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.“A vee-lan and a bawd igg.” It feels this way because they both know Scot is slagging Momo, not him.“And is your brother dead yet?” Scot adds, and they both crack up laughing.“How does he talk like that?” James asks.“Where’s he from?”“Ma maw says he’s fae one of the islands.”“Aye,” James, says, remembering the comic-book classics he liked to flick through in the library.“The Island of Doctor Moreau.”They make their way through the Main Building and exit at the door nearest the Infants’ playground, minimising their route through Primary Four-to-Seven infested territory.When they reach home turf, they find Martin, Richie, Gary, Paul and Robbie gathered round Colin, who is standing with his back to the fence, holding something.“Scot, Jamesy, check this,” Martin says, and they move in closer.Colin is holding a wee red plastic device in both hands.“It’s a killertine,” he tells them.“Watch.Somebody gie’s another cheese puff.”“Fuck off,” Gary objects, “I’ve gave up half the packet.”“Aw, come on, don’t be moolsy,” insists Richie.“S’awright, there’s wan on the ground that’s big enough,” Gary points out, rightly clutching his poke of the tuck shop’s rubbishy attempt at crisps.Colin picks up a length of cheese puff from the concrete and places it through the lower of two holes in the killertine, then sticks his index finger through the other.“There’s the blade.You see it?” he asks Scot and James.There is a thick white strip across two pillars of red plastic, poised above the two holes.“Aye,” they confirm.“Right.Check this.”Colin plunges a handle down and drives the blade to the bottom of the killertine.It chops the cheese puff in half but incredibly leaves his finger unharmed.“That’s fuckin amazin,” Scot declares.James is so impressed he can’t even find the words at first.He just laughs with delight.“Dae it again, dae it again,” he pleads.Robbie walks away, followed by Paul, and then Gary.They must have seen it enough times already, though in Gary’s case it might simply be to preserve his cheese puffs.§Noodsy lifts his head from his knees and looks at the walls so tightly enclosing him, the grey steel door and its narrow observation slit closing off all contact with the world.He feels sick.He hasn’t eaten, hasn’t felt hungry.He hasn’t slept since they brought him here, and not much in the nights preceding, either.He keeps thinking he’s going to throw up, so it’s probably just as well there’s nothing down there.He’s scared, really fucking scared.He wants out of here like he’s never wanted anything before.He’s been in this nick—this cell and others just like it—so often it’s practically his second home, but on this occasion it’s different; on this occasion it’s creeping him out.It reminds him of the first time, except that it’s far worse than that.Sure, he was scared back then, too, just a boy, really, but full of bravado and a determination not to let anyone—polis or fellow inmates—see his fear.Today he’s wearing it all on his sleeve; can’t help it.It reminds him of the first time, aye, but that’s not the feeling that’s creeping him out.What’s got him spooked, his guts churning and his eyes unable to close is the feeling like it’s the last time.All those other arrests were for kiddy-on stuff compared to this.Fines, service, the odd jakey sentence.Occupational hazards.But what he’s up for now, you’re talking about the big picture.Twelve o’clock Mass.Life.They say it doesn’t mean life, but the folk who say that have never stared down the barrel at it.Look at the best-case scenario, for fuck’s sake: he’s gets out in twelve, maybe fifteen—about fifty years old—and to what? No house, no wife, no kids, nothing.He’s thirty-seven next birthday.Time, he knew, was running out to get hold of himself, and that was before…this.Christ, what was he thinking? Well, he wasn’t, that was the problem.That was always the problem, but he’d never screwed up as badly as this before; not even close.Life, for fuck’s sake.He never thought about that when he was doing it, when he was in the midst of all that madness, did he? That’s what the politicians and journalists who are always banging on about tougher sentences being a deterrent all completely fucking fail to understand.No cunt ever thinks he’ll get caught.The Cabaret“Line up neatly and quietly at the door, boys and girls.We’re going to the gym hall for an assembly.”Aw naw.Scot suspected this was coming, right enough.Clarice’s been eyeing the clock every five minutes since they got back after lunchtime.Assembly does get you out the class and away from the jotters for a wee while, but it’s not exactly playtime.In fact, along with school Mass, it’s about the only thing that makes Scot wish he was back at his desk doing long division.It’s hellish: St Lizzie’s version of the