Hings E-Book

Chris McQueer

• Herausgeber: 404 Ink
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 315

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

From the streets of working class Scotland, and on occasion, a little beyond our solar system, comes one of the country s most hilarious debut writers. Putting surreal and witty twists on the everyday, Chris McQueer creates recognisable characters you will love and want to avoid like the plague. Peter s earned his night off, and there's not a bloody chance he's covering Shelley's shift. He just needs to find some pals for the perfect cover story. Deek is going to be at the forefront of the outsider art movement and do Banksy proud. Davie loves tattoos and his latest is going to be a masterpiece. Tam is one of the most creative minds in the galaxy (apparently), but creating parallel universes can cause problems. Everybody on Earth wakes up with their knees on backwards. He caught folks imagination on Medium with his stories, had rooms howling with laughter on the spoken word circuit, and now it s time to put Chris McQueer on the page. Are you ready? Winner of the Outstanding Literature Award at the Scottish Culture Awards

Leseprobe

Praise for Hings

‘Hilariously surreal snapshots of working class Scotland. Limmy meets Irvine Welsh.’ – Ewan Denny, Link & Lorne

‘It’s clever, funny, irreverent and Scottish as fuck. I’m loving it!’ – Joanna Bolouri, author of The List

‘The importance of these stories should not be overlooked. McQueer is writing about people and places which are at the best marginalised, more often ignored. It’s the real reason that Welsh’s Trainspotting was the success it was ... it depicted an Edinburgh rarely, if ever, seen on the page before. And, more importantly, it portrayed people never written about before. You could make the claim that Chris McQueer is doing something similar for Glasgow.’ – Scots Whay Hae

‘The characters in Chris McQueer’s Hings inhabit, it feels, a strange parallel world. Almost recognisable, but not quite. It is a world of magical pornographic magazines, budgies with human arms, and illegal curries, and that’s just for starters. There is loss, death, and escape. Wrongs are righted, or if not righted, then understood. Hings is a collection of stories packed with riotous drink and drug-fueled urban fabulism, ideas iterating on every page like a Glaswegian Magic Realism Bot. McQueer delights in bringing these worlds into existence and inviting you in, as long as you don’t behave like a tourist.’ – Ross McCleary, author of Portrait of the Artist As a Viable Alternative to Death

‘[Chris] is undeniably funny but his ability to weave a well written narrative with likeable, and dislikeable, characters in addition to his sheer creativity is what makes him such a juggernaut.’ – Liam Menzies

Praise for Chris McQueer

‘Watching people’s faces run through all the emotions from hilarity to horror and back again as they hear Chris read his stories is a joy. He once gifted us a few paragraphs for a preview event, and Ricky Interrobang felt younger, skinnier, better-looking and – especially – more talented as he read it!’

– Beth Cochrane & Ricky Monahan Brown, Interrobang?!

‘He gets it from me.’ – Tracy McQueer

HINGS

Short stories ‘n that

ChrisMcQueer

Contents

HINGS

SAMMY’S BAG OF WHELKS

IS IT ART?

TOP BOY

PISH THE BED

ALAN’S SHED

KNEES

KORMA POLICE

LADS

OFFSHORE

NIGHT BUS

SAMMY’S DA’S FUNERAL

SHIFTSWAP

FITBAW

BOWLS

A FISTFUL OF COPPERS

SCUDBOOK

POSH CUNT

PAT

THE DUG

SAMMY’S MENTAL CHRISTMAS

TOURISTS

THE UNIVERSE FACTORY

DAVIE

THE VOID

THE BUDGIE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT CHRIS MCQUEER

For Henry.

Miss you, Big Man.

SAMMY’S BAG OF WHELKS

Saturday efternin. ‘Whelks… Mussells… Caaaandy aaaapppullls,’ this cunt’s shouting as ah watch him stoat through the scheme fae mah room windae, swinging his blue poly bag full ae goodies. Fuckin weird combo ae hings the cunt’s sellin but who um ah tae question it? Anyway, ah check how much money ah’ve goat in mah poakit – a pound – an ah rush oot the door an chase efter him.

‘Here, mate,’ ah shout.

The cunt spins roon. ‘Awrite, pal? Wit ye efter?’

‘Wit cin ah get fur a pound?’

‘Well,’ he goes intae his bag, ‘ye cin get a candy apple urr a bag ae whelks. Mussells are two pound ahm afraid.’

