Hamish cast no shadows. Mungo didn’t know what instinct made him look up from the long grass, what shift in the air made him glance over his shoulder. But when he rolled on to his side, Hamish was standing over them, blood dripping down his neck.
Mungo had thought it would be too early for his brother to be up, too soon for the father of a young baby to be dressed and prowling. Still, here he was – a ginger bottle full of siphoned petrol in his hand.
There was a sour grimace on Hamish’s face and his teeth were grinding from the speed. Bleeding and raw, the left side of his face was covered with a large white bandage, but the ointment and coagulating blood seeped through the thin muslin adhesive. The outline of it looked like a half-grin, like one of those carnival drawings you turned upside down to make it either grimace or smile. Hamish had been slashed from his earlobe to the left corner of his mouth, a rusty carpet blade having sliced through most layers of his skin. He must have been in the Royal Infirmary, being stitched together, most of the night. He had taken a bump of speed and had not yet been home to sleep. The stitches were not holding.
“I thought ye were fuckin’ dead.” His eyes were wild.
“Hamish, it’s no what you think.” Mungo could only fear how much he had seen, how much he had heard.
There were real tears streaming behind the thick lenses. It was this detail that scared Mungo the most. Hamish was shaking his head like he didn’t want to believe it. The two boys lying side by side in the grass. The Fenian’s hand tickling the base of his brother’s spine. Hamish let out a single choked sob. “Naw, Mungo. Ye cannae be one of them. Ye cannae. Ye just fuckin’ cannae.”
James’s hand – the same gentle fingers that had caressed Mungo’s skin – was lying in the grass, supporting his weight. Hamish stepped forward and brought his boot down upon it. He stamped down twice, all the force concentrated in his heel, and the thick sole of his Doc Martens made a terrible crunching sound. James rolled on to his side, terror blanching his face. He curled into a defensive ball and cradled his broken fingers in his other hand. Mungo went to him.
James’s mouth was open wide, but he made no sound. He started crawling backwards, away from Hamish, trying to make it to the doocot. Hamish lifted his glasses and wiped at his wet eyes. He turned his gaze to the Fenian, then he swivelled it back to Mungo. A dark look of relief swept over him. He had the answer he needed, even if it was not the truth.
“Ah. I understand now. Ye’re being diddled by this fucker, eh? This dirty Tim bastard that likes to have his way with wee boys. Typical. I blame the fucking priests.”
Hamish crossed the grass towards James. It was what he wanted to believe. It was a far easier thing to understand than the other truth, that Mungo had lain with this boy and enjoyed it, that Mungo had dreamt of the cereal sugar on James’s breath, that he had taken him in his mouth, or nuzzled his nose into the soft blond down at the crack of his arse, or rubbed himself against James in a cold bath till they made soft bubbles in the flat water. Hamish could not be the brother of a deviant. He would not be the brother of a poofter.
“Ye’re a fuckin’ child maleshtur.”
James Jamieson did something strange then. He stopped trying to get away.
The young man nodded only once, very faintly, as if he had swallowed a pill with no milk to wash it down. He looked at Mungo now and the left corner of his mouth pulled back in acceptance of what would come next. I understand. It’s okay.
Mungo was too late to see what they were not saying. Hamish had rushed forward before it dawned on him. “No! Hamish. Don’t!”
The first kick caught James on the underside of his chin. It split the soft skin and cracked his disobedient teeth to pieces. The second kick came down on to the middle of his face and sent a spray of blood skyward from his broken nose. The boy stopped moving. He lay, wheat and crimson in the sunlight, his head tilted backwards, his arms wide, like a saint waiting for ascension. Mungo was still on his knees. His hands were clasped in prayer. It had taken only two kicks to destroy James Jamieson.
Hamish would not let Mungo go to his side. Mungo darted around his brother, but as he knelt over James, Hamish took a firm grip of his hair and dragged him away.
Hamish unscrewed his ginger bottle and doused James in petrol. It poured out in a galloping stream. Mungo rammed his shoulder into Hamish’s gut and tackled him. He used whatever strength he had left to shove his brother away from the body. Mungo struggled but Hamish was stronger, faster. He huckled him to his knees, he put his boot into Mungo’s ribs and Mungo became helpless as a newborn calf. With his right hand he twisted deep into his hair, with his left, he gripped the back of Mungo’s jumper and dragged him on all fours towards the housing scheme. “Get a haud of yersel. I’ve saved ye, Mungo. Ye’ll thank me one day. I saved ye.”
At first Mungo let himself be pulled away, he was glad of every footstep he put between his brother and James’s body. But as they reached the pavement, Hamish stopped and roared back at the Catholic. “I’ll be back for you. I’m no fuckin’ finished.”
Mungo twisted wildly. He used his nails to pierce the back of Hamish’s hand, but Hamish knew what he was doing. He brought his elbow down into the tender bruise on Mungo’s face, again and again, until submission flooded over Mungo. Then he dragged his brother on his knees back towards the tenements, stopping every now and then to shake him, and tell him to quit his fucking greetin’.
TWENTY-FIVE