The Message
by Brendan Gisby
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Bluto came to deliver a message... in the only way he knew how. But the response was brutal and merciless. (An excerpt from The Burrymen War, a tale of violence, bigotry and sectarianism in small-town Scotland.)
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Bluto’s entrance to the Forth that Saturday lunchtime was one of those surreal moments I would never forget. It was at the beginning of June, in the first or second week, and the sun was shining for a change. Muldy, Lenny and I had just come back from a walk along the esplanade. We were sitting at our usual table, drinking our first pints of the day and discussing plans for a barbecue up at Muldy’s house on the Sunday. In his usual pompous way, Muldy was going on about needing help to put up his marquee, which wasn’t a marquee at all, but a big, square tent he had bought from the Army surplus store years earlier.
Because it was so early in the afternoon, the Forth was still quiet at that point, with just us three and a few other customers scattered round the tables. Moments later, however, the quiet was shattered when the double swing doors burst inward with a rush of air and in stormed Bluto. He stood in the middle of the bar and stared directly ahead at the counter, his fists clenched at his sides. The place fell silent as everyone stopped to look at him. It was like something out of the fucking Wild West, man!
Bluto was in his early thirties at the time, a few years older than me. His real name was James Coleman. He was always addressed as James to his face, but behind his back he was known as Bluto after the character in the Popeye cartoons. Although he didn’t have a beard, he resembled the cartoon Bluto in a lot of other ways. For a start, he was a broad, powerfully built guy with a head that seemed far too small for the rest of his body. And he used his strength and physique to intimidate anyone he thought was weaker than him. He had been a bully for as long as I could remember. When Timmy and I were just little nippers, he used to come round to our house and scare the shit out of us. Fuck, even when I became an adult, I could never have a conversation with him without feeling threatened.
Like the cartoon character as well, Bluto didn’t have two brain cells to rub together. Every time I used to see him in those days, I would remember the night in Edinburgh when me and Lenny nearly ran into him. It must have been about two o’clock in the morning. We had been to some dive in the Grassmarket where they had live music. Starving as usual, we had decided to nip into that pizza takeaway joint at the bottom of Lothian Road before we went looking for a taxi back to the Ferry. The place was heaving. We were waiting at the back of the queue when we heard a familiar voice at the front barking out an order.
‘A pizza con funghi, pal,’ shouted Bluto. ‘And nae fuckin’ mushrooms!’
We were already a bit giggly from the joints we had smoked earlier in the night. After hearing that, we were in danger of pissing ourselves. Hands over our mouths, we ducked down, shot out of the place and hid in a nearby doorway until Bluto had gone. It was a close shave, because if Bluto had caught us laughing at him like that he would have strangled the pair of us – maybe not that night, but some time in the future; months or even years ahead. In Bluto’s simple mind, a grudge was something that lasted forever.
So that was Bluto: brawn, no brains and very, very violent; a walking lethal combination. It was a combination that Charlie McNulty either had forgotten or didn’t stop to think about that Saturday afternoon; otherwise, he wouldn’t have said what he said in the way he did. A wee bit more tact from him might have prevented what happened next, but there again Charlie was never known for his tact.
‘Sorry, James, but you’re no’ gettin’ served in here. You’ve been barred,’ he shouted out from behind the counter for the whole bar (and probably half the Ferry) to hear.
For a big, slow-thinking brute, Bluto was surprisingly fast and light on his feet, like one of those heavyweight boxers. In a flash, he had crossed the floor, grabbed Charlie’s hair with both hands and smacked his forehead off the counter top. Then, still gripping the hair, he leaned over until his head was level with Charlie’s and he spoke quietly and menacingly into Charlie’s left ear.
‘Is that right, Charlie boy? So tell me why I’m barred, eh? What did I dae tae deserve that, Charlie boy, ya piece o’ Fenian shite?’
Tactless he might have been, but give Charlie his due: the guy was no wimp. Even though the pain must have been excruciating, he just gritted his teeth and didn’t utter a sound.
