— I’m so sorry, I forgot, I gasp, my breath steadying.
— Slow… he pleads, as he swings the shears and starts chopping through the nettles. He’s panting and sweating as he hacks deeper into the growth. The moon casts a silvery light over the fallen plants who lie like stricken soldiers on a battlefield. — There! he shouts, as my beam illuminates something red.
Then his face suddenly creases up in anger. His boot swings at the object, launching a traffic cone into the air, which flies a few yards, landing deeper into the back rows of the nettles.
We plough on for what seems like ages, but uncover nothing. I’ve been stung in the hands and ankles through my gloves and socks and I detest nettle stings from my childhood. In the numbing cold a despair almost overwhelming at the futility of it all sets in, and I’m about to suggest packing up and trying again in the morning, when something reflects off the torch beam.
There it is: the back of the red helmet.
And we know what’s on the other side. — Look, Jason, I urge, but I don’t really need to bother. He’s seen it and I swear that his eyes could light up this wasteland.
Jason looks at it in a powerful reverence, then bends down and slowly picks it up. — It’s heavy, it’s…
He turns it round. I shine the torch into it. The face is white and blue around the lips and eyes. He rubs some leaves and dirt from it. It hasn’t been eaten though; it’s still recognisable as Ally Kravitz. — Sorry, mate, Jason says, and cradles it to his chest.
I see what look like drops of rice falling from the bottom of the helmet, onto the ground. I shine my torch and see them wriggling under its beam. — Jason!
He turns the helmet over and the red-bloodied stump is crawling with maggots. — Ya fuckin… ya fuckin hoors! Jason wipes them off with his bare hands, then hugs the helmeted head again. — Ah’ll no let these cunts get ye, mate, ah’ll fuckin no, he sobs, tears splashing from his big eyes onto the top of the red crash helmet. After a passage of time he looks at me miserably, and nods, then he puts the head into a bin liner.
— Let me see him again, I beg.
— Naw, Jason says, tears streaming down his face, — naebody’s seein um. Ah dinnae care what they dae wi the rest ay um, but this heid’s gaun back tae Spain, wi me!
I put my arm around his shoulder as he sobs heavily, keeping his grip on the bin liner. I realise that I’m crying too, thinking of my beautiful horse.
19.
FUNERAL
SUNDAY AH FELT it aw comin oot; the aches, pains, nettle stings n the dirty black depression. That wis the worst of aw: like yir giein some invisible fat cunt a collie-buckie. The auld boy goat a prawn vindaloo takeoot fae the Shimla as a treat, but muh hert wisnae in it. Ah brightened up a bit when yon wee Jenni Cahill came roond, even if she kept askin ays whit ah’d done wi Kravy’s heid. Ah kept ma cooncil, ya hoor, but it wis hard as she’s a persistent yin. Whin she left ah wis even too doon and exhausted tae entertain masturbatory thoughts, n her wi that scarlet-rid lipstick oan n aw. The only thing thit cheered ays up wis the browse through Central Perk merkit, n the big styrofoam boax fir keeping beer n sandwiches thit ah picked up at the stall.
— Be good fir the summer, fir picnics, Mrs McPake fae oor wey said tae ays as ah went doon the road wi the hoor.
— Aw aye, ah nodded.
Monday ah felt better. Ah hud tae: thir wis Kravy’s funeral tae organise. Jenni let ays yaze her computer tae send emails tae Kravy’s mates in Spain. Ah found some addresses in this book eh’d left at ehs ma’s hoose. Ah didnae think they’d make it at such short notice, but they hud the right tae ken. It took ays a while tae git the two grams ay coke n the big lump ay base that ah needed for wur boy’s gig. Hud tae go ower tae the city, the fuckin loat. Ah dinnae like gaun ower the brig at aw. The city’s fine but as soon as ye leave the centre in search ay collies it’s a different place aw thegither; fill ay psychos whae kin smell the fuckin coonty offay ye fae fifty yerds.
A joab well done, but. So Tuesday morning saw the funeral take place at Kirkcaldy Crematorium. Ehs ma wanted the Dunfermline Crematorium, same 310 quid tae the council hoors, and easier tae git back tae the reception at the Welfare, but ah talked her intae Kirkcaldy. Ah couldnae huv lived wi masel if the laddie hud been sent off oan Vichy soil.
