One Friday Night
Friday, 11:10 pm In a police interview room, bare bar the mandatory table, desk lamp, tape recorder and sloganeering posters, they sat. They had been waiting almost forty minutes. In that time, their minds had reeled with possible fates and consequences while their backsides numbed on black plastic chairs. Now, nearly sober, their nerves were almost frayed. They just wanted to know what was going to happen to them. They heard the clop and creak of leather shoes pacing ever nearer in the corridor. They stopped outside the door. “Okay,” said Sgt. Jackson bursting into the room, “after consultation with Councillor Roth we have decided to let you go…this time. However, if I have the misfortune of encountering you again, I will not hesitate to charge you. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes,” they readily agreed. “Thanks,” added Hugh. “Don’t thank me,” said Sgt. Jackson, “thank Councillor Roth, he’s the one who has kept you out of bother.” Friday, 7:10 pm Alright, how’s it going? Not bad? Good. We’re just waiting on Ryan. Once he arrives, we’ll go for the carry out. In the mean time, let me introduce everyone. Right. See the guy standing to the left of the butcher shop; covering most of the street with his shadow, that’s Peter Madden. He’s a mummy’s boy with a man’s belly. I’m surprised that he has been allowed out tonight what with his Standard Grades exams only a month away. His mum has been on about his studying so much that he has started panicking. Just wait until you start your Highers, I said… Sitting on the wall, McAdam. I’ve known him since Primary school. He’s alright but he is a bit of a storyteller. If he went out to buy stamps, there would be an armed robbery in the post office. Good snooker player, though. He can beat most folk in about ten minutes. I lasted an hour against him. However, he spent most of that time telling me about last weekend. On cue, in a swank Benzini shirt, comes Ryan. He takes great pride in his appearance and, as you can see, he’s always late to put in one. Me? I’m Hugh (Shug), the good looking and intelligent one. I’m also the oldest. That doesn’t mean I get served in the off-licence, though. I’ve had more knock backs from there than Madden’s had hot dinners. I’m not the only one, though. Madden looks about ten, and Ryan doesn’t do Spars. McAdam can’t either even though he’s got his own fake ID. However, his is about as genuine looking as the Warhol prints in O’Shea’s art class. So it’s just as well we know someone who can… Friday, 7:36pm While I was at college, someone said to me that nursing can take over your life, that it is a vocation not a job. Satisfied by its steadiness, and prospects of promotion and transfer, I happily continued with my studies. It’s only recently that I’ve had reason to remember and appreciate those words: for the last six months, I’ve been working overtime at the hospital and attending to my terminally ill mother. Don’t get me wrong - I don’t grudge doing it and it’s nice to be of use, but sometimes I feel that my life is a rut of providing and propping, checking and reassuring; that I change out of my uniform but never take my nurses’ hat off, that I’m constantly on-duty. Like tonight for example. Having seen to mother, I was just relaxing on the couch when there was a knock at the door. It was my cousin Peter and his friend Hugh. I knew what they were here for so I wasted no time in getting on with things. I went upstairs and fetched my jacket and purse, and asked mother if she needed anything from the shops. When I came back down, both of them were waiting, money ready. They told me what they wanted and I told them to be outside the gate at the rear of the close in twenty minutes. They agreed and left. When I heard the front door of the tenement thud shut, I also made my way out. Five minutes of brisk walking later, I was in the Spar. As you would expect for a Friday evening, the shop was busy, its queue long and loud. When I eventually got to the counter, the check out girl who served me fumbled at the plastic carrier bags before plonking the bottles in at awkward angles. She didn’t entertain consideration or competence, and I don’t think it entered her head that none of this Buckfast and Mad Dog was going to pass my lips. I began to feel confident she wouldn’t accuse me of supplying to under-age kids. Initially, being caught and charged for supplying to minors never crossed my mind, but now, with this new law banning street drinking and the increased police presence around the town at night, I have become more worried. It’s not being confronted by a shop assistant that bothers me, it’s someone seeing me and grassing me up. People around here have a tendency to keep one eye on what they’re doing and one eye on everyone else’s activities. When I was walking back from the Spar, I had that feeling of being watched. I tried to look casual but I think trying scuppers any possibility of actually being casual. I was conscious of the bottles clanking against one another and the bag handles stretching taut and lean. On Harvey Drive, I dared not look at the windows of the houses in case someone might be watching. Someone might be wondering what a woman who gave up drink five years ago is doing with such a hefty carry out. When I returned to Thurman Court, the close was quiet. I unlocked the door to the basement and made my way down towards the back of the tenement where the bins are kept and where the boys would be waiting. I heard someone about on the ground floor. Peering round the corner, I saw Councillor Robert Roth posting leaflets through letterboxes and tacking them to notice boards. