The Young Team Read online

  ‘How bad is it, boays?’ he asks, awready knowin the answer. None ae us kin talk fur starin at it. It’s a deep slash, fae the ear lobe tae the bottom ae his lip. Pishin blood n the sides separated.

  ‘It’s no that bad, son,’ Ryans says, tryin tae reassure him.

  ‘Don’t talk shite, mate. Hus Tony the Tiger git a stripe or two?’ Big Kenzie says quietly. Wee Kenzie is sobbin like fuck. He’s git a sore face anaw, ring cuts n a black eye.

  ‘Aye, mate, just a wee wan,’ somecunt lies.

  ‘Where’s Big Eck?’ Tam asks, covered in his own blood.

  ‘Somecunt plugged him, mate, he wis lyin no movin when the polis came. A tried tae grab him but a polis got there first, his neck wis aw bloody, he wis hoddin his neck,’ Ryans says, lookin grim.

  ‘Fuck me, man,’ Danny says.

  ‘Mon, boys, up the fuckin road. A think A need a hospital,’ Big Kenzie says quietly, tyin a bloody Celtic scarf roon his face.

  We cross the dark golf course in near silence. There’s nae bravado noo, nae brothers-in-arms chat shite. Aw A kin feel is ma burnin war wounds n ma frost-nipped fingers n toes. We cross the seventeenth green and the burn, slowly n painfully, helpin each other n the cunts that ir limpin. We walk intae our woods n trudge on through the snow towards home. A light a fag n smoke it painfully wae ma throbbin cheek. A kin awready feel a healthy egg n bad swellin. It’s gonnae be worse in the mornin.

  We finally reach Big Kenzie’s hoose. Tam’s face looks fucked. The slash on his cheek is deep n hus been gushin aw the way home. Wee Kenzie’s frettin aboot chappin the door n won’t go in his gate. ‘Fuck sake, sir!’ A shout, pushin by and rattle the thing like fuck. The lights come on n his da appears at the door in his boxers. Big Harold’s git bleary eyes n starts shoutin. ‘Wit the fuck’s gawn on, John? Thomas?’

  ‘Eh … eh …’

  ‘Look, Harold, Tam’s been slashed, git him doon casualty pronto.’

  ‘Right, Alan, son. John n Thomas in here NOW! WILMAAA!’

  Big Kenzie walks past our guard of honour at the gates. ‘Cheers, Azzy wee man. A’ll be sound, kid. Git yir arses up the road before the polis appear. Young Team, ya fuckin bams! Fuck yir fuckin YTB!’

  ‘Take care ae yirsel, big man,’ A say n head back oot the garden. Wae that the McKenzie brothers wur gone. Every light in the hoose goes on n we kin hear his maw screamin the place doon. Time tae boost. The rest ae us walk away up the street a bit. Me, Danny, Broonie, Finnegan, Whytey n Ryans.

  Big Rab turns tae us. ‘You better git up that road anaw, Azzy. Stacey’s gonnae kill me cos that arm ae yours. It needs cleant wae fuckin TCP or suhin.’

  ‘A’ll be sound fuck. It’s only a scratch.’

  ‘Make sure yi clean that shit oot, boss. Git up the road.’

  A look around at the six ae us. We’re aw broken men. Danny’s git a black eye n his face is scratched tae fuck. Wee Broonie hus a deep cut above his eyebrow. Whytey’s both eyes ir almost swollen shut. Finnegan’s git scratches across his face. A turn tae Rab. ‘Git Whytey up the road, mate.’

  ‘Birdseye peas fur you, eld son!’ Danny says.

  Ryans looks sympathetically at Whytey. He puts n arm roon his shoulder. ‘Mon, mate, A’ll git yi up the road. Catch yees, lads.’ The two boys hobble away in the opposite direction n ma lot ir left alone.

  Broonie’s gigglin away. ‘Whytey looks fuckin Chinese wae they eyes, the cunt!’ We aw turn tae him n laugh n finally breathe oot, shell-shocked n shattered noo the adrenaline is gone. Aw yir injuries start tae throb after the chemicals n drink leaves yi.

