Behind Bars:
Part Two
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: Life goes on in Strathdubh, but storm clouds are gathering in Birmingham and closer to home.
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: Life goes on in Strathdubh, but storm clouds are gathering in Birmingham and closer to home.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Kathleen
1
It had been a couple of days since we'd last discussed whether or not to sign with the Glasgow agency, though “discussed” was probably too polite a word. Catriona had been all in favour and couldn't understand my reservations. She was insistent we should sign the contract. When I told her I'd had enough of men pimping off me when I was a tart, she said this was totally different. I responded by telling her that some wanker getting a percentage of our earnings just for booking gigs for us sounded a lot like pimping to me, she had asked how else were we going to get enough work to make a living. We went round in circles, winding each other up, until I just told her to fuck off, I wasn't signing anything.
“Fine,” she'd said. “I've got my supply teaching. How are you going to earn a living?” I'd felt the red mist coming down, but when I saw the grin on her face I'd controlled my temper, instead just sulking.
As so often, she was right and I was wrong. I had decided to eat fucking humble pie – again.
When she got back from seeing her parents, I made her a cup of tea, told her I'd changed my mind and now thought we should sign the contract. She didn't seem to notice and was staring into the distance. So I repeated what I'd said.
“What?” she said, looking distracted.
For the third time I told her I'd changed my mind. I could feel the irritation growing inside me. Did she want me to crawl before her, seeking forgiveness? If so, she was going to be fucking disappointed.
She looked puzzled. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
I was about to launch into an angry rant when I noticed how vulnerable she looked. Instead I took her hand and asked her what was worrying her. She shook her head, but I persisted: I could see something was not right. She pulled me towards her.
“Just hold me,” she pleaded.
After a few moments she released me, sat down and told me everything her parents had said. Taking my hand, she said: “My emotions are all over the place. One moment I feel so lucky in having such wonderful loving parents, but the next I feel so guilty because if it hadn't been for me ma would have gone to university and the next I'm worried about the stigma of being illegitimate.” She looked at me. “Oh, I know this probably sounds so maudlin and self-indulgent to you, particularly given the awful childhood you had, but...” Her voice tailed off.
“Oh, darling, you don't sound the least bit maudlin. And you've got nothing to feel guilty about. Your parents have had good lives and one of their joys is their beautiful caring loving daughter. If they hadn't had you, they would never have experienced that joy, and nor would I have fallen in love with you.” I kissed her. When I pulled away, I said: “And there's nothing fucking illegitimate about you. How could there be when any affection shown to you, you return several fold?” I kissed her again.
I have to be honest: part of me was so fucking jealous of her family. My mind kept telling me: if only, if only. I slapped down such thoughts. My past was a part of me, it was part of what had made me the person I was, and without it who knows how things would have turned out? If my abusive family, if my years of prostitution were the price I had to pay for meeting Catriona, then it was a price worth paying.
More than anything, her parents' story was one of love overcoming all the world could throw at them. I told her this, and I told her how inspiring their story was. “I reckon that's why they told you. They wanted you to know that. You should be proud of them, grateful for what they've done, because I'm so fucking grateful they're responsible for you being here with me now.”
She smiled, hugged me again and then, changing the subject, asked me if I was serious about signing with the agency. I nodded.
She produced a pen. “Okay, girl, you'd better sign before you have a chance to change your mind.”
Later that day while Catriona was doing whatever she did to make the garden look good, I picked up Frankie and began to play around with a melody that had been haunting me ever since she'd told me about her parents. I was trying different tempos, chords and rhythms, not sure what exactly I was looking for but confident I would know when I found it. It was only when I heard Catriona say: “You should have the tape recorder on” that I realised she'd come back in.
I shook my head. “It's not quite there yet.”
“Well, I still think you should tape it,” she said, switching on the machine. I waved her away but left the tape recorder running. Much as I thought I was capturing something, I knew there was something missing, no matter how many variations on the melody I played. I put the guitar down, saying: “Fuck it.”
“You're not giving up, are you?” Catriona asked, crossing her arms.
“It's almost there, almost fucking there, but it needs something, just can't fucking work out what.”
Catriona played the tape through, then asked me to try playing it again. Picking up Frankie, I did as she asked, then she walked out of the room. “Fucking cheek,” I thought. Still, I kept playing the melody over and over, and then I heard the sound of a fiddle accompanying my guitar. “That's it!” I yelled, “that's fucking it.” I put my guitar down and kissed Catriona. She was grinning.
“You're a fucking genius,” I told her.
She just shrugged her shoulders. “It just came to me: a bit of Highland fiddle would add depth.”
Catriona rarely played the fiddle when anyone was around, normally she wouldn't even play it in front of me: she just didn't think she was good enough. Having heard her play when she didn't think I was in earshot, I disagreed and had been trying for some time to get her play it in public. Perhaps now she would listen to me, and I told her so. “If I'm going to play it before an audience, it needs your fiddle,” I said. I also told her what had inspired it and that I was going to call it “The Highland Lass”.
“You wrote that for me? Wow!” Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, she did neither, kissing me instead.
She did agree to take her fiddle to the pub and accompany me, she could hardly do otherwise once she knew the piece was about her. But she made it clear it was just a one off. I just smiled without commenting. When we played “The Highland Lass” that evening, it proved such a great success, we had to play it twice. Later, when we got home, she agreed she would take her fiddle to future gigs. “But only for that piece,” she insisted. We'll fucking see, I thought, but I didn't say it out loud. She was going to play the fiddle more often, whether she liked it or not.
