It was deadead good they let me go. I’ve never went abroad before except Majorca or Tenerife. And only in the summer to lie about on the beach and that. This was November and I’m like, will I take my big coat or will it still be warmer than Glasgow? My ma didny know. My da says, Oh aye, Italy can be cauld this time a year. Willy Bauld. And he showed me the world temperatures in the Herald: Venice 6 degrees Celsius, Rome 9 degrees, Florence 8, Glasgow 10. Like it was football scores. Aye, hen, take your coat, he says.
I goes, Puck, puck, puck, puckeck and flap my elbows, cause I don’t like it when he calls me hen, and I dodge behind the sofa before he can swipe me with the paper. A right comedienne, he says.
My daddy’s alright really. He wasny that keen at first when I says I wanted to go on the demo. Och, Da, it’s no like it’s for a daft holiday; it’s a good cause. Anti-war, anti-globalization! I bet you’d have went if you were my age. It’s everything you’re always goin on about.
You’re too young, he says, sixteen’s too young to be gallivantin about Europe. Like I’m still a wean!
But I says, Danny’ll be there, he’ll look efter me. He’s organizin the bus and runnin the Glasgow end a the trip.
Oh aye, my da says, that’s reassurin; couldny run a menodge, that brother a yours.
That’s no fair, my ma says; you’re too hard on the boy. And that pure sets my da off on wan.
Hard? Listen, when I was twenty-four I was bringin in a wage tay keep my wife and family… blah blah blah… and the vein’s standin out on his forehead and he’s went pure puce. And my ma’s at the sink with her back to him, but you can see she’s mad cause she’s rattlin the dishes and clashin them ontay the drainin board an shakin her head. My da keeps goin on about Danny no havin a job. Like it’s his fault he got his books fae the Call Centre. They’re always arguin. My da givin it, When ye gonny grow up and shoulder your responsibilities? At least the Call Centre was a job.
Danny used to say nothin, but since he joined his group he’s more able for my da and he gives it, So where’s your politics now? The big socialist, eh? The Big Red Clydesider. That kinda work’s crap and you know it. You’re no even allowed out for a pish. Some a they boys in there have never even heard of a union.
Aye, well, my da says, if they didny turn the colour a biled shite at the mention of the word work, mibby they could get off their arses an form wan. And Danny’s went the same red as my da by this time and just swears under his breath and goes through to his room and turns up his stereo dead loud.
Anyway, to cut a short story long, as my da would say, he eventually says I could go. I think he felt like… guilty about Danny. Or maybe my ma’s went on at him. I don’t know. But when Danny and me are just leavin to catch the bus, my da’s went, Here, son, there a wee contribution. For the vino. Mind an look efter my lassie. And he hands a few notes to Danny. See he is alright my da, when it comes down to it.
But for a minute I think Danny’s no gonny take the money; he just stands there lookin my da in the eye. And my da’s like, Suit yersel, son. And I’m just away to say, I’ll take it, Da, when Danny puts it in his jeans pocket and says, Thanks, dead low and goes out the room.
I looks at my da and his face is like deadead hurt and I goes, Thanks, Da, and I hug him hard.
He pats me on the shoulder and says, You look efter yoursel now, hen, and keep outay trouble. And I’m like nearly greetin and I think my da is too.
Danny comes back in then with his rucksack over one shoulder and says, Right, we ready to rock an roll, Wee Yin? And I’m glad he’s makin an effort so I goes, Who you callin Wee Yin, Big Yin? And my da laughs and says, Away yous go, the paira ye. Have a good time. Say hello to the comrades for me. And come back in wan piece, will ye.
I hug him again and I burst my coldsore on his stubbly cheek and I’m like, See what you’ve went an did now! So he takes his hanky out an dabs my mouth dead gentle. And Danny says, She’ll live – come on, Clare, or we’ll miss the bus. Say cheerio to Ma for us. Tell her we’ll text her when we get to Florence.
You and your mobile phones! Da says.
When we gets to the square there’s buses standin and a lot of folk millin about smokin. There’s this guy with amazin dreadlocks tied back and one a they black and white Arab scarfs round his neck with the tasselly points hangin down his combat jacket. Danny flings his rucksack on top of a heap of other bags at the back of one a the buses and shouts over, Hey, Julian. And the guy with the dreads looks at us, takes a draw on his roll-up, makes his eyes into slits, says somethin to the guy next to him and comes over dead slow. He doesny even smile nor nothin. I’m thinkin, Who is this guy?
Alright? Danny says.
And the guy Julian says, I’m good. Who’s this then? And he’s got like this posh voice, definitely no Glasgow. It sounds dead funny with the dreads. He’s lookin at me with these huge blue eyes. Lookin right at me. And I feel my face gettin hot and my coldsore’s pure lowpin. I look down and his fag’s burnin away in his hand. The ash is blowin off in wee grey flakes.
This is my wee sister, Clare, Danny says, and I could’ve kicked him.
Delighted to make your acquaintance, the guy says. And he flings his fag onto the red tar stuff they’ve went an covered George Square wae. Red Square, my da calls it. And he slaps the heels of his boots thegether and sort of like… bows and holds out his hand, keepin his big blue eyes on me the whole time.
Clare, meet Julian, Danny says.
I try to think of somethin clever to say but I can’t so I just goes, Hi, and keep my hands in my pockets and look across the square. Folk are startin to move towards the buses now and I’m dyin to get on and get movin.
So how’s things? Danny says to Julian.
Bit fragile this morning, he says. Mouth like the inside of a vacuum cleaner.
Vacuum cleaner! A vacuum cleaner.
Bit of a dodgy old tum, he says. And he rubs his belly under his green jacket.
Well, just as long as you don’t spew your ring aw ower me on the bus, Danny says and laughs.
No way! Was this guy goin to be sittin next tay us? Great! I flings Danny a look and hope the guy Julian doesny catch it. But Danny’s all over him and he ignores me.
Did you see the report in the Guardian, Julian says, about Firenze’s preparations for the Social Forum?
No, Danny says, I’ve already telt you I don’t read that bourgeois rag. Oh God, is Danny gonny go off on wan?
Well, terribly sorry, your Supreme Proliness. I forgot, the guy Julian says. God, sir, you jocks don’t half have the old chip on the shoulder. The old deep-fried Mars Bar and chips. Mahz Bah, he says it like.
I’ll give you a Mars bar. Anywhere you like, Danny says, I’ve taen my chib. Come on, Jules, drop the English Upper-class Twit act, why don’t you, or you’ll put my wee sister right off her Irn Bru.
Wot? Julian cups his hand round his ear and leans forward. Some of his dreads swing round over his shoulder. They smell of smoke and somethin else. They look that matted way my hair used to go at the back when I was wee. I would like to touch them, see what they feel like. A bit clatty but. Could be introduced to a bar of soap, my ma would say. Wot’s that you say? Class act you say? Well, of course. And he staggers towards the bus with a kid-on walkin stick and his hand shakin like he’s an old old man. When he gets to the door he straightens up and turns his lamps on me. Ladies first, he says.
Come on, the driver says, what’s the hold-up? He’s in a right bad mood! I take my rucksack off, hold it in front of me and climb on. The driver’s a wee fat man with greasy black hair. He draws me a dirty look.
It’s already half full, the bus, and I don’t see anybody I know. It’s a shame my pal Farkhanda couldny come with us; her da wouldny let her. I was dead disappointed when she telt me. We would a had a good laugh. Everybody’s older than me and they’re all dressed kinda… weird. Like students and sort of like… hippies. Well, no really hippies, cause my da says they were a sixties phenomenon, a product of post-war affluence in the West. He uses a lot of big words, my da. His mates at work say, You swally a dictionary, PK? They never call him Peter. Just because I don’t read the Record or the Sun, my da says. Rot your brain, they rags.
So I’m lookin for two seats thegether for me and Danny, and suddenly he’s right at my back and says, This’ll dae for the three of us. And he swings his polybag fulla books and leaflets up on the rack and goes to take my rucksack off us and stick it up too. But I’m like, I want to keep it on my knee the now. And I squeeze into the window seat.
Suit yersel, Danny says, like he knows I’m pissed off, but isny gonny ask me what it’s about. There’s a seat for you, Jules, he says, and he points at the one across the passage. Then he paps hissel down on the seat next to me.
Great, Julian says, and sits in the seat next to a lassie with dyed purple hair. I’m tryin no to watch him but it’s dead hard no to. He keeps movin his head up and down against the back a the seat, like he canny get comfortable for his dreads. So he sits up, pulls the black scrunchy off at the back, holds it in his mouth, and pulls all his hair up on top of his head, twists the scrunchy on and lies back against the seat. Ah, that’s better, he says. I’m tryin no to laugh. All the ends ay his dreads are movin about like fingers growin out his head. The guy’s a pure weirdo.
Danny does laugh. You look like a – thingmy, whatdyecallit – sea anemone.
Yes, creature of the deep, that’s me. Hidden depths… still waters and so on.
I get my CD player out my rucksack and feel about for a CD. The bus is full now and the driver’s arguin with a couple a guys that are tryin to get on.
I don’t care if you’re wae the official party of the fuckin Queen of Sheba, yous are no fuckin gettin on my bus.
The door hisses shut and he starts the engine. And the two guys are like bangin on the window and shoutin and givin him the finger.
Danny laughs. Dickheads, he says. Should’ve got here on time. And he leans over me, chaps the window and points to the bus behind. There’s still spaces on that wan, he says, talkin quiet but makin his mouth big so they can read his lips.
And next thing we’re off, up the big hill at Rottenrow, headin for the motorway.
Time to knit up the old ravelled sleeve of care, Julian says. And he yawns and closes his eyes. The tentacles on top of his head waggle about a minute and then go still. His face is awful white but, kinda like… seethrough. Well, no really, but you know what I mean. He’s got purply bits under his eyes that I’ve no noticed when his eyes are open. And he’s got a wee kinda beard – no exactly a goatee – more straggly. More blondy than his hair too.
I take my Coke and my book and my crisps and my M&Ms out my rucksack and stuff them in the stretchy net pocket on the back of the seat in front and I stick my rucksack down at my feet.
Here, gie me that, Danny says, and he lifts it up on the rack for us, gets his own book out his polybag and plonks hissel back down. I plug my earphones in and switch on the White Stripes.
I wake up when somebody at the back a the bus shouts, Florence… at fuckin last! It’s gettin dark and I’m achin all over. I look out the window, but I can’t see much; just lights streakin past and a faint reflection of the seats at the other side. And my own face starin back at me with really big eyes. Like a slow loris. I’m burstin for a pee too; the toilet at the back of the bus has been disgustin since Newcastle.
Danny, I says. Danny. I poke my elbow in his side. Danny, we’re here I think. Somebody up the back said it. Just now.
Danny sits up and blinks. What? Where are we?
We’re here. Florence, I says.
Oh, yeah. So we are. He peers out the window.
Hey, Clare, there the Duomo, he says. And he’s pointin to this huge church we’re passin that looks like it’s all white marble with coloured patterns and a big round red tower. Magic, I think, can we just get to a toilet afore I pee myself? I’ve been bitin my lip tryin to hold it in, so my coldsore’s burst again. I can taste the blood.
When we eventually get off the bus and start walkin, my rucksack feels like twice as heavy as it did before we left Glasgow; the straps are pure cuttin into my shoulders. We leave Julian talkin to a bunch a guys outside the bus station, but Danny says he’s stayin at the same B&B as us. Great! Just what I need.
The pensione Danny calls the place, but it says B&B on the door. The first thing I do when we get there is run to the toilet. It’s all white tiles with a shower and a – whatdyoucall they things? A bidet. And it’s pure Baltic too. My da wasny kiddin. The water’s cold when I wash my hands and my teeth are chitterin. I look in the mirror above the basin. My face looks as if it’s shrank. And my coldsore has went fae the corner of my mouth halfway across my top lip. There’s this big red scab on it too. At least I’m no goin out clubbin this Saturday.
By the time I’ve came out, Danny’s tryin out his Italian on the couple that owns the B&B. I’ve no got a scooby what they’re sayin but they’re smilin and they seem quite friendly. The woman looks at me and says, Fa freddo. And she rubs her hands thegether and shivers, so she must be feelin the cold too. I put my hands in under my oxters and nod at her and smile. She must’ve thought I’ve understood what she says, cause she comes out with a pure torrent of Italian. I looks at Danny but he’s no got a clue either. I wish I’d’ve took Italian instead of Spanish at school. The man says somethin to the woman and she shrugs. She looks totally Italian – like they old women in the Olivio adverts. The guy turns to Danny. He’s black and thin with a wee face, and he seems to be always smilin. He starts to speak dead slow in English.
We hope you OK here. Breakfast eight o’clock. Dining room downstairs. On ground floor. Beside reception. And they both smile and go out the room.
I’m like, Phew, and I fling myself on one a the beds. It’s totally hard and doesny bounce and it’s got a white duvet on top. In fact the whole place is white and more or less bare except for a picture of Our Lady on wan wall. Nay TV. Cheaper end a the market, Danny had said, but we’re no goin for a luxury weekend; we’re there to demonstrate, show Bush and Blair the error of their ways. Oh aye, I think, like they’re really gonny be waitin with baited breath tay hear what Danny Kilkenny has to say! But I keep quiet. Danny can seem so old sometimes. When he’s givin it, The Means of Production and Globalization and The Changing Economy, he sounds just like my da.
Well, whatdye think? Danny says. He’s grinnin all ower his face and he looks dead chuffed with hissel.
I goes, It’s brilliant. Great. I sit up on the bed and plant my feet on the floor. A kinda marble it looks like. Or no really marble but just as hard and cold. Kinda black and grey with a few orangey flecks. And there’s a black border round the edge. It’s like… pure Italian, I says.
Yeah, he says. Great, intit? Right, I’m just gonny text Ma and let her know we’re here. Then it’s out to see the sights of la bella città.
Good, I says, cause I’m starvin; wearin away tay a shadow. I’m holdin out the band of my jeans when the door goes and Julian walks in. Afore anybody even answers. He’s taen his scrunchy off and his dreads are movin around all over his head.
Mmm, he says, a navel piercing. Well, you are full of surprises, young Clare. I try to pull down my top but it’s too short. I look over at Danny but he’s in the middle of texting my ma. Tell me, he says, and his eyes are lookin right through me, Is any other part of your body pierced? And he flicks my belly button stud. I’ve got like a pure riddy by this time. I can smell his hair too, the cigarette smoke and the other sweet kinda smell. Waccy baccy I bet it is, and patchouli.
Hey, Jules – Danny’s lookin over now – leave her alane, she’s just a wean.
No I’m no, I says.
No, I bet you’re not, Julian says. I feel as if his eyes can see right inside me.
She’s strictly off limits, Jules; I promised my da I’d look efter her.
Stop talking about me like… like I’m no here, I says to Danny. And Julian gives a wee laugh. I can feel my face burnin; I must have even more of a riddy.
Well, if Comrade Kilkenny’s decreed that his peach of a daughter’s not to be tampered with, who am I to stage a coup? Wouldn’t want to end up in a gulag now, would I? He’s smiling at me when he says this, so I smile too, a wee smile so I don’t split my coldsore again. Danny isny smilin but. He looks pissed off.
He’s no a Stalinist, my da, so keep your fuckin insinuations to yoursel.
Hey, man, only joking, Julian says, and he holds his hands up and jiggles his dreads. Come on, let’s go eat. Some of the other guys are meeting up in the trattoria round the corner … ah – Giovanni’s, I think it’s called.
Danny’s like, Aye, right. Still in a bad mood. Julian’s lookin at Danny, then he winks at me and taps the side a his nose with his finger. I put my big coat on and kid on I don’t see him.
*
There’s loads a people in the restaurant. I know some of the faces from the bus but there’s a lot I don’t know. Danny and Julian seem to know like… everybody and Danny’s in a good mood again, huggin the lassies and clappin the guys on the back. It’s funny, he’s no the way he is at hame, Danny. There’s candles in red glass holders on the red and white checked tablecloths and all the faces are glowin.
… This is Clare, Danny’s wee sister, Julian’s sayin to a lassie. Clare, meet my very good friend and compañera, Laetitia. Titty to those lucky enough to be admitted into a degree of intimacy with her.
I’m thinking, Titty! What a name!
Hi, she says, and she switches her roll-up into her left hand and holds out this wee white hand to me. She’s got short black hair and big dark brown eyes and she’s like… dead cool. No cool cool. But just… cool. Do come and join us, she says. She must come fae near Julian, cause she speaks the exact same way. She kinda like does ballet dancer hands at the empty chairs and Julian sits down beside her. I look around for Danny. He’s sittin at a crowded table across the other side talkin to the guy next to him, givin it, Kyoto Agreement, fuckin American Isolationism, arms wavin, hand choppin down on the table – the full works.
The waiter’s goin round takin orders. I sit down next to Julian, take my arms out my coat and let it fall over the back of the seat. Julian goes, Here, let the waiter hang that up for you. And he starts to pull it out from under me.
No you’re alright, I says, I’ll keep it in case I get cold. And I pull it round me a bit so it hides my belly. The fur round the hood tickles my back on the bare bit between my top and my jeans.
OK, Eskimo Nell, he says and he’s got this kind of look in his eyes like he’s laughin at me. I wish Danny was sittin next to us.
The waiter’s reached us now and he’s standin with his notebook and pencil and he says something to us in Italian. Le — Le — Titty or whatever her name is says, I’ll have the fettuccine al pesto Genovese, per favore. The waiter writes on his wee pad and says,Sì, signora.
Julian turns to me: What about you, Clare?
I’m like dead flustered. I’ve no even saw the menu yet. I – I… I’m just gonny say I’ll have a pizza when Julian says, We’ll have the spaghetti vongole. That alright for you, Clare? And a carafe of house red, un litro di vino rosso della casa, per favore. Sì, signore, the waiter says. I just smile up at him and say, Thanks.