  ‘Aye right enough, Broonie, Jet Li fuckin Whytey fae the YTP!’

  ‘Try n diss me – A’m fuckin Bruce Lee!’ Danny says, laughin.

  ‘Joint?’ A ask wae a sigh. Everycunt nods.

  We head fur the graveyard tae sit n git a quiet joint before boostin. Ma ain face is fuckin killin me noo. A know the cut on ma arm is bad, the machete hus took a chunk oot. It’s a sore wan n possibly a wee trip tae casualty fur me in the mornin. Don’t think ma maw’s Elastoplast ir gonnae cut it this time. Twice A hud been lucky no tae be scarred fur life wae a wine bottle smashed across ma face. If the lid is aff when yi git bottled, they smash n leave yi like a jigsaw. Lid on, they don’t usually burst. A barely landed a punch n git chopped n fuckin laid oot. A’d huv been as well stayin in wae Monica n huvin the night ae ma life.

  Danny sums up aw our fears. ‘Wonder wit happened tae Eck n that. Any yooz see?’

  ‘A seen Bailey gittin liftit, a screw swept him n they both fell,’ Finnegan says.

  ‘They’re fuckin carted, mate! Weekender fur Crimbo material.’

  ‘A defo seen Eck wae blood on his neck. Dunno who it wis but,’ Danny confirms.

  ‘Fuckin hell, man, did it look bad?’ A say.

  ‘He wis hoddin his neck.’

  ‘Fuck me, that cannae be good.’

  ‘Let us see yir face.’ A turn tae look at Danny. His isnae lookin great either.

  ‘Bit ae an egg, but yir still gorjis, son.’

  As we walk through the cemetery a polis motor screeches up n we go tae run. It’s Muldoon n Blakley, the community polis. We stop in our tracks n by this point we’re aw too tired n sore tae run anyway. ‘Don’t bother runnin … where’s Shaun Brown?’ Broonie ducks doon behind us aw.

  ‘Shaun, yir no in any trouble, son. Yi needty come wae us,’ the Roadrunner says.

  ‘It’s aboot yir maw, son,’ Muldoon says, n opens the back door fur him.

  Broonie falls tae the ground, wailin like a banshee. Everywan is taken aback. Finnegan n Danny shite themselves. A try tae pull him up, but ma arm is too sore. He’s lyin shakin n screamin like a lunatic. The two boys pull him tae his feet. Muldoon jumps oot the motor n helps them lift him tae the motor. None ae us know wit tae say. He’s greetin wae tears streamin doon his cheeks n he’s just repeatin, Naw, naw, naw, naw, naw … ‘Cummon, son, there now, yir awrite, mind yir step.’ It takes the three ae them, Sergeant Muldoon, Finnegan n Danny, tae pull him tae the motor n stick him in the back. Big Muldoon nods lookin aw serious n gets back in the motor. ‘You lot are a fuckin state,’ he says oot the windae.

  The Roadrunner leans across fae the driver’s side anaw. ‘Oh n by the way, there’s more cars on their way up here. Might be a good time to make yourselves scarce.’ The windae slides up n they disappear.

  ‘Fuck yees think that wis aboot?’ Danny asks.

  ‘His maw’s been in a bad way, man. Ma maw told us aboot it.’

  ‘Think she’s deid?’

  ‘Fuck knows, man. Either that or she’s seriously no well. Polis wouldnae be oot lookin fur Broonie otherwise.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  The eld grey kirk is quiet n dark against the snow n we aw walk slowly n silently towards it. We bounce intae the eld section n sit quietly. A start rollin a joint painfully, cos ma arm is pure nippin n the blood is through the scarf. As the drink fae earlier fades ma pain gets worse anaw. Everyhin is fucked wae a capital F. A turn tae the boys, who ir passin a crumpled n damp joint roon. Merry Christmas, troops. We shake hands in the darkness n huddle in tae our rotation against the cold n the snow.