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what to do, but there was really only one option: walk on and hope he didn’t look in the bags. “It’s a bit mild tonight, Robert,” “Maureen, good to see you. I trust you’re well?” “I’m okay, thanks.” “And your mother?” “She’s…not too bad. You?” “Can’t complain.” He pointed to my bags, “Where’s the party?” “Oh, nowhere,” I replied, “ I had some people over recently and that’s me just getting round to tidying up. I don’t like having drink in the house.” I don’t think I convinced him. He looked sternly towards the bottles. “Will you be home later on, Maureen?” “Yes.” “I might pop up,” he said, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.” Friday, 8:59pm They exit the underpass and begin making their way to the school. When they reach the shops on the main street, bottles are concealed, and attempts to curb staggers and slurs are made. Ryan is singing a slagging at McAdam, and Hugh tells him to shut up. However, these precautions are unnecessary. There is nobody around. They cut across the dual carriageway, bound up the hill, and move down through the gravel and chicanes of the bike track. Despite the thinning sunlight, some younger kids - probably first years - are still out on the circuit with their BMXs and Choppers. Madden hassles one of them for a shot on his bike. The kid ignores Madden and cycles on. McAdam laughs. “I wouldn’t let you on my bike either. I wouldn’t want you sitting on it and snapping the seat.” They move on until they reach the pond. It lies directly behind the bike track, stretching up to the perimeter fence of the school. There are wooden benches all around its banks. Everyone checks them for damp before sitting down. Ryan, in his white jeans, is especially cautious. “What your problem?” asks Madden. “I don’t want to look as if I’ve pissed myself.” “You always look as if you’ve pissed yourself. I’d be more concerned with keeping my jeans dry.” The bottles of Buckfast and Mad Dog are taken out and the drinking resumes. The blue plastic bags are discarded, blown by the breeze until they catch on, and drape over, the branches of the nearby Cedars. As the drinking begins to slow, night comes swiftly. The high voices of the bikers disappear, and the far side of the pond grows glum - only its huddled swans and lanky reeds remain visible. The wind gets up and causes the bags on the trees to rustle. Soon after, they finish their drink and move on again. To get to Richard’s house, and avoid the other, bigger gangs, they must cut through the school grounds. Out of school hours, the only way in is via holes in the fencing. From the western side - where they are coming from - there is only one small gap about half way up the rugby pitch. They file through the hole, one at a time, and go on to crouch behind the bushes that overlook the football pitches - the best place to spy the janitor and the NYT. In the dark, they can’t see much. After a few minutes, McAdam stands up and looks down towards the opposite end of the red blaze. “All clear?” asks Hugh. “I think so.” Hugh gives the signal. And, with Madden leading the way, they began to charge across the pitches. Friday, 10pm By the fire, in Maureen’s mother’s chair, sat Councillor Roth. He was a tubby man with a slight overbite, and Maureen found the sight of him supping tea from the dainty china cup she’d given him funny. And yet there would be nothing amusing about why he had dropped in to see her. He had been over for nearly half an hour, and had yet to explain his visit though they had talked of his upcoming election campaign, the declining health of her mother, and how well his children were doing at school. During these conversations, Maureen just wished he would get to the point. She’d seen priests be more direct with more delicate issues. She let the conversation peter out. In the discomfort of the silence, both of them turned towards the muted television set where Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs was just starting. Maureen looked at Councillor Roth. By his fidgeting, she knew what the next topic was going to be. “ I must tell you the reason for my visit.” Maureen raised an eyebrow. “We at the Christian Society wish to take the responsibility of driver off of your shoulders.” “Why’s that?” Coyly, he said, “I think you know why.” She wondered if he thought she was back drinking or whether he had followed her earlier and saw her hand over of the booze. He continued, “Time is a valuable thing. The time spent between a parent and child is also precious. We, at the society, feel that it is more important that you spend time tending to your mother than us.” Friday, 10:08 pm Hugh and I ran hard until we reached the wood that flanks the dual carriageway on the Glasgow bound side. Here we stopped to get back our breath and think. We stood facing one another, bent forward from the waist up, red cheeked and exhaling whitely in the cold. A few moments later, Ryan panted up the hill to join us. He was grimacing and holding the back of his head. When he took his hand away, we noticed that it was dark with blood. “Who hit you?” I asked. “No one, McAdam. I caught my head on the fence escaping.” “Where’s Madden?” asked Hugh. “ I don’t know. He was behind me on the pitches. When I got to the fence, I looked back and he was gone.” “Wonderful,” sighed Hugh. “Should we go and look for him?” asked Ryan, taking a seat against one of the trees. “No,” Hugh replied, “let’s see if he comes here first. We can’t go back there just now. The police might still be about.” And so we waited, quietly listening to the smooth cruising of the cars on the road and secretly worrying that a panda car would pull