2
I was worried about Brendan. Regardless of outward appearances, he hadn't really recovered from what those wankers in Birmingham did to him. Much as he tried to deny it, he was still having nightmares and would sometimes wake up screaming. “Just a bad dream,” was all he would say, making light of it, but it happened too often to be dismissed so easily. Some nights he hardly slept at all, and I often heard him walking about in the early hours of the morning.
He was lonely too. Although he never even hinted at it, I have no doubt living in the same house as me and Catriona made the loneliness even worse: every day he would see how much in love we were, but there was fuck all we could do about that except offer him friendship. He was still confused about where he stood with Graham: although they still wrote to each other, Graham still wittered on about having to choose. In my opinion, he was being fucking selfish and callous. Didn't he know what his inability to make up his mind was doing to Brendan? Or didn't the wanker care?
Trying to talk to Brendan about him only made matters worse, at least when I was doing the talking. I had no patience with Graham's behaviour and just thinking about it got me going, so I was fuck all use to Brendan.
He was also drinking too much, at least in my opinion. We rarely smoked weed anymore: it wasn't a conscious decision, it was just the move to the Highlands meant we'd lost touch with the dealers we'd known. If it came our way, as occasionally it did after gigs, we'd smoke a bit, but none of us were particularly bothered, and I'd cut down on the fags, which pleased Catriona. Brendan often chain smoked and had developed a persistent cough and after work or on days off hit the bottle. I would have preferred it if he'd found a regular source for weed or hash rather than him drinking so fucking much and killing himself with nicotine. The fags and booze were his way of coping with the trauma of what had happened, but I was sure they were doing him more harm than good.
Catriona agreed with me, but there was no talking to him about it. Sometimes he just shrugged as if it was of no importance, sometimes he got defensive, other times he made a joke out of it, occasionally he would get angry, but when he did it was with me rather than Catriona. In fact, it was fair to say he often responded better to her than he did to me, probably because I often found it difficult to hide my irritation.
I was also worried about his relationship with that councillor prat Andrew, as was Catriona who knew a lot more about him than I did. My response to Andrew was instinctive, hers was based on experience. Brendan had nothing in common with him, but continued seeing him whenever he could. Andrew was so paranoid, a self-hating queer if there ever was one, they could only meet in the most extreme secrecy, and it always had to be Andrew who initiated any get together. He was just using Brendan for his own gratification in the same way punters used to use me, except at least I got paid for it. What Brendan saw in him was a mystery to me. I do know he hated everything our local councillor stood for, but he still used to go with him. Perhaps just another sign of his loneliness. Or perhaps it was simply that he was a good fuck, as Brendan once told me. Perhaps it's just my background, but even the greatest fuck in the world would not have made it worthwhile for me.
No matter how careful they were, it wasn't careful enough.
Rob came to see me regularly, more so since he lost his job. As promised, I helped him claim as much dole and other benefits as I could and Catriona had begun to be less cool towards him, though she still didn't really like him. I suppose one of the reasons why he came to see me so regularly was because I was one of the few people who treated him like a human being. He never overstayed his welcome and often just wanted to listen to me play the guitar. He was also useful, being much better at practical things than any of us and willing to do anything we asked. We couldn't afford to pay him and wouldn't have anyway, knowing any money would be spent down the pub. Instead we paid him in kind, for example I gave him a cassette tape of me and Catriona playing and singing and Catriona gave him vegetables she'd grown in the garden.
One day we had been chatting about this and that when Brendan came in and immediately Rob looked uncomfortable: he avoided eye contact, shuffled his feet and after just a few minutes made his excuses and left. Next time I saw him, I asked him what was up.
“Nothing,” he said.
He was an appalling liar and eventually I got the truth out of him. One night he'd gone to his favourite spot along the river, the place where we'd first met, and he thought he saw Brendan coming out of the undergrowth on the opposite bank. “I couldn't be sure,” he said, “but there was moonlight and it did look like him. Then I saw someone else but before I could see who it was, clouds hid the moon and it became very dark. I didn't want to say anything, but...” His voice tailed off.
Fuck, I thought, trying to keep a poker face.
“You were probably just mistaken,” I said. “After all, it was dark. Don't know about you, but my night vision is fucking crap. Probably didn't eat enough carrots as a kid.”
The joke seemed to go over his head. He said: “I can see okay at night. Working on the fishing you get to learn that.” He looked down at his feet. “I like you, and I'd hate it if he was cheating on you and upset you.”
I had three choices: I could pretend to be upset or angry, I could tell him the truth or I could just shrug it off. I certainly wasn't going to tell him that me and Brendan were just friends and that Catriona was my lover, at least not without talking to them first. Although I was angry at Brendan, it wasn't for the reasons Rob would think.
I put on my best fake smile and said: “I'm sure it's nothing, but thanks for telling me.”
“But I can't think what else he would have been doing out there at night.”
I had a brainwave. “If it was him, I think I know what he was doing. Didn't you know he's fucking nature mad. Sometimes after he's finished work he goes looking for signs of animals who come out at night, and you'd be fucking amazed at how many there are. He looks for signs that badgers or bats or other night animals have been there. I think he's fucking mad, but hey, if it keeps him out of trouble.”
“But there was someone else there with him.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Oh, that'll just be another fucking nature nut looking for animal droppings.”
Rob giggled and his face lit up with relief. “I'm sorry I thought he was, well, you know.”
I kissed him on the cheek. “That's okay. It's nice to know some fucker's looking out for me.”
Later, I had words with Brendan and told him what a stupid fucking idiot he'd been. “It's up to you who you fuck with,” I said, “but at least be a bit more fucking careful.”
He told me I had no right to interfere in his private life. “Anyway, what the fuck am I supposed to do? If I brought him here, you and Catriona would object. I know neither of you like him. Anyway, it was okay him coming round here once, as he's my local councillor, but he's paranoid people will jump to conclusions if he's here regularly.”