Probably alerted by the sound of Charlie’s head hitting the counter, Madge rushed out of the wee room at the back to stand beside Charlie.
‘That’s enough now, James,’ she spoke very authoritatively and without a hint of fear. ‘I’m in charge of this bar and I barred you for good reason. If you let go of Charlie, we can go and sit down in the corner, and I’ll explain why privately. Otherwise, I’m going tae have tae call the Police. Now be sensible, James.’
Bluto didn’t even look at Madge. He tightened his grip on Charlie’s hair and spoke into his ear again.
‘It’s your explanation I’m waitin’ for, Charlie boy. You’re always the smart cunt behind everythin’, aren’t ye?’
‘Let go of me, James,’ Charlie managed to hiss through his teeth.
By that time, the three of us had jumped up from our seats to hover within a few inches of Bluto. Lenny was the first to try to do something. He and Bluto had worked together a lot on the building sites, so they had a bit of a rapport going, or so Lenny liked to think.
‘C’moan, James, you need tae let Charlie go,’ he cajoled. ‘You’re point’s well made, my man. It’s time noo tae chill oot.’
Bluto lifted his head and looked at Lenny for a moment.
‘Fuck off, Lenny!’ he spat out.
Then he glanced at me.
‘And you as well, Paki. Or you’ll be gettin’ the same as Charlie boy here.’
Both Lenny and I shrugged and stepped back. As we did so, the bold Muldy stepped forward. Picking that moment to put on his fake Sergeant-Major’s voice was either a very stupid or a very brave thing to do; either way, that’s what he did.
‘Listen up here, men,’ Muldy began. ‘This nonsense has got to stop right now. Unhand Mister McNulty immediately, Mister Coleman. And stand to atten-shun!’
Bluto moved like lightning again. In the blink of an eye, he had released Charlie, banging his head off the counter a second time for good measure, and had grabbed hold of Muldy’s hair with both hands.
Unlike Charlie, Muldy screamed out in pain.
‘Owya! Owya! Let go, ya bastard cunt!’
Bluto forced Muldy’s head down until he was practically bent double.
‘So it’s Muldy, the chief smart cunt, is it?’ he laughed. ‘The very man I came looking fur. I’ve goat a wee message fur you an’ the rest o’ yer Micky friends here...’
‘I’m warning you again, James,’ Madge interrupted him. ‘I’ll have the Police along here in two minutes if you dinnae leave Muldy alane.’
Bluto continued as if Madge wasn’t there.
‘See that application you made tae the Ferry Fair Committee?’ he snorted. ‘It’s been bombed oot. You hear me? Fuckin’ binned. Nae Burryman fur you this year, smart cunt. Nae Burryman any year fur any o’ you Micky cunts.’
‘Bastard cunt!’ was all that Muldy managed to wheeze out in reply.
Without even looking at Lenny, I knew he and I felt the same way. We would probably end up with sore faces or even worse for it, but we had to act to spare Muldy any further pain and humiliation. We were on the point of jumping Bluto when Mick Flowers appeared on the scene, towering over all of us. Mick was at least six foot six and built like a brick shit-house. He was also about ten years younger than Bluto. Up close to him, Bluto suddenly looked smaller and older and less dangerous.
Mick stood there for a few moments, rubbing his eyes, as if he had just woken from a dream. That wasn’t far from the truth, it transpired, because when the commotion began he had been sitting in an alcove out of sight of the rest of us, probably staring into space as usual.
‘What was that you were sayin’, James?’ Mick asked in that soft, lilting voice of his. ‘Somethin’ aboot buryin’ Micky. I’m called Micky. Was it me you were talking aboot, James? Why d’you want tae bury me, eh?’
You could tell that Bluto was having a hard time trying to figure out what Mick was going on about; he looked so perplexed that his eyes were almost crossing.
‘Anyway, what’s that you’re daein tae Norris?’ Mick continued before Bluto could think of an answer. ‘Norris is ma friend, you ken. I want you tae leave him alane, you hear me?’