Grazie. Grazie, my dear, Julian says. It sounds like graahtsee-ay. He does a conjuror’s move with his hand. Twice. I canny be bothered to tell him I know the Italian for thank you; it’s dead like the Spanish. When in Rome, he says…
Julian, don’t patronize the girl, Titty says. She takes a draw on her fag and blows the smoke up over the heads of the two guys at the other side of the table. Her neck’s dead white and smooth. She looks like she should be smokin thin black cigarettes out a cigarette holder instead of roll-ups, and wearin a long string a pearls with a knot in to swing in her other hand. And a shimmery silver dress with fringes. Like somebody out an old, old film. But she’s wearin a black jumper with like holes in it and there’s a green camouflage jacket and a brown scarf over the back a her chair.
I look round the room. Some folk at the side nearest the counter are finished eatin already. They look a lot older – my da’s age mibby, some even older. They’re all talkin fast and wavin their hands about. One woman’s dead loud. She says, Mais il n’est pas VRAI! And I’m like, I know what that means! Cause I did French for two years at school. It’s not true, she’s sayin. Then a wee old guy gets up and taps the side a his wine glass and starts to speak. I canny make out much of what he’s sayin, but the folk at his table are all listenin and clappin every now and again. He looks a dead nice wee old man. Then he starts to sing:
Debout les damnés de la terre,
Debout les forcçats de la faim.
La raison tonne en son crateére,
C’est l’éruption de la fin…
And I’m nearly joinin in cause my da learnt me that song when I was ten: … Du passé faisons table rase, Foules esclaves, debout, debout. Le monde va changer de base…
Julian turns to Whatserface and says, Fucking French fucking communists! And I’m like dead shocked! My da’s a communist. Then he stands up and shouts out, What did your lot do to us in the Spanish Civil War, eh? Shot us, didn’t you, eh? Didn’t you? Fucking wankers!
Julian, sit down and shut the fuck up, Whatsername says, dead low, and she pulls at his sleeve. He sits down. His face is white. Terribly sorry, old girl, he says, don’t know what got into me.
My da’s a communist, I says. He wouldny hurt naybody.
The folk at the French table haveny noticed anythin and the wee guy’s still singin in a quavery voice. I look over at Danny, but he’s stuffin forkfuls of pasta in his mouth and talkin to the guy beside him.
Sorry, Clare, Julian says, I wasn’t talking about your father, of course. It’s just the old enmities. Trots and Tankies. He turns right round and looks at me and smiles.
I look right back. I don’t smile. I keep lookin right in his eyes.
Well, I thought we were all supposed to be marchin thegether themorrow for like World Peace, I says. And anyhow, they’re having mair fun at that table, if you ask me. I keep starin at him. He looks surprised.
The waiter comes up then with a tray of plates and a funny-shaped bottle fulla red wine. Fettuccine pesto, signora? he says to Titsy. Grazie, she says. And he sets hers down in front of her. She’s got nay tits anyhow, as far as I can see. Due spaghetti vongole?
Here and here, Julian says, and he points to me and hissel. Grazie. I’m lookin at my plate. There’s spaghetti and a sorta pinkish sauce over it, some onions and… like these wee kinda grey seashells. The waiter flicks his cloth over his arm and goes back to the kitchen.
So she has opinions, the young Clare, Julian says. I like a woman who knows her own mind.
Leave her alone, Boobsy says. Clare, pay him no heed. Eat up. And she like leans across Julian, pours some wine into my glass and flashes me a really nice smile. That’s a nasty coldsore you’ve got there; I’ve just the thing for it in my bag. I’ll find it for you when you’ve finished eating. Buon appetito.
I look at my plate again and my stomach turns over. I’m starvin but, so I’ll have to eat some of it. I poke about in the spaghetti and try and wind it round my fork without touchin any of the shell things. I put a wee bit in my mouth. It’s no as bad as I thought. A bit fishy but no too bad. I eat some more. I’m managin to keep away fae the shells pretty good considerin, and then suddenly there’s this like… thing in my mouth. It’s rubbery and kinda squashy and it’s pure bowfin. I think I’m gonny be sick. I hold my napkin up to my face and put the thing out with my tongue. Julian’s watchin me and he’s got that wee smile on his face again.
Vongole not to your taste? he says. You don’t know what you’re missing. I sling him a deafie. I reach for a piece of bread out the basket in the middle of the table and spread it with butter. It tastes that good I want to cry.
Me, I love every kind of shellfish, he says. So does Laetitia, don’t you?
Laetitia, Laetitia, that was it! I’m no gonny forget it this time.
Tell Clare what you compared oysters to.
Shut up, Julian, Laetitia says. She’s only ate half her pasta and she’s rollin a fag again. I’m looking at her plate. I think she must have saw me lookin, cause she says, Would you like some of mine? I can’t finish it. And I’m like, Yes please.
Oysters, Titty, what did you say they’re like when they slip down your lovely throat? Julian says.
Shut up!
A tongue in one’s cunt. That’s what she said. A tongue in one’s cunt. What d’you think of that, young Clare?
You are an arsehole, Julian, Laetitia says.
I don’t believe Laetitia had really says that. I mean like… use the c-word like that.
Why are you behaving like such an arsehole? She says it like aahs -hole.
Steady on, old girl, Julian says. Clare will begin to suspect you really like me.
Laetitia gets up. Clare, would you like to come to the loo with me and I’ll dig out that coldsore lotion?
She leaves her fag burning in the ashtray, picks up this bag with sequins and ribbon and bits of lace all different colours and with like badges pinned on it and she starts to squeeze out past Julian. He grabs her arm as she passes and looks up at her. His eyes are kinda shiny and he’s lickin his top lip, then bitin his bottom wan. Laetitia stops and turns to him and her eyes are black in the dim light. She takes his hand off her arm.
You’re pissed, she says. And right enough, he’s drank most of the bottle a wine hissel.
I get up, grab my bag and follow Laetitia. At the corner afore the lavvies I turn round. Julian’s sittin with his head down and his dreads all spillin forward onto his plate.
Hey, Clare, Danny shouts across. Alright? He’s dead happylookin and he holds up his glass of wine to me.
I’m fine, I says, and wave at him.
When I get in the toilet, Laetitia’s already in one a the cubicles.
That you, Clare? she shouts.
Aye, I says. I go in the other one. I wait till Laetitia flushes afore I start to pee.
By the time I come out she’s leanin ower the basin lookin into the mirror, puttin lipstick on, a sorta dark browny pink colour. She rubs her lips thegether. Then she clocks me watchin her in the mirror and smiles.
Lipstick revolutionary, that’s me I’m afraid, Clare. Here, look. She rummages in her bag, takes out a wee tube of ointment and holds it out to me. Great for coldsores this stuff; I swear by it.
Thanks, I says. I take the tube, set it next the basin and wash my hands. I don’t see any towel so I just shake them a bit in the sink. Then I unscrew the top of the tube. A wee white worm starts to ooze out the nozzle. I rub it on my finger and look in the mirror. My coldsore’s even worse in the fluorescent light – dead scabby. I smear the cream quick onto my lip, screw the top on again and hold out the tube. Thanks, I says.
No, no, she says. You keep it.
Thanks a lot, I says.
She smiles, No need to keep thanking me. She’s dead pretty. Like really beautiful.
What d’you think of Julian? she says, out the blue.
I’m like, I don’t know. He’s a bit… kinda weird… is he no? Laetitia’s leanin back on the basin with her mad bag in front and her arms crossed over it. And she’s lookin… sorta into the distance, except she’s really starin at the toilet door. That stuff he says about you and like… oysters… I mean, that was pure… mental.
She turns to me then and smiles. Yeah, she says, pure mental. Only she says pyaw. Come on, honey child, better get back out there in case they start the revolution without us. And she pushes open the door into the restaurant.
It’s dark and like dead noisy and hot and folk are singin. We walk over to our table. Everybody’s standin up singin. I know this one too. ‘Bandiera Rossa’. I looks over at Danny; he’s givin it laldy, punchin the air. The waiters are standin with their arms folded, watchin. Julian’s no at our table but. He’s over with the wee French guy, arm in arm and they’re like conductin the whole thing with their other arms. Baith of them thegether. Julian’s dreads are hittin the baldy head a the French guy so the wee guy stops conductin and grabs a bunch of them and holds them on top a his head like a mad wig. I looks at Laetitia and she looks at me and we both start laughin. And then we sing too.
… Avanti o populo, alla riscossa,
Bandiera rossa trionferaà.
‘Bandiera rossa la trionferà,
Bandiera rossa la trionferà,
Bandiera rossa la trionferà,
Evviva il socialismo la bella libertà…
Julian and Danny are still singin on the way back to the B&B. Different songs I don’t know. They’re walkin in the middle a the street but it’s dead quiet; there’s no traffic. I’m walkin behind with Laetitia. She’s got her arm through mine and I’ve got my hands in my pockets tryin to keep warm.
Julian starts up a new song, ‘50 Ways to Leave Your Lover’. Danny joins in.
Oh Christ, here we go, Laetitia says. I look at her but she says nothing.
Julian’s dancin about the road, wavin his arms.
… slip out the back, Jack
Make a new plan, Stan
What’s the next bit?
… Don’t give a fuck, Chuck…
Naw, that’s no in it, ya bam!
Get yourself free…
There’s a squeaky metal noise and then a bang. A guy up above has just threw open a shutter and he’s shoutin something at us. Julian stops in the middle of the street and holds his arms up to the guy. Buona sera, signor. Che bella città! The guy looks like he’s in his vest; he shouts again then goes away back into the room. Julian’s shoutin, Signor, signor… and Danny’s tryin to pull him away. Suddenly the guy’s came back and he like… flings this water out the window. I see it kinda in slow motion, shining against the streetlights like melted gold. It just misses me and Laetitia. It splashes onto the cobbles and spatters onto our shoes and the bottoms of our jeans.
Fucking bastard! Julian shouts. But we all start walking again. Faster this time. And Julian and Danny have stopped singin.
The big heavy outside door of the B&B is still open, but there’s only one wee light on in the reception bit, so we talk quieter. I didny know Laetitia was stayin here as well.
Where’s your room? she asks.
I’m on the second.
Come on up to ours, Danny says. There’s nay weed, but at least we can finish the wine.
What wine? Laetitia and me says at the exact same time.
This wine! And he pulls a full carafe out fae under his jacket like he’s doin a magic trick. It’s got a couple a red napkins stuffed in the neck so’s it willny spill.
You clever old thing, Laetitia says.
A man of many talents, Julian says.
Swiped it off the French table, Danny says. It would just a went to waste otherwise. So what d’you say… your place or mine?
Well, you’ve got the double room… lead the way.
Yes, lead on Macduff.
It’s ‘lay on’, Julian, Danny says.
Well, rap my knuckles! Never could get to grips with the Scottish play. Not one of the Bard’s best, if you ask me.
The stair’s getting darker and narrower. Laetitia’s in front. She presses a sorta round button on the wall and a light comes on.
You’ve got an answer for everything, ya know-all cunt.
Boys, boys! Laetitia says. Let peace break out, for goodness’ sake. Make love, not war.
Is that an offer? Danny says. He’s got the key in the door now but he’s stopped and he’s turned to Laetitia. It’s funny but, when I’m lookin at him lookin at Laetitia, it’s like he’s no my brother. He’s quite handsome. My pals at school say that: Your brother’s gorgeous. And I laugh, cause… well, he’s my brother. Now he’s lookin at Laetitia as if there’s naybody else there. He’s got my ma’s green eyes with like dead long dark lashes. My ma used to say, It’s no fair, they lashes are wasted on a boy. But she was always smilin when she said it.
The stairlight clicks off. Come on, let us in for Christsake! I’m dying for a smoke, Laetitia says. You can just see her face kinda whitish in the dark.
Danny opens the door. Welcome to the humble Kilkenny abode, he says, and we all pile in. The room looks dead neat and white except for my bed. The duvet’s crumpled and my book and my big red T-shirt for sleepin in are lyin on it.
OK, let’s see what we’ve got for drinkin outay, Danny says, and he goes into the bathroom. Two here. He comes out with the toothbrush glasses from the metal circles above the sink. What else?
There’s this, I says, and I pick up my empty Diet Coke can.
Great, and one ay us can drink out the bottle. What d’you say, Clare, shall we give the best crystal to our guests? He sounds just like Julian. I look round at Julian but he’s went dead quiet. He’s sitting on Danny’s bed wae a face like fizz. His dreads are spread out over his shoulders and he’s no even took off his jacket yet.
Danny pours some wine into one of the toothbrush glasses and hands it to Laetitia. She’s sittin on my bed on top a her jacket with her bag on her knee, rollin a fag. She takes the wine off Danny and sets it on the wee table beside the bed.
Roll one for me, will you? Julian says.
Roll your own, Laetitia says, and clicks her lighter. A yellow flame comes up from the end a the wee thin roll-up, then settles down. She leans back on her elbows on the bed with her fag in her mouth.
Here, Danny says, and he pours wine into the other toothbrush glass and hands it to Julian. Get that down you. Then he takes the Coke can off us and sits down on the bed beside Laetitia. I don’t know how he does it, but he manages to pour a thin stream of wine from the wide neck of the carafe into the hole on top a the can without spillin any.
Bravo! Laetitia says. Only it sounds more like Vravo! with her fag still in. She sits up and claps her hands and takes the roll-up out her mouth.
Here, Clare, Danny says, and hands me the Coke can. I wish it was Coke in it instead a wine – I’m thirsty. And the wine’s no sweet like the kind I’ve drank afore at parties in Glasgow. But I take it anyway. There’s nowhere for me to sit except on Danny’s bed. Beside Julian.
He must’ve saw me standin wonderin what to do, but he doesny budge; he’s still takin up most of the bed, leanin back on his hands, his legs spread wide, his eyes starin straight ahead. Danny and Laetitia are sitting close thegether on my bed. He’s pourin more wine into her glass. I looks at Julian again and I sit down on the end a the bed. Danny and Laetitia are lookin into each other’s eyes singin: ‘Little Old Wine Drinker Me’.
I get a fright when I open my eyes cause it’s pitch-black and I don’t know where I am. I’m lyin there tryin to figure it out when I hear the snufflin noise in the room like somebody wae a bad cold.
Danny, I says, is that you? No answer. I remember there’s a light above my bed, so I feel about for the cord and pull it. The room comes on like a headache and Our Lady’s lookin down fae the white wall. Danny, I says again. But when I look over it’s Julian’s dreads I see on the pillow. It’s Julian makin the funny noises. He’s cryin.
I get out my bed. I don’t even remember taking my clothes off last night. I just remember gettin dead tired and closin my eyes when Danny an them were drinkin an talkin. I don’t remember putting on my big T-shirt either. I pull it down over my knickers and go over to the other bed.
Julian, I says, you OK? Julian? All I can see are his dreads like a big tangled nest. I touch his shoulder. Julian? He turns over with his dreads all over his face and he shades his eyes and looks up at me.
Clare, I’m … I’m… I just… And then he bursts out greetin really loud and he’s sobbin and snotters is comin out his nose. He’s a pure mess.
Julian, what’s wrong? I says. But he can’t stop cryin. I go over and get my rucksack at the end of my bed and pull out a big wad of paper hankies.
Here look, I says. And he takes some and rubs his nose but he just spreads the snotters all over his face. And there’s a line like a snail trail across his dreads. Julian, wait a minute. I sit down on the bed beside him and wipe the mess off his face and dab at his dreads.
What’s the matter?
Oh Clare, Clare… He reaches up and grabs my wrists. I drop the hankies on the floor. Clare, oh Clare, oh Clare… he says. And he puts my hand up to his mouth and kisses the palm. His moustache tickles me. Clare, you won’t tell Danny or Laetitia about this, will you? Please. He’s still heavin in between words.
No, I says, I won’t tell them. And he pulls me down on top of him and he buries his face in my hair.
Oh, Clare, you’re an angel, he says, and his voice is dead thick. He’s still got his combat jacket on and all his clothes.
It’s OK, Julian, I says. You’re alright. It’s OK. And I try to get up.
Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.
No, I won’t, I won’t. But look, you would feel better wae your jacket off. And your boots.
Don’t leave me, don’t leave me.
I struggle out his grip, get off the bed and go to his feet. See, I’ll just get your boots off. I undo the laces and pull the big scuffed brown Docs off his feet.
Pooh, I say, smelly socks! But they areny really. It’s just what I used to say to my da when I was wee every time I took his boots off when he came in from work. I thought it might make Julian laugh, but he’s still lyin there moanin. I set the Docs on the floor quietly.
There, is that no better? Sit up now and we’ll get your jacket off. And he does sit up. I’m amazed. I unzip it and start to ease it over his shoulders. Come on now, you’ve got to help me, I says. And he starts shufflin his shoulders, shruggin it off.
Clare, will you stay with me tonight? he says.
I take his jacket and lay it on top of his boots. Well, I’m no goin anywhere, am I?
No, but will you stay with me? Here? And he lays the flat of his hand on the bed.
I look at his face. His eyes are even bluer in all that red puffiness and the dark bits underneath are like bruises. I sit down beside him.
Aye, I’ll stay.
He gives a wee kinda gulp like you do when you’ve been cryin a long time and says, Clare. You’re an angel! A beautiful red-haired angel. He pulls me down onto the bed beside him. His face is right close to mine now. The most beautiful red-haired angel in a red T-shirt in all of Florence. And he puts his hand up inside it and touches my navel stud.
Aahh, he says. His breath smells sorta sweet and sorta sour and I’ve got a funny feeling in my belly. He slides his finger down and hooks it in the top of my knickers.
Wait, Julian, I says. I’ve never did this before.
Oh, my sweet, sweet Clare. He starts kissin me all over my face, on my eyes and my nose and my mouth. His dreads fall onto me and it’s like lookin through the branches of a tree. And then he lets go the band of my knickers and puts his tongue in my ear. And he moves his hand up and plays with my stud. Then further up and touches my nipple. Then he takes my breast in his hand and like, just holds it. And strokes it. Oh, Clare, let me see you, he says. And he starts to pull my T-shirt up. He leans on one elbow and his dreads are fallin down so I can’t see his face. He folds my T-shirt up over my belly and over my boobs.
