The Cuckoo

She had turned her dressing table into a shrine and it broke my heart to see; there were photographs, postcards, letters, jewelry, trinkets, and all the bric-a-brac of romance. Two years after Paul’s death and she was still in mourning. The flat they once shared was a mausoleum to his memory; unchanged since that fateful day.

I once fostered hopes that she might turn to me after a suitable term of grieving, but I had become that most pitiable of species – the best friend. I longed to tell her how I felt, but I dared not because I knew she would be horrified. She trusted me and I felt that at some basic level my love was a betrayal of that trust. My love for her was just another of my guilty secrets and something best left unspoken.

When she told me she needed a hand sorting out old clothes for some charity shop I briefly hoped that she had begun to clear out some of Paul’s old things; that she had perhaps started to move on. When I got to the flat, however, I discovered that it was her own clothes she was throwing out. Looking at the assorted jumble of clothing I wondered if she was not divesting herself of the last remnants of colour in her life.

 “Thanks for coming around Pete, I really appreciate it.”

 “No problem Marie; anything I can do to help...”

 "There’s bound to be better things you could be doing on a Friday evening.”

 “Not really – unless you count my busy TV schedule.”

 “You need a girlfriend.”

 “You’re probably right.”

There followed an excruciatingly embarrassed silence which lasted a heartbeat, but which filled an eternity. She had taken to these pronouncements lately and I had never formulated a decent retort. I should have found a girlfriend and gotten on with my life, but it was already too late. Paul’s death wrecked both our lives and we orbited each other at a discretionary distance – both of us alone in our private grief.

After dropping the clothes of at the charity shop she invited me back to the flat for a coffee. I was hoping she would. We wound our way up the tight concrete stairwell and I recalled the nightmare of hauling their furniture up those steps – Paul and I heaving and cursing with every footfall. But we were laughing too; those were happier times, before he got ill and dragged us all into hell with him. On the top landing to the right of the flat was the door that lead to the roof – it was padlocked now, but that did not stop the memories from flooding back each time I saw it.

Paul had been an outgoing and vivacious character and was always the first to see the funny side. He was the perennial joker and the life and soul of any gathering, but Paul began to change. He threw malevolent tantrums and sulked in deep depressive funks which were counterpoised with manic highs when he lost all sense of propriety. Marie nearly left him then, but when he was diagnosed with Bi-Polar Disorder she thought her place was by his side fighting his dreadful affliction.

That day Marie had called me and asked if I could pop by and check on Paul because she would be delayed at work and he was not answering the phone. He was prone to ignoring the phone, so there was nothing untoward in that, but she worried nonetheless. When I got to the flat there was no answer, but the door was unlocked so I went inside. There was no sign of Paul, but his typewriter was on the kitchen table and initially, I was glad to see that he had been writing again.

A man acquainted with sorrow,

weary of the world, tired of life,

has no faith in tomorrow,

no taste for endless strife,

sorrow rules his heart,

and measures every beat,

tears his soul apart,

and turns his flesh to meat.

It seemed such a sad hymnal that it gave me a chill inside. My friend was fighting for his life and I was impotent in the struggle. He was not in the flat, but I knew where he would be – I found him on the roof watching the traffic flow by below.

“Hey, Paul – how you doing?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“You writing?”

“Only obituaries.”

It was so hard to reach him sometimes – every inquiry only threw up negative responses and sometimes they were chilling. I really felt sorry for Marie. She had to deal with his blank numb ripostes and his suicidal ideation. I could see it was crushing her spirit, but Paul did not seem to notice, he seemed on a track of his own and oblivious to the world around him.

“Well that’s something – at least you are writing.” I smiled hopefully.

“It’s pointless.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Everything we do is pointless. We steal our days while we fend off the inevitable. I just wish it was over.”

I don’t know what came over me. I was angry with him, frustrated by him. I’d had enough. I charged into him and gave him a hard shove. He toppled over the side of the building and landed with a sickening thud. My only thoughts then were that I hoped he was dead and that no one had seen me.