“You mean, you've fucking had him round here?”
He nodded. “Yes, while you were in Glasgow that time for a few days. After all, it is my home as well.”
I was about to respond, but stopped myself from saying exactly what I thought. The fucking bastard was right: it was his home as well. But still... Instead, I said: “You do know he's bad news, don't you?”
“Why? Just because Catriona doesn't like him?”
I was getting exasperated. “No. Because he's a fucking right wing, fascist bastard. He's as bad as that cunt Norman. Did you let him fuck you too?” As soon as I spoke I regretted what I'd said.
“What the fuck gives you the right to – to say that. You do fucking remember what he did to me, don't you?” By this time he was shouting.
“I'm sorry,” I said, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.” But it was too late. As I was speaking he turned heel and dashed out the door.
Me and my big fucking mouth!
Things remained cool between us for a while, and when Catriona asked me what was up I tried to shrug it off as just another row. She wasn't having any of it: she knew we argued a lot and she'd witnessed our rows often enough, but she thought this time it was different. She knew us both too well. I ended up telling her what had happened. It was inevitable I would, so why the fuck I didn't tell her straight away I don't know.
For a moment she stared at me, open mouthed, and then said: “For Christ's sake girl! God knows, I've got little time for our local councillor, but what on earth made you compare him to the sadist who almost killed Brendan? And to suggest he'd had sex with both?”
“I don't fucking know. It just came out.”
“Yeah. Well next time I suggest put your brain in gear before opening your mouth. No wonder he's so cold towards you.”
“I don't know what the fuck to do. I mean, I've tried apologising, but what else can I do?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes saying you're sorry isn't enough.”
“Fucking great! What am I supposed to do: wear a fucking hair shirt?”
“That would be a start,” she said. It took me a few moments to realise she wasn't being serious, and only then because the grin on her face was getting broader. “I'm sure there's a shop in Glasgow where I could get you one, and a few other things...” We both began to giggle.
“Stop it!” I yelled, between giggles. “Stop it!”
When we'd both calmed down, she said: “Look, I'll have a word with him. But please try and control that tongue of yours in future. It's going to get us into trouble one of these days.”
She was true to her word. I don't know what she said, but later that day Brendan put his arm around me and said: “I'm sorry if I've been mardy recently.”
I apologised for the things I'd said, and I promised to try to think before speaking in future.
3
Although we were getting lots more requests to play, partly as a result of our agent but also because of our spreading reputation on the folk scene, our very success created a problem. Once the school holidays were over, Catriona began to get work as a supply teacher. At first, it was just a day here and there, but as she got more work so we found we had to turn down some gigs. Although I had passed my driving test, I wasn't confident driving on some of the winding single track roads, particularly at night, so doing concerts on my own wasn't really an option, even if I'd wanted to.
We discussed it, of course. We couldn't afford for Catriona to give up supply teaching: we weren't earning nearly enough to make a living from our music, despite our growing popularity. I did jokingly suggest I could earn a bit extra by going back on the streets a couple of nights a week, but Catriona didn't find that the least bit amusing.
In the end we came to the only sensible decision we could: we would turn down gigs if Catriona had teaching sessions booked, and she would turn down teaching opportunities if we had gigs booked on those days. We said we would review it after Christmas.
Just as when we'd first moved here I had been surprised at how long the summer days were, so I was now amazed at how quickly the days became shorter. Some days it seemed we got no daylight at all, particularly during the autumn storms when the sky ranged from gunmetal grey to impenetrable black.
As the weather got colder, so the deer came down from the hills. Fuck knows how Catriona avoided hitting any of them when driving to and from gigs on pitch black moonless nights. We did have some close shaves, though, and not just with deer: some flocks of sheep had taken to sleeping on the road, presumably because it was warmer and drier than the moor either side.
Catriona didn't seem bothered when I mentioned this. “What would you prefer?” she asked. “Risk being beaten up or murdered streetwalking in Birmingham or risk a collusion with a deer or a sheep up here?”
The answer was obvious. Fucking obvious.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Norman
1
Being a “persuader” was the best job I'd ever had: using my authority and strength to show all those feckless niggers, tarts and scroungers who was really in charge. Sometimes I got a fucking hard-on just doing my job.
Normally those few who couldn't or wouldn't pay their debts and who ignored our warnings were given a lesson in the form of a broken nose or a knee in the groin, but sometimes I let them pay in kind. It was just a business arrangement: I got some nubile bitch to suck me off, she got that month's interest deferred. Just the interest, mind, not the main loan.
It was all by mutual consent, of course: no-one was forced to do anything. Each bitch had the choice between paying what they owed in cash or in kind, and if they chose to pay in kind, that was their decision. Still, sometimes they complained: some of them thought that one blow job should free them from ever paying the interest on their loans. No matter how often I explained that “deferred” didn't mean “written off”, some of them just didn't seem to get it. How fucking thick can you be?
Sometimes they even attempted to play on my sympathy, bursting into tears as they held their baby or snot-nosed toddler close to them. That got the cunts nowhere: if they couldn't afford kids, they shouldn't have had them, should have kept their legs closed.
One bitch even threatened to report me to the police. I laughed in her face, asking her who she thought the coppers would believe? Little did she know that Tony had some officers on his payroll.
Sat in the Oak, a pint in front of me, I congratulated myself on how good I was at my job and at how many of the bastards were shit scared of me. But it wasn't just the punters who were frightened. My mind went back to that night in June when me and Tony and two of his mates turned up at that queer Irish cunt's door. God, was he scared! So scared he ended up shitting and pissing himself when we tied him up and attached the noose. We left him sitting in his own waste.
