into the other room.
‘They’ll worship you. They’ll worship you.’
Through there, it’s bright: a mix of light and shadow as someone stands on their tiptoes to slot another pole of fish into the rack. Herrings, splayed open, tied in pairs at the tail, their flattened sides like hands. Praying.
Help me …
He opens his mouth, but it’s too dry to make words. Too burned by the bile.
‘They’ll worship you.’
Why can’t he just die?
Up above, high above the poles of praying fish, eight fingertips brush a blade of sunlight. They run their tips along its sharp edge as the body they belong to sways in the darkness. Caught in the breeze from the open door. Head down – like the fish – arms dangling. Skin darkened to an ancient oak brown.
‘You’ll be a god.’
Then the person on the other side disappears. Comes back with a wheelbarrow piled up with sawdust and small chunks of wood. Dumps the lot in the middle of the room. Stoops to light it. Stands back as pale tendrils of smoke coil up into the air. Backs away and closes the door.
Now the only light is the faint orange glow of the smouldering wood.
‘You’ll be a god.’
He slides down against the wall. Too tired and thirsty to cry. Too tired to do anything but wait for the end to come.
‘They’ll worship you …’
Why can’t he just die?
Then the little girl with the lizard’s tail jumped into the air with a whoosh! “I’ve got it!” she shrieked. “We can make an enormous pie out of all the bits of hair and beard!”
Ichabod scowled at her. “That’s a horrid idea,” he said, because it was. “No one wants to eat a cake made of hair.”
“Ah, but the hair of the Gianticus Moleraticus is magical and tastes of everything you like in the whole world! Gumdrops and sausages, baked beans and chocolate biscuits, custard and ham.” She scooped up a big handful of hair and shoved it in Ichabod’s mouth. “See?”
But to Ichabod it just tasted of hair. The little girl was clearly insane …
R.M. Travis
The Amazing Adventures of Ichabod Smith (1985)
And if some motherf*cker gonna call the police?
I’m-a grab my nine-mill and I’m-a make him deceased.
Donny ‘$ick Dawg’ McRoberts
‘Don’t Mess with the $ick Dawg’
© Bob’s Speed Trap Records (2016)
‘POLICE! COME BACK HERE, YOU WEE SOD!’
Only that wasn’t really right, was it? Ainsley Dugdale wasn’t a wee sod – he was a dirty great big lumping hulk of a sod, hammering his way along Manson Avenue. Ape-long arms and short legs pumping, scarf flittering out behind him, baldy head glinting in the morning sunshine.
Callum gritted his teeth and hammered after him.
Why did no one ever come back when they were told to? Anyone would think people didn’t want to get arrested.
Squat grey council houses scrolled past on either side of the street, lichen-flecked pantiles and harled walls. Front gardens awash with weeds. More abandoned sofas and washing machines than gnomes and bird tables.
A couple of kids were out on their bikes, making lazy figure eights on the tarmac. The wee boy had sticky-out ears and a flat monkey nose, a roll-up sticking out the corner of his mouth – leaving coiled trails of smoke behind him. The wee girl was all blonde ringlets and pierced ears, swigging from a tin of extra-strong cider as she freewheeled. Both of them dressed in baggy jeans, trainers, and tracksuit tops. Baseball caps on the right way around, for a change.
Rap music blared out of a mobile phone. ‘Cops can’t take me, cos I’m strong like an oak tree, / Fast like the grand prix, / I’m-a still fly free … ’
The wee girl shifted her tinny to the other hand and raised a middle finger in salute as Callum ran past. ‘HOY, PIGGY, I SHAGGED YER MUM, YEAH?’
Her wee friend made baboon hoots. ‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH! PIGGY, PIGGY, PIGGY!’
Neither of them looked a day over seven years old.
The delights of darkest Kingsmeath.
Dugdale skittered around the corner at the end of the road. Almost didn’t make it – banged against the side of a rusty Renault, righted himself and kept on going, up the hill.
‘RUN, PIGGY, RUN!’ Little Miss Cider appeared, standing on the pedals to keep up, grinning as she flanked him. ‘COME ON, PIGGY, PUT SOME WELLY IN IT!’
Her baboon friend pedalled up on the other side. ‘FAT PIGGY, LAZY PIGGY!’
‘Bugger off, you little sods …’ Callum wheeched through the turn, into another row of grubby houses. Low garden walls guarded small squares of thistle and dandelions, ancient rusty hatchbacks up on bricks, the twisted metal brackets where satellite dishes used to be.
‘COME ON, PIGGY!’
The gap was narrowing. Dugdale might have got off to an impressive sprint start, but his long game wasn’t anywhere near as good – puffing and panting as he lumbered up Munro Place. Getting slower with every step.
‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH!’
He crested the hill with Callum barely ten feet behind him.
The street fell away towards a grubby line of trees and a grubbier line of houses, but Dugdale didn’t stop to admire the view: he kept his head down, picking up a bit of velocity on the descent.
The wee kids freewheeled alongside him, Little Miss Cider swigging from her can. ‘RUN, BALDY – PIGGY’S GONNA GET YOU!’
One last burst. Callum accelerated. ‘I’M NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN!’
Dugdale snatched a glance over his shoulder – little eyes surrounded by dark circles, a nose that looked as if it’d been broken at least a dozen times, scar bisecting his bottom lip. He swore. Then put on another burst of speed.
‘NO YOU DON’T!’
‘HOOH!
