“At least ah don’t hurt other people.”
Mr Jamieson would be hurt, Ashley would be hurt too, but she would recover swiftly. Mungo did not want to breathe life into these people and bring them back into the doocot between them. “These Catholic fighters, the Bhoyston, they want to hurt me as well. If I don’t stand up to them, I’ll run into them one day in the Trongate or the Briggait, and they’ll slash me from here to here.” Mungo ran his fingernail from his earlobe to the corner of his mouth. He pressed so hard it left a bloodless line that flickered and faded. It was pure Ha-Ha talking.
James was hunched over the broken hinge just as Mungo had found him. It was strange to see; it was like he had never even visited, as though he had not altered James’s day one bit. His life would go on without him. “If you fight the Catholics, don’t come on Saturday. Don’t come near me on Sunday or Monday or ever again. If you do that, I don’t want to know you.”
TWENTY-TWO
Mungo dared not fall asleep. It was his third night at the lochside and his head was bobbing on his shoulders. Gallowgate was in no hurry. He rolled a mean cigarette from scavenged baccy and smoked it inside the collapsing tent. As he told his stories he held the glowing tip too close to the combustible fabric. Mungo didn’t care anymore. Let it burn.
By the last light of the tea candle, the inked man advanced upon him slowly, territorially, painted knuckles on the ground. He touched him almost tenderly and caressed the boy with a gentleness that made Mungo feel sick. Mungo put his hand over Gallowgate’s mouth – he couldn’t bear to hear him say sweet things – but Gallowgate took it the wrong way. He licked the inside of Mungo’s palm, nibbled from the meat to the fingertip, his tongue slipping in and out between his fingers.
The tenderness quickly evaporated and the inked man began pawing at him, forcing rough hands inside Mungo’s clothes. His greed possessed him, his eyes looked bottomless in the candlelight, and he scratched the boy as he grabbed at his flesh. Mungo didn’t want what came next. He spat into his own cupped hands and then wrapped them around Gallowgate’s swelling. In the flickering light, he worked as quickly as he could to give the man what he wanted, and to send him back into the darkness.
When Gallowgate was spent, he lay back and threw his arms out to the side as though he had been crucified. He reached out to the boy and ruffled his hair, a look of satisfaction upon his face. Mungo listened to the rain beat against the tarpaulin. A question burned inside him, he asked the universe as much as he asked Gallowgate, “Does this mean you’re a poofter?”
Gallowgate had slithered across the floor and had begun to snake his naked body around the boy. Now he shoved him away. The distance felt good to Mungo. “Call me that again an’ ah’ll knock ye out.”
* * *
Mungo must have dozed because it was already brightening when Gallowgate woke him. The man crawled naked from the tent and went for a piss. Mungo could see the clear morning light through the flaps, it seemed the rain had stopped for a spell. He wrapped the sleeping bag around his shoulders and followed Gallowgate out to the shoreline, feeling safer in the open rather than the sweaty, fetid trap of the tent. The prehistoric boulders were slick again with rain, and new pools of water were already busy with flies. Gallowgate stood at the water’s edge. Even his back was a tapestry of tattoos; a life-like pair of women’s eyes were painted on his shoulder blades, the eyelashes flicking up like feathery wings. Only his buttocks were untouched, and glowed a ghostly white.
Mungo stared at the one-man tent. It no longer resembled a shelter and lay almost completely flat, a red puddle on the grey shore. It didn’t look like it could house a man’s body. Mungo pulled the sleeping blanket tight around himself, he walked away from the pissing man and crouched by the water. The face that stared up at him was not his own.
It seemed Gallowgate was impervious to the cold. The last of the drink was burning him from the inside out. “So, what do ye want to do the day?”
Run, run all the way home. But Mungo pushed his face into the frigid water, let the loch chill his tic. Then he shook himself, steadied himself, and shrugged. “Should we not pack up and think about heading back?”
“You sick of me alreadies?” Gallowgate shook the last dribble of piss from the end of his cock. He frowned at the boy.
Mungo sat back on his haunches. Ha-Ha had trained him well. They were a lot alike, Gallowgate and his brother. They were moody, self-made demigods who demanded constant offerings and could turn vengeful for no reason. Mungo saw the trouble forming. He crossed the short distance and placed a placating kiss on the man’s lips. It was the first he had ever offered him.
Gallowgate beamed at him proudly. Now he was convinced of his own allure, happy that he had known what was best for Mungo all along. All the boy had needed was a guiding hand, a father figure to show him the way. Gallowgate flicked his own chin upwards, his sharp teeth tugged on his bottom lip. “See, we are pals.” He encircled Mungo’s waist with his arm. “Ah think ah’m gonnae show you how to catch some rabbits the day.”
“Seems a shame to kill a thing and not even eat it. Can you take it on the bus?”
“Course ye can.” He was studying Mungo closely. “‘Asides, yer maw’ll love it. She’s gonnae be expecting to hear about yer adventures. And if we catch two she can have a new pair of slippers.”
Mungo lowered his gaze. “Don’t worry about Mo-Maw. She’ll have forgotten I was even gone. She’ll be worried about herself, as usual. ‘Asides, I learned how to build a fire and peg a tent and …” Mungo put his lips to Gallowgate’s ear and whispered the last part.