The Young Team Read online

  The countdoon begins. Jackie is countin backwards doon fae ten. She looks so fuckin stunnin n A want tae gee hur a kiss fur the bells. Sorry, Monica doll, there’s only wan woman fur me, ma Lanarkshire belle. Just Azzy boay feelin that pure eckto love n that. Never mind Robert the Bruce, fuckin Jackie the Bird, know wit A mean?! We’re aw on our feet jumpin aboot goin mad. Everybody’s shakin their heeds, arms n arses. ‘OoooOoooOoooO!’ EIGHT. A catch Patricia lookin at us again oot the corner ae ma eye. She gives me a wee fly wink. Monica’s git hur arm roon me n she’s cuddlin intae ma side restin hur heed on ma shoulder. It feels like electricity when she touches us n A’m 99 per cent sure A love hur and Jackie, la mia bella, ma cherie, ma darlin. A love you tae. SIX … FIVE. Heed buzzin. THREE … TWO … WAN …

  HAPPY NEW YEAR, YA CUNTS!

  Dead or Alive

  2005

  Big Harold McKenzie is a bear. He’s git a Celtic badge tattooed on his chest. There’s eld IRA wans anaw, a sunburst n EIRE wae a masked gunman wae a rifle on his arm n shoulder. He’s worked on the roads his full life in a tarring squad n kicks aboot in rigger boots n a hi-vis vest constant. Harold is always tanned n built solid cos ae it, wae a big baldy napper n aw muscle mass n a thick neck. The big man enjoys a bottle ae wine just as much as us n there’s always a Club cigarette hangin oot the corner ae his mouth. They’re strong fags n if he took a Mayfair aff yi, he always complained that he couldnae git a draw ae it. He’d rip aff the brown filter n stick the tightly rolled end in his mouth n spark the other raggedy side. A’m no sure where he came fae originally but he’s git CYT tattooed on his arm under wan ae his Republican tattoos. He hud been hard on Big Kenzie as a wee boy, n as a result Tam ended up tough as nails. They hud been softer on Wee Kenzie n he hud never amounted tae the fame ae his brother. Maybe it’s hereditary or maybe it’s genetic. Nature n nurture n that. Fuck knows.

  Big Harold is rootin aboot in the shed, blindin n cursin as he rattles eld paint tins n brushes n shovels. A see a spade n a hoe fallin on his builder’s arse n him cursin like fuck at it. Me n the two brothers ir standin tryin no tae laugh. Their shed is a treasure trove ae gardenin n work materials procured fae a variety ae places and in creative ways. The lawnmower’s wire is tangled roon the extension cable n is formin an orange web. Harold is the big juicy fuckin fly caught in the middle. ‘Cumeer, ya bastard!’ he says without pausin. There’s an almighty crash fae the shed. A go tae poke ma heed roon the wee wooden door, Big Kenzie shakes his heed n lights two fags in his mouth n passes us wan. ‘THEREYIRTHERE,YAWEECUNT,’ Harold says aw in the wan word. Another crash n bang. He pulls oot a brown can ae creosote, two big thick brushes n two pairs ae red plastic gloves wae a material bit on the bottom. He sticks them in a bin bag n gives them tae me.

  ‘Cheers fur that, Harold,’ A say, lookin at his big red face fae bendin.

  ‘Nae bother, son. They’re wee cunts dain that. Git yir arses up there n git it sorted.’ He hands us a hard wire brush. ‘Mind fuckin brush it furst, eh? Dinnae be tryin tae paint over it, it’s only a varnish creosote but it’s aw A’ve goat.’

  We aw nod a thanks n start walkin up tae the top park. There’s nuhin tae it really. Just two swings n a wee chute. This isnae our real haunt. The weans ae the scheme tended tae huv this park tae themselves n yi often seen a squad ae maws wae prams here natterin n smokin fags. Yi used tae git told aff fur wrappin the swings roon the frames when yi wur a bit younger n hunted fae hangin aboot this wan. We aw shifted doon the bottom park after that. Yi love yir wee park n dens when yir a wee guy but suhin changes when yi enter yir teenage years n yi just wanted tae smash them up.

  We reach the top park n clock it. A wooden fence, flakin n exposed, runs the length ae the back perimeter ae the park. The message is scrawled in four-foot white spray-painted letters.

  KENZIES, AZZY, BROONIE – DEAD MEN WALKING

  Y TOI IN YER AREA!