Candy apple or a bag ae whelks. Ah dae like candy apples but ah’ve never tried whelks.

‘Wit dae whelks taste like?’

‘They’re nice. Salty.’

‘Mah da likes whelks. He says they’re nice anaw.’

‘Well dae ye want a bag or no?’

‘Aye, fuck it. Gies the whelks. Ah want tae try thum.’ Ah gie the cunt a pound an he hawns me this wee bag ae the hings. The bag feels dead hoat. Ah open it an huv a look in. Hunners ae wee shells.

‘Here, how dae ye eat thum?’

‘Aw fuck, sorry pal. Ye’ll need this,’ the cunt hawns me a needle. ‘Ye use the needle tae pick aff the wee eye at the opening, right? Then stab it intae the meat, twist an pull it oot.’ Then he pats me oan the back an off he goes.

‘Da, ah’ve bought us some whelks,’ ah say, walking intae the living room.

‘Aw, magic, Sammy,’ he says. ‘Ah’ve no hud whelks in years.’ Ah hawn the bag tae mah da an he starts wiring right intae thum like he’s no ate fur weeks. He’s like a man possessed. He hawns me the bag back. Ahm curious as tae wit these hings taste like. They must be good if mah da likes thum – the cunt disnae like anyhin. Aw he eats normally is chips. He’s never even hud a Chinese before an here he is getting tore intae a bag ae sea creatures. Fuckin weirdo. Anyway, time tae try wan ae these bastards. Ah take the needle aff mah da an pick aff the wee eye, just like the guy said tae me tae dae. Ah jab the needle intae the soft flesh an pull. The hing comes oot nae bother an it’s jist sittin there oan the end ae the needle. It’s a weird sortae beige colour, which ah wisnae expectin. It really disnae look too appealin. But, ah eat it anyway an FUCK ME, it’s a taste sensation! Salty but no too salty, if ye get me. Jist nice. Tasty as fuck. Mah da finds another needle fae somewhere in the kitchen an the two ae us power through the bag while we watch the scores come in oan Sportscene. It’s nice tae sit like this wi mah da, we never really spend much time thegither.

Ah wake up during the night. Ah check the time oan mah wee alarm cloak – 2 in the fuckin mornin. Mah belly’s killin me an mah mooth’s waterin like fuck. Ahm gonnae spew, ah cin tell. Ah get up ootae bed an double err in agony. The sick’s comin oot soon an ahm wonderin if ah cin make it tae the toilet in time or no. Ah open mah room door an as soon as ah step fit err the threshold ah fuckin projectile vomit aw err the tap landin man, it even goes up the fuckin walls. But there’s mare tae come – ah cin feel it. Ah take the stairs two at a time then when ah get tae the boattum ahm sick some mare. But ah’ve still goat mare jist fuckin waitin come pourin oot mah gub. Some sick comes up but ah manage tae contain it in mah cheeks like a squirrel. Well, until jist before ah get tae the toilet an a wee bit leaps oot oantae mah maw’s nice white tiled flair. Ah get the pan lid open joost in time as another wave comes. It hits the water wi some force man an ah even get a bit ae splashback. It’s fuckin rotten. Pure fishy smellin. Efter a few dry boaks tae make sure ah’ve nuhin left ah head back tae bed. Troddin up the stair ah furget that ah wis sick oan the landin an ah step right fuckin in it. The vomit seeps through mah soak an ah feel like ahm gonnae be sick again man. Ah should’ve probably chapped mah maw an da’s room door tae tell thum aboot the flood ae vomit awaiting thum jist ootside thur room incase they get up fur a pish an stawn in it like ah jist did but ah hink ‘Fuck it,’ an go back tae bed. Ah’ve no been sick like that before in mah life man, must’ve been they fuckin whelks. That’s wit ah get fur tryin ae be nice an buy mah da a wee present – fuckin food poisoning. Ah get aw cosy back in bed an try tae resume mah dream where ah wis captain ae Celtic an jist aboot tae rifle a volley intae the tap coarner in the Champion’s League final.

Jist as ahm startin tae drift aff, ah hear mah da getting oot ae bed an boakin like fuck. Weird how ye cin tell who it is dain wit in yer hoose int it? How ye cin even tell who it wis that farted jist by the tone an aw that. Anyway, ah get up tae warn mah da aboot the puddle ae sick at the tap ae the stair. As ah open mah room door he flies past me.

