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.

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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.

Sony

It was one of those flaccid non descript mornings when the birds don’t even sing; here at the end of the world the birds have long ago realised the futility of song. Toots was thinking too loud to register the eerie silence, or notice the milky white sky that hung low over the rooftops. He was on a mission and had fallen behind schedule. It was imperative that he made it to Uncle Frank’s before Maimie showed up. It was the same routine every morning; ever since the wife’s Uncle Frank had been diagnosed Toots was over there every morning with his milk, rolls and newspapers. He was the epitome of the Good Samaritan – everyone said so.

Frank’s door was locked which meant Maimie had yet to show. Toots raised his eyes heavenward and gave silent thanks to his guardian angel. He let himself in using the key Frank had entrusted to him. The old man was fast asleep in his room so Toots tiptoed to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. There were two bottles of morphine linctus left, but they were both sealed. The third bottle was obviously in the room with the old man. He dared not open one of the new bottles for fear of discovery, so he tiptoed back to the bedroom with larceny in his heart.

The room was darkened but for the glow from the muted television at the end of Frank’s bed; the fifty five inch Sony Bravia Frank had bought with his insurance money dominated the room in its gigantic splendour. Toots coveted that television – how good would the football look on that ultra high definition screen, not to mention the movies? All the old man watched was news; it was a shameful waste of technology.

Toots spied the morphine linctus from the doorway. He made his way around the bed and picked up the bottle and checked to see if any smart bastard had marked the level in an effort to catch him out – safe. Toots had just begun to pour some of the precious liquid into an empty pop bottle when the old man woke up.

“You thieving wee bastard!” he rasped.

“No Frank it’s no what it looks like” stammered Toots.

“Ya dirty thieving junkie – get oot o’ here” the old man was finding his voice.

“But Frank – I can explain...”

“No need to explain” exclaimed Frank “I can see what’s been goin’ on.”

“I’ve been sick Frank – I just need a wee drop – fur ma nerves.”

“Get out of ma hoose!”

“But Frank...”

“Get out!”

The old man was shouting now and Toots was sure the neighbours would hear and with Maimie due to arrive at any moment Toots was in a serious bind. He’d worked his arse off for this old bastard for the last six months with the tacit understanding he’d be in the old man’s will; all that was now flushed down the lavvy pan. The old man was getting louder and louder – Toots picked up a pillow from the bed and attempted to muffle Frank’s voice. He muffled him long and hard.

When Maimie arrived Toots was standing over the old man crying. He hadn’t meant to kill him he told himself – just shut him up. It was his own fault for being so bloody-minded; the ungrateful old bastard. Maimie took Toot’s arm and lead him away from the bed.

“When did it happen?” she asked him.

“What?”

“When did he pass away?”

“Just there the noo.” replied Toots numbly “We were talking and he just stopped.”

“What did he say?”

“What?”

“What were his last words?”

“Oh aye, he said I was to have his telly...”

Lucky

Everything Gordon McLaughlin touched turned to shit; which is why some wag had long ago dubbed him ‘Lucky’. He had a habit that he’d acquired in his teens which was why in his late twenties he was already a middle aged man. Tonight he was dressed up in his best finery and he still looked homeless. He blended with the seething nightclub dandies the way vinegar blends with milk. He wasn’t there for pleasure; he never frequented night clubs, but tonight he was on a mission – tonight was all about business. He’d scored a hundred E’s from Buddha and reckoned he could double his money if he could flog them to the poseurs in the clubs up town. That’s why he was in The Americana collaring likely looking punters with his pharmaceutical hustle.

“...two for a score – three for a pony. Cannae sae fairer than that; ye’ll no get a deal like that anywhere else. These are bona fide MDMA – nane o’ that disco biscuit shite. See the dove? Badge of quality that...”

