Pure Angst Page 2

  “Another bloody Donaldson. The joys. Come on, both of you little thievin bastards, shift it. NOW!”

  4

  The first thing that struck Billy was the size of the place. The living room was dominated by two black leather couches and a big coal fireplace. There sat Dougie with his feet up in a leather recliner, an Evening News splayed across his lap, while Lorraine scurried about in the kitchen. He was wearing big heavy dark brown doc martens that looked like boats and his thick gristly forearms were decorated in faded tattoos. He sat there, puffing away on a cigar, whisky in hand with seemingly not a care in the world.

  “Oh hiya son! This yer wee pal that ye’ve told me about?” said Lorraine eagerly as she appeared from her domain. She was a plump woman with a warm, friendly demeanour, yet when Billy looked at her he saw the same fear and raw nerves that had plagued his mother for so many years. She had a pretty face, rosy cheeks, and a head of permed brunette hair. “Dougie, we’ve got a guest.”

  “Hiya pal.”

  “Dae ye wantae stay an have somethin tae eat wae us darlin?”

  “Aw naw, Ah wouldnae want tae put ye out Mrs Donaldson.” He shuffled about nervously.

  “Nonsense! There’s plenty tae go round. George, away an set up a place fer yer wee pal.”

  The rich smell that came from the oven as Lorraine Donaldson served out the plates was like nothing Billy had ever experienced in his own house. He could have sat for hours just taking in that scent.

  “Dae ye like steak, Billy son?" said Dougie as he chewed on a juicy piece of meat.

  “Never had steak before Mr Donaldson.”

  “Dougie. Call me Dougie, son. Make me feel like a bloody school teacher here. Ye need tae eat lots ay meat at this age. Git some meat on those bones ay yours.”

  “Dougie stop it. Ye’ll give the laddie a complex.”

  “What? He’s a growin laddie. He needs his meat. How long ye steyed in Muirhouse Billy son?”

  “Just a few weeks.”

  “Aw aye. Where did ye stey before like?”

  “Wester Hailes. Ma dad got a joab at the pipes jist along the road so we moved.”

  “That right? An what is it ye wantae dae yersel then? In life.”

  “Dunno,” said Billy bashfully as he looked down at his plate. “Fireman mibbe.”

  “Aw aye. So ye like puttin out fires rather than startin thum?” said Dougie as Billy turned to George who had begun sniggering. It didn’t take him long to work out the source of amusement, given they had lit up a pile of tyres along the railway line a few days earlier, a stunt that had drawn three fire engines.

  Dougie turned to Lorraine with a confused look. “Was it somethin Ah says doll?”

  “Obviously a private joke.”

  Once the hilarity subsided there was a comfortable silence as they began tucking into their meals. The boiled potatoes were a far cry from Angie’s efforts, hard as doorstops, and the meat melted in his mouth, wasn’t tough or dry, just perfect. At twelve years old Billy had never tasted anything like it. It didn’t take long for the conversation to progress to Lorraine’s most popular topic, Maggie Thatcher. Billy looked up at her as she droned on about the Falklands and the mining industry, the loss of jobs. It was the same tiresome talk that he endured at home, boring him half to death. He noticed George quietly giggling away next to him, before looking across the table where Dougie was pretending to fall asleep at Lorraine’s side, his stubbled jaw resting against her shoulder. As Dougie pretended to snore, Billy coughed, trying his hardest not to laugh. Lorraine gave her husband a slap on the arm. “Ocht Dougie. It’s important these young laddies know what they’re dealin with.”

  Dougie threw his napkin on the table and groaned heavily. “They're young laddies doll. They wantae talk aboot fitba, Star Wars, girls. No bloody politics.”

  “Okay Dougie, maybe better they bury their wee heads in the sand then eh?” She stood up and began huffily gathering up plates as Dougie called after her.

  “Aw come here you!”

  Lorraine ignored him as he tried to grab hold of her waist, and disappeared into the kitchen. Dougie took a sip of his whisky before flashing a grin at the two young boys who were now in fits of laughter without Lorraine in the room.

  “Right laddies come oan. Dinnae wantae upset yer Mother, she means well.”

  “It was you that started it Dad.”

  Dougie threw his son a steely glare that was enough to silence him in an instant.

