Utterly Monkey by Nick Laird Page B

and out onto Taylor Road, but instead crouched down aftera few metres and doubled back behind the hedge that ran along the field. He could cross the Glencrest estate to his own road. He squeezed through the straggly privet, popped out the other side (the branches folding their arms again behind him) and hunkered down on the pavement. His T-shirt was now an off-the-shoulder number. And his breathing was raspy, like his dad’s when he was angry. Staring at the pavement he noticed minute red bugs, a score of pinpricks, meandering over the paving slab. They didn’t seem to have any sense of direction or purpose, veering off this way or that. Danny smeared one into the grey with his thumb. It left a tiny scarlet blur. He stood, pulling his T-shirt up to cover his thin shoulder, and started to dander across the estate. It was Protestant, this place, and therefore pretty empty. Everyone was either at the marches or on holiday. The houses were private, not council, and built only a couple of years ago though already the pebbledash white was discolouring–like snowfall thawing out to slushy grey. A kid’s bike had been abandoned on its side on one of the neat front lawns and the wheel was still spinning. Danny had an urge to cross the lawn and press his hand against the rubber, to stop its ticking, but he walked quickly on to the estate’s entrance. He was about to exit onto Milburn Road, his own, when Philly Stewart walked past on the far side of the road, heading towards Danny’s own house. Did he know where Danny lived? Danny didn’t know. Philly was doing his simian shoulder roll and staring blankly forward. Danny felt his legs go, and he leant into one of the redbrick entrance pillars to steady himself. Philly’s peculiar gait made it seem he was pushing an imaginary wheelbarrow: his arms hung out by hissides and his shoulders were arched and lowered. He pushed it on up Milburn as Danny spun slowly around on a crack in the pavement and headed back into the estate.
    Danny was walking swiftly again but unsure where to. He’d have to hang about in the estate, find a hole in the ground and sit in it for a year or so. When he passed the house again with the bike outside, its wheel spinning slower now, he heard a car from somewhere nearby, pulling away sharply. He glanced over towards the screech of tyres and saw, instead, Geordie running along the top of the T-junction. Danny shouted ‘Geordie’ and set off after him. Geordie slowed down and he caught up. Geordie looked edgy as always.
    ‘All right Williams, how’s things?’
    ‘Fucking wick. Me, Del and Jacksy and Wee Jim were watching the march down the street and fucking Slim and Micks and Philly came along and started hassling us. I don’t know what happened but I ended up smacking Slim in the balls. He’s going to go through me for a fucking shortcut.’
    Geordie’s face broke into that overwhelming grin. Danny started to laugh, from relief.
    ‘Fucking hell, Williams. Slim’s hard as nails. They’ll be looking for you.’
    ‘Aye I know. And Micks chased me down through the back field onto Monkey Lane and I just saw Philly walking up Milburn towards my house. What you doing round here?’
    ‘Nothing really. Here, c’mere. Follow me for a sec.’
    Geordie turned around and walked back in the direction he’d just come from. He walked up towards the backgate of an orderly corner house with two hanging baskets, ablaze with pansies and fuchsia and geraniums. The estate was still deserted, although a television could be heard blasting from the open windows of the house next door: the parades’ hullaballoo occasionally narrated by the respectful, deep-voiced and slightly bored observations of an anchorman.
    ‘Here. We can nip in round the back. It’s me uncle’s but they’re all down at the parade. I just been to see whether they’re around.’
    Geordie pushed at the back gate with one hand and it swung open, banging against the pebbledashed side of the