Boyracers (11 page)

‘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 wrong.’

‘Naw I’ve no,’ she grins. ‘Cmon, why did youse wantay meet us here? Whit are yese eftir?’

She has the accuracy of an assassin.

‘I’ll tell ye why. Deep doon, right, aw I want. Aw I have ever wanted. Is just tay wake up in the mornin wi some really nice lassie, and hear her say those three special words.’

‘Which are?’

‘You’re so cool.’

‘Right.’ She presses the blade of her gaze further in. ‘I’ve got yese aw wrong, have I then?’

‘Listen,’ I say, sweating now, ‘this is whit lassies dinnay understand about guys, right. Other
guys
are mair important tay a guy than lassies. It’s no aw about the shaggin. We’re cultured. Me and Dolby have read Lord of the Rings. Aw three books.’

‘So?’ she says, ‘Whit makes you so special?’

Good question. Horribly good question. I’m on the verge of answering like Morrissey

but I don’t, cos that would make me a dick, so instead I say, ‘See for my Higher English personal study, I’m looking at Stephen King and Clive Barker, explorin these two masters ay Horror. I’m totally gonnay get an A.’

‘That’s whit makes you special?’ she says uncertainly, ‘Stephen King and …?’

‘Clive Barker. They’re easily the best authors in the world today, and no just Horror. Stephen King wrote Stand By Me and the Shawshank Redemption–’

‘Stephen King wrote the Shawshank Redemption?’

‘– but he’s scary tay. I mean, jesus, that scene in The Shining. Heeeeeere’s Johnny! Clive Barker has a better imagination, and he tackles more philosophical issues than King.’

‘Ye’re cute, Super Sub,’ Wendy smiles. ‘God knows ye cannay relate tay lassies, but ye’re cute.’

‘Weaveworld is probably Barker’s best book. Followed by Imajica, and then the Great and Secret Show.’

‘Take ma arm.’

‘I’d also recommend Stephen King’s novellas, especially the Different Seasons collection, which has both Stand By Me
and
the Shawshank Redemption in it.’

‘Take ma fuckin arm!’

‘Um, okay.’

The wind lifts leaves into the air and back down again. The winter sun brushes the trees with gold and at last I feel a calm, an optimism settling on me. The Lads and Lassies are still making woopee up ahead and I’m walking arm in arm with a girl,
an actual girl
, and U2 are
touring
this year, and everything feels vibrant and alive and young and exciting, and Wendy leans close in so the others can’t hear and says, ‘I bet you’ve got a tiny dick.’

Cherry Coke catches in my throat. ‘
Cough!
Whit did you just say?’

She’s allowing the group to drift further away, her hand snaking round my waist. ‘Gon, let me see it.’

‘I will not!’

‘Why no?’ she smirks, ‘Must be tiny then.’

‘No it’s no.’

‘Well.’ Her hand reaches down, her breath on my cheek, and
something
stirs. ‘Let’s have a look then.’

‘In the middle ay Callendar Park?’

‘Nobody can see.’

I glance round. The Lads are oblivious. The space around us is filled with leaves, branches, empty cans of spray paint, and a squirrel which is surely not much bothered about seeing my willy. It’s suddenly a great idea.

‘Gon,’ she says, ‘I’ll show you if you show me.’

My gaze falls to her chest. I fumble with my zip, feel the cold air on my exposed knob and go, ‘There!’

She peers down. Nods approvingly. Then she gives a sharp whistle, and everyone turns to see me standing in the middle of Callendar Park, my willy hanging out like a tiddler. One of the girls puts her hand to her mouth and goes, ‘Oh my god,’ before Wendy triumphantly says, ‘As if
that
plays for Rangers.’

free periods this morning, rolled up in bed, the world the colour of slumber. Don’t have to be at school until assembly, just before lunch, don’t want to move from here ever, it’s so warm and lovely and Dark Side of the Moony and nothing can harm me, there’s nothing to fear. I smile against the warm covers.