  “Anyway she’s got a point. Closin down aw these factories, killin off joabs fer the workin man, raisin unemployment. Puttin the squeeze oan us so they are. It’s up tae us tae take a stand. Fight tae build somethin better fer ourselves. By any means necessary at that.”

  Billy drained the last of his orange juice as the words rang true in his mind.

  “Got nothin against folk like yer father Billy son. Good honest hard-workin folk. That’s good. A man needs tae provide fer his family. It’s important. Question is whether ye settle for that or strive fer more, ye know? Take risks. See how far ye can push it.” Dougie shrugged his shoulders as he aimed a sly back-glance toward the kitchen. “Break the odd rule if ye need tae. Cause if ye want that wee bit extra naeone’s gonnae hand it tae ye.”

  Dougie sat forward and clenched a sturdy fist, exposing a faded, blueish anchor above his misshapen knuckles, in order to illustrate his point as he glared at Billy. “Got tae take it.”

  Billy held Dougie’s stern stare for several seconds. He could smell the alcohol on the gangster’s breath as he took in the wicked glint in his squinting eye.

  “Awrite son?” Dougie grinned widely, ruffling Billy’s blonde curtained hair as Lorraine appeared at the door.

  “Puddin boys?”

  5

  He didn’t notice her till it was too late. They collided at the gate, her going one way, him the other. It was a sight that was sadly all too familiar. The red eyes stained by sobbing, cheekbone puffed and swollen. Jack had obviously been at it again. Billy wondered what the excuse was this time. Was dinner shite? Moaning too much? Was she breathing too hard? It didn’t take much for him to loosen his hands. It never had. Whether it be fists, leather belt, or Jack’s favourite weapon of choice, the stick, it was something Billy had been forced to accept as part of his existence since he had been old enough to walk. Yet still, it didn’t make it any easier to take in the sorry sight that stood before him. Part of him felt guilty that he hadn’t been around enough of late, not that it would have made the slightest bit of difference if he had been. He looked up at her, feeling the temptation to ask if she was alright before stopping short in the knowledge that the words would be empty and pointless. Then just like that she had barged past him and she was gone. Probably away to spend the night with a friend or relative who would tell her over and over that she needed to leave. And Billy knew she’d be back within a day. Part of him wanted to grab hold of her himself and scream at her to leave him.

  He eased his way through the doorway, hoping he’d be able to get in and out without the old man noticing. He tiptoed down the hall and into his room to grab his striped turtle-neck sweater, the one he hated, but kept him warm all the same. It was still fairly light outside but the nights were coming in fast and he knew that it would be cold before long.

  He dragged the sweater over himself before slipping out of the bedroom and back down the hallway, but froze as he reached the front door.

  “BILLY!”

  His head dropped and his heart sank as he loosened his hand on the door knob, contemplating pulling it open and making a bolt for it.

  “Ah’m jist away oot Dad,” he responded as he tightened his grip, desperately seeking an escape.

  “No yet yer no. C’mere.” Jack was sitting on his favourite armchair, a glass of whisky in hand and a sad twisted look on his red face. Billy couldn’t tell whether it was shame, guilt, anger or a combination of different feelings. He didn’t doubt that his father might regret his actions from time to time, i
n quiet moments when there was time to reflect. He’d even overheard him weeping tears of embarrassment and desperation in an effort to prevent Angie from leaving him. But when it boiled down to it Billy wasn’t sure what he found more difficult to take, his mother’s weakness or the old man’s rage.

  “Where you gaun?”

  “Back oot tae see ma pals.”

  “That right? This hoose no good enough fer ye? These meals? Ah bust ma back tae pit a roof over yer heid an food in yer belly an yet yer never bloody here anymair.” Jack sat forward as his eyes darkened. Billy could tell he’d been hitting the whisky hard. It was in his voice and etched on his face. He knew he had to play his cards very carefully or it could be him getting skelped around the room next. He shuddered inside.

  “It’s no that... it’s, it’s.” His voice began quivering.

  “It’s what? Spit it oot son. Man up!”

  It’s you ya evil, cowardly, wife battering Fuck. YOU.

  “Mon then, out wae it! We no good enough fer ye anymore? That ye have tae run tae the Donaldsons every night? Well ken what?” Jack sat forward, slurped down the last of his whisky with his bruised and shaking hand and slammed it down on the coffee table. “Me an you are gonnae go up tae The Gunner an spend a bit quality time. Ah think it’s about time I introduced masel tae yer Uncle Dougie don’t you?”