  A Shite Christmas

  A hud spent the early hours ae Christmas in casualty gittin stitches. Only after that wis A tae open ma pressies. A spent most ae the day playin ma new PS2 game. Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas, goin on rampages n gittin the polis after yi. Here yi kin just whack the stars-cheat in n that’s you, defeated the ends ae justice. A got ma blue Berghaus Mera Peak anaw n a couple ae score notes in cards. A got the grey Lacoste n the red Diesel aftershave n the new Ajax tracky. A’m happy wae that. A wid be smellin right fur the ladies n lookin minted. Berghaus n bottle ae wine doft. It’s the wan garment yi need tae survive the streets ae the west ae Scotland. Azzy boy in the blue Mera Peak. Quality.

  We’re in Stacey’s bit noo, in the Legoland estate. The two ae us ir leanin oot the windae upstairs smokin a joint before Christmas dinner. This is a sacred ri
tual ae ours n makes the turkey n roast tatties taste aw the better, pigs in blankets the lot. She’s git a black dress on n A’m wearin a long-sleeved checked shirt n jeans at ma maw’s behest. A’ve tae ‘cover that arm n not put people aff their dinner’ apparently. Twenty-three stitches A got. Ma face is lookin black n blue on the left side where the bottle hit me, ridiculous egg anaw. A wis aw achey n breaky when A woke up in the mornin. The hot shower stung like fuck, but A hud tae clean aw the shite oot ma arm, ooze n dirt fae the golfy. After that, ma maw demanded tae see it cos aw the blood in the bathroom n then it wis straight tae A&E at the Monklands.

  Big Eck is in hospital n Big Kenzie hus twenty-odd stitches anaw. Bailey n McColl ir stull in the cells. It’s aw over MSN. Eck wis lucky. They said another centimetre n it wis game over. Worst ae aw, Alice Broon hud been found lyin wae an empty bottle ae vodka n hud choked on hur sick. Dead n fuckin gone on Christmas. A dunno how tae feel aboot it aw. It’s pure madness. A’m thinkin aboot aftershaves n trackies n Wee Broonie is wakin up without a maw.

  Everywan is on MSN braggin aboot wit injuries they huv n didnae huv, who they hud battered n who’s gonnae get it as a result ae last night. It hud been a full-blown gang fight, but despite everycunt’s tales ae battles, they ir actually quite rare. Yi wur much more likely tae git caught or sneakied n done in aff a few cunts when yir on yir own. Waves ae paranoia aboot revenge n gittin done in or slashed keep whippin me. A’m sittin tryin tae ignore it n summon the boldness inside. A didnae really feel that bold the day.

  ‘Told yi, ya fucking idiot, told yi they wurnae to be messed wae!’ Stacey says.

  ‘A know yi did. Big Eck’s gonnae be awright.’

  ‘Aye, well, he very nearly wisnae. Murdered on Christmas Eve … do yees ever think ae yir poor maws? Angela wid never ae hud a good Christmas again if anyhin hud ae happened tae you. Twenty odd stitches, yir lucky yi didnae lose that arm. Think yir gonnae get a burd wae wan arm, ya daft bastard? Yir wee pal’s lost his maw n yooz ir oot causin it …’

  A tut n shake ma heed n she lifts a hand tae slap us. ‘Naw don’t. A’m sorry, cuz, ma face is fucked … don’t!’

  ‘Well, don’t be fucking cheeky then! Yir a daft wee laddie, Alan.’

  A roll ma eyes. She thinks she’s ma fuckin maw.

  ‘N don’t you worry, Rab’s had his arse kicked the day anaw.’ Could ae predicted that. Stacey wore the fuckin trousers in that wan.

  ‘Aye, did yi skelp his wee bum fur him?’ A say in an eld wuman’s voice.

  ‘Naw, A hut him a skud n you’ll get wan anaw, ya wee dick!’

  ‘Steady on, Stacey. A’m walkin wounded.’

  ‘Yi will be!’ she says n winks.

  Ma Aunty Abigail shouts fae doon the stairs n Stacey pulls me aff the bed. We both walk doon tae see ma aunt n uncle n ma maw huvin a wee drink. They aw look at Stacey n comment on hur dress. ‘You’re lookin lovely, hen,’ ma maw says smilin.

