The Road to Lisbon (15 page)

“Aye, Jock, it’s some thought right enough. But let’s not hold our breaths.”

“Don’t worry, Sean, I’m a realist. I know the score, but I also know something else. We have a football match to win and it is high time we got to our
scratchers.”

She leans her head upon my chest, my breathing slowing now. I sigh inwardly with contentment, rid of my mind, savouring the moment. In the distance I can hear the others party
round the fire, singing approximate lyrics to
A Whiter Shade of Pale
which crackles from the Zodiac’s wireless.

“I feel like I understand you. I feel like we’ve . . . got a connection.” She raises her head for a moment and looks directly at me. “Do you feel that? Like we have a
connection?”

“Sure.”

“I feel as though I want to look after you,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because it’s as though . . . somewhere inside you, you don’t think you are . . . worthy.”

“Worthy of what?”

“Of happiness. Of me.”

She turns away, fumbles in her bag. She is silhouetted, downing something.

“What’s that?”

“Nembutal. To help keep the demons at bay.”

She leans her head on my chest again.

“Perhaps I also need looking after,” she adds.

She traces her fingers along the scar tissue on my neck, a thoughtful expression upon her face.

“Did somebody hurt you?”

“The Tongs – a rival gang – put the chase on me. I fell through a skylight.”

“When did you decide to . . . get out?”

“Not that long ago.”

I close my eyes and remember that Indian summer’s day, eight months past . . .

. . . The street ahead is deserted. Silent except for the low rumble of our boots. We pass the Four Crowns for courage. Suddenly an empty ginger tin sails through the sunshine
and clatters across the bitumen. A nervous flutter in my belly, I have to clench as my bowel threatens to turn to water.

Out of the depths I cry to Thee, O Lord. Lord hear my voice! O let Thy ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication.

Thank God Iggy isn’t here, it’s enough just worrying about myself. We all instinctively look up the side street but it’s just fleeing wee kids playing at being tough guys. I
glance around me, at a hundred of my Cumbie comrades and I feel better. Proud. Then a wee bit embarrassed at having felt scared. No-one else seems scared, or at least they’re not showing it.
Two hundred yards ahead a shopkeeper nervously pulls down the shutters before scuttling inside, dragging a Lyon’s Maid sign with him. No-one speaks, which heightens the tension hanging in the
air. Is this real? Are we imagining this danger? What is all of this
for
?

The sense of unreality is shattered by the ambush. Our scouts have failed us; we had no warning of the imminent attack. A fusillade of bottles shatter on the ground, then their infantry charges.
Score upon score of them emerge from close mouths and they are not short of front. “COME AHEAD YA FENIAN BASTARDS!” Another team has boldly marched into their bit – bad enough.
But even worse – 100 times worse – we are Tims on our way to Celtic Park; and for an Old Firm game, no less. And this the bluest, Orangeist of Hun areas, with the fiercest Prod gang in
the entire city. They knew we were coming. We knew they would know we were coming. There was no danger we would take the roundabout route, no danger we would go a half mile out of our way to the
Gallowgate when we could simply march directly up over the bridge and up Main Street towards the holy ground, towards Paradise.

“CUMBIE YA BAS!”

If you, O Lord, should mark our guilt, Lord, who would survive?

But with you is found forgiveness:

For this I revere you
.

We meet like opposing armies. Us versus them. Wallace versus the English. Jacobites versus Redcoats. The sounds of combat would make a hard case lose sleep. Whacks and smashes and thumps and
clangs and sighs and moans and shouts and yells.

My soul is waiting for the Lord more than a watchman for daybreak

I choose my man. He’s smaller than me but he’s gemme and he’s tooled up good – a hatchet. But so am I. Out comes the pickaxe handle from under the Crombie. I’ve got
a long reach and this is a long weapon. Means you can keep anything sharp from getting too close. Don’t want to end up looking like one of those stitched-together guys. Coupons like roadmaps.
I swing and swing and swing. I miss but it unnerves the wee cunt. He’s not so brave now. The next swing disarms him. The next one glances off his back as he beats a retreat. I get my
bearings. More and more Derry are pouring into the medieval mix. Where are they all coming from? I have to clench again. Then I remember. We are Cumbie. Pure mad mental. We never lose. We never run
away. I won’t let my pals down.