It wis a weel-attended do, right enough, ya hoor sor. Kravy might huv turned ays back oan the Beath but the Beath nivir turned its back oan him. Besides, naebody likes tae see a young cunt die. Nae Spaniards made it ower, but thir wis stacks ay wreaths sent through Interflora n loads ay touchin messages oan Jenni’s email, which she goat printed oaf n stuck in a folder wi a big Spanish n Scottish flag oan the front, which she then presented tae ehs ma. Ah huv tae hand it tae wee Jenni, she played a blinder. She wisnae pleased at aw at huvin tae approach Jakey Anstruther, especially wi upset aboot her perr hoarse huvin jist kicked it, but she helped ays git the auld minister oanside.
The boy’s sermon wis the undoubted highlight ay proceedins. Ah hud tae git um a wee bit tanked up first, but no sae much that eh widnae be able tae perform. Whin eh staggered up tae the lectern at the chapel ay rest, ah feared the worst. — Hullo… eh slurred. — Gid tae see yis aw… one or two auld friends… n some strangers…
Thir wis a deathly silence. Kravy’s ma looked at ays fir a second or two. She wis still nipped that the heid hudnae been recovered, so thir could be nae open-casket viewin. Hud tae keep it fae her; couldnae lit the woman see the maggots eatin intae um. Jakey, though, soon started tae find ehs stride.
— The aulder yin gits the less yin is taken by aw this churchy shite. It’s aw driven by fear; thon fear that wuv no been guid enough tae git selected fir the trophy-winnin team n need tae stey in a satanic version ay this doss. But Ally Kravitz wis nivir plagued by they fears. They cried him a free spirit, but what in the name ay sufferin fuck is that? Ah cry him a Fife spirit, eh bellows, now it’s like the auld felly’s never been away fae the pulpit. Ah saw a tear run doon Mrs F’s cheek at that yin.
The nods ay approval ur enough tae send Jakey intae oratory hyperdrive. — Think aboot this coonty, a place what gied the world capitalism, and yit wis one ay the first places tae realise thit capitalism wis shite and steadfastly opposed it. For mair thin any ay they Weedgie chancers wi thir Paddy-teuchter pish, or they snobby English connivin Embra hoors, this coonty is a microcosm ay the true spirit ay Scotland. N Allister Kravitz, a bold, internationalist laddie ay passion n soul, wis, ah’ll declare, a microcosm ay this damned coonty, a place thit yit might huv the key tae baith global and national salvation within its borders!
Kravy’s ma is smiling through her tears and the place is now a furnace ay emotion. — Ah want yis now tae pray fir the soul ay Ally Kravitz, especially if ye urnae given tae prayer. Cause ma God might jist listen tae ye! Ma God will be seek tae fuck ay hearin the same voices; askin um fir a new car or hoose or speedboat, or tae endorse another fuckin barbaric war fir eyl!
Thir’s a huge cheer echoes round the chapel ay rest. Even the Iron Duke’s goat a tear n ehs eye, ah swear tae fuck. Ah cannae see Call-Centre Comorton, but it’s ma belief thit the revisionist wee Tory cunt is hudin ehs dippit heid lower thin a snake’s erse right now. Jakey’s still daein ehs nut n aw. — Ma God wants a bit ay a fuckin change, n eh wants tae hear fae somebody whae wants nowt in return except they wee things wi cry liberty, justice n equality! eh roars, then wheezes a bit, takin a swig ay Buckie tae calm um doon. — Jesus fuck almighty, eh smiles, — ah’d forgotten how guid it wis tae be up oan this pulpit wi a fuzzy heid fae the night afore n bolstered by a few drams ay the Deevil’s elixir. It’s in this state — jist a baw hair fae demonic possession — that ah feel closest tae Oor Saviour, n ah’m talking aboot God, no that wanker Jesus fuckinerse Christ. N as a last broadside against they snooty cunts doon in George Street, ah’d like tae thank Jason here, fir giein ays the opportunity tae stand n dae this at a Fife pulpit in honour ay yin ay its finest sons, Allister Graham Kravitz. Ay-fuckin-men, ya hoor, sor.