The Young Team Read online

  ‘Thar he blows! Drive on, driver!’ Big Eck’s shoutin in the driver’s ear. We aw look oot the left side n right enough Wee Toffey is sprintin doon, hair aw gelled, in a white tap wae rainbow coloured writing, wavin a bottle ae Tonic over his heed. He’s gonnae smash that! wan ae the lassies is sayin. He dives on the bus n the driver pulls away in a bad mood. Ma wee main man looks heavy excited. A move over n me, Toffey n Monica sit on two seats. The bus rolls aff n everywan cheers again. A kin see Big Kenzie n Eck buggin the driver’s nut aboot a CD n he puts it on grudgingly. He’s earnin his dough the night.

  Big Kenzie is ravin n shoutin, ‘UP A BIT, ELD YIN!’ The bus’s crackly eld speakers come tae life. Guru Josh Project, ‘Infinity’. Everywan goes mental. The driver’s shakin his heed. Tam’s still on his feet n shoutin fae the aisle.

  ‘ALL ABOARD, FUCKIN YTP! FANTAZIA HERE WE GO!’

  We’re in the queue, n yi kin hear the basslines somewhere ahead n we see the waterfront. There’s thousands ae ravers floatin aboot aw dressed in a neon explosion, white boiler suits n masks n fancy dress. Aw the lassies huv on tiny wee tutus n no much else. It’s a fuckin raver’s fantasy. We’re aw bouncin n dancin in the queue. Everywan’s in a heavy good mood. Nae hostility, just love n peace. We’re nearly there. There’s aboot a hundred polis at the gate n guys n lassies ir being separated ahead tae be searched. A’ve git ten eckies in a wee bag, tied roon the button hole in ma boxers tae secure it. They’re white sharks. Ten disco burgers, swedgers, sweeties n ecktoplasm tae take us tae planet Janet.

  A guy waves yi forward n frisks us aw doon. We pass an amnesty bin, fur any last-minute hesitaters. We’re ushered intae a straight line. There’s aboot fifteen guys. Wee Kenzie n that ahead n Addison, Finnegan n Big Kenzie wae me. A polis in a blue cap walks oot wae a cocker spaniel n starts goin doon the line. A don’t think a dug kin smell pills or at least A hope no. The wee sniffy spaniel makes his way past wae a wag ae the tail but nuhin else. The polis gets tae the end ae the line n we’re waved past n the para subsides as we bounce in tae the actual event. Perty time.

  The arena is a huge buildin ae shimmerin blue glass. The settin sun n the sky ae grey n orange is reflected in the front ae it. A’m lost, takin in the sights n the noise. That beautiful sea ae ravers, full colour spectrum on display. On the right there’s tent arenas, the long bar wans n a few flashin n whirrin shows. There’s different basslines mixin n creatin unofficial remixes in the Braeheed night. It’s the overarchin bass that yi hear, pulsin through the air. The treble is adrift in the surroundins, faded oot by cunts shoutin, lassies screamin, shows burlin, bass bangin n yir racin, drunken thoughts tryin tae unscramble this wonderland ae colour n sound n sex n drugs. Yi turn roon n lose yir pals fur a minute. Yi find yirsel alone amid the thousands, yir pals dain the same a few feet away but obscured n swept away in the tide ae people constantly swellin n swirlin aboot the venue.

  It’s a constant flow tae the main arena, the side tents, drinks tent, toilets, water and condom stand, O2 bar and tae the tat stalls sellin glowsticks n merch. The mass circulates between aw these. It’s an ocean crashin aboot the place. Yi just need tae kick yir legs n swim. Go wae the flow, keep yir heed above the water. Yi see a few familiar faces in the multitude but A’m confusin strangers fur long-lost friends. A just want tae git tae a portaloo fur a slash, git tae the drinks tent, git a couple ae bottles then bounce intae the main arena fur a swimmin lesson. The entrance is somewhere ahead. A’m pushin through, kickin against the current. A git grabbed fae the back. It’s Wee Toffey. He’s pushin me towards the common portaloo. It’s a shed wae a urinal trough. There’s aboot four other guys at it. We squeeze in tae the end.

  ‘Mate! This place is absolutely fuckin mental!’ A say tae the kid.

  ‘Thank fuck A came! Wouldnae miss this fuckin madness fur anyhin!’

  ‘It’s gonnae be some night, youngster! You took any swedgers yit?’

  ‘Aye, man! A took wan on the bus! Cannae pish worth a fuck!’

  The two ae us unfasten the bags fae our boxer buttons n a stick mine in ma back pocket. A watch Toffey stick another wan in his mouth n lift his heed back. ‘Ya daft wee cunt! A fuckin hate takin them like that!’

  ‘AHHHH FUCK IT!’