  Big Kenzie laughs n marches up tae it. ‘Fuckin shoddy work, boys. Typical lazy YTB job!’ We’re no really laughin. That twinge ae paranoia has spread through us. There’s nae names left, but we knew fur sure they hud been here, a full squad up lookin fur us. Big Kenzie pulls oot a roller tray fae his bag n starts pourin the creosote over it. It splashes ontae the paint tray in big fat glugs. He hands me a glove n paint brush n Wee Kenzie the wire brush. ‘Mind yi arms n eyes noo, boays. The eld creosote kin be nippy.’ It smells like fire, pure brimstone in yir nostrils, thick chemicals chokin yi, but it takes me back years tae ma gran’s shed. We start sloppin the thick brown liquid aw over the fence n Wee Kenzie scrapes the hard wirey brush against the flakin surface n scrubs the paint aff till it’s dusty n faded. The dark brown creosote covers the remnants ae the paint n our death threat begins tae disappear. A glance towards Wee Kenzie, whose face must be like a mirror image ae ma own. This wis far fur them tae come n we knew that.

  ‘Right boys, nice even brush strokes noo! Aw in the wan direction!’ Big Kenzie says wae a fag hangin oot his mouth, laughin casual. The two ae us ir lookin at him. ‘Wit?’ he says wae a shrug. Wee Kenzie goes back tae scrubbin the plank wae the wire brush.

  ‘Dae yi no care, Tam?’ A say.

  He turns n gees me a look n A see his sore-lookin scar. ‘Azzy, wee man, we aw care. But it’s no just a case ae carin or no. A’m no gonnae sit n shite maself fae these fuckin cunts. Bit ae paint’s no gonnae hurt us.’ Big Kenzie’s face hud healed but it left him wae a big tan mark, ear tae fuckin lip. He lits a couple ae days’ stubble grow in before he shaves noo n often hus a patchy beard tae hide the mark.

  ‘You’re a daft cunt, Tam,’ Wee Kenzie says.

  We both turn tae look at him, surprised. He hud barely spoke aw day.

  ‘Wit you talkin aboot, kid?’

  ‘Yir no invincible, ya stupid prick! Dae yi no realise you’ve broke ma maw’s fuckin heart comin hame wae a face like that? It scares hur tae look at yi noo!’

  ‘WELL, FUCKIN PARDON ME FUR GITTIN SLASHED! Ya wee fuckin dick!’

  ‘If yi hudnae started wae Div n Matty it wouldnae huv happened!’

  ‘You listen tae me, wee bro. They cunts ir fuckin animals n if it hudnae happened tae me it wid ae happened tae wan ae yooz. So A’m fuckin glad it happened tae me. Yees ir still wee guys, man, A wid ae felt bad.’

  ‘Mate, they’ve no heard the last ae that. They’re fuckin owed fur you n Eck.’

  ‘Azzy, you’re gonnae end up gettin it as well. Two ae yees hink yir mental.’

  Big Kenzie turns n slaps his wee brother’s face a fuckin beauty. ‘Fuckin man up, ya wee turd yi! Me n Azzy didnae fuckin start this but we’ve git the fuckin baws tae end it. A’m the tap fuckin man aboot here!’

  Wee Kenzie’s ragin, holdin back tears. ‘WELL YOU KIN FUCKIN TELL MA MAW WHEN YI KILL SOMEBODY! COS A’M NO, YA PRICK!’

  ‘John, fuckin calm doon, mate. A know yi got a fright when A got slashed but yi cannae just git hut n that’s it over n done wae. A’ll always needty watch noo n so the fuck wull yooz. Yees ir fuckin YTP noo, boays. It’s never gonnae be over. Yees wull fight wae these cunts tae yees drap deid. TELLIN YEES. Yees wull be huvin pitched battles wae yir fuckin zimmer frames n walkin sticks as chibs in the nursin home. MEER YOU, YA TOI BASTARD, I’M HUVIN YOU!’ Big Kenzie dances aboot holdin an imaginary zimmer.

  Wee Kenzie is smilin noo but sparks a fag n smokes it in a huff. ‘Well, wit we gonnae dae then?’

  ‘We’re goin doon the fuckin Toi the night tae dae a wee mural ae our ain! Art Attack time, bhoy-ohs!’

  ‘Fuckin too right, ma man!’ A say, laughin.

  ‘TOI BOIZ, WANTED. DEAD OR ALIVE. YEEE HAAA!’ Big Kenzie shouts, swingin his cap aboot like a cowboy n makin pistols wae his fingers.

  Lessons

  The classroom is eld n flakey. There’s a muddle ae desks n chairs, some newer faded plastic wans n eld wooden things fae nineteen-canteen. They’re stuck the-gither wae chewin gum n bear the scars ae aboot twenty years ae graffiti atop graffiti. The things ir boggin n huv the faint smell ae sta
le mint n Atomic Apple Hubba Bubba. We’re in English, fourth period, which is always a bad wan. Everycunt is buzzin tae git oot fur lunch n dae witever yir dain. We couldnae gee a fuck aboot Macbeth. It’s the first day back n everywan is in a pure downer. The rain is runnin doon the big plastic windaes. The only glass wans in the school ir the wans oot ae safe reach ae balls n stones.

