The Young Team Read online

  It’s Guy Fawkes Night n on a fuckin Friday anaw, jackpot. There’s fireworks burstin aw over the place. The six ae us ir standin outside the newsagents, waitin on somebody tae jump in fur our drink. We’re aw on a bottle ae Tonic each the night. We see an eld alky stoatin doon the lane in boggin jeans n ripped trainers. A walk across the road n whistle him over tae us. The boys slowly walk over anaw tae join us. These kinda cunts ir mostly harmless, but if they hud been takin ten diazepam as a side order tae their daily cider dosage then they kin be a harmless cunt takin their pet Kitchen Devil a walk. A stoat up tae him but ma swagger makes the eld cunt a wee bitty nervous. A reassure him wae a friendly bit ae chat. ‘Fancy jumpin in the shop fur us, eld son, n we’ll gee yi a pound each fur a few cans, eh?’ A say, actin pure sound wae the eld boy.

  He counts the heads, there’s six ae us. Six quid, jackpot. That’s his full weekend sortit. These cunts drank bottles ae pound nasty, pure gut-rot dry cider that cost a quid each. He kin barely hold his excitement back. Our part in the bargain is a quid each. We aw rustle in our pockets. Danny swaggers up n pulls a fiver oot his new red Berghaus jakit. Celtic fans only ever went fur either the red or grey, never blue.

  ‘Here yi go, ma man, don’t spend it aw in the wan shop!’

  A shake ma heed it ma pal. The eld boy’s eyes ir as wide as two-pence pieces n as dark as them anaw. ‘Cheers, wee man,’ he says wae a pure crocodile smile.

  ‘Right, eld yin, in the shop fur six bottles ae Buckfast.’

  ‘Six bottles ae Buck. Nae bother boays, nae bother at aw,’ he says as he negotiates the lines on the road.

  ‘Fuckin auld cunt,’ Broonie says.

  ‘Fuck it, mate, that’s our drink sortit, ye ha!’

  It’s always a nervous wait. Should wan ae yir maws or das come roon n huckle yi up the road, yir bottle is gone. Should two Strathclyde police officers appear, yir fucked. Should the eld alky steal the fiver and the six bottles ae wine, yir double fucked. Tense affair this n A kin see it on ma boys’ faces. This time he comes stoatin back wae the bag after a minute. There’s that wee moment ae euphoria, like yir first bottle again every time. Yir night ae madness wae infinite possibilities ae action n adventure lies within the cheap blue plastic bag, between a dirty hand wae long nails. He walks up n Danny snatches the bag right oot his hand.

  ‘Haw! There’s only four fuckin bottles in here.’

  ‘Four bottles wull be plenty fur yooz wee pricks.’

  The other two bottles ir stuffed upside doon in his ripped and paint-covered jeans. We aw look at one another fur a wee moment. In the peckin order, yir still only a wee guy. Wan ae us hus tae say suhin but …

  ‘Listen, eld yin, git the fuckin bottles oot right noo.’

  ‘OR WIT, YA WEE CUNT?’ he roars in Broonie’s face.

  ‘Or yir gittin shot wae this fuckin firework, ya eld dick.’

  We aw turn roon tae see Finnegan, hoddin a Sonic FX inside a long red chute. They’re single shot fireworks but the screech n the bang aff them is fuckin crazy. We aw stand back tae either side ae the lane. We hud aw seen them in action being fired at unsuspectin cunts n polis n fire brigade tryin tae put oot bonfires ae eld, built by our fair hands n defended bravely by the vanguard ae elder troops. Furget the fourth of July – Bonfire Night up here is fuckin Vietnam. The eld alky doesnae know wit tae say.

  ‘You try it, ya wee cunt … n A’ll … rip yi fae ear tae arse.’

  ‘Mate, you couldnae catch us in they eld chunky gutties! Ten-stripe turbos they ir oot Brantanamo warehoose!’ Danny shouts.

  We aw burst oot laughin.

  ‘WIT? Yi think yir mad coz yir tall, wee man?’ the eld alky mutters n staggers away.

  ‘Fuck it, man, we’ve got a good swally here,’ Addison says.