The next day I tracked down Winston. At first, he made it clear he didn't even want to see me, let alone talk to me. I told him the feeling was fucking mutual, but that I had some information he might want.
“Oh yeah,” he sneered, “what could you have that I could possibly want?”
“What about the address of that tart of yours and her queer boyfriend?”
He stared at me for a few moments, before saying: “And what do you want from me for the information?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just the satisfaction of knowing those two cunts get what they deserve.”
He grinned, his white teeth gleaming against the black background of his face. God, I'd love to flatten his nigger nose. I gave him their address, and got out as quickly as possible: I didn't want to spend any more time with him than was necessary.
A few days later I saw him again: he'd come looking for me, he said. Him and a couple of his monkey mates had gone round to the address in Balsall Health, only to find they'd done a runner. “They'd left a few things behind, so we wrecked the place,” he said. “I still want to get my hands on them.”
“Same here,” I replied.
We left it at that: we had nothing else to say to each other, and the longer we were together the more likely it was we would end up fighting. Much as I'd have loved to reshape his face, I knew I'd need help – either from another person or a weapon.
2
A hand on my shoulder shook me out of my reverie. “What the fuck,” I said, twisting my head and standing up, ready to launch myself at whoever it was.
“Whoa, there, mate. It's only me.”
“For fuck's sake, Tony, don't do that.”
“We are nervous today, aren't we?” he said, grinning. He got me a pint, then sat opposite me. He asked to see the monthly accounts and when I passed them to him, he began checking the columns.
“Don't you trust me?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I trust figures: they don't lie.”
After a few minutes, he shut the accounts book and threw it back across the table to me. “Everything seems okay.”
“Of course,” I said.
He leant across the table. “Look, Norman, any boss who doesn't check his staff aren't stealing from him is asking to be ripped off. Of course I fucking trust you: you wouldn't be working for me otherwise. But one of the reasons I can trust you is because your figures are always correct, and if there are any discrepancies you let me know. So don't get mardy just because I like to check the figures myself. Okay?”
“I suppose so.”
“Good. Are you doing anything later tonight?”
“Nothing planned,” I replied.
“How do you fancy some action?”
“What d'you mean? What sort of action?”
He grinned. “You'll like this.” He licked his lips. “There's an uppity Paki whose been complaining about what he calls racists shouting at his kids and wife.”
“Well,” I said, “if he doesn't like it, he should go back to where he belongs: the fucking jungle.”
“I was thinking we could teach him a lesson. You know, encourage him to go back.”
I grinned. “Yeah. I'm up for that. What've you got planned?”
“Well, I've got his home address and his car registration. I thought we could wreck his car for starters.”
“Just for starters?”
“Yeah. Then we could knock on his door like concerned citizens, telling him what's happened to his car. Tell him he'd better call the police. Then we give him a good beating. How does that sound?”
“Fucking heaven,” I replied.
“Good. Drink up. No time like the present.”
We left the Oak, got ourselves cod and chips and, after finishing them, taught him a lesson. At least that was the plan, but it didn't quite work out that way. We had no problem with his car: we spiked all four tyres, broke all the windows, bashed in the bodywork, smashed the instrument panel and ripped the stuffing out of the seats. We finished by spraying “Go Home Paki” on the wrecked bonnet. We were quite pleased with ourselves. At least until we saw his front door open and he came running at us, waving a cricket bat.
“Fuck! Get out of here!” Tony shouted. I didn't need any urging, and we both ran down the street with the Paki bastard chasing us. We outran him, but it was a lesson for us to be more careful next time.
3
We met up in the Oak the following night. After having a good laugh about wrecking the Paki's car and congratulating each other on outrunning him, Tony produced a photograph from his pocket.
“Someone I know from Glasgow sent me this. He's one of our members up there, and his hobby is photography. Wherever he goes, he takes one of his cameras and he develops the pictures himself. He's had a lot of his photos in 'Spearhead', but we couldn't publish this one. But I think it's really funny.”
He slid the photograph across the table. I picked it up, looked at it, put it down, picked it up again and stared at it, mouth wide open. “Fuck me,” I said, “I know that bitch.”
“You do? Which one? And how do you know someone from up there? You told me you'd never been to Scotland.”
“Nor have I ever wanted to. It's the naked one, and she's not from Scotland. She's the tart that queer cunt Brendan became friendly with. She used to tout for business in the Star when I worked there. I bet the two of them moved up there together. Haven't a fucking clue who the other bird is. What was she doing? Is she a striptease artist now?”
“Wow! Fucking wow!” Tony exclaimed. “What a fucking coincidence.” He took a sip of his beer. “Apparently, according to my photographer friend, the two birds were booked to perform at his local, the King Billy. It's a loyalist pub up there. You know, our sort of people. The landlord didn't realise he'd been sent a couple of folk singers, and was surprised when they turned up. He thought he was getting a skinhead rock band who often play at Orange Order and National Front events.”
“Fucking folk singers!” I laughed. “I've never heard it called that before.”
“No, really. They sang and played. But apparently no-one was listening and that really pissed them off. So one of them, the one you know, just stripped off. And then she sang a couple of songs about men who couldn't get it up.”
I sniggered. “I'm surprised they got out of there alive.”
“I gather everyone was so shocked, so stunned they couldn't do anything. Just let the two bitches leave.”
“Well, well, well,” I said, rubbing my chin. “I might just have developed an interest in Scotland. Does your friend know where she's living.”
He shook his head. “No. Doesn't even know her name. What is it, by the way?”
“At the pub we just knew her as Michelle, but that's probably a false name. It would be good to track them down.”
Tony grinned. “Leave it to me. It might take some time, but I'm sure we can find them, wherever they're living. Another pint?”
