence, like, but they don’t.’

‘Ah don’t think so, ah mean, ah don’t know but ma auld man hud been straight fur a long time. Everybody sais it. He’d left aw that behind. Hud his nut screwed oan. Ah think there wis mare tae it than that. Mind he sais aboot him bein a live-wire, an they waiy he looked at me? Pure hatred, man. Ah think there wis bad blood there fae somethin else.’

‘Here, ye don’t think it wis yer Da that chibbed him, dae ye? That’s some fuckin tan McNulty’s goat oan his dish – that mad gammy eye.’

‘Fuck sake, that wis your Da?’ Pearcey sais.

‘AH DON’T FUCKIN KNOW! HOW THE FUCK AM AH MEANT TAE KNOW THAT?’ ah sais, acerbically, an he bows his heid, taken aback, ‘ . . . sorry mate, ah didnae mean tae jump doon yer throat. It’s just – it’s a fuckin guessin gemme, int it? Aw ah know is McNulty fuckin kilt him an ah’m no gonae just let it go. He’s fuckin gettin it, him and the other wan, that other fat prick an aw if he’s wantin it. The question is, ur yies wae me?’

‘Ah’ve been chokin tae go back an leather they cunts fae we went up there tae get that gram. This just gies us an even better reason. When we dain it?’ McDade sais, matter-ay-factly.

‘Nae time like the present.’

‘Here, yer no plannin oan gaun back up tae that flat ur ye? They’ve awready chased yies wae a fuckin sword. Fuck knows whit else they’ve goat lyin aboot – fuckin shooters fur aw we know.’ Pearcey sais.

‘Ah’ve awready thoat aboot that, we bide oor time, hing aboot at a safe distance, an wait. Pick them aff wan at a time when they come oot.’

‘McNulty’s nae mug Danny. Whit makes ye think we’ll come oot oan tap? He’ll be kerrien, probably.’

‘Ah’ve thoat aboot that an aw. He disnae know we’re comin, right? So we catch him aff guard. Strike first. Strike fuckin hard an he’ll dae fuck aw. Wulnae even see us comin. McDade, dae ye think ye kin get anythin fae yer auld man’s stash?’

Ronnie McDade’s wan ay they wans-fur-the-watchin (fuckin potential serial killer if ye ask me). He’s intae aw that huntin an survivalist caper; goat a miniature armoury in a tool boax in the back ay his gairage. McDade used tae show us sometimes when his auld man took his Ma oot, doon tae the pub at the weekend.

‘Ah like yer thinkin Danny boy.’ he sais, tappin his temple wae his finger, ‘ . . . mone we’ll go the noo. Nae cunt’s in.’

‘Pearcey, whit you sayin tae it? Ah’ll unnerstaun if yer no intae it. It’s no your fight tae fight.’

‘Ma Da never wanted tae know me but ah know how much ah always wanted tae know him. Your Da wis there, an he took him away fae ye. Course ah’m intae it mate.’ he sais, takin the last draw ay the joint we’ve been puffin, throwin it tae the grun, ‘ . . . besides, ah’ve nae faimily left, nane that gie a fuck anywaiy, but ah know that if ah did, ah’d dae right by them, nae matter whit.’ He puts his haun oot, as if tae show willin an ah grab a haud ay it, pullin him close tae me.

‘Aye ye huv mate. We’re yer faimily, right? Nae danger.’ He looks at us an ah know he unnerstauns. McDade grabs the two ay us, squeezin us the gither in a bear hug.

‘Fuckin brothers fae other mothers, man.’ he sais, ‘ . . . ah think ah’ve goat somethin in ma eye.’ he adds, sarcastically, ‘ . . . mone then ya pair ay fuckin blouses. Chop chop. Ah’m in the fuckin mood noo.’

We head away fae the big tree we’d stood at nearly six months ago, alang the burn, trampin through a cairpet ay thick jaggy nettles, thorny brambles an sticky wullies that’ve sprouted up fae naewhere since oor last visit. Ah pick up a long, spindly stick an beat an thrash at the foliage makin a path through until we come oot oan tae the access road at the wee bridge that croasses the burn.

The twig faws oot ma haun, drappin intae the burn below the bridge an ah flit tae the other side watchin it emerge fae underneath the arch-backed structure, glidin alang wae the current doonstream an away roon the bend, wonderin where it’ll end up; how far it’ll go oan its journey; if it’ll glide oan the burblin flow, consolidatin intae bigger tributaries an rivers an the sea beyond, or snag somewhere, in some congested elbow alang wae the rest, destined never tae escape this place; tae erode an decay, ground slowly tae nothin by the weak but unrelentin force.

‘Daniel San! Whit ye dain ya mad space cadet, ye?’ McDade sais, lookin back, his salient grin beamin, afore continuin tae swagger up the hill efter Pearcey, unfazed, like we’re just gaun fur an eftirnin stroll. If ah act hauf as casual, ah’ll be dain well. The truth is, ah’m shitein masel.

 

We get tae McDade’s gaff an he tells us tae wait ootside an keep the edgy in case his Da or that come back. He staiys in the bought hooses up the tap end, afore ye get tae Mount Vernon an aw the really swanky pads.

There’s barely a cloud in the sky an the late May sun beats doon oan us makin ma heid itch under ma navy blue Utah Jazz cap, the dark colour absorbin the heat. Ah take it aff, wipin ma brow an check ma watch.

