“Right enough.”
Hamish released the handbrake and Mungo braced himself, waited for the car to roll downhill backwards, away from the glow of its own headlights. Nothing happened for a while, then, very slowly, very surely, the car rolled uphill. Mungo could feel the heat of Hamish’s broad grin. “How crazy is that?”
It was strange indeed. The car was accelerating uphill of its own accord.
“It’s cursed or something. Anything ye put on this hill rolls upwards instead of downwards. It’s an electric current. Freaky right?” Hamish put the car into gear and continued up the hill, but Mungo wanted to do it again and again.
They stopped at a small harbour by the sullen sea. Hamish bought them a poke of chips to share. He didn’t complain when Mungo drowned it all in malt vinegar, he just said, “Don’t eat them now. I know where we should go.”
The soggy chips were still warm by the time they came to a long drystane dyke. Hamish pulled the car off the road and they scrambled over the high wall. It was pitch-black. Every so often, long ferns licked at their legs, and it made them dance with fear and delight. In the distance, about a mile away, was the faint glow of man-made light.
When they finally reached the glowing castle, Mungo had to ask what they were looking at because he had never seen anything like it. There was the Central Station Hotel, and the sooty sandstone of Glasgow Cathedral, but those places were built for the public or for day trippers. This house was all for one person. It was built for majesty and looked somewhere between a fortified castle and a grand, stately home. The main structure sat with its back to the breaking sea and the landscaping and crenelated walls wrapped around him as far as he could make out. The faint light from inside rippled against the mottled glass. The windows were generous, the rooms over-furnished, and Mungo could tell there was a world of beauty to look in and out upon.
“Smashin’ int it? Culzean Castle.” Hamish stood under the canopy of an ancient tree, his hands on his hips, proud as any laird. “Sammy-Jo wants to get married there.” He whistled. “Do ye know how many stolen motors it would take to pay for that?”
Hamish pointed towards a bridge that arched over a sunken garden. The bridge had guard turrets on either side, long since put out of use. “In there is a good place for pumping lassies,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Bring them up here wi’ a bottle of Buckie and show them this castle. They’ll let ye get both hauns up them after that.” He was smiling. His mouth was full of yellow chips.
Mungo was watching Hamish dangle from a thick bough and thinking how much he enjoyed this playful side of his brother. Hamish was far from Glasgow and the glare of the Protestant boys who expected so much from him, and the rest of the scheme who expected so little. Here, Mungo could remember the boy Hamish had once been, mischievous and brave, full of impetuous ideas and never afraid of falling, so long as he could fly first. In this moment it was as if he had not yet soured. To see him carry on like a wean again was almost too much for Mungo to bear.
“Hamey?” Mungo knew he was pushing his luck.
“Whut?”
“I love you.”
Mungo was watching his brother swing back and forth when he felt the hands on his collar. Why did they always grab you by the collar? The night watchman had slunk across the wet lawn, the dull churn of the sea had muffled all his footsteps. He slipped a tight arm under Mungo’s chin and tilted his head backwards.
“Got you, ya wee fucker!”
Hamish had barely let go of the bough before Mungo did it. The violence sprang out of a lifetime of compacted instinct, hard-learned lessons from a sadistic brother. In one quick move Mungo pulled his head forward and then snapped it backwards. He felt the hard bone of the man’s nose give way to softness and he knew that he had shattered it. He curled his body into a ball and shoved with all of his might, pushing the man off balance. The night watchman fell to the sodden ground. Mungo broke free of his grip and sprang to his feet.
The man was rolling on the ground and clutching at his smashed face as Mungo darted past Hamish, heading for the safety of the darkness. As he passed, Mungo grabbed hold of Hamish’s slippery tracksuit and dragged him away from the man and back through the ferns. It had been easy to overpower the night watchman; maybe he was unaccustomed to Glaswegian schemies ransacking his castle. Yet as they scaled the drystane boundary there was a look of admiration on Hamish’s face. Mungo could see his teeth flash in the moonlight. Hamish lived for the thrill of mischief. As he manipulated the exposed wires and started the car humming, he said, “Sakes, Mungo. You act all shy, but I don’t think you know what ye’re capable of.”
* * *
They sang all the way back to the city. Hamish had been talking down the boasts of the Catholic fighters and beaming with pride at the tiny spark of violence inside his brother. “That was mental how ye decked that auld cunt.” He grinned. “Next month, ye need tae gie us hauners against the Royston Bhoys. The bastards willnae know what hit them. I cannae wait to see you bury a tomahawk into one of those Fenian wallopers.”
Behind Sighthill there was a sludge canal that ran from the North Side to the Clyde, and at night, all the low industrial buildings that framed it were dark and locked tight. Hamish abandoned the Capri in the middle of the empty road. There was just enough petrol left in the tank to set it alight. Mungo had tried to reason with him. They had had their fun, could they not just return the beautiful motor undamaged and just this once not spoil everything good that came to them.
“How stupit are you? I’m getting paid eighty poun’ to steal this motor and torch it. Joe Morrison will get mair frae the insurance than he would get for a trade-in.”
Hamish lit the rag that he had stuffed into the petrol cap. He danced away from the Capri. There was a terrific explosion and the car was a growling ball of flames. It knocked the wind out of Mungo, and it shook all thoughts from his head. It was dazzling, how something marvellous could be destroyed so quickly and so completely. The brothers jogged away from the flames, sat on the wall of Sighthill Cemetery, and watched the tall plume of rubber smoke merge into the uplit clouds. Mungo felt sad that their night was over. Soon they would be back on the scheme. He wished they could get Jodie and go eat vinegary chips by the sea together.
They were watching knots of Sighthill weans move closer to the bonfire, finding things to throw on the roaring flames before the fire brigade arrived and doused the fun. Down the hill, the industrial buildings were illuminated by the strobing blue of the fire engines. The boys watched the lights wind their way through the maze of streets towards the canal. Hamish spoke first. “I was proud of ye, up at the castle.”
Mungo didn’t feel proud. He was repulsed by the way his hair was hardening from the man’s sticky blood. “That’s a sad thing to be proud of me for.”
Hamish was holding a short dout between his second and third knuckles. The city was half-rotted below them. It wasn’t only that Mungo was too young to understand, it was also that in fifteen years he had seen nothing but the half-dozen tenemented streets they lived on. Hamish clenched his left fist and tried to dampen his temper. It wasn’t Mungo’s fault that he didn’t know more. “There’s nae jobs here. Ye’ll need to fuckin’ toughen up. Like, what’s even the point of you stickin’ in at school?”