Johnny spotted Lucky from across the room and wondered just who the fuck let that prick in. He had a strict no scruffs, no junkies policy. When Johnny got close enough to witness Gordon’s hustle his fate was sealed. No-one else sold drugs on Johnny’s patch and that rule was etched in blood.

“You’re a long way from home wee man” sneered Johnny.

“I’m just – you know – clubbin” stammered Lucky.

“You’re selling’ drugs in my club.”

“Naw ahm just...”

“You’re just leaving – so fuck off - get out and don’t ever come back.”

“C’mon man it’s nice to be nice an that.”

“Aye, you can discuss the niceties with my colleagues – outside.”

Johnny nodded to the two tuxedoed gorillas now flanking Lucky and as they dragged him off he said; 

“Make sure he gets the message.”

They did. Poor Lucky’s attempts to defend himself were pathetic, but he created enough of a commotion to attract a crowd which meant he only got a cursory hiding. Instead the two bouncers relieved him of his cash and the remaining ecstasy tablets. He staggered homeward cursing his misfortune; nothing ever went his way. He wished that just once he could come out ahead and he wished those bouncers had left him with a fiver so he could get a hit to kill his pain.

*****

Elsie the barmaid collected the empty glasses as noisily as she could while she cast a jaded eye over Belle and Angel. They were nice boys – regulars, but they were throwing their lives away on that junk. She had implored them on many occasions not to come to the Bon Accord when they were under the influence, but her entreaties had fallen on deaf ears.

“Here you wake up! No gouching in my pub – either get it together or get off home!”

“Just resting our eyes Elsie - it’s been a long day” replied Angel.

“Well you can just get aff hame for a nice kip boys”

“Can we finish our drinks Elsie?”

“Aye, but try to stay awake – you’re making the place look untidy”

Elsie was alright – she wasn’t going to throw them out; half her clientele was into drugs in one form or another – there was a great deal of laissez faire at the Bon Accord as long as you didn’t attract too much attention to yourself. The boys sipped their pints and pulled themselves together. Belle was looking past Angel’s shoulder at something which made him smile.

“Don’t look now, but we’ve picked up a bit of trade.”

Angel twisted around in his chair and saw a handsome young blonde guy smiling across at them. He shrugged and returned to his pint.

“I’m not interested Belle. All I want to do now is go home, have a hit and go to bed.”

“You’re no fun. Look at him – he’s a doll. How can you turn him away?”

The handsome young blonde rose from his table and joined the boys – he seemed more than a little nervous.

“Can I buy you a pint lads?”

“No thanks, we were just leaving” replied Angel.

“Cheers mine’s a lager” chimed Belle.

Angel rolled his eyes and nodded his reluctant assent mumbling “Same here”. Belle checked out the handsome young blonde’s arse as he made his way to the bar. Angel just glared at him. He was convinced Belle just did these things to piss him off.

“He’s cute” remarked Belle.

“He could be riddled with the pox for all you know.” replied Angel.

“So could you” scoffed Belle, “for all I know.”

Blondie – as Belle had dubbed him – returned with three pints of lager and introduced himself.

“I’m Mike. I just moved into the area and thought I’d try out the local.”

Belle made the introductions, Angel was less cordial. He and Belle had argued for months about picking up trade. Things being the way they were it wasn’t safe to bring home strangers. Casual sex was like Russian roulette, but Belle wouldn’t listen. The next few minutes passed in stilted conversation and awkward silences. Finally Mike just came out with what was on his mind. It was not, as Belle had supposed, casual sex.

“I was wondering if you guys could help me out. Like I say I’m new to the area and haven’t established any contacts. I was wondering if you could get me any gear.”

“Gear?” inquired Belle “What do you mean by gear?”

“You know - skag, smack, kit” replied Mike helpfully.

“I don’t know what you mean officer.” Belle’s bonhomie had turned to hostility.

“I’m not a policeman. I’m just a punter looking to score.”