  ‘Cheers, Aunty Angela. You too.’

  ‘N here’s Rocky Balboa!’ Bill blares across the room.

  ‘Awright, Uncle Bill,’ A say, no amused at his wee joke.

  The prick is dancin aboot, kiddin on he’s boxin. ‘Don’t hit me, big man!’

  ‘Sit down, Bill, you big galoot!’ Aunty Abi says.

  ‘Merry Christmas tae yees,’ A say wae a painful smile, n sit doon.

  ‘Same to you, Alan.’

  ‘Aye, son, of course. Merry Christmas,’ he says, extendin a furry ham hock tae shake. ‘Yi want a wee beer?’ he asks, lookin at ma maw, who’s awready shakin hur heed. ‘Awright, awright. A can ae Bru then?’

  ‘Aye, that’ll be fine Uncle Bill, tah.’

  ‘Champagne for you, Stacey and Angela?’ Aunty Abi asks, pourin a bottle ae prosecco.

  Blue Crowns and Jackie the Bird

  It’s Hogmanay n we’re in Rab Ryans’ council flat. It’s a wee wan-bedroom n he’s git a big sound system n a widescreen tele fae crisis-loan candy. There’s two three-seaters facin each other wae the silver tele in the corner. The place is quite clean considerin but Stacey’s been stayin here anaw so that’s probably how. Hur n Rab ir in the kitchen sniffin lines. Yi always see the elder wans disappearin intae kitchens n bathrooms when there’s gear aboot. The stuff is forty quid a gram or three fur a hundred, so they couldnae be bangin lines oot fur aw the young troops. A git a wee cheeky Patsy but, cos A’m hur cuz. Rab went n got aw our drink oot the shop n took us a run fur swedgers anaw, so yi cannae grumble. There’s twenty-five blue crowns – thick, perfectly set ecstasy tablets – lyin on his coffee table. The tunes ir bangin n it’s half ten. Only an Excuse is on soon then Chewin the Fat, n the Hogmanay show on BBC One. Everybody watches them, but nae cunt remembers them cos we’re aw fuckin mad-wae-it by then.

  There’s me, Danny, Finnegan, Wee Kenzie, Addison, Broonie, Rab, Stacey, Monica, Patricia, Amanda, Big Kenzie n Whytey. Tunes ir blarin oot the system n we’re aw swallyin our first bottles n tannin cans anaw. We’re aw aboot tae take our first ecktos n git right oot our barnets. We aw huv reason tae celebrate the night. Big Eck hud woken up n seems tae be on the mend. He’s kept in fur observation but he’s defo gonnae make it. Me n Big Kenzie still huv our stitches in. Ma arm is healin up but it’s itchy n the gauze is fuckin stinkin. A hud been doon every day tae git it re-dressed n cleaned oot so it didnae go infected. Wee Broonie is weird. Yi kin see suhin’s changed inside our pal. He’s git a glazed look n his eyes huv been replaced wae two marbles wae a red swirl. The hurt hidden somewhere deep behind them.

  ‘Yass, troops! We’re gonnae be flyin shortly portly!’ Danny shouts. The pills huv just started their journey. Nae goin back noo. Orally ingested. Travellin doon yir gullet n oesophagus intae yir stomach. Mixin wae wine n beer. Absorbed through yir small intestine. Straight intae the bloodstream. Pupils dilate. Heart rate increases. Yi start sweatin. Momentary paranoia n feelings ae slight discomfort ir replaced wae a sense ae orgasm, euphoria. Senses ir increased n heightened. The couch yir sittin on feels good tae yir hands. The floor feels good tae yir feet. The tune playin oot the system sounds fuckin magic tae yir ears. Even yir fuckin baws tingle tae the beat when yi glance in the direction ae a burd. When yi inhale yi feel like yi kin breathe in the full fuckin room. Yir feet start tappin the rhythm n yir heed starts bobbin. Yi might feel sick as yi come up but yi don’t care cos yir flyin noo.

