backay Storm.’
‘Ya liar, I never went near Chewbacca. You shagged Chewbacca.’
‘Right enough,’ muses Dolby, ‘didnay see oor books in WH Smith when I was buyin his.’ We put our hands behind our heads. In the sky, a cloud shaped like an angel glides past in slow-motion. Parts of its wings detach and drift away.
‘Chewbacca? Fay Shieldhill?’
The angel fragments. A mouth forms in its head as it screams at being pulled to pieces. There is vast, vague terror in the sky. I can’t get out of my mind that night I sat in front of the police – one bar of the fire on – and they asked if Mum had anywhere to go, anywhere she might want to run to. The policeman leaning in close, the smell of grown up: ‘Now tell me honestly, son. Yer Dad disnay needtay know. Did yer Dad ever hit yer Mum? Did he? Cos him hittin yer Mum’s whit might’ve made her run away.’
The sound of Brian and Frannie arguing is almost as calming, reassuring , as the singing of the birds, and I can’t imagine not being with them. They are as intrinsic to life as fresh air, pollen, chlorophyll. My sullen, slow rot. My mind running to stand still. My casual slide into freakishness.
‘Should you no be studyin for yer Higher prelims?’ Dolby asks.
‘Aye,’ I shrug, ‘but fuck it eh.’
Dolby does not respond, at least not with the, ‘aye, fuck it, live it up while ye’re young,’ that I’m expecting. He grunts despondently, the angel is blown to bits, its mouth expanding, corrupted by sky, until its face is filled with a single, silent wail.
‘Dae ye think Brian’ll really gotay America?’ I ask him, but he doesn’t answer. He’s glancing up, listening, getting to his feet like Richard Dreyfuss spotting the shark coming at them in Jaws.
‘Oh boys,’ he interrupts Brian and Frannie, who’re disputing which of them has slept with the most Catholics. ‘Oh boys . Looks like they’ve come for their feeding.’
The girls in the front seat of the Punto do not resemble anything from Jaws. Or Star Wars. At all. We watch them like castaways struck dumb by an approaching ship. Frannie starts singing under his breath
fun
girls
wanna have
fun
girls
Slam. Slam. Slam. Brunette. Blonde. Brunette. One of them lands a pack of Smirnoff Ice on the bonnet. Another adjusts her hair. The third draws on her fag, sizing us up like a pretty inmate. The Lads stand.
‘Awright,’ says the smoker.
‘Awright.’
‘Hiya.’
‘Hello.’
I don’t say anything.
‘Youse the boyracers then?’
‘No,’ Dolby growls, whipping the baseball cap from my head, ‘we are not.’
Her eyes flick between us, as if selecting a victim, the whole thing like a re-enactment of that cellar scene from Pulp Fiction. I keep waiting for one of the Lads to say something, anything. Brian to ask where their brothers drink. Frannie to do his Ali G impression. Dolby to say, ‘We’re called Trekkers, not Trekkies.’ But they just stare, arms stiff by their sides, like three Gregorys on a planet of girls. ‘Whit wannay yese plays for Rangers?’
‘Him,’ they all say, their gazes swinging round to me, and I am thrust forwards, looked up and down, summed up and chewed over with bubblegum.
‘He disnay play for Rangers!’ one of them hoots, breaking into the Smirnoff Ice. ‘Ho, son, whit’s yer name?’
I scramble my mind for the most hunlike name I can think of. ‘Ally,’ I stutter, ‘Ferguson.’
‘Ally Ferguson? Wendy, you ever hearday an Ally Ferguson?’
Wendy steps out from the car. Rangers shirt. ‘Ally Ferguson?’ she muses. ‘Whit position dae ye play?’
‘Centre right. Back. Forward.’
‘He’s in the reserves,’ Brian adds hurriedly, and doesn’t need to groan for me to know that he’s groaning.
‘Aw,’ Wendy smiles, ‘Ally Ferguson? I mind. Did you no come on as a sub against Motherwell last season?’
‘Aye, that’s me.’
‘Scored two goals?’
‘Probably.’