Blondie was new to the neighbourhood – that much was true. He’d been seconded from Stirling’s serious crime unit to Lothian drug squad. Since his was a new face in town his superiors had planted him in a notorious drug den with a wad of notes and a flimsy cover story to see who he could hook. The boys started talking in raised voices. “No officer Dibble we don’t know anybody with any drugs!”

Blondie sloped off back to his table red faced while he thought out his next move. His first undercover operation had proved a wash out. He had just decided to call it a night and join his sergeant in his unmarked car when Lucky walked in.

*****

“That cunt you’re drinking with is a fed” said Belle.

“Naw, he’s new tae the neighbourhood is awe” replied Lucky.

“He’s DS for sure numb nuts – he was at us tae score fur him”.

“I know – he telt me, but he’s okay. I was in the jail wi him. He’s brand new”

Belle walked away shaking his head. You just can’t tell some people, they have to learn for themselves. He and Angel decided to split as they were both carrying dime bags. They did not see events unfold – despite being curious about the outcome. They would know soon enough – everyone would know.

Lucky thought his bad fortune had changed for once. He went to the Bonny hoping to scrounge a drink from somewhere and had bumped into Mike. Nice guy Mike, he’d bought him a couple of pints and now he was on a promise of a piece of the two grams they were about to score from Raymond. That wee faggot Belle and his paranoia; Mike was a regular guy – just out of jail and needing a hit. Lucky knew what that was like – out of jail wi nae cunt talking tae ye. He dialled Ray’s number and waited on the pips.

“....Aye, he’s brand new – I knew him in the jail. He’s looking fur a couple of gram. Aye, ah know him – sound cunt – just got out and looking tae score. He says it would be a regular thing coz ‘es goat a couple of mates...”

As soon as Ray clocked Blondie he knew that he was no jailbird. He looked more like he was fresh out of seminary school than jail. Ray smelled bacon but was too slow in calling to Moira to close the door; a scrum of police officers piled in ordering everyone to stay where they were.

“Where’s your search warrant?” demanded Ray.

“We don’t need one” answered Sergeant Holden, “Moira here let us in and the drugs are in plain sight – so you are nicked sunshine.”

Once in the police station Ray bottled it. His brief informed him the bust was legal because they had in fact invited a police officer into their home. He was told he was looking at ten years for possession and intent to supply. Ray did the only thing he could do – he blamed it on his wife. It was Moira who ran the operation and he was a passive agent who went along with the situation because it was her house. He gave the details of her supplier and every other dealer he could think of which resulted in half a dozen more successful busts. He even went Queen’s evidence and stood in the dock denouncing Moira, mother of his children, as a heroin dealer while painting himself as a hapless victim. Moira got six years and Ray got relocation under the witness protection program.

Gordon had tried to make a deal, but the cops just laughed at him. He was small fry who knew too little about anything to be of any use to them. He got eighteen months for conspiracy to distribute a controlled substance – his lawyer told him he was lucky.

Gloves

The consumption of dates with my Cocteau filaments triggered my gag reflex and I filled the scheme with opiated bile. Smell that? That’s the stench of crazy. I reek of crazy. That acid burn on the mucous membrane screams obscene in my oesophagus. Each wretched convulsion produces another phase of scatological diatribe. But the words; the words are mystic. I savour the words as truffles exhumed from excrement. Each syllable is a laurel leaf in the crown of creation. Every honed consonant and soft rolling vowel that passes my lips is a hymnal. The song of ages issues from the depths of my bowels in a lullaby creamy smooth as baby skin and I am liberated in the ointment of meaning and confusion.

How do you like them words? They are the expensive kind – the kind you buy with toil. They’re new and they fit me like gloves – patent leather gloves, slick and shiny as wet pavements. Tight as a virgin’s snatch; they form a second skin, decorous yet purposeful. I found them in the street when I expected them least – they started as a trickle and ended as a torrent and I had to run home to inscribe them before the breeze carried them off. I’m not even sure that these were the words I’d intended; words after all are as malleable as smoke.

.