Postscript — Day 45 (afternoon)
It’s true what they say: never, ever eavesdrop, cause ye might hear somethin aboot yirsel ye dinnae want tae. Ah’d packed up, was waitin for muh ma n dad, and ah thought ah’d take Carl Rogers back tae Tom. The door ay his office was ajar and ah heard Amelia’s voice, n Sick Boy’s name being mentioned. Well, it wisnae exactly his name, but ah kent for a cert whae she wis talking aboot. — … very manipulative. I think he almost believes his own propaganda.
Ah closed in, doomed tae pain like a moth aroond a flame. Ah heard her suddenly change track. — … but that’s Simon. Then we’ve got Mark, leaving today.
Ah froze.
— I’m not too concerned about him in the long term, Tom’s soft, reedy voice. — If he makes it to twenty-six, twenty-seven, his sense of mortality will kick in, he’ll shed all this existential angst and he’ll be fine. If he can just keep from OD’ing or contracting HIV till then, he’ll simply grow out of heroin addiction. He’s too intelligent and resourceful; eventually he’ll get bored with pretending to be a loser.
So ah walked in on them, rappin the door as ah went. — Mark … Skinny-Specky blushed tamely. Tom’s pupils visibly dilated. Baith ay them looked as embarrassed as fuck. Was it being caught talking about us, or using the ‘A’ word, or perhaps that unprofessional and pejorative designation, ‘loser’? Whatever, ah savoured the moment, thrusting On Becoming a Person oantae Tom. — Interesting read. You should have a look at it sometime.
And ah turned on ma heels n headed tae the recky room, where ah said cursory goodbyes tae the other cunts, whom ah couldnae be daein wi; only Audrey was important and ah’d said a proper adieu tae her. Tom steyed in the office, evidently too embarrassed tae pill one ay his farewell caird stunts.
Ah take my stuff ootside tae wait for muh ma n dad. Vanilla-milkshake clouds splatter ower the light blue sky, as a big oak tree blots oot the sun.
The pebbles behind me crack under somebody’s steps, and ah see Tom movin stealthily taewards us, a hurt and confused expression oan his coupon. He evidently wants tae kiss n make up. — Mark. Look, I’m sorry …
He kin git tae fuck and take aw his smarmy platitudes and insincere hugs and stick them right up his manipulative, duplicitous rectum. — You dinnae understand the rage inside. You never will, ah tell him, thinking aboot Orgreave, then, for some reason, Begbie. — Ah hurt myself, disable myself, so ah cannae hurt anybody else that doesnae deserve it. And that’s cause ah cannae get at people like you, cause you’ve got the law on your side. Ah feel the bile rise up inside me. — If ah really could fuck your world right up, ah wouldnae be wastin ma time screwin up ma ain life!
Just then, a familiar motor crunches intae the driveway, Ma and Dad’s big excited faces negating a large portion ay what ah’d just said. The pain ah’ve caused them makes a mockery ay ma conceit and vanity: the idea that thaire’s any intrinsic nobility in ma actions. But fuck that. Ah turn ma back oan Tom n the centre, and walk taewards the motor.
— Good luck, Mark, Tom says, — I mean that.
Ah’m angry at masel, but livid at that cunt. Fuckin lying, smarmy, cowardly bureaucrat. — You are way oot ay touch wi what ye mean. If ye ever meant fuck all in the first place, ah tell him, as muh dad emerges fae the car. — If ye want tae dae something useful, keep yir eye oan that cunt Venters in thaire. Ah swipe the air dismissively. My old man scowls, but they’re delighted tae see me, and me them, as ah climb intae the back ay the car.
— Ma laddie, ma laddie, ma laddie … muh ma says, pushing intae the back seat after us, huggin me, firin a volley ay questions at us, while my dad talks tae Tom and signs some stuff. Ah’m fuckin scoobied as tae what the documentation is. Release forms?
