‘It’s only going to get worse. Are you up to this? The picture’s not a pretty one.’
‘Oh, yes.’ He perked up a little, managed a stock smile. ‘Yes, I wouldn’t worry about me, Gus. None of this is much of a surprise.’
‘ None of it?’
‘A figure of speech. What I’m saying is, I knew Billy had his… moments — always did. When he hitched up with that Nadja one, I saw there would be trouble. It was only a matter of time. I’ve been following his fall from grace you know.’
‘But like you say, he’s your son, it must be painful to hear it.’
‘ Was my son.’ Col stood up, his mood flipped again, he looked rattled. ‘By the way, I took down all those pictures of your father.’
I got the message loud and clear. I’d crossed the line. Took the swipe.
I stood up to face him, said, ‘Think I’ll go and get a cigarette.’
‘Okay.’
‘Look, I’m sorry if I, you know, said anything that’s… I know this is very upsetting for you.’
He collapsed back in his chair, shook before me. ‘Oh, God… what have I done?’
‘Col,’ I tried to coax him round, ‘come on, you’re made of strong stuff.’
‘God, I’m so, so sorry…’
‘Come on, here have a drink of this.’ I tried to get him to sip the whisky.
‘No, no — I’m fine, I’m fine really.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ He trembled a little, then seemed to go completely calm again. ‘Gus, I’ve no right to put this pressure on you.’
‘I’ve good broad shoulders for this kinda thing.’
‘I’ve placed you in terrible danger. Billy’s sins are not your concern. I should never have asked you to take this up.’
The guy looked ruined. He’d taken himself to hell and back several times. I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m glad to help.’
‘No, Gus… I’ve a terrible feeling that this will all end badly. Very badly indeed.’
I squeezed his shoulder. ‘How bad could it get?’ I said.
45
Someone once said life’s all about letting things go. I wish I could let some of this go.
It’s 1982 and I’m fourteen. My father’s had the call up for the World Cup squad. The Evening News has him on the front and back page. My mother keeps a scrapbook, tapes Scotsport. He’s a Leith boy made good, now it’s official.
There’s traffic stopped in the street, men hanging out of car windows to shake his hand. I stand watching as my father is surrounded by people. They swarm to him, clapping and shouting, screaming for a word from the man himself.
I have my own minor taste of fame to deal with too. The Schools League Cup Final. I have the sweeper’s role — same as my father’s — everyone tells me I have a hard act to follow.
But I’ve invited only shame.
It happens like a dream. The ball floats down from the heavens, lands at my feet. There’s no one between me and the goalie, it’s a clear run. I’ve only to cross the field, then hit the ball.
Cheers and roars go up as I take off like a scalded dog. The rest of the players behind me can only watch. I run for goal and as I look up I see all that stands between me and my first taste of mythic success is the scrawny frame of the goalie, Ally Donald.
Then, I freeze.
Something stops me. Twice I draw back to strike the ball, but can’t. I hear my father shouting for the whack of the ball to follow but I can’t move. It’s as if I know that if I score, I’ll never escape his influence.
I look at the ball, black and muddied below, but no matter how hard I stare I can’t summon the force to move it, and then the moment passes.
The scrawny Ally Donald appears before me, running, his feet already making their way to the ball, which he clears back to the halfway line.
I know at once I’ll never play again. As I walk off the pitch, my world shifts.
‘You worthless coward,’ says my father. He follows me into the changing rooms to tell me, over and over. ‘Too yellow to face a runt of a boy like wee Ally Donald, a streak of a lad without the strength to hold up his own socks.’
I say nothing.
‘Aye, he got the better of you,’ says my father. ‘Ashamed to show your face again you should be. You’ve cost the team the game, the cup, you spineless wee bastard!’
I don’t care about the game. I hate being in the team. He’s put me here and I hate being watched by him, hearing people say, ‘There goes the next Cannis Dury.’
‘They’ll be laughing long and hard after this day,’ he says. ‘I’ll never forgive you for the shame. It’s me they’ll be laughing at! Not you — who are you?’
I look at him, his face is red, eyes bulging.
‘And what the fuck are you looking at?’ His fist comes from nowhere. It catches me on the temple and knocks me to the floor. I feel the cold of the ceramic tiles as I land. The floor’s white but by my eye, where I lie unable to move, it’s turning red.
I don’t know how long I lie there. My team mates call the coach and I’m carried out to an old Austin Allegro and driven home. For the next four years I hear Ally Donald’s name mentioned on an almost nightly basis.
‘My, he got the better of you,’ says my father. ‘Ashamed to show your face again so you should be.’
His playing days are well and truly over now, but he still thinks he’s someone, calls me a ‘worthless coward’ at every chance.
I put up with it until Debs appears on the scene. I take her home to see my mother. She stands by the mantelpiece. Those stupid red bulbs twirling behind the plastic coals, lighting up the backs of her legs. She looks so out of place, so uncomfortable.
Then in he walks, hanging off a tin of Cally Special and says, ‘Yes, very good son. A great wee bobby-soxer you’ve got there, but what’s she doing with you?’
I let it go. Take Deb’s hand and lead her away.
‘I met Ally Donald’s father today,’ he says as we go, ‘he’s in London now, a big job in the government, so he has, the English working for him. You’d be better off with him than with this worthless coward.’
I walk Debs home. Tell her I’m sorry. She places a hand on my face, cries. She says she had no idea how awful it was for me.
On the road back I decide to take action into my own hands. I wait outside until my mother’s bedroom light goes out. As I go in he’s still sitting in his usual chair, watching The Benny Hill Show. He’s laughing his guts out as the wee baldy guy’s slapped on the head.
I walk in front of the television. Turn it off.
‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ he says.
‘On your feet.’
He curls up his brow. ‘Fuck off with yourself. Off to your bed.’
‘I said — on your feet.’
He tries to stare me out, but I’m unflinching. Then he says, ‘What are you doing, laddie? You calling me out?’
The blood pumps in my veins, a strange copper taste comes to my mouth as I say, ‘That’s right.’
He laughs.
‘Called out by a coward like you. A wee coward that Ally Donald got the better of — that scrawny wee streak of piss.’
My mouth dries over, I wet my lips. ‘That’s not going to work any more. Up, on your feet.’
He puts down his Cally Special, places his hands on the arms of the chair and raises himself. He’s a fearsome sight stood before me. But as he puts his glare on me I don’t move, he walks forward.
Clang.
My fist catches him cleanly. He goes down like a house of cards. He’s shaking his head, patting the floor with his palms.
‘Up,’ I say.
He struggles to find his feet. His great ego won’t let him be felled. He swings at me, it comes from below the hip and I walk past it. I swat him on the back of the head and he goes through the washing my mother has drying by the fire.
He thumps on the ground with his fist and raises himself again. He runs at me, head down, but he’s too slow. I kick out and the heel of my boot stops him dead. He drops to his knees, blood pouring from his head.
I give him a moment, then: ‘Up.’
He touches his wound. ‘Look what you’ve done!’