The Songs of Manolo Escobar (11 page)

He took us for gym lessons when Dickhead Docherty was off, and he would make us march up and down the playground, square-bashing, as he breathlessly barked orders in between puffs of Condor Ready Rubbed. Afterwards he would come into the changing rooms and warn, with chin-stroking gravity, that if we didn't wash behind our foreskins we risked contracting cancer of the penis.

Everyone hated Mad Dog, but I had a grudging respect for him. He was the only member of staff whom the Pollok boys genuinely feared. On one occasion, Joey Adams told him to cock off or he'd get his brother to do his kneecaps. Mad Dog ordered him to the front of the classroom and stood toe-to-toe with him, staring into his eyes, screaming at him with such deranged ferocity that if his vocal cords had snapped, they'd surely have taken Joey Adams's eye out.

Mad Dog told him that he was a vile piece of human scum who didn't deserve an education, that all he'd ever amount to was a thieving junkie dropout, just like his brother, whom he'd
taught, and how he was
more
useless than dog shit because at least dog shit made your roses grow. By the time he'd finished Joey Adams stood silent and quivering, and he spent the rest of the morning sitting at his desk, wiping tears from his eyes.

I hated everything about school, from the wire-reinforced windows to the bolted-down desks and chairs. That no one wanted to be there, least of all the teachers, was evident from the poor physical condition of the building, the curling flakes of paint that clung stubbornly to the dirty, crumbling walls and ceilings, the threadbare carpets with their smell of decay. No one was prepared to take responsibility for its upkeep. It was an unspoken dirty protest.

During the morning break I locked myself in a cubicle in the boys' toilets. The stench, as ever, made me gag, but I wanted to be alone, to gather my thoughts. I was dreading the row I knew I'd get from Mama when I got home for abandoning Jorge. What disturbed me even more was the certain knowledge that, at some stage today, Jorge was certain to arrive at the school.

Sure enough, halfway through a spelling test before lunch, there was a knock on the door, and Mrs Briggs, the school secretary, came into our classroom. She whispered something in Mad Dog's ear, and they left the room together before returning with Jorge trailing limply behind. My stomach lurched.

‘This is Horgay,' Mad Dog said in his clipped accent. ‘He's from Chile, a country in South America, and he will be part of our class from now on.'

Jorge looked terrified. I could see him scanning the rows of white faces, looking for me, so I dipped my head below the desk and pretended to tie my shoelace. The only free seat was at the end of the front row, next to Joey Adams, so Mad Dog led him by the arm and signalled for him to sit down.

Jorge turned around and, as I raised my head, he looked me straight in the eye and smiled. I stared at my desk, willing him to look away, praying he wouldn't call out my name or wave.

I gripped my forehead between my thumb and my index finger, using my hand to shield my eyes, as though that might
offer some protection. My chest felt tight and my head faint, and I clenched my teeth, praying for the moment to pass. Mad Dog resumed the spelling test, and Jorge turned around to face the front of the class. I was safe, at least for now.

When the bell rang for lunchtime, I bolted from my seat and was out of the classroom and halfway down the stairs before he had the chance to approach me. Standing at the front of the queue for the dinner hall, I heard the distant footsteps and animated voices of my classmates approaching, making their way along the corridor. I willed the doors to open. As the first feet landed on the top step I heard the bolt released from the inside and I launched myself against the door, forcing my way into the hall and nearly knocking over the dinner lady on the other side.

I collected my lunch tray and moved to the furthest corner, hoping that by the time Jorge had managed to find his way downstairs the room would be full, and I'd be able to hide among the sea of bodies.

I spent the rest of the lunchbreak hiding in the toilets to avoid him until it was time to return to our classroom. When the bell rang for home time I hung back, on the pretext of wanting to ask Mad Dog about the long-division homework he'd set, but really I was hoping that everyone, Jorge included, would disappear. Mad Dog eyed me suspiciously, wondering about my sudden interest. I strung out our exchange for as long as I could while the class emptied.