Ohhh, he says, you’re so lovely. And he holds me again, first one, then the other. And then he starts to kiss me and lick me. No on my face this time, but like on my breasts and my nipples and my belly and I don’t know where else. All over. I don’t remember where.
Then…
I feel his tongue inside me, right inside me, and I’m all wet and swollen and I want him further in. I can hear moanin and it must be me, it must be me. And then I don’t know what happens. He’s took his tongue out and he’s lickin me down there and lickin and lickin. I stuff the sheet in my mouth and then it happens, oh God it happens and it’s…
When it’s died down I’m cryin and shakin and Julian’s came back up beside me and he’s saying, Shh, Clare, it’s alright, it’s alright, in between kissing my tears.
That was…
Shhh…
That was so… Oh my God… I’ve never…
And I put my arms round him and hug him tight.
You’ve got such a sweet cunt, Clare. Do you know that? A sweet, sweet cunt. He untangles my right hand from his dreads and puts it on the front of his trousers. It’s hard. He moves my hand up and down. I know what to do now. I unzip him and put my hand inside his pants and hold him. I’ve never had one in my hand. Only felt it pressin against me when I was snoggin some boy at the club. It feels dead big. And hard. A bit scary. But I keep holdin it and Julian takes my hand and moves it up and down. I get a fright cause I feel like the skin might come off, slide off like the doobies you see lyin in the lane at the back of the scheme. But Julian keeps my hand there, movin up and down. He’s startin to groan and then suddenly he holds my hand tight and stops it.
Clare, can I come inside you? he says. Please?
And I’m like, Yes. I want him to do that to me again.
He slides his jeans and pants down past his knees and pushes them and his socks off the rest of the way with his feet. I look down at him. His thing is standin up dead straight in front of his belly. It looks funny. The top is red and shiny with like this wee hole. His balls are red too and kinda sore-lookin under the hair. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I reach down and put my hand round it again and I open my legs.
We both hear the voices outside on the landing at the same time and Julian dives on top of me and pulls the sheet up over us.
Shh, he says.
I don’t breathe.
The voices get louder. A man and a woman. I can’t hear what they’re sayin, but I don’t think it’s English.
It doesny sound like Danny, I says, whisperin. He’ll be sleepin in Laetitia’s room.
Oh Christ, Julian says. Oh Christ, oh Christ, oh Jesus fucking Christ! He sits up. The voices go past the door.
What’s the matter? I say.
Nothing. Nothing… Everything.
I sit up too. Julian’s shakin his head. Everything, everything… His dreads swing round and hit me on the face, like skippin ropes hittin your bare legs in the playground. I hold his head and stop it movin.
Julian, what is it? He looks at me a long time. His eyes are still red.
Oh fuck! He takes my hands off him and jumps off the bed. He’s only got a shirt on and a T-shirt. I look down at him, at his thing. It’s wee now and pink and sort of crumpled. Peepin out at the edge of his white T-shirt. I think I’m goin to cry again. He grabs his clothes from the end of the bed and pulls on his pants. And then his jeans. Then he sits on the bed, unrolls his socks and plunges his feet in. He reaches round for his boots, sets them in front of him and swivels them on like he’s stubbin out a cigarette. He stands up. He’s no even did up the laces and he’s pickin up his jacket and walkin to the door. He opens it. Then he turns.
It’s not you, Clare. It’s just… I can’t… He stops and looks at me. You’re a lovely girl, Clare. It’s not you, believe me… and if… I’m sorry, Clare… I’ve got to go.
And he’s went.
I sit looking at the closed door for ages.
When I wake up, I’m scared. There’s a key really loud in the lock. The door opens and the light goes on. But it’s only Danny.
OK, kid. Breakfast, he says, and he claps his hands and rubs them thegether. I keep my eyes half closed. He looks dead happy. You never see him this happy at home.
What time is it?
It’s twenty to nine. Time to rise and shine. Here, I’m a poet! He walks over to the window and bends the shutters back. Sun comes pourin in. It’s a crackin day! Chilly, but. Good demo weather. The gods are smilin on us.
You been out already?
You’re rootin tootin I have. Come on. Cappuccino and brioches await you.
What’s bree-osh?
They learn you nothin in that school these days? It’s like croissants. Some with jam in, some with chocolate. All mouth-wateringly delicious! He’s talkin like Julian again.
Where’s… everybody else?
Laetitia’s in the dinin room on her fourth espresso. Julian’s no appeared yet. Come on, come on. You’ll miss the best of the day.
You sound just like my da. I fling the duvet off and head for the bathroom.
I’m goin to have a shower.
You and your showers, Clare. Too much washin can be bad for you.
You sound exactly like my da. I close the door behind me.
Danny shouts through it, See you down the stairs. Don’t be long; breakfast is only on till nine thirty.
I’ve never saw Danny like this.
I look in the mirror over the sink. My coldsore’s a lot better. It’s shrank quite a bit. My hair’s a mess, but. I pull some of the red tangles out with my fingers and smooth it down. I’m glad it’s grew again; maybe I’ll let it get really long this time. One of the toothbrush glasses is back in the metal bracket with a circle of dried red wine in the bottom and browny-pink lipstick marks on the side.
Or maybe I’ll get it cut like Laetitia’s. She just runs her fingers through hers and gives her head a wee shake and it falls back into place. As if she’s just walked out the hairdresser’s. It’s worth payin extra for a good cut, my ma says. Saves you in the long run.
I pull my T-shirt up over my boobs and tuck it under my chin. I hold one boob in one hand and one in the other and look at them in the mirror. Even though they’re no that big, they feel heavy. I think about Julian. My face gets hot and I turn away. I pull my T-shirt off over my head and step in the shower cubicle.
The white tiles are cold. I lean my cheek against them and close my eyes. The things we done last night come back dead strong and I get a warm melty feeling low down in my belly. I turn the shower on quick and the water’s pure freezin. I gasp but I stay under it till it gets warm. Then I let it run and run over my head and face for ages. I’ve forgot to take my shampoo in with me, but there’s a wee bar of soap on a dish inset in the tiles and I take the waxy pink paper off. It smells like roses. I run it under the water and rub it between my hands till it gets lathery. Then I rub the suds all over my hair and my body and I think about Julian. The feelin in my belly turns into a kind of an ache like period pains and I want him to touch me down there again. I put my hand on my pubes and I curl my finger round. I don’t like the feel of it but. All the wee bits. Heather McLaren at school says she’s saw hers. Looked at it in a mirror between her legs. Farkhanda and me didny believe her at first, but she says, Honest, it’s true; her mother told her how to do it. They are a bit weird, right enough. Live in a bought house and it’s pure manky. And her ma has straggly grey hair and wears like long purple skirts with bells and embroidery on. Find your clitoris, she says to Heather, and you’ll never need a man for sexual gratification. Good job she doesny see the way Heather chases Scott Wilson.
My hair’s still wet when I walk into the dinin room. The B&B guy with the smiley face is standing at a big silver coffee machine with a cup in his hand. Steam’s hissin out and there’s a strong coffee smell. He looks round and smiles at me.
Ah, buon giorno, signorina, he says.
Bon jurno, I say back.
You like cappuccino? And he points to the coffee machine. Is our new espresso maker, he says, and he pats the top of it like it’s a wean and looks at me dead proud.
Please. Sit. I bring to you.
I look round the tables. Most of them are empty. Danny and Laetitia are sittin at one in front of a big window. They’re holdin hands on top of it, leanin towards one another, talkin low. The sun’s shinin in on them and Laetitia’s hands are whiter than ever on the green cloth.
Hi, I says.
They look surprised to see me, then Laetitia smiles and takes her hand out of Danny’s.
Hi, Clare. Do come and join us.
Yes, do, Danny says. And Laetitia laughs and gives his hand a swipe. What kept you? Danny says. Sit down, I’ll get you a coffee.
I’ve already ordered one off the guy. I sit down facin the window. It’s right on the street and folk are walkin past, talkin loud.
The B&B guy comes over with my coffee and a wee basket with three pastry things in. Cappuccino e brioches, he says, and sets them on the table. Buon appetito. He smiles at me again and goes back to his shiny machine.
Oh good, Danny says, wan each.
Greedy boy, you’ve had yours, Laetitia says. These are for Clare. Her dark eyes are turned to me and she smiles. Did you have a good night?
I wish I could stop it but I can’t. I feel the riddy comin up my neck and right over my face. Yeah, OK.
Your coldsore looks much better, anyway.
Aye, that stuff you gave us was great. Thanks.
Don’t mention it. Better drink your coffee before it gets cold. Right, I’m off to my room to put on my slap; can’t let the side down with this. She makes a face and points to it, then she twinkles her wee white fingers at us. Ciao. See you later.
Danny’s smilin up at her. Aye, ciao, he says. His eyes follow her across the room. She stops and has a word with the B&B guy and points at his coffee machine. He nods and smiles and says somethin to her. Ciao, she says then and walks out through the door. Even with her holey black jumper she’s beautiful.
Danny’s still watchin the door. I spoon some chocolatey foam off my coffee into my mouth. I’m starvin. Some kind of orange jam oozes out the first brioche when I bite into it. It’s warm and sweet and dead light. I eat the rest of it fast and wipe my greasy fingers on my napkin.
You and Laetitia in love? I mean, are you goin thegether?
What? He looks at me as if he can’t remember who I am. His eyes are brilliant green in the light. The colour of leaves with the sun through them. In love? Don’t know about lurve, but she’s gorgeous, in’t she? He pulls a face and talks out the side of his mouth. Put it this way, I wouldny fling her outa bed. When he sits back in his chair, his face looks dead soppy, but.
Better no let my ma hear you talkin like that. I take another brioche out the basket.
You better no fuckin tell her, he says, and looks back to the door. Julian, my man!
I nearly jump out my skin. I turn round and he’s walkin towards the table. His dreads are tied back and he looks dead white. Strained. As if he’s no slept. He’s wearin the exact same claes as last night. He sits down in Laetitia’s seat without saying a word.
You’ve missed breakfast, pal. But maybe my wee sister’ll give you a bite of her brioche.
Julian looks at me then. Hi Clare, he says, dead low, then looks away.
Here, have the last one, I says. They’re great. I hold the basket up to him.
He lifts his hand and shakes his head. A couple of his dreads snake out of the band at the back of his neck and hang down beside his sharp cheekbones. No. Thanks… coffee’s all I need. D’you think they might bend the rules for that?
Well, why don’t you try your ineffable charm on Mr Abensur? Danny says.
Who’s Mr Abensur?
Guy that owns the pensione, ya tadger.
Julian’s looked up then and his face is even whiter and his eyes are blazin. Who’re you calling tadger, you Glaswegian prick. Even his voice sounds strained. Danny squares his shoulders and sits forward.
Danny, you’re out of order, I says in a low voice, just like my ma does when him and my da are into wan. Stop it.
They look at each other for a bit longer. Danny leans back in his chair. Then Julian.
I look round and see the B&B guy still there. I don’t think he’s noticed anything. I didny know his name was Abensur either. What kind of coffee d’you want? I says to Julian.
Black. Americano, he says. Large.
Mother’s little helper, Danny says.
Mr Abensur smiles at me when I come over. He’s ayeways smilin. And when I says what I want and point to Julian, he looks delighted. He fits a thing like an ice-cream scoop onto the coffee grinder and pulls a lever three times. He undoes it and twists it onto his shiny machine. The smell of coffee wafts up again. Then he takes this like bowl and puts it under the nozzle, presses the red button and the coffee starts to trickle out. When it stops he takes the bowl and holds it under the hot water bit, presses a button. It hisses and steams and the bowl’s full of black black coffee.
I take it over, the guy says. No handles. Hot.
I follow him to the table and he sets the bowl of coffee carefully in front of Julian.
Grazie, signor, Julian says. É molto gentile.
The guy’s eyebrows go up at the Italian. Prego, he says.
I think he would’ve stayed and spoke more, but Julian pulls the cuffs of his shirt down over his hands, cups them round the bowl and lifts it up to his face. He takes a slurp and then keeps the bowl up at his chin, props his elbows on the table and looks out the window. Mr Abensur turns to go.
Grazie, signor, I says, and he flashes a smile at me as he walks away. Prego, signorina.
Oooh! Danny holds one finger up to his cheek and makes his mouth into a poncy oh. We all speaka da lingo now, do we? I don’t know why he’s bein a prick. Julian pays no attention. He keeps his eyes on the street and takes a sip of his coffee now and again.
I’m fed up with this. I want to get out and do something. I says, Is anybody goin out before the demo starts? I would like to see the shops an that.
Shops! Danny says. Shops! You’re in Florence for two days and you want to see the shops? Away tay fuck.
Well, I don’t know what else to go and see. And I’m no seein nothin sittin here listenin to your crap, am I? I’m goin back upstairs to get the guidebook.
L’Accademia’s near here, Julian says. Would you like to go there? He looks at me with they blue eyes again.
What’s L’Accademia?
Ah… it’s where David is.
David?
Yeah, Michelangelo’s David? You know?
Aye, alright, I says.
Well, Laetitia and me’s goin to the Duomo, Danny says. He gets up and pushes his chair in. See you back here at two.
Julian watches him goin, then he turns to me. Clare… he says. He’s lookin down at his coffee. I think he’s goin to say somethin about last night and I can feel my heart thumpin. But he just gets up and says, Let’s go.
The outside of the building doesny look like an art gallery; there’s just a door straight onto the street round the corner fae the B&B. Julian pushes it open. I’m right behind him and catch a whiff of his dreads. I wonder how he washes them. I wonder if he’s washed off the snot. There’s a woman in a glass kiosk inside the door. Julian hands over some euros and gets two tickets; stuffs them in the pocket of his combat jacket.
The gallery’s got a big high ceilin and there’s like statues all round the walls. One a them’s got one arm behind him, twisted up his back and the other one coverin his face. His feet are still buried and his prick’s been knocked off. He looks like he’s pure stuck in the stone.
Another one is sorta sittin in the stone and he’s holdin this big block where his head should be. And then there’s one wae a beard and bands round his legs. The muscles on his chest look deadead real. His arm’s up over his head like the other one.
Quattro Prigioni, Julian says. No prizes for guessing what that means. He’s lookin at the guidebook, then he looks up at me.
I don’t know what it means, I says, but they look kinda trapped to me. They look like they’re tryin to pull theirsels out the stone. It’s excitin… and… dead sad.
Spot on, Julian says. They’re slaves or prisoners. That one’s ‘Lo schiavo barbuto’, the bearded slave. That’s ‘Lo schiavo giovane’, the young slave; and that’s… that poor sod’s Atlas with the whole world on top of him.
You should’ve been a teacher, I says to him. He sounds like a teacher sometimes. Makes me feel like a wean. And what’s this one? I says. I point to one that looks like he’s lyin in a bed, except he’s standin up, stretchin.
That’s ‘Lo schiavo che si ridesta’, the Awakening Slave.
If he lay back down, the stone would fold over him again and cover him up.
And there he is… ‘the ugliest masterpiece of Western sculpture’… according to the guidebook. Julian points at the huge statue at the end a the gallery. The David. I look up at it. And then I look back at the slaves. It’s like… that’s it … if you manage to get out the stone… you… you can… he’s so amazin… I don’t care what the guidebook says. You’ve saw him so many times before on like postcards and different things, you wouldny think it would be a surprise. But it is. He’s so big. And still. He’s got that frown on his forehead and his eyes are lookin into the distance, as if he can see for miles… Through the walls of the gallery. Over the city. Right across the fields and the mountains… I feel my eyes pricklin.
… Clare. Clare? You still with us?
What?
I was saying, look at the size of his hands… compared to his dick, Julian says.
What? Oh… yeah. He’s… amazin.
That’s not what I said.
What? Julian’s startin to annoy me. I wish he would leave me alone.
Come on, space cadet, what planet you on? Julian comes right round in front of me, takes both my hands and stares at me. Why, I do believe you’re crying. And for that great adolescent lump of marble too. But he puts his hands up to my cheeks and thumbs away the tears. Then he slides them down to my mouth and I can taste the salt on them.
Clare. He pulls my head towards him and kisses me on the forehead. His dreads all fall forward and cover both our faces. Like hidin under a tree when you were wee. Come on, he says, dead soft. Let’s take a closer look.
Julian takes my hand and we walk towards him. David. He grows bigger the nearer we get. The floor is dark polished wood. Light from the high windows is lyin in squinty squares on it, crisscrossed with the shadows of the wooden frames. There’s hardly anybody else there. Just a guy and a woman walkin about arm in arm. He’s got silver hair – no grey, silver – and a long sort a mac. He looks dead classy. She’s got blonde hair and a mac too and her hand’s in a leather glove peepin through at the crook of his elbow. They look like they’re going thegether, even though they must be pretty ancient. Older than my ma and da. We walk past them. The man covers the woman’s hand with his and looks into her face, smilin.
Do you reckon we make as handsome a couple as they do? Julian takes my hand under his arm like the guy and pats it and looks right at me and smiles. I get that feelin again low down, sharp and sweet, and my knees go wobbly. But I keep walkin.
He’s dead big, the David. When we’re right in front of him he towers over us. Well, what do you think of our boy close up? Julian says. You know Michelangelo started it when he was about my age, twenty-six, and finished it by the time he was thirty. He pulls the guidebook out his pocket. ‘Michelangelo always saw carving as a form of extraction, believing that his task was “merely to release the figure from its stone prison”.’ Hence the prigioni.
Somethin about it makes me want… to no talk. Just look.
D’you see what I mean about his hands, though? Julian says. And his prick. Should’ve kept his fig leaf on. Look – he points to a screen in the corner – there’s the interactive computer programme. Let’s have a go.
No, you’re alright. I’ll stay here. He looks at me funny. I want to see the real thing, I says. He goes off to the computer hissel. I just stand there in front of the David. And look.