  The air was thick with the fog of cigarette smoke as Billy wandered into the local Muirhouse haunt, The Gunner, behind his old man. The ceiling was low, the walls had little decoration other than a few framed pictures of the pub’s football team in action. There was an underlying feeling of tension and anger beneath the wisecracks and banter. It felt like his whole life had been a training ground preparing him for places like this. An elderly couple sat in silence, looking on as a grizzled, weary looking old-timer with a battered old acoustic guitar set up in the corner. Billy looked across to the other side of the pub where three laddies barely of drinking age huddled round a juke box, frantically pressing at buttons. A burly looking bartender bounded over as they entered the pub, halting Jack as he looked around.

  “Nae kids in here efter seven pal.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ah says nae kids efter seven. It’s like the OK Corral in here. If a fight breaks out an he gets caught in the crossfire its ma licence they’re lookin at. Either send um on his way or leave.”

  “Bobby.” A gruff voice bellowed from behind. The bartender’s stern eyes softened as he turned and saw Dougie standing there.

  “They’re fine.”

  “But Dougie, ma licence.”

  “Ah says, they’re fine.” Dougie repeated himself and held the bartender’s stare, forcing him to drop his head in defeat before wandering back to the bar like a schoolboy on his way to detention. Billy looked up at Dougie’s grinning face.

  “Awrite Billy son. This must be yer old man Jack, that right?”

  “That’s right aye,” said Jack as Dougie extended a hand.

  “Dougie.” They exchanged a firm handshake.

  “Wee Billy here comes over for dinner fae time tae time don’t ye son?”

  “Aye so Ah hear,” said Jack as Billy opened his mouth to respond.

  “Ye’d think he’d never had a meal in his puff the way he wolf’s doon they roasts.” Dougie turned for the bar. “What’s yer tipple?”

  “Thanks, but we’ll pay our own way.” Jack smiled cheaply, as Dougie stopped and turned, with an expression that suggested he wasn’t used to his offers being turned down too often. “Thanks all the same.”

  “Suit yerself. Billy see ye around wee man eh.” Dougie threw Jack a questioning look before retreating to a spot at the bar where his associates were standing. Billy glanced across the table as Jack sipped his whisky, staring up at the bar.

  “Cardboard gangster. I’ve eaten bams like that fer ma breakfast. Think he’s tougher than yer auld man dae ye?” Billy sighed. “Not a chance ye hear me?”

  “Aye Dad.”

  “Aye you would say that. Give it time.”

  Billy looked across at the old guitar player as he began plinking away at his rusty looking strings.

  For a brief moment Billy lost himself as he tuned into the words of a song he was sure he had heard somewhere before. He wondered who the old bearded stranger with the sad eyes was. Wondered what he was doing singing in a pub like The Gunner. He looked around the pub as people stopped their conversations to join in with the scratchy old voice. There was a chorus coming from the bar area where Dougie Donaldson was standing.

  Some of the women had a hard look about them. Three of them stood by the jukebox, wearing fed up expressions that suggested the guitar bored them, itching to get the latest hits back on. They had matching permed hair propped up with headbands, fags hanging from their lips, and large bangles dangling from their earlobes. They all chomped hard on gum as they struck fed up, cross armed poses, their brightly coloured jumpers all hanging off the one shoulder, with wide shiny black belts and leggings. They all looked so different to Angie, with her long dark skirts, and knitted jumpers. Dark, drab colours to match her sad features. Billy could only imagine what Jack would do to her if she turned up looking like these fascinating sorts. As the song drew to a close over a small chorus of claps, Billy jolted out of his daydream as Jack slammed his empty glass on the table. “Mon let’s go an get a chat with Dougie. Think it’s time Ah introduced maself. Properly.”

  Dougie was leaning against the bar as they approached, listening to Willie Graham, a 19-year-old loose cannon and one of Dougie’s main dealers. Willie had a pair of beady eyes that bulged out of a veiny cranium, with curly hair creeping down at either side. He stood there with his foot against the back of the bar wearing a look of pure menace, his thumbs tucked behind a set of black braces as he rocked back and forth on his black steel toe capped right boot. He had on a white and black skin tight striped top that complemented his black trousers well. He looked restless, ready for action as he chewed at his lip, flashing angry glares around the bar area.