Downstairs, Dad looks in good form. ‘Ye missed it,’ he says, ‘Richard and Judy. This wee lassie agein prematurely. By the time she’s 16 she’ll have the body ay an 82 year auld.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘It’s a wee bit funny though.’

‘Naw, it’s no a wee bit funny.’ He has a habit of laughing at things like dying puppies on Animal Hospital. ‘It’s a tragedy. That could’ve easily been me or Derek, so don’t come it.’

He mutters under his breath, folding toast into his mouth.

‘Whit’s that?’

‘Nothin.’

Stroppily, I roam the kitchen for mail. Doctor’s appointment card for Dad, probably to blame for his mood this morning. No fucking bread left. When Mum was here there was always bread in the bread bin. Usually a few other things too, right enough. Vodka. Pills.

Coco Pops, king of cereals. I set them down on the table.

‘Dad?’

‘Hm?’ he munches, non-committal, Doesn’t like it when I argue back, retreats like a dog with its nose skelped.

‘I minded somethin the other day.’

‘Hm?’

‘See when Mum disappeared? The polisman who came up asked me if you’d ever hit her.’

Dad’s eyes, calm, still tuned to the telly. He picks up the remote control and changes the channel, muttering, ‘Canny stand that Richard Madeley.’

‘He said that might be why Mum left.’

‘Him and his wife. Obnoxious pair.’

‘Was it, Dad? Was that why she left?’

‘How should I ken why she left?’ he shrugs, then says, ‘Pass me up that Daily Record, will ye.’

I pass it to him and wait while his eyes travel the first couple of pages.

‘So did you ever hit her?’

‘Look,’ he sighs, crumpling the paper, ‘did ye ever havetay share a hoose wi somebody who hadnay been sober for a week? Who nearly burnt the place doon twice?’

‘Aye.’

‘Or find three bottles ay whisky under yer bed?’

‘Ye ken I did.’

‘Or come hame and suddenly find objects ay value missin?’

‘I did that tay.’

‘Well then.’ Dad opens the paper again. ‘Just think aboot that.’

latest postcard from Derek in London, has a picture of a sunbathing woman carefully combing her pubic hair. On it, he’s written, ‘From one fanny to another,’ and it makes me head out to school in a better
mood than I should be. I miss him. He used to do this monkey face at me when I was wee, rubbery bottom lip and ears sticking out. When Mum and Dad took us on walks by the canal, me and Derek would always be mad-charging around the next bend, desperate to see what lay ahead, Mum warning us not to run too far off, the anticipation so great it was painful. Anything could’ve been waiting for us. A
fire-breathing
dragon? A lagoon? Or, if were on a drive at night time, and we saw the lights of a town in the distance, we’d always think it was the shows. ‘Dad, Dad, it’s the shows. Can we go over there tay the shows?’ Then we’d get there and realise it was just another scheme like Hallglen.

I wind my way through the labyrinth of the place, past the primary school where my childhood was spent in a warm haze of Barrs
lemonade
and football. Some of the school weans follow me, shouting, ‘Awright, big man, like yer PVC jaiket, ya mad jester ye,’ and I slip my earphones in and the Velvet Underground drones them away.

Onto the Glen Brae, across the ash park at Lochgreen, underneath the pylons. The Falkirkscape is wide and still below, god’s dust-jacket for his crappiest book. Grangemouth refinery unfurling pollution into the sky

barely make it into assembly before they close the door, and big Ronnie Melville strides up to the podium. His red hair seems to burn with an Old Testament authority. Some prefects follow him, Connor Livingstone among them, hair flicked into place, and I’m sure he sees me standing dishevelled at the back of the assembly hall, and then

Tyra!

Her name is like two notes of chamber music. Murmurs of approval from the boys as she takes the stage, her face cool and smooth. She sits, hands on her knees, her tantalising legs pressed together. Connor smiles at her and she smiles at him. Melville gives one last sweep around the hall for latecomers, before booming, ‘We have a special guest for today’s assembly.’

