“Got you, ya wee fucker!”
Hamish had barely let go of the bough before Mungo did it. The violence sprang out of a lifetime of compacted instinct, hard-learned lessons from a sadistic brother. In one quick move Mungo pulled his head forward and then snapped it backwards. He felt the hard bone of the man’s nose give way to softness and he knew that he had shattered it. He curled his body into a ball and shoved with all of his might, pushing the man off balance. The night watchman fell to the sodden ground. Mungo broke free of his grip and sprang to his feet.
The man was rolling on the ground and clutching at his smashed face as Mungo darted past Hamish, heading for the safety of the darkness. As he passed, Mungo grabbed hold of Hamish’s slippery tracksuit and dragged him away from the man and back through the ferns. It had been easy to overpower the night watchman; maybe he was unaccustomed to Glaswegian schemies ransacking his castle. Yet as they scaled the drystane boundary there was a look of admiration on Hamish’s face. Mungo could see his teeth flash in the moonlight. Hamish lived for the thrill of mischief. As he manipulated the exposed wires and started the car humming, he said, “Sakes, Mungo. You act all shy, but I don’t think you know what ye’re capable of.”
* * *
They sang all the way back to the city. Hamish had been talking down the boasts of the Catholic fighters and beaming with pride at the tiny spark of violence inside his brother. “That was mental how ye decked that auld cunt.” He grinned. “Next month, ye need tae gie us hauners against the Royston Bhoys. The bastards willnae know what hit them. I cannae wait to see you bury a tomahawk into one of those Fenian wallopers.”
Behind Sighthill there was a sludge canal that ran from the North Side to the Clyde, and at night, all the low industrial buildings that framed it were dark and locked tight. Hamish abandoned the Capri in the middle of the empty road. There was just enough petrol left in the tank to set it alight. Mungo had tried to reason with him. They had had their fun, could they not just return the beautiful motor undamaged and just this once not spoil everything good that came to them.
“How stupit are you? I’m getting paid eighty poun’ to steal this motor and torch it. Joe Morrison will get mair frae the insurance than he would get for a trade-in.”
Hamish lit the rag that he had stuffed into the petrol cap. He danced away from the Capri. There was a terrific explosion and the car was a growling ball of flames. It knocked the wind out of Mungo, and it shook all thoughts from his head. It was dazzling, how something marvellous could be destroyed so quickly and so completely. The brothers jogged away from the flames, sat on the wall of Sighthill Cemetery, and watched the tall plume of rubber smoke merge into the uplit clouds. Mungo felt sad that their night was over. Soon they would be back on the scheme. He wished they could get Jodie and go eat vinegary chips by the sea together.
They were watching knots of Sighthill weans move closer to the bonfire, finding things to throw on the roaring flames before the fire brigade arrived and doused the fun. Down the hill, the industrial buildings were illuminated by the strobing blue of the fire engines. The boys watched the lights wind their way through the maze of streets towards the canal. Hamish spoke first. “I was proud of ye, up at the castle.”
Mungo didn’t feel proud. He was repulsed by the way his hair was hardening from the man’s sticky blood. “That’s a sad thing to be proud of me for.”
Hamish was holding a short dout between his second and third knuckles. The city was half-rotted below them. It wasn’t only that Mungo was too young to understand, it was also that in fifteen years he had seen nothing but the half-dozen tenemented streets they lived on. Hamish clenched his left fist and tried to dampen his temper. It wasn’t Mungo’s fault that he didn’t know more. “There’s nae jobs here. Ye’ll need to fuckin’ toughen up. Like, what’s even the point of you stickin’ in at school?”
“Yeah, but you didn’t even try.” It was too quick. Mungo braced himself.
Hamish flicked the dout and the cigarette cartwheeled into the night. He folded in on himself like a half-shut blade and set off on the long walk home.
Mungo trotted behind him, a kicked dog at his master’s heels.
Hamish scoffed. “Learn a trade, that’s what the school telt me. I telt them I wanted to go tae university, learn all about the engineerin’, and they said, ‘You know, that’s not for boys like you.’” Hamish feigned his best West End accent and Mungo knew by the way he sung it upwards that he was mimicking Mrs Newman, the overworked headmistress at the high school. “The sad thing wis, I knew what that sour cunt meant, but I goes, ‘How no?’ And she sucked in her massive wobbling chins and goes, ‘You’re not cut from university cloth.’”
Mungo had heard Hamish say the exact same thing to Jodie; now he knew where the hurt began. “And you believed her?”
“No at first. Newman telt us if I liked buildin’ things that much, to go down Govan, and apply for a shipbuilding apprenticeship. She sent me down the watter one afternoon, paid my bus fare and everything. I came swannin’ down the dockside in my best school uniform while a tide of men were pushing the other way. They had just been telt they were getting the sack. Their lunch pails were still full.” Hamish stopped his long strides and looked out over the low city. “Grown men wi’ greetin’ faces, and here’s muggins, in a school tie, asking for an apprenticeship. Three hunner and fifty men on the broo and I’m asking for a bus-fare allowance. It was a pure embarrassment.”
“I’m sorry.”