Bone Men

We all go out to harvest bones in the wilderness. It’s a world away from titties and beer, but it puts meat on the table and that’s what sifts the men from the boys. Bone men deal in certainties as sure as sorrow is a distillation of pain in the brain pan. Down back of the beyond we know the lost spaces like the backs of our hands. So dummy up and listen close while we tell you the best places a man can write his name large in the firmament; be it the name your mother gave you, or the name the world gave you, or the name you stole and made your own. You never know with these things – just where you come from – or where you go, but you know where you are and that’s enough to swallow in a single sitting. So all things being equal under a sorry sky – if you have the art and the reach to gather stars – you just might leave a mark; which is more than you have a right to.

.

Lynching

my head  hurt    like a long loud scream    she hit a vein right away    the black wind blew    the relief was palpable    some men prefer    love on their haunches     I just steam on in     all suited up    the man of reason     a man with guile

I ply my trade     with ruthless charm     anticipating all objections    to the angles of my craft     it's catch as catch can     and I’m ready for a fight     but I never underestimate    the sincerity of a lynch mob    they have a job to do    and so do I

Johnny Friendly

It was Easter Sunday and the city was dead. It looked like the resurrection had been cancelled for another year. Still, the off licences were still open – so it wasn’t a dead loss. I was at my mate Johnny’s enjoying his fine Indian dope and copious quantities of chai. I enjoyed our wee tea parties. The conversation was as good as the dope – he was a very bright young man and had had a decent education. There were so few people I could have a stimulating conversation with, so I made a point of staying in contact with Johnny on a regular basis.

Johnny wiznae always the hardnosed businessman everybody came tae loathe. He was once a sweet kid who dealt quality hash at decent prices. He was an affable young guy who seemed to get on wi everybody – hence the moniker Johnny Friendly. Like ‘On The Waterfront’ – only this wiznae ironic, but true – he was a friendly young dude with a gentle nature. When he changed, who can say, it was a gradual thing, but back in the day he was already shaping up tae be a top dealer. He got the hang of things at an early age – principally because he had an excellent teacher – i.e., yours truly.

“Never tell no cunt yer business, you tell ‘em nothing. Who you score from – what you pay, who yer customers are – nothing.”

“Well I know that – it’s obvious.”

“Aye, it’s obvious, but it’s a hard thing to do. Most people have nae secrets, they blab everything about themselves tae any bugger who’ll listen – which is only natural. You on the other hand have secrets and they have to stay secrets or your business is fucked.”

“I’ve been keeping secrets since I was fifteen and got into this racket, I’m okay with secrets believe me.”

“You have an excellent set up here John Boy. Two entrances secluded from the street – an intercom at the door – well sweet bro, you got that sussed. I like the way you deal wi yer punters too – that ‘special rates fur special mates’ shtick; you should tell that tae all yer customers.”

“You are getting a special rate Buddha and I do count ye as a mate.”

“I appreciate that Johnny, but ye cannae do that too often – or ye’ll price yersel out o business in nae time at all. Look, every punter wants tae feel that they have a special relationship wi their dealer. It’s only natural. The trick is making them all feel that way without cutting into yer profits. Ask yersel whit happens when Peter finds out that Paul is getting a better price than he is?”

“I guess he would feel cheated.”

“Exactly, and he’d grow resentful. So ye tell them all that they are on a special rate and ye charge them all the same. By the way – I don’t charge you full whack either – just so ye know. There are special mates, but they are few and far between. You’ll find that you can only have those relationships with people who don’t need you.” 

“You mean other dealers?”

“People you can deal wi on equal terms. You cannae profit by your friends and remain buddies and that’s the shame of it Johnny; those who were once friends are now beholden to you. They were once yer muckers, but now they are yer punters. It’s a sorry state o’ affairs sometimes, but it’s the way of things. The trick is tae cushion that reality wi a wee bit of judicious bullshit – like ‘special deals for special mates’ – see whit I mean? ”

“I don’t know Buddha; most of my customers are my friends.” 

“Everybody needs friends Johnny, but yer punters are not yer friends, not any more. Believe me when push comes tae shove half o’ them would daub you in tae save themselves. It’s only natural.”

