Authors: Rachel Seiffert
“Get your feet tae my shoulders.”
And then Stevie was standing, his feet planted either side of Kevin’s ears, and his own face up at the ceiling, hands against the trapdoor.
“Push!”
Stevie did, and the heavy boards shifted; he shoved them over and pulled himself into the crawl space. Kevin followed him up, swift, and then they crouched, both letting their eyes get adjusted.
Shafts of sun came in through gaps in the slates. Kevin had dust on his knees, across his face. He said:
“You’re no in a band, are you, pal?”
“Naw.”
He wasn’t. Stevie knew it was the right thing to say. Kevin watched him a moment, and then he turned. He crawled and Stevie followed, making for a patch of light, until they came to a hole where there used to be a window. Kevin said:
“I kicked it out. Me an Cammy.”
He flicked his head, back to the trapdoor. He said his brother was Paul, Cammy was the other.
“The wan doesnae like you.”
Kevin grinned, like he thought that was funny.
“He’s a Prod, but. Same as you.”
It made Kevin laugh.
“No his fault, neither.”
He pulled himself out onto the slates, but Stevie stayed where he was.
He could see the back court, miles below, through the kicked-out hole: broken paths and knee-deep grass, past the splintered batons, and the long back wall of the tenement opposite.
One of the closes over there had fallen in. The outside walls were intact, but the slates were all gone, even the timbers, and
Stevie could see the place was hollow and charred; no floors any more, just a big burned-out gap with one long chimney in the middle. It made his head spin to see it standing, black and tall in the middle of nothing. Only then he heard scuffling; the other two were coming, so Stevie shifted, fast.
He put his head out the hole, looking up, mindful to keep his face turned away from the drop. He saw Kevin wasn’t watching; he was up on the ridge tiles, rolling a smoke, so Stevie pulled himself out.
The slates felt warm under his hands, even if it was winter now. Stevie lay on them first, belly down, spread-eagled, his cheek pressed close. He lay and then he crawled. Stevie made it up as far as the ridge, on his hands and knees, but the roof ramped up sharper there from the street, and he was scared of sliding, so he steered himself along the back court slope.
He sat not too far from Kevin first; not too close, just on the ridge tiles. Kevin offered him his roll-up, and he laughed when Stevie didn’t take it. Stevie didn’t know if he was being laughed at, so he edged past Kevin and on, shuffling on his bum, until he got to the chimney, and then he stayed there. With his back up against the stack, he felt a bit safer.
The other two stayed in the crawl-space with the cans, and Kevin told him:
“They’ll never come out.”
Stevie wasn’t too bothered about Paul, but he was glad Cammy stayed below.
After that, Kevin came looking for Stevie in the mornings. Some days Paul was with him, carrying a bag, other days he came by himself, and then before they went climbing, Kevin took Stevie
down to the shops. He gave him money and told him to buy a couple of cans, but the rest could go under his sweatshirt, or inside his sleeves. He showed Stevie how to slide a can inside his cuff, getting it off the shelf.
Cammy mostly came and found them later. He always had money and fags; Kevin said he swiped them from his sister’s bag. But there were plenty of days where Stevie waited and Kevin never showed up. If it rained, if Kevin couldn’t be bothered. If Kevin didn’t come, Stevie thought he was most likely at Cammy’s.
“He cannae abide you.”
Kevin told him that.
It was best if Kevin came by himself, and then Stevie could climb up after him and sit by the chimney. The sight of the drop didn’t bother him so much by then; he forgot to think about falling, the smack of his skull bursting on the pavement. Stevie didn’t know if he’d come up here alone, but with Kevin at the next chimney along, sleeping off his smoke, it was all right, good and quiet. Stevie sat out the dry and clear days, fingers tucked inside his sweatshirt cuffs, hood strings pulled tight against the wind. Windy days made him want to stand, arms up and out, and he tried it sometimes, but mostly it was enough just to sit there, squinting in the sun; higher than everything about him.
The scheme was a mass of tenements, falling off down the hill beyond the gutter rim, all grey and brown, walls and roads, rust-red pipes and railings. There were torn clouds in the sky above, and planes; the concrete water tower behind him, and away in the distance the Clyde. Stevie saw the street down below, half in
shadow, and the long roof he was on, sun-bright and stretching on and on.