*
By the time we start walkin out the gallery there’s a lot more folk in. Some a them have badges on and like berets and hats and T-shirts of Che Guevara and must be goin to the demo too. One guy is campin it up for his pal and doin a pose like the David wae his hip out and his other knee bent a wee bit. And he hangs his scarf over his shoulder like David’s sling.
Let’s get out of here, Julian says. If you’ve seen enough?
Yeah, there’s too many people now, you can’t see anythin properly.
Julian looks at me and laughs. His dreads look all happy again and dancin. Quite the culture vulture, aren’t you?
No I’m no. It’s just… I’ve never saw anything like that afore. I feel silly and my face is goin red again. I’m comin back here someday, I says.
We can hardly get by people on the pavement now, it’s got so busy. And noisy. And it’s no safe to step onto the street, cause the cars and scooters are roarin by that fast. Julian looks around at me.
What a very definite girl you are. At first I think he’s takin the piss. But he’s lookin at me dead serious. I believe you will. Come back one day, I mean. And it’s been my great privilege to accompany you on your maiden voyage.
He stops on the pavement, turns round and takes my hand. But today, come back to the hotel, he says. With me.
It sounds like an order but I know it’s really a question, cause his eyebrows are up and his eyes look a bit scared. Dead blue. But scared.
Aye alright, I says. And he smiles and starts walkin faster.
Julian’s room’s different fae ours. Only one bed. But it’s big, a double bed. The duvet’s sorta pinky orangey. Colour of a sunset. The walls are yellow. And there’s photos of the Ponte Vecchio on them. No Our Lady.
This time, Julian’s took his jacket off as soon as we come in and he flings it in the corner. He goes back to the door and turns the key. That’s us locked in. He smiles at me, then he opens the other door and goes into the toilet.
I sit on the bed but I keep my coat on. When Julian comes out, the zip of his jeans is still down and I can see his pants. He’s got a hard-on already.
Clare. He comes and stands in front of me and pulls me up by the hood of my coat. My head comes to just under his chin and his wee beard tickles my forehead. He pushes me back and takes my face in his hands.
I lick my lips. He takes my hand and puts it to his mouth. Then he bends down and kisses me on the lips… kissin and kissin me. His mouth is soft and wet. He puts his tongue between my teeth and touches my tongue. It tastes salty.
Then he steps back. Clare, he says. And he starts to take my coat off. When he’s got my arms pinned to my sides with the fur of the hood soft on my bare back, he kisses me again.
We’re gonny miss the demo. He’s holdin my face and his fingers are up the back of my head. He laughs.
No, we’ll make it. Don’t worry, I’ll get you there. And he pulls me to him and starts kissin me again, all over my face. My coat slips down my arms onto the floor. He pushes me back towards the bed so I have to sit down. Then he puts his knees on too, one either side of me and lies down on top of me so I have to lie back. I push my boots off with my toe on the heel and they clatter to the floor. Julian puts his arm round the back of my waist and hoists me further up so’s my head’s on the pillow and I’m lyin diagonal across the bed. His dreads are hangin over his face and his white pants are bulgin out the V of his zip. He takes my hand and puts it on his thing. It still feels dead weird to be doin this. I squeeze my hand in over the top of the elastic that says cK cK cK and burrow through the hair till I hold it in my hand. But he’s different this time… impatient. He jumps off the bed and hauls off his boots and socks and jeans. Then his pants. His… cock… springs back up out them when he pulls them down. He gets on the bed again and starts unzippin me and pullin hard at the waistband. I push up my hips to help him and he peels my jeans right off, inside out and flings them across the room.
Julian, wait
It’s OK. Just relax. He takes hold of my knickers and rips them down. The lace scratches me. I can hear it tearin.
Wait… Julian…
But he’s on top of me now and his dreads are coverin my face and I can’t get my hands up to push him off. He prises my legs open and next thing… he shoves into me… and I scream…
Julian, stop… you’re hurtin me.
But it’s like he can’t hear me.
Julian…
He keeps bangin it into me and bangin and bangin.
Please, Julian…
And then he lets out a groan and he shudders and falls heavy on top of me. He’s breathin fast into my ear and it feels all wet.
Oh fuck, he says. It sounds thick and muffled through my hair and his. Oh fuck.
I don’t say nothin. Just lie there. I can hardly breathe the way he’s got me pinned down. I have to just lie there.
The one picture of the Ponte Vecchio is all the traders and tourists. I have to blink to see it right. In the bottom left-hand corner there’s the edge of this stall with models of the David. They look funny. I blink again, harder. They’re too long. Skinny. The wrong white. Maybe it’s the photo. The other picture is of the bridge fae a distance, with the bits stickin out like the backs of sheds and the red roofs of the houses. The brown river runnin underneath. Different fae Glasgow.
Totally different.
Julian’s breathin quieter now, so I shift under him. He pushes himsel up on his hands with his arms straight. He’s still in me. I can’t see his face for his dreads but I get the feelin he’s smilin. I pull mysel up the bed on my elbows and I can feel his prick wee and soft slidin out of me.
Clare?
I don’t answer.
He rolls off me onto his elbow and looks at me. Are you crying? Clare?
I roll over the other way and pull myself off the bed.
Where are you going?
I pick my jeans and my knickers off the floor and go into the bathroom. It’s white too, same as ours. I lock the door. My face is pale in the mirror and my hair is stickin to the side of my head where Julian’s slavered on me. I set my clothes on the bidet and fill the basin with hot water.
Julian’s at the door. Listenin.
Clare? Clare, please talk to me. What’s the matter?
I pick up my torn knickers and dip them in the water and squeeze them.
Are you alright? Clare!
Then I wash myself down there. I’m still sore. When I look at my knickers, they’re all blood and slime. I rinse them again. The water turns pink.
Talk to me, Clare. Are you there?
I wash mysel and rinse and wash and rinse and wash and rinse. Then I pull the plug out. All the pink water swirls away.
Clare! He bangs once on the door. C’mon. What you doing? You’re scaring me.
I take one of the white towels off the chrome rail and dry between my legs and where the water’s ran down them. I hang the towel back up. There’s only a faint pink smear. I hope Mr Abensur doesny see it.
He thumps again. Harder. Clare!
I lift my jeans, put my arm down the legs and turn them the right way out. Then I step into them, pull them on and do them up. I make sure the zip doesny catch any a the hairs in my pubes.
Clare, you’re being childish. Open the door.
I pick my knickers out the basin, squeeze the water out, drop them in the pedal pin beside the sink. No. I press the pedal again with my bare foot and fish them out. It might be Mr Abensur who empties the bins. Or his wife. I squeeze them a bit more into the sink. Then I stuff them in the pocket of my jeans.
Clare, I’m going to break the door down… if you don’t talk to me… tell me what’s the matter.
I slide back the chrome bolt and open the door. Julian steps backwards. It looks like the whole room behind him is full of sun. But it’s only the yellow walls and the orange duvet.
Clare. Julian takes my hands and looks at my face. His eyes look worried. Clare, did I hurt you? I’m so sorry. Tell me, Clare. It’s just I thought…
I’m alright, I says. I walk past him and pick up my boots. Then I go to sit on the bed to put them on. There’s a stain right in the middle of the duvet. Like a big red poppy.
Oh God! I start to cry again. Look what we’ve did…
Julian sits on the bed beside me and puts his arm round my shoulder. Clare, it’s alright. I’m sorry… I didn’t realize you were… I didn’t know you hadn’t … you’d never… you know… done it before.
I told you…I told you…I told you…
Shhh, Clare, shhh. It’s alright. I’m sorry. It’s alright.
Somebody hammers on the door. Really loud.
Julian, you there?
It’s Danny!
Time to go, man. Demo’s due to start.
I stop breathin.
Is Clare wae you?
Julian puts a finger to his mouth and squeezes my shoulder with his other hand.
Julian?
They should be back by this time, Danny says to somebody. Twisted cunt, that yin.
A woman’s voice answers. Laetitia it must be, but I don’t hear what she says. Danny gives the door one last thump. Then they go away.
Julian comes round the front of me and kneels on the floor. Forget about Danny, he says. He pulls his hand inside the sleeve of his shirt and uses it to wipe my face.
Don’t cry, Clare. Please. I’m really sorry. That was insensitive of me.
Is that what you call it? I think to myself. I’m cold. I cross my arms over my chest. Julian takes my arms and pulls them apart. Slow.
Don’t, I says.
Clare… don’t be like that. Please. He puts his hands under my oxters, stands up and pulls me up at the same time. I notice he’s got his jeans on again. He presses me to him and puts his arms round me and sorta rocks me. And sways me. Then he like starts to slow dance me round the floor. Singin.
No woman, no cry…
He kisses the top of my head.
No woman, no cry …
He combs my hair with his fingers and sings about Trenchtown and havin good friends and losin them and dryin my tears. His voice is soft. It doesny sound posh when he sings. He even looks a bit like Bob Marley, only white. He kisses my eyes.
… Everything’s gonna be alright …
He sings over my head into the bright room.
… Everything’s gonna be alright, now …
Clare, he says. The front of his jeans is hard again.
He dances me slow across to the bed, flings the duvet back and pulls me down onto the rumpled sheet. Then he reaches for the cover, tents it over our heads and kisses my mouth in the warm dark.
This time I know it’ll be OK.
When I wake up, Julian’s arm is heavy across me and his face is at the top of my head, blowin my hair when he breathes out. It’s nearly dark in the room. The sky at the window is a deep kinda mauvey blue. I lift my feet up under the duvet to let some air in. The cold makes me feel the wet between my legs. I get embarrassed even in the dark thinkin about Julian’s face there, me holdin on to his dreads with both hands. When he’s came back up, he says, Am I forgiven then? And his face is all shiny with slavers and like… my juice. He makes me laugh; he reminds me of my aunt Patsy’s big daft dog just out the sea at Helensburgh wae a stick. He says, Here, taste yourself… He kisses me and puts his tongue right in. And I think maybe I can taste me, mixed in with the tobacco and his own salty taste. And when he’s came into me again, it’s totally different. It’s so warm under the cover and he’s movin slow and his tongue’s in my mouth… I don’t remember now who’s fell asleep first.
I pull my hand out fae under the duvet and look at my watch: four o’clock.
Julian. I lift his arm off me and sit up. He says somethin in his sleep I canny make out. Julian. I shake his shoulder. He turns slow onto his back. His hair’s all over the pillow. Then he opens his eyes. I can see the whites of them sorta gleamin in the half-light in the room. He looks a bit creepy. I swing my legs out fae under the duvet and run with my bare feet on the cold marbly floor to the light switch beside the door. The light’s as bright as sunshine and the yellow room is there again. Julian squints in the sudden glare but his eyes are back to normal. He’s watchin me. I put my arm across my boobs and my other hand over my pubes and go back to the bed.
He laughs, You can’t hide from me now; I know you inside out. His eyes are blue and I get that funny feelin again.
Pass me my jacket, will you? Julian says, and points. It’s crumpled in the corner where he’s flung it. I feel him watchin me when I go over to get it. I try to imagine what he’s seein but I can’t. He’s lookin at me fae an angle I’ve never even saw mysel. Nobody has. Except when I was a wean. I hold the cold jacket in front of me when I go back to the bed. It smells of Julian. The metal buttons make wee burny-cold spots down my belly. I hold it out to Julian and he takes it from me and pulls me down beside him at the same time.
Are we gonny go to the demo? Close up, his eyes have got wee violety flecks and a few gold ones, and the really really blue bits are round the edges.
Do you want to? He’s took his tobacco out his pocket and he’s smoothin out a Rizla.
My da’ll kill me if don’t.
He laughs and takes a big pinch of tobacco out the pouch and sprinkles it slow and even along the paper. Some wee brown strands fall onto the duvet and he picks them up and rubs them off his fingers into the green packet.
Sure, we’ll go. I promised I’d get you there, didn’t I? His hands are the only bit of him that’s no dead white; they’ve got some sun on the backs and gold hairs, and the fingers are stained with nicotine.
Aye, but … when? It’ll be all over if we don’t go now.
He starts to roll the fag, foldin the thin paper over careful, then workin it between his fingers till it’s closed over the tobacco.
Soon… when I’ve had a smoke. He lifts the cigarette to his mouth and licks the edge of the Rizla, sticks it down. He fishes out a clear turquoise lighter and flicks the flame under the roll-up, narrows his eyes and takes a long draw. He clocks me watchin him.
Would you like a drag? He holds out the roll-up like it’s one a they spliffs.
No, you’re alright. I don’t smoke.
What a good little girl you are. He takes his fag back and takes a deep draw. Why’s he sayin that? After what we’ve just been doin? Nobody in our house smokes – no even Danny. My da’s dead against it. Says he watched my granda cough hissel to death at the age of fifty-two.
The stain on the duvet is dried now. It’s turned more a sorta browny-pink. The colour of Laetitia’s lipstick nearly.
What we gonny do about that? I says.
Nothing.
Nothin?
Not a thing.
But —
Clare, this is a hotel; there are people to do the washing. That’s what we pay for. He sounds annoyed.
OK… Are you mad at me?
Of course not.
It’s just… you sound mad.
He sighs out a big cloud of smoke. Well, I’m not. Come on. He nips the end of his roll-up and tosses it in the bin. Then he jumps out the bed. His prick’s smooth and kinda long and a bit red. But no hard. No wee and wrinkled either. I wonder if it’s on the way up or down. He goes into the bathroom and I hear him peein. When he comes out, it looks smaller again. I’ve no saw it lookin the same way twice.
Right, let’s go, he says. And he starts pickin up his clothes off the floor.
It’s funny how you can be dead close to somebody, then it’s like you don’t even know them.
It’s no completely dark when we come out the B&B, but it’s gettin there. There’s still a few light silvery streaks in the sky.
How will we know where to go? I says. Julian’s holdin my hand and his fingers are cold. He’s got the collar of his combat jacket up.
We’ll find it. Trust me. He starts walkin in the same direction as l’Accademia. It feels like a week at least fae we came along here before. The big door of the gallery’s shut now and the windows are black. Julian is walkin faster and I’m kinda half runnin to keep up. He doesny look at the place. Funny to think of the David in there, gazin into the distance in the dark, his body all white and still. And the slaves strugglin, strugglin out the stone for ever.
We start goin across a big square wae a church at one side and a statue in the middle. It’s dead quiet for a Saturday. Maybe everybody’s went to the demo. Then we go through some more narrow cobbled streets. Some of the shops have big planks of wood bolted across their windows. They’re all closed.
Are the shops always shut like this on a Saturday? Even though he’s holdin my hand, Julian seems awful far away.
What?
The shops?
Not sure. Think perhaps it’s the manifestazione.
The what?
That’s what the Italians call the demonstration. La manifestazione. Manifestation. See. He points to a notice on the dark red door of a ristorante : Chiuso per la manifestazione. Closed for the demonstration. Bastards.
Why?
Don’t want the riffraff of Europe coming into their nice clean restaurant.
Maybe they’ve went to the demo theirsels and that’s how they’ve closed it. I think this might make Julian laugh, but he says nothin and just starts walkin faster again.
We cross another wee square, this time wae trees round it. Some of the leaves have fell onto the street and they swish under our feet. They’re different fae the ones in Glasgow. More like old paper. No soakin wet or dry and crumbly like in the park at home. I wish Julian would say somethin.
What kind a trees are they?
Dunno. He’s lookin straight ahead and doesny even glance at them.
Only the leaves are different fae in Glasgow.
I don’t know, Clare. A tree is a tree is a tree. D’you want to make the demo or not?
I don’t say nothin. The next street we come to has leaflets and streamers and things in among the leaves.
Well, here’s where they started from, going by the evidence at our feet. He bends down and picks up a yellow leaflet with black writin. It seems to be all in Italian.
So, I guess we just follow the paper trail. He looks at me for the first time for ages and I remember when I first seen him standin in George Square and wondered who he was.
Alright? he says. I nod my head and he starts off walkin fast again.
It’s like there really is a paper trail. First it’s just leaflets and the odd placard wae a broken stick. But then we come to a bit where the road’s wider and there’s signs to different towns – Pisa, Bologna, Roma – and we’re out of the centre of Florence. There’s no old houses here; just modern flats. Concrete boxes for the masses, my da would say. And all over the road there’s hunners a wee bits of paper scattered, all different colours. A few of the flats have posters and banners hangin out the windows. I can see right into some a them where the light’s on. There’s this one… a young guy with a bare chest is dancin round the room hissel. He sorta boogies over to the window and looks out. Then a dark-haired girl comes up behind him and puts her arms round his waist and her cheek against his shoulder. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I look at Julian and I’m gonny say somethin, but his eyes are far away.
A couple a guys and a lassie are walkin towards us. It looks like they could a been on the march by the style of them. Jeans and T-shirts, green jackets and coloured scarfs. The lassie has on a red and yellow stripy jumper and a floppy rainbow hat.
Buon giorno, Julian says. La manifestazione? They look at each other, then start to talk dead slow in Italian and point the way they’ve came.
Ah, American? Julian says. Hi.
They smile and say, Hi, like it’s a big relief. Yeah, just keep right on along this road, then it’s on your left? You can’t miss it. It’s enor mous. Bigger’n any we’ve seen in the States.
The girl with the hat holds her arms out wide and opens her eyes like she’s surprised.
Yeah, one of the guys says, we sure would like to stay for the party, but we’re booked into Venice tonight, so we gotta go get the train.
Venice is beautiful… a one-off … you’ll love it, Julian says. He’s smilin straight at the lassie. Maybe it’s just me he doesny want to talk to.
Your dreadlocks are real cool, she says. I would just love to have locks, but my mom would go crazy.
I’m sure your hair is much too pretty as it is, Julian says. Enjoy your trip. Ciao.
Yeah, ciao, they all say. And Julian puts his arm round my shoulder and starts walkin again. I look back and the lassie’s between the two guys, lookin over her shoulder at Julian. I’m glad his arm’s round me.
