Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Calum’s disdainful look seemed to say: If ye were born yesterday that would make ye a greetin-faced bairn. So, aye, it sortay fits .

— Eh? Answer us!

Calum remained mute, having barely spoken two words to anyone since their mother’s death. Alison knew this wasn’t good. Nonetheless, she sympathised with her brother, hating it when their father was like this. She’d always considered him a clever man, but grief and anger had rendered him stupid. Had he any idea what a spaz he looked with that retarded tache, crouched hung-over in front of the lecky bar fire, that tartan dressing gown hanging over his thin shoulders?

Derrick couldn’t hold back another dose of cliché. — It’s just that ah dinnae want ye tae make the same mistakes ah did.

— It’s only natural, Cal, Alison supportively intervened. — Dad widnae be human if he didnae care … right, Dad?

Derrick Lozinska chose to ignore his oldest daughter, remaining focused on his son. Calum’s eyes were on the soundless TV where Daffy Duck silently scammed a bemused Porky Pig. — Ye ken fine well what that crowd are. Trouble. Big trouble. Ah ken. Ah seen yis, mind!

This couldn’t be contested. Their father regularly bored Alison by recounting his unfortunate witnessing of the Baby Crew in action. That ambush at the Crawford Bridge at Bothwell Street; mob on mob, then in pursuit of an escaping group of Rangers fans. Calum had been to the fore, with a piece of broken stone cladding in his hand. When she’d asked her brother for his version of the events, he hadn’t denied it, just retorted that Derrick and his dingul mate shouldn’t have been there, as nobody went that way but away fans and boys looking for an off.

Calum hit the handset, changed the channel. Alison looked at the screen. That auld bag wi aw the make-up oan her coupon’s reading the lunchtime news. Funny, she usually does the evenings .

— A brick in his hand! Ready tae fling it intae a crowd! Derrick appealed to Alison again. She dutifully shook her head, though the image of her brother holding a brick in the street inexplicably amused her.

As Calum looked at his father, Alison could almost see his derisive, silent thoughts: A piece ay stane claddin, ya radge, no a fuckin brick!

Derrick shuddered, shaking his tired head. — Borstal, that’s where he’s headed.

— They call it approved school now. Polmont, Calum informed him.

— Dinnae get smart! Disnae matter what they flamin well call it, you’re joinin nae casuals, no at this game or any other!

— Ah’m no joinin nowt! Tryin tae listen tae the news …

Calum’s attention was focused on a shot of a place Alison recognised. It was the Grapes of Wrath pub, down near the Bannanay flats, where Simon came from. She heard Mary Marquis in voiceover, — … spearheading a new campaign to prevent local publicans becoming the victims of violence.

Then there was a shot of this old guy, the pub landlord, sitting all spazzy in a wheelchair, drooling out the side of his mouth, talking like a wheezing dummy about how some thugs had done him over and wrecked the boozer. Alison remembered that one: it was rumoured to be three guys from Drylaw, but they were never found.

They cut to this stern-faced polisman, Robert Toal, of Lothian and Borders Polis. — This is just one of the disturbing cases that have recently come to light, where an upstanding member of the community was brutally assaulted and robbed on his own premises, in broad daylight. In this case, the victim’s injuries have left him disabled and unable to continue working in the licensing trade. It’s sad that people who provide a community service are no longer safe in their own hostelries. Unfortunately, cash-based businesses are extremely vulnerable to this kind of attack.

They cut back to the quashed and downcast Dickson, wretchedly declaring, — All I wanted was to do was ma job ay work …

Cut to an exterior shot of the Water of Leith, the sun glinting off the river offering a sedate ambience, before the camera rose slowly to a bleak, disused factory on its banks, evoking an air of ruined menace, and finally, back to Mary in the studio. — A sad tale indeed, she sympathetically declared. — But now over to the sports desk, as we’ve a full Scottish football fixture card this afternoon. Tom?

— Indeed we do, Mary, said a svelte-looking youngish guy in a suit, — and it’s John Blackley’s Hibernian who have the unenviable task of trying to derail the all-conquering Aberdeen bandwagon of Alex Ferguson. But if the Hibs boss is nervous at the prospect, he’s doing a good job of concealing it …

And they cut to Sloop, trademark ginger hair greying slightly at the temples. Alison remembered how he’d come to the school one time, to present some prizes on sports day. She was glad of the Hibs feature; it allowed father and son to continue their temporary truce.

Alison didn’t really get the casual thing. Spending money on decent clothes, then rolling around in gutters brawling, it seemed perverse and self-defeating to her. Her dad, after initially approving on the grounds of smartness of dress, soon grew hostile. He confessed that whenever he saw Calum’s eyes peeking girlishly out from behind that daft fringe, it just enraged him. Made him want to take a pair of scissors to that hair. There was an insolence about it, he argued.

Nonetheless, Calum and Mhairi were going through some kind of hell. They were young, angry and scared. I’m not doing much better, Alison thought, picking up a magazine.

As the feature on Hibs finished, Alison saw Derrick draw in a creaky breath and steel himself, knowing he was going to start on her brother again. — You’re gaun tae nae fitba, n that’s that. Ah dinnae want ye joinin up wi they … he spat the word out, — casuals.

— Ah’m jist gaun tae the fitba wi ma mates!

— Aye, like ye did wi that rock in yir hand? No way. You’re still fifteen, no long fifteen, and livin under this roof. God, if your mother was here — Derrick stalled, instantly wishing he could take the words back.

— Well, she’s no! Calum sprang to his feet and headed out the door, upstairs to his room.

Derrick weakly crowed his son’s name, letting it dissolve into a sigh. He turned to Alison with a perplexed shrug. — Ah dunno what tae dae wi them, Alison, ah really don’t.

— They’ll be okay. It takes time.

— Thank God you’re fine, Derrick said. You were always a mature, sensible lassie, he noted, with a swell of pride.

You don’t fucking know me, she thought, as she heard herself register a faint protest. — Dad …

— Always was the bright one. Aye, you took charge. Stepped up tae the mark. No Calum and Mhairi but; they’re finding it tough. Ah really worry, Derrick shook his head, — that that laddie’s gaun oaf the rails.

— Isn’t he no just daein the same things you did at that age? They’ve got new clothes, new slang, different music, but that’s aw superficial. They’ve probably got the odd psycho that’s destined tae go down, but for each ay them you’ll have a dozen ordinary laddies who’ll go through it, n come oot the other side with nowt worse than a few good stories tae tell.

Derrick smiled appreciatively at his daughter. — You’ve got a point. He appeared to acknowledge her wisdom, then shook his head. — But it’s nonsense; he has tae be telt. Ah hate tae say it, but he’s no strong like you or me. There’s something ay the victim aboot him, he contended.

All Alison could do was look at her father, sat there in his dressing gown.

— Ah mean, Derrick said, discomfited and pulling his garment closer to him, — it makes him easy prey fir the less scrupulous types; the yins that ken that when aw the ugly stuff goes doon, it really is every man for themselves.