1
It had been a couple of days since we'd last discussed whether or not to sign with the Glasgow agency, though “discussed” was probably too polite a word. Catriona had been all in favour and couldn't understand my reservations. She was insistent we should sign the contract. When I told her I'd had enough of men pimping off me when I was a tart, she said this was totally different. I responded by telling her that some wanker getting a percentage of our earnings just for booking gigs for us sounded a lot like pimping to me, she had asked how else were we going to get enough work to make a living. We went round in circles, winding each other up, until I just told her to fuck off, I wasn't signing anything.
“Fine,” she'd said. “I've got my supply teaching. How are you going to earn a living?” I'd felt the red mist coming down, but when I saw the grin on her face I'd controlled my temper, instead just sulking.
As so often, she was right and I was wrong. I had decided to eat fucking humble pie – again.
When she got back from seeing her parents, I made her a cup of tea, told her I'd changed my mind and now thought we should sign the contract. She didn't seem to notice and was staring into the distance. So I repeated what I'd said.
“What?” she said, looking distracted.
For the third time I told her I'd changed my mind. I could feel the irritation growing inside me. Did she want me to crawl before her, seeking forgiveness? If so, she was going to be fucking disappointed.
She looked puzzled. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
I was about to launch into an angry rant when I noticed how vulnerable she looked. Instead I took her hand and asked her what was worrying her. She shook her head, but I persisted: I could see something was not right. She pulled me towards her.
“Just hold me,” she pleaded.
After a few moments she released me, sat down and told me everything her parents had said. Taking my hand, she said: “My emotions are all over the place. One moment I feel so lucky in having such wonderful loving parents, but the next I feel so guilty because if it hadn't been for me ma would have gone to university and the next I'm worried about the stigma of being illegitimate.” She looked at me. “Oh, I know this probably sounds so maudlin and self-indulgent to you, particularly given the awful childhood you had, but...” Her voice tailed off.
“Oh, darling, you don't sound the least bit maudlin. And you've got nothing to feel guilty about. Your parents have had good lives and one of their joys is their beautiful caring loving daughter. If they hadn't had you, they would never have experienced that joy, and nor would I have fallen in love with you.” I kissed her. When I pulled away, I said: “And there's nothing fucking illegitimate about you. How could there be when any affection shown to you, you return several fold?” I kissed her again.
I have to be honest: part of me was so fucking jealous of her family. My mind kept telling me: if only, if only. I slapped down such thoughts. My past was a part of me, it was part of what had made me the person I was, and without it who knows how things would have turned out? If my abusive family, if my years of prostitution were the price I had to pay for meeting Catriona, then it was a price worth paying.
More than anything, her parents' story was one of love overcoming all the world could throw at them. I told her this, and I told her how inspiring their story was. “I reckon that's why they told you. They wanted you to know that. You should be proud of them, grateful for what they've done, because I'm so fucking grateful they're responsible for you being here with me now.”
She smiled, hugged me again and then, changing the subject, asked me if I was serious about signing with the agency. I nodded.
She produced a pen. “Okay, girl, you'd better sign before you have a chance to change your mind.”
Later that day while Catriona was doing whatever she did to make the garden look good, I picked up Frankie and began to play around with a melody that had been haunting me ever since she'd told me about her parents. I was trying different tempos, chords and rhythms, not sure what exactly I was looking for but confident I would know when I found it. It was only when I heard Catriona say: “You should have the tape recorder on” that I realised she'd come back in.
I shook my head. “It's not quite there yet.”
“Well, I still think you should tape it,” she said, switching on the machine. I waved her away but left the tape recorder running. Much as I thought I was capturing something, I knew there was something missing, no matter how many variations on the melody I played. I put the guitar down, saying: “Fuck it.”
“You're not giving up, are you?” Catriona asked, crossing her arms.
“It's almost there, almost fucking there, but it needs something, just can't fucking work out what.”
Catriona played the tape through, then asked me to try playing it again. Picking up Frankie, I did as she asked, then she walked out of the room. “Fucking cheek,” I thought. Still, I kept playing the melody over and over, and then I heard the sound of a fiddle accompanying my guitar. “That's it!” I yelled, “that's fucking it.” I put my guitar down and kissed Catriona. She was grinning.
“You're a fucking genius,” I told her.
She just shrugged her shoulders. “It just came to me: a bit of Highland fiddle would add depth.”
Catriona rarely played the fiddle when anyone was around, normally she wouldn't even play it in front of me: she just didn't think she was good enough. Having heard her play when she didn't think I was in earshot, I disagreed and had been trying for some time to get her play it in public. Perhaps now she would listen to me, and I told her so. “If I'm going to play it before an audience, it needs your fiddle,” I said. I also told her what had inspired it and that I was going to call it “The Highland Lass”.
“You wrote that for me? Wow!” Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, she did neither, kissing me instead.
She did agree to take her fiddle to the pub and accompany me, she could hardly do otherwise once she knew the piece was about her. But she made it clear it was just a one off. I just smiled without commenting. When we played “The Highland Lass” that evening, it proved such a great success, we had to play it twice. Later, when we got home, she agreed she would take her fiddle to future gigs. “But only for that piece,” she insisted. We'll fucking see, I thought, but I didn't say it out loud. She was going to play the fiddle more often, whether she liked it or not.
2
I was worried about Brendan. Regardless of outward appearances, he hadn't really recovered from what those wankers in Birmingham did to him. Much as he tried to deny it, he was still having nightmares and would sometimes wake up screaming. “Just a bad dream,” was all he would say, making light of it, but it happened too often to be dismissed so easily. Some nights he hardly slept at all, and I often heard him walking about in the early hours of the morning.