Two Tamfourhill neds in front of me fizz with sarcasm: ‘Kelly Brook in the scud, heh heh.’

‘Now, most of you are at, or coming to, an age when those privileges which you have been hitherto denied will be made available.’

‘He means shaggin, heh heh.’

‘The consumption of alcohol and tobacco.’

‘Shaggin. Gon, say it. Shaggin. Heh heh.’

‘The right to vote.’

‘I bet he doesnay say it.’

‘I bet he does.’

‘And, of course, intercourse with members of the opposite sex. Or the same sex, if you prefer.’

‘!’

‘!’

‘These are not privileges which are accorded lightly.’ His eyes bulge for a bit. ‘As you pass into adulthood, you will be accorded even great responsibility. An occupation. A family. A home.’

Brian watching Saving Private Ryan with moist eyes. The young hurled, flailing, into the fray.

‘These responsibilities must be exercised with proper consideration for the society which has conferred them upon you.’

Gunshots. Bullets. Blood.

‘We have here Mr Giles Johnson of the Automobile Association, who is going to speak to you about the issue of safe driving.’

Brian muttering, ‘If I was a religious man, I’d say a fuckin prayer for them boys.’

Giles Johnston starts and I am instantly bored, even though he does his best to scare the shite out of us. Slides of car wrecks and burning motorbikes flash past. He sighs, ‘and the driver of
this
car was only 21,’ at the appropriate points. But his presence here has the opposite effect. Fifth year is the year when we all turn 17 and can legally sit our driving tests, hence the timing of the talk. Cars. Driving. Freedom. I gaze round at these hopeful faces, their bright young arrogant eyes, glinting at the highways of the future through an imagined windscreen, feet pressing invisible accelerators, dying to be let loose on the world.

Then the assembly mutates. Every one of us old and bent in the year 2060, staring vacantly at a giant TV screen in an old folks’ home, while the 17 year-old kitchen boy mocks us over bowls of gelatinous soup, dying to get out from work and into his hover-car with his mates, to attack the motorways that float eerily above Falkirk. ‘Auld bastarts,’ he smirks, turning the key in the ignition, taking off with the rest of the boyracers towards the ozone layer, or what’s left of it.

Tyra shines amid this apocalyptic ruin, perpetually young. I catch her eye and she smiles as if to say ‘boring or what?’ or maybe ‘kiss me out in the milky twilight,’ but it’s all I need. Something has possessed me. The spirit of all those dying cars? The prospect of being trapped in an old biddy’s home of the future with a silver-haired Connor Livingstone and his golf buddies? I have a few thousand days in which to live and I will not be mute, because when I am jammed in that armchair near the end of my life, the decades spilt like coins beneath the cushions, I want to know that I did what I could to have the woman I loved. Carpe Diem, and all that shite from films that Dolby likes. I’m going to ask her. Right now. Straight after this assembly.

she is

‘Tyra!’

I try to push through the throng, but she’s being led away towards the Rector’s office with Melville and the prefects and Mr Giles Johnson, Connor at her back, musing falsely, ‘Well, yes, I thought there was quite an
impact
to the presentation, if you’ll pardon the pun.’

‘Tyra!’

My heart going at it like a Motorhead album. The fear, and the defeat of fear. Three bints reading a prelim exam timetable in my way and Tyra almost disappearing from sight into the admin corridor. I slam against the double doors, shout

‘Tyra!’

like a shot prisoner, but Livingstone is holding them closed,
appealing
sweetly. ‘Sorry, Alvin, Tyra’s busy with prefect duties at the moment. We have to lunch with Mr Johnson to thank him for his informative talk.’

The veneer slides from him, slick, making me feel like I need to wash.

‘It’s just for a second, Connor. I wantay – ’

‘Not now, Alvin,’ he commands, like I’m a collie dog. Half
expecting
him to shout ‘Stay’ and throw me a rubber bone. ‘It’s really very important that you don’t interrupt. You might get her in the prefects’ hut at the end of lunch break.’