‘Da, be careful ah wis–’ BANG BANG BANG

Too late. Mah da slips in mah sick an goes heid over heels right doon the stairs an cracks his nut aff the skirtin board at the boattum, landin wi a splash in the other puddle ae vomit.

‘FUCK SAKE, SAMMY!’ he shouts up at me, getting tae his feet an running doon the hall intae the toilet.

‘Ahm sorry,’ ah say, gawn doon the stair efter tae make sure he’s awrite. An ah wis sorry, ah meant it. Ah watch mah da run intae the toilet an he slips in a wee bit ae sick and goes heid first intae the side ae the toilet pan. Wit a fuckin noise it made man. The pan pure smashed. Hink he died straight away.

When the ambulance came, the paramedic cunt asked me wit happened. Ah said tae um ah hink it wis food poisoning fae some dodgy whelks an if ah ever see the cunt that sold me thum again ahm gonnae kick his heid in fur making me sick an basically killin mah da.

Cannae believe it wis a bag ae whelks that killed mah da in the end an no the forty fags a day. Poor cunt. Wit a way tae go.

IS IT ART?

Crawford stood alone in the art gallery. It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon and he had the entire place to himself. Studying the scene in front of him, he stroked his beard. He allowed his mind to wander as he considered what the artist behind this piece could have been trying to convey. In front of him stood a concrete bollard. Resting on top of the bollard was a ball of multi-coloured wool. Crawford postulated that the wool perhaps represented the creatives of the world while the concrete stood as the uncultured proletariat. Perhaps, he thought, the whole thing was a scathing attack on the capitalist system. Or maybe it was…

Crawford’s contemplation was disturbed by the presence of someone standing directly behind him, chewing loudly. The sound of lip smacking and heavy breathing filled the empty gallery. Crawford sighed, turning round to see who had ruined the ambience. He was met with the scornful gaze of a teenage boy, maybe about 15, holding a box of chicken nuggets.

‘Wit’s this aw aboot, mate?’ the teenager asked him.

‘Um, I’m sorry?’ Crawford said. He always felt intimidated by the working class.

‘That,’ the teenager nodded at the concrete and wool exhibit in front of Crawford. ‘Wit’s it aw aboot?’

‘Well, um, I think, in my opinion, it’s ummm…’ Crawford stumbled over his words; he hadn’t expected to be put on the spot like this. He didn’t really know much about art. He just liked to kid on he did. It made him feel clever. Like when his pals spoke about Eastern European politics or something, he knew no one really had a clue what they were saying, they were just regurgitating facts they’d memorised from the paper in order to feel smart. ‘I think what the artist is trying to portray here is the, um, class struggle as viewed by–’

Crawford was cut off as the box of mechanically-reclaimed chicken was thrust into his face. ‘Ahm Deek, by the way,’ announced the teenager, ‘Want a nugget?’

Crawford struggled to process what was going on. Sizing Deek up, he noted he looked like a caricature of a ned. He had a standard short back and sides haircut with the rest of his hair gelled forward. He was wearing a bright blue tracksuit, the joggies tucked into yellowy-white sports socks. Topping off the look was a pair of chunky red trainers.

Crawford declined Deek’s offer of a nugget. ‘Um, no thanks,’ he said. ‘I try not to eat junk food,’

‘Suit yerself,’ Deek said and ate the last one, dropping the empty box and wiping his hands on his tracksuit top. ‘Wit is this meant tae be exactly, mate? You look smart. Wit is it? And wit’s the deal wi your accent? Where ye fae?’

‘Well, I suppose, technically, it’s a sculpture or maybe it would be classed as an installation. And I’m from Hillhead, Byres Road actually.’

‘Hmmm,’ Deek mused, stroking his own bum bluff covered chin. ‘Is it art though?’

Crawford snorted. ‘Of course it’s art.’

Deek walked around the concrete bollard, rubbing his greasy hands on his tracksuit top. ‘Is it though? Ah mean, don’t get me wrang, ah don’t know much aboot art. Ahm just here incase anycunt catches me doggin school, but it disnae look like art tae me.’

‘Just because it doesn’t conform to normal artistic styles it doesn’t mean it’s not art.’

