grimms39

Tony hunch-shouldered, tethers himself like a human-shaped balloon on the edge of familiar things, the chair his da usually sits in, watching the telly, even though it’s a broken box on spindly legs, the screen a blank and dusty grey-green bowl, capturing no dreams. Night creeps like a jenny-long-legs into the room, in the swish of traffic, in the beat of feet and heat of voices inside the tenement, inside his head. When the door chaps he springs up, his lanky legs realised from the spell that froze his limbs. But half way down the lobby he already knows it’s not his da and who is at the door.

‘Whit took you so long?’ Angela’s hair is a tuggy haystack, and like Tony, she wears indoors an outdoor, musty smelling, duffel coat. Hers is too small and her spindly arms stick out like line- drawings. She brushes past him, stomping into the house. She stops at his room door, peering in at crumpled blankets. She spins on her heels, studying his face, ‘you’ve been greetin’,’ she whispers, her mouth falling open. Terror finds a space in the blue orbits of her eyes and her head whips round and she moves closer to Tony, sheltering behind his legs. ‘Where’s Dermot?’

‘Dunno.’ Tony sniffs and swallows. Then he breaks. Sobs fill his mouth and he can’t breathe for crying and moaning. He crumples sliding down the wall and sitting on the linoleum floor his tears soaking into polyester of his school shirt.

‘There, there,’ Angela says, patting him on the shoulder, a hitch in her voice and tears in her eyes.

He slaps his arms around her and she leans in and warmth and cuddles find a childish companion and a hideout in each other, as their hands meet in a strange dance.

‘Don’t be sad, he’ll come back,’ she says, a soft, splutter sounding in the nape of his neck. ‘Unless the monsters get him.’ She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand.

Tony doesn’t hear the last part. His head is too busy to listen. ‘Is there something wrang wae me?’ he asks. ‘Naebody wants to be with me.’

The crow of Karen’s cry comes from through the walls. ‘Angela, Angela, Angela, where ur yeh? Yeh, better get up here now or I’ll skelp your arse.’

Angela pulls away from Tony, her cheeks scarlet with heat and her eyes flicker towards the door. ‘I better go,’ she says, ‘or Jaz’ll kill me’.  

Tony waits until she’s gone until he too goes out. His first stop in Mac’s on Dumbarton Road. He wait until a man in a denim jacket opens the pub door and swaggers out, the hubbub and smell of fag smoke left behind him. Heads turn and look at a half-pint adult with bemused glass-eyed expressions while Tony wedges the door open and scans the room. ‘Hi!’ the woman behind the bar shouts, good-naturedly, but he’s already turned away. He finds himself crossing the road at the traffic lights and heading into the unfamiliar territory of the white houses. The thought of looping back the way he came is too much like giving up. He keeps to the outskirts skirting busy well-lit street, creeping along hedges and bushes and crosses the bridge over the canal, the smell of water whipped by wind and rain rising up to meet him. Everything becomes clearer as he runs in the darkness along the embankment, if he keeps looking his da will be waiting for him, just around the next bend. A dog rushes towards him, barking, its eyes the only brightness in the night and, for a second, he think it’s Blodger. The shape of a woman wearing a raincoat and plastic hood appears out of the dimness ahead. ‘Tito,’ she shouts, ‘Tito’. The dog retreats at once, back to her side, in a way Blodger never would. Owner and dog stand on the overgrown weeds, watching, abdicating much of the path for him to pass, as if he’s liable to bite. Their silence pushes him on.

Shivering his coat grows heavy with rain. His shoes are soggy on his feet. Socks become inkpots that leech into his heels, rubs pink raw and red. The tenements across from the canal are a familiar landmark and the road soon comes into view. He continues walking. Instead of turning left, back towards home, head down, he turns right. The beat of each step is a reminder of cold sorrow that if he gives up his da will never come home. He has to keep looking, and the distance between the next bin, the next lamppost and set of traffic lights shortens and is left behind his head bows and he grows more weary. Outside pubs, such as Connelly’s he passes clusters of customers, last orders and going home, but it’s not until he leaves behind the Yoker ferry and the chippy and streets grow quiet that anyone speaks to him.

‘Where you goin’, wee man?’ The voice is a rasp, from a black beard, a man stepping out of a close and into his path.  Head swivelling, the man’s eyes jump like brown bugs up and down the rain swept streets around Dumbarton Road.

‘Hame,’ Tony says, and keeps walking into the wind towards Scotstoun. ‘My da’s waitin’ on me.’

‘Where’s hame?’

Tony hears the swishing sound of the man’s raincoat. A broad stubby hand falls on his shoulder, thumb and index and middle fingers brown and yellow with nicotine.

‘Hing on a minute wee man and I’ll take yeh.’

Tony pulls away and runs with his head down and the man’s feet staccato behind him hurrying to catch up.

‘Ya, wee bastard,’ the man shouts as he’s left behind.

Out of the side of his eye Tony notices a blue and white Panda car travelling in the other direction, towards home, towards Clydebank and Dalmur. A few minutes later the police car swooshes into the pavement ahead of Tony. The passenger-side door opens and a policeman pulls on his hat as he steps out into the rain, a blue uniformed barrier, in front of him.

‘Where do you think you’re goin’ this fine evening?’ the policeman asks, in a jokey tone.

Tony shakes his head inside his duffel coat hood. ‘Naewhere,’ he mumbles and muffles. ‘I’ve no’ done anythin’.’

The policeman crouches, large brown eyes study Tony’s face. The policeman has a big nose and red cheeks and looks cheerful as if everything he sees wants to make him laugh. ‘I’m no’ sayin’ you have son, but it’s such a horrible night, you’d be daeing me a big favour if you got into the car with us and we gave you a lift.’

Tony nods in agreement and then starts greeting. The policeman slides his seat forward so that Tony can climb into the back of the car. It’s warm inside the car, a cigarette in the ashtray, and the police walkie-talkie on the dashboard crackles into life.