‘Connor,’ I mutter, exasperated, ‘as you well ken, I’m no a prefect. I’m no allowed intay the prefects’ hut.’

The Brian Mann creeping out from under my clothes. This must be how the Incredible Hulk feels (or would feel, if he had to contend with the likes of Livingstone instead of the Abomination). Connor closes the double doors on me officiously.

‘Sorry. No non-prefects allowed in the admin corridor. You might see her in English class after lunch …’

‘Connor.’

I start knocking on the glass. But Livingstone is retreating further up his own privilege, his last look towards me a handsome shrug.

She isn’t in English class after lunch.

Mrs Gibson is reading a solemn passage from The Great Gatsby, shuttering the blinds, making the classroom dark, and I am trying to conceive strategies for getting into Rosie’s and

as I gaze longingly at Tyra’s vacant seat, I will the emptiness to take on her shape. She appears, in a special-effect, morphing out of thin air. Her whole body is the colour of iced water, voice the sound of classical music. When the bell goes for the end of the period, she explodes like a shot aquarium, and I push my fingers to my temples and rub at a whining pain.

Despite the randomness of events in my life, despite the speed at which it all crashes past, despite the Lads, Belinda, the colour, the laughter, a new and grown-up world opening around me, the big bursting choruses followed by inventive guitar solos, despite friendship, family, education, the welfare state, the abolishment of nuclear threat, I still sense horror lurking. At the end of the road. Something dark, unformed, mysterious, waiting for me to hit it like in the prologue to a werewolf story, the Lads all hanging around for something to happen, for the alarm bell of their thirties to go off maybe.

If being a teenager was a job, you wouldn’t apply for it. ‘Enterprising youths wanted for angst-filled soul-searching. Seven year contract. Will affect your sex life.’

Dolby’s mad keen on going back onto the crusing circuit, been bugging us about it for weeks, since he’s found Shiny on the chatroom again, going on about ‘the buzz yi get bettr than drugz’ (sic) so we give Belinda the old spit and polish and head to another secret location in Grangemouth and it’s all covert and mad, like being in that Al Pacino/Johnny Depp number, Donnie Brasco.

On the way there, Frannie tells us about a group of ducks he saw on his way to work this morning, ‘obviously lost like, cos fuck knows whit they were daein ootside Tesco.’

‘They’ll be fay Cally Park,’ Brian suggests, scratching his stubble, reading an article in Maxim about a bottomless bar in Texas, which I glance at over his shoulder.

‘But Tesco is, like, a mile fay Cally Park.’

‘Aye,’ Brian tuts. ‘Hence bein fuckin lost.’

‘Anyway,’ Frannie continues, ‘dick. It’s a mammy duck and her wee chicks, and one of the chicks is laggin behind in the car park–’

‘They were in the car park?’

‘Aye,’ Frannie seethes, impatient. ‘As ye just pointed out, they were fuckin lost, weren’t they?’

‘Go on.’

‘So, this wee chick’s laggin–’

‘Duckling.’

‘Whit?’

‘Duckling, no chick. Chicks are baby hens.’

‘Aw, right, so this wee
duckling’s
laggin behind, and I’m watchin it squeakin away, tryin tay keep up like. Wee shame for it. I wis gonnay go ower and give it a hand, but then somebody shouts on me – ken big Maxie? – and when I look ower again it’s disappeared.’

‘Disappeared? The duckling? Are you sure it didnay just catch up?’

‘Will ye listen tay the fuckin story?’

‘I’m listenin. It’s just takin too long.’

‘It’s takin too long because ye keep fuckin interruptin.’

‘It’s just dull, Frannie. It’s just a dull story. Chicks in a car park. So whit?’

‘Oh, I thought you said they were ducklings?’

I pick up the copy of Maxim that Brian has disregarded in favour of refining Frannie’s storytelling, to read an interview with some girls on a night out in Glasgow