Wendy nods. ‘Pleased tay meet ye, Super
‘Ya liar, I never went near Chewbacca. You shagged Chewbacca.’
‘Right enough,’ muses Dolby, ‘didnay see oor books in WH Smith when I was buyin his.’ We put our hands behind our heads. In the sky, a cloud shaped like an angel glides past in slow-motion. Parts of its wings detach and drift away.
‘Chewbacca? Fay Shieldhill?’
The angel fragments. A mouth forms in its head as it screams at being pulled to pieces. There is vast, vague terror in the sky. I can’t get out of my mind that night I sat in front of the police – one bar of the fire on – and they asked if Mum had anywhere to go, anywhere she might want to run to. The policeman leaning in close, the smell of grown up: ‘Now tell me honestly, son. Yer Dad disnay needtay know. Did yer Dad ever hit yer Mum? Did he? Cos him hittin yer Mum’s whit might’ve made her run away.’
The sound of Brian and Frannie arguing is almost as calming, reassuring , as the singing of the birds, and I can’t imagine not being with them. They are as intrinsic to life as fresh air, pollen, chlorophyll. My sullen, slow rot. My mind running to stand still. My casual slide into freakishness.
‘Should you no be studyin for yer Higher prelims?’ Dolby asks.
‘Aye,’ I shrug, ‘but fuck it eh.’
Dolby does not respond, at least not with the, ‘aye, fuck it, live it up while ye’re young,’ that I’m expecting. He grunts despondently, the angel is blown to bits, its mouth expanding, corrupted by sky, until its face is filled with a single, silent wail.
‘Dae ye think Brian’ll really gotay America?’ I ask him, but he doesn’t answer. He’s glancing up, listening, getting to his feet like Richard Dreyfuss spotting the shark coming at them in Jaws.
‘Oh boys,’ he interrupts Brian and Frannie, who’re disputing which of them has slept with the most Catholics. ‘Oh boys . Looks like they’ve come for their feeding.’
The girls in the front seat of the Punto do not resemble anything from Jaws. Or Star Wars. At all. We watch them like castaways struck dumb by an approaching ship. Frannie starts singing under his breath
fun
girls
wanna have
fun
girls
Slam. Slam. Slam. Brunette. Blonde. Brunette. One of them lands a pack of Smirnoff Ice on the bonnet. Another adjusts her hair. The third draws on her fag, sizing us up like a pretty inmate. The Lads stand.
‘Awright,’ says the smoker.
‘Awright.’
‘Hiya.’
‘Hello.’
I don’t say anything.
‘Youse the boyracers then?’
‘No,’ Dolby growls, whipping the baseball cap from my head, ‘we are not.’
Her eyes flick between us, as if selecting a victim, the whole thing like a re-enactment of that cellar scene from Pulp Fiction. I keep waiting for one of the Lads to say something, anything. Brian to ask where their brothers drink. Frannie to do his Ali G impression. Dolby to say, ‘We’re called Trekkers, not Trekkies.’ But they just stare, arms stiff by their sides, like three Gregorys on a planet of girls. ‘Whit wannay yese plays for Rangers?’
‘Him,’ they all say, their gazes swinging round to me, and I am thrust forwards, looked up and down, summed up and chewed over with bubblegum.
‘He disnay play for Rangers!’ one of them hoots, breaking into the Smirnoff Ice. ‘Ho, son, whit’s yer name?’
I scramble my mind for the most hunlike name I can think of. ‘Ally,’ I stutter, ‘Ferguson.’
‘Ally Ferguson? Wendy, you ever hearday an Ally Ferguson?’
Wendy steps out from the car. Rangers shirt. ‘Ally Ferguson?’ she muses. ‘Whit position dae ye play?’
‘Centre right. Back. Forward.’
‘He’s in the reserves,’ Brian adds hurriedly, and doesn’t need to groan for me to know that he’s groaning.
‘Aw,’ Wendy smiles, ‘Ally Ferguson? I mind. Did you no come on as a sub against Motherwell last season?’
‘Aye, that’s me.’
‘Scored two goals?’
‘Probably.’
Wendy nods. ‘Pleased tay meet ye, Super
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