Dread
by Skagadol Husche
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones; not for the squeamish!
Description: A gritty, real-life account of violence in the East End of Glasgow and the sense of dread which pervades those affected by it.
_____________________________________________________________________
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones; not for the squeamish!
Description: A gritty, real-life account of violence in the East End of Glasgow and the sense of dread which pervades those affected by it.
_____________________________________________________________________
The Sound of Gently Running Water into a Sink, to the
Background Trickle of Water Running Out the Overflow.
Background Trickle of Water Running Out the Overflow.
The people who know say, if you have the time, you cry like an infant for your mother. And that is the difference between death on the battlefield and death in a drug crazed frenzy up a close in the East End of Glasgow.
Up a close in the East End of Glasgow, you don’t cry for your mother like an infant: you curse the bastard who sliced you, and you tell him what you are going to do to his fuckrid body when you get your hands on him, and he laughs in your face: with his face like a great cracked jagged sneering slice off the moon, pale and shining and full of dread.
That’s what there is, dread, even for the guy enjoying it, watching the blood seep round the edges of the sword that is sticking from your body, watching your lips go white, watching you unable to stand, watching your knees creak, buckle, then watching your arms unable to flay about, unable to try to grab him. Even for him, big cracked face, pale moon like, even for him there is dread.
The Sound Of A Chicken Leg Being
Twisted At The Knee
Till The Gristle Breaks And Splits And
The Leg Hangs Together
By A Bit Of Skin.
Twisted At The Knee
Till The Gristle Breaks And Splits And
The Leg Hangs Together
By A Bit Of Skin.
Long before the time of the blood seeping round the edges of the sword in me up that close, there had been what happened to Tracey. She told me months after it had happened what it had been like for her, shivering and cold as she explained. Her face pale, and drained of blood, as if the stuff had completely run out of her through a wound you could not see on her body, despite her being naked when she told me.
There had been no sound at the start. It was a silent sweep, she said. Not even a whish of slipstream rushing past. Complete silence. Like in a wood when the predator stalks. It was, Tracey recalled, the kind of silence that turns everything cold. After it got really cold, the other noises started. There was nothing warm about how these sounds played on the ears and in the human heart. Nothing consoling. Except that expectancy was over. The waiting had moved on. The next thing was coming. As she was telling me, she suddenly began to explain how these sounds affected her still. It was not that she had to find some distance from the sharpness of the initial events. It was that the immediacy was in the present for her. It was always in the moment being lived. Even although it was four years ago, she still heard the noises troubling her when she walked to the shops, when the sunshine caught her eyes, when she thought she had fallen asleep at night. That was bad. Really bad. You know the awful badness of a feeling that changes your whole body. Hearing them in her head would have been terrible, but it was worse: she still heard them in her ears coming from round about her. Not voices. Not at first. Sounds. Real sounds. Sounds with a solid mass to them, and a gravity that pulled you in. Sounds, dragging time towards the point where there is only dread. The first sound was a thing. A horrible thing. The thing was a coccyx splitter of a hard boot to the base of her spine, shattering the peace and turning her into a pogo dancer. Dancing round in a hideous mime, there was no noise from her. It was too sore for Tracey to make a noise; but a screaming pain in the arse, screeching through every nerve in her body, kept the thing biting. Stinging. A silent film of a nightmare, happening in black and white, huge in front of you, taking up every part of your vision. That is the way she described it. That is the way it seemed when she told her story.