It should be remembered at this point that we didn’t call Mick ‘Mad Mick’ for nothing. Both his father and mother had come over from Ireland to live in a wee village close to the Ferry. They had something like fifteen children, and Mick was the youngest, the baby. According to the gossipmongers, every one of the children was mentally unbalanced in some way. While that might have been just the usual, poisonous Ferry talk, it was definitely true as far as Mick was concerned. He was diagnosed a paranoid schizophrenic when he was a teenager and had been treated in institutions up until a couple of years before, when they released him into the community. He just happened to be released into a flat next door to where Vi and I lived in the Crossroads.
Now, releasing folk into the community was one thing, but not making sure they continued to take their medication was another; in fact, it was a major problem in Mick’s case. He was a nice, placid guy most of the time. But other times, when he didn’t bother to take his meds, he was agitated and frightening, like the night he came knocking on my door and asked me to go into the woods with him to help find the place where he had buried the bodies. He was so convincing, man, that I called Muldy and Lenny and the four of us searched the woods for hours – with no result, of course.
But back to the Forth that Saturday. Bluto knew all about Mick’s schizophrenia. He also knew he had a choice to make before responding to Mick’s demand. On or off the meds? Gentle giant or mad axeman? Even before the words had left his mouth, he realised he had made the wrong choice.
‘Go fuck yourself –’ he began, but the rest was strangled in the grip of an enormous left hand.
Mick literally picked up Bluto by the throat and hurled him across the bar. A table and some chairs spun away from him as he toppled on his back. Then, calmly, his face showing no sign of emotion, Mick walked over to where Bluto was lying, knelt down, balled his right fist and punched him in the face. And again. And again. And again. With each punch, Bluto winced and I could hear something crack inside his mouth.
I didn’t care for Bluto at all – only moments before, he had called me a Paki and threatened me – but by the time of the fourth punch I began to pity him.
‘C’moan, Mick,’ I shouted. ‘I think he’s had enough.’
Some of the others also called out for Mick to stop. Even Charlie, still nursing his bruised forehead, joined in. But it was Madge, with that commanding voice of hers again, who brought the massacre to a halt.
‘Right, Michael, that’s the Police on their way! Go back and sit down out the road! And you, James! Unless you want tae be lifted, you’d better get the hell out o’ here!’
Mick stood up and meekly returned to the alcove. Then Bluto sprang to his feet, acting as if Mick hadn’t hurt him. But it was through a mouth full of broken teeth that he mumbled his farewell.
‘You’re deid,’ he pointed at Charlie before barging through the doors and out into the sunshine.
Charlie raised his arms in exasperation.
‘What the fuck?’ he cried at the still swinging doors. ‘Why the fuck does he keep pickin’ on me? It’s just no’ fuckin’ fair!
‘And you ken what happened there, don’t you?’ he went on. ‘They cunts in the Ferry Arms fired up Bluto – wound him up like a fuckin’ clock, man – and sent him along here wi’ the news. They just wanted tae rub your nose in it, Muldy.’
We heard later that Bluto needed to be fitted for a full set of dentures. None of us would see him again until the day of the Burryman ceremony, when he came looking for revenge.
By the time the pigs arrived in the Forth a few minutes after Bluto had left, the place had been tidied up and we were all back in our seats. Madge told them that a total stranger had come into the bar and started threatening her and Charlie, which was why she had phoned the Police. She made no mention of the fight. Naturally, we claimed that we had been too busy talking to each other to notice the stranger or anything happening.
For the rest of that weekend, even during the barbecue the next day, Muldy seemed subdued, not his usual cheery self at all. Lenny and I put it down to him being depressed about the outcome of the Burryman application and the way it was communicated to him. We were hoping he’d get over the disappointment quickly, so neither of us mentioned it to him. We should have known he was quietly planning his retaliation. We should have guessed he was about to declare war.
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Bluto came to deliver a message... in the only way he knew how. But the response was brutal and merciless. (An excerpt from The Burrymen War, a tale of violence, bigotry and sectarianism in small-town Scotland.)