Black Hole of Calcutta.Everybody from Primary Three upwards gets stowed into the gym hall to compete for the last few oxygen molecules as their arse-cheeks gradually go numb from sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor.Numb, aye, but not quite numb enough, because something about that position seems to bring the farts out in folk; and not big raspers that you can at least get a laugh at.It’s always the silent-but-violent variety, so nearby and thick in the air that they actually smell warm—and that’s just what your nose has to put up with if you don’t end up sitting close to Smeleanor.All of which is to say nothing about the cabaret, which usually takes one of two standard forms, or if you’re really unlucky, both.The less frequent of the two is presided over by Harris, and begins with a wee lecture about whichever patron saint is blowing out their candles today up in heaven, concentrating mainly on the horrific manner in which they met their holy end.She usually works herself up into a mighty temper while delivering this, with the result that Scot reckons she’s trying to imply that it was somehow their fault.This, however, is merely a preamble to her principal enthusiasm, which is to lead a marathon, unaccompanied hymn practice, by the end of which Scot is usually convinced the bloody martyr had it easy.Today, though, it’s the more familiar routine, the main event, the one you’ve not been waiting for: Ladies and gentlemen, put your bum-cheeks together for the All-Old Momo Show.Which would be a shite enough prospect if it wasn’t coming on top of this morning’s class invasion and random assault.Scot catches Jamesy’s eye as they troop along the corridor and see the headmaster up on stage in front of a half-empty but rapidly filling floor.They both know that it’s the older weans who are most likely to be singled out during assembly, but it can depend on which classes get there first and therefore who ends up sitting nearest the front and in Memo’s direct line of vision.When they were in their proper classroom, back in the Infant Building, they were usually safe, coming in at the coo’s tail behind everyone else, but the utility room is only yards away from the gym hall.Jamesy’s also probably thinking, like Scot, that Momo’s assemblies, for no apparent reason, tend to be on a Friday, with Lingalonga Harris taking the floor on Tuesdays [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.“A vee-lan and a bawd igg.” It feels this way because they both know Scot is slagging Momo, not him.“And is your brother dead yet?” Scot adds, and they both crack up laughing.“How does he talk like that?” James asks.“Where’s he from?”“Ma maw says he’s fae one of the islands.”“Aye,” James, says, remembering the comic-book classics he liked to flick through in the library.“The Island of Doctor Moreau.”They make their way through the Main Building and exit at the door nearest the Infants’ playground, minimising their route through Primary Four-to-Seven infested territory.When they reach home turf, they find Martin, Richie, Gary, Paul and Robbie gathered round Colin, who is standing with his back to the fence, holding something.“Scot, Jamesy, check this,” Martin says, and they move in closer.Colin is holding a wee red plastic device in both hands.“It’s a killertine,” he tells them.“Watch.Somebody gie’s another cheese puff.”“Fuck off,” Gary objects, “I’ve gave up half the packet.”“Aw, come on, don’t be moolsy,” insists Richie.“S’awright, there’s wan on the ground that’s big enough,” Gary points out, rightly clutching his poke of the tuck shop’s rubbishy attempt at crisps.Colin picks up a length of cheese puff from the concrete and places it through the lower of two holes in the killertine, then sticks his index finger through the other.“There’s the blade.You see it?” he asks Scot and James.There is a thick white strip across two pillars of red plastic, poised above the two holes.“Aye,” they confirm.“Right.Check this.”Colin plunges a handle down and drives the blade to the bottom of the killertine.It chops the cheese puff in half but incredibly leaves his finger unharmed.“That’s fuckin amazin,” Scot declares.James is so impressed he can’t even find the words at first.He just laughs with delight.“Dae it again, dae it again,” he pleads.Robbie walks away, followed by Paul, and then Gary.They must have seen it enough times already, though in Gary’s case it might simply be to preserve his cheese puffs.