“You’ve got a pretty jaded way of looking at things Buddha; I’ve known some of my punters since we were at school together. I can’t imagine that they would turn grass on me.”

“In a fuckin’ flash Johnny. Like Marley says – ‘Only yer friends know yer secrets – so only they could reveal them.’ People change when they are scared and they think about number one and number one only.”

“What do you do when somebody defaults oan their tick?”

“Buy a baseball bat and quit being Johnny Friendly, and start being Johnny nasty.”

“Johnny Friendly?”

“That’s what they call you – Johnny Friendly.”

“I don’t know if I like that.”

“It’s better than John Boy.”

“Aye, but you’re the only cunt that calls me that.”

“That’s my privilege Johnny – ah knew ye first.”

“I mean it Buddha – there’s this one cunt who is in to me fur a bar and he will not pay – it’s always next week, next week.”

“Sell him on.”

“What?”

“Tell Psycho Peter yer problem and he’ll collect yer money for a percentage of the debt – all above board and regular. One look at Psycho’s face and they’ll be falling over themselves to pay.”

“He won’t hurt them will he?”

“Not usually – if a troupe of Hells Angels turned up at your door – what would you do?”

“Shit myself.”

“Exactly.”

“Could you ask him?”

“No, you’ll ask him. I’ll send him round, but word to the wise – don’t get too involved with Peter and his biker chums – they are the hard edge; those fuckers take no prisoners.”

“I’ll bear that in mind Buddha – I like to keep things friendly – the hard man approach doesn’t suite my temperament – I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

I believed that to be true, but time changes people and boy did Johnny change. Once upon a time he was barely interested in profit – he just enjoyed the lifestyle and the crack. Later Johnny would become the biggest gangster in the city – not that I ever heard of Johnny actually hitting anybody – Psycho Peter, or one of his minions, would do that for him. Poor Johnny – he had no friends, only associates and customers. Still. that was his choice and it had been laid out for him to choose just what direction he would go in, but I wonder sometimes if he was ever really listening to me, or if he only heard what he wanted to.

.

Unleashed

 

That cunt’s been let off his lead. He got his divorce papers last week and now he’s suited, booted and off up the toon on the razzle. I wish ah wiz in his shoes – no that I want tae split wi the misses like – ah’d jist want one night o’ freedom tae recapture the youth I never had. 

I missed out on the sexual revolution – there wiz nae sexual revolution where I stayed; if ye goat a lassie up the duff ye were fucked fur life. I widnae change a thing mind you, but every now and then a man gets tae thinking about excitement, adventure an that. 

See these birds noo they are up fur it just as much as we are. Wiznae like that in my day; ye were a whore if ye went wi a man out of wedlock. We all did it and we a’ goat caught tae. Back then nae decent lassie went oan the pill so we were stuck wi rubber johnnies; it was like making love in a wet suit. It was Russian roulette if ye went without though, but everybody did; the majority of new brides had a bun in the oven. I doubt there’s been a virgin bride round here since nineteen sixty three.

I wonder where he’s goan. I huvnae been up the toon since a goat married. It’s all changed though – it’s all clubs instead eh pubs. They say the place is hoachin wi fanny just ripe for the asking. I widnae know where tae start it’s been that long. They say he’s a ladies’ man and that he never let his wife get in the way of a gid time; that’ll be why he’s single now. I could never dae that – cheat oan the wife ah mean. It wid crush her if I wiz tae dae that. Aye he cuts a fine figure in his brand new suit. I reckon the bastard fancies himself – big heeded prick. Come tae think of it – ah never did like the cunt in the first place.

.

The Doctor

In that shabby Northern suburbia tired yet baleful concrete tenements glowered down on deserted streets during the daytime and the place seemed as if it were long ago abandoned by man. It was only during the night that the scheme came to life; when troops of cocaine fuelled primates filled the air with tribal war cries and furtive indigent lepers went about their business on the sly.

“Get away from my door son. You’ve had enough for one night.”

“C’mon Doc – jist a fiver bag. I’ve goat the cash, see?”

