university. Even though they both tried to earn money by having evening or weekend jobs, it still might not be enough. Anyway, he’d heard that so many students needed and were searching for jobs, they had become hard to come by.
Briefly he thought that by the time they were studying at university, attitudes might have changed. But it was only for a second. People like the Reverend Denby and Sandra’s mother and his father did not change. Not ever.
Once out of the front entrance of the Galleries, he trailed down towards Argyle Street, numbly kicking a stone along in front of him.
‘Hi Mirza.’
Looking up, he saw two Pakistani lads from his class, Maq and Ali.
‘Hi.’
‘Where’s Sandra?’
‘We went out together earlier and a mob of white gits chased us. I’d needed to have been Superman to take on a crowd like that.’
‘Christian gits, I bet, going to punish you for being a Muslim. And having the nerve to be with a Christian girl. That would be their excuse, anyway.’
It was always to do with religion. From his family’s point of view. And Sandra’s. It made him furious. He especially hated all the mumbo jumbo of religion. Not just the Muslim rules and regulations, but the Christian ones as well. The Catholics with their rituals and their priests with their fancy dresses and their unnatural celibacy vows. Where in the Bible did it say that priests had to be celibate? Then there were all the miserable Protestant sects with all their narrow-minded rules, supposedly, according to the Reverend Denby, coming from God Almighty. And what about the Buddhists with their gods? And the Hindus, to mention but a few religious beliefs? They couldn’t all be right, but each of them believed they were, of course.
Religion had caused more unhappiness, more guilt, more pain, more suffering, more bloody wars, all down through history than anything else.
Why couldn’t two people like he and Sandra just be allowed to love and cherish each other in peace?
He felt so much anger and resentment at the stupid unfairness of it all, he was tempted to shout from the rooftops that he loved Sandra.
He didn’t want to hide their love. He wasn’t ashamed of it. He felt himself teetering on the edge of open rebellion.
24
On another day, Clive and Paul had just come out of the Kelvingrove Art Galleries and were walking round the side to take a long way round. They, and any of the other residents, seldom, if ever, slid down the slope and on to the river’s edge to Waterside Way. They’d enjoyed a nice tea and were looking forward to returning home. Then suddenly they heard the Reverend Denby’s raucous roar.
‘An abomination in the sight of the Lord. They deserve to suffer. And suffer they must.’ There was a roar of agreement from the crowd who were listening to him. And suddenly all hell was let loose as the Reverend Denby pointed towards them and shouted, ‘There’s two of the filthy poofs. Destroy them! Stamp them out! God says man must not lie with man …’
Clive and Paul ran. Their first and natural instincts were to head for home and that is what they raced towards. But they were not quick enough and in a matter of seconds, they had been felled to the ground and were disintegrating in agony from kicks to the face and stomach.
Vaguely, faintly, they heard an urgent voice shout, ‘Phone 999!’ Someone must have done so because the next thing they knew, they were in hospital beds. They could not see each other at first because of the amount of bandages covering their faces and heads. Nor could they speak. It was agony to move their chests to breathe, far less speak.
It wasn’t until days later that they were able to talk, or rather weakly whisper to Bashir and Jack Kelly when they came to visit.
Unfortunately, they couldn’t tell their two friends that they would be able to identify their attackers. They thought they remembered hearing the Reverend Denby’s voice but they couldn’t be sure. As far as
Briefly he thought that by the time they were studying at university, attitudes might have changed. But it was only for a second. People like the Reverend Denby and Sandra’s mother and his father did not change. Not ever.
Once out of the front entrance of the Galleries, he trailed down towards Argyle Street, numbly kicking a stone along in front of him.
‘Hi Mirza.’
Looking up, he saw two Pakistani lads from his class, Maq and Ali.
‘Hi.’
‘Where’s Sandra?’
‘We went out together earlier and a mob of white gits chased us. I’d needed to have been Superman to take on a crowd like that.’
‘Christian gits, I bet, going to punish you for being a Muslim. And having the nerve to be with a Christian girl. That would be their excuse, anyway.’
It was always to do with religion. From his family’s point of view. And Sandra’s. It made him furious. He especially hated all the mumbo jumbo of religion. Not just the Muslim rules and regulations, but the Christian ones as well. The Catholics with their rituals and their priests with their fancy dresses and their unnatural celibacy vows. Where in the Bible did it say that priests had to be celibate? Then there were all the miserable Protestant sects with all their narrow-minded rules, supposedly, according to the Reverend Denby, coming from God Almighty. And what about the Buddhists with their gods? And the Hindus, to mention but a few religious beliefs? They couldn’t all be right, but each of them believed they were, of course.
Religion had caused more unhappiness, more guilt, more pain, more suffering, more bloody wars, all down through history than anything else.
Why couldn’t two people like he and Sandra just be allowed to love and cherish each other in peace?
He felt so much anger and resentment at the stupid unfairness of it all, he was tempted to shout from the rooftops that he loved Sandra.
He didn’t want to hide their love. He wasn’t ashamed of it. He felt himself teetering on the edge of open rebellion.
24
On another day, Clive and Paul had just come out of the Kelvingrove Art Galleries and were walking round the side to take a long way round. They, and any of the other residents, seldom, if ever, slid down the slope and on to the river’s edge to Waterside Way. They’d enjoyed a nice tea and were looking forward to returning home. Then suddenly they heard the Reverend Denby’s raucous roar.
‘An abomination in the sight of the Lord. They deserve to suffer. And suffer they must.’ There was a roar of agreement from the crowd who were listening to him. And suddenly all hell was let loose as the Reverend Denby pointed towards them and shouted, ‘There’s two of the filthy poofs. Destroy them! Stamp them out! God says man must not lie with man …’
Clive and Paul ran. Their first and natural instincts were to head for home and that is what they raced towards. But they were not quick enough and in a matter of seconds, they had been felled to the ground and were disintegrating in agony from kicks to the face and stomach.
Vaguely, faintly, they heard an urgent voice shout, ‘Phone 999!’ Someone must have done so because the next thing they knew, they were in hospital beds. They could not see each other at first because of the amount of bandages covering their faces and heads. Nor could they speak. It was agony to move their chests to breathe, far less speak.
It wasn’t until days later that they were able to talk, or rather weakly whisper to Bashir and Jack Kelly when they came to visit.
Unfortunately, they couldn’t tell their two friends that they would be able to identify their attackers. They thought they remembered hearing the Reverend Denby’s voice but they couldn’t be sure. As far as
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