‘That’s ten minutes he’s been in there. Whit’s he dain?’ ah sais tae Pearcey who just shrugs his shooders an kerries oan fuckin aboot wae the plate that hauds his two false teeth, the two big incisors at the front ay his mooth he’s just recently hud fitted. He’s flickin it wae his tongue, makin them drap oot ay position, then click back intae place.

‘Fuckin gie that a by, eh? Yer gien me the boak.’

‘How um –’ he sais, an spits them oot accidentally, the plate bouncin aff the monoblock driveway, ‘ . . . look whit ye made me dae, man. The plate’s fuckin broke. Fuck sake, ah’ve only hud them a couple ay month.’ he hauds it up in front ay ma face.

‘Get that tae fuck! If ye wurnae fuckin aboot wae it, ye widnae huv spat it oot ya dick.’

The bickerin’s interrupted by McDade rattlin the livin room windae, wavin tae us tae come in.

‘Check this oot.’ he sais, as we walk intae the room, ‘ . . . an shut that door behind ye.’ He pulls oot a wee innocuous lookin stainless steel pen fae his poakit.

‘Very good, a pen. Whit dae ye intend oan dain wae that, poke his other eye oot?’

Glancin oer his shooder tae check the coast’s clear, even though we’re the only people in the hoose, he flicks his wrist, kind ay swivellin it at the same time, in wan fluid motion, an in a second, it’s twice the length wae a slim, tapered blade pointin menacingly at me. A balisong.

‘Yas man, a butterfly knife! Gies a shot.’ Pearcey sais an he shuts it oer again, flingin it tae him.

‘That’s no aw, wait tae ye see this!’ McDade sais, disappearin intae the kitchen an comin back momentarily wae a wee black cylindrical thing in his haun, ‘ . . . check this oot.’ again, he flicks his wrist, an efter a sharp jerk, the wee cylinder elongates, telescopically. It’s wan ay they spring batons the German an Spanish polis like tae use tae smash English fitba hooligans aboot wae.

‘Noo yer talkin. Show’s it oer.’ Pearcey sais, awready bored ay the knife, which he hauns tae me.

‘Whit happened tae yer wallies, wee man?’ McDade sais, noticin his teeth, or lack ay them, ‘ . . . Gettin combat-ready? Good thinkin.’ He fucks off again, back intae the kitchen.

‘YIES READY?’ he shouts through.

‘Aye, we’re ready! Whit ye goat noo?’ Pearcey goes, smilin like an edentulous toddler at Christmas.

The sound ay a motor pullin intae the driveway disturbs proceedins.

Peerin oot fae behind the curtain draped at the side ay the diamond shaped, faux-muntin adorned windae, ah see Ronnie an Trisha McDade, huvin a heated debate in their pristine R reggie, Ford Escort.

‘McDade, it’s yer Ma an Da!’ ah sais, an he runs back in fae the kitchen.

‘Yer kiddin! Quick, gies them!’ he sais, the panic rippin oot him.

‘How dae ye make it go wee again?’ Pearcey sais, futilely jabbin the baton intae the cairpet.

‘Never mind that. Just fuckin gies it!’

Ah fling the closed oer knife tae him an snatch the baton aff Pearcey, tossin that tae McDade as well, an he disappears again intae the kitchen, ‘Keep them fuckin busy.’ he sais.

Divin taewards the tellie, ah hit the standby button so that it powers up just in time fur me an Pearcey tae sit doon oan the couch, moments afore Trisha McDade makes her entrance.

‘Jesus, boays! Ye gave me a fright ay ma life there.’ she sais, walkin intae the room wae two hauns full wae bags ay messages fae ASDA, ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s just IN THE KITCHEN gettin somethin.’ Pearcey, none too subtley sais.

‘How ur you, Mrs. McDade? Let me take they bags fur ye. Ye done somethin wae yer hair? It looks really nice. Ah thoat, “Who’s this? Paul disnae huv an aulder sister.” when ye walked in there.’ ah sais, staunin up tae take the bags aff her.

‘Aw, Daniel. Such a charmer. Dae ye really like it?’ she sais, releasin the bags tae me, ‘ . . . Ronnie sais ah wis too auld tae get it like this –’

‘Right Ma, ah’m gaun oot. Gonae staiy wae Pearcey again the night, awright?’

‘Aw, right son. Stephen, ah’m really sorry tae hear aboot yer Granny, son. Ah heard she hud a good turn oot at the funeral. Sorry we couldnae make it. That’s nice, oor Paul’s lookin oot fur ye, eh? Yies kin watch a wee film or that. Keep each other company. Huv ye goat clean claes an yer toothbrush, Paul?’

‘Aye, Ma – sake, man, whit dae ye think the rucksack’s fur?’ he sais, impetuously, noddin tae the bag slung oer his shooder, ‘ . . . whit ye dain wae them?’ he sais tae me, pointin egregiously tae the carrier bags in ma hauns.

‘Just helpin yer Ma, ah’m takin them intae the kitchen fur her.’

‘Fuck that, just put them there. Ma Da’ll get them.’ he sais, vigorously noddin tae the settee, just as Ronnie struggles through the door wae another five bags tae each haun, ‘Awright, Da?’ he adds, pattin him oan the back as we slink oot the door past him afore he kin protest.