  We head back oot intae the open expanse ae bodies n pushin n shovin n bumpin n bangin. There’s a beat kickin up fae the nearest tent. We wait five minutes in a queue fur tokens n head tae the drinks tent tae queue again. It’s three fur a tenner. Two blue WKDs n a Coors n away we go. A pull two eckies oot ma pocket, fuck them on ma tongue n tan half ma WKD tae wash them back, double duntin. Twenty minutes n A wid be flyin. Wee Toffey is comin right up noo. He’s git that mad pleasured look on his face, eyes rollin n chewin his jaw, cartoon mode activated. That initial mushroom-cloud bang yi feel as the MDMA take hold n take yi higher, yir breathin deepens n it’s got yi. The lightness, manoeuvrability, the anticipation, the power ae suggestion, the bewitchin lassies geein yi glances that penetrate yir very soul. It’s aw ae them takin yi tae another fuckin dimension. Yir wae thousands ae strangers but yi love them aw n yi talk tae everycunt n anycunt n they talk tae you anaw. The tunes floatin oot the dark doors ahead ir castin a spell on me. A’m locked in, magnetised.

  The sky darkens n the last light melts away behind the glass fortress ae the arena. Ma breaths grow deeper n more pleasure-filled. The last draws ae a fag go doon smooth, smoother than usual, that right smooth way n yi know it’s happnin. A’m comin up, pure sound-inspired orgasm, tunes soundin great n ma thoughts disconnect. The music, the trance, just takes yi away. These mad feelins ir the beginnin n the only way is up, blast-aff time. A’m lookin at the burds n feelin the tingles in ma chest n arms n the top ae ma heed, startin tae heat up, elevated pulse n those pleasure rushes ae chemical euphoria in ma veins. A glance at ma phone before A’m sucked intae the mouth ae the beast. Eight bells. Still eight hours tae go, a full shifty oot yir scone in the rave cave.

  The two ae us ir flyin. Connected by the YTP, brotherhood, history and ecstasy. Another deep breath, more tingles and ripples. A’m away, adrift in the river, the estuary ahead. The mouth ae the beast. We walk in through a wee passageway ae tubes n wires, the innards ae the building, foam-covered pipes n insulation. Thirty seconds ae darkness n intae the light ae the main arena. The sight ae the lasers n a sea ae nine thousand Scottish ravers dancin wild, tribal n free in pure chemical n trance energy.

  ‘FANTAAAZIA! GLASGOW! HERE WE FUCKING GO!’

  Anthems for Doomed Youth

  There’s a sledgehammer knockin oot a metronome’s beat inside ma skull. Muttered and discarded warnings aboot drugs haunt me n make me paranoid. A think ma brain is actually too big fur its casing. It may at any minute burst through. A know ma broken, beaten n bruised body is desperate fur water n salt, vitamins n rest. A wid go n tan a pint ae water n eat a poke ae crisps if A could raise ma body fae this bed, ma first grave.

  Ma lips ir cracked, the first sign ae vitamin deficiency. Ten eckies n the litres ae drink, sixty fags n mare joints on tap n six meals missed. A’ve been oot in ma shirt back in the cold, up aw night exertin energy. Ma throat is hoarse fae shoutin. Ma skin stinks ae drink n everythin that went doon the hatch is noo workin its way back oot through ma pores. There’s a chemical smell tae it, not the usual foul bacterial note ae missin a shower or two – it smells like pure narcotics. Ma chest hurts wae backed-up phlegm fae smokin like fuck n it feels like a grippin pain, usually on the left side, then A’ll cough up a lump ae it. A feel like A’m takin a heart attack every time it happens. It brings on a wave ae dread aboot death n the damage A’ve done tae maself. Thankfully A’m still breathin, but touch n go, critical, 50/50 every time noo. There’s nae bounce back. No anymore.

  The day, death seems like a cool spot in the shade compared tae facin life n lyin wide awake n hot, a sweatin shadow ae a former, younger, stronger self. There is nae sleep in this state ae limbo so A’m suspended in a livin nightmare, not livin nor dead. Still hallucinatin, imaginin A kin
hear distant basslines n thinkin aboot eld burds long since gone n scenes ae wild pleasure the total antithesis ae how A’m feelin. A forget happiness n know only pain n regret.

  Ma phone is ringin but A cannae answer it. We saw light, A came home n noo light hus remained. The bastardin burds ir singin in the trees tae taunt me in ma fragile, glass-like state. Do the birds still sing in hell? They do, they do. A’m beyond fragile, it’s more like brittle. A feel on the fuckin edge, that rattly, shaky, spluttery way. Every breath A take n exhale is like a backfirin exhaust. A’m chokin fur a fag but if A smoke wan A think A’ll huv a cardiac arrest. A’m terminal.