_____________________________________________________________________
Bluto’s entrance to the Forth that Saturday lunchtime was one of those surreal moments I would never forget. It was at the beginning of June, in the first or second week, and the sun was shining for a change. Muldy, Lenny and I had just come back from a walk along the esplanade. We were sitting at our usual table, drinking our first pints of the day and discussing plans for a barbecue up at Muldy’s house on the Sunday. In his usual pompous way, Muldy was going on about needing help to put up his marquee, which wasn’t a marquee at all, but a big, square tent he had bought from the Army surplus store years earlier.
Because it was so early in the afternoon, the Forth was still quiet at that point, with just us three and a few other customers scattered round the tables. Moments later, however, the quiet was shattered when the double swing doors burst inward with a rush of air and in stormed Bluto. He stood in the middle of the bar and stared directly ahead at the counter, his fists clenched at his sides. The place fell silent as everyone stopped to look at him. It was like something out of the fucking Wild West, man!
Bluto was in his early thirties at the time, a few years older than me. His real name was James Coleman. He was always addressed as James to his face, but behind his back he was known as Bluto after the character in the Popeye cartoons. Although he didn’t have a beard, he resembled the cartoon Bluto in a lot of other ways. For a start, he was a broad, powerfully built guy with a head that seemed far too small for the rest of his body. And he used his strength and physique to intimidate anyone he thought was weaker than him. He had been a bully for as long as I could remember. When Timmy and I were just little nippers, he used to come round to our house and scare the shit out of us. Fuck, even when I became an adult, I could never have a conversation with him without feeling threatened.
Like the cartoon character as well, Bluto didn’t have two brain cells to rub together. Every time I used to see him in those days, I would remember the night in Edinburgh when me and Lenny nearly ran into him. It must have been about two o’clock in the morning. We had been to some dive in the Grassmarket where they had live music. Starving as usual, we had decided to nip into that pizza takeaway joint at the bottom of Lothian Road before we went looking for a taxi back to the Ferry. The place was heaving. We were waiting at the back of the queue when we heard a familiar voice at the front barking out an order.
‘A pizza con funghi, pal,’ shouted Bluto. ‘And nae fuckin’ mushrooms!’
We were already a bit giggly from the joints we had smoked earlier in the night. After hearing that, we were in danger of pissing ourselves. Hands over our mouths, we ducked down, shot out of the place and hid in a nearby doorway until Bluto had gone. It was a close shave, because if Bluto had caught us laughing at him like that he would have strangled the pair of us – maybe not that night, but some time in the future; months or even years ahead. In Bluto’s simple mind, a grudge was something that lasted forever.
So that was Bluto: brawn, no brains and very, very violent; a walking lethal combination. It was a combination that Charlie McNulty either had forgotten or didn’t stop to think about that Saturday afternoon; otherwise, he wouldn’t have said what he said in the way he did. A wee bit more tact from him might have prevented what happened next, but there again Charlie was never known for his tact.
‘Sorry, James, but you’re no’ gettin’ served in here. You’ve been barred,’ he shouted out from behind the counter for the whole bar (and probably half the Ferry) to hear.
For a big, slow-thinking brute, Bluto was surprisingly fast and light on his feet, like one of those heavyweight boxers. In a flash, he had crossed the floor, grabbed Charlie’s hair with both hands and smacked his forehead off the counter top. Then, still gripping the hair, he leaned over until his head was level with Charlie’s and he spoke quietly and menacingly into Charlie’s left ear.
‘Is that right, Charlie boy? So tell me why I’m barred, eh? What did I dae tae deserve that, Charlie boy, ya piece o’ Fenian shite?’
Tactless he might have been, but give Charlie his due: the guy was no wimp. Even though the pain must have been excruciating, he just gritted his teeth and didn’t utter a sound.
Probably alerted by the sound of Charlie’s head hitting the counter, Madge rushed out of the wee room at the back to stand beside Charlie.