The playground was deserted as I made my way through the gates, but as I turned on to Mosspark Boulevard I spotted a group of boys gathered further ahead – Chaney and Adams, as well as two of their pie-faced henchmen, Benny Lugton and Barra McCann. At the centre of the group was Jorge, looking confused and scared. They circled him like leery cavemen inspecting an intruder and began to push him, laughing and whooping as he bounced between them.

He saw me standing in the distance. I held his gaze briefly and looked away. At that moment I hated him. I turned and headed
back the way I'd come, round the corner, past the bookie's and out of sight.

When I returned home Mama was on the phone. I dumped my schoolbag in the kitchen and was about to run outside to play when she warned me not to go far.

‘Your papa wants to speak with you when he comes home,' she said quietly.

I knew I was in big trouble – Mama rarely delegated discipline to Papa unless it was for something serious. I decided to go to my bedroom to start my homework early and perhaps lessen my inevitable punishment.

My throat tightened when I heard the front door open. I lay on the floor, trying to concentrate on my homework. I heard the familiar sounds of Papa's afternoon routine as he washed and changed, and then his footsteps as he walked out of the bathroom and stopped outside my room. The door opened slowly. He wandered in and sat down on the edge of my bed.

‘Wha you dae?' he asked.

‘Long division,' I said.

‘Wha this?'

‘It's maths. You know, sums?'

‘Si,
I know,
matemáticas.'

He lit a cigarette. I braced myself for the expected onslaught, but his body was relaxed, and he seemed thoughtful.

‘Wha is this sum?'

I looked down at my jotter.

‘Eh, six hundred and seventy-five divided by twenty-five.

‘Veintisiete,'
he responded instantly.

I stared at him.

‘Twenty-seven,' he said.

I hesitated, my pencil hovering above the page, unsure whether to write. It was obvious I didn't trust his answer, but he didn't lose his temper.

‘You write, this correct answer, twenty-seven. I nae good with words but with numbers yes.'

He stood up slowly from the bed and arched his back. He let out a groan as he stretched, his muscles weary after spending the day lugging suitcases. He opened the window a few inches and flicked the ash of his cigarette into the back garden. Then he sat back down on the bed.

‘Why you nae take Jorge tae school?'

I began a long-winded explanation I'd already rehearsed about losing the way and being late, and how, although I'd meant to take him, in the end I didn't have time, and . . . even as I was delivering my epic story, I realised how unconvincing it sounded.

‘You think you have tough life?'

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees so that our faces were only a couple of inches apart. His eyes were uncharacteristically warm.

‘Pardon?' I asked, not sure what he was getting at.

‘You think you have tough life?'

‘Eh, not really, no,' I said defensively.

‘You know wha these children, they go through in their country?'

His voice was quiet and husky, and the sharp smell of tobacco on his breath at close quarters made me want to pull away.

‘You know wha happen tae them?'

I shook my head.

‘In their country they have leader who is very bad man, who torture and beat up the people he nae like.'

‘Why?'

‘Because he is bastard.'

I'd never heard Papa swear before.

‘This man, he send police tae house of Jorge and Alejandra in night with guns and sticks and they drag their papa from bed. Then they beat him with this sticks until he is near dead and they throw him in jail.'

His voice didn't waver as he continued with his story.

‘The last thing Jorge see of his Papa is his blood in street outside house. He cry all night, then he nae speak for two months.'

‘What, not even one word? I asked.

‘Nae, he nae speak a word. His mama she is very upset. She think he never speak again.'

‘Why didn't he speak?' I asked.

Papa shrugged and stared at the floor, then he lifted his head, and his eyes were glazed.

‘These people they come in night and this is terrible thing. You nae see them in dark, but they smell bad with wine in their mouth and they stagger, drunk and they laugh, they make joke, they throw you at wall and table and they laugh.'

I sat transfixed, unsure whether he was still talking about Alejandra and Jorge.

‘They call you name. They say you are
hijo bastardo de una puta anarquista.
Bastard son of an anarchist whore.'

He stopped talking and looked at me.

‘Some people they nae speak because they is afraid. Some people they cry all time. Emilia have, how you say . . . nightmare . . . she wake up crying. Some people, they run away and they nae stop, even when they think is safe. They hear man speak or they see someone they nae know and they think might be dangerous, then they run again. They never stop run.'

