Closer, at street level, where a light wind brushed a scrap of paper along the gutter, movement was more perceptible. The men were not still. The crouch of the younger man was not static. It deepened the tensions doubling and redoubling themselves at every fiber. And the older man, halted momentarily, had paused only so as not to provoke a sudden movement on the part of the other, but he was going forward now, an inch at a time. His voice when it came was gruff, ominous, and strangely calm at the same time. It created the urgent necessity, as certain chords do, for resolution.
"Pit … doon … they … weapons!"
Johnnie didn't flinch. All things seemed suspended. He made no move to obey his father's order.
"Pit … doon … they … weapons, Johnnie!"
The slight note of wonder, even perhaps of hysteria, in the repeated command seemed to draw the crowd actively into the situation. It participated in the nightmare.
The voice which shrilled out now was irrelevant, absurd. It was Allison's. Her face craned whitely forward from behind the daughter whom she held, close to her chest.
"Ye bloody well asked for it, Gault!"
Razor King's face became contorted with fury. The black belt shook in his fist. He glared hatefully behind his son in the direction of the voice.
"Aye, Allison! Ah've got you marked!" he bellowed. "This is your fuckin work an ye'll pay for it! Ah'll come roon tae you in jist aboot two meenutes!" He looked at Johnnie again, his face set and his bloodshot eyes narrowed to slits.
"Ahm tellin ye for the last time, Johnnie! Pit … doon … they … bliddy … razors!"
At that moment, and for the first time, Johnnie wavered. His muscles seemed to slacken. A low moan escaped the crowd. Razor King breathed outwards through his twisted nostrils. His chin was tilted slightly to one side, giving the head a cocked appearance.
It might have been over.
But the next voice, a harsh slum woman's scream, acted as the detonator.
"Ayee! Awa' back hame an get yer bliddy erse skelpit! It's no that long ago yer mither wiped it fur ye!"
Johnnie moved then, straight for his father.
With a thin animal snarl Razor King hurled the belt down. His hands flashed for his vest pockets and the gleaming blades cut forward at his son's rush. Johnnie ducked, too late to avoid having his left cheek slashed open to the bone, but quick enough to be under his father's guard and to butt him with all his power with a knee to the groin. Razor King screamed with rage and pain and toppled backwards, bent like a hinge. Johnnie hesitated for a split second, and then, with the wild cry of a wounded animal, leapt cutting and kicking forward. More like a ghoul than a man he went in, his cheek streaming red blood, his mouth bellowing inarticulate words, and his terrible razors cutting. Razor King went down under the onslaught, powerless to protect himself. And Johnnie had no mercy. His boots began systematically to break the bones of his father's body. At that moment he was insane.
Somewhere in the near distance a police whistle blew, a thin clear sound in the cold morning air. That was the signal for the rammy to begin.
Somebody at the edge of the crowd leapt in with a broken bottle. It was Beck. He was on to Johnnie before the latter knew he was confronted by another assailant and the beer bottle struck jaggedly into his head above the left ear. He collapsed at once, the razors tumbling from his clenched fists.
The crowd, excited by the continuous blasts of the police whistles, became a riot. Women fled screaming to the doorways. Men, uncertain whether to flee or to attack, were struck down from behind and trampled underfoot. No man wanted to be a victim. Razors, bicycle chains, and broken glass appeared in their hands. A moment later Rose Street was involved in one of the most venomous brawls that ever took place in the Gorbals.
The police made a truncheon charge as soon as they arrived, sixty of them, thirty from either end of the street, forming an impenetrable blue cordon. They struck brutally in two waves and the crowd caved in, those who could, escaping into the closes.
Fifteen men, including Johnnie, were carried by stretcher to the infirmary, thirty-two — amongst whom were four women — by police van to the central police station, and Razor King alone by horse ambulance to the morgue.
Gertrude
— 1 -
The first time I saw her was when he pushed her in front of him and told her to strip. Just like that. She was frightened. You could see she had been half-unwilling to come. She glanced over to where I was lying on the cot. It seemed to take her by surprise, that I was there, I mean. And that made her hesitate. My father was half drunk as he always was in those days.
"Get yer bliddy clothes off!"
She looked as though she wanted to get out. She was unsure of him. Although afterwards she told me she wanted it too. Like we all want it, hard, like a pain. I could see her body was quivering. That set me on edge. It was infectious. To see flesh shudder like that. You wanted to touch it. That night was the beginning of something new for me. I envied her. I couldn't take my eyes away.
"In front of her?"
She was looking at me.
"You go to sleep," my father said to me. But I could see he didn't care. She did. At first anyway. Not after. I thought at that time she was innocent. I didn't know.
I pretended to close my eyes.
"Now get yer bliddy clothes off!"
She didn't hesitate long. She slipped out of her canary-yellow pullover. She always wore that. It suited her. It had a roll neck. The straps of her brassiere were dirty. It was made of white satin and was taut and pearly over her full breasts. There was sweat on her belly just below her rib cage, and under her armpits where the hair was black, and wet like a soft paintbrush, not red like her hair.
Then she removed her skirt. She had big thighs, smooth and big. And they looked slightly hot and sooty near the crotch where the satin was, and that looked greasy as satin does from sweat. Hazel's cunt sweated a lot. I could see that.
My father was watching her. He had lit a cigarette. He was still wearing his cap which he wore low over his eyes, like a visor. He was looking at her feet first, the high heels, and then at the smooth stocking-clad legs, and then higher up at the white expanse of thighs, ballooned and soft under the elastic from her garter belt. She had nice flesh.
My father made a kissing sound with his lips. And then he laughed.
She was embarrassed.
"Take aff yer bosom-bag!" he said with a sneer.
Her nipples were big, not quite red. More like the color of an old dental plate. They were the firmest breasts I had ever seen. You wanted to lick them. I could see why my father wanted her. He could see she was hot.
He was still smoking, the cigarette held between his lips, and the smoke rising in a steady wisp in front of his small screwed-up eyes. I watched fascinated as his right hand unbuttoned his fly.
His thick white cock sprang out like a living thing and grew between his fingers into a shining poppy. He played with it gently, looking at her, a conductor with his baton. I could see he was smiling as it rose and fell like a pointer in his hand.
My own naked body had become numb and heavy under the blanket. It was as though I discovered my hand at my crotch. I didn't remember moving it there. My fingers were already sticky with the sap that flowed from my cunt.