“You’ll be needing a hit in the morning – come back then. I’ll no be held responsible if you have any more the night.”

“In the mornin’ then?”

“Aye, first thing – the usual time.”

Doc closed the door and let out a sigh. Greed was a symptom of the disease – no junkie could ever get enough and he was no exception. Still, it didn’t pay to have customers overdose on you and sometimes accidents brought policemen to your door. He didn’t often turn customers away, but when he did he had good reasons. Just this afternoon he had refused young Jimmy Lyons who was on a course of methadone and hadn’t had a hit for over a month. There was no way Doc was going to help him scupper his chances by turning him on again – there were plenty of other dealers he could turn to; he wanted no part of it. It was the ones like Jimmy with families he felt the most pity for – the kids suffered for the weaknesses of their parents.  

Doc retired to the comfort of his armchair, he rarely went to bed, preferring instead to gouch in his chair until the sun came up. He prepared his final injection of the day and sighed once more as the precious medicine oozed through his body and he sloughed off the weight of countless decades. Tomorrow was a big day for him – pension day. He’d venture out to get some grub in and maybe take a wee trip to the library for a book or two. That would be a pleasant adventure – a wee recce around the Athens of the north to return victorious with the gift of literature in his hand.

------

When I heard that The Doctor was dead I naturally assumed that he had over done, but it transpired that Finney and his razor boys did for him. He was an evil wee bastard that Finney, as was his father before him. He had been exercising a vicious form of alchemy in an attempt to synthesise his old man, but had never borne comparison to that wicked auld cunt. In the eyes of most people he was still auld Finn’s laddie and a pale imitation of the original.

“They stuck him like a pig right outside the post office Johnny. Young Finney was screamin’ like a banshee and auld Doc was begging fur mercy like.”

Psycho Peter filled me in with all the gory details and they painted a sorry scene. Doc, the oldest junkie in the town, had gone to the post office to collect his pension where he was ambushed by Finney and his boys. They stabbed the poor old bastard multiple times before eventually cutting his throat and letting him bleed out halal style. Finney then proclaimed that this was the fate that awaited any junk dealers caught on his patch.  

There was a hierarchy of drug usage out there in the schemes which placed cocaine at the top and heroin at the bottom. Everyone looked down on junkies – even the alkies looked down on junkies and no-one cared much what happened to them. Hell, even I looked down on junkies and they made me a comfortable living. The schemes were awash with smack and coke and I had my fingers in both pies; cannabis was everywhere – it was a staple – not a luxury, but there was no money in cannabis.

It was open season on junkies out there and they were being beaten in regular attacks which went largely unreported, not even the cops cared about junkies. This though was murder in broad daylight and would be sure to attract the full attentions of the local plod.

“What about the polis?”

“The usual – naebody saw nuthin’”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

“Everybody’s too scared of Finney tae grass, besides there’s a lot would pin a medal oan him fur what he done, folk say they are sick o finding needles everywhere and seeing junkies dossin oan the street.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Naw, and I’ve been telt that Finney’s boys collect the needles fae shootin’ galleries an’ redistributes them in public places – like schools and parks – so as tae wind up the locals.”

“So that he can play the vigilante hero with the blessings of the plebeians no doubt.”

Peter cast me a funny look, but said nothing. It was obvious that Finney was out to consolidate his grip over his own neighbourhood at the expense of the hapless junkies, but he was miscalculating the impact he might have on the businesses of other interested parties.

“Have a word with Finney would you Peter?”

“Do you think he needs discouraging?”

“I think he needs enlightening. Killings are bad for business and will not be tolerated. Roughing up junkies is one thing, but hassling the wrong dealers will only bring him into conflict with the wrong people. He can play at gangsters ‘till his heart is content, but if it costs one penny from my pocket I’ll see he suffers, so he’d better make sure he only hassles the right dealers.” 