§Noodsy lifts his head from his knees and looks at the walls so tightly enclosing him, the grey steel door and its narrow observation slit closing off all contact with the world.He feels sick.He hasn’t eaten, hasn’t felt hungry.He hasn’t slept since they brought him here, and not much in the nights preceding, either.He keeps thinking he’s going to throw up, so it’s probably just as well there’s nothing down there.He’s scared, really fucking scared.He wants out of here like he’s never wanted anything before.He’s been in this nick—this cell and others just like it—so often it’s practically his second home, but on this occasion it’s different; on this occasion it’s creeping him out.It reminds him of the first time, except that it’s far worse than that.Sure, he was scared back then, too, just a boy, really, but full of bravado and a determination not to let anyone—polis or fellow inmates—see his fear.Today he’s wearing it all on his sleeve; can’t help it.It reminds him of the first time, aye, but that’s not the feeling that’s creeping him out.What’s got him spooked, his guts churning and his eyes unable to close is the feeling like it’s the last time.All those other arrests were for kiddy-on stuff compared to this.Fines, service, the odd jakey sentence.Occupational hazards.But what he’s up for now, you’re talking about the big picture.Twelve o’clock Mass.Life.They say it doesn’t mean life, but the folk who say that have never stared down the barrel at it.Look at the best-case scenario, for fuck’s sake: he’s gets out in twelve, maybe fifteen—about fifty years old—and to what? No house, no wife, no kids, nothing.He’s thirty-seven next birthday.Time, he knew, was running out to get hold of himself, and that was before…this.Christ, what was he thinking? Well, he wasn’t, that was the problem.That was always the problem, but he’d never screwed up as badly as this before; not even close.Life, for fuck’s sake.He never thought about that when he was doing it, when he was in the midst of all that madness, did he? That’s what the politicians and journalists who are always banging on about tougher sentences being a deterrent all completely fucking fail to understand.No cunt ever thinks he’ll get caught.The Cabaret“Line up neatly and quietly at the door, boys and girls.We’re going to the gym hall for an assembly.”Aw naw.Scot suspected this was coming, right enough.Clarice’s been eyeing the clock every five minutes since they got back after lunchtime.Assembly does get you out the class and away from the jotters for a wee while, but it’s not exactly playtime.In fact, along with school Mass, it’s about the only thing that makes Scot wish he was back at his desk doing long division.It’s hellish: St Lizzie’s version of the Black Hole of Calcutta.Everybody from Primary Three upwards gets stowed into the gym hall to compete for the last few oxygen molecules as their arse-cheeks gradually go numb from sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor.Numb, aye, but not quite numb enough, because something about that position seems to bring the farts out in folk; and not big raspers that you can at least get a laugh at.It’s always the silent-but-violent variety, so nearby and thick in the air that they actually smell warm—and that’s just what your nose has to put up with if you don’t end up sitting close to Smeleanor.All of which is to say nothing about the cabaret, which usually takes one of two standard forms, or if you’re really unlucky, both.The less frequent of the two is presided over by Harris, and begins with a wee lecture about whichever patron saint is blowing out their candles today up in heaven, concentrating mainly on the horrific manner in which they met their holy end.She usually works herself up into a mighty temper while delivering this, with the result that Scot reckons she’s trying to imply that it was somehow their fault.This, however, is merely a preamble to her principal enthusiasm, which is to lead a marathon, unaccompanied hymn practice, by the end of which Scot is usually convinced the bloody martyr had it easy.Today, though, it’s the more familiar routine, the main event, the one you’ve not been waiting for: Ladies and gentlemen, put your bum-cheeks together for the All-Old Momo Show.Which would be a shite enough prospect if it wasn’t coming on top of this morning’s class invasion and random assault.Scot catches Jamesy’s eye as they troop along the corridor and see the headmaster up on stage in front of a half-empty but rapidly filling floor.They both know that it’s the older weans who are most likely to be singled out during assembly, but it can depend on which classes get there first and therefore who ends up sitting nearest the front and in Memo’s direct line of vision.When they were in their proper classroom, back in the Infant Building, they were usually safe, coming in at the coo’s tail behind everyone else, but the utility room is only yards away from the gym hall.Jamesy’s also probably thinking, like Scot, that Momo’s assemblies, for no apparent reason, tend to be on a Friday, with Lingalonga Harris taking the floor on Tuesdays [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]