  A sit n stare oot these big dirty plastic windaes every day, dreamin aboot the future n ma life. A fantasise aboot burds, adventures n stuff that A want, like motors n that. It vaguely occurs tae me that the shite the teacher is rabbitin on aboot kin git me aw these things, but the thought ae actually listenin n learnin it n dain good fries ma nut. The minute A git interested in suhin, the eld dusty grammar books come oot n A feel lost n throw in the towel. She’s talkin aboot Macbeth, givin it murder, ghosts, witches, castles n A’m like fair doos fuck that dis sound passable. Then she tells us it’s a fuckin Shakespeare play. We’ve git the book in front ae us but A cannae read a fuckin word ae it. Somecunt shouts, ‘Miss, A hink A’m dyslexic!’

  Even when yi try n pure concentrate some banger shouts suhin daft n makes yi laugh or yi drift intae the ether n start clock watchin n glancin doon at yir mobile under the desk. Ma heed just starts buzzin aboot wae Monica n how healthy she is n how much A like hur … n stuff we could be up tae. Then A’m thinkin aboot the troops n the YT or A’m oot in the corridor again fur talkin or disruptive behaviour.

  Ma teacher is aboot fifty. She’s an elder woman wae scraggy hair n thick specs, Mrs McLaughlin. She has on a black cardie n a light blue blouse wae a long black skirt n heels. She’s rattlin the eld black board wae a bit ae chalk. ‘Miss, A thought yi couldnae mention Macbeth. Is that no bad luck or suhin?’ A ask hur, rememberin suhin A’d heard years ago.

  ‘Impressive, Alan. Some thespians won’t utter the name of the play in the theatre in fear of bad luck!’

  ‘Wit’s a thespian?’

  ‘Azzy called the teacher a lesbian!’

  Laughs aw around. McLaughlin looks ragin. ‘Enough, Mr Addison! Enough of that language this instant!’

  ‘Sorry, Miss, A didnae hear yi right! Wit is a thespian then?’

  ‘It’s an actor, Paul, a theatrical actor. Now, back to Macbeth. Mr Williams was correct. There is a very real superstition about pronouncing the protagonist’s name in the theatre where the production is being performed …’

  ‘Miss, wit’s a protractoragonist?’ a lassie shouts fae the back.

  ‘It’s a lead character, Julie. The play is referred to as the “Scottish Play”, and in rehearsals they will call the protagonist the “Scottish Lord” or the “Scottish King” in fear of repeating his name. They even say in productions where this hasn’t been followed there have been reports of bad luck and even deaths. If you believe in that kind of thing! Can anyone give any reasons why they think this may be the case?’

  ‘Cos Shakespeare is heavy gay!’

  An eruption ae laughter.

  ‘No, Alison. The Bard’s sexual orientation isn’t relevant here. Anyone else?’

  ‘It’s actually because of the witches,’ a wee smart cunt doon the front says.

  ‘Very good, Jonathan. Please go on.’

  Addison catches ma eye n we git a wee chuckle. Aw the cool cunts sit swingin on their chairs at the back ae the room. Aw the mad geeks sit at the front wae their heads doon answerin questions n tryin no tae git in trouble. We just try tae git a laugh n no git a referral. A’m only on a doggers card the noo so A didnae huv the eld A, B or C rating system. A hud, historically, hud a wee extra note, behaviour-related, written even on the doggers card which only asked fur a signature tae confirm yir attendance.

  ‘It’s because the original dialogue was thought to have been real spells and mentioning witchcraft was seen as a bad omen.’

  Someone is makin pigeon noises wae cupped hands n a paper aeroplane comes flyin overheed like Concorde. School aboot here is a constant circus.

  ‘It’s coz, YER MAW!’

  Everywan is pishin themselves again. Jonathan hits a red neck n puts his heed doon.

  ‘Enough! Well done, Jonathan.’

  ‘How come we’re no dain Our Day Out? The other classes git tae dae that! We git hit wae Shakespeare!’

  ‘Because you have the privilege of having me for an English teacher. Our Day Out is beneath you all!’

  ‘Well we cannae understand this, Miss!’ Alison says.

  ‘Perhaps if you all opened your ears and closed your mouths, you might do a bit better.’

  ‘It wis wrote aboot a thousand year ago!’

  ‘It was written four hundred years ago …’

  ‘Our Day Out wisnae written that long ago!’

  ‘For goodness sake, will you forget about that silly play! You are a middle section deemed capable of reading something a little challenging. Macbeth may be difficult, but it is at least worthy of our attentions! Now turn to act one, scene one. What kind of drama is Macbeth?’

  ‘An eld boring yin!’ somebody shouts.

  ‘No, actually, it’s a tragedy.’

  ‘Tragedy! When yir pants fall doon and yir arse is broon, it’s tragedy!’