So, just along here and to the left… appropriately enough, Julian says.
They were nice, I says.
What, those guys? A bunch of Yanks playing politics while they do the Grand Tour of Europe. I move in closer to his side and press my face into the cold, smooth cloth of his combat jacket.
Hear that? Julian says.
What? I pull my head away from his side. There’s a noise like a concert with like music and drums and people shoutin. Is that it? I says.
That’s it. The reason you came all the way to Florence from bonny Scotland. He says it in this kid-on Scottish accent, the way American actors do in films. Florrr-ence. Scoat-land.
Oh, reh-ally? I says. And at least he looks at me. Even if he doesny crack a light. We walk along the road, shufflin through all the wee bits a paper in the direction of the music and shoutin.
The next street we turn into, there it’s there. The noise! It pure hits me. And the amount of people. Thousands. The whole road’s filled fae side to side right up against the buildins. There’s a van wae a loudspeaker blarin out songs and there’s guys dancin around it. It’s movin dead slow. The folk in front are holdin up their banners and shoutin and chantin. An old guy is leanin out his window, givin water to some of the marchers and there’s folk at loads a windows up above throwin the wee bits of paper. They float down silver in the lights from the houses, but when they fall they’re just bits of newspaper and stuff.
Christ, what a bottleneck! Julian says, and takes my hand. Let’s see if we can get a bit further along the column. I hate being at the end of a march; the interesting stuff’s at the front. The vanguard.
He starts walkin and pullin me past the end of the road wae the demo, into the next street. It’s like he’s decided to be nice to me again. Or maybe he’s just excited to be here at last. I have to nearly run to keep up. In the distance I can see the marchers walkin past the far end of the road with red banners and yellow placards. It must a looked amazin in the daylight at the start.
When we reach the end of the road and come into the side of the demo, it’s the noise that hits me again. Mental. There’s more space but, and Julian pulls me into the middle of the row in front of a guy with a placard he must a drew hissel wae BUSH, BLAIR E BERLUSCONI: TERRORISTI! in big red letters. I canny make out a word of what they’re shoutin. A lassie dressed in green wae a face tae match and wild curly hair is walkin backwards in front of another lassie, paintin a green CND sign on her face. When she clocks me watchin, she holds up the crayon and lifts her eyebrows. She’s even got green eyes! I look at Julian and shake my head. He’s pullin hissel up, cranin to see over the folk in front. The lassie shrugs her shoulders and pulls her mouth down at the corners. Then she smiles at me and moves on to the next person. She’s got a dead nice smile.
Julian tugs at my hand, Come on, he shouts, see if we can find the Glasgow contingent. He pulls me out the line round the back of the green lassie, paintin a sunflower on a young guy’s face. On her rucksack she’s got badges and a wee placard stickin out the top that says: DIE GRUÜNEN.
We get onto the pavement, but it’s quite narrow and hard to get by folk at first. I hold on tight to Julian’s hand. He’s goin, Scusi, scusi, and squeezin past folk. Just as well everybody’s in a good mood; they’re all singin and chantin and shoutin and hardly notice us. Eventually we get goin a bit faster. Most of the time you can just see folks’ backs and the backs of their banners. I would like to look at them but I’m scared to turn too often in case I lose Julian. He’s tall but, so at least his dreads would be flyin over the heads of maist of the crowd.
At the end of this road, we turn into another one that slopes down a wee bit. The march goes right to the bottom and away on by. I don’t see how we’re ever goin to find Danny and them. I’ve never saw so many folk – no even at Celtic Park, when my da used to take me and I had to hold on tight to his hand and all I could see was legs and the bottoms of anoraks till he picked me up. And then all his pals would speak to me and smile and sometimes kiss me with their beery mouths. I’ve still got the scarf one of them gave us. I never told my da I didny like goin.
We pass a line of guys with red T-shirts and black berets. I look back at them. One of them was at l’Accademia this morning posin like the David. I smile at him but he looks right through me. When I was wee I used to think it was terrible there was so many people in the world you would never know.
There’s a big section next that looks like trade unions. They’ve got dead professional-lookin banners and official printed placards. At first I think it’s all in Spanish, but it isny.
Must be Portuguese. Or maybe Catalan. No the kind I’ve learnt anyway. They’re about my da’s age, a lot of them, and they look a wee bit like him too. The style a them. They’re a lot quieter. One a them winks at me and I give him a smile in the passin. Julian’s no slowed down one bit. He’s on a mission. My hand’s sore where he’s grippin it tight, but I’m glad he is. If he let go and disappeared I don’t know what I would do. I would like to stop sometimes and see what it’s like at one bit of the demo, but in a way, it’s quite excitin leggin it down the side, past all the different kinds a folk and the colours and the noise and all the different songs.
In front of the trade unionists there’s a funny wee group. I look over my shoulder at them. Julian, I says, here’s some English banners. He doesny hear me at first. Julian, wait, I shout louder. He turns and slows down a bit. Look, there’s some banners in English here. Julian looks. His face is hard and set.
Don’t tell me you want to stay with this lot, Clare.
Shh, I says. They must have heard him. But I think they’re a good laugh. FAIRIES AGAINST THE WAR, the banner says in spidery writin, with pictures of fairies and elves all over it. The lassie nearest me is wearin white tights and big rainbow Docs with the laces undone; and a pink and white net tutu with a big green jumper on top. She’s carryin a tray with like, fairy cakes wae pink and white icing. And she’s got on a paper tiara with letters made out of purple sequins that says, Tinkerbell. Hangin fae her tray there’s a notice: MAKE CAKES, NOT BOMBS. She smiles at me and holds out the tray.
Would you like a cake?
Thanks, I say, and I take a pink one. Her tray’s held on round her neck with a ribbon and she’s got fingerless red gloves on. Did you make them?
Yeah, she says, me and Milly. She points her tray at the lassie walkin beside her. Hi, Milly says. She’s wee and fat and she’s dressed in a floaty yellow and green nylon skirt wae a combat jacket on top and a big badge that says: FLOWER FAIRIES FIGHT FASCISM.
We made them at my mother’s in London and brought them on the bus in a fridge box. Pretty cool, hey? This is the last of them. Would your friend like one? Milly’s cakes are green and yellow; she holds out her tray to Julian, but he just looks at her. I can see Milly’s face goin pink even though it’s quite dark now.
I’ll have one, I says. Thanks. I’ve got to go. I’m lookin for my brother.
Well, good luck in this mob, Milly says.
Thanks. And thanks for the cakes. I walk closer to Julian. I’ve got baith the cakes sittin in my right hand in their crinkly paper cases and we’re walkin too fast for me to eat them. There’s more folk throwin the confetti stuff fae their windows, clappin and cheerin the march.
Julian, stop a minute. What am I gonny do wae the cakes?
Would you really like me to tell you? he says. He’s smilin, but. Come on, there’s a mere five hundred thousand demonstrators to get past yet. I’m glad he’s in a good mood again. I let go his hand for a minute and stick the two buns thegether by the pink and yellow icing, then stuff them in my pocket. I have a quick keek back at Milly and Tinkerbell, but they’re singing a song and ringin wee bells alang wae it. I lick my fingers and grab Julian’s hand. He turns and looks at me.
D’you really think we’re gonny find Danny and Laetitia?
Stranger things have happened. But I’d say the odds are a bit on the long side. He laughs. You’ve got pink icing on your face, incidentally. I lick my fingers again and rub at my cheek. You ought to watch what you eat, you know; never can be sure what might be lurking in an anarchist’s cake.
It’s a fairy cake, I says. It’s the colour of the icing gives you the clue. But I don’t think he’s heard me. He’s away like the clappers again down the side of the demo, weavin past lampposts and marchers takin a break and a wee woman with a dog goin even slower than the demo.
We must be gettin near the front of the march by this time; I feel as if I’ve walked miles. We’re in a more open bit again, a wider road. There’s a guy on top of some sorta kiosk – un tabaccaio, it’s called – holdin his banner above his head like a football scarf, swayin it fae side to side and singin. I should’ve taen a camera, but I didny think. There’s more room here, so I’m walkin beside Julian. He’s still no really talkin to me – like he’s no that bothered if I’m there or no. He’s goin slower but, and we’re walkin with a group that’s got drums and maracas things and they’re dancin round to the rhythm. If Julian wasny here I would join in; I don’t think he’s in the mood.
There’s a big grassy bank wae a railing along and a lot of folk are sittin down there.
That must be the river, Julian says.
It’s completely dark now and I canny see any river. What, the Arno? I says. The one the Ponte Vecchio’s on?
It’s the only river that runs through Florence. Want to take a break? We’ve seen what there is of the action. Not much more to see.
Yeah, alright. We leave the dancin drummers and cross to the grassy bit. Some folk have spread their coats out and are sittin drinkin out a bottles a wine. Right enough, it doesny feel as cold, but I don’t fancy sittin there; it’s covered in dowts and I can see at least one lump a dog shite.
It’s Danny that clocks me first. I hear his voice comin out the darkness.
Clare! Clare! Where the fuck have you been?
I look round and he’s standin up fae among the folk drinkin. He’s got a bottle in his hand and he looks mad.
Danny. We’ve been lookin for you.
Where’s Julian?
He’s here. I turn round and for a minute I canny see him. But he’s kneelin down talkin to somebody. Over there, see?
I’ve been worried about you all day. Somebody else stands up and moves into the light fae the streetlamp. Laetitia.
Hi, Laetitia.
She doesny smile back. Her face is dead serious. Hello, Clare. We’ve been sitting here trying to figure out how exactly we would go about finding a missing girl in a city hosting an extra – what? – eight hundred thousand plus for the Social Forum.
Well, I’m here now, I says. I look round, but Julian’s still hunkered down talkin. Danny’s dead mad, but he doesny come near me. He takes a long slug of wine. I don’t know what else to say.
Is that how many people’s on the demo? Eight hundred thousand? That’s amazin. I bet my da would a loved it.
Loved what?
I turn round and Julian’s behind me. His dreads look orange under the streetlights. Hi, guys, he says. Now this is amazing. I just said to Clare that the chances of us actually finding you in this crowd were pretty thin. But here you are. Should’ve bought a lottery ticket today, eh? He makes a kinda oh-wellnever-mind face and shrugs his shoulders.
Where’ve you been? Danny says. His face goes dead dark when he’s mad, wae his black eyebrows pulled thegether and his black hair. Why were you no back at the B&B at two o’clock like we said?
What’s this, the third degree? Julian says. He’s startin to sound a bit narked.
We were worried, Laetitia says. Clare’s only sixteen. Danny’s supposed to be looking after her. He promised his father.
Well, isn’t that sweet? Danny and Laetitia in loco parentis.
As you can see, Clare is absolutely fine. She’s been with me.
We went to see the David, I says.
Yeah, Clare’s first naked man, wasn’t he, Clare?
And the prisoners breakin out the stone theirsels.
What the fuck you talkin about? Danny says. I’ve got a feelin he’s gonny be in a bad mood for the rest of the night.
Michelangelo’s Prisoners. They look like they’re tryin to escape fae the stone.
Danny takes another slug from the bottle. Some of the people round about are gettin up, shakin out their coats and startin to leave.
Look, let’s go somewhere more comfortable, Laetitia says. She still hasny smiled. She pulls her fingers back through her hair. A bunch of the guys are heading to town to Dino’s on Via Cavour. They’ve booked tables. She bends down for her jacket. OK?
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute Saloon… Julian says, and punches the air.
Naybody laughs. I’m glad Laetitia’s here. Wae Danny in that mood, you don’t know what might happen. I start to breathe normal again. I’m no lookin forward to the walk into town, but.
I wouldny’ve even noticed the place. It’s on a dark bit of the street. From the outside it looks like an ordinary house or a close maybe. Laetitia pushes open the door and goes in first. There’s another door inside with the top half glass.
Here we are – Dino’s. Cheap and cheerful, she says. Authentic Italian. She holds out her arms and turns to the rest of us.
I take a look round. It’s a bit of a dive, if you ask me. Kinda like a cave, with an arched entrance and a curved ceiling. The walls are dark wood up to shoulder height and then it’s a sorta yellowy plaster above, covered in dunts and dirty marks. The tablecloths are white paper and this time there’s no candles on them. Only on the walls in kinda metal brackets. It’s hard to make out the faces sittin round the tables at the back.
Great, Julian says. Fasta, fasta, bring on the pasta!
Where’d you like to sit? Laetitia says to Danny. He’s no said hardly a word on the way back.
He shrugs his shoulders, I’m no bothered. Anywhere. This’ll dae. And he sits down and plonks his half-empty bottle on the nearest table. Laetitia pulls out the seat beside him and hangs her jacket on the back.
Right, I’m off to the loo first, she says. Want to come and help me find it, Clare?
She sorta looks right at me. So I goes, Yeah, OK. I put my hands in the pockets of my coat and I follow her out. That’s when I realize the fairy cakes are still there. I pull them out. Laetitia holds open the door of the Ladies for me.
What on earth is that?
Fairy cakes. I got them off a couple a lassies on the demo. Would you like one? They’re a bit squashed. I’m only really sayin it for somethin to say, so I’m surprised when Laetitia says, Sure, go on then, I’ll have one. I pull them apart. Most of the yellow icing has stuck to the pink. I hold out that one to Laetitia and go to eat the one with no icing mysel.
She leans her bum against a basin, picks a crumb of icing off the cake and puts it on her tongue. What were you playing at, Clare?
What d’you mean? I’ve got maist of my cake in my mouth now and it’s stickin to the roof. I feel like gaggin.
Oh, I think you know what I mean.
Honest, I don’t. My voice sounds thick with the cake.
She turns and stares at me. Her dark eyes are lookin right into mine. I can see mysel in the mirror above the basin; my face is dead white.
I think I’m gonny be sick, I says. I push open the door of one of the cubicles and lock it behind me. The lavvy’s stinkin. I bend over it and stick two fingers in my mouth to scrape the claggy cake off the roof. I throw the stuff in the pan and shake my hand. Then I’m retchin and retchin but there’s nothin much to come up, just clear liquid and a few crumbs of cake. I chuck the crumbled bun case in on top and pull the flush.
Clare, are you alright? She sounds anxious. I put down the seat and sit on it.
Yeah, I’m OK. I just need a minute.
Are you sure? Why don’t you come and sit in the restaurant?
In a minute.
Look, you’ve got me worried now. Please come out. I wish she would leave me alone and go back in with the rest of them.
Clare, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. It’s just you gave us such a scare.
OK, OK. I’m comin. I get up slow and open the door. She’s standin waitin for me. I’ll just give my face a wash. She moves to the side so I can get to the basin. I don’t look at her. I run the cold water and splash my face and drink some from my hand. It tastes different fae Glasgow water. I dry my face on the towel, then my hands.
I’ll be fine now. Let’s go back through.
Right. Great. She sounds kinda cool with me, but she follows me out the Ladies, back to the table.
Julian looks up, I don’t know what you girls find to talk about for so long in the loo.
Clare’s been sick.
He looks at me.
I think it was the cake she ate.
I warned you about that. Julian sounds as if he’s pretendin to be annoyed. Never trust an anarchist as far as you can throw their poxy cakes.
Oh, for Christsake, Laetitia says. Do you have to make a political point out of every fucking thing, Julian? It was a cake. End of story.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought it was you feminists who tried to sell the idea that the personal is political? He seems to be enjoyin hissel. His eyebrows are arched, lookin at Laetitia, and he’s got a daft smile on his face. Certainly the fairies who made them seem to think baking buns is a political act? Bake cakes, not bombs! Wasn’t that their slogan, Clare?
Laetitia pays no attention and sits down beside Danny. He’s got his elbows on the table and a stubby glass of red wine in his hands and he’s starin into it. I don’t know where to sit. The place is fillin up now and it looks like everybody comin through the door is fae the demo.
Julian pats the chair beside him, Come on, Clare, sit down. Tell us what it was about the cake made you sick. The politics or the baking? I sit beside him but I don’t say anythin. Laetitia’s opposite me and she’s reachin for an ashtray fae along the table. She takes out her lighter, clicks a flame to the roll-up in her mouth and draws on it deep. Her face is lit up for a minute and you realize how dark it is in here. The candles on the walls make big shadows that flicker across the arched ceiling when folk go past.
Leave it, Julian, she says, and the smoke comes out her mouth with every word. You’ve had your fun. Let Clare be.
OK, Mummy, I promise to be good. He’s talkin in a wee boy voice. Like Christopher Robin or somebody. Danny draws him a black look but doesny say nothin. I’m wonderin if I could find my own way back to Mr Abensur’s fae here.
The waiter’s takin orders at the next table, so I pick up the menu fae between the salt and pepper. This time I’m makin sure I get a pizza.
You alright to eat? Laetitia says. She looks concerned and she even smiles at me.
Yeah, I’m fine now. I’ll have a pizza wae ham, tomato, onion and mozzarella. I pass the menu to Laetitia.
Pizza. What a good idea. I’ll have a pepperoni one. And I’m going to have a side salad too. Insalata mista, per favore. And a glass of red wine… or three. I’m starving. The waiter comes over and Laetitia gives him our order. What about you guys? she says to Danny and Julian.
They both reach for the menu at the same time but Danny lets Julian take it and says to Laetitia dead low, I’ll have the same as you.
Oh, well, Julian says, I see I’m in a minority again. He looks up at the waiter, Can I have today’s special? And wine, of course. Una bottiglia di vino rosso, per favore.
Il piatto del giorno? E un litro di vino rosso? Sì, signore. Bene. The waiter writes it down in his notebook at the same time as he’s walkin away.
You don’t even know what it is, Julian. Could be something ghastly. Laetitia blows her smoke straight up. And expensive.
Hey, what’s with this parental thing you’ve developed in the course of the day? Don’t let it become a habit, will you? You’ll turn into your mother before you know where you are.