‘Dunno man. Bein honest, ah hink it’s a bit shite.’

Deek shrugged and turned his back on Crawford and made his way to another gallery. Crawford shook his head. He went to join Deek in the other gallery, leaving the empty chicken nugget box behind. He decided he was going to try and educate this lad.

In the next gallery, Deek stood watching a video on a giant screen. One by one, glass bottles of juice were dropped from a great height and onto a pristine white surface while a woman’s voice recited the names of the different kinds of juice as the bottles smashed.

‘Pineappleade. Smash. Limeade. Smash. Cream Soda. Smash. Lemonade. Smash,’ and on she went.

‘Here,’ Deek motioned for Crawford to join him in front of the screen. ‘Ye cannae say this is art, surely? That’s just makin a fuckin mess.’

Crawford sneered at Deek’s ignorance once again. ‘The artist is obviously trying to get a point across,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s about the fragility of man’s ego?’

Crawford turned to see Deek’s bewildered face.

‘Maybe the burd joost disnae like gless boattils ae ginger? This isnae art either.’

‘Well what exactly would you class as art then, Deek?’

Deek looked deep in thought for a moment. ‘Ah want tae see what else there is in here. Then ah’ll show you wit art is, mate.’

‘Okay,’ Crawford said. ‘It’s a deal.’

Upstairs, they explored a gallery displaying a range of rubber fetish-wear. Gas masks, gimp suits and all manner of imposing black instruments adorned the walls. Crawford felt a bit uneasy about seen with a minor in this room so he tried to make this viewing a quick one.

‘OOFT,’ Deek announced, touching a shiny black gimp suit. ‘Is this wit goths wear cutting aboot the hoose?’

Crawford rubbed the back of his head. Deek clocked his uneasiness straight away.

‘You no intae this kind ae hing then, big man?’

‘No, I can’t say I’ve ever tried it.’

‘Wit? Shagging?’ Deek laughed, examining a huge double-ended dildo.

‘No, I mean, just not, um, this kind of, um…’ Deek burst into laughter.

‘Ahm pullin yer pisser,’ he said, breezing past Crawford and out of the gallery. ‘Moan, big man. This place is fuckin weird.’

Crawford found himself following Deek through the streets of Glasgow. ‘Where are we going exactly?’ he asked his new pal.

‘We’re gawn tae see some REAL art, mate.’

Deek took Crawford on the bus to Easterhouse. The furthest east Crawford had ventured before this trip was to the gentrified area of Dennistoun. This was an entirely different world to the one Crawford inhabited despite only being 20 minutes away from where he lived.

Hopping off at the shopping centre, Deek motioned for Crawford to follow him. They made their way to a pub where Deek stopped to talk to one of the many grim faces huddled outside.

‘Da,’ Deek said to a man who looked like a smaller, dehydrated version of himself. ‘This is Crawford. Ahm gonnae show him mah art.’

‘Fucking art,’ Deek’s da snorted. ‘Should you no be in school?’

‘It’s an, eh, in-service day. Tell mah maw ah’ll be in fur dinner, awrite?’

Deek’s da blew smoke in Crawford’s face. ‘Nae bother.’

‘Moan,’ Deek motioned for Crawford to follow him again.

‘What do you mean your art? You said to your dad you were going to show me your art.’

‘Aye,’ Deek said. ‘Exactly. Mah art. Ahm something of an artist maself.’

‘No way? Really?’

‘Aw aye. Ah’ll show ye. Ah’ve goat a wee ‘installation’ as you might say roon fae mah hoose.’

Crawford and Deek stood in front of a dilapidated garage covered in graffiti. In amongst the various FUCK THE POLIS and hash leaf daubings, some more wholesome things were sprayed in pink paint on the wall.

LIVE, LAUGH AND LOVE said one, nestled beneath a crudely drawn dick. FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS said another. Crawford stood open-mouthed.

‘Was this you?’ he said, stunned.

‘Aye,’ Deek replied proudly, puffing out his chest. ‘Ah like tae think ae maself as, like, a mare positive version ae that cunt Banksy.’

‘This is beautiful, Deek. I mean the juxtaposition of the positivity of your messages and the language of the streets is just staggering. I love it. And this mural,’ Crawford ran his hands over a painting of a young couple, both clad in Kappa gear from head to toe, ‘is just stunning.’

