“But I don’t have any other pals.”
Who’s a gorgeous wee thing? “It’s the one we’ve been waiting for. They have their two best fighters coming back from a stint working down in Liverpool. They’ve been bamming us up for months now. Ye’ll be there and ye’ll chib the Fenian bastards.”
“I don’t understand, Hamish. Why? Why do we have to fight them?”
Hamish kissed the baby’s fat belly. Ye’re getting a wee fat tummy just like yer mammy, aren’t ye. “James Jamieson lives in the tenements over the back green, right? He has a doocot behind the new-build houses?”
Mungo wanted more than anything not to have to answer that question. “Mibbe.”
“Mibbe! Ha!” Ooh yer Uncle Mungus thinks he’s a right hardman. Hamish went on folding the tiny outfits. “Mibbe!” Hamish chuckled to himself again. He was genuinely impressed by his brother’s sudden boldness. “Think yer wide as fuck, do ye? Think yer smarter than the rest of us?” Hamish shook his head. “Well, yer Jodie Hamilton’s double, right enough. Ah should have nipped that in the bud years ago.”
“All I said was I don’t know why we have to fight the Catholics.”
“See, Jodie’s problem is she thinks she’s slummin’ it wi’ us. She always has. All she’s been doing is biding her time till she can get the fuck away. D’ye think when she gets where she’s going she’ll want to know ye?”
“She’s my sister. She’ll always be my big sister.”
“Ah bet Jodie disnae even think of you as her brother. She thinks of ye as the unwanted wean who was dumped on her who she’s had to raise. And she’s fuckin’ sick of it. Talk about resentment.”
“That’s not true.”
“Jist you wait to the day you meet her on the street and she crosses it to avoid ye. Jodie cannae wait tae get the fuck away from ye. Ah’ll bet ye a hunner quid.”
Mungo slid back in the chair. He wrapped his arms around the baby and held her close, the top of her head smelled sweet, like talcum and powdered milk. The brothers sat in silence for a while. The gormless man on the television was gluing some toilet tube rolls together to make a child’s telescope. Hamish watched it with a slack mouth. Mungo could do nothing but wait.
Hamish didn’t turn back to face his brother. He was engrossed by the man who was turning rubbish into treasure. “Are ye listening to me, Mungo?”
“Aye.”
“Well heed me when ah say, if ye don’t show face on Saturday night, ah will go to that doocot. Ah will go to the doocot and ah will lock the papist in. Once ah have locked him in, ah will set fire to it with him inside. James Jamieson will scream for his mammy, but he will roast.” Hamish paused, and then he asked, “Do you understand me?”
Mungo nodded, although Hamish did not turn around to see it.
The man on the television glued pieces of blue-and rose-coloured film to the end of the paper telescope and suddenly it became a kaleidoscope. The screen filled with pretty colours. Hamish was grinning madly. He turned back around and gently laid his hand on Mungo’s knee. He rolled his tongue around his mouth as he thought about what Mungo had asked. “And your earlier question about fightin’ Catholics. It’s about honour, mibbe? Territory? Reputation?” The baby reached out and grabbed Hamish’s pinkie. Hamish smiled sweetly. “Honestly, ah don’t really know. But it’s fuckin’ good fun.”
TWENTY-ONE
Mungo made three separate pilgrimages to Glasgow Cross over the course of two days. It took him forty-five minutes to walk down there and, feeling defeated, an hour and twenty to lumber back home.
The pawnbroker was tucked away on a tatty back street behind the Saltmarket. There were a few half-shuttered shop fronts where the owners were pecking out a living, and a utilitarian-looking pub that wrapped around the corner. Every now and then, a man would shuffle out into the daylight like a cuckoo, blink up at the sky as if trying to judge the time of day, and finding the damp weather unchanged, shuffle back inside. Mungo had been delighted to catch a glimpse inside the boozer and spy a cluster of stout women dancing together, gyrating across the floor like washing machines that had juddered loose from their brackets.
The back street had a feeling of a shortcut to it, a quick way to travel from the Briggait to the Barras. Mungo bought a poke from the chippy and leaned against the lamp post. He enjoyed watching the different types of people come and go: the hawkers and housewives, the slick yuppies and the slick junkies. A troupe of middle-aged dancers in tap shoes and silver leotards emerged from a side door. The women scuffled down the street, twirling and giggling, sharing some in-joke and passing around a single cigarette. They soft-shoed around Mungo, red lips smiling as they went.
On each of the trips Mungo had watched the pawnbrokers from different vantage points but he had never seen his mother, and he had yet to summon the courage to step inside. The claret exterior was covered in gilded letters, proudly offering the “best cash for ladies jewellery” and a “massive selection of engagement rings.” Yet when Mungo peered through the shuttered windows all he could see was stuff that looked like discarded tat. One window held televisions and stacked stereos, a jumble of dated electronics that were wrapped in their own wires as though they had been hastily removed. Another window held a mixture of cumbersome musical instruments and a smattering of labourers’ tools: a used angle grinder, old-fashioned wood planes, and a proud shelf of Stanley knifes that made Mungo think of Hamish’s boys. There was a display case of photo frames and trinket boxes, heavy bric-a-brac made in a tarnished metal that looked worthless to him, but when he peered at the little price sticker, it made him straighten up in shock. There was a display of fine-looking cameras, of a kind that Mungo had never seen anyone use in real life.
Mungo was pretending to consider a shelf of christening spoons, but really he was glancing up at the stocky man behind the counter. It was hard to see much of Jocky. The interior was dimly lit and he was tight-faced as he counted his money, safe behind the Perspex security screen.
Mungo had almost summoned the courage to step inside when a van bumped up the kerb with a shudder. A young workie in a black donkey jacket rushed into the shop, lugging what must have been a saxophone or a tuba in a battered case. Mungo stepped away and went back to the windows.
“Excuse me. Do you know how pawnbrokers work?” asked a posh-sounding young man.
Mungo was startled by the voice beside him. He turned to the young man. He had been standing before the Japanese cameras and had an intelligent, quiet expression that said he might even know how to use one.
Mungo answered him. “Naw. Sorry. I’ve never pawned anything myself.”
“Okay. Thank you.” The young man was tall and angular, his body drowned in an oversized black parka. His ebony hair was overlong but neatly parted. There was worry sitting in the corners of his mouth.
“Look, it cannae be that hard,” said Mungo. “What have you got for pawnin’？”
The young man slid his holdall from his shoulder. He opened it carefully and Mungo peered inside. Nestled amongst some soft cloths was a collection of porcelain ornaments; Mungo could make out a coy shepherdess and several frolicking kittens. “I don’t even know how much to ask for?”