He placed his warm palm gently on the top of my head and held it there.

‘You be good tae Jorge. You treat him well, you understand?'

I nodded. He stood up and left the room.

The first person I saw when I walked through the school gates the following morning was Jorge, clutching his schoolbag close to his chest.

Summoning up courage, I began to make my way towards him, but I saw I was too late – the Pollok boys had got there first.

‘Will ye check thae strides?' Chaney said, laughing. ‘What happened pal, did yer budgie die?'

I glanced at my old school trousers on Jorge's long legs, half-mast and pathetic. A few yards away stood a trio of primary seven girls, who looked disapprovingly at Chaney's bullying behaviour but did nothing to intervene. Jorge stared back at his tormentors, wide-eyed and confused.

‘
¿Qué
?' he said, when it finally dawned on him that he had been asked a question.

‘Kay?' repeated Chaney sneeringly. ‘What the fuck does kay mean?'

‘
¿Qué
?' Jorge repeated.

They laughed uproariously.

‘It's fucking Manuel from
Fawlty Towers,'
Lugton announced loudly, and they laughed some more. This time even the girls joined in. Jorge made to move, but Chaney blocked his path.

‘Wherr dae ye think yer gaun, ya wee fanny?'

Chaney grabbed Jorge's schoolbag, a dated item with shoulder straps that I guessed Emilia had picked up at a charity shop.

‘Wherr did ye get this, oot an Enid Blyton book?'

Jorge said something in Spanish and they all looked at one another, puzzled. Chaney opened the bag and emptied the contents on to the ground. There were a couple of jotters that Mad Dog had handed him for spelling and sums, a pencil case and his cuddly brown lion. Jorge lunged for the lion, but Lugton got there first and pulled it out of his reach.

‘What's this then, Manuel, yer bedtime pal?'

‘Démelo,'
Jorge said, ‘give it to me.'

‘What the fuck does that mean?' Lugton asked.

‘Démelo!'
Jorge shouted angrily, tears welling in his eyes.

‘Oooh,' the group cooed in unison, before bursting into laughter.

‘We don't know what it means,' Chaney said, with a wide grin.

‘It means he wants it back.'

Everyone turned around and looked at me. My words hung in the air, and for a moment I doubted whether I had actually spoken them.

‘Aw, look who it isnae,' said Chaney. ‘Speedy Gonzalez. Ah might huv guessed you'd be somewhere aboot tae stick up fur a greaser.'

‘Give him back the lion,' I heard myself say.

I suddenly felt faint and my legs trembled. I was going to get battered. I felt as though I'd been thrust on to a stage and told to perform without knowing the lines. Chaney and Lugton eyed one another and smiled, as though they couldn't believe their luck.

‘Aw priceless, man,' Lugton said. ‘This is gonnae be brilliant, getting tae kick seven shades a shite oot ay two dagos.'

They both laughed.

‘Haw, Chaney, geez yer strikes,' Lugton demanded.

Chaney dipped into the pocket of his trousers for a box of matches. He lobbed it towards Lugton, who caught it with one hand, opened it and pulled out a match. Jorge's face was scarlet and tears trickled down his cheeks. Lugton held the lion and dangled it provocatively a few inches from Jorge's face, but when he reached out to grab it, pulled it away again.

Lugton struck the match and held the flame under the lion. Jorge screamed as the flame singed its matted surface. A gust of wind extinguished the match and Jorge made another lunge for the toy, but Chaney grabbed him from behind. Jorge let out an anguished cry as his arm was forced up his back and held there. He struggled, but Chaney applied extra pressure and Jorge screamed, his body going limp.

Lugton dropped the lion on the ground and crouched over it. He lit another match and cupped his hand around the flame to protect it from the wind. Slowly, as the flame gathered, he lowered it under the toy. I knew I couldn't stand by and do nothing, but I was terrified.

‘Cut it out, Benny, enough's enough,' I said in as authoritative a voice as I could manage.

‘Fuck off, Noguera,' he said.