Boyracers by Alan Bissett Page A

Sub.’
     
    we are spreading out into the park, the girls clinking Smirnoff Ice and blowing smoke genies, as the water from the loch laps against the bank, as the bare trees spread branches, as the world revolves through space in slow motion and I think
    Girls!
    Halfway round the loch, I drop back. Wendy drops back with me. She offers me a Smirnoff Ice, but I shake my head. ‘I dinnay drink.’ She offers me a fag. ‘I certainly dinnay smoke.’
    ‘Ye don’t drink, ye don’t smoke,’ she tuts. ‘Whit do ye do?’
    She winks.
    Eventually she says, ‘Look at your mates.’ The alcohol has relaxed them from their C3-PO stiffness. Slaggings are batting back and forth. Anecdotes. Nothing seems forced about it. The girls look on, amused, injecting the banter with stories of their own. Sometimes we think we’re the only group of mates in existence, sealed in the world of Belinda, breathing an atmosphere of our own in-jokes, then we meet these girls
    fun
    wanna have fun
    girls
    with their over versions of Dolby, Brian, Frannie, Belinda, their own running arguments, their own favourite films, albums, books, parking places, seats in McDonalds, phone brands, a history we’ve crashedagainst by accident, and this is how it works, meeting lassies, and it’s easier than I thought it’d be.
    ‘Lassies are just like guys really eh,’ I say to Wendy.
    ‘Except they’re lassies.’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘I’ve got bigger tits than you.’
    ‘Aye.’ I cough, trying not to look at them. ‘So how did youse four meet?’
    Wendy crosses her arms over her chest. Really suits that Rangers top. I like the way she keeps folding a wee twist of her hair past her ear. ‘Well, me and Lindsey used tay hang about at Graeme High the gether. Caroline knew Lindsey through the karate. Sarah met Lindsey eftir shaggin her boyfriend. They had a fight about it likes, until baith realised it was the boyfriend that was the dick, ken?’
    ‘Em, aye. Whit a dick.’
    ‘Wan night, for some reason, we aw ended up at the same hen party the gither. So here we are now.’
    ‘Heddy haw.’
    ‘Heddy whit?’
    Frannie laughing up ahead, the sound like bucks fizz over a barbecue at a mate’s house. One of the girls is creasing herself, Dolby is covering his face, pretending to be embarrassed, and Brian has heard it all before. We’ve all heard it all before. But Frannie has this infectious laugh. None of the four of us, I realise, are bad guys. A wave of affection rolls across me and I fade, viewing the scene from a distance, as though I’ve sent someone else out to speak on my behalf, a cooler person than me
    now tell me honestly, son, yer dad doesnay needtay ken
    ‘So when did you join Rangers?’
    ‘Last season.’
    ‘Do ye think Tore Andre Flo is worth £12million?’
    ‘Oh, without question.’
    ‘Gies a drinkay yer Cherry Coke.’ She takes the can and slurps greedily, a single bead trickling from the side of her mouth. She finishes the can. ‘Cheers,’ she gasps, forearm raking across her mouth. ‘Did I catch you lookin at ma tits there?’
    ‘Naw.’
    ‘Just as well.’
    She holds my gaze.
    We’ve reached the other side of the loch, where it’s still, and you could believe for a second that Callendar Park has been plucked out of a holiday brochure. At the other side are the swings, rowing boats, climbing frames, all the places you make for when you’re a bairn. Over here feels like a different realm entirely. Like Eden after the apple was bitten.
    ‘I am Brian Mann and I don’t care,’ Frannie sings, ‘I love the Rangers and I’ve got chest hair.’
    ‘Frannie, you are one Tesco’s-lovin scumbag knob.’
    ‘Hiy. I do not love Tesco’s.’
    ‘Your pals must get loadsay lassies,’ Wendy smiles.
    ‘Ooft,’ I say, ‘tons.’
    ‘Youse are obviously oot chasin a shag the night then.’
    I turn to see Wendy on guard with an arched eyebrow, carefully gauging my reaction. ‘We certainly are not,’ I protest, ‘you’ve got us aw