  Gordon Trevor looked down and nodded at Billy as they appeared, having been introduced to him at George’s once. Gordon Trevor, or Big Goggs as he was known, was Dougie’s trusted enforcer. Standing at least 6 foot with a skinhead, a deformed nose, a set of broad, hulking shoulders and large spade-like hands it wasn’t hard for Billy to see why as he stood there lumbering slowly in a knee length brown leather coat. Willie turned to Dougie and began jabbering away.

  “So Ah wis like that tae um Dougie, where’s the fuckin money!? He says, Ah’ve no got yer money pal, fucko! Cracked um again wae this big vase man. One ay they big thick fuckers ken? Jist wouldnae smash Ah’m tellin ye...” Gordon nudged Willie firmly. He continued. “So Ah’m like, listen, Dougie’s wantin is money, cunt. Fucko, hit um again eh...” Gordon nudged him harder still.

  “Willie, we’ve got company ya wee faggot. A bit ay discretion eh?”

  “Ah dinnae ken who they are dae Ah?”

  Dougie turned as Jack stood there staring back at him.

  “Listen Ah didnae wantae come across rude before. It’s just Ah like tae pay ma own way ye know? Ah’ll take that whisky though if the offer’s still open.”

  “Sure. Nae problem.”

  After accepting his drink Jack turned to the restless stranger whose story he had interrupted. “Don’t mind me son, carry on. Finish yer story.”

  “Nah ye killed the moment didn’t ye.” Willie spat on the ground and looked away with disinterest.

  “So Jack Ah hear ye used tae be a boxer that right? Wee Billy wis sayin.”

  “Amateur champion up at Clovey, aye that’s right.”

  “Aye so why didn’t ye turn professional then? No good enough?” mouthed Willie.

  “Fergive him eh. Petulance of youth an all that.”

  Jack smiled as he sipped back more whisky. “Ah’ve seen ye in here before, as I blended intae the background in a corner somewhere.” There was a pause as they applauded another song, the ol
d stranger wiping some ale from his beard as Billy arched his head round. “Of course you wouldn’t notice a nobody like me would ye?”

  Dougie turned to the barman.

  “Bobby get this poor bugger another whisky will ye? Dinnae be so hard oan yersel Jack.”

  “Ach well seein as ye are all in such a story-telling mood. Ah’ve got a story fer ye.”

  “Ach hit the road Jack eh?” Willie’s laughter was silenced in a heartbeat by the back of Dougie’s hand stopping an inch from his jaw.

  He coiled back as Dougie daggered him. “Go’n then Jack, tell us a story.”

  “Well there’s this guy. He stayed up at Wester Hailes. Was a bit of a name up that way. Folk knew not tae fuck aboot. Then all of a sudden he gets a job, has tae uproot his family an leave fer the money. So he moves tae Muirhouse. Nobody knows who he is, he carries on goin aboot his daily job. Meanwhile his son strikes up a friendship. Starts spendin mair an mair time oot the hoose. Tae the point where the poor guy starts wondering whether beneath it all, his own cunt son is startin tae look up tae his friend’s faither wae mair respect than he does his own. So it’s round about this time that the man in question realises that life’s gotten boring. An he’s no longer interested in just blending intae the background. Realises that if he’s gonnae get some proper respect fer himself in this new area, he’s gonnae have tae go right tae the front ay the line, and earn it.” Jack fixed a stare on Dougie as he clenched his fists.

  Billy felt dizzy as he looked up to see Willie Graham edging forward clutching an empty bottle and Gordon Trevor standing there, arms crossed.

  Dougie smiled as he took a long draw from his cigarette. “Is that right.”

  “Aye.”

  Billy watched as a smiling Dougie stubbed his fag out in the heavy ashtray and barely had time to blink before the same ashtray came crashing into his father’s face, tiny bits of glass flying everywhere. His heart skipped a beat as Dougie brought the ashtray crashing down on the top of Jack’s head with all his might, forcing his knees to buckle. As he crumpled to the floor an eager Willie Graham tore in from the side and unleashed a dull boot to the face, bursting Jack’s mouth wide open as a string of blood and saliva sprayed the pub floor.