He was lonely too. Although he never even hinted at it, I have no doubt living in the same house as me and Catriona made the loneliness even worse: every day he would see how much in love we were, but there was fuck all we could do about that except offer him friendship. He was still confused about where he stood with Graham: although they still wrote to each other, Graham still wittered on about having to choose. In my opinion, he was being fucking selfish and callous. Didn't he know what his inability to make up his mind was doing to Brendan? Or didn't the wanker care?
Trying to talk to Brendan about him only made matters worse, at least when I was doing the talking. I had no patience with Graham's behaviour and just thinking about it got me going, so I was fuck all use to Brendan.
He was also drinking too much, at least in my opinion. We rarely smoked weed anymore: it wasn't a conscious decision, it was just the move to the Highlands meant we'd lost touch with the dealers we'd known. If it came our way, as occasionally it did after gigs, we'd smoke a bit, but none of us were particularly bothered, and I'd cut down on the fags, which pleased Catriona. Brendan often chain smoked and had developed a persistent cough and after work or on days off hit the bottle. I would have preferred it if he'd found a regular source for weed or hash rather than him drinking so fucking much and killing himself with nicotine. The fags and booze were his way of coping with the trauma of what had happened, but I was sure they were doing him more harm than good.
Catriona agreed with me, but there was no talking to him about it. Sometimes he just shrugged as if it was of no importance, sometimes he got defensive, other times he made a joke out of it, occasionally he would get angry, but when he did it was with me rather than Catriona. In fact, it was fair to say he often responded better to her than he did to me, probably because I often found it difficult to hide my irritation.
I was also worried about his relationship with that councillor prat Andrew, as was Catriona who knew a lot more about him than I did. My response to Andrew was instinctive, hers was based on experience. Brendan had nothing in common with him, but continued seeing him whenever he could. Andrew was so paranoid, a self-hating queer if there ever was one, they could only meet in the most extreme secrecy, and it always had to be Andrew who initiated any get together. He was just using Brendan for his own gratification in the same way punters used to use me, except at least I got paid for it. What Brendan saw in him was a mystery to me. I do know he hated everything our local councillor stood for, but he still used to go with him. Perhaps just another sign of his loneliness. Or perhaps it was simply that he was a good fuck, as Brendan once told me. Perhaps it's just my background, but even the greatest fuck in the world would not have made it worthwhile for me.
No matter how careful they were, it wasn't careful enough.
Rob came to see me regularly, more so since he lost his job. As promised, I helped him claim as much dole and other benefits as I could and Catriona had begun to be less cool towards him, though she still didn't really like him. I suppose one of the reasons why he came to see me so regularly was because I was one of the few people who treated him like a human being. He never overstayed his welcome and often just wanted to listen to me play the guitar. He was also useful, being much better at practical things than any of us and willing to do anything we asked. We couldn't afford to pay him and wouldn't have anyway, knowing any money would be spent down the pub. Instead we paid him in kind, for example I gave him a cassette tape of me and Catriona playing and singing and Catriona gave him vegetables she'd grown in the garden.
One day we had been chatting about this and that when Brendan came in and immediately Rob looked uncomfortable: he avoided eye contact, shuffled his feet and after just a few minutes made his excuses and left. Next time I saw him, I asked him what was up.
“Nothing,” he said.
He was an appalling liar and eventually I got the truth out of him. One night he'd gone to his favourite spot along the river, the place where we'd first met, and he thought he saw Brendan coming out of the undergrowth on the opposite bank. “I couldn't be sure,” he said, “but there was moonlight and it did look like him. Then I saw someone else but before I could see who it was, clouds hid the moon and it became very dark. I didn't want to say anything, but...” His voice tailed off.
Fuck, I thought, trying to keep a poker face.
“You were probably just mistaken,” I said. “After all, it was dark. Don't know about you, but my night vision is fucking crap. Probably didn't eat enough carrots as a kid.”
The joke seemed to go over his head. He said: “I can see okay at night. Working on the fishing you get to learn that.” He looked down at his feet. “I like you, and I'd hate it if he was cheating on you and upset you.”
I had three choices: I could pretend to be upset or angry, I could tell him the truth or I could just shrug it off. I certainly wasn't going to tell him that me and Brendan were just friends and that Catriona was my lover, at least not without talking to them first. Although I was angry at Brendan, it wasn't for the reasons Rob would think.
I put on my best fake smile and said: “I'm sure it's nothing, but thanks for telling me.”
“But I can't think what else he would have been doing out there at night.”
I had a brainwave. “If it was him, I think I know what he was doing. Didn't you know he's fucking nature mad. Sometimes after he's finished work he goes looking for signs of animals who come out at night, and you'd be fucking amazed at how many there are. He looks for signs that badgers or bats or other night animals have been there. I think he's fucking mad, but hey, if it keeps him out of trouble.”
“But there was someone else there with him.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Oh, that'll just be another fucking nature nut looking for animal droppings.”
Rob giggled and his face lit up with relief. “I'm sorry I thought he was, well, you know.”
I kissed him on the cheek. “That's okay. It's nice to know some fucker's looking out for me.”
Later, I had words with Brendan and told him what a stupid fucking idiot he'd been. “It's up to you who you fuck with,” I said, “but at least be a bit more fucking careful.”
He told me I had no right to interfere in his private life. “Anyway, what the fuck am I supposed to do? If I brought him here, you and Catriona would object. I know neither of you like him. Anyway, it was okay him coming round here once, as he's my local councillor, but he's paranoid people will jump to conclusions if he's here regularly.”
“You mean, you've fucking had him round here?”
He nodded. “Yes, while you were in Glasgow that time for a few days. After all, it is my home as well.”