‘That’s enough now, James,’ she spoke very authoritatively and without a hint of fear. ‘I’m in charge of this bar and I barred you for good reason. If you let go of Charlie, we can go and sit down in the corner, and I’ll explain why privately. Otherwise, I’m going tae have tae call the Police. Now be sensible, James.’
Bluto didn’t even look at Madge. He tightened his grip on Charlie’s hair and spoke into his ear again.
‘It’s your explanation I’m waitin’ for, Charlie boy. You’re always the smart cunt behind everythin’, aren’t ye?’
‘Let go of me, James,’ Charlie managed to hiss through his teeth.
By that time, the three of us had jumped up from our seats to hover within a few inches of Bluto. Lenny was the first to try to do something. He and Bluto had worked together a lot on the building sites, so they had a bit of a rapport going, or so Lenny liked to think.
‘C’moan, James, you need tae let Charlie go,’ he cajoled. ‘You’re point’s well made, my man. It’s time noo tae chill oot.’
Bluto lifted his head and looked at Lenny for a moment.
‘Fuck off, Lenny!’ he spat out.
Then he glanced at me.
‘And you as well, Paki. Or you’ll be gettin’ the same as Charlie boy here.’
Both Lenny and I shrugged and stepped back. As we did so, the bold Muldy stepped forward. Picking that moment to put on his fake Sergeant-Major’s voice was either a very stupid or a very brave thing to do; either way, that’s what he did.
‘Listen up here, men,’ Muldy began. ‘This nonsense has got to stop right now. Unhand Mister McNulty immediately, Mister Coleman. And stand to atten-shun!’
Bluto moved like lightning again. In the blink of an eye, he had released Charlie, banging his head off the counter a second time for good measure, and had grabbed hold of Muldy’s hair with both hands.
Unlike Charlie, Muldy screamed out in pain.
‘Owya! Owya! Let go, ya bastard cunt!’
Bluto forced Muldy’s head down until he was practically bent double.
‘So it’s Muldy, the chief smart cunt, is it?’ he laughed. ‘The very man I came looking fur. I’ve goat a wee message fur you an’ the rest o’ yer Micky friends here...’
‘I’m warning you again, James,’ Madge interrupted him. ‘I’ll have the Police along here in two minutes if you dinnae leave Muldy alane.’
Bluto continued as if Madge wasn’t there.
‘See that application you made tae the Ferry Fair Committee?’ he snorted. ‘It’s been bombed oot. You hear me? Fuckin’ binned. Nae Burryman fur you this year, smart cunt. Nae Burryman any year fur any o’ you Micky cunts.’
‘Bastard cunt!’ was all that Muldy managed to wheeze out in reply.
Without even looking at Lenny, I knew he and I felt the same way. We would probably end up with sore faces or even worse for it, but we had to act to spare Muldy any further pain and humiliation. We were on the point of jumping Bluto when Mick Flowers appeared on the scene, towering over all of us. Mick was at least six foot six and built like a brick shit-house. He was also about ten years younger than Bluto. Up close to him, Bluto suddenly looked smaller and older and less dangerous.
Mick stood there for a few moments, rubbing his eyes, as if he had just woken from a dream. That wasn’t far from the truth, it transpired, because when the commotion began he had been sitting in an alcove out of sight of the rest of us, probably staring into space as usual.
‘What was that you were sayin’, James?’ Mick asked in that soft, lilting voice of his. ‘Somethin’ aboot buryin’ Micky. I’m called Micky. Was it me you were talking aboot, James? Why d’you want tae bury me, eh?’
You could tell that Bluto was having a hard time trying to figure out what Mick was going on about; he looked so perplexed that his eyes were almost crossing.
‘Anyway, what’s that you’re daein tae Norris?’ Mick continued before Bluto could think of an answer. ‘Norris is ma friend, you ken. I want you tae leave him alane, you hear me?’