Then she said the sound kicked in. The voices coming from round her. But she could not see the people laughing and jeering, she could only feel their awful emptiness. It was the words they used, and what they did. Look at her dance for fuck sake! See her face! Aye! See her arse! Look at the way she is holding her bumhole! The whole thing was booting into her wee spine end. She told me, nobody knows till it happens to them; and, that there is no peace from it. Not even when she stopped moving. Becoming a statue was as bad as any of it. Balancing, so she thought, to make the pain go away. Then she would move or fall or even try to lie like a possum, none of which reduced the screaming pain. Then she dropped from tip toe, so her foot was flat on the ground with her spine-end pulled round straight, and it was so bad her voice joined the cacophony of pandemonium. Fuckin Jesus! Hit again but not by anybody else. Hit again by the pain of her own muscles, tendons, spine. She didn’t know what would do that next but when she went down flat on her feet again it hit. Her own body struck again with the agony. She must have pulled her spine end round a bit, with her feet flat on the ground. Tracey remembered everything they had said, like Whit a face!, Grab her belt, and the command, Up Here. At that directive another sweep came at her. This time off her legs. Tracey said she remembered her arms flew open spreadeagled as wide as possible to stop her fall on her back. Cruciform. If she fell on her back she’d black out, she thought.
She’d only gone out for a loaf of bread for her mother. Now, she had the arse kicked out of her, and she was getting dragged up an empty close. Worse, she had not passed out. Nor would she. Not till the marriage of heaven and hell. So the one with the big boot shouted. Her words level and equally paced for emphasis. Come on! You lazy bastards get in here before some nosy cow sees you. The leader was not happy. Sandra. Independent Sandra that was not getting settled down because that is daft when you are so young and she has more sense. As if this violence and revenge makes sense at any age? For this was revenge. When Tracey heard Sandra’s voice she knew what this was about. Suddenly it did make sense to her. She knew why. She knew who. Now, she looked despondent as she told me; now, she also knew when. She did not want it. Naw! Naw! Naw! She heard herself repeatedly. As if the cry to stop would make it better. She knew why. She knew she’d have this coming. But not so awful bad. I can’t even walk now! 'What have you done to me?' she asked. She actually asked them that question. As if asking them would raise a notion of humanity in them. While she was asking them, they dumped her in a close back, behind an empty shell of a building being made ready to demolish. As they dumped her there they stayed to spend some time showing her again what they had done.
'Was that good?' Sandra asked Tracey at the back of the close. Shaking Tracey’s head by the jaw, both sides viced in a pair of hands from behind. Lifting slightly so the young one’s body limped from side to side and her vertebrae separated just enough to relax. Later, that was the one time she remembered the pain had eased because she had been so stretched. Elasticated. That was the exact word she used to describe what they had done, she was elasticated. It had better have been good, Tracey, because there’s another one. A soft thud as the foot of Sandra’s big boot hit her thigh. When the hands let go her jaws and her spine lumped together again, she cracked off a whimpering fit. Thereafter, she could just about recall disjointed episodes. Grab jumper front. Pull off ground. Tracey stretched herself full length like on a rack, to stop her bum touching the ground. She knew it. Fuckin knew it. When the drop came she let her head take the weight. She couldn’t have taken her weight on the base of her spine so she took it on the back of the skull. Eggshellsoundsplitfinebreakfastfuckgroan. Tracey would not do that again. See! You cannae fuckin drop your arse. You cannae fucking drop your head. But you can drop your knickers for that filthy bastard Boig! Wee cunt. We are gonnae teach you. That is what it was about, you see. It was about me. The Boig. Going out with me. Worse, they had only started their revenge. Has someone done the business? The answer came, Aye. At first I found it strange that Tracey could be so sure about the detail. It was quite normal for her to be able to relate what had been going on during the attack against her. She could recall it a long time afterwards. Hold her down. We want to see the state of your cunt after that kick. First. I want another. Grab her legs. Tracey scarcely you could call her now. Tracey scarcely believing it. Tracey scarcely hearing it. Tracey scarcely conscious. Tracey scarcely knowing what pain was till. Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww now. The laughter muted, giggle, snicker, not a human this one, just a bag of pain and grief. Her trousers pulled and slipping easy off since her determination to defend herself had been kicked into anti-matter. At the back of the close, the girls made sure Wee Tracey’s about to get married for life. Married for life to a bastard. And her bridesmaids danced around her, and danced and sang and jumped for joy. Coyne, they called my name to her, what’s he going to do now for you! Here! You are ours. Not his. You are ours for ever. When I learned what they had done I did crouch in pain, and I prayed and I smashed my fist in agony. But then, before the feast, there comes the ceremony. Tracey only told me once about the ceremony. She couldn’t say it again and again, unlike with the kickings. She’d rather have had the kickings every day than this, what happened, what they did next. What is it Sandra? the male voice asked. We’ve got her. Round here. More laughter, sprinkling toccata, rattled out, to consummate the gift of love. Marvellous! Boycie the Bal Toi likes what he sees; and he’s the best man. Not the groom. He’s come to make the wedding night more easy for his best pal. Come to test the water just to see if its all right. Except. First. The lot of you fuck off round the corner, I’m shy. Aye. All right, Boycie. You all. Round there. We’re not far Boycie, but she’ll not give you any bother. Just give us a shout when you are done. Tracey’s tears. Not for the pain in her hips and buttocks. Not for the sense of him pulling her knickers and lips to the side. A sense like a dentist pushing your mouth out the way to drill at a tooth. Tears of hot silence. Hot intimate silence. Not for the depth of his drilling her lips. Not for the bite of his jaws round her breasts as he bit. Intimate tears, for the tiny wee Coyne she knew had kicked loose by the pain in her fairest, dearest place. The place where she thought the tumult of the world could never touch. Then he was up. Away, the best man, with a whistle and a smile for the groom. Aye, a smile for the groom. As Sandra made certain the bridegroom slid beneath the virgin skin and plunged in his cylinder, moving under the vein as a lover might enter the veil to press a kiss against his bride. Peace came to Tracey. Comfort came to Tracey. Painless depth. Forgetfulness. A gift from Sandra. The fugue. Bal Toi n She Toi. Male n female. Cock n hen. Nob n hole. Needle n fuckin vein. Tracey would know. She loved Wee Jock Coyne but now she was married to another. She’d always remember; and, whenever she got to the point of divorce, her bridesmaids would sing and dance, and dance and dance, and dance and sing the bridegroom to the church.
About the Author
Skagadol Husche was born in Glasgow in 1957 to artist parents. Half his childhood was spent in the East End in the then new estate of Easterhouse and half in the west in Bearsden. He has written very little until starting poetry again in the autumn of 2009, having tried a bit of prose a few years before. Skagadol is deeply touched by the humanity, kindness, and the horrible day to day terror and dread experienced by those living in adversity; by the beauty in every person and the capacity of life to bring change. He chose to adopt a different name, Skagadol Husche, for the prose work for professional reasons, but uses his own name of Hamish Montgomery for his poetry.
Skagadol worked for four years' weekends and holidays in a bakery making rolls and remembers the people he worked with every day as he passes bakers and shelves of bread and rolls. At that time, he was at Glasgow University studying English Language and Literature and studying voice part-time at RSAMD, the Glasgow conservatoire, singing with a Choral Scholarship at the GU Chapel on Sundays. On leaving uni he did not take up the place offered at the opera school there, but did care work in Edinburgh and Glasgow and taught English after qualifying as a teacher, eventually moving full-time into social care and social work, qualifying also in psychology and social work.
He regards his finest achievement to be his two grown children and the help their mother and he have had from them in their upbringing. His personal joys are also cooking, singing, fly fishing, friendship and love.
Skagadol worked for four years' weekends and holidays in a bakery making rolls and remembers the people he worked with every day as he passes bakers and shelves of bread and rolls. At that time, he was at Glasgow University studying English Language and Literature and studying voice part-time at RSAMD, the Glasgow conservatoire, singing with a Choral Scholarship at the GU Chapel on Sundays. On leaving uni he did not take up the place offered at the opera school there, but did care work in Edinburgh and Glasgow and taught English after qualifying as a teacher, eventually moving full-time into social care and social work, qualifying also in psychology and social work.
He regards his finest achievement to be his two grown children and the help their mother and he have had from them in their upbringing. His personal joys are also cooking, singing, fly fishing, friendship and love.