  Yi feel light, manoeuvrable, irritable, sexual, sensual. Yi huv overwhelmin feelins ae brotherhood wae yir own sex n absolute love n affection fur members ae the opposite sex. It turns no bad tae fuckin stunnin. Yi wanty kiss, cuddle n roll aboot in pleasure. Even a lassie yi barely know touchin yir skin or kissin yi feels like you’ve been wae hur forever, such is the romantic readiness ae the swedgers. Yi close yir eyes n just breathe in, at the peak ae that eckto mountain. The tunes ir carryin yi away somewhere else, takin yi tae heights higher than yi ever thought possible. Yir worries, fears n issues melt away tae nuhin. Yi kin tell aw yir secrets n no care, nae judgement here. Arguments aw resolved, those beautiful strings that bind us strengthened. The ecstasy flows through yir circulation n yir up dancin. Yir flyin high above the clouds n yir free, repeatin yirsel through drug-inspired confusion n trippin in yir ain heed. These parties last days n we’re locked in, curtains shut, more swally, more pills on this mad XTC journey intae chemicals n sound n the soul. Nae purgatory. Straight tae heaven on sharks, windmills, speckled shamrocks, playstations, crowns, cherries, smileys, pumas, rockets, Xboxes, Mercedes, lovehearts n fuckin Mitsubishi double-dunters.

  Only an Excuse has just finished. We’ve aw tried tae watch it, but we didnae git the jokes cos we’re aw fuckin fleein n disconnected fae the normal. Jackie Bird is on givin it smiles n sparkles. Wit a fuckin absolute stunner she is. This national treasure needs more recognition, a Jackie Bird Day or suhin. A wonder if she’s single. The Azzy Boy wid take hur oot fur hur lunch at Pizza Hut. Me n Jackie wid go aw the way – Bonnie n Clyde wan O two point five. Rab’s talkin somewhere in the distance aboot Chewin the Fat. A
’m heavy chewin ma jaw but A’m sittin back n chillin oot, ridin it, n noo A’m up dancin like a pro again, showin cunts how tae rave. Wee Broonie, Addison n Danny ir ma backup dancers n we’re aw ravin like fuck. Monica n Patricia jump up n start ravin n bouncin away. Everybody’s arms ir up in the sky n we’re flyin.

  A kin hear Stacey’s tellin me tae calm doon. ‘Wee Azzy’s cookin oot his barnet!’ she’s shoutin, laughin. We’re dancin like fuck. Floorfillas’ ‘Sister Golden Hair’ is playin n sounds strange n beautiful cos A’m fleein, pure different. Wee Broonie’s gouchin n A’m strokin the couch like a dug, cos the ripples in the fabric feel magic tae ma mad eckto spider fingers. Seriously but, huv yi ever stopped tae feel the ripples? Addison n Finnegan ir huvin a heart-tae-heart sittin on the flair. Monica is makin eye contact wae us. A think Patricia is anaw, but A could be mistaken. It’s probably doon tae these mad fuckin pills A’ve been takin.

  Jackie Bird’s dress looks like it’s shimmerin n the band’s playin faint n ghostly ceilidh music that’s makin me tingle. Time is just floatin by noo. Ma buzzin mind starts tae slow n A’m comin back intae maself. Everywan else is cookin, still dancin n fleein. PPK, ‘Resurrection’. Pure build up. The trance music is perfect fur these feelings n this drug. The beats huv layers like classical orchestras. The beat, the bass n the treble aw dancin the-gither makin its sweet symphony. Aw the layers givin colour tae our racin minds. The beat n pills cast a spell on yi. It’s supernatural aw this. The night’s a tragedy. A know A’m stull oot ma dial cos A’m talkin romantic. A feel more normal again noo. Still cookin but slowin gradually fae the mushroom-cloud come-up. Monica looks a wee bit oot it anaw. She’s took a couple n they’ve hit hur noo. Hur pupils ir massive n she looks gorjis. Naebody’s been near the toilet. Yi cannae pish on ecstacy cos hormonal changes in the body, apparently. Yi didnae want tae think aboot that in case it freaked yi oot. Yi need tae ride the wave. Breathe deep n just enjoy it.