  ‘Fuck that,’ Wee Kenzie hits back.

  ‘You’re right, mate,’ Finnegan says wae a nod.

  ‘HAW YOU, YA ELD ALKY BASTERT! LOOK AT YI WALKIN UP THERE WAE OUR BOTTLES LIKE BILLY THE FUCKIN KID,’ A shout. He stops n straightens up n sits his own bag doon. He spins roon wae his hands hoverin over the bottles.

  ‘A’M BILLY THE KID!’ he says in a drunken slur.

  ‘Aye, well guess wit, Billy Boy …’ Finnegan says as he pulls his lighter oot.

  ‘Gawn grab they bottles fuck sake, that cunt couldnae beat sleep,’ Danny says.

  A crouch doon wae them aw laughin at ma back n run up silently n grab the fat end oot wan ae his pockets. The cunt is concentratin on every step he makes, avoidin broken glass n dug shite. ‘YA WEE PRICK,’ he shouts as he spins roon tae stop me n faws on his arse. There’s a bellow ae laugher n abuse fae ma pals up a bit. The other bottle rolls oot his pocket and by some miracle, doesnae smash. It bounces, slow motion, on the rim ontae a big fuckin juicy weed that cushions its arse n breaks its faw. A see ma opportunity. A dash like Indiana Jones fur his hat. A reach the big weed n dandelion heed. Billy the Kid tries tae grab ma leg but A snatch the bottle fae his talons n turn tae walk back. His white bag is lyin spilt aw over. Six plastic bottles ae pound nasty rollin oot. Next tae the lane is a big substation, the wans wae the transformer n the DANGER OF DEATH signs aw over it. A pick up his bag n fuck it right over the spikey fence. Ma pals ir aw gawn wild. Laughin like fuck. The eld boy looks through the fence n we see his heed lookin at the spikes. He’s thinkin aboot it. The warnin signs mean nuhin tae him, compared tae the six bottles ae happy on the other side. Everycunt goes quiet n A wait tae see wit he dis.

  He goes fur it. A chunky trainer tries tae find purchase on the brick wall, behind the spikey fence. A know, fur a fact, that the gate doesnae lock. The big padlock is just decorative n wis fucked years ago. We used tae bounce in tae git baws that hud been skied. Keeps weans oot, but cravin alkies ir a different matter. They’re aw pishin theirsels at the eld cunt. A walk up by him. He’s on the deck noo wae his foot caught in the fence, troosers half fawin doon his fuckin arse. A put a hand through n open the gate. A step through n grab the bag. A put ma hand oot fur him tae grab. His eld paw comes up wae trepidation. He takes hold ae it n pulls himself up. His hand slowly goes tae the bag n picks it up. He fishes in his jakit pocket producin ten Club n hands them tae me wae his heed doon.

  ‘Fur yir troubles.’

  A walk back up wae a wee bit extra swagger. Everycunt’s lookin at us.

  ‘Fuckin furget that eld cunt, it’s a sin fur him.’

  The group ir momentarily enlightened n nod in agreement.

  ‘Aye, man, true.’

  ‘Fuckin pish fur cunts like that int it.’

  ‘It’s nae life, man.’

  ‘He’s lucky he didnae git this Sonic FX right up the arse,’ Finnegan says wae a toothy grin.

  ‘Mon, fuck it, let’s go n git these fuckin hings drank,’ A say wae a wee laugh, still thinkin aboot that eld boy’s empty two-penny eyes.

  We go doon the woods and tan our drink. It’s aboot two hours later n we’re walkin up fuckin steamin, singin, shoutin n smokin snout, nae doubt, cos the fuckin Young Team’s about! IN YER AREA! OH OH, IN YER AREA! Y T FUCKIN P. Just lettin loose n gawn crazy. It’s dark n baltic, a right dry night wae a crispy scent, but fuckin frozen. The hot wine in our bellies is keepin us warm. The cold nips at our fingers n toes through black magic gloves n trainers. We’ve aw git the hoods up noo, n jakits zipped right up. The trick is tae tuck yir taps inside yir joggie bottoms. Means aw the layers heat up. A’ve seen maself oot in winter tuckin ma trackies intae ma fitbaw socks. No cause A liked that mad Nineties look either, just cos it’s fuckin roasty toasty.