Leave my mother out of this. Laetitia looks angry. Maybe she doesny get on wae her mother. Pour us a glass of that wine, will you, Danny? He pushes the bottle he’s been drinkin on the demo across the paper tablecloth towards her. There’s a pink ring where it’s been standin. She waits for a second or two and looks at him. Then she picks it up and pours it hersel into one a the chubby glasses.
Clare, would you like some?
I wouldny mind. Thanks. I hold a glass up to her and she pours. For a wee minute it catches the light fae the candles and looks like a ruby. Cheers, I says.
Cheers, yourself. I’m glad you’re safe and sound, Clare.
None for me? Julian says.
Help yourself. Laetitia pushes the bottle across to him.
More wine for the son of Poseidon, he says. He pours hissel a glass and takes a good slug. So, Danny boy, how was it for you?
Danny just looks at him.
The demo. The demo, dear boy. Julian leans across the table. Did you think I meant country matters?
Fuck off !
Julian, cut it out, Laetitia says.
Yeah, yeah… tears before bedtime. Send for nanny, dahling. Julian pulls his dreads up into a kinda bun on top of his head and sucks in his cheeks. What a spoilsport you are. He sits back, shakes out his hair and sips his drink. Then he starts up again, We met these Americans, didn’t we, Clare, doing the Grand Tour of Europe?
Aye, one a them wanted dreads like Julian. A lassie. I think she fancied him.
Oh, shucks… moi ? He points to hissel wae his head on one side. Who is gonna fancy liddle ol’ me?
Cut it out, Jules, Laetitia says.
Shore thing, Lou. Just say the word. He kids on he’s zippin his lips thegether. Only the company’s a tad on the quiet side tonight, don’t you think?
I look round the restaurant. Right enough, it is quiet; maybe everybody’s a bit knackered. And hungry. A boy comes past fae the toilet and a guy at the next table clatters his chair back and stands up. He flings out his arms and shouts, I am Spartacus. I get a fright, it’s so loud. More guys get up – I am Spartacus… I am Spartacus… I am Spartacus… all round the restaurant. Then I see the boy’s got it on his T-shirt: I AM SPARTACUS.
Laetitia rolls her eyes, Quiet, did you say?
What’s that mean? I says to her.
Just a boys’ joke. Pay no attention.
The waiter comes runnin. Signori, signori. Please sit down. No trouble, please.
Danny’s perked up a bit. He gets to his feet, C’mon, guys. Nay trouble, ih? Ambassadors fur Glesca an aw that. You can see his face better in the light of the candles and he’s no got the knitted brows any more.
Somebody shouts, Away and wank, Kilkenny; we wereny doin nothin.
Danny starts to move across to the guy, but Laetitia’s put her hand on his arm. Leave it, Danny. Leave it.
He shakes her hand off, but he sits down. Fuck the lot a them, he says.
Who is Spartacus anyway? I says. But naybody’s payin attention. I look at Julian. He’s starin at Laetitia and Laetitia’s lookin everywhere else except at him.
I’m away to the toilet, I says, and I pick up my bag. Laetitia’s gazin at the end of her roll-up and she doesny look up. I shove my chair back and get up to go. The place is hoachin now and I have to squeeze past chairs and tables to get to the Ladies. I look back at our table before I push the door open. The three of them are all still sittin there no talkin. Some night this is turnin out to be.
There’s two lassies already in. They’re standin smokin and flickin their ash into the basins.
No, one a them’s sayin, no I couldny find him. He was with us when we set off. Last time I seen him he was tryin out his Italian on this raven-haired signorina, as he called her. Bastard! They turn their heads to me and smile, Here’s another redhead. Hi, there. Us redheads and brunettes must stick together.
Aye, right, I says.
And naebody better tell us we’re ginger or mousy.
I look at them again. The brown-haired one’s got red eyes, like she’s been cryin. No, I says. I push open the door of a cubicle. It’s no as smelly in here as the one I was sick in.
Too young to understand, one of them whispers.
Fuck off, I think to mysel. I lock the door, pull down my jeans and sit on the pan. It’s wooden and it feels kinda warm. Like somebody’s just got off it. That’s when I notice it. On the crotch of my jeans. Blood. I can’t still be bleedin. That’s no supposed to happen. It’s no what Mrs Redfern says, anyway, in the sex education class we got. And then it dawns on me. It’s my period’s started. I should’ve knew it was comin cause of the coldsore. I nearly always get a coldsore afore my period. In the winter anyhow. I should a remembered. I tear off plenty of bog roll and wipe mysel. It’s definitely my period. I look through my bag. I’ve no got any pads. The pink tiles on the sides of the cubicle have black cracks runnin through them and there’s graffiti on the back of the door. A few fucks, but mainly Italian. I canny read it. Even if I did have a pad, I’ve got nothin to keep it on wae. Then I remember my knickers. I pull them out my jeans pockets. They’re crumpled in a wee ball and a bit damp but they’ll have to do.
The lassies outside the door are still talkin, only they’re runnin the water, so I can’t hear what they’re sayin.
Hey, scuse me, I says. You feel dead stupid tryin to talk to somebody you don’t know when you’re sittin on the pan. Scuse me, I say it louder. Do any a yous have a sanitary pad? Please?
Sorry I didn’t catch that. What did you say? The water stops.
A sanitary towel. Any a yous got one you could gie me? My period’s just started. I’ve no got any.
Oh God, you poor thing. Know the feeling. Here will this do? No pads, sorry. And a tampon appears over the top of the door. I can see the light shinin on the Cellophane between the lassie’s red nails.
Cheers, I say. Thanks. I stand up wae my jeans round my ankles and reach up for it. Blood runs down the inside of my thighs. That’s great, thanks.
In fact here, have the packet; mine’s just finished. And a wee blue and pink box slides under the door. That’ll do you till you can buy some. What is the Italian for tampons? Don’t know, the other one says. Then she says a bit louder, You’ll likely be able to pick them up in a supermarket, anyway. You’ll no need to ask for them.
Thanks, you’ve saved my life.
Don’t mention it. Been there. Got the bloody T-shirt. And they laugh. That’s us away now, love. Back into the fray. Enjoy your night.
Bye, I shout. And their voices disappear into the noise fae the restaurant.
I bend down fae the pan and pick up the box. There’s six in it. That was dead nice of the lassie. I look at the one I’m holdin. I’ve never used a tampon before. I know it’s an old wife’s tale – even my ma says that – but there was aye a rumour at school you shouldny use them when you’re a virgin. I didny fancy it anyway. Stickin something up you. I like the pads wae wings. So do a lot a the lassies at school. Different now, but. I peel the Cellophane off and drop it in the pan between my legs. The tampon’s dead wee and it slips in easy. I look at my pubes and the blue string hangin down. That’s that, then.
I stick the box in my bag, throw my knickers in on top of the blood and paper and fasten up my jeans. Then I pull the flush. The whole lot sucks away and the lavvy glugs and gurgles like it does when you put too much down. But I don’t care.
The three of them’s already eatin when I get back to the table.
Oh, there you are, Clare, Laetitia says. We started without you. Hope you don’t mind?
No, I says. I look at my place. My pizza’s no there. It’s some sorta pasta with like brown stewy stuff on top. Wae bones stickin out. I look at Julian. He’s cuttin right through the middle of a pizza wae ham and tomato.
That’s mine, I says. I didny order this… stuff. They all burst out laughin. Even Danny.
You should see your face, Clare.
Oh, the horror, the horror, Julian says, and swaps the plates round. His blue eyes are laughin at me. You mean to tell me you don’t like pappardelle alla lepre ? A Florentine speciality.
Aye, very funny, I says. And I probably would a laughed too, if I wasny nearly greetin. I sit down. I can feel my face burnin.
Och, don’t be like that, Clare, it was just a wee joke, Danny says.
Well, at least everybody’s laughin for a change, I says.
Mind Granny sayin how she would never eat rabbit? Danny says. Dirty-lookin dogs, she said, runnin about the countryside eatin rats. No mind?
Is that what that is? Rabbit?
When you were brought up in a tenement in the Gorbals, the countryside was as foreign as… here… Florence. And he waves his arm at the restaurant.
What you fucking talking about? Julian says. Half of Glasgow is seated here at these tables. He turns to me. Actually, it’s hare. Pappardelle – that’s the pasta. He lifts up a bit of wide pale pasta with the point of his knife. Alla lepre – that’s the hare; wild hare in fact. And he picks a bone wi reddish meat on out the brown sauce and sucks at it. A dribble of gravy runs down his chin. Il piatto del giorno, he says, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Right, I says. Hare. I take another look at it. It’s even more disgustin than the seashells.
First catch your hare, Laetitia says. She’s cut her whole pizza up into wee squares and she eats one at a time. Daddy used to shoot one occasionally. And he would skin it himself. My mother wouldn’t touch it till it looked like meat and not a furry animal with floppy ears. But, I’m with you, Clare. She smiles at me like she’s tryin to make me feel better. Never could eat it. Not even Mrs Beeton’s recipe for jugged hare.
Mrs Beeton? She your cook then? Did yous have a cook? Danny says.
Laetitia and Julian burst out laughin at the same time. And they’re lookin right into each other’s eyes. No, no, Laetitia says, she was a Victorian cookery writer.
Oh well, pardon me, Danny says, for no bein up on my Victorian cookery writers. He shoves a big chunk of pizza in his mouth and swills it down with a slug of wine.
I’m glad I never says nothing; I thought she might be Laetitia’s Home Eekies teacher. I pick a bit of ham off my pizza and chew it. It’s lovely ham.
Anyway, I says, my granny didny really say that about rabbits. That was just my da’s joke. Cause she was my ma’s ma.
Family apocrypha. I love it, Julian says. He’s got a wee pile a bones at the side of his plate now. I try no to think what bit of the hare they come fae. The smell of it clashes wae the pizza. Sorta like Bisto but spicier. And a kinda meaty smell I’ve never smelt afore.
Aye, she did say it. Danny speaks with a mouth full of pizza. He jabs his fork in the air. I was there. It was afore you were born. I mind my da laughin on the way hame on the bus. Eatin rats!
Mind you, I wouldn’t put it past the Scottish rabbits, Julian says. He’s pokin through the stuff on his plate, lookin for more of the meat. It looks all bones to me. Rabbitus Scotticus, he says, with a wee rag of meat on his fork. Eats rats and talks shite.
I see Danny lookin at him, but he doesny say nothin.
Did your gran really live in the Gorbals? Laetitia says to me. Wasn’t ita bit – well – rough for an old lady?
No, she went intay sheltered housin in Castlemilk a few years afore she died, I says.
You shouldny believe all you hear about Glasgow, Danny says. He’s ate all his pizza except the crust, just like he does at hame. Nothin wrang wae Glasgow. It’s —
Well, hello, Julian, you old dog. I thought that was you lurking beneath the dreadlocks.
I look round and there’s this guy standin behind us with a red plastic bucket. It’s got a leaflet stuck on it but I canny read it.
Hector! Julian says. Didn’t know you were coming to Florence?
Hector? I think. Where do they get they names?
Julian gets up and claps the guy on the shoulders with his two hands. Danny, Clare, this is my old friend Hector from university.
The guy’s face twists as if it’s sore to smile. He’s got wan a they faces. Like somebody sat on it when it was still warm, my ma would say.
Laetitia stands up and offers him her hand across the table. Hi, Hector. Nice to see you again.
It’s been a long time, he says. At first I’ve thought he was English like Julian and Laetitia, but when you listen closer you can hear he’s really Scottish.
Danny, he says. Pleased to meet you. And Clare? The name’s not really Hector, by the way. It’s Douglas. Acquired the moniker amid the college cloisters.
So, what you selling, Hector? Julian says, and he points at the bucket.
Hector… Douglas holds it up and shoogles it. There’s a pile of coins in the bottom that rattle and jingle. Collecting for the Carlo Giuliani Fighting Fund. Care to lob in a bob or two? One of the fringe meetings was devoted to him. His mother’s mounted quite a campaign. Very impressive.
You don’t mean to tell me you’ve been attending the actual Social Forum itself ? Since when did you get so involved? And where’s the Harris tweed? Julian pulls at the sleeve of Hector’s jacket. It’s denim and he’s got the collar turned up. Like he’s tryin to be cool but he canny.
Long story, old boy. I’ll save it for another day. So…? Anyone? He holds up the bucket again.
Laetitia and me fish for our purses in our bags under the table. I watch to see what Laetitia takes out. I think it’s two euros. She puts her hand in the bucket and drops the coins in. I’ve only got a ten-euro note and some cents. I pull out the note.
Have you got change? I says.
Chrissake, Clare. Danny snatches the note out my hand and flings it in the bucket. That’ll do for the baith of us. I’ll square up wae you later.
Very generous, Hector says, and he looks at Julian.
You know me, Hector, financially embarrassed as usual. He shrugs his shoulders.
The soul of a true Englishman, Hector says.
Perennial student, Julian says.
Oh yes… how is the PhD coming along? What’s it on again?
Julian waves his hand, like he doesny want to talk about it.
The Role of Sex in the Novels of D. H. Lawrence and Henry Miller, Laetitia says. A.k.a. Wanking for Boys.
Sit down, Hector, Julian says. It’s ages since I’ve seen you.
No, can’t stay. Got a target to reach for the fund. Good to see you, Laetitia. A pleasure to meet you, Clare. Danny. He twists his face again. See you anon, you old skinflint. He touches Julian on the shoulder and moves to the next table with his bucket.
I look round the table. Everybody’s watching Hector.
Who the fuck is he? Danny says.
You could at least have put a couple of coins in his damn bucket, Julian. He is your friend, after all.
You know I never give money to charity… the feelgood, conscience-salving activity of the moneyed classes.
It’sa fighting fund, Danny says.
What’s it for? I says.
Carlo Giuliani. Guy that was killed by the Italian polis in Genoa at the G8 summit in 2001. Twenty-three years old. Bastards opened fire on the crowd and he was killed. His maw goes round now tryin to raise awareness of what it’s like under Berlusconi’s fascist regime. Crush opposition with the full force of the state…
I aye switch off when Danny starts to talk like that. But why was he killed? I says.
Don’t be so naïve, Clare, Danny says.
Come to think of it, it was a pretty tame demo today, Laetitia says. Hardly any carabinieri to speak of.
Aye, they’re shit scared, wae the eyes of the whole of Europe on them. Don’t want a repeat of Genoa.
I bet it’s a woman. Everybody looks at Julian. Hector, he says. The new threads. Old Hector dipping his wick at last.
Oh, for Christsake! Laetitia says. If it’s not politics, it’s sex. What is it with you, Julian?
I’m lookin at Julian to see what he’s gonny say. His eyes kinda flicker and for a nanosecond he looks dead hurt. Then he turns to Laetitia and says, What else is there? Hmm? What else?
Laetitia takes the wee skinny end of her roll-up out the ashtray, puts it in her mouth and flicks a flame to it. It’s that close to her lips, you’d a thought she would burn hersel. She takes one big draw at it, then squashes it hard back in the ashtray and grinds it in with the ash that’s already there. She clocks me lookin at her. It’s too dark to see properly, but I think she might be greetin a wee bit. I think I see a tear kinda shinin in the corner of her eye.
She smiles at me. You don’t miss much, do you, Clare? She lifts her hand to my face and – dead gentle – rubs a smear of ash ontay the middle of my forehead.
What’s that for? I says.
Ash Wednesday.
It’s in February.
So it is.
And this is Saturday.
Yeah?
Aye.
Danny’s pissed off again. He gets up. Hey, Laetitia, want to come and meet they guys I was tellin you about? They’re over there. His face is in the light now and he points across the restaurant.
What, now?
Aye, how no?
The place’s got gradually noisier while we’ve been eatin.
Folk are talkin and laughin and it feels much mair relaxed. Well – at some a the other tables anyhow.
Later, perhaps, Laetitia says. I’d like another glass of wine.
Danny sits down again, but you can see he’s no pleased.
I wish that wee French guy was here the night, I says, so’s we could have another singsong. The three a them look at me and laugh.
Oh, to be young, Laetitia says.
Aye, right, I think. Whatever. I stand up and I just catch their faces turnin up to me surprised afore I start to sing:
Ol’ pirates, yes, they rob I,
Sold I to the merchant ships…
The place has went quiet and everybody’s starin. I keep singin. I don’t even really hear it; the words just sing theirsels. All I see is the faces lookin at me, gold in the candlelight and sort a floatin in the dark. And they’re listenin to me. They’re listenin to me.
Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery…
Somebody whistles.
Won’t you help to sing
These songs of freedom?
Some guys have started singin alang wi me now. By the time I’m finished, it sounds like the hail restaurant’s singin.
Cause all I ever have –
Redemption songs…
Then a lot a them’s on their feet clappin and whistlin and cheerin. Gaun yersel, darlin, a woman shouts.
Somebody else’s turn now, I says. And I sit down. I’ve got a big riddy. The three a them’s still starin at me. I keep my eyes on my glass first, then I take a wee peek up at Julian. I don’t know what he’s thinkin. His face doesny give nothin away. Danny’s mouth’s hangin open.
That was lovely, Clare, Laetitia says. What a beautiful voice you have.
Hello there. A lassie’s came over to our table. It’s her fae the Ladies, the one with red hair. She smiles right at me.
That was crackin, she says. I’ve never heard ‘Redemption Song’ delivered like a Catholic hymn afore. Where did you learn to sing like that?
I shrug my shoulders. School, I suppose.
Well, there’s hope for the education system yet.
Hey, that you, Bernie, Danny says. How’s tricks?
Danny Kilkenny. I didny notice you there. Is this talented young woman a friend of yours?
That aint no Young Woman; that’s ma Baby Sister, Clare.
Pleased to meet you again, Clare.
This is Laetitia. And Julian.
The lassie gives them baith a nod and turns to me again.
Listen, if you ever fancy singin wae some like-minded women, come and join our choir. She hands me a wee card wae Circe on it and a name, Bernadette McCarvil. It’s got my mobile number and my e-mail address. We could do with some new young blood – especially wae a voice like yours. Fantastic.
