Inside this fake book was a pile of crisp notes. “Two thousand and forty-nine pounds, give or take. I don’t spend everything he gives me. I try to save most of it so I’ll have enough to leave when I’m ready.” He folded the new notes inside and tossed the book across the table as carelessly as an empty cigarette packet. He sat on the other side of Mungo now, further away, and curled his flat feet up underneath himself. He went back to staring at the television.
“How’s Conan the Sectarian?”
James laughed, Mungo felt buoyed to see the happy-gappy teeth again. “Turns out his name was Caledonian Sun. He was famous. He wouldn’t settle so I took him to a guy in Garthamlock. He gave us forty poun’ for him, said Wee-Man Flannigan was gonnae stab me if ever he caught me.”
“But you didn’t steal the bird. Isn’t that the whole point?”
“Aye, but some eejits take it awfy hard. You were there, I caught him fair and square. Flannigan can go fuck himself. Whrooup, whrooooup.”
“I’m sad you sold him.”
James extended his foot and shunted Mungo. “You need to sell them. If ye don’t the bird might try to make its way home and take your prize doo wi’ it.” He pulled his foot away. “You need to move them on. Confuse ’em. It’s all part of the game.”
Mungo’s side felt hollow where he had been pressed against James. He had thought perhaps James had needed the contact, that perhaps he was lonely here all by himself, but perhaps it had been Mungo who had wanted the comfort.
“Are ye hungry?” asked James.
He wasn’t – the stovies coiled in his belly as heavy as lead – but he followed James through to the kitchenette anyway. The cupboards were filled with colourful boxes. It was an Aladdin’s cave of sugar, with every manner of prepackaged starch you could buy. Mo-Maw never went into those aisles at the shop, she stayed with the meats and vegetables and made it as far as the tinned soups. James looked at the hoard with a sigh of boredom.
On the wall above the small dining table was a collection of crucifixes. A collage of different palm leaves twisted into small crosses. The children’s names were written on them in the same writing but different coloured pens. His mother must have collected them every Palm Sunday throughout the years.
“Fuck!”
“Whut?” James was eating two chocolate biscuits that he had sandwiched together.
“Nothin’.”
The reason he could not quite place James was because they attended different schools; his was not just another unknown face, lost in the scrum of an overrun state school. James was a Catholic, and the Catholic was grinning as he poured two heaped bowls of sugar puffs and crumbled a chocolatey flake over the top. Mungo took his treat and tried not to look at the crucifixes. As milk dribbled down his chin, he resolved not to tell Hamish about the Fenian.
They spent the evening in the glow of the electric fire watching a Royal Command Performance on television. They lay on the blue rug and crammed an endless procession of buttery shortbread into their mouths. English comedians were notoriously unfunny. English comedians performing in front of the Queen were unfunny and slick with a strange kind of slithery smarminess. On top of this, the man now performing had gone all limp in the wrist and something about him made the boys uncomfortable. It was a loathsome sight, people were roaring at him, and the louder they laughed the more he swished and lisped.
“When you leave,” asked Mungo, “where would you go?”
James turned away from the comedian. He lowered his cheek to the floor. “I told ye already. Anywhere but here. I want to live somewhere where people aren’t always leaving. I don’t mind being alone. It’s the fact they keep fucking off, again and again.” James looked at him. “Would you be awright if I left?”
He shrugged. “Do what you like.”
James lay between Mungo and the television. He was searching Mungo’s face in the flickering glow. “You are a bad liar, Mungo Hamilton.” He tried to lay a thick finger on Mungo’s cheekbone, right where the twitch had started.
Mungo slapped him away. “Why does every fucker want to touch my face?”
James propped himself up on one elbow.
Mungo was squinting, peering like he had an eye test. He started to laugh.
James looked behind himself at the bright television. He turned and looked at Mungo. “Who are you laughin’ at?”
“I can see different colours through your big ears. They’re pure glowing.”
James flattened them against his head.
Mungo toed his hands away and the large ears sprung back to life. “You’re like Dumbo.”
James lunged and caught Mungo’s ankle sharply, twisting it. It cracked his knee and Mungo contorted to release the painful pressure of it. “Call me that again,” he growled. “I fuckin’ dare you.”
“Dumb—”
But before he could finish James was on top of him. His knee was in Mungo’s side and his left hand held his face against the floor. The thick carpet skinned his raw cheekbone. James twisted his arm behind his back. “I cannae hear ye? Speak up.”
Most days, Hamish easily bested Mungo. Mungo learned quickly to offer no resistance because that would only prolong the beating. Roll into a ball. Tuck your elbows to your knees and cradle your face between your forearms. It stole the heat from Hamish. It was no fun to whale on a sack of lifeless meat.
“Submit,” James commanded.
“Ah-yah! No way.”
James wrenched his arm again. “Sub-mit.”
“Awright.”
He released him and Mungo scuttled away. He sat with his back to him, cradling his sore wrist. James had gone too far, he was no better than Hamish. The victor’s smile slid from his lips. He reached out a hand to apologize. But as Mungo turned, he glowered at James from under his fringe and a grin broke over his face. “Dumbo. Dumbo. Dumh-boh. Ya big-eared basturt. Can you fly with them flappers?”
He could endure more than James could ever dole out. James would learn.