Bill and the UFO8

Dalmuir Park was laid out like a doggy battlefield. Todger nosed at the impenetrable privet hedge close to the Park gates and peeked through at The Bowling Green and whined. Higher up, on a terrace, was the clubhouse for old age perishables. The non bowl playing foot soldiers’ seats were set out in straight lines, warm wooden benches, with a view of the greens; a place of club colours, cardigans,and shiny silver buttons, where oohing and ahing at each other could continue, like the test card music on BBC, over some shot they’d played a decade before.

Wendy flopped down in front of a ‘don’t walk on the grass’ sign, lit a fag, put an arm behind her head and drifted off. Phil sat at her feet, straight-backed, careful not to fall back against her leg, picking at a daisy and examining each petal in such microscopic detail he almost inhaled them. Bill didn’t know whether to sit down, or keep moving. He was on the run after all. He flung a stick for Todger to catch, whilst he thought about it, but the dog had never been much interested in that kinds of thing, choosing instead to do another shit, in front of the flowerbeds, were the grass was shorter than Angora wool. Roses were strategically placed quite close to each other to catch wind blown plastic bags, pages of The Daily Record, brown greaseproof sandwich and sweet wrappers. Wendy flicked a fag end towards the soil bed edging and sighed with contentment, shutting her eyes again to the world.

Rab scouted ahead, zigzagging behind shrubs and bushes, and looking back the way he’d come in case the Parky was about when Todger was doing his business. Dan, the Parky, was like the juvenile delinquent of The Bowling Green crew, young enough to keep working, but old enough to play the odd game of bowls. Time permitting. He had a peeked hat of authority like a policeman, but a green anorak like Summy’s mum. And it was his job to make people miserable when they were in Dalmuir Park. Cyclists had to dismount. Runners had to stop running. And young mums had to stop losing their kids and crying in his ear as if it was his fault. Dan had a walkie-talkie, which crackled and spilled out sound, when he waved it about like a kid’s toy, but it wasn’t clear with whom he was in touch. Rab figured he talked to himself, cupping his hands over his mouth and saying: ‘Over.’ Crackle. ‘Over.’ Crackle.

Rab, Wendy and Bill had already had a run in with the Parkie. They’d been down getting a drink of water from the fountain at the bottom of the hill and mucking about beside the bas-relief memorial showing John Guthrie, aged 15, snatching up a child and saving him from a train track. Wendy said she was almost the same age. Then she had lain down half on the path and half on the grass in front of it and Bill had tried to save her from the speeding train. But Wendy kept wrestling him to the ground with her legs, tickling him, and using her long bony fingers to do the typewriter on his chest, until he gave in and promised not to rescue her again. It must have been Bill’s girly screams that alerted the Parky.

Rab was minding his own business flinging little pebbles at the mallards, cooing and encouraging them to eat them - obviously, he’d already tried feeding them paper bags -, when he was grabbed by the arm and bundled over to where Wendy and Bill were sitting.

‘You should be ashamed of yourselves.’ Crackle. ‘Over.’ ‘That boy risked his life and was killed saving that child…’ Crackle. ‘Over.’ ‘…from a speeding train.’ Crackle. ‘Over.’

‘How can it be a speeding train?’ Wendy dared to look up at Dan the Parky.

Dan whacked her on the head. ‘A bit of respect son.’ He nodded towards the plaque. Crackle. ‘Over.’

‘I’m a girl.’

Dan whacked Wendy on the head again. ‘Don’t mumble son.’ Crackle. ‘Over.’ ‘Speak properly.’

‘She says she’s a girl.’ Rab shoulders in his Wrangler Jacket stiffened and he looked the Parkie in the eye.

‘I suppose you’ll be saying you’re a girl too. You youngsters just don’t know what you are.’ Crackle. ‘Over.’ Dan raised his hand to give Rab a smack, but changed his mind and let it fall. ‘In my day we’d have got a haircut.’ Crackle. ‘Over.’

‘She is a girl.’ Bill cut in. ‘Show him Wendy.’

‘Show him well, fuckin’ what?’ Wendy pushed Bill.

Bill fell backwards over the memorial railing. ‘Show him. Show him.’ He was stuck in the memorial flowerbed among the Buzy Lizzies and his mind was a blank, then he remembered, ‘show him your school photo, you looked like a girl in that.’ He got cautiously to his feet.

The Parkie looked up the hill to see if there were any kids lost, or anything else, that would take him away from…’ Crackle, ‘Over.’

Rab let out a deep long sigh, as if he’d been living with it forever, or holding his breath for about three minutes and forty seconds. ‘The thing I can’t understand is we cut over the train tracks all the time to get into the Park from that end of Dalmuir.’

‘Do you indeed.’ Crackle. ‘Over.’ Dan made an internal note of that by twitching his nose.

‘And we’ve never been hit by a train.’ Rab gestured toward the stick figure in the metal engraving. ‘How come he did? Ah mean in those days trains were that slow that horses and woman pushing prams could overtake them. So how come he didn’t just jump out of the way. Ah mean you’d need to fall asleep on the train track to get hit by a train. So was he sniffing glue or something?’

‘I’ll need a bit of help here.’ Crackle. ‘Over.’ Dan the Parkie was talking into his walkie-talkie. ‘You!’ He pointed at Wendy and pulled out a notebook. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Bill,’ said Wendy quickly walking away from him.

‘Stay where you are.’ Dan pointed the antenna of his walkie-talkie at her, ‘And I thought you said you were a girl.’ Crackle. Over.

Wendy ran up towards the pavilion. Rab turned and ran the other way. Dan reached out, and fumbling, dropped his notebook, and grasped Bill’s wrist. ‘Right. What’s your name?’ Crackle. ‘Over.’

Bill didn’t know what to say, so he just told him the truth, ‘I must be Wendy then.’ He grinned at Dan.

‘Fuck off,’ said Dan waving him away, ‘and get a haircut.’

‘I know your face,’ Dan shouted to their retreating backs, but muttered to himself, ‘they all look alike. Don’t even know they’ve been born.’