Park Strife

The wind’s howlin doon the street an a flurry ay snow swarms the place, pepperin the grun wae a light coverin. A wee sparra catches ma attention, tenaciously fightin its waiy through the bitin winter wind until it finally lands oan the wires that hing between the street lights, next tae a pair ay moss covered gutties that huv been hingin up there fur as long as ah kin remember. Adidas Tango Kick if ah’m no mistaken - standard eighties fare.

The metallic rattle ay an empty can rollin alang the pavement seems tae echo aff the waws ay the tenements oan either side ay me as ah approach. It trundles alang, rattlin away, afore McDade’s heel intervenes an crushes it flat against the asphalt. Pearcey’s staunin next tae him, airms wrapped roon himsel, shakin like a shitein dug. ‘It’s fuckin baltic man.’ he sais. Nothin gets by him. Sharp as a fuckin circle, the cunt.

‘It’s fuckin February ya prick an yer just wearin a trackie tap!’ McDade sais, his intolerance fur him etched acroass his face. ‘If ye don’t know it’s gonnae be baltic in the middle ay February then yer mare ay a fuckin daftie than ye look.’ Pearcey shakes his heid in grim acceptance ay the statement an looks away assumin his default position ay shitebag. He’s long since gied up staunin up fur himsel. They hud their maist recent square go aboot a year ago an McDade punched his cunt in, ever since he’s went intae himsel; no quite as vocal as he wance wis. He used tae fight like fuck, the wee man, but he stoapped growin when he wis aboot fifteen. It’s been the law ay diminishin returns since. ‘Any skins? Ah’ve goat a hauf dig.’ he sais, tryin tae move the conversation oan.

Ah shake ma heid an look tae McDade who shrugs his shoulders an hauds his hauns oot in the universal - whit ye lookin at me fur? - gesture. ‘Who rattled your cage anywaiy?’ ah sais tae him ‘Ye oan yer period or sumhin?’

‘Some junkie bastart blagged ma wee brur’s bike. He only just goat it at Christmas there.’ he sais, screwin his eyes up, growlin at me like its ma fuckin fault.

‘Sake mate, that’s pish. Dae ye know who it wis?’ ah sais.

‘Naw, but ah seen him. Ah fuckin held the door ay the close open fur him. How wis ah supposed tae know it wis ma wee brur’s bike? Ah wis pished.’ Ah hud tae fight the compulsion tae burst oot laughin at the stupit cunt.

‘Aye, gen up? When wis this?’ ah sais, impressed wae ma self-control.

‘Last night when ah goat hame fae the boozer efter watchin the gemme. Ah left ma da wae his mates an ah came hame masel.’

‘Fuck sake mate. Sore yin.’ ah sais.

 

The trees creak and twist above us as we stoat intae the park, their barren, naked branches swayin in the cauld winter wind. It looks clean an fresh, the snow sanitisin the landscape.

We staun, surveyin the slope doon tae the burn, tryin tae see the obvious waiy doon. ‘Piece ay piss.’ McDade sais, edgin forward, keepin his centre ay gravity low, graspin at weeds an exposed tree roots tae steady himsel. His technique, lackin in grace as it is, works an we’re soon at the bottom ay the hill. Pearcey’s drapped the hash an is frantically pattin himself doon an turnin oot his poakits. ‘Ah’ll boot your baws if ye’ve loast that.’ McDade spits, nonchalantly. Ah leave the two ay them tae sort it oot between them an head tae the big tree at the bank ay the burn. It’s hollowed oot at the bottom an is perfect fur settin a wee fire.  

Fuckin weird lookin, like a fireplace; the trunk it’s chimney - except it’s no. It disnae seem right ah don’t think; that this livin thing that’s stood here fur years an grown tae such stature, should be burnt - ritualistically and gradually at the base, at the very roots where it started its long vertical journey - by indifferent cunts like us.

The inclement weather conditions are the decidin factor the day though, so ah boot fuck oot ay a widden pallet that’s been used as a makeshift seat an get a fire gaun. ‘Did yies find it?’ ah shout tae the other two who ah kin hear, still bickerin like a couple ay auld tarts.

McDade’s took his cap aff an is tryin tae shield his lighter wae it, haudin it oot in front ay him as though it’s gonae - in any conceivable waiy, help.

Pearcey’s oan aw fours, scuttlin aboot like a gumsy, rabies ridden baboon that’s just tumbled through Sports Division. ‘Ah’ve goat it!’ he sais, haudin the meagre sliver ay soapbar oot in front ay him in his haun like he’s haudin this week’s winnin lottery ticket.

As much as ah recognise the pathetic nature ay his joy - that his life (an mine by extension) is so devoid ay any purpose or direction, that bein reacquainted wae a recently departed fifteen poun bit ay hash elicits such a reaction - ah hud tae admit it wis a result. Nae danger.