After a bit, Dad comes back ower tae the motor and climbs intae the driver’s seat. — What wis that aboot? You and Mr Curzon?
— Nowt. Just a daft wee argument. It kin sometimes git a wee bit intense in thaire.
— Funny, that wis exactly what he said, muh dad smiles, shakin his heid, as something sinks in ma chest.
— Oh son, son, son, muh ma says, tears streamin down her face, on top ay a great big smile. It takes years off her, and ah realise ah huvnae seen it for so long, — ye look that well! Doesn’t he, Davie?
— He does that, the old boy says, pivoting round and squeezing my bulkier shoulder, contemplating me like a farmer does a prize bull at the Royal Highland Show.
— Thank God this bloody nightmare’s ower!
For a couple ay missed heartbeats ah worry that the wheezing motor isnae gaunny start, but Dad wrenches it intae life, n we gratefully pull away fae the centre. Some people have gathered oan the steps, but ah dinnae look back. Ma keeps my hand in her lap in between sparking up, still prisoner tae the cigarette. We’re heading back across the bridge tae Edinburgh, when a familiar song comes oan the radio talking so temptingly about riding that white line highway.
They dinnae notice, they’re busy chattin aboot how it’s a lovely day, n we can aw start lookin forward again. But my mind and body, pristine pillars ay the temple ay abstinence for six weeks, thrash in unison like a drum machine towards that first bag ay skag. Just thinkin aboot it causes a frozen sweat ay excitement tae gush fae ma pores. Ah cannae fuckin wait. But ah resolve that ah’ll try, for their sakes. The auld boy’s really pushing the motor for some reason, and the auld dear n me cowp intae each other as the tyres screech on every bend.
June 1969, in Blackpool. The moon still made ay green cheese but soon tae be wrapped up and labelled by Yank astronauts, before being dumped in cold storage. A stroll doon the Golden Mile. The distance between Granda Renton’s stiff, overwrought breaths and the last time we walked the prom so much more than just one year. Remembering when we once looked at his medals in that tin. Him wryly observing, ‘They only want tae pin this metal oantae yir chest tae cover the scars fae the metal thuv pit inside it.’ I minded thinking at the time: no, no, Granda, it was the Germans who did that. The British gave you the medals!
Now ah realise that the poor old cunt had it sussed.
We head through the city, bound for the port of Leith. It’s no that late; shopkeepers on the Walk are lowerin their iron grilles with a vengeance. When we get tae the hoose, ah sense that somethin is up. Suddenly, the front room lights click on and a sea of puses: Hazel, Tommy, Lizzie, Second Prize (lookin fit and with a cute blonde lassie in tow), Billy, Sharon, Gav Temperley, Mrs McGoldrick fae next door, Billy’s mates Lenny and Granty, aw wearin grins n toastin us wi glesses ay champagne; aw bar Second Prize, whae’s goat an orange juice. In the kitchen above the table, full ay cakes, sandwiches and the mini sausage rolls ye get at weddings and funerals, a home-made banner ay green lettering against a white background proclaims:
WELL DONE MARK, AND WELCOME HOME!
No quite the graduation ceremony they had in mind for us, but still. My old man hands us a gless ay champagne. — Get that doon ye. But go easy, mind.
Go easy.
Lookin doon at the swirlin, sickly orange glare comin fae the plastic logs in the fireplace, ah sip ma drink, feelin it windin doon ma throat, intae ma stomach, liver, kidneys, goin through ma bloodstream, then lightin ma brain up. The bubbles fizz in my heid, as Hazel rubs ma airm in appreciation, her mooth liftin at the corners. — Are those muscles?
— Kind ay, ah concede, gettin another drink, in sure-fire knowledge it’ll only render mair acute rather than satiate a need ah can feel creepin up on us. Ah’m headin right back tae her when Tommy intercepts, locking me in a matey embrace. — Leave that shite alaine, Mark, he breathlessly urges.