  We’re listenin tae tunes comin fae the tinny speaker in Danny’s Sony Ericsson Walkman phone, DJ Rankin, ‘D.E.V.I.L’. It’s keepin us gawn as we trek through the frozen field, aw crunchin underfoot as we walk. Every wan ae us is hyper. The caffeine in the wine has done its job. We’re aw natterin away like fuck, talkin shite aboot this n that. Wit burds we fancy n who we’ve awready went wae. There’s two solid joints gittin passed aboot between us. The dope is takin the edge aff
the bottles, chillin everycunt oot a bit afore we go fur a few more pint-cans ae Miller n a bottle ae the orange or red MD 20/20 tae keep us mad-wae-it until we huv tae head in.

  The bookies is on the corner. Runnin doon by it is the main road in our town centre. The Toi’s scheme lay between here n the high school. They’ve git aboot thirty cunts oot on a Friday, so we’re told, so there’s nae chance yi wid walk doon the street past there anymore. Yi cannae just stoat aboot ootside yir ain area aboot here. Yir both the lords n prisoners ae yir ain scheme. Doon the street is no man’s land, yi kin bang intae anycunt doon there – so yi huv tae watch.

  ‘Look! Who the fuck’s that?’ Finnegan shouts.

  Me, Danny n Kenzie start tae walk doon. Next is Broonie n Finnegan n last Addison, on the phone tae some lassie. It’s Kenzie who speaks up.

  ‘Here boys, that’s fuckin Taz, ma brur’s mate.’

  Taz is alone n runnin up the hill, gittin chased by aboot five cunts in trackies. We aw look roon at wan another. He’s wan ae Big Kenzie’s mates, wan ae the elder wans in the Young Team. Danny’s still takin a last swig oot his bottle but after he drinks it he stuffs it back inside the map pocket empty. Broonie’s still git his anaw. Taz looks as if he’s awready hud a bit ae a dooin. His jakit is ripped n he’s git blood on his face.

  ‘Mon, boys,’ A say, walkin doon towards the noise.

  ‘Fuckin intae them, bhoys! Time fur a skirmish!’ Danny shouts louder.

  Broonie n that ir aw gem fur it. Wan ae our elder wans n a squad ae theirs. Taz’s almost at us noo, pantin like an eld dug fae runnin. A kin feel Addison shitin himself fae behind me. A kin see him in ma peripheral vision, still on the phone, but quickly sayin his goodbyes. Kenzie’s shoutin fur Addison tae git on the phone tae Big Kenzie n the troops n call in reinforcements. Big Danny is makin sure his trainers ir tied n A follow suit. Losin a trainer kin be deadly. Taz reaches us n the crowd behind him slows seein us. ‘Fuckin hell, boays … cunts jumped us … walkin up that backroad there. Backin’ us up, boays?’

  Wee Kenzie struts in like the delegate in charge. ‘Aye, ma boys wull back yi up, mate! Nae sweat,’ he says lookin gem, but wae a wee nervous glance towards the cunts walkin up the hill.

  Danny’s fuckin buzzin. A kin see him crackin his knuckles n rollin his shoulders. Broonie’s mad-wae-it dancin aboot on his tiptoes, swingin his arms in the air. Finnegan’s standin smilin like fuck wae his hand in his pocket. Addison’s fuckin shitin himself. They’re only a hundred feet away noo.

  Taz’s caught his breath again. ‘Ah must be gittin eld, man. A dunno any yooz wee guys.’