He’s oan the ball, Pearcey, awready burnin the hash oan tae the perforated lid ay the gless boattle ay Irn-Bru fae the bucket that’s planked there fur those in the know.  Rammin the cunt full tae the brim, he burns it again, gently liftin the boattle up, still burnin the hash as he goes, resultin in a thick, chalky soup ay smoke swirlin aboot inside the boattle, trapped in its gless prison. He offers it oot tae us. ‘Gies that!’ McDade sais, snatchin it aff him.

‘That’s whit ah wis dain, ya prick.’ Pearcey, no unreasonably, replies as McDade sooks the milky hash smoke intae his lungs. ‘Fuck sake man, that’s a dull yin.’ he sais, his voice noticeably lower in pitch. We aw take a dig ay it - twice, finishin the hash.

Ah kin feel a whitey comin oan but ah’m fucked if ah’m tellin these cunts who, far fae showin any concern fur the whitey casualty, will take such an admission as the green light tae mercilessly fuck wae the subject, rampin up the anxiety an paranoia a few notches. Ah’d dae the same masel, it’s yer sworn duty tae bam yer mates up at any given opportunity. Goat tae be done.

McDade wis eyeballin me. ‘Here, ur you awrite Danny.’ he sais ‘ye look a bit pale.’

‘Ah’m bran new.’ ah lie, an staun up too fast, which serves only tae negate the statement as ah stumble a wee bit, ma heid spinnin.

‘Whitey!’ he sais, unwillin tae let it go, like a fuckin snake that’s just pounced oan a rodent.

Ah’ve hud enough ay his patter an make fur the slope, ignorin the cunt. Ma diversionary tactic seems tae work as by the time we scramble back up the bastarn hill, he’s drapped the subject.

We’re walkin alang the main path back taewards the gate we came in, stoned an in silence. Vast sheets ay grey cloud race overheid, high above us, an the wind howls through the many trees ay the park soundin like waves batterin intae a rocky shoreline. Ah’m zoned oot, takin it aw in, the stone fae the hash, heightenin ma senses, seemingly amplifyin the sounds, or at least sharpenin ma awareness ay them. The aw encompassin greyness ay the efternoon seems mare vivid an bright, the snow oan the grun reflectin whit remains ay the daylight.

There’s a gaunt lookin, skinny brass monkey walkin taewards us wae a multi-coloured Berghaus jaicket oan. ‘Ah don’t fuckin believe this.’ McDade sais, suddenly animated.

‘Whit is it?’ Pearcey sais.

‘That’s him. That’s the fuckin junkie fae last night.’

‘Ye sure? Whit’s the fuckin chances?’ ah sais.

‘Aye ah’m sure. Ah seen him, din’t ah? Fuckin junkie bastart. Ma da just bought the fuckin thing. Took oot a Provie loan fur it an aw. Fuckin five hunner quid it cost. Tap ay the line fuckin mountain bike.’ he sais, gettin aw fuckin agitated. ‘Ah’m doin this cunt.’

‘Calm yer jets man. Ur ye sure?’ ah sais, tryin tae process whit ah’m hearin.

‘Its fuckin him, ah’m tellin ye. He’s wearin that same manky Berghaus jaickit he wis wearin last night. Probably snow-dropped that aff some cunt’s washin line an aw.’ he sais.

The cunt walks by. He’s goat a tammy oan, pult doon aboot as low as ye kin waeoot coverin yer eyes. He's goat yer typical junkball complexion, aw fuckin pock marks an oily skin; fuckin skeletal cheekbones burstin oot his dish. He’s aulder than us, aboot thirty odds ah’d say. It’s hard tae tell wae these cunts right enough.

‘Where ye fae mate?’ McDade sais tae him but the cunt dinghies him, avoidin eye contact. ‘Here, ah’m talkin tae you. Where ye fae?’ he sais again. The cunt turns roon. ‘Parkheid.’ he sais in that fuckin nasally drawl they aw huv, ‘How?’

‘Don’t get cheeky ya prick! Whereaboots in Parkheid?’ Pearcey pipes up.

‘Wee Men.’ he sais.

‘Wee Men? Whit ye dain in Shettleston?’

‘Scorin a bit, know whit ah mean?’ he sais, backin away fae us as we walk taewards him.

‘Scorin a bit?’ Pearcey repeats ‘Smack? Who aff?’

‘McNulty.’ he sais.

‘Big McNulty fae Balintore Street. Fuckin intae everthin, that cunt; charlie, smack, blues. . . you name it. Ma da knows him.’ McDade sais oot the side ay his mooth tae us. ‘C’mere the noo tae a talk tae ye.’ he sais tae the junkie but he’s off - turnt oan his heels an sannyin it doon the path like his life depends oan it - oan the balance ay probabilities, it might. ‘YOU’RE GETTIN IT YA JUNKIE BASTART!’ McDade screams, boundin alang in pursuit an fixated oan only wan thing. Ah’ve seen him like this afore, eyes glazed oer; vacant. He’s goat that tunnel vision thing gaun oan, unwillin or unable tae listen tae any reason.