Work had stopped on the new builds for a while, but come spring a new site was started just the other side of the industrial units, and Stevie kept watch on it from his perch: the yellow-brick semis springing up, with garages at the side, and black tarmac driveways out the front.
Kevin told him they were Executive Homes, and he said it like they made a bad smell. He said there were plans to build on the scheme as well:
“Soon as they get these ruins torn down.”
Kevin kicked at the slates, like he couldn’t wait, but Stevie didn’t want the empty closes wrecked.
The new houses were just ground and first. They had walls and roofs, and floors inside, but no windows yet, just rendered holes; the top ones were left uncovered, and Kevin said they’d be perfect to get in and out. There were days when the site was swarming with builders, and others when there was no one around, so they chose a quiet afternoon, and all four of them went to climb.
Kevin went up ahead with Stevie, and Cammy and Paul stood watch. The wire site fence had a hole in already, so they got to the first house easy enough. They went up the wall, and looked through all the rooms; Kevin first, with Stevie at his heels; and then they dropped down the far side, running on to the next. Inside the second house, Kevin had to crouch to get his breath, so Stevie climbed out and down the pipe before him. There were
no gardens yet or fences, just a few metres of mud, and he wanted to get to the third house before Paul and Cammy caught up.
The plaster in that one was still wet, and Stevie smelled it, even before he got inside: it was just like his Dad’s van and work clothes. Kevin climbed through the window and passed him, but Stevie stayed in the master bedroom, all damp and smooth. He dug his thumbnail into the corner, and found it was still soft. So then he walked, scoring a line, deep and thin and just at eye-height, all along one wall.
“Stevie!”
Kevin was in the ensuite. He’d found a crate full of plumbers’ stuff, and he called Stevie in to show him the bath taps: all brassy, and still in their box.
“It was the same in the last house.”
Stevie saw he was smiling, full of a plan, tearing open the cardboard.
“Here.” He handed the cold one to Stevie. “You’ll be quicker, aye?” He told him he had to be speedy, “Else Cammy’s gonnae catch us up.”
So Stevie did as Kevin told him.
He swung out the window and down the pipe, fast as he could. And then he took one tap from each house into the next, pairing cold with cold, and hot with hot, all around the cul-de-sac. Twelve houses, Stevie made the full circle, all inside twenty minutes. All to make Kevin laugh about the flummoxed plumbers, and the sheer brass neck.
Only Kevin wasn’t in the fourth house when he got back.
Stevie stood in the empty rooms, with his fingers raw from climbing. He stuffed them in his pockets, thinking how it was getting dark now, and he should be at his Gran’s; he should have kept a better eye on the time.
But then he heard laughing, from just across the site; it sounded like Kevin, so Stevie jogged across the gloomy rubble to the last house in the row. He hadn’t seen Paul for ages, maybe he was in there too. But it was just Cammy in the last house with Kevin, at the bottom of the stair.
He had a box in his hand, and more collected by his feet, and he was shouting at Kevin that he should have taken the taps, not pulled a stunt.
“What’s the fuckin point ae that? We could ae got oursels some fuckin cash.”
He turned, sharp, when Stevie came inside, and Cammy asked him:
“Am I right?”
Stevie stopped where he was: he didn’t like the way Cammy stared. And then Cammy pointed:
“Look at him. Never says fuckin nothin. Boy’s a choob. Just like his Da.”
He made a face, like Stevie’s Dad was vacant. Cammy started drumming the air, lifting his knees in time, and then he looked at Stevie:
“Can see how your Maw couldnae take it.”
He said it smiling, his eyes cruel because he knew he’d got him, and it made Stevie’s guts shrink, the way Cammy knew so much about his family. Cammy said:
“She’s fucked off, aye? She’s fucked off back tae Ireland. Good luck tae her.”
He was laughing. So Stevie shouted:
“Fuck dae you know about it?”
He yelled it, loud. But Cammy just laughed at him, even harder. He said:
“You ever wonder how she didnae take you?”
So Stevie flew at him, he had to.
Fuckin bastard
.
He aimed a kick, aiming for Cammy’s guts, but his toes hit the bottom of the box and sent it flying up, out of Cammy’s hands; metal fittings went raining all over the concrete.