Let the watchman count on daybreak and Israel on the Lord

So I face the foe, my blood up now, a battle cry on my lips as I step forward, swing, step forward, swing. All that nervous energy has transformed into adrenalin and I’m driving the
bastards away, swatting them like flies. In the midst of battle champions are born and I am already a heid-the-baw, a man to be reckoned with.
Whoosh, clunk
as I break heads.

We are winning.

Israel indeed will He redeem from all its iniquity
.

Thrash, bonk. Your fathers helped break the General Strike, then swelled the ranks of the Blackshirts in the 30s.
Swish, thunk
. Four generations of Irishmen despised and oppressed.
Swoosh, crack
.

They are starting to do a runner. They are defeated. And on their own turf as well.

Glory be to the Father, to the Son and to the Holy Spirit
.

The Red Van has already emptied of coppers before I even realise its arrival. The shout had gone up but I was in a different dimension. I’m coming to now, rushing back into consciousness.
My enemies lie stricken at my feet, cradling their bloodied heads, and as I look upon this scene the adrenalin rapidly ebbs and the familiar sickness floods the pit of my stomach. The darkness.
Self-righteousness gives way to self-disgust. At this precise moment I know: I can’t do this again – ever. I don’t care who’s in the right any more, I can’t do
this
. The polis want the main men; they want me. No fucking way. I am off like a bullet, hurdling walls and tiptoeing along dykes and tearing through closes and dodging motors and leaping
fences. Almost spent, I stagger by a tenement midden and am halted by a voice.

“Tim!”

It is Rocky. Unselfconsciously we embrace, panting for oxygen. Our breathing gradually slows. I am shivering with spent exhilaration and the relief that follows trauma. Rocky lights me a
cigarette. Hands it to me. We are like comrades in arms back in the trench after a patrol. I take a long draw from the fag and we smoke in silence.

We team up with most of the boys at our usual spot at the back of the Jungle. But Eddie and big Vinnie and Coco all got lifted, and a wheen of others. Eddie could get sent down, what with his
record. The atmosphere is terrific, the tension almost unbearable and I’m drained of emotional energy. The special hatred that is the Old Firm. Eighty-thousand voices screaming for victory.
The noise, the communal one-upmanship, the tribal formalities, the bravado. But underneath it lurks the horror at the very idea of losing to them, and everything spiteful and rotten that they stand
for. I look upon their ranks massed in the away end, tinged with royal blue, and feel a pang of repulsion. A club that refuses to employ a Catholic in any capacity
as a mark of honour
.
Nonetheless I can’t help but secretly wonder: what makes them tick? They are still people, after all. What makes them be like
that
?

Thank fuck we got in on time. It’s all over within four minutes. Bertie and Boaby. Only the second fixture of the league campaign but already we can sense it: this season is going to be
something special. Stein has got them motoring. They aren’t just cavalier and entertaining; at last they have become so dynamic, so incisive. I can’t stop thinking of a certain date:
May 15th, 1963. Scottish Cup final replay. Celtic 0 Rangers 3. We melted away before the whistle. Celtic supporters. We melted away. Skulked off. But enough was enough. To be so utterly and
completely defeated yet again, to feel that now familiar feeling of total dejection, to have to endure even more of their triumphalist bile; it was just unbearable. It all seemed so permanent, so
never-ending. The Huns were so strong. Nil-three. How do we come back from this? Year upon year of pish, the club utterly rudderless, the fucking chairman still picking the team!

Then the Big Man arrived. Stein. And everything would change. Everything. Starting with the ’65 cup final against Dunfermline. It was the opposite of the ’61 final, when Stein
managed the Pars and they did us over. Take heed. Stein did us. Welcome him back into the fold. He’s a Prod but the fans don’t give a fuck. They’ve cheered plenty of Prods since
day one. Leave the bigotry to the Huns. Stein is a Celtic man through and through. Loves the club. Cut him and he bleeds green. But more than that, he knows what to do. He’s a leader, a
reader of the game, a tactical genius, a motivator. Sign him up and be done with it.