We could use Finney’s predilections to our benefit – he could help rid us of the competition at grass roots level. We only had fifty percent saturation in some of the schemes – we could, ironically enough, use the hatred of junkies to sell more product. If we played our cards right by duplicating Finney’s efforts across the schemes we could corner the market for ourselves. I was saddened by the death of old Doc, but reflected that his untimely demise might not have been in vain. I made a note to send a wreath, just to pay my respects. He wasn’t such a bad auld cunt – for a junkie.

Pusher

 

We ran and ran until our legs would carry us no more – our pursuers had stopped chasing us a mile back – but we were running for the joy of it. We were gasping and panting for breath as we laughed uncontrollably. I thought I might asphyxiate from laughter. I tried to speak to Bell, but could only muster some wheezy vowel sounds. He was on the ground now in paroxysms of mirth.

“I think the whole pub was chasing us!” I exclaimed - once I’d caught my breath.

“It might have been something that I said,” replied Bell.

We went into convulsions of laughter once more; he laughed the way I imagine coyotes laugh with sniggers and whimpers and howls. It was typical of Bell that after a few drinks his impulse control completely deserted him. We were on a pub crawl down Leith Walk and went into the Central on a dare. It was the roughest pub on the Walk in those days. I would never have gone in there normally, but Bell urged me on. The place was mobbed, but Bell managed to grab a tiny space on a bench next to this middle aged bird, to tell the truth she was quite tasty. She and Bell were soon wrapped in conversation, her husband who was sat next to her kept a leery eye on proceedings. Then it happened – I knew it would. Bell had to push things too far.

“You make a handsome couple” he said.

“Thank you” she replied flush of face.

“Any chance of a wee kiss?” he enquired lecherously.

“Oh, no” she answered shyly.

“Just a wee peck maybe?” he insisted gently.

“Oh, alright then” she puckered her lips.

“Oh, no you hen – I mean yer man” the company went quiet and her man glowered at Bell. We split laughing and I broke into a run with Bell trailing behind. Sure enough a crowd of tough looking radges followed us from the pub.

“Do you all want a kiss?” taunted Bell as I dragged him away.

“You have to stop antagonising the heterosexual community

Bell – before you get your head kicked in” I warned him.

“You know the difference between straight and queer Johnny?” he asked.

“Enlighten me Bell.”

“Six pints of lager.”

“I only drink special.”  I quipped.

“Maybe you never gave lager a chance.”

That last comment hung in the air between us and we let it die there. We were headed back to my place and a fridge full of beer when Bell suggested we make a detour.

“Let’s go wind up Buddha. I could use a line of speed.”

“Okay, but go easy on him. He’s a good mate of mine.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” replied Bell; “I’m a perfect gentleman around your friends.”

I rolled my eyes, but said nothing. Bell seemed contemptuous of anything straight and his behaviour around my hetro friends was often a bone of contention between us. We arrived at Buddha’s place and made our way up the three flights to his flat. Buddha seemed glad to see me, but was a little more reserved toward Bell.

“Come in lads and take a pew. Anyone fancy a cup o’ chai?”

Once the tea ceremonial was dispensed with Buddha set about sorting out three generous lines. He assured us that this gear was the bee’s knees and that we’d be flying in no time at all.

“Ye’ll be rabbitin’ awe night wi this stuff – guaranteed.”

“You only serve the best Buddha,” replied Bell; “That’s why you’re my favourite pusher.”

Bell had that glint in his eyes. He was out to provoke Buddha who bristled at the word ‘pusher’.

“I’m nae pusher – get that straight. I never pushed anything on anybody in my life. My clientele don’t need pushin’ they jump o’ their own accord. I’m a dealer and a bloody good wan. I deal in entertainment of the highest quality and have never had any complaints. My deals are spot on and my gear is clean, never trod on. People are never pushed in my direction – in fact I never heard of anyone being pushed into takin’ drugs – it’s always been on a strictly voluntary basis. Take yer average junkie – naebody forces them into it. Yer junkie gets up every morning and decides that today he’ll be a junkie an’ he’ll be a fuckin’ junkie til he changes his mind. That’s what separates the casual user from the addict – greed and will power. Naebody makes them junkies – they jump o’ their own accord.”