Thanks, I say. And I put the card in the back pocket of my jeans.
A lassie’s started singin over the other side a the restaurant. Bernadette turns round to look.
That’s my table, she says. My pal, Shona. Better get back; she’ll need handers for the chorus. Really great to meet you, Clare. Hope I’ll see you again. By the way, have your pals no telt you, you’ve got a black mark up here – she puts her finger up between her eyes – on your forehead. Ciao, Danny… guys, she says. And she weaves away through the crowded tables.
Nice to meet you too, Julian says, even though she canny hear him by now. So… Clare, this is the light you’ve been hiding under that bushel of red hair? He’s leanin on one elbow across the table, his dreads all spread out, squintin round at me. His voice sounds mockin but his eyes look serious. They catch a wee gleam of light fae the candles and I get that feelin shootin through me again, sharp and soft at the same time. He dips his fingers in his glass and rubs at the mark Laetitia’s made on my head. A drop of wine runs down the side of my nose.
Let’s go and meet these friends of yours then, Danny, Laetitia says. She’s lookin in her glass and her hair’s hangin down, so I canny see her face.
What, now? Danny says.
Yeah, Laetitia says, why not? She stands up and her face is sad in the light just for a second till she turns and walks away. Danny shoots to his feet. He looks dead chuffed when he goes after her.
Julian doesny even glance up when they go; he keeps his eyes on me. Then he picks up a napkin and wipes the wine and ash off my face.
There, he says, that’s better. He picks up the carafe and pours some more wine in my glass. And in his. Then he lifts it up to me. A toast, he says. To the sweetest songbird with red hair in all of Florence. He clinks my glass. And the smiliest.
I didny realize I was smilin so much; it must be the wine. I’m still lookin into his blue eyes and I don’t notice Hector till he’s right beside us.
Thought I’d take you up on that offer to join you, old man, he says. He puts two wee glasses on the table with this like clearish liquid in them. And he pulls up the chair opposite Julian. Grappa? I brought only two, I’m afraid, he says, lookin at me.
Would you like one, Clare? Julian says.
I’m no bothered, I says. I’ve got wine. I stare out into the restaurant, so’s I don’t have to look at Hector’s fizzog.
Julian picks up the grappa glass and holds it up to me. All the better to toast you with. Did you hear Clare sing? he says to Hector.
Oh, was that you? he says. Very nice. I’ve always liked that Dylan song.
Julian and me look at each other and smile. Clare and I prefer the other Bob, he says.
Eh?
So… did you reach your target?
Oh, exceeded it, old man. Way over. I’ll be taking the loot to the Giuliani fundraisers later. Very gratifying.
Good for you.
No thanks to you, of course.
Never let it be said… Julian says. He stands up and reaches into his pocket, takes out a ten-euro note and hands it to Hector.
Fabulous, Hector says. Even better. I knew you couldn’t resist a just cause in the end. Or is it the influence of this delightful young lady? He looks at me and corkscrews his mouth into some kinda smile, but his eyes are borin right intay me. He gives me the creeps a wee bit. I can’t see him and Julian really bein friends.
Is she not a bit young even for you, Julian? Looks like jailbait if I’m not mistaken.
I’m sixteen, I says, and I must a sounded angry, because he holds up his hands, palms out.
Terribly sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.
You never did know when to shut the fuck up, Hector, did you? Anyway, what’s with the new gear? Where’s that suit you said would last a lifetime? Then Julian turns to me. Hector turned up at Cambridge wearing this bright green tweed suit, 1994. You would think three decades had simply never happened.
I like it when Julian talks to me like this.
That’s how he acquired the nickname. A girl in our year – what was her name again…?
Don’t remember.
Miranda… that’s right. Miranda used to say a little rhyme. He clasps his hands together in front of him, wags his head fae side to side and recites.
Hector Protector was dressed all in green;
Hector Protector was sent to the queen.
The queen did not like him,
No more did the king,
So Hector Protector was sent back again.
And our Hector was born. Julian waves his hand as if he’s introducin him to me.
Yes, well, you’re not that hot on knowing when to shut up yourself, old man. Been trying to shake that off for years. But it seems, and he looks right at me with his wee eyes. Once the butt of a joke, always the butt. And I feel kinda sorry for him then. It canny have been much fun at university wi a face like that.
My real friends call me Dougie.
Pleased to meet you, Dougie, I says, and I hold out my hand to him. I didny like my nickname when I was wee either. I came home fae school in Primary Two all excited one day, cause we had a French lesson and sang a song: ‘Au Clair de la lune’, I thought it was about me. For years after, Danny – that’s my brother – called me Della Loony.
Hector… Dougie laughs then and for the first time his face looks sorta natural. Maybe we should start a survivors’ club, he says. Nicknamed Anonymous. Initials, NA… Not Applicable. Acronym, Na —
You’ve lost me now, I says.
That’s his problem, Julian says. Loses people all the time.
Uncalled for, old man, Dougie says, and he starts to get up.
Sorry, Hec — Dougie. Sit down, man. I didn’t mean anything. Sit down. Tell me what you’ve been doing lately. It must be – what? – nearly two years since I last saw you. Julian’s got his hand on Dougie’s arm and he sits down again.
Yes… at least two years. What have I been doing? Oh, this and that, Dougie says. Mainly trying to extricate myself from the clutches of the family. What about you? Glasgow Uni actually let you do this PhD? Found somebody louche enough to supervise you? He twists his mouth.
Yeah, no problem, Julian says. My thesis is that recent writing by men is uxorious – you know… domestic, emasculated. I’ll be looking at the religiosity in Lawrentian sexuality and examining American picaresque – Miller, Kerouac – those guys.
Trocchi? Dougie says.
Yeah, he might merit a footnote. Julian grins. Welsh, certainly. He picks up his glass and lifts it to Dougie. Still waving the saltire, then?
I don’t know what they’re talkin about. My mind starts to wander. Funny how things work out. Two days ago, I would never a guessed what I’d be doin. I look across the restaurant. Everybody’s getting a bit pissed; they’re talkin louder and laughin. I can’t see Danny and Laetitia. A guy with a green T-shirt stands and holds up his cigarette to one of the stubby yellow candles on the wall. It doesny light. He reaches up again, pulls it back, looks at the blackened end a his fag. Then he lifts the candle right out the metal bracket, holds it up to his cigarette and takes a long draw. He doesny put the candle back, but; he sets it on the nearest table and carries on talkin to his pals. I can see it happenin just before it does. First a napkin flares. The yellow flames light up the surprise on folks’ faces. Then the tablecloth catches at one end and fire whooshes to the other end in a second. I snatch up the wine carafe and run over. Somebody shouts. People are jumpin up. I pour wine on the flames, but there’s no much left in the bottle.
The waiter comes runnin over wi a fire extinguisher – Scusi! Scusi! – and skooshes the foam all over. The fire goes out right away. What a mess but. The waiter doesny say nothin. Just looks at everybody, shakes his head and walks away, carryin the extinguisher in one hand. The guys on the other side a the table have got white speckles of foam on their claes, some on their faces. They look shocked. Somebody says something and a few people laugh. Then they’re all laughin and I laugh too. I realize I’m pure shakin.
Clare?
I turn round and Julian’s there. He holds out his hand to me and I go up and fling my arms round him and burst into tears. He hugs me tight and strokes my hair.
Well, what will you be up to next? You little fire-raiser.
It wasny me!
He laughs. I know, I know. Shh… He takes me by the arm and leads me over to our table. Dougie’s no there. I’m glad. I’m goin to sit down but Julian keeps me standin. He picks up his wine glass and I think he’s gonny give me a drink. Instead he takes a slug hissel, pulls my head to him and kisses me. He opens my mouth wae his tongue and the wine pours in and down my throat. It feels warm and rough. When he takes his mouth away, there’s wine on his lips and on mine. I kiss him again.
Come on, he says, let’s get out of here. I look round the restaurant. Everybody’s startin to get up and go. Two waiters are clearin away the mess on the table and one a them’s comin wae a bucket and mop. Party’s over. We get our coats and head for the counter.
It turns out Danny’s paid for the meal. So Julian just gies the waiter a tip and says, La pappardelle alla lepre – molto deliziosa. Grazie. And the waiter smiles and kinda nods. Grazie, signore. Signorina. Buona notte.
It’s only when we get back into the B&B I realize my hair smells of the fire. I lift a hank of it to my nose and sniff; it’s got that horrible burnt paper smell mixed in with the usual cigarette smoke. And underneath, faint and far away, still a wee bit of the rose soap.
What you doing? Julian comes up behind me and takes my rucksack and my coat off at the same time with the sleeves still through the straps.
I’m gonny wash my hair.
What, now?
Aye, how no?
Because I have other plans for you.
The warm, sharp feeling pure shoots through the whole a my insides. I turn and put my arms round Julian. And then I remember.
Oh, I can’t! I’ve got my period.
Julian laughs. Do you really sink, my dear, zhat I vill be put off by a little menstrual blood?
I look at the bed. It’s got clean covers on. Pale yellow wae an embroidered bit at the top. Nice.
But it’s… it’s dirty, I says.
Filthy through and through. He kisses the top of my head. Mmm, smoky, he says. I tell you what, if you’re so desperate to be squeaky clean, why not use the bidet. I’ll watch.
To wash my hair?
He laughs again. This hair. And he touches me down there on the front of my jeans.
I don’t know how it works.
Come here, I’ll show you. He takes my hand and pulls me towards the bathroom.
No, wait. I’ll have to… sort mysel first. I pick up my bag and go quickly intay the bathroom and lock the door.
It’s definitely no as good as a pad. The tampon’s leaked and there’s mair blood on the crotch a my jeans. I reach my hand between my legs intay the pan, feel about for the string and pull it out. It looks like a dead mouse. Or like a bit of my insides. Give you the boak. I drop it in and wipe mysel as best I can wae toilet paper, flush it all away. I fish another of Bernie’s tampons out the box in my bag, peel off the Cellophane and stick it in. A shower would be so good. Julian’s shower’s bigger than the one in our room. White tiles and a wee bottle a shampoo on the shelf. It wouldny take long.
I strip off my claes as fast as I can, slide back the door a the shower, turn the knob. The cold water that comes shootin out makes me gasp and I jump out the way. I listen a minute. No sound fae the room. I hold my hand under the rushin water till it starts to feel warm. I’m just in when I hear Julian at the door.
Clare? Not this again. Let me in. C’mon.
Wait a minute. I leave the shower on, slide back the perspex partition, grab a towel fae the rail and open the bathroom door.
He looks surprised. And annoyed. I thought I told you —
It was too temptin. I want to wash my hair.
You bad girl. Good girl, rather. Goody badshoes. He comes right up to me and takes the towel off me. He smells of the fire too. Some of his dreads swing forward like burnt rope. I step back and into the shower. I let it run over me right away. Over my hair and my face and down my back. Some of the water’s sprayin out the door of the cubicle ontay the floor of the bathroom. It doesny reach where Julian’s standin and he keeps back. Like he wants to stay dry. That suits me. I take the plastic bottle fae the shelf and screw off the cap. It smells lemony. Fresh. I squeeze a good dollop of the yellow shampoo ontay my hand and rub it on my hair. It must be good stuff, cause it lathers up right away. I close my eyes and soap my hair all over. It gies me the creeps a bit, Julian just standin there watchin me. I dig my fingers in hard to get right down to the roots so’s I can get rid of the burnt smell of the restaurant.
When I open my eyes again, efter I’ve rinsed my hair, Julian’s no there. The bathroom’s full a steam and the towel is lyin on the floor soakin up the water fae the shower. So’s my claes. I turn off the water and step out. When my eyes get used to the steam I can see Julian through the open door, lyin on the bed wae one hand behind his head, smokin. I reach for the other bath towel off the rail. It’s damp too with the steam. But it’s dry enough. I wrap it round my head and rub my hair. The steam’s startin to drift away now and I notice Julian isny lyin gazin intay space like I thought. He’s watchin me. His jeans are bulgin again at the crotch. I hold the towel in front of me and go to close the door.
Oh no you don’t, he says, and sits up on the bed. You must finish washing. Like a good girl. You must wash down here. He rubs his hand round his crotch as he walks towards me. In the bathroom he leans past me, bends down to the bidet and turns on the tap. He lets it run for a bit, keepin his hand under the water. Then he stands up and looks me in the eye.
Now I want you to sit astride this bidet and soap that sweet rosebush of yours.
What d’you mean? I says. But I know fine what he means.
Just what I said. He looks at me for a long time. I feel my face turnin red, but I’m no gonny look away afore he does.
OK? he says. I nod and he walks away back into the room and lies on the bed again. I put my leg over the bidet, over the rushing water, and sit down like he telt me. It’s cold on my bum and drops a water’s runnin down my back fae my hair.
Oh, for fucksake, he says. And he jumps up and comes into the bathroom again. Here, wait. He reaches into the bidet and eases the tampon out fae atween my legs. We don’t want this getting in the way. He stands up and swings it into the lavvy by the blue string. Drops of water spark up and catch the light. I feel blood tricklin into the white porcelain bowl underneath, runnin away down the plughole with the water. Julian turns back into the bedroom and flings hissel onto the bed.
Right, he says. You can start now.
I’m like, Lights, camera, action. But I say it under my breath so he canny hear. I look about for some soap. There’s a dish set in the tiles beside the bidet and a wee bar of soap in wax paper same as in my room. I pick it up and unwrap it, drop the paper on the floor and look at the bar. It’s yellow like the shampoo. Like the walls of the room. I sniff it. It’s lemon too. Julian’s watchin me. I keep my eyes on him and reach the soap down into the water to wet it. It slips out my hand and I have to feel about to catch it. I make a lather with my two hands, reach round and start to wash mysel down there.
Soap up that flaming bush, he says. He’s rubbin the front of his jeans. I stick the bar of soap in the water again, then rub it on the front of my pubes until they’re all covered in bubbles.
Like this? I says.
He doesny say nothin. Just groans.
I must admit I’m getting the melty feeling dead strong too. I keep buildin up the lather and rubbin and Julian keeps on watchin and groanin.
I wonder how long he wants me to do this. Cause I must be clean by this time. And then it happens again. The heat shoots up fae my crotch right up through me to my head and waves come over my whole body. I stop movin my hand and lean forward and groan too. I look down and big splashes of blood are droppin among the white suds and flowin away down the hole. I watch it all disappearin and wait till the waves get fainter. I put my hand under the flow and scoop warm water onto my pubes until all the soap’s away. Then I turn off the tap. It’s dead quiet suddenly. I get up. My knees are tremblin and blood’s tricklin down the inside a my thighs.
Oh God, I says. I lean back against the wall. The white tiles are cold and the shock of them wakes me up. I pick up the towel and stick it between my legs. Then I look at Julian. He’s still lyin on the bed, but he’s starin at the ceilin now. I walk over to him and sit on the bed.
You weren’t supposed to come, he says.
But I’ve washed as much as I can. How long did you want me to stay there for?
No. You weren’t supposed to come.
Oh… right… I’m sorry.
He doesny say nothin.
I didny mean to.
He still doesny say nothin.
I couldny help it.
He just lies there.
*
I don’t know what time it is when I wake up and hear the tappin. Feels like hours later. I listen for a minute. Julian’s half on top of me, breathin slow and steady, still sleepin. It took me ages to get him in a good mood again after the carry-on wae the bidet. Even then he wouldny do it unless I called him Henry. Henry! And he called me Germaine.
Like Germaine Greer? I says.
Decidedly not, he says. But he did laugh. Seems she was a character in a book, this Germaine. Topic of Cancer or something.
The tappin comes again. A wee bit louder. I waken up more.
Julian, I says. I think somebody’s at the door.
Hhhrmm?
The door. Somebody’s there. Oh my God, maybe it’s Mr Abensur, I whisper.
Wha…?
Somebody’s at the door.
Julian takes his arm off me and sits bolt upright. Who is it? he says.
There’s this muffled female voice: It’s me.
Laetitia, I whisper.
Can I come in?
Wait a minute, Julian says. And he starts to get up.
No, I says. I grab his arm. Don’t let her in. She’ll see me here.
He shakes me off, switches on the light above the bed and goes towards the yellow door. Just a minute, he says. His dreads are spread out over his bare shoulders. He’s got no claes on; his back and his bum are sorta flushed pink wae the warm. And he’s away to open the door.
I scrabble to fling the sheets off me, jump out the bed, run intay the bathroom and pull the bolt. I hear him turnin the key, openin the door of the room and speakin to Laetitia.
Come in, he says. What’s the matter?
She’s cryin. Laetitia’s cryin. I hear her sniffin and sobbin. I listen at the door, but they’re talkin dead quiet; I canny make them out.
Great.
The bidet’s nearest the door, so I sit on the edge of it and wait.
I still canny hear nothin. I notice my bag’s in the corner wae my boots. My claes are lyin on the floor damp, so I pick them up dead quiet and hang them on the radiator. No that it’ll make any difference, cause the radiator’s off. I’m gettin cold too.
Then I have the idea to take another shower. It’ll warm me up. I slide the shower door open. She’ll hear it, Laetitia, but I’m no stayin in here all night. Even if it’s what Julian wants. That will be right. I reach into the cubicle and turn the shower to high. The water shoots out cold again, but I close the door quick and wait for it to heat. It doesny take long. As soon as the perspex steams up, I slide the door back a wee bit and step in.
I don’t want to wet my hair again but, so I wiggle the shower head down the pole and let the water run ontay my boobs and my belly. I find another wee bar of lemon soap and unwrap it. I don’t need much of a wash, but I do it anyway. For something to do. I wonder if they’re talkin about me.
Wae the water runnin, it takes a minute afore I hear the bangin. I turn off the shower.
Clare? Julian’s sayin. Clare, it’s alright, you can come out. Clare, can you hear me?