  Saturday night wis indescribable but even that is overshadowed by the lingerin feelins ae utter defeat, pointlessness n despair. A’m a refugee fae ma own existence. A keep tryin tae force maself up n oot ae this bottomless pit. Some food n the warm stream n steam ae shower wull restore me tae some shade ae self n humanity. A come down is beyond roughness. Stomach cramps, cracked lips, a white sandpaper tongue, a blocked nose, chest pains and feelings ae total run-down deterioration. Yi feel sad, depressed n on the verge ae total misery, cripplin longin and melancholy. It’s a confusin n paranoid pathos tappin intae hardwired emotional issues, fears and desperation ae aw forms. There’s nae escapin the ecstasy blues.

  We call it a ‘come-down’ n this is meant tae sum it up. This is a loose term which fails tae explain yir present state. It suggests a gentle drift back tae earth fae yir assumed high, like a helium-filled balloon finally lettin the lighter gas oot. This is more terminal velocity. A game ae chicken wae gravity, claimin yi back. Yi sink further doon than the place yi left fae. Normality, elation, euphoria, ecstasy, normality. If that wis the case, drugs wid be harmless. What goes up must come down? That doesn’t cut it either. The place yi descend tae is much worse than where yi started. Yi sink low, low as death, a personal hell where the birds still sing tae torment yi in the burnin daylight n keep yi awake n sufferin tae the fuckin last. Sweatin but cold. Shattered but cannae sleep. Normality wid be welcome. Ironic, int it? The place yi wur so desperate tae escape wid noo be a near paradise. Normality, the elusive state ae peace, which we take fur granted and mourn only when furthest fae it. Self-inflicted, no sympathy. Fuck you. Let me die quietly and in peace. I am in the dark, smokin in the deep blue, flattened by the white sweep of day.

  PART III

  Hardened

  McCluskey gathered intelligence about gangs in Strathclyde and found that there were 170 of them, with 3,500 members aged from about 11 to 23. She talked to trauma surgeons such as Christine Goodall, who revealed that two thirds of slashings were going unreported to the police. Victims were afraid of reprisals from the gangs – the notorious wall of silence.

  The reality was shocking: a serious facial injury every six hours and 300 attempted murders a year.

  Gavin Knight, Telegraph, discussing Karyn McCluskey, co-founder of the Violence Reduction Unit

  Gardening Leave

  The thick blue smoke ae a joint winds its way fae the glowin red cherry, hits ma motor’s roof n splits n spreads. The Subaru is sittin on the corner n Danny’s inside it wae him. He’s meetin McIntire the night, this time wae the correct amount, on time. We’re on the verge ae the Toi’s scheme. Wit Danny cannae see is that wae every gram n ounce he’s descendin deeper n becomin more indebted, a special pal. Danny wid feel trusted – a good mate tae Marcus McIntire. Soon McIntire wull be able tae ask him tae dae anyhin or take anyhin. Danny wull dae it in fear ae offence n simply cos he’s got himself in a position that he cannae say naw. These kind ae relationships quickly become like the eld Faustian pact.

  A’m starin in the rear-view mirror n Kenzie is keepin the edge oot the side windaes n the front. Danny’s left a lock-back blade lyin on ma passenger seat in full view. A fuckin hate when people leave shit like that lyin in the motor. It’s nuhin tae them but should a fuckin nosey polis stick their beak through the windae, it’s me left holdin the bag. A never carried a blade, honest, Mr Sheriff. Six month stuck right up yir arse, a serious record n condemned tae this miserable world forever.

  ‘Fuck sake, Kenzie! Yees always rip the pure pish oot this!’

  ‘Mate, McIntire likes tae tell yi who he’s smashed recently. The list kin take a while.’

  Marcus bounces oot the motor n is carryin three big terracotta-coloured plastic pots, poorly covered by bin bags. A glance towards Kenzie n raise ma eyebrows. He’s seen it anaw. When the plants git too big in a grow, yi need tae transfer them intae a bigger pot n try no tae shock them too much. Basic fuckin horticulture. They’re outdoor-sized pots, aboot a foot n a half deep n the same squared at the top. If yi wurnae a keen gardener, yi wur up tae suhin dodgy. Somehow Marcus McIntire doesnae strike us as a Beechgrove Garden type.

  ‘Aye, bet a few cunts wid love tae know where they’re dain that.’

  ‘Mate, who the fuck wid be stupid enough tae rip them aff?’ A ask.

  ‘Plenty cunts.’

  Danny bounces oot anaw n comes joggin back over tae the motor. He’s git his hands up under his jumper tryin tae hide witever he’s just acquired. A see McIntire over his shoulder, comin oot wae another two heads. Danny opens the door n jumps in the passenger seat. A’m shakin ma heed at him.

  ‘Azzy, A know A took ages. That’s us anyway!’