  ‘Enough! Now if anyone else talks out of turn, they will be heading to Mr McGiver’s office for a long chat about Shakespeare over lunch!’

  Fuck that, A think. A’m envisionin ma chips n curry, that savoury delight wae the sweet caress ae ma wee bottle ae Irn-Bru. A’ll smoke a wee fag after it doon the Smokers’ Corner n A’ll be happy as larry. Our first day dain Shakespeare n we huvnae even opened the first page. This is the way most classes go. Unless yi huv a scary bastard ae a teacher that kin control their class. The proper eld-school teachers ir decreasin every year. Aw the new wans ir different. The young wans ir too busy havin yi make posters or watch videos. Givin yi wee star stickers on a fuckin achievement board. Dynamic approaches or some shite. The eld wans made yi copy oot texts n read the eld dusty books oot the supply cupboard. Either way, yi learn fuck aw.

  The bell rings n we aw grab our bags n head fur the door. ‘Mr Williams, will you please wait behind!’ Everybody oohs n ahs on their way oot the door. A let oot a big sigh n stand in front ae the blackboard. She marches over n closes the door. ‘Sit, please,’ Mrs McLaughlin says, pointin at the front desk. A dae as A’m told, still thinkin aboot ma lunchtime munch n the fuckin queue that’s gonnae be formed in the wee shop noo. Every day the poor bastards in the shop ir tryin tae feed the five thousand n it’s a riot. She’s still wipin the fuckin blackboard. Hurry up, man! A’m thinkin in a wee huff.

  McLaughlin finally turns and starts, ‘Alan, this last year I’ve seen some real potential in you. Have you thought about next year and what you want to do after school?’

  ‘Naw, no really, miss,’ A say, glancin at the door.

  ‘Do you want to leave and do nothing, as most of your pals will?’

  ‘A dunno wit A wanty dae, miss.’

  ‘Next year, your Standard Grades will determine how your life plays out. I’m going to put you forward for the credit exam. How does that sound?’

  ‘Sounds hard!’

  ‘Of course it will be hard, but I think with the help of your writing folio and a little work, you’ll have a decent shot at it.’

  Much as A’m fuckin dyin fur ma chips n the sweet tender silky smoothness ae ma Irn-Bru, A’m inclined tae listen tae folk tryin tae help me. It wisnae a regular occurrence so A’m no gonnae throw it back in hur face. ‘Aye, A’m listenin, miss.’

  ‘Good. English may not be of particular appeal to you, but you show some real talent. Have you any other interests, subject-wise?’

  ‘A like history n politics. A like talkin aboot politics!’

  ‘Do you do History or Modern Studies?’

  ‘Naw, A chose PE n Woodwork instead, n Geography fur some reason.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. I can speak to your guidance teacher and get you changed if you are prepared to do the extra work. You’re more than capable and I’m
sure Mr McGiver would support me if you demonstrate a genuine interest.’

  ‘Fair doos, miss. A suppose A could drap Woodwork, n dae Modern Studies.’

  ‘Mr Williams, let me tell you something. You could do anything in this life – but I don’t see you as a tradesman somehow. Do we understand one another?’

  ‘Aye, miss.’

  ‘You’re not aware of your academic capabilities, but I take an interest in students like that. Ones like Jonathan will naturally do well. However, ones like you, Mr Williams, can go either way.’

  ‘Wit yi mean by that?’

  ‘Your friend, Mr Addison. He comes from a well-off family, I know his mother. He will probably go to uni and won’t break a sweat doing it. You have the potential for great things and it’s time you realised it. It will be harder for you, but so, so much more worthwhile if you achieve it.’

  We share a look fur a minute. A gee hur a nod n she glances towards the door tae let me know A’m dismissed.

  ‘Aye cheers again, Miss McLaughlin,’ A say as A dash fur the door.

  A keep eyes open fur Toi or Fleeto wans n swagger roon tae the Smokers’ Corner alone fur a snout n patch lunch. Broonie n Addison wid awready be doon n back up wae the few other cunts we ran aboot wae. There’s aw the younger wans at our school fae the Team anaw, the wee guys. The tap man oot aw them is Wee Lucas Toffey. He’s a solid wee cunt n is gonnae be wan ae the tap men when he grows up. He’s a popular, good-lookin kinda wee character n always hus the nice burds floatin aboot him. He’s only in first year but hus the swagger n the style. Yi kin just tell who’s gonnae be who. His wee crew is made up ae him, Carlyle, Gunny, Briggy n Dalzell. They five ir the next generation. They look up tae us like we did tae Big Kenzie n Eck, Taz n Ryans, even Whytey n McColl n that. Yi need tae look oot fur the young troops below yi, just like aw the elder wans looked oot fur us – don’t bully them just tae make yirsel look mental. A think aw the wee guys ir cool as fuck. Mad tae think we’re their elder wans.