Jamie had a lot more questions, but never seemed to get answers. His mum was useless: ‘Don’t talk to me about politics,’ she’d say. Or ‘Don’t talk to me about religion.’ Or anything, really. As if she’d done all the hard thinking in her life, found satisfactory answers, and wasn’t about to start over again for his benefit.
‘That’s why you’ve got teachers,’ she’d say.
Which was fair enough, but at school Jamie had a rep to maintain. He was Cal Brady’s brother. He couldn’t go asking the teachers questions. They’d begin to wonder about him. Cal had told him a long time ago: ‘With school, Jamie, it’s definitely “us” and “them”, know what I mean? A battlefield, pal, take no prisoners, understood?’
And Jamie had nodded, understanding nothing.
As he stood at the shop, tapping the toe of one shoe against a rubbish bin, along came Billy Horman. Jamie straightened a bit.
‘All right, Billy Boy?’
‘No’ bad. Got a fag?’
Jamie handed over one of his precious cigarettes.
‘See the football last night?’
Jamie shook his head, sniffed. ‘Not bothered,’ he said.
‘Hearts, ya beauties.’ The way Billy looked at him as he said this, seeking approval or something, Jamie knew Billy had heard it from someone else, maybe his mum’s boyfriend, and wasn’t sure about it.
‘They’re doing OK,’ Jamie conceded as Billy mimed a blazing shot at goal.
‘You going home?’ Billy asked.
Jamie tapped the paper and rolls, held under one of his arms.
‘Wait a minute, I’ll come with you.’ Billy marched into the shop, came out again with milk and a carton of marge. ‘Mum went spare this morning. Her new man got in from the pub and had about ten slices of toast.’ He tossed the marge and caught it. ‘Finished the tub.’
Jamie didn’t say anything. He was thinking about fathers, how it was funny neither Billy nor he had one. Jamie wondered where his was, which story about him to believe.
‘Who was that you were with yesterday?’ he asked as they began walking.
‘Eh?’
‘Bottom of St Mary’s Street. An uncle or somebody?’
‘Aye, that’s it. My Uncle Bill.’
But Billy Boy was lying. His ears always went red when he lied...
Back at the flat, Jamie took the paper into Cal’s bedroom.
‘About fucking time, wee man.’ Cal lying in bed, portable telly on. The room smelled stale. Jamie sometimes tried to hold his breath. Cal had a mug of tea on the floor beside his ashtray.
‘Switch the channel, will you?’
The TV was on a chest of drawers at the bottom of the bed. It didn’t have a remote. Cal had just brought it home one night, said he won it in a bet at the pub. There was a little square beside the panel of buttons. It said ‘Remote Sensor’. So Jamie knew there should be a remote with it. He had to jump over a pile of Cal’s clothes on the floor to get to the TV. Pressed the button for Channel 4. You got some dolls on the breakfast show — Cal had taught him the word: dolls.
Jamie leapt back over the clothes and fled the room, letting out a huge exhalation in the hallway. Twenty-five seconds: not even near his record for breath-holding. His mum was buttering rolls at the kitchen table. She handed him one. He got himself a mug of milk and sat down. He’d told his mum that because of cutbacks, his school didn’t start till half past nine. Either she’d believed him, or hadn’t been up to arguing. She looked tired, his mum, looked like she needed a treat. But he knew looks could deceive: she could go from tired to mental in two seconds flat. He’d seen her do it with one of the old hoors from upstairs who’d come to complain about the noise. Pure mental. Same thing with the old guy who’d complained of the ball landing in his garden.
‘Next time I’ll put a garden fork through it, so help me.’
‘Do that,’ Jamie’s mum had said, ‘and I’ll take your fucking fork and stick it through your balls.’ Right up close to him, growing huge as he seemed to shrink.
Jamie had a lot of respect for his mum. Last time she’d clipped him, it had been because he’d tried calling her Van. Cal called her Van, but that was all right because he was grown up, same as she was. Jamie couldn’t wait to grow up.
With a mug of tea in her hand, his mum went through her morning rituaclass="underline" trying to remember where she’d put her cigarettes.
‘Maybe Cal’s got them,’ Jamie suggested.
‘Finish what’s in your mouth before you speak.’ She yelled towards Cal’s room, got a yelled denial back. In the living room, she pulled cushions off the sofa and chair, kicked the pile of car and music magazines sitting on the floor. Found half a packet on top of the hi-fi. The top of the flip-pack was missing. Cal used them for his ‘special roll-ups’. His mum pulled out a cigarette, but most of it was missing too. She sighed heavily, stuck it in her mouth anyway and lit it with the lighter she found inside the packet.
She didn’t have any pockets, so put the cigarettes on the arm of her chair. She was wearing silver-grey shell-suit bottoms with a purple zip-up jogging top. The top was old, the lettering on its back — SPORTING NATION — cracked and peeling. Jamie wondered if Sporting Nation meant Scotland.
Roll and milk finished, he slid off his chair. He had plans for today: Princes Street maybe, or a bus out to The Gyle. On his own, or with anyone he could round up. Problem with The Gyle was, it was in the middle of nowhere. There was a games arcade on Lothian Road, he liked it there, but there were other regulars who were better than him at the games, and even if he didn’t want to play against them, they’d stand and watch him on his machine, then tell him what mistakes he was making and say they could do better with their wrists in plaster.
Just as well, he knew he should tell them, because the way you’re going, your whole body’s going to end up in plaster. But he never did: most of them were bigger than him. And they didn’t know Cal, so he was no use as a threat. Which was why Jamie didn’t go in there so much any more...
Cal’s bedroom door flew open and he stalked into the kitchen. He had his jeans on, but had forgotten to zip them up or buckle his belt. No shoes or socks, no T-shirt. He had nicks and bruises on his chest and arms. You could see the muscles moving beneath his skin. He flung the paper on to the table and slapped a hand down on it.
‘Look at this,’ he hissed, face pink with anger. ‘Just take a look at this.’
Jamie looked: double-page story. SEX OFFENDER WITH PLAYGROUND VIEW. There were photos. One showed a block of flats, an arrow pointing to one of the storeys. The other showed a patch of tarmac and a couple of kids playing.
‘That’s here,’ he said, amazed. He’d never seen Greenfield in the papers before, never seen photos of the place. His mum came over.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Fucking pervert living right under our noses,’ Cal spat. ‘Nobody told us.’ He stabbed the paper. ‘Says so right here. Nobody bothered to tell us.’
Van studied the story. ‘There’s no picture of him.’
‘No, but they as good as point at the bastard’s door.’
She remembered something. ‘Cops came round the other day. I thought they were looking for you.’
‘What did they want?’
‘Just the one of them. Asked if I knew somebody called...’ She squeezed shut her eyes. ‘Darren something-or-other.’
‘Darren Rough,’ Jamie said. Cal stared at him.
‘You know him?’
Jamie didn’t know what answer would please Cal. He shrugged. ‘Seen him around the place.’
‘How do you know his name?’ Eyes burning into him.