I was about to respond, but stopped myself from saying exactly what I thought. The fucking bastard was right: it was his home as well. But still... Instead, I said: “You do know he's bad news, don't you?”
“Why? Just because Catriona doesn't like him?”
I was getting exasperated. “No. Because he's a fucking right wing, fascist bastard. He's as bad as that cunt Norman. Did you let him fuck you too?” As soon as I spoke I regretted what I'd said.
“What the fuck gives you the right to – to say that. You do fucking remember what he did to me, don't you?” By this time he was shouting.
“I'm sorry,” I said, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.” But it was too late. As I was speaking he turned heel and dashed out the door.
Me and my big fucking mouth!
Things remained cool between us for a while, and when Catriona asked me what was up I tried to shrug it off as just another row. She wasn't having any of it: she knew we argued a lot and she'd witnessed our rows often enough, but she thought this time it was different. She knew us both too well. I ended up telling her what had happened. It was inevitable I would, so why the fuck I didn't tell her straight away I don't know.
For a moment she stared at me, open mouthed, and then said: “For Christ's sake girl! God knows, I've got little time for our local councillor, but what on earth made you compare him to the sadist who almost killed Brendan? And to suggest he'd had sex with both?”
“I don't fucking know. It just came out.”
“Yeah. Well next time I suggest put your brain in gear before opening your mouth. No wonder he's so cold towards you.”
“I don't know what the fuck to do. I mean, I've tried apologising, but what else can I do?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes saying you're sorry isn't enough.”
“Fucking great! What am I supposed to do: wear a fucking hair shirt?”
“That would be a start,” she said. It took me a few moments to realise she wasn't being serious, and only then because the grin on her face was getting broader. “I'm sure there's a shop in Glasgow where I could get you one, and a few other things...” We both began to giggle.
“Stop it!” I yelled, between giggles. “Stop it!”
When we'd both calmed down, she said: “Look, I'll have a word with him. But please try and control that tongue of yours in future. It's going to get us into trouble one of these days.”
She was true to her word. I don't know what she said, but later that day Brendan put his arm around me and said: “I'm sorry if I've been mardy recently.”
I apologised for the things I'd said, and I promised to try to think before speaking in future.
3
Although we were getting lots more requests to play, partly as a result of our agent but also because of our spreading reputation on the folk scene, our very success created a problem. Once the school holidays were over, Catriona began to get work as a supply teacher. At first, it was just a day here and there, but as she got more work so we found we had to turn down some gigs. Although I had passed my driving test, I wasn't confident driving on some of the winding single track roads, particularly at night, so doing concerts on my own wasn't really an option, even if I'd wanted to.
We discussed it, of course. We couldn't afford for Catriona to give up supply teaching: we weren't earning nearly enough to make a living from our music, despite our growing popularity. I did jokingly suggest I could earn a bit extra by going back on the streets a couple of nights a week, but Catriona didn't find that the least bit amusing.
In the end we came to the only sensible decision we could: we would turn down gigs if Catriona had teaching sessions booked, and she would turn down teaching opportunities if we had gigs booked on those days. We said we would review it after Christmas.
Just as when we'd first moved here I had been surprised at how long the summer days were, so I was now amazed at how quickly the days became shorter. Some days it seemed we got no daylight at all, particularly during the autumn storms when the sky ranged from gunmetal grey to impenetrable black.
As the weather got colder, so the deer came down from the hills. Fuck knows how Catriona avoided hitting any of them when driving to and from gigs on pitch black moonless nights. We did have some close shaves, though, and not just with deer: some flocks of sheep had taken to sleeping on the road, presumably because it was warmer and drier than the moor either side.
Catriona didn't seem bothered when I mentioned this. “What would you prefer?” she asked. “Risk being beaten up or murdered streetwalking in Birmingham or risk a collusion with a deer or a sheep up here?”
The answer was obvious. Fucking obvious.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Norman
1
Being a “persuader” was the best job I'd ever had: using my authority and strength to show all those feckless niggers, tarts and scroungers who was really in charge. Sometimes I got a fucking hard-on just doing my job.
Normally those few who couldn't or wouldn't pay their debts and who ignored our warnings were given a lesson in the form of a broken nose or a knee in the groin, but sometimes I let them pay in kind. It was just a business arrangement: I got some nubile bitch to suck me off, she got that month's interest deferred. Just the interest, mind, not the main loan.
It was all by mutual consent, of course: no-one was forced to do anything. Each bitch had the choice between paying what they owed in cash or in kind, and if they chose to pay in kind, that was their decision. Still, sometimes they complained: some of them thought that one blow job should free them from ever paying the interest on their loans. No matter how often I explained that “deferred” didn't mean “written off”, some of them just didn't seem to get it. How fucking thick can you be?
Sometimes they even attempted to play on my sympathy, bursting into tears as they held their baby or snot-nosed toddler close to them. That got the cunts nowhere: if they couldn't afford kids, they shouldn't have had them, should have kept their legs closed.
One bitch even threatened to report me to the police. I laughed in her face, asking her who she thought the coppers would believe? Little did she know that Tony had some officers on his payroll.
Sat in the Oak, a pint in front of me, I congratulated myself on how good I was at my job and at how many of the bastards were shit scared of me. But it wasn't just the punters who were frightened. My mind went back to that night in June when me and Tony and two of his mates turned up at that queer Irish cunt's door. God, was he scared! So scared he ended up shitting and pissing himself when we tied him up and attached the noose. We left him sitting in his own waste.
The next day I tracked down Winston. At first, he made it clear he didn't even want to see me, let alone talk to me. I told him the feeling was fucking mutual, but that I had some information he might want.
“Oh yeah,” he sneered, “what could you have that I could possibly want?”
“What about the address of that tart of yours and her queer boyfriend?”