I agreed wholeheartedly with what Buddha said; though I thought there was a certain irony in his saying it. Buddha had been doing speed for ten years or more and as far as I knew he did it every day. We snorted our lines and snorted some more; sure enough we were talking and philosophising into the small hours and beyond the dawn.

“You like it then?” asked Buddha.

“Aye we like it alright – its rocket fuel.” I replied.

“I could do you a lay on” he offered.

“I don’t know...”

“Take a couple of ounces – pay me next week – ye can flog it at a tidy profit and still have a bit for yersels.”

And so I left Buddha’s with two ounces of pure amphetamine sulphate and an ounce of sticky black hash in my pocket. Had I been pushed into it? No, I think I jumped, with a little persuasion.

“Well, where are we goin’ now?” enquired Bell.

“Back to my place,” I replied, “I just want to put my feet up and relax.”

“Let’s go for a drink,” suggested Bell.

“It’s six in the morning Bell.”

“I know a place that opens at six”

“I suppose I could use a bite to eat to settle my stomach.”

“Fuck that – I’m buying you six pints of lager!”

Tough Love

 

I was five or six when my father decided that it was time I learned to swim. So one Saturday morning we set out together for the lido in the park. It was located close to where the new swimming baths are, but was a wholly Victorian affair that smelled like piss and chlorine. We went to separate cubicles to change before he took me by the hand and lead me to the deep end of the pool where he threw me in.

I sank like a stone. The shock made me inhale the water which burned as it invaded my nose, throat and lungs. I thrashed around trying instinctively to propel myself to the surface, but my efforts were futile and I sank ever deeper. Suddenly, strong arms scooped me up and hauled me to the surface. The lifeguard had dived in to rescue me before I drowned. He laid me on the floor as I spluttered and coughed up the stinging chlorinated water. He made sure I was alright and then rounded on my dad.

“That was a bloody stupid thing to do – it only takes a minute to drown you know!”

My father went beetroot. I could see the anger and embarrassment in his face, but he said nothing. He just glowered at the lifeguard as if it was he who was doing something wrong. Without a word he hauled me to my feet and marched me to the changing cubicles. He maintained his silence as he dressed me roughly before dragging me homeward. It was some time before he spoke.

“Don’t you ever humiliate me like that again.”

Then, after a moment’s consideration he added;

“Don’t you tell yer mother about this.”

I grew up with a phobia of water; just being close to a body of water filled me with fear. It was my girlfriend Linda who taught me how to swim and she did it with great patience and consideration. I never did enjoy swimming, but at least I knew I wasn’t going to drown and the terror of being near the water gradually abated.

My father was a great believer in ‘tough love’ and he never spared the rod. All his lessons contained the threat of violence, if not physical then mental. All he taught me was to fear him which was partly his objective. He seemed to confuse fear with respect and the more respect he demanded the more fearful I became. Yes, tough love is no love at all; real love engenders forbearance and it’s forbearance which fosters respect.

.

The Big House

It was in the days following decimalisation when our pockets bulged with useless pennies. We’d take our coins down to the railway yard and place them on the tracks where great Type Two locomotives would squash them flat for us. I used to thrill at the passage of these hulking leviathans and marvel at the way the earth buckled under their weight. We were chased away from the yards many times and once or twice we were picked up by the railway police who admonished us and warned us of the dangers of playing there. Of course the stockyards were dangerous – that was part of the allure. There was century’s worth of crap in there – rotten wood, rusty iron and warped steel; heavy junk just made for boys to play with.

My ninth summer was the hottest on record; the Tarmac melted and children baked under the merciless rays of the relentless sun. We had spent the day in the yards chasing newts in the stagnant ponds and staging robberies in abandoned railway carriages. Now the setting sun was painting the world gold and it was time Jesse James and his gang hurried home to their mums. We were about to leave the yard when we noticed that Gordon was missing.

“Where’s Gordy?”

“Wiz he no wi you?”

“Naw – wiz eh no wi you?”