Stevie ducked them, arms up, and then he was running, thinking Cammy was after him; he was sure he could hear him, close behind him across the rubble.
He made straight for one of the new builds: sharp inside, to hide. It was dark in the half-built house, but he found the stairs and then he was climbing. Stevie knew Cammy wouldn’t climb, so he was just thinking to get to the roof. There was tarpaulin over the skylights, but only loosely pegged, and he was out fast, and scrambling up to the ridge. Stevie didn’t stop, not until he got to the top, and then he crouched there, all ears.
No one there. Stevie heard nothing; no footsteps, no one following. But his head was still full of Cammy’s laughing, all of what Cammy just said, about his Mum and his Dad. So he stood up, careful, to get a checking look about himself.
The new builds were smaller than the empty tenements, but they were set higher, into the hillside, and Stevie could see over the scheme roofs and beyond. To the wide reach of the city, all lit up. It took him out of himself; it took Stevie a moment to adjust.
He saw the high flats, their red lights on top, and then he knew which way was east, which west. Stevie started to work it out, how to get away: which way was his Gran’s house? But his Gran’s place seemed miles, and it was too full of arguments, so maybe he should go to Eric’s, because that’s what his Mum always did. Only then Stevie was back to thinking about her again. What Cammy just said, about her being gone.
He was thinking why she left him. How she let him go to school, and then she took off. Stevie was thinking why she did that, when she could have taken him too.
The city lights were far, and all gone smeary, and he stayed where he was. With the scheme in front: long and black, all the abandoned blocks, no lights on in any of the windows.
Stevie stuck to climbing inside the scheme after that. Kevin still called for him some days, on his own, but then summer came, and marching season, and that was it.
Stevie saw him one time: Kevin was headed across a back court when he was on a rooftop. Stevie stood up, legs straight, arm raised, and gave Kevin the finger. Even if Kevin never saw it, he thought that didn’t matter. Stevie knew the places he liked now, the best places for hiding out; he found his own stretch of roof, kept his own stash of cans and crisps in the eaves.
He slipped once, trying a second-floor window catch. Stevie caught himself, so he didn’t fall, but he wrenched his knee, and he ripped his sweatshirt on the jagged pane too. He didn’t see that he’d cut his arm, not until the blood leaked down his fingers. Stevie had to wipe them to grip, only more kept coming the whole climb down. And then there was the pain. It made it hard to catch his breath, standing in the back court, even when he pressed down hard across the tear with his good hand. Stevie knew his Gran would be in the house that morning, so he held his arm into his chest, limping down the road to his Dad’s. He’d be at work by now, and Stevie still had the key to let himself in.
But then his Dad was there, off sick. He was in his pyjamas. He got up off the sofa, and stared wordless at Stevie in the doorway. At his torn sleeve and smeary palms.
Stevie stuffed his top into the washing machine later, when he got back to his Gran’s house. She washed it without passing comment, but the next time he got it out the drawer, the hole was patched: a Red Hand of Ulster stitched neat across the tear,
No Surrender
.
Stevie went to find her at the sink:
“Where’s that come fae?”
He held the patch up to her, annoyed. The sweatshirt was his favourite: same grey as the walls he scaled, it blended in to the flats and the sky and the pavements. His Gran pulled a face:
“No me. Was your Da that done it.”
She gave a stone-hard smile at the unlikelihood. Stevie’s Gran was always hard about his Dad these days, even if she wasn’t meant to be; it was like she couldn’t help herself. She told him:
“He came up here wae needle and thread Thursday last. Your Grandad let him in.”
Stevie reckoned she wouldn’t have.
“It was five minutes efter you’d left the house.”
Stevie thought of his Dad, watching for him from the corner. And then of his Gran and Grandad Malky having words; even Uncle Brian and Malky Jnr. shouted over what was best for him, now his Mum was gone. His Gran was still looking at the patch, like she wanted to bin it, and Stevie had thought to do the same, just a minute ago, only then she asked:
“You been at school theday?”
So she knew as well.
“Where’s missin school gonnae get you?”
Her eyes were on him, and not so hard now, only Stevie still didn’t like it. She made him feel like he was another boy of hers gone the wrong way; wearing her down, while she waited for him to come round.