‘Cheers, mate. You’re the only person that likes it though. Everycunt else just hinks ahm weird. Especially mah da. He fuckin hates it.’

‘You’re right ah fuckin hate it,’ said a gravelly voice from behind Deek and Crawford. It was Deek’s da.

‘Your son has a real talent,’ said Crawford, his voice quivering as he tried to defend Deek. ‘And it’s a shame you won’t encourage him.’

Deek stood in silence.

‘Know where he gets that talent fae, eh?’ Deek’s da pointed a finger at his own chest. ‘Me – that’s who. Ye know who ah um, mate?’

Crawford shook his head. He felt his mouth go dry as Deek’s da took a step towards him. Even though he was a small man, he looked like he could fight like fuck.

‘Ahm Banksy.’

At this, Crawford breathed a sigh of relief. This guy was obviously at the wind up.

‘You are Banksy?’

‘Ye fuckin deef as well as stupit? That’s wit ah said.’

‘Prove it,’ Crawford said smugly.

‘Just look right there,’ Deek’s da pointed to the mural. ‘There’s a wee signature ah added. It’s in aw mah work. Just look, mate.’

Crawford went up to the wall and studied the mural.

‘I can’t see anything,’ he said, squinting hard with his hands on his hips.

‘Look closer,’ Deek said. ‘He’s right.’

As Crawford bent over, inspecting the mural, Deek looked at his da. His da replied with a wink. Deek pulled Crawford’s wallet quickly out of the back pocket of his chinos and sprinted down the street, laughing.

Crawford felt himself go red in the face and felt his now-empty back pocket with a shaking hand. He felt sick. Deek and his da had had made him look like a right tit.

‘Fuck you and yer daft accent!’ Deek’s da shouted back at Crawford. He high-fived his son and they both headed back to the pub.

TOP BOY

Stevie sat alone in his BMW, staring at his house through the windscreen. Maybe tonight he would stay home and spend time with his family for a change. Then his phone buzzed. When he saw who it was from, he instantly decided he was going out again tonight. He picked it up and read the text from McGregor.

Come over pronto. Need to talk aboot plans fur bonny night.

He smiled. He was sure the gang had big plans. He got out the car and pulled his tie off from round his neck as he walked up the gravel driveway. He couldn’t wait to get out of his suit.

‘Awrite, hen,’ he said, kissing his wife on the cheek. ‘Need to run back out after dinner. Need to, eh, pick something up from the office.’

Heather eyed him suspiciously and then went back to leafing through her copy of The Digger magazine. She loved reading about all the petty criminal goings on in the east end; fights between rival scheme families, shoplifters and the odd person being falsely accused of being a paedo. She fucking loved it. But she couldn’t focus on the words on the last page. She couldn’t help wondering what Stevie was up to. He was acting very weird. Sneaking out of the house at night or coming home late from work, reeking of smoke. She knew he was up to no good. She didn’t know what exactly and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Not yet anyway.

‘Aye, okay,’ Heather said, trying not to sound disheartened. She hadn’t seen much of Stevie recently. He was a pain in the arse when he was around but she missed him. Stevie went upstairs to change while Heather finished making the dinner.

He came back down wearing a pristine white Lacoste tracksuit, the fabric of the top stretching to accommodate his pot belly. Heather looked him up and down and burst out laughing. Stevie sat down at the dining table.

‘What’s with the trackie?’ Heather laughed, setting down his plate in front of him.

‘Aw, I’m, eh… going to the gym later,’ Stevie spluttered.

‘Thought you said you were heading to the office?’

‘Aw aye, fuck. Eh, I’m going to the gym after the office. Aye that’s it.’

‘Well wherever you’re going, you should probably get changed. A man of your age and,’ she looked at Stevie’s belly, ‘…build, shouldn’t be wearing things like that.’

‘Och what’s the matter with it? My pals wear trackies like this.’

‘Pals? As in plural? Your only pal is Brian and he only wears hillwalking gear?’

‘Eh, aye, I know. I meant folk at the gym.’

They ate their dinner in silence while their three young kids nattered away to each other. Stevie realised he should have tried to sneakily change into his trackie before heading out. Or at least he could have told Heather he was going to the gym in the first place.

Looking at her husband in his ill-fitting, all-white tracksuit, Heather realised there was no chance he was cheating on her. This made her all the more intrigued as to what he was up to. Stevie made his excuses and left.

