Bobby wouldn’t even take a few bob for himself off me that day, for doing us that turn. I think maybe he remembered the time when he was a child that he and his mother gave a whole day and night in my house when his father was gone mad on the drink and was after making splinters of every stick of furniture that was in their little cottage below. I met them on the road, she was crying and he was barefoot. I picked them up and brought them home and asked her nothing. I didn’t embarrass her. She was graceful and quietly grateful; she knew I knew he was below, wrecking the place. We’d have been great friends after, I’d say, if my little Peter hadn’t left this world and taken my heart and soul with him. How is it at all that I let one child take my whole heart? It wasn’t fair on anyone. Life isn’t fair, as the fella says. He can say that again.
Jason
I SEEN A lad walking up the road towards me that day last week when your man Bobby Mahon killed his father. But then the lad hopped in over a wall before I could make out who it was. The dogs smelt something. I know in my heart and soul it was Bobby Mahon. The dogs smelt death. We walked on down past Bobby Mahon’s auld lad’s cottage and he was dead inside in it and we never knew. I seen him just after he done it. He must of still had blood on his hands. I wish now I would of gotten them glasses that time they was free on the Social besides going around squinting like a fool. I seen him again on the news being taken in to be charged, handcuffed to a big fat cop. Some lads do try to cover their faces when they’re getting taken in and out of court. Bobby looked straight into the camera and there was nothing in his face. It must have been Bobby I seen that night last week. I wonder is there any gain to be had in telling the cops what I seen. I have no problem telling the cops stuff about a lad that’d do his own father in. Fuck him. Why wouldn’t I? They might be a bit slower to stick their big red noses into my business the next time if I put the bollocks in the right place at the right time for them. Fuck it, though, I won’t I’d say. He’s a sound skin all the same.
THE BIGGEST MISTAKE I made when I was younger was getting tattoos all over my face. The very minute you’ve a tattoo on your face, the whole world looks at you different, even if it’s a real nice tattoo, like birds or flowers or something. I done it for a woman. I only had a few birds up my neck that time. She told me I’d look rapid with a spider on my cheek. I would’ve done anything she wanted. She was sixteen and I was eighteen but she had way more brains than me. She had it all worked out and wrote down on a sheet of paper how much she could claim for this and that and the other and she even had it worked out how much she could get with one child, two children, three children and so on down the page. She knew everything. She had her life all planned out. All she needed off of me was a bareback ride. After I done the business she only wanted to have a laugh off me till the next prick came along. I only ever seen my young fella once. He was mad-looking. She was gone right fat but I’d still of rode her in a flash. I wonder how many has she now.
My mother and father got the house out here on account of me being a dependent adult child. My head is all over the place since I was small on account of I was fiddled with by a fat nonce down the road from our old house inside in town. He used to put on videos of all the films my auld fella never took me to see and I’d come in and watch them like a fool and he’d stick his hand down my pants while I stood there, eating my ten-pence bars, glued to the fucking Ninja Turtles or The Lion King or some shite. I was diagnosed with post-traumatic shock, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, manic depression, scoliosis, psoriasis, addictive personality and a few more things. I learnt them ones off by heart for telling them shitbags inside in the welfare office where to stick their fuckin job interviews. Here, Jason, go out there to Dell for an interview. I will in my bollocks, I have … and then I’d list off all my things wrong with me and eventually the shitbag would get sick of my bullshit and say okay, okay, for fuck’s sake, just sign on so to fuck. All you have to do is start interfering with them cunts’ tea breaks and they’ll do anything to get you to fuck off.
I got the post-traumatic shock years ago after this mad auld culchie shot a lad right in front of me. The lad that got shot nearly died and all — they had to cut his leg off. My head was in bits after that for ages. He would of shot me too I’d say only he was using a shotgun and when his two shots was gone he thrown the gun in over a wall and fucked off. I think he thought we gave some friend of his a hiding or something. I nearly shat in my pants when he shot your man Eugene. I thought fuck this; I’m a dead man. I was paralysed with the fear, man, I don’t mind telling you. I might have pissed a small bit in my pants, even. I don’t think anyone noticed though, I had a white tracksuit legs on me. The mad auld bollocks went off then and done away with himself and the whole lot. That just shows he knew he was in the wrong. I never went near nobody. I might have kicked some farmer lad in the face a few times but he was a smart cunt who always gave your man Eugene a load of shit in school and all. I didn’t want nothing to do with these culchie boys’ feuds but it seemed only decent to help that Eugene prick seeing as he was so upset over your man. And he was a sound skin, that Eugene; he was my only pal out in this hole. I bursted my tackie off of your man’s head and the whole lot.
I didn’t stop at the spider on my cheek. I was in a bad way over that wan that had a child for me and then slammed the door of her brand-new apartment in my face. I didn’t want the spider reminding me of her the whole time so I got it turned into a sort of a fat Celtic cross, but it ended up taking up nearly a whole half of my face and then I looked unbalanced only having shit on the one side so your man done a snake up the other side, sort of looking over at the cross with its tongue sticking out. It looked rapid at the start but now I think my face must’ve gotten fat because the snake is all wavy in the wrong way and flat and crappy-looking. It was fair sore getting it done, though. Your man has a wan working in the shop with him, I’d say she’s Polish or something, and she’d put a horn on a dead man. Your man knows well no prick is going to chicken out of getting his tattoo while she’s waving her tits into his face or walking past slowly, smiling, with her long legs and her beautiful arse.
Them apartments they give to slappers do be fair nice. They do kit them out and all for them, and not shite — proper stuff from Reids and all. The wan that had the child for me got a leather couch, two leather armchairs, a chandelier, a microwave, a fridge-freezer, the whole lot. I seen it all in through the door that time. I should of bursted in through the door and slapped the head off her and had a proper go at playing around with the young fella, but she told me fuck off, the welfare pricks were all over them like flies on shite that time, and I said ah come on, the cops are all over me and she roared WHAT! THE COPS? JESUS! FUCK OOOOOFFFFF! And the door of that rapid apartment nearly split in two she slammed it so hard in my face. Shite, I thought, I shouldn’t of told her about the cops and stuff until after I’d the hole rode off her. Women do be less uptight after a ride. Especially off me — I’m fair good at it.
Like, they’re all going mad off their heads around here, all the boggers, acting like the world is ending just because your man Bobby Mahon smashed his auld fella’s head in. Their faces are all red and worried-looking. Your man that’s dead was on the way out anyway. I often seen him out at his door, coughing his lungs up when I’d be passing down with the dogs. He was a freaky-looking bollocks. He’d never salute, only pull on his fag if he wasn’t coughing and stare at me and I’d stare back and I’d have something smart all ready to shout over at him and then some feeling would come over me and tell me not to bother my hole and he’d hawk and spit and so I wouldn’t. You have to trust your instincts when you’re a dopey fuck like me. A sort of a cold wave came off that auld fella. He looked dark, even last week, when the evenings were shiny bright. No wonder your man Bobby killed the fucker. I’d say he did his head in.