  Calm doon, Taz, mate, yir only seventeen, ya cunt, A think n don’t say. A’m fuckin buzzin anaw noo. The wine ae earlier is the drivin force. We’ve been buzzin aw night, cos ae the fireworks, the swally n the Friday Feelin. We kin see the cunts noo. There’s five ae them. A recognise a few fae school n A know two ae them. JP, Jamie Peters, who’s a year elder than us n a mad cunt, n Si O’Connor, wan ae their best fighters n a year elder anaw. His big brur, Matty, is the tap man doon there. Yi kin tell the two ae them ir the maddest. They’re powerin ahead, awready wae their arms in the air, shoutin the fuckin odds. The three others ir walkin slightly behind. A dunno them, but at least wan ae them looks aboot eighteen or suhin, a right elder wan. Taz’s confidence hus grown. He’s seen Wee Kenzie, n heard Addison phonin Big Kenzie. The rest ae the Young Team wid hear through MSN n an army ae wee thumbs tappin madly at mobile phone buttons.

  ‘Fuckin mone then, ya dafties, YOUNG TEAM!’ Taz shouts, walkin back doon. We aw share a wee smile n probably look chuffed as fuck. That second we aw go fuckin mental. The adrenaline gees yi that sick-making, dancin feelin in yir stomach that yi come tae love n dread simultaneously.

  The five ae them ir walkin up the middle ae the road. A wine bottle comes flyin up the street n bursts in front ae us, leavin its green fangs lyin aw over the road. We’re aw walkin doon noo adjacent tae the bookies. A hear a fuckin hissin in ma ear. Finnegan sends the Sonic FX twistin n screamin doon the street at them. Taz looks like he’s gonnae lay a fuckin egg, the cunt. Finnegan’s laughin his heed aff, dancin aboot on the pavement. The rocket whines up the street towards them, hits a car windscreen and explodes mid-air, wae an almighty fuckin bang. The five ae them dive oot the way n pick themselves up fae the deck. There’s nae hesitation.

  The six ae us sprint at them, still shoutin like fuck in the middle ae the road. Their two tap boys run up towards us wae their arms oot, geein it straight back, pure bold cunts. Taz grabs an empty wine bottle fae the pavement n swings it at that Si’s heed. The two ae them start punchin fuck oot ae wan another. Me n Danny run fir JP. He skuds Danny wae a beauty ae a right, but he’s a big cunt n rides it. BANG. Danny hits him a fuckin haymaker n he stumbles on the kerb. A jump up n hit him a triple combo, a big dirty right, a wee cheeky left n a finisher. The cunt’s eyes go funny as he hits the deck. He’s sparkled but he’s awright cos his sleeve is comin up tae wipe his splattered nose. Si n Taz are still scrappin over next tae a parked motor. Broonie n Addison ir chasin the two other cunts back doon the road. Their other mate, the elder wan, is pannelin fuck oot ae Finnegan. Danny sprints towards them first n A follow.

  ‘HAW YOU, YA FUCKIN DAFTY!’ he screams at the boy, afore skuddin him wae a right. The elder boy seems dazed. Danny grabs his jakit n pulls him forward, while aimin his forehead at the boy’s nose. He folds n lands next tae Finnegan, whose face is fucked. He laughs, showin a missin tooth, n kicks the boy in the face as he falls n lies back, wavin an invisible white flag. A turn roon laughin tae git a swift punch in the mooth aff Si O’Connor’s right hand. A barely feel it, just that dull thud n throb that yi become accustomed tae.

  They aw start walkin back doon the way they came. Their shouts n threats still sound up the street. A KNOW WHERE YOU STAY, YA WEE DICK. Taz is handin the boys fags oot his packet n lightin them. WAIT N SEE IT SCHOOL, YOU’RE GETTIN IT! Y T FUCKIN B, YA WEE CUNTS! TOI BOIZ! He gathers us aw around him.

  ‘A’m fuckin proud ae yooz boys. That wis fuckin MAGIC, by the way! Wit a fuckin battle that wis.’

  A turn tae aw ma ain pals, our wee six-man gang. Danny’s git a big daft smile on his face, wae a Mayfair cigarette in the corner ae his gub. He’s git a belter ae a black eye. A big purple doughnut roon his socket, puffy n tender-lookin, wae wee ring cuts in the corner. Finnegan’s face is fucked. That elder boy hud smashed him cos he hud a face yi kin only git wae a good few punches. Addison n Broonie didnae huv a mark on them, cos wan ae the wee cunts who sprinted hud the misfortune ae losin a trainer n trippin on his arse. Broonie n Addison kicked fuck oot him on the deck. His wee pal ran doon n skudded Broonie, but it wis just a token gesture. They knew they hud been done. As the adrenaline fades, Wee Broonie spews. Taz is laughin, in a proud paternal way, like his wee boy hud come aff his bike wae stabilisers. ‘That’s the adrenaline, son, doesnae mix wae wine,’ he says, pattin Broonie’s back as he heaves up a brown soup-like concoction. Ma face is sair anaw but A don’t care. A couldnae gee a fuck.

