Ha-Ha stood on the roof smoking a short dout. He had transformed from an emperor to a bored dad who hated having to share custody. It was as though he was watching his weans work off a day of sugary treats before he could return them to their mothers. It was because Mungo was watching his brother that he saw the sky change. Ha-Ha saw it too, the rhythmic pulse of blue and white. The police cars had crept nearer without wailing their sirens. Now they were at the gates. Ha-Ha had let his weans play too long.
Mungo spilled from the tin-can cabin and started the quick climb from front wheel to back wheel to engine mount to roof. He was bounding across the yard as the polis burst through locked gates. Around him the squad leapt from the long excavator arm and raced to the guttering and on to the safety of the roof. They were squealing like six-year-olds at a fairground as they danced away from the bogeyman’s grasp. Only when they reached the safety of the roof and the dauntless protection of Ha-Ha did they straighten up and become men again. They arched their backs and showered the polis with phlegm.
Six policemen arrived in two Rovers and one battered detention van. They caught one of the slower boys who jumped unwittingly into an officer’s arms. He held him for a moment like they were startled lovers.
The ginger-headed youth twisted on the neck of the excavator, slunk to his nylon backside, and was about to slide down and away from the polis. Mungo was almost at the guttering when he saw the boy fall. The metal must have been wetter than he had thought, and he slipped off the high arm as gracelessly as a bag of flour falling off a shelf.
He didn’t split open like a bag of flour and he didn’t cry out, but by the way his arm crumpled beneath him and the odd angle of his hand, Mungo could tell he had broken his wrist, maybe even shattered his forearm.
Mungo could hear Hamish call his name as he rained rocks and shrapnel down on the polis. If Mungo stood up now, he could climb swiftly and be on the corrugated roof before they could catch him. “Jist leave him!” Hamish roared. It would be foolish not to run – the polis must have clocked all the boys – and even if they hadn’t seen Mungo, they certainly had seen the bag of flour plummet to his doom. They would come looking for the burst boy soon enough.
Mungo heard the clatter of feet on the corrugated roof, the bravado and taunts retreating, and he knew the others were back over the wall and running for the safety of the scheme. They were leaving him.
The ginger youth was hard-hatless now, and there was a shallowness to his breathing. Mungo gripped him below his oxters and dragged him underneath the backhoe. It was dark away from the security lights, and they watched as police torches streaked the ground. The young man was whimpering. Mungo put his hand over his mouth. Any other time he would have leathered Mungo for touching him like this. Now he lay with his head cradled in Mungo’s side and they watched the police lights strafe between the vehicles. Mungo recognized him then: he was Bobby Barr, the older brother of a boy in Mungo’s class, the unlikely father of twins, and a famed destroyer of virginities. Now there was blood pooling out his jumper sleeve and from the smell Mungo could tell he had ruined himself with piss.
Other than the soft crunch of gravel it was quiet. The polis were stalking and had switched off the crackling static of their radios. Bobby was sobbing quietly to himself. Mungo’s face short-circuited in the darkness. “Don’t leave us.” Mungo could feel the words reverberate through the palm of his hand; the boy’s tears were pooling in the gullies of his fingers.
Torchlight streaked under the backhoe. There were hard hands on Bobby Barr’s ankles. A policeman ripped him out in one smooth move, and the boy rolled away on the chuckie stones, like a mechanic on a wheel board. Bobby’s good arm was ruined and his other was cradling it like a baby, so he could offer no resistance. Whoosh. He was gone, fast as any magic trick.
“There’s another fuckin’ basturt in there,” screamed an officer.
Mungo pushed away from the light and scrambled across the stones towards the other end. He could hear them closing in on him, two on either side, running along the long sides of the machine. He found his footing, he wasn’t as agile as the other boys who leapt like skinny cats from machine to machine, but Mungo was on the cab before the polis could round the corner. He knew he would never make the safety of the guttering; as his legs hung down, they would grab at him. So he made the half-turn to run for the open gate, but they cut him off. He was trapped.
“Ye little basturt. When ah catch ye, ah’m gonnae fuck ye!” A smug smile spread over the officer’s face. He was climbing up towards Mungo while the others blocked his escape. “Ah’m gonnae fuck ye. Ah’m gonnae fuck ye.” He was chanting it over and over.
Hamish would have told him the officer only wanted to break his nerve. That he wanted to belittle and intimidate him so that Mungo would come down from the roof and offer no resistance. But Hamish wasn’t here.
“Ye’ll like it,” said the policeman. “If ye come down the now, ah’ll spit on it first, so it hurts less.” They were laughing amongst themselves now. He could hear the polis both protest and congratulate the officer on how rotten he was. “Ye goat any sisters?”
Mungo scurried higher.
There was a thud in the dark. He wasn’t sure what had caused it. But whatever hit the officer stopped his taunting, sweeping his cap off his head and knocking him against the side of a mixer. There was dark blood on his face, as black as treacle in the gloaming. There were bits of him sprayed over the yellow steel of the machinery.
Ha-Ha was back at the top of his ladder and launching half-bricks down on the policemen. Mungo knew the Protestants had a stash for gang fights and were now passing them phalanx-style up the ladder to their emperor. Ha-Ha had a skilled arm for smiting.
“Well? Run, ya fuckin’ bellend!”
Mungo saw his chance. He flew down from the roof and was out the open gate as a hail of bricks sent the policemen scurrying under machinery. At first he ran past it, then he skidded to a stop and dashed back to the meat wagon. He threw open the back doors. He didn’t wait for the captured boys, but he heard the reassuring slap of trainer soles as they raced, lungs bursting, through the wet streets.
THREE
St Christopher was hunched by the edge of the loch, mumbling to himself and swatting at the biting midges. Mungo couldn’t tell if he was sulking or just sobering up. The man had his back to them and was hunkered over like he might submerge his face or spit up the rising boak. The wind mussed his thin hair; it broke the lock of sweat and pomade and separated the tawny brown from an inch of pure-white roots. His vanity struck the boy. The old man had coloured it like Mo-Maw did, from a supermarket box. He must have sat on the toilet at home with a black bin bag over his shoulders to catch the drips.
Mungo could see he had already unpacked all the remaining alcohol and nestled it between two boulders in the frigid loch. A man with a single suit, and a bag full of drink. As easy as that he was settled.
Mungo gathered sticks and Gallowgate showed him how to make a weak, coughing fire from damp wood and green limbs. They huddled upwind and let the billowing smoke drive the black flies away. Mungo added moss-covered branches until the fire danced brightly. Each time he added one, he looked at the man to see if it was okay. Gallowgate unwrapped three lasagnes that had long ago defrosted, and buried their aluminium basins in the glowing embers. Mungo pressed his hands to his empty stomach.