“Oh, sticks and stones,” said Poor-Wee-Chickie, but he didn’t step back. “Is this a cry for help? Ah’ve heard about those. Mibbe what you need is for me to come in there and hold you for a while.” Poor-Wee-Chickie placed a hand on his hip, his tongue darted across his bottom lip. “Eh? Is that what you need? Do you need wee Chickie to put you to bed?”
It was kind. It was brave. It was undeservedly generous. It would destroy whatever was left of Charles Calhoun’s good name. The halves of whisky and the cheap warm lager would still be waiting for Mr Campbell. He could still be a hero. Ah was gonnae batter the little shit-stabber, but ye should’ve heard what he said tae me next. Gen up. Ah had tae get away frae him afore he tried tae stick a haun up my arsehole. Ah’m no a Sooty puppet. Dirty fuckin’ reprobate.
The Proddy neds would hear all about it. They would feast on Chickie’s bones. Haw! Haw! Mister Calhoun. Dae ye want to put me to bed an aw?
There was a sharp intake of breath, as if someone had forgotten to breathe for a long time. Mrs Campbell appeared in the shadows of her hallway, as though she had been behind the front door the whole time. “Stop your nonsense, Chick. Ah’m fine. Ah’ve had a wee fall.”
There was a blue bruise on her pale face that spread from her chin to her eye socket. The skin below her orbit must have split, for her hanky was spotted with blood. Her left arm hung limp by her side, and by the way her hand was crooked in the pocket of her pinny, it seemed as though he had broken her wing.
They were all silent for a long while. Mungo could hear the whispers, the shuffling feet behind all the peepholes up and down the close.
Jodie was the first to break the silence. “Oh, Missus Campbell. I’m nothing but a daft wee lassie, I’ve burnt the dinner again. Haaah-ha.” It was a lie, but no one had the heart to unpick it. There were tears on Jodie’s face for Mrs Campbell, but it was easy to pretend she was worried about a burnt steak and kidney pie. “I need your help to fix it afore I get the belt.” Jodie reached into the dark hallway. There was something about her small hand crossing the threshold that was bold and foolish at the same time. Mungo watched it slide past Mr Campbell and towards the woman. He held his breath lest Mr Campbell should take affront and snap it easy as a sapling branch. It felt like an eternity before Mrs Campbell stepped towards the outstretched hand, and when she did, Jodie choked with relief. “Oh, you’re a lifesaver. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Right, hen.” Sounding a little dazed, Mrs Campbell stepped into Jodie’s arms and allowed herself to be guided upstairs, moving hesitantly as though she had forgotten the way. Mr Campbell was blocking all the light in the doorway. Mrs Campbell turned to him, with the hanky still pressed to her cheek, and said quietly, “Ye’ve had enough to drink, Graham. Away to yer bed, darlin’. Ah’ll put yer dinner on when ah come back down the stair.”
Poor-Wee-Chickie looked like he wanted to say something more but thought better of it. He rapped his knuckle on the banister, and the knocking let them know that this was over, that they would not speak about this hurt, not today, not ever. The man turned and shuffled quietly downstairs. With Poor-Wee-Chickie gone, Mr Campbell retreated into the flat like some belligerent cuckoo.
Mungo followed the women upstairs. Jodie had her arm around Mrs Campbell. The woman seemed so small that Mungo could imagine his sister lifting her and carrying her the rest of the way. But Jodie did not rush her and they took it step by step, solemn as a funeral procession. Mungo watched Mrs Campbell’s heels rise and fall inside her fleece moccasins. Her ankles were chalky blue from poor circulation, and he resolved that he would find her some thick sports socks when they got safely upstairs.
When they reached the half-landing, the light from the stained-glass window illuminated the bruise on her face with a sickly vividness. Mrs Campbell said, “He was always a wonderful dancer. Ye widnae know it to look at the size of him.” She said it so quietly that it seemed like she was talking to herself.
Jodie exhaled sharply through her nose. “Well, I think it’s a bloody disgrace the way men get worked up over the football. What a bunch of sore losers.”
Mrs Campbell twisted free of Jodie’s grip. She climbed a few steps and then she turned. She looked confused. “No. That’s no it at all.”
“It is. The football is just an excuse for the men to drink and fight and get all their anger out—”
“Ye’re too wee to know anything about men and their anger.” Mrs Campbell took her damaged arm from her pinny pocket, she stroked it, cradled it as though it were a poorly lamb. “Every day for twenty-seven year that man went to the shipyards. Girders as big as corporation buses flying around on chains, a ton weight of steel dangling above his heid, and at any minute it could’ve dropped and kil’t him, and left me wi’ nothin’ but three weans and a divot in the mattress. And he knew it. Aw those men knew it.”
Jodie set her jaw. “Then he should be relieved that it’s all behind him.”
The woman’s gaze travelled out the colourful window and into the back middens. She was bathed in a patchwork of green and blue light, which made her appear sectioned off like the butcher’s guide to the very best cuts of meat. “Some of the men used to drink six, seven pints of lager at lunchtime. They only had an hour and yet they’d neck one pint after the other. Ah heard the barman would spend all morning pouring them, and he would line hunners, thousands of pints up along the bar so the men could just grab it and drown themselves as soon as the lunch bell rang. Oh and they ran for it! Does that sound like happy men to you?”
“I’m sorry, Missus Campbell. But I know plenty of unhappy people. That’s no excuse for your …” Jodie nodded at the woman’s face. It was like she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud.