TWENTY-FOUR
As the sun broke over the tenements Mungo went to the bathroom and cleaned the blood and mud with a damp cloth. He crunched two of Jodie’s painkillers and smeared Mo-Maw’s tubes of ointment over his ribs till they were thick with pungent grease. He wrapped his kidneys in strips torn from of an old cotton duster and tested the bruises that were spreading up his flank. His outsides looked as dead as his insides felt. It seemed only right.
There was a congealed split under his hairline where the hockey stick had cracked his skull. He cleaned the swollen area and then covered it with a bunion plaster, the only thing he could find that was adhesive. Mungo tried to hold the edges of skin together while it set, and he combed his hair, still matted in places with his own blood, over the flesh-toned rubber. When he swept it back from his face there was a bruise around his temple so he took some of Jodie’s foundation and spread the too-orange cream from the outside of his eye up to his hairline.
It hurt to pull clean clothes over his body and the bandages and the pain meant he could not bend properly as he packed his schoolbag. He burst his piggy bank and wrapped the pittance inside Mr Donnelly’s tainted note. Unpinning an old school photo of Jodie from his wall he placed it safely into the pocket of his cagoule. It didn’t take long to pack the things he loved, and when he was finished his bag was still light enough to lift, despite his tender sides.
He forced himself to wait and try to eat the end-slice of the bread. Wincing, he ate it slowly, while the cut inside his cheek screamed. As he chewed he stared across the back greens at James’s darkened windows. He hadn’t hurt any Catholics, surely that was worth something. They had both done what they needed to hide their true selves. He would show James his bruises and James would understand that. James would put Ashley aside and then they would leave together on a fast bus, going in any direction Mungo pointed.
Mungo closed the door behind him. He stumbled down the sleeping close as weak sun spilled through the stained-glass windows. When he reached the ground floor he was surprised to find Chickie Calhoun stepping back into the close mouth. Natalie was tugging on her leash, her beady eyes bulging out of her skull. Mungo nodded politely and squeezed past them. He had his hand on the heavy door before Poor-Wee-Chickie spoke.
“Is the circus in town?”
“Pardon me?” Even in his low state he remembered his manners.
The little man stood in the shadows at the deep end of the close, the dog leash wrapped around his hand. “Well, you’re creepin’ about with a face full of make-up and a packed bag. So I figured maybe ye were running away to join the Ringlings.”
Mungo smiled although he didn’t feel like it. He reached for the heavy door again.
“Listen, if I were you, I’d wait a wee minute afore going out there. The polis have been up and down that street so often the council will need to lay some new carpet.” Mungo peered through the frosted glass. It was the start of a fine Sunday morning outside. The sun had pushed wide cracks in the thick clouds and it promised a blue sky when it could manage. Still, sure enough, two unmarked CID cars crept along the street; they were conspicuous on a street where few could afford motors of their own. They rolled slowly to catch unawares any boys still trapped out from the fighting. Poor-Wee-Chickie nodded towards his own front door. “Son, have you eaten anything hot yet?”
“No.”
“Well, come in then, let me make you some liver.”
“I don’t like liver, Mister Calhoun.”
“Och, naebody likes liver, son, but you look like you could use the iron.”
Over the threshold, Poor-Wee-Chickie locked all the deadbolts behind them. He drew off his anorak and put on his cooking cardigan, buttoning it all the way to the neck. He pushed the purple liver around in an old pan then put it down in front of the boy, still quivering and bloody. The smell of it turned Mungo’s stomach, but he brought his knife through it to be polite.
“Can you no eat?”
Mungo shook his head. “I’m sorry. My mouth hurts.”
Poor-Wee-Chickie fished around in the pocket of his cardigan and put on his reading glasses. He took Mungo’s head in his hands and told him to open wide. “Awright, haud still.” He used a pair of eyebrow tweezers and pushed against Mungo’s cheek. There was a tug, and he pulled out a sliver of tooth from the cheek fat; it was long as a sliced almond. “Ye’ll need to get that tooth looked at.” He handed Mungo a water glass cloudy with cooking salt. “Rinse with this and the cut will do much better.”
Mungo swilled the salty water with a wince. He did it again and spat the bloody water into the sink.
“Are you awright, son? Yer face is twitching somethin’ rotten.”
Mungo pinched his tic. “Sorry, Mister Calhoun.”
“Och, no need to apologize to me.” Poor-Wee-Chickie was indulging him. “But don’t grab yer face too hard, ye’ll spoil yer lovely foundation.” He took Mungo’s face in his hands for the second time that morning. He watched the blinking tic for a moment and then with the tip of an old tea towel he wiped the boy’s face. With careful fingers he was gently blending the thick foundation better, feathering it away at the edges. “After the fine-upstanding-family-men-of-the-roofers-union drove me out of the business, I went to work at the King’s Theatre. I jist minded the back door, but sometimes they used to let us watch the big stars, you know, while they put on their make-up and wigs and that. I was mad for Dorothy Paul, so I was.”
Mungo Hamilton, never one to cry, started to cry now. He ground his top teeth into his bottom lip but it would not be controlled.
“Here, here, it’s awright. You can let it out. I mean, auld Dorothy is no the singer she once was, but ah wouldnae greet about it, son.”
Mungo found himself choking between laughter and tears.
“Let it out. It’ll do you good.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
Poor-Wee-Chickie refolded his tea towel. He pointed out into the back green. “Ye know, I knew a brave wee sodjur once. He was parading up and down that back wall out there.” The man mimicked a rigid little soldier, marching with pride. “He had a wee wooden gun and one of his mammy’s old berets; pure proud as anything, he was. I was just standing at my window watching him have a great time, pretending to shoot the opposing army of weans, all of them screaming into walkie-talkies, chucking fake grenades, the whole pantomime. When all of a sudden, this big general came up ahind him and kicked the sodjur off the wall. Just shoved him without blinking. Oh, it was a pure sin! This general was in the same army, can ye believe it? He just shoved his own man off the wall lit that.” Chickie shook his head. “Anyway, this brave wee fella fell about four feet, hit the midden roof, rolled once and fell eight feet on to the paving slabs. Blamm!” Poor-Wee-Chickie winced as he slapped his hand on the countertop. “That wee sodjur didn’t even make a sound. He was winded but he was brave. Any other wee boy would have screamed for his mammy. But not this little sodjur. This wee army man jist stood up and got on with it.”
Mungo let out a low gut roar. He had balled his fists and was trying to shove them backwards into his brain through his eye sockets. His face was bright red.