Be Near Me by Andrew O’Hagan

wish we had known better. In fact, it reminded me of the way I sometimes talked myself. 'They say he was a very good sort,' said Mr McNulty. 'An old lady was ill once, just up the road from where we lived. She couldn't eat. And my dad went up there and sat by the bed for hours, squeezing oranges into her mouth.'
    'Very kind,' I said.
    'Aye. That was the measure of the man. He always had plenty of things to do. He kept an allotment.'
    'And what sort of father are you, Mr McNulty?'
    The question was coarse, but I asked it with a view to perhaps opening up the question of the man's unhappiness. He just looked at me. 'Did my wife ask you to ask me that?'
    'Not at all,' I said. 'I would like to help you.'
    He smiled and lit another cigarette.
    'Doctors and priests,' he said. 'Good men.'
    'I try to do the odd thing with Mark,' he said. 'It's not always easy to think up things to do, but I take him to the swimming. There's a braw pool at Auchenharvie. We've been there a few times.'
    Seagulls followed the boat, nipping in closer, tilting on the wing, as if they too were listening to Mark's story about the Liverpool game. 'I really wanted them to be the European champions. The Lisbon Lions all over again, just like 1967. My da usually just gets a few cans and sits them at his feet for a game. He doesn't want anybody in the living room. And that night he said, "This is your history." He made me a shandy and he said: "This is what your people fought for."'
    Lisa and the others just nodded. They seemed to understand. 'My da and my uncle cried at that game,' she said. 'They cried at the start and they cried at the end when we won.'
    'We were a European side that night,' said Mark. 'Half the English national team were running about in red shirts—Owen, Heskey, Gerrard—and we'd never gubbed Liverpool in a European match before. And what a feeling among the Celtic support. You could see the fans giving it full pelt in the terraces. The songs. Don't get me wrong: Liverpool have brilliant supporters, but the Celtic crowd are different.'
    'Why's that?' I said.
    'Because they've had to fight their way up,' said Mark. 'They fought to be accepted, a Catholic team in Glasgow and then in Scotland and then in the world. It's a community, intit?'
    'But that's true of Liverpool too, isn't it? Those people have had to fight their way up.'
    'That's what I'm saying. They have brilliant supporters. It's just, with Celtic, there's something a bit more.'
    'And what happened at the house,' I asked, 'when you were watching with your father?'
    'When Thompson scored, it was a free kick, okay. Not far outside the box. It was like this.' Mark motioned with his foot. 'Larsson skipped over the ball and Thompson blootered it and the wall just crumbled. I'm tellin' ye: the wall fell apart, players jumping up and turning sideways to avoid the ball hitting them, and instead of hitting them it fired right into the back of the net. One-nil. I was jumpin' up and down in the middle of the room and my da was smiling from ear to ear.'
    'That's awesome,' said Lisa.
    'He went to get up. It's a bit of a hassle for him sometimes, getting up. He tried, but then I just bent down and grabbed him and cheered. He said, "That's yer Liverpool for ye. It went right through their bloody legs. What a goal. Get me another beer frae the fridge, we're gon tae the semi-final."'
    We were silent for a moment around Mark.
    'It was weird,' he said, 'because I don't think he likes me.'
    'Nonsense,' I said. 'Of course your father likes you.'
    'It's nothing to me,' he said. 'But what a night for Celtic. You've got to have your team, Father.'
    'I suppose so.'
    I looked back to see Scotland, the woods that fringe the headland and the green breast of the hills. From our position it seemed nothing could ever reach us or force us back, and we passed into a strange proximity with the advancing island of Ailsa Craig. More than an island, it seemed like a testament to physical endurance, this place,