Half an hour later, Stevie pulled up in front of a grubby block of flats. He reached into his glovebox and pulled out an Aquascutum cap. He pulled it down on to his head as far as he could. Then he felt around blindly in the back seat for his matching scarf. He tied the scarf round his neck and pulled it up so it covered his mouth. Now he just looked like any other Glasgow ned and not Stevie Dunn, 42 year-old sales manager and father-of-three from Bothwell. It felt good to be out of his suit and into his trackie. This was who he really was. He got out of the car and walked up the path and pressed the buzzer.

Stevie walked up the stairs in the close. He ran his hand over the graffiti covered walls. He chapped three times on the door when he got to the top landing. Inside, Stevie collapsed on to a manky old cream couch. Detritus was strewn across the threadbare carpet – crisp packets, fag ends, empty bottles of cider and Mad Dog and crumbs of unknown origin. Stevie was immediately handed a bucket.

‘Naw, I better not,’ he said passing it back to wee Ronny sitting next to him, ‘I’m driving.’

‘Shitebag,’ chirped McGregor, the de facto leader of the YSF – the Young Springboig Fleeto.

‘Hawl, I’m no a shitebag. Don’t call me that. I’ve got trainers aulder than you ya wee wank,’ Stevie fired back. The rest of the gang laughed. McGregor smiled and mumbled something under his breath. Stevie was sure he’d just called him a dick. Stevie had a wee chuckle to himself.

This was where Stevie felt most comfortable. Here in this dark flat surrounded by teenage neds. He’d missed out on this kind of camaraderie growing up. He’d stayed away from gang fighting and despised neds as a boy. He’d eventually found the company he was after when he started working in sales. Every day he’d be around like-minded people, sharing jokes and swapping stories. Competing with each other. Stevie loved it. He’d eventually outgrown his first job however and moved on in search of more money. He got the money he craved but it came at a price. Stevie had described the new office he worked in as a ‘patter vacuum’ to the gang. After he’d taken his new job, Stevie lost contact with his old colleagues and his new ones weren’t exactly welcoming. Stevie had been outperforming them all from the day he arrived and now, just four months later, he had been promoted to head of sales. They fucking hated him.

Stevie met the gang two months ago when they asked him to buy drink for them. After a hard day’s work in the land of no joy, Stevie stopped off at an off licence to buy a bottle of wine. McGregor and the rest of the Fleeto had approached him as he got out of his car and begged him to get them a couple of bottles of Bucky. He said no at first but then he remembered his own struggle to buy drink when he was underage. After some pleading from McGregor he reluctantly agreed. When he came back out of the shop with four bottles of Buckfast for the gang, he was heralded as a hero. Jokingly, they invited Stevie back to McGregor’s maw’s flat (McGregor had an empty as his maw was in jail) for a drink. Stevie thought, Fuck it – why not?

That night changed his life. He laughed, smoked hash and drank Buckfast for the first time in his life. He felt right at home. His only pal, Brian, just wanted to play golf or drink in old man’s pubs. This was the life for him. If only Heather would understand.

‘Right.’ McGregor stood up and everyone looked his way. He had the aura of a true leader. Even Stevie found himself in awe at his charisma. ‘Noo that the auld dick’s finally decided to join us,’ McGregor nodded at Stevie and everyone laughed once again, ‘we can talk aboot wit wur dain fur bonny night.’

‘Ma da can get us fireworks,’ said Emma, McGregor’s on again off again girlfriend. Just now they were very much ‘on again’.

‘Naw, naw, naw,’ McGregor shook his head, ‘nae fireworks. We should dae somethin bigger.’

‘Like what?’ Stevie ventured.

‘Like a huge big fuck-off bonfire.’

‘We’ve left it a bit late have we no? It’s bonfire night on Saturday. How we gonnae get enough wid in two days?’ said Ronny, the youngest of the gang. At just fourteen and painfully awkward, he was constantly the object of ridicule. He squirmed inside the humungous tracksuit his older brother had given him. He hated speaking up in front of people.

‘We’re no gonnae be traipsing aboot looking fur wid. We’re just gonnae steal somecunt else’s bonfire.’ McGregor looked around the living room at the adoring faces of the Fleeto.

‘You’re aff yer nut,’ John said. The quiet man of the gang. Often the voice of reason.