over at any time. I couldn’t believe that the police had turned up - my head still fizzed with panic. I’ve seen those adverts on the telly. I know there are all these new laws to stop the under-age drinking and the street fighting. They would make an example of us. It would be in the local paper. My mum would kill me. Ryan was still holding his head. I went to have a look at it. It was difficult to make out the cut in the dim light of the wood. I wasn’t sure what was wound and what was just blood crusting on the scalp. However, there was a fair bit of blood. “I think he might need this stitched,” I said. “Oh, stop exaggerating,” snapped Hugh. He stomped over to give a second opinion. “You might be right, MacAdam,” he said, after examining it for himself, “ I think this will need to be seen to.” “So what do we do?” I asked, “We can’t take him home when he’s steaming. We can’t go to the hospital because we don’t have enough money for a taxi and we could be in there for hours. We can’t stay out here until we sober up in case the police might catch us.” Eventually, Hugh came up with a suggestion. “We go to Maureen’s. She’s a nurse and she would let us in no bother. If she can’t do anything for it, then we could just stay there until we are a bit more sober.” “What about Madden?” asked Ryan. “If we don’t see him in the Chinese Take-away, then he’s a goner.” Friday, 10:20pm Maureen could scarcely hide her shock and annoyance when Hugh turned up at her door for the second time that night, this time bringing two unknowns with him. In the hall she hissed, “You can’t come in. I have a visitor. Come back later.” “We can’t,” replied Hugh, “we’re in trouble. The police have been chasing us. We think that they have lifted Peter. And Ryan here has cut his head quite badly. Could you let us in and have a look at it?” After huffed consideration, she said, “Okay. Go in to the kitchen and I’ll be through shortly.” Maureen made excuses to Councillor Roth and fetched her first aid kit from the bathroom. When she returned, she began swabbing the back of Ryan’s head with cotton wool doused in disinfectant. He flinched at her every stroke, much to the amusement of Hugh and McAdam. Councillor Roth came into the room. “How’s the patient getting on?” he asked. Sheepishly, Ryan lifted his bowed head. “I’m a bit sore, dad.” “What happened to you?” McAdam answered. “ We were walking near the school and he caught it on a fence.” “Really?” said Councillor Roth, disbelieving. “And where is Peter Madden?” “He went home early,” replied McAdam, “I think he had indigestion.” Ryan and Hugh both began smirking. Maureen’s phone began ringing and she left to answer it. With his hands behind his back, Councillor Roth stepped forward to look at Ryan’s cut. He looked like a woodwork teacher about to inspect a second year’s knife rack. “You smell of drink,” he said to Ryan. “I think that’s the alcohol in the disinfectant,” he replied. Councillor Roth took a step backwards. He said, “When I return from the toilet, I want to be told exactly what has been going on. If not, there will be hell to pay.” As soon as he left the room, the boys began laughing. When they heard him come out of bathroom, they tried to conceal their merriment. They were struggling with straight faces when the ringing of Councillor Roth’s mobile phone saved them like a school bell. When he returned to the kitchen, he had a look of fury on his face. “That was Sgt. Jackson on the phone. He says that they picked up your friend Peter Madden ten minutes ago and he gave them your names. He wants the three of you down the station right away.” Friday, 10:50 pm In the station canteen, Sgt. Jackson and Councillor Roth sat drinking vending machine coffee and eating doughnuts. “Thanks for doing this, Colin,” said Councillor Roth. “It’s no problem, Robert. I’m glad to be of help to you.” He leaned a bit closer and spoke quieter, “I trust you wish to keep this little episode between us?” “If you could, I would appreciate it. As you know I am a man who knows how to repay a favour. If there is anything I can do to help you - professionally or personally - just ask.” “Thank you.” Sgt. Jackson added, “Shall we go and end their torture?” “No,” grinned Councillor Roth, “ I want to make sure that they learn their lesson. Besides which, I would really like another one of those doughnuts.” Looking up at the Reservoir Dogs on the TV screen beside the grill, he added, “Times have changed since we were young, when a thick ear from your father was enough of a deterrent. These days, you’ve got to be a more…inventive and extreme.” Friday, 10:55pm While Maureen was getting ready to go to Club Excess she smelt curry sauce wafting in from the stairwell and heard a familiar voice humming Stuck in the Middle with You. She popped her head around the door to see if it was who she thought it was. “Peter!” she called to the figure on the stairs. He staggered back towards her. “What did the police say to you?” “Police?” “Hugh, Ryan and the other one were round here earlier. They said they were chased by the police and you got caught.” He laughed. “ Oh yeah. When we got to the school we ran across the pitches to avoid the janitor but there were these road workers fixing the car park. They had luminous yellow jackets on and Hugh thought they were police. The three of them ran away. I couldn’t catch up with them. I looked for a while but I couldn’t see them. In the end I just went up to Richard’s on my own. We watched Reservoir Dogs.” “Councillor Roth also said that you had been lifted.” “I don’t know why he said that. He was the one that bought the booze for me and Richard."
Copyright © 2005 Kenneth MacLellan |