Ah’m resigned tae it noo. This is happenin. McDade an Pearcey charge efter him an ah’m reluctantly folliein, any semblance ay that mellow wee stone noo eradicated by the adrenalin searin through ma boady. Ah see an empty Mad Dog boattle at the side ay the path an instinctively, crouch doon an lift it as ah go.

McDade’s closin the gap doon, his relative fitness tae the junkie’s smack ravaged body, blatantly apparent. He’s reachin oot wae each stride, swipin and scratchin doon the back ay the cunt’s jaicket as he ducks an weaves aboot desperately tryin tae evade him. ‘Goat ye, ya cunt.’ he sais an lands a dig tae the side ay junkie’s coupon.

The cunt barely flinches, insteid drawin blood fae McDade’s beak wae a retaliatory blow. They struggle; a whirlwind ay flailin airms an legs as each ay them try tae establish their dominance.

‘Fuckin skelp this cunt Pearcey!’ McDade’s pleadin, the deceptively weak looking smackheid assertin mare control than hud been anticipated.

Pearcey flings a hauf arsed attempt at a punch an the smackheid ducks an wriggles free fae McDade’s grip at the same time. ‘Hink ah’m a fuckin daftie? Yous ur gettin fuckin plugged!’ he rasps an pulls a lock-back knife oot his back bin, flickin it open.

He lunges taewards them, stabbin an slashin at them wae the blade. A wummin an her wean see whit’s happenin an about turn, fuckin off back the waiy they came. ‘Fuckin mone then, ah thoat ah wis gettin it? Come ahead!’ he sais. He rushes McDade wae the blade, drawin his airm back, ready tae plunge it right intae him. The boattle leaves ma haun, spinnin an whistlin through the air afore smashin wae a crushin impact intae the side ay his dial, drappin him instantaneously.

‘YAAAAASSS DANNY BOY, FUCKIN SHOT MATE! BINGO!’ McDade shouts, approachin the poor cunt, lyin sparkled, his eye closed oer, blood pishin oot his heid.

‘No so fuckin wide noo, ur ye’? Pearcey spits, suddenly the fuckin big man noo that the cunt’s oot the gemme, an sinks the boot intae his ribs.

‘Junkie bastart, think ye could huv the lads. Yaaaaas! Fuckin mone then! Shetto Tigers!’ McDade wails intae the cunt’s blood spattered dial, rainin doon a volley ay punches oantae the pulpy mess that used tae be his face.

‘Leave it oot McDade. He’s fucked up. We done him. Ye happy noo?’ ah sais.

‘Happy? Aye ah’m happy, another junkie goat whit wis comin tae him. Fuckin result mate.’ he sais wae a baleful grin, his eyes still vacuous an hateful. 

‘Whit dae ye mean, another junkie goat whit’s comin tae him? Ye mean cos ay yer brur’s bike an that?’ 

‘He’s a fuckin junkie. We’re dain every cunt a favour. Probably tans hooses aw the time.’

‘Is this the cunt that knocked yer brur’s bike or no?’ ah sais.

‘Probably. Who gies a fuck? We leathered him. Nice one.’ he sais, lookin aw fuckin pleased wae himsel.

‘See you, yer nothin but a fuckin liberty takin arsehole.’ ah sais, ready tae fly fur the fuckin idiot.

‘Liberty takin? he tried tae fuckin stab me’ he sais, wae a vacant look oan his face.

‘Aye, because we chased the poor cunt aw oer the park cos you said he stole yer brur’s bike. Made us feel shite cos yer da’s still payin the provie loan.’

‘A junkie’s a junkie Danny, who gies a fuck?

Ah’m staunin lookin at the prick - ma supposed mate - lappin it up like it’s aw some sport tae him; like some natural justice’s been doled oot cos the guy’s a smackheid - his only discernible crime. He didnae blag any fuckin bike, that much is certain.

There’s a groan an some movement fae the boiy oan the grun who’s goat a big fuckin gash oan his heid as wide as the Clyde streamin blood intae the expandin pool ay reddinin snow. At least ah know he’s no fuckin deid. ‘Whit a shot man, Danny. Fuckin belter!’ McDade sais, slappin ma back an puttin his airm roon me as we get tae fuck taewards the park gate.

‘Get tae fuck away fae me.’ ah sais, shakin him aff an run acroass the main road ootside dodgin in an oot ay motors flyin alang in the rush hour traffic. Ah cannae bring masel tae look at the cunt.