“Maybe he went hame”

“He wid huv said”

“Let’s split up – you go back tae the ponds an we’ll check the rails”

As the oldest boy I took charge of the search party which scoured the railway sidings. We climbed through derelict railway carriages and abandoned trucks calling Gordy’s name, but there was no reply. We were about to give up and call it a day when we found him. He was a crumpled heap left dumped on the ground beside the rails. It seemed to me that his frail little body had been folded in an unnatural manner by some unspeakable and callous hand. Thick brown blood oozed from his head and pooled on the ground around him. I had never seen blood that colour; I was sure no living thing bled that colour. Gordy gazed blankly into the evening sky; flies danced in the air around him and settled on his eyes in grim mockery of the living.

Wee Stu and Barry Evans were crying, but I did not cry – I think I was in shock. A dread fear had seized my heart – a fear which had no name but was recognized of old; my first taste of death was familiar and primal and I never forgot it. We gathered the boys from the ponds and ran to Gordy’s house to raise the alarm, but it was too late for alarms. It was too late for anything but tears.

In the coming days a strange silence had descended on my heart. I stayed close to home and played little, but thought much. One day I asked my mother what happens when you die, she did her best – God bless her – to comfort me.

“When you die you go to live in a big house where everyone you have ever known lives and everybody is happy forever and ever.”

My father had a different perspective entirely;

“When yer deed yer deed – there’s nothing – nae God, nae heaven, jist nothing. End of story. So stay away from that fuckin railway or I’ll fuckin kill ye myself.”

That first taste of death lingers a lifetime; years later when I over did they said I died three times on the way to hospital. I don’t remember much about it, but I know there was no big house, no friends and family awaiting me. What I do remember is the resurfacing of a long buried memory. I lay in that hospital bed with the image of Gordy’s face and that pool of thick brown blood swimming before my eyes and I wept like a child. I don’t know if I wept for me or for poor wee Gordy – perhaps I cried for us both – for the fragility of life and its impermanent nature.

.

Archie

To most people he was a leper, a pariah and a filthy pervert. Remember those were the days when the most enlightened opinion thought of homosexuality as a disease and the least considered it an abomination and a crime against nature. Archie had lost count of the number of times some testosterone laden, knuckle dragging, hero had dished him out a beating. He was safe nowhere – even the neighbourhood children would taunt him with vicious insults and throw stones at him; Archie would simply stare at the ground and quicken his step through the gauntlet of abuse.

He did most of his drinking at the Railway Club where - although he was shunned by the other customers - he was at least afforded a little peace. I’d see him in there sitting in the corner avoiding eye contact and nursing a pint of special. I spoke with him sometimes – even bought him a pint or two – much to the amusement of the locals; consorting with a known homosexual made me suspect in their eyes.

Once prised from his shell Archie exhibited a delightful sense of humour and was something of a raconteur. He had a million stories from his days as a wheel tapper on the railways – a job he’d had to leave when his secret was discovered as no-one would work with a dirty queer. He seemed to bear no grudge against those who spurned him – neither did he complain about the caprice of nature which had made him an untouchable.

I once asked him why he did not move to the city where he was bound to find others like himself. He simply replied that everyone he knew was here in this dirty old industrial town and that cities were too big and heartless for him. I tried not to pity him, but he was a pitiful specimen; frail in stature and temperament. Archie was a prisoner of his circumstances and destined to lead a lonely life – he seemed reconciled to his fate – forever outside looking in.

I once attended a party in one of those rare households where Archie was accepted. It was back in the day when people sang at parties and each guest had a signature song. When Archie’s turn came he sang ‘My Way’ and I was blown away by his beautiful velvety baritone timbre. He sounded like a Sinatra style crooner. It was hard to believe that big voice emanated from such a diminutive man. He was cheered on and sang several more songs to great approbation, but as much as the singing it was the look on his face that impressed me – he was happy, exultant even. As his voice soared heavenward I remembered something he once told me; he was a lapsed Catholic – no longer welcome in the chapel - but he still believed he had a home on high where questions of sexuality no longer mattered. That was many years ago and Archie has surely passed on; if there is any justice in the universe he now sings in a heavenly choir and that beatific expression is permanently etched upon his face.