‘Listen.’ McGregor sat back down and started rolling a joint. ‘This will be a piece a piss. Ma big cousin stays in the flats on Old Shettleston Road, right? Just down fae Tesco. He says the Shettleston Tigers are hiding their bonny wid round his back. He’s sent me a picture, look.’ McGregor held up his phone screen. Dozens of wooden pallets lay piled up against a row of wheely bins. Bits of plywood and MDF were scattered around as well. An impressive haul for a young team full of out and out morons, thought Stevie. He was very familiar with the Shettleston Tigers. He’d grown up in Shettleston and often found himself being chased by a group of neds after his football.

‘We’re gonnae steal this wid oan Friday night. Meet here at 8 o’clock and we’ll all dive doon. Maybe have a half bottle a tonic each to get us aw fired up. We’ll fire aw the wid intae wheely bins and drag them back along here.’ McGregor had it all figured out.

In work the next day, the raid was all Stevie could think about. He sat at his desk and stared into space. This was the most exciting thing he’d ever been a part of.

‘Stevie!’ barked Ian, Stevie’s boss, from across the office. He’d been watching him for the last twenty minutes. ‘Are you actually going to phone some clients today or just stare out the window?’

‘Aw, sorry, Ian. Sorry,’ Stevie fumbled for his phone handset and knocked it off his desk.

‘Mate, are you okay?’ Ian came striding over and placed a sympathetic hand on Stevie’s shoulder. Stevie shuddered at the man’s touch. He had huge, fat, pink hands which reminded Stevie of big chunks of ham. He imagined ham juice seeping through his white shirt. The rest of the office cast jealous glances Stevie’s way. Getting that fabled touch on the shoulder from Ian was the sign that he liked you. The rest of them yearned for such approval. For Stevie, it was an invasion of his personal space. He hastily jerked his shoulder away.

‘I’m fine, Ian. Sorry. I’ll get back to work.’

‘Aye, make sure you do. You haven’t made any sales today and it’s almost three o’clock,’ Ian snapped his fingers, ‘Let’s make some money eh, mate?’

Later that night, Stevie once again changed into his trackie and slipped out of the house. This time he told Heather he was going to Brian’s.

Heather text Brian just after Stevie left. Just to see what he’d say. She was positive he wasn’t going to Brian’s. Can you ask Stevie if he has a key when he gets to yours? He’s not answering his phone. Must still be driving, she said. Brian replied instantly. Nae bother. Thick as thieves those two, Heather thought. Always covering for each other.

Stevie pulled up outside the flat at eight o’clock on the dot. The rain pelted down on the roof of the car. He looked through the passenger side window. McGregor and the rest of the gang spilled out of the close, bottles of Bucky in hand. Stevie got out of the car, turning up the collar of his trackie as if it would it somehow protect him from the downpour. The rest of the Fleeto had on North Face and Berghaus jackets.

‘Here, big man,’ McGregor said, advancing on Stevie, ‘this is fur you.’ He screwed the lid off his dark green half bottle and went to pour it into Stevie’s mouth. Stevie ducked and weaved out of the way. He brandished his car keys.

‘I’m driving,’ he announced.

‘Shitebag,’ was McGregor’s response, the same as it was every time Stevie refused a drink, smoke or a line. John and Ronny huddled together; they were freezing despite their big jackets. McGregor put an arm around Emma.

The five of them walked to McGregor’s cousin’s house in Shettleston, hardly seeing a soul along the way. The rain made Stevie’s trackie cling tight to his skin. Skulking through the close, McGregor text his cousin to get him to open the door to the back court. He came down and after exchanging a few quick pleasantries with McGregor, he unlocked the heavy door and pulled it open.

‘Right, go. Quick,’ he said. The gang immediately set to work. Ronny and John emptied out a couple of wheely bins, stuffing the black bags within them into other bins or flinging them over the fence and into the next close’s midden. With five bins empty now, one for each of them, they all started to fire the wood into the bins. Stevie was significantly larger than everyone else so he was tasked with jumping on the pallets and breaking them into smaller chunks. With the bins filled they started to wheel them through the close.

Stevie had a quick scan round the back court before pushing his own bin through and joining the rest of the gang. He had the sense he was being watched. He was sure he could see curtains twitching. Maybe even the flash of a phone camera. He had a bad feeling about this raid. It was the single most daring thing he’d ever been a part of; stealing an entire bonfire from a young team. The adrenaline rush had worn off now, however, to be replaced by paranoia and dread. McGregor’s cousin looked him up and down as Stevie walked by him in the close.