Outside Celtic Park I make a bold statement but one that I instinctively believe to be true: “This is the best side Rangers have ever fielded and they are gonnae have to get used to second
place. Fucking enjoy it, chaps.”

The euphoria of the goals helps me forget the violence for now. However, deep down I know that it will come back to haunt me in the dead of night. Deep down I know that I can’t do that
stuff any more. But how does a fella get out? Seems like everyone I know is part of the deal . . .

. . . Delphine gently places a lit cigarette to my lips. She lights one for herself. We smoke silently. Then we get up and wander through the shadows back to the camp.

Day Four

I am awoken by the fine smell of the last of our Gorbals hamper – square sausage and white pudding – frying merrily alongside eggs and bread bought from the
farmer.

Mark has taken charge.

“M-m-morning darling!” he says cheerfully as he hands me a mug of strong tea.

“Thanks Mark. Good night?”

“M-m-magic. What a laugh we had round the fire. Some of us went skinny-dipping in the m-m-moonlight.”

Eddie comes to life with a series of hacks and returns our greetings with a grunt. He looks upon the coming day with mild dejection, then lights a cigarette and immediately coughs violently. His
hair looks as though it has been fashioned from steel wool and his face is florid with bad living.

“Then Rocky got off with that J-J-Josephine bird,” adds Mark, glancing over at Eddie.

“Harry Hoofter,” murmurs Eddie, half under his breath.

“W-w-what was that?” asks Mark.

Eddie doesn’t respond except with a familiar
spark
sound as he opens his first beer of the day.

“Where’s Iggy?” I ask.

“He went away for a w-w-walk by the river last time I saw him,” replies Mark. “He wasn’t looking too c-c-clever.”

I wolf down my fry-up, pull on my trousers and jersey, and survey the morning. The girls are all bathing in the river, their squeals testament to the temperature of the water. I light up my
first fag, usually the best one of the day, but this morning I have a vague sense of unease. The sun moodily refuses to dispel the haar. Something doesn’t augur well.

“I’ll go and see if Iggy’s okay.”

I find him spewing his ringer into a little irrigation ditch. He looks deathly pale and utterly wrung out.

“What have I telt you about bevvying too much?”

“I know,” he manages, between
baarfs
. “God forgive me, I’d commit murder for a drink of Bru.”

“You can’t handle it ya dumpling. There’s no shame in that. You just need to accept your limits.”

“I know. I just got carried away. I was enjoying myself too much.
Baaaaarf
.” He looks up at me and smiles thinly, his eyes moist. “You’d think I’d be old
enough in the tooth to have learned by now, eh big fella?”

He leans over again. I look at his bent-double profile. Poor wee bastard. The vomiting subsides.

“Here, I brought you some water.”

I coax the bottle towards his mouth. He takes a few sips, then sits on the edge of the ditch.

“You’ll be alright in a minute. And don’t worry, I’ll drive. Now when you feel a wee bit better get Mark to make you a cup of strong, sweet tea. And see if you can hold
down some dry breid or something.”

He nods his head at me, his big brown eyes full of gratitude.

I use some of the water to brush my teeth, then I leave him and head further down the river, out of sight of the others. A slight breeze brings the cooler air, which has been sitting above the
water, gently towards me. It smells refreshing. I undress and roughly lather myself in carbolic. Then I tentatively tiptoe into the water, and immerse myself fully beneath the surface. I keep my
head submerged for a while. The coldness shocks the darkness from my consciousness; I find stillness within the roaring moving water. As I dry myself on the bank I feel invigorated. A pair of
songbirds chatter to each other in the adjacent meadow. I think warmly upon last night and wonder if today isn’t going to be so bad after all.

“You’ll be arrested if you’re no careful.”

It is Rocky. He is perched upon the exposed roots of a willow tree a little further along the bank, languidly smoking a cigarette. His eyes are obscured by his Wayfarers so I can’t read
his expression.

“At least I’ll be nice and clean for court!”

There is a lull, an unnatural awkwardness between two people who are so familiar to each other. The silence is loaded with portent, with anticipation. I feel a flutter of butterflies as I pull
on my underpants and trousers. He takes off his sunglasses. I can see his eyes now.

“Delphine told me you’re thinking about going to London, for art school?”

“It’s just a daft idea. It’ll likely come to nothing.”