He stared at me for a few moments, before saying: “And what do you want from me for the information?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just the satisfaction of knowing those two cunts get what they deserve.”
He grinned, his white teeth gleaming against the black background of his face. God, I'd love to flatten his nigger nose. I gave him their address, and got out as quickly as possible: I didn't want to spend any more time with him than was necessary.
A few days later I saw him again: he'd come looking for me, he said. Him and a couple of his monkey mates had gone round to the address in Balsall Health, only to find they'd done a runner. “They'd left a few things behind, so we wrecked the place,” he said. “I still want to get my hands on them.”
“Same here,” I replied.
We left it at that: we had nothing else to say to each other, and the longer we were together the more likely it was we would end up fighting. Much as I'd have loved to reshape his face, I knew I'd need help – either from another person or a weapon.
2
A hand on my shoulder shook me out of my reverie. “What the fuck,” I said, twisting my head and standing up, ready to launch myself at whoever it was.
“Whoa, there, mate. It's only me.”
“For fuck's sake, Tony, don't do that.”
“We are nervous today, aren't we?” he said, grinning. He got me a pint, then sat opposite me. He asked to see the monthly accounts and when I passed them to him, he began checking the columns.
“Don't you trust me?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I trust figures: they don't lie.”
After a few minutes, he shut the accounts book and threw it back across the table to me. “Everything seems okay.”
“Of course,” I said.
He leant across the table. “Look, Norman, any boss who doesn't check his staff aren't stealing from him is asking to be ripped off. Of course I fucking trust you: you wouldn't be working for me otherwise. But one of the reasons I can trust you is because your figures are always correct, and if there are any discrepancies you let me know. So don't get mardy just because I like to check the figures myself. Okay?”
“I suppose so.”
“Good. Are you doing anything later tonight?”
“Nothing planned,” I replied.
“How do you fancy some action?”
“What d'you mean? What sort of action?”
He grinned. “You'll like this.” He licked his lips. “There's an uppity Paki whose been complaining about what he calls racists shouting at his kids and wife.”
“Well,” I said, “if he doesn't like it, he should go back to where he belongs: the fucking jungle.”
“I was thinking we could teach him a lesson. You know, encourage him to go back.”
I grinned. “Yeah. I'm up for that. What've you got planned?”
“Well, I've got his home address and his car registration. I thought we could wreck his car for starters.”
“Just for starters?”
“Yeah. Then we could knock on his door like concerned citizens, telling him what's happened to his car. Tell him he'd better call the police. Then we give him a good beating. How does that sound?”
“Fucking heaven,” I replied.
“Good. Drink up. No time like the present.”
We left the Oak, got ourselves cod and chips and, after finishing them, taught him a lesson. At least that was the plan, but it didn't quite work out that way. We had no problem with his car: we spiked all four tyres, broke all the windows, bashed in the bodywork, smashed the instrument panel and ripped the stuffing out of the seats. We finished by spraying “Go Home Paki” on the wrecked bonnet. We were quite pleased with ourselves. At least until we saw his front door open and he came running at us, waving a cricket bat.
“Fuck! Get out of here!” Tony shouted. I didn't need any urging, and we both ran down the street with the Paki bastard chasing us. We outran him, but it was a lesson for us to be more careful next time.
3
We met up in the Oak the following night. After having a good laugh about wrecking the Paki's car and congratulating each other on outrunning him, Tony produced a photograph from his pocket.
“Someone I know from Glasgow sent me this. He's one of our members up there, and his hobby is photography. Wherever he goes, he takes one of his cameras and he develops the pictures himself. He's had a lot of his photos in 'Spearhead', but we couldn't publish this one. But I think it's really funny.”
He slid the photograph across the table. I picked it up, looked at it, put it down, picked it up again and stared at it, mouth wide open. “Fuck me,” I said, “I know that bitch.”
“You do? Which one? And how do you know someone from up there? You told me you'd never been to Scotland.”
“Nor have I ever wanted to. It's the naked one, and she's not from Scotland. She's the tart that queer cunt Brendan became friendly with. She used to tout for business in the Star when I worked there. I bet the two of them moved up there together. Haven't a fucking clue who the other bird is. What was she doing? Is she a striptease artist now?”
“Wow! Fucking wow!” Tony exclaimed. “What a fucking coincidence.” He took a sip of his beer. “Apparently, according to my photographer friend, the two birds were booked to perform at his local, the King Billy. It's a loyalist pub up there. You know, our sort of people. The landlord didn't realise he'd been sent a couple of folk singers, and was surprised when they turned up. He thought he was getting a skinhead rock band who often play at Orange Order and National Front events.”
“Fucking folk singers!” I laughed. “I've never heard it called that before.”
“No, really. They sang and played. But apparently no-one was listening and that really pissed them off. So one of them, the one you know, just stripped off. And then she sang a couple of songs about men who couldn't get it up.”
I sniggered. “I'm surprised they got out of there alive.”
“I gather everyone was so shocked, so stunned they couldn't do anything. Just let the two bitches leave.”
“Well, well, well,” I said, rubbing my chin. “I might just have developed an interest in Scotland. Does your friend know where she's living.”
He shook his head. “No. Doesn't even know her name. What is it, by the way?”
“At the pub we just knew her as Michelle, but that's probably a false name. It would be good to track them down.”
Tony grinned. “Leave it to me. It might take some time, but I'm sure we can find them, wherever they're living. Another pint?”
About the Author
Born in Manchester in 1951, Kevin Crowe has lived in the Highlands since 1999. A writer of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, he has had his work published in various magazines, journals and websites. He also writes regularly for the Highland monthly community magazine Am Bratach and for the Highland LGBT magazine UnDividing Lines.