  ‘Naw, it’s no that, ya dick!’

  He gees me a vacant look. ‘Don’t fuckin leave that lyin in ma motor again!’ A hand him his lock-back. ‘You’ll git me busted, ya jailbait bastard.’

  ‘Right sorry, fuck sake, man!’

  ‘Calm doon, ya para-wreck!’ Wee Kenzie says fae the back.

  ‘Wrap it, baw-jaws. You kin hod his fuckin knife fur him if yi want, cos A’m no gawn tae Polmont fur it.’

  Kenzie’s spotted suhin. ‘Owa, look who our big pal is wae.’

  The three ae us sit in the dark ae the motor n stare across at them. McIntire walks oot wae two familiar faces – McVeigh n Allen fae the Toi. We sit n watch as McIntire hands them the pots, a bag ae soil oot the boot n a can-fan. The two Toi wans wave cheerio n head back intae the flat. The Scooby comes tae life, purrs n disappears. Ma two pals ir starin at us as A finish ma joint n flick it oot the windae. A kin see their simple minds work through their thick skulls. ‘Don’t even fuckin think aboot it!’

  ‘How no?’ Danny replies wae a wee smile.

  ‘Cos the McIntires wull fuckin kill yees.’

  ‘They’ll no know who it is. Fuck, in wan swoop we could rob them, set the Toi wans up n end up wae a full factory ae plants as a bonus!’

  ‘Danny, they’re just the wee dicks runnin the set-up. It’s Marcus’s fuckin stuff!’

  ‘No way! They’re comin oot!’ Kenzie says.

  Allen n McVeigh lock the door n boost doon the street wae their hoods up.

  ‘See, Azzy, everyhin left in the hoose! Empty!’ Danny says.

  ‘Well fuckin hell mend yees if yi git caught. Yees know wit wull happen if yees dae!’

  ‘How, wit’s gonnae happen like?’

  ‘Two ae yees ir gonnae git stabbed or yir legs broke!’

  ‘Aye, aye. The McIntires irnae that mad noo. Loads ae young cunts ir comin up n they’re struggling. Plus, they’re fightin wae the Maynards the noo. Even the McLeans ir startin tae shift weights noo. The first cunts they’ll blame ir wan ae them!’ Danny says, pure gallus.

  ‘When yees dain this great robbery then?’

  ‘Right noo if yees want?’ Danny says, laughin.

  ‘Aye right! Yir no bringin aw that fuckin green intae this motor.’

  ‘Azzy, you’re turnin in tae wan pussy bastard!’ Wee Kenzie says fae the back. Any other time A wid huv said suhin. A just laugh.

  ‘Naw, yooz ir confusin yirsel wae gangsters! Yees ir a pair ae wee daft runners gittin too far ahead ae yirsels.’

  ‘Sound then, you’ll be gutted when me n Kenzie ir fuckin rollin in it. Green tae smoke fur months, hundreds ae quid. Shoppin sprees at the Fort. Wit’s Azzy dain? Tappin a score aff
his maw fur fags n skins. Pic-ture-me-rollin.’

  Kenzie’s noo convinced beyond aw reasonable doubt n is lookin at me. A’m forced tae laugh. The two ae them ir smilin at me n A’m still shakin ma heed. ‘Fuckin hell, A cannae believe A’m actually thinkin aboot this shite! Yees ir fuckin crackers.’

  ‘A say we just go right noo. Fuck the tools. Waltz straight up, bang in the door. Carry oot wit we kin load intae the motor n that’s it, finito, easy money,’ Danny says.

  A roll the motor up tae the front ae the flat. There’s a big hedge in front. Wee Kenzie n Danny bounce oot first. We’re aw stoatin up, three dodgy bastards tryin tae look casual. We walk roon n reach the back door. The wee curtains ir drawn n yi cannae see anyhin inside the hoose. The rain is pishin doon n we’re gittin soakin. ‘Who’s dain it then?’ Wee Kenzie asks.

  A take a step back and boot the thing aff its hinges. The door flies open n they two stand n look at us. A bounce in n hunt fur a light switch in the dark. It’s a bare bulb hangin fae the ceiling, a dim sixty-watt. The kitchen is aw black mould. There’s two-litre bottles lyin aboot, nutrient mix n a thermometer. We walk intae the livin room n A see Danny’s eyes light up. Jackpot. There’s four two by two metre tents, big black towers up tae the ceiling. Two deck chairs n soil n leaves everywhere. They zip the first tent doon. ‘Fuckin yass!’ Danny whispers n looks at us. We aw peer in usin a phone-light. There’s four pots, four plants in full bud n lookin ready tae chop. ‘Git scissors!’ Danny spits, excited as fuck n laughin noo. Kenzie goes huntin aboot the dark gaff. ‘Azzy, check they other tents! N keep the light aff!’