Mungo went deep into the forest. He ran and ran till he came to his rushing river. He crouched in some tall ferns and let his body empty itself. It stung as it poured out of him, and he knew he was split. When he was finished, he took off all of his clothes and stepped into the torrent. Fresh violet bruises were rushing to meet the old blue bruises he had brought from Glasgow. Yesterday the frigid water had made him recoil and shriek. Now he plunged his whole body underneath the surface, and he could barely feel the cold for the scalding inside him. He searched the riverbed and found a porous stone. He scrubbed himself with it, dragging it like a pumice all over his skin, till he was pink and chilled and stinging from the roughness. It was no good. He felt filthy. He vomited then, big arching torrents of yellow and puce. He watched it float downstream to the loch.
“It was only a wee game,” said Gallowgate. “It just got a little bit out of hand, that’s all.”
The man was leaning against a beech tree, near to Mungo’s discarded clothes. He was smoking and digging the dirt out from under his thumbnail with the gutting knife. The blade caught one of the few rays that snuck through the canopy and glinted menacingly.
Mungo’s bottom lip started to tremble. He pinched it, pushed his nail into it until it was steadied. “It wasn’t a game to me.”
“Ah, c’mon. You know what boys are like. Everybody does something lit this. It’s all part of growin’ up. It’s easier than getting a lassie in bother.”
Mungo was angry at himself. He couldn’t look the man in the face and found himself talking to the river’s surface. The raspy voice didn’t sound like his own. “Just you wait. Wait till I tell my big brother what you did. He will fuckin’ kill you. He has a tomahawk and he’ll split your stinkin’ skull with it.”
Gallowgate knew nothing about the legend of Ha-Ha. He chuckled as he fussed with his neat fringe. “Be a shame to ruin a guid haircut.”
Mungo launched his pumice stone, but Gallowgate was too quick for him and dodged it. It clattered off a tree trunk and skittered through the ferns. The understorey swallowed all sound. They were alone again. Gallowgate folded his blade and tucked it away. “Look, it’s possible that I went too far. But are ye sure you didnae enjoy it?” He was grinning now, small sharp teeth. “Even jist a wee bit?”
Mungo shook his head slowly. “No.”
The man sucked in through his teeth. “Fuck, then I’m really sorry, pal.” Gallowgate considered it for a moment, he even seemed a little remorseful. “But ah’m surprised to hear that. Specially after what Mo-Maw telt us about ye.”
There was no blood at all left inside him, yet every inch of him felt bloated with a blistering rage. He blanched and flushed at the same time. “Whatever they say I’ve done – it was never anything like that.”
“Z’at so?” Gallowgate looked contrite for a second, but the sharp point of his incisors stuck on his bottom lip and he became an animal again. “But that’s no what ah’ve heard. It’s the whole reason ye were sent away wi’ us. To sort you out. To make a man out of ye.”
“This is how ye make a man out of me?”
“Naw. S’pose not,” he said. “But we’re doing this out of the kindness of our hearts, taking a wee waif to gawk at the heathery hillside. So don’t be ungrateful. Don’t be so fuckin’ stingy wi’ the favours next time.” Gallowgate picked up the boy’s underclothes, his T-shirt and boxer shorts. “In Barlinnie ye weren’t allowed to wear yer own clothes. Ye were never given the same pair of underwear twice and by God, they never, ever fit right. Even when they had been washed ye could still smell some other fella on them, still feel the hundred fellas that had worn them afore you.” He ran the grey cotton between his fingers, then he pitched Mungo’s underwear into the river. “Ye should wash them. We cannae be carryin’ on like pure animals.”
Mungo had to flounder downstream to catch the discarded clothes. He regarded them, familiar things he had worn a thousand times and wondered who they belonged to now.
Gallowgate had become bored watching the boy flail around. He was irritable in his sobriety. “Anyhows, hurry up with that. Auld Chrissy is still gonnae show ye how to catch trout. It’ll be a laugh if nothin’ else.” Turning back towards the campsite he stopped short and flicked his cigarette dout towards Mungo. “And jist in case ye take a funny notion, ye cannae tell anybody about what happened. Not yer mammy, not yer brother. Ye’ll never be a proper man if they knew whit ye did and how much ye liked it.”
“I did not like it.” He spoke as clearly as he could manage.
“Really?”
It was then that something changed for Mungo. This was not something your mammy could kiss away. It was not a bully that your brother could chib with a blade. Nobody could make a pot of soup for it. The shame and the guilt were his to bear. Mungo knew Gallowgate was right. He couldn’t tell anyone.
“Besides,” said Gallowgate as he disappeared into the ferns, “everybody knows ye’re a dirty wee poofter. A filthy little bender. It’d be yer word against mine.”
Then he realized the men would do it again.
* * *
By the time he arrived back at the campsite Gallowgate was emptying Mungo’s backpack, making it ready for a run to the village shop. Mungo watched him dump his sketchbook and the board game out on the shingles. These were things that belonged to a wee boy. Things that no longer felt like his own. It could all sink into the loch for all he cared.
Gallowgate had taken a survey of the leftover alcohol. When he saw it was only the dregs of whisky and a few cans, a panic had arisen in the men. They were circling and roaring, turning out every pocket. Everyone at the campsite had an empty stomach, but it wasn’t until Gallowgate realized they would also have dry throats that he decided on another run to the shop.
Mungo saw his chance. “I could help you carry the drink,” he said, trying to sound as casual as he could manage. If only he could go to the post office, he could ask the teuchter woman where they were. He could telephone Mo-Maw again and she could telephone Hamish, and then Hamish would come with his shipbuilder’s tomahawk and chop these men to pieces. Mungo needed to get back to the little post office.
Gallowgate saw Mungo’s wounded smile and laughed to himself. “Mungo. Ye cannae kid a kidder. Ye are not going to any shop wi’ a face like that.”
“How?” Mungo raised a hand to his tender eye. The socket was swollen and the eye was closing over. He was having some difficulty with his peripheral vision but his tic had been beaten into submission, the flesh too tender and damaged to misbehave.
“Never you mind how.” Gallowgate swung the empty bag on to his back. “That auld teuchter cunt already thinks we’re pure scum. If she sees the face on you, she’ll phone the polis and we’ll get the jail for fightin’。 Naw. You stay here. Make sure that idiot doesnae drown himself.” Gallowgate turned and walked away from them. He stopped on the edge of the ferns and said, “Don’t wander off. Don’t try anything daft. It’s yer word against mine, and yer family already knows what you’re like.” Then he disappeared into the trees.