  We aw turn away fae him being sick n there’s a mighty uproar, loads ae shoutin n bawlin. The rest ae the Young Team appears fae up the lane. Big Kenzie is at the front wae an aluminium baseball bat. They stop their stampede n survey the scene fae across the road. Their mate Taz standin the middle ae his wee brur’s pals battered fuck oot ae. We aw swagger across the road, faces stingin n red n bloody, but proud. The troops spot the Toi wans walkin doon the road n a few heads start sprintin doon after them but they’re long gone. The rest ae them stand roon our wee squad.

  Danny turns tae me n whispers. ‘Look, sir! It’s fuckin Joe DiMaggio!’

  A laugh before we reach them. Big Kenzie is first tae speak wae his usual growl.

  ‘Fuck happened here then, Taz?’

  ‘A git fuckin jumped walkin up the road, mate.’

  ‘Aye, they fuckin Toi wans?’

  ‘Aye, man, there wis six ae them, n just me maself.’

  ‘Well, no just
yirsel,’ he says, lookin at Wee Kenzie n the rest ae us.

  ‘Fuckin right, mate, your wee brur n his pals backed us right up.’

  Big Kenzie n the tap men survey us, wan at a time. They look at our clothes, builds n war wounds. Most ae them ir quiet, waitin fur Big Kenzie n Eck Green tae deliver their verdict. Eck is Big Tam’s best mate. Big bruiser ae a cunt, easy six fit two n aboot fourteen stone. Some ae the elder wans huv git jeans on n duffle coats n parkas. Big Kenzie isnae the oldest there. It’s fae aboot eighteen, nineteen doonwards, finally tae us at the bottom ae the peckin order. A few ae the oldest stand at the back, swiggin at cans ae Tennent’s n rollin a joint. They didnae really seem interested in the troubles ae the young team.

  ‘Wit fuckin even happened then?’ Eck says. Taz goes in tae great detail in the tellin ae the tale. He acts oot the sound effects ae the firework, n each punch, kick and flyin bottle. The audience sways n oohs n ahs at the right points, playin their part in the retellin ae our tale. There’s nae need tae exaggerate this story. It’s enough on its own. It wid live on in memory and legend.

  ‘So who the fuck ir these wee guys?’ another wan ae the elder wans says.

  ‘They’re the younger wans, fuck sake,’ Big Kenzie says.

  ‘Awright, nae bother.’

  ‘Fuckin proud ae yees, wee team, yees done well,’ Big Kenzie says as he grabs ma hand n shakes it hard wae his big paw. The two groups merge. Every wan ae us is buzzin. A few ae the elder Young Team wans stand tae a younger wan, aw givin us our due n listenin respectfully tae our wee story. ‘Wit’s yir name, wee man?’ echoes throughout the group. Hands ir shook n bottles and joints ir passed between them n us. No initiation here, just prove yirsel tae yir troops. They tell us aboot other battles n the elder burds we’ve only heard n dreamt ae.

  The Boldness Inside

  We wander up the lane, buzzin wae the Friday Feelin, a force wae almost supernatural powers. It’s obvious that last week is on everywan’s mind. This Friday we’re gonnae join the actual troops instead ae our wee mad squad up the Mansion. We wurnae oblivious tae the main gathering’s existence before. On Friday nights before we tended tae just say ‘awright’ tae them n go on our way. It wisnae an official thing, yir just fae that area n know them aw fae school. Then yi come ae age n it’s accepted that yi hang aboot wae them n become a YT wan, oot gittin a smoke durin the week n on-it at the weekend wae the troops n the tidy burds who hang aboot anaw.