‘Bit auld to be hanging about wi wee guys, are you no?’ he sneered. Stevie ignored him.

Racing ahead of the rest of the gang, Stevie pulled his scarf up over his face.

‘Stevie, slow down, eh?’ Emma shouted after him, giggling. The rain was still battering down hard. Stevie ignored Emma and looked down at his feet. His brand new, all-white Air Max trainers were ruined. Covered in grass stains and scuffed from breaking the pallets apart. He stopped suddenly and turned to face the gang.

‘What if someone sees us?’ he asked, panicking. ‘The noise from these bins will be drawing all sorts of attention.’

‘It’s awrite,’ McGregor said, ‘no cunt knows who we are or where we’re fae. It’s dark. It’s hawf nine an it’s pishing doon, naebody’s aboot. We’re nearly hame anyway.’

Stevie felt calmer after hearing McGregor’s words. That boy could go far in business, he thought to himself. This was why McGregor was the so-called ‘Top Boy’ – calm and collected at all times. A leader of neds. The schemie Mussolini.

John patted Stevie on the back. ‘We’re nearly there, big man,’ he said, ‘we’ll dump aw this round the park then head back to Danny’s for a few cans and maybe a game a FIFA or something. Then we’ll set the bonny up the morra night. It’s all good.’

‘Aye, you’re right,’ Stevie conceded, ‘just me being my usual shitebag self, eh?’

The gang laughed.

‘I need to be hame for midnight though. No later. Awrite?’

The next thing Stevie knew it was 6am and he was hoovering up lines of coke off a sleeping Ronny’s freshly shaved head. He flopped back onto the grubby couch and checked his Breitling watch.

‘FUCK,’ he shouted, jumping back on to his feet. Stevie had to work every second Saturday. He tried to work whether or not that meant he was working today. He was. He started work in two hours and he was very much off his tits on gear and Bucky. The tinny, techno beat of DJ Badboy’s classic Friday Nite pounded at his eardrums; it had been playing on a loop for three hours now. The nasal whine of the rapper made his eyeballs feel like they were vibrating. The rest of the gang had passed out long ago, Stevie was only now noticing.

DJ fuckin Badboy here, steamin as shite. Ahm boot ti tell you a story boot mah Friday night.

Stevie reckoned that must’ve been the millionth time he’d heard that lyric this evening. Time to leave. He grabbed his car keys from the coffee table and made his way out of the flat. The cold wind shocked him as he stepped out into the morning air. He got into his car and navigated his way out of the scheme. To get home he would have to cut through Shettleston. The very thought of this filled him with the fear. He wasn’t afraid of the police stopping him – he was just scared of being seen by the Shettleston Tigers out looking for whoever stole their bonfire. DJ Badboy continued to provide words of encouragement as Friday Nite echoed through his mind.

Ahm a lightweight and I am stickin, bottle a beer and ahm oot ma chicken. DJ Badboy’s got the baws a steel, off a bottle a Bucky and a fiver deal.

His heart raced. He started sweating despite the bitter cold. He rubbed his nose as the last of the coke slid down into the back of his mouth leaving a horrible, chemical taste.

Home, shower, get to work, head down, get out. Easy, he said over and over in his head. Trying to reassure himself the way McGregor would.

He stopped at a set of traffic lights. He tapped the steering wheel with his fingers, willing them to change to green. A group of three young guys, no older than 17, staggered out of a flat directly across from where Stevie was sitting in his car.

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK

In Stevie’s drug and drink-addled mind, they were obviously looking for who stole the bonfire wood. They knew it was him and there would be a price on his head. They looked in his direction then, much to his relief, started walking down the street, away from Stevie. He put his foot down as the lights changed to green. He was home in record time.

He had an hour to get himself together before he left for work. He tried to calm down. He realised he could hardly remember the drive home; he was absolutely steaming. He looked down at his trackie top. A dark green stain covered most of the left side of his chest while a few holes that looked like burns had appeared around his belly. The cuffs were black with dirt. His joggies were covered in grass and other substances Stevie assumed had been picked up from the bogging couch in McGregor’s flat. His trainers were ruined.