It should be remembered at this point that we didn’t call Mick ‘Mad Mick’ for nothing. Both his father and mother had come over from Ireland to live in a wee village close to the Ferry. They had something like fifteen children, and Mick was the youngest, the baby. According to the gossipmongers, every one of the children was mentally unbalanced in some way. While that might have been just the usual, poisonous Ferry talk, it was definitely true as far as Mick was concerned. He was diagnosed a paranoid schizophrenic when he was a teenager and had been treated in institutions up until a couple of years before, when they released him into the community. He just happened to be released into a flat next door to where Vi and I lived in the Crossroads.
Now, releasing folk into the community was one thing, but not making sure they continued to take their medication was another; in fact, it was a major problem in Mick’s case. He was a nice, placid guy most of the time. But other times, when he didn’t bother to take his meds, he was agitated and frightening, like the night he came knocking on my door and asked me to go into the woods with him to help find the place where he had buried the bodies. He was so convincing, man, that I called Muldy and Lenny and the four of us searched the woods for hours – with no result, of course.
But back to the Forth that Saturday. Bluto knew all about Mick’s schizophrenia. He also knew he had a choice to make before responding to Mick’s demand. On or off the meds? Gentle giant or mad axeman? Even before the words had left his mouth, he realised he had made the wrong choice.
‘Go fuck yourself –’ he began, but the rest was strangled in the grip of an enormous left hand.
Mick literally picked up Bluto by the throat and hurled him across the bar. A table and some chairs spun away from him as he toppled on his back. Then, calmly, his face showing no sign of emotion, Mick walked over to where Bluto was lying, knelt down, balled his right fist and punched him in the face. And again. And again. And again. With each punch, Bluto winced and I could hear something crack inside his mouth.
I didn’t care for Bluto at all – only moments before, he had called me a Paki and threatened me – but by the time of the fourth punch I began to pity him.
‘C’moan, Mick,’ I shouted. ‘I think he’s had enough.’
Some of the others also called out for Mick to stop. Even Charlie, still nursing his bruised forehead, joined in. But it was Madge, with that commanding voice of hers again, who brought the massacre to a halt.
‘Right, Michael, that’s the Police on their way! Go back and sit down out the road! And you, James! Unless you want tae be lifted, you’d better get the hell out o’ here!’
Mick stood up and meekly returned to the alcove. Then Bluto sprang to his feet, acting as if Mick hadn’t hurt him. But it was through a mouth full of broken teeth that he mumbled his farewell.
‘You’re deid,’ he pointed at Charlie before barging through the doors and out into the sunshine.
Charlie raised his arms in exasperation.
‘What the fuck?’ he cried at the still swinging doors. ‘Why the fuck does he keep pickin’ on me? It’s just no’ fuckin’ fair!
‘And you ken what happened there, don’t you?’ he went on. ‘They cunts in the Ferry Arms fired up Bluto – wound him up like a fuckin’ clock, man – and sent him along here wi’ the news. They just wanted tae rub your nose in it, Muldy.’
We heard later that Bluto needed to be fitted for a full set of dentures. None of us would see him again until the day of the Burryman ceremony, when he came looking for revenge.
By the time the pigs arrived in the Forth a few minutes after Bluto had left, the place had been tidied up and we were all back in our seats. Madge told them that a total stranger had come into the bar and started threatening her and Charlie, which was why she had phoned the Police. She made no mention of the fight. Naturally, we claimed that we had been too busy talking to each other to notice the stranger or anything happening.
For the rest of that weekend, even during the barbecue the next day, Muldy seemed subdued, not his usual cheery self at all. Lenny and I put it down to him being depressed about the outcome of the Burryman application and the way it was communicated to him. We were hoping he’d get over the disappointment quickly, so neither of us mentioned it to him. We should have known he was quietly planning his retaliation. We should have guessed he was about to declare war.
About the Author
Brendan Gisby is McStoryteller-in-Residence. He's the author of three novels, three biographies and several short story collections.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar at http://the4bs.weebly.com.
And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar at http://the4bs.weebly.com.
And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.