Aye. I’m just comin. I step out ontay the cold tiles. There’s only a wee hand towel left on the rail. One big one’s soakin and the other yin’s in the bed. I hope it did stop the blood gettin on the sheets. I dry mysel as best I can wae the hand towel. I’m glad I didny wet my hair again. It’s damp now and the ends are wet, but at least it’s no drippin. I get another tampon out the box in my bag, crouch on the bidet and stick it in. Still three left. I’m gettin the hang of them now. Maybe I’ll keep usin them when I get home. I take my jeans off the radiator and pull them on. They feel horrible. Cold and damp. All crumpled. My bra’s no too bad cause it’s nylon. My T-shirt’s worse than my jeans. I can feel mysel startin to shiver.
Clare, what’s keeping you? C’mon.
I don’t say anythin. I don’t want to go out there. Maybe she’s away. I canny ask but, in case she’s no. I pull on my sweatshirt wae the hood and zip it up. It doesny even make me feel any warmer. I fish my socks out my boots and sit on the bidet to pull them on. At least they’re dry. I slide my feet intay the boots and do them up.
Clare, for Christsake!
Comin. I go over and take a look in the steamed-up mirror. My eyes are big and my face is dead pink. I try out a smile but it doesny look real. Comin. I open the door slow and look in the room.
I’m expectin them to be sittin on the bed, so first I don’t see them. Then something moves in the middle of the room. Julian’s standin wae his arms round Laetitia. He’s got his jeans on, but nothin else. He takes his arms fae round her, holds her shoulder, looks at her face.
OK? he says. You ready?
Laetitia nods. You can see she’s been cryin, cause her mascara’s all ran.
Hi, I says.
Julian turns to me but he keeps one arm round Laetitia’s shoulder.
Hi, Laetitia says. She doesny smile.
Clare… Julian says. And stops. He looks at me. Like he doesny know what to say.
What?
Laetitia’s got on a red jumper. It’s no holey like her black one. She’s got baith her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. She still looks dead pretty even though she’s been greetin.
What? I says again.
Her eyes don’t seem to be as black in this light. More a sorta dark reddy brown. Maybe it’s cause of her jersey. Or cause she’s been cryin. I look at Julian again.
Clare, look…I…
Let’s sit down, Laetitia says. She pulls her hands out her pockets, looks round the room, goes to the corner, picks up the gold wicker chair and sets it down in front of me. She’s movin dead quick and jerky.
Please, sit, she says to me. She’s half bendin over and she’s got her hands on the back of the chair. This feels dead weird, but I sit down anyway. Laetitia’s hand brushes against my back when she moves away. She comes round in front of me and sits on the end of the bed. She clasps her hands round one knee. Julian sits beside her.
I look at them baith. They don’t say nothin. Julian’s got his head down.
Good shower? Laetitia says.
Alright, I suppose. I shrug my shoulders.
What happened to your hair?
It’s just a wee bit damp.
No, at the back.
I reach my hand round to feel it. Oh, that. Julian was showin me how to start makin dreads. She looks at Julian, but he doesny lift his head.
I see, she says. Well, I think you’d better comb it out, hadn’t you, before you get home. Your father wouldn’t like it.
I feel my face goin red, but I don’t say nothin.
So… Laetitia says.
Clare, Julian says suddenly, I think you should go back to your own room. He’s lifted his head at last, but he’s still no lookin at me. No in the eye, anyhow. I keep lookin at him. His face is white and his mouth is a hard line. Then I look at Laetitia. She is lookin me right in the eye. I still don’t say nothin. I canny think of anythin to say. Her eyes are burnin right intay me.
I don’t get up till I feel the tears startin to prick. I look round for my coat. It’s lyin in the corner on top of Julian’s jacket. I pick it up, then go in the bathroom for my bag. I keep my head down, so’s my hair falls over my face. So’s they canny see me and I canny see them. I step over their feet on my way past to the door. My bag and my coat are bundled up in front of me. I open the door, squeeze out, shut it behind me.
It’s dark.
I feel for the time switch on the wall and the light comes on. You get about four minutes afore it goes off again. The corridor looks different fae when I came in. Cold. The dark red carpet leads past three other rooms on this floor. I hurry along it. All the doors are closed.
When I get back to my room, I remember I don’t have the key. I look at the closed door. I’ll have to knock. If Danny’s there, he’ll wake up and let me in. I hope he’s no there. No, I hope he is. If he isny, I’ll have to get the key from Reception. I’ll have to wake everybody up. Mr and Mrs Abensur. They’ll no be pleased. I’m tired. I set my coat and my bag on the floor. There’s no carpet on this corridor. Only the same hard marbly stuff like in the room. The wee white and black and grey flecks. They swim together all blurry when I look at them. I press my ear to the door. Nothing. Not a dicky bird. If Danny’s in there, he must be sound asleep. He’s no gonny be too chuffed either. The number on the door is 32, two brass numbers screwed on. The more I look at them, the more they melt thegether into a goldy blob. I wonder what happened. Wae Danny and Laetitia. I wonder what Julian and her are doin. The handle’s brass too with the keyhole underneath. The light goes out.
I feel my hand along the wall to the end of the corridor and press the switch again. Then I come back to the door and look at the handle. I press it down a wee bit. It doesny make a noise. I press it right down. The door opens. It’s been open all the time. I push it in slow. I can see by the light fae the corridor Danny’s no there. The two beds are neatly made. I hold the door open and reach across the lobby for my coat and bag. I’m feart the door’ll bang shut and I really will be locked out. Even though I know that’s daft. I slide my stuff across the floor, in through the door and go in efter it mysel.
I switch on the light. I’ve forgot how white it is. I keep a hold of the door. It’s on one a they springs; it closes slow for a wee while, then it pure bangs shut. I hold it till it gets to the place where the spring jerks, then pull it back a wee bit and let it in slow. It closes without makin a noise. Except the click of the spring, when it’s reached the bit.
The picture of Our Lady’s still lookin down fae the wall. I look at my bed. My red T-shirt’s folded dead neat and laid on the top. Like my ma’s been in. I sit down beside it and let the tears come.
I remember the dream dead clear when I waken up. I’m in l’Accademia. It’s night-time. It’s dark. There must be a moon but, cause there’s silver squares lyin on the floor fae the windows. Enough light to see by. I look round. I canny see the Prisoners. The Slaves. There’re no in the bit they were before. I canny see them anywhere. I look back to where they were supposed to be. This time I notice six big blocks a stone standin on pedestals. I start to panic. Where are they? Il Prigioni ? Then I remember the David. I turn and look down to the end a the gallery. He’s no there either. No even a block a stone. Just a pedestal. I cross the silver squares and walk up to where he should be. I keep thinkin he must be there, he must be. I get nearer and nearer. I think maybe I’m in the wrong place. The wrong gallery. And then I notice the computer thing’s on and there’s a close-up of his head wae his eyes starin intay the distance. And then one of his foot where the guy broke his toe wae a hammer one time. I think, Well he must be here then and I’m just no seein him. I look at the pedestal again. That’s when I notice it. The wee white statuette. The size of an Oscar when the actors go up on stage to get it. A wee statuette of David.
I wake up and the pillow’s wet. My hair too. And my arms and legs are stiff, like efter PE when Miss Roger makes us vault the horse. That was a horrible dream. I think about the David, big and still, along the road in l’Accademia. I think about Julian and my throat feels tight. It must be early yet, cause there’s no much light in the room, even though I’ve left the shutters open. But it is morning, cause I can hear the water pipes gurglin in some other part of the B&B. Somebody takin a shower likely.
I peer at my watch in the dark, but I canny see the hands and I don’t want to switch on the light. No yet. There’s still no sign of Danny. His bed’s no been slept in. I can see it there, white and smooth, in the dim light. It feels like a hundred years fae I was in it wae Julian. The tears start prickin again, so I think about other things. If I’ll have a shower. Breakfast. Goin back on the bus the day. School on Tuesday. Maybe I’ll skip Tuesday as well as Monday. The whole week even. Just go intay town instead. Hang about the shops. Hang about. Maybe I’ll…
There’s naybody in the breakfast room when I come in. No even Mr Abensur. The big silver coffee machine isny even on. There’s a cloth draped over the top of it. Like a blanket. Like wae my granny’s budgie, so’s he would sleep. Joey. So’s he wouldny keep my granny wakened all night wae his cheepin. I look at my watch again. It’s ten past seven. Breakfast’s supposed to be between seven and nine thirty. Or maybe it’s different on Sunday. Maybe it’s later. I don’t want to go back to my room, so I go to the table at the window and sit down. It’s gettin light now, but it’s still quiet outside. When a car goes by suddenly, it sounds dead loud, rumblin over the cobbles. That echoey way when the streets are quiet. There’s a wee bit a sun already, slantin over the tops a the buildins across the street. The colour of honey. Maybe it’ll be sunny the day again.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sittin there, when Mr Abensur comes in. He doesny see me at first. He goes straight to the coffee machine, takes the cloth off it and folds it. He’s singin a wee tune to hissel. Then he switches it on. You can hear a faint hum. He goes out again and comes back carryin a tray of brioches and croissants. He’s away to put it on the table beside the machine when he sees me.
Buon giorno, signorina, he says, like he’s surprised. He sets down the tray and comes across to me.
I think, oh no, I’ll no be able to understand him. I’ll no know what to say.
But he goes, You bed OK? You sleep OK?
Yes, yes, I says, sì, signore, grazie. And he smiles at me.
Bene, bene. Molto bene.
I keep my hair kinda over my face.
He’s no up yet. Still in bed.
He looks at me kinda serious for a minute. Then he says, Cappuccino e brioches. Like it’s the answer tay the questions he canny ask me. Like it’s just what the doctor ordered. I can feel mysel nearly greetin again.
Grazie, signore, I says. Thank you.
He goes across to the machine, clatters some cups, presses some buttons and it starts hissin and steamin. The smell of the coffee wafts over. I like the noise it makes. And the smell. He comes back wae a cup and saucer.
Un cappucho, he says. I’ve no heard it called that afore. The cup’s full to the brim wae foam and there’s chocolate sprinkled on the top.
Brioches coming. I heat first. He gies me a big smile.
Grazie, signore. I try and smile back but my mouth feels twisted. Like that guy Dougie’s. Mr Abensur doesny seem to notice. He doesny crack a light anyhow. He just goes away and comes back a couple a minutes later wae a basket full a brioches. Does he think I’ll eat all this? My coffee’s still sittin there; I’ve no started it yet. I take a spoon a the chocolatey foam. The sun’s moved further down the buildins now, but this side a the street’s still dark. I don’t know if I’ll be able to drink much of the coffee; they make it dead strong here in Florence. Bitter.
Buon giorno, signora, signore, Mr Abensur’s sayin. I look over at the door. There’s an older couple I’ve no saw afore comin in. The woman’s got her handbag wae her and a fawn cardigan over her shoulders. The man pulls out her chair for her. Then he sits opposite. They don’t say a word to one another. Just sit waitin.
I take one of the brioches out the basket and put it on my plate. It feels warm. I’m no really in the mood for it but I eat it anyway. The jam gets all over my fingers. I’m wipin it off wae the napkin when I hear Laetitia’s voice.
Hi, she says, dead bright. Mind if we join you?
My head goes hot and I’m feart to look up. I can see Julian’s legs out the corner a my eye. Beside Laetitia’s.
Clare? she says.
When I do look up, I just stare. At first I think it canny be him. His eyes look dead big and his face is even whiter than usual.
How… why…? I says. What happened?
Behold the penitent, Laetitia says. I know. It’s a little extreme. A little OTT. She’s smilin at him. His head’s no completely shaved, but near enough.
Julian has something to say to you, Clare. Is it alright if we sit down? She’s got on the red jersey again and her black hair swings forward all glossy.
I don’t say nothin. I can’t take my eyes off Julian. They sit down. He’s no even looked at me yet. His head’s covered wae a pale velvety fuzz and his scalp’s showin through. In a couple a bits you can see wee marks. Wee red scratches. Like he’s cut hissel shavin. His beard’s no there either. He’s shaved that off too. He leans forward wae his elbows on the table. He still canny look me in the eye. At the back a his neck there’s some longer wispy bits of hair. Curly and soft. Like a baby’s.
He looks at me then. Say something, Clare.
I liked your dreads, I says.
I’m sorry, he says.
What for?
Everything. Clare, I wanted to say —
Jesus Christ!
I’ve no noticed Danny comin in. He’s standin beside the table wae his mouth hangin open.
Fucksake, man! What’s wae the Henrik Larsson? He starts to laugh. Fuck me…
He doesny know. Danny doesny know.
Jesus, Jules… He shakes his head and laughs again. Did you know he was gonny dae this, Laetitia?
Excuse me, I says. I stand up so quick, my chair falls over. I’ve got tay go. I set the chair up and head for the door.
Go where? Danny shouts after me. You’ve no finished your breakfast.
I’m no hungry, I says.
Clare…
Mr Abensur gies me another smile when I pass him at the coffee machine.
Ciao, I says. Grazie. Thank you for everything. And I hurry out intay the lobby.
I start to go up the stair. It’s got the same red carpet that’s on Julian’s corridor. I’m gonny go right up tay my room, but I change my mind. Instead I go through the door on the first floor and along the corridor to Julian’s room. One of the other doors is open and there’s a pile a sheets and towels outside. I tiptoe past. I can see Mrs Abensur makin the bed. I try Julian’s door, but it’s locked. I stand lookin at it for a minute. Then I decide. I chap the door where Mrs Abensur’s workin. She straightens up fae the bed and looks at me. Her face is red and shiny.
Please, I says, could you open this door for me? I point towards Julian’s room and mime turnin a key.
She says somethin fast in Italian I canny make out at all.
I left somethin in there, I says. My friend’s downstairs havin his breakfast. He says I can go in and get it.
She must understand more English than she speaks, cause she says somethin else in Italian, but she comes out the room, lifts up a key fae a chain round her waist and opens Julian’s door.
Grazie, signora, I says. Eàmolto gentile. I remember that’s what Julian says to Mr Abensur yesterday at breakfast. She gies me a smile, so it must be the right thing. She lets the big jangly keyring drop back on the chain and watches me goin in the room. I smile at her again and close the door.
God! The bed’s a pure mess; the covers are in a big jumble, fallin off, and the towel I put on top a the sheet is on the floor. At least there’s no much blood on it. I look for the wastepaper bin; it’s half under the covers. There’s nothin in it except a few roll-up dowts and a couple of tissues.
They must a done it in the bathroom, I think. Then I notice the chair. The gold wicker chair is beside the table at the window and the bin fae the bathroom’s sittin next to it. It’s no right closed. I go over and open it; my face flashes at me, scrunched up, in the bashed metal lid. I was right. They’re there. Julian’s dreads stuffed in the bin. On top of one a the hand towels wae smears a blood on it. No mine this time. Fae the cuts on Julian’s head probably.
I pick up one a the dreads. They must be all tangled thegether but, cause the whole lot comes out. And the towel. That’s when I notice something else in the bin. A dooby. A used one. I drop the towel and the hair back in, untangle one dreadlock and stuff it in the pocket of my jeans. I need to get out.
When I open the door, Mrs Abensur is just liftin up the pile a sheets and towels. I squeeze past her.
Grazie, signora, I says. And I gie her a big smile, like I’m meant to be there. Would you lock my friend’s door again, please?
She gies me a look, but she bundles the dirty washin under one arm and goes over and locks the door.
Grazie, I say again. And I get out fast. I wouldny like to be there when she sees the state a that room.
*
My room feels dead calm efter Julian’s. I smoothe up my bed even though it’ll be stripped for washing in a couple a hours. I take the dreadlock out my pocket and sit down. It’s no as fair as his hair looked on his head. Maybe it’s one fae underneath. Your hair’s usually darker underneath. It feels funny now. More sorta stiff. More dead. Like a bit of frayed rope. I can see where it’s been hacked through near his head. I wonder if it was scissors they used or a razor. Or a knife. It canny a been very sharp anyhow, whatever it was, cause the hair’s all different lengths at this end. It’s the only bit that’s like real hair. When I look at it close I can see a few of the hairs have been pulled out by the roots; there’s a bit of white skin and then the root wae a wee black oily glob out the – what d’ye call it – follicle. I peel one off wae my nails and rub the oil between my fingers. I do that wae all of them. Then I notice the bits of thread tied round at different points. Julian telt me about them when he showed me how to make dreads.
First you twist a wee bunch a hair thegether; then you backcomb it right up to the roots. And you keep twistin and backcombin and twistin till it stays matted. But that’s no the finish of it. It starts to unravel, so you tie wee invisible threads round it. And then you have to rub beeswax on it to keep it all thegether. That’s the kinda sweet smell I always get – got – off Julian’s hair. I hold the dread under my nose. Smoke. It still smells smoky fae the fire last night. Beeswax. I can feel it too, a wee bit greasy. Julian says my hair’s too clean to get the dreads started right. Too shiny and slippy. You dae have to be a bit clatty, like I says. I feel the back a my head. It’s took me half an hour this morning to brush out the bit he started for me. Even without the beeswax. Cause my hair’s curly, Julian says, it should make it easier. You don’t wash it wae shampoo. If they get a bit smoky, you just have a bath wae patchouli oil. That’s the other sweet smell I get, but faint. Contrary to popular belief, Julian says, dreadlocks are high maintenance. I hold the stiff, matted bit of the dread and touch my cheek with the cut ends. Soft. Like a makeup brush. Like normal hair. How come he uses a condom wae her and no wae me…?
I wonder what Mrs Abensur’ll do wae the rest a Julian’s dreads. She’ll likely just put them out wae the rubbish. I wish I’d taen more. Maybe she’ll stick them in the washin machine. Alang wae the towels. But how would you get the beeswax out? Maybe you could do what my ma does wae candlewax. Iron it wae brown paper on top, so the wax melts intay the paper. It’s a good job I’ve got my period the now, or I might’ve got pregnant. Funny how I didny even think. My ma would a killed me. The times she’s telt me, Use a condom. Never mind the Pope; if it comes to it, use a condom. And I’m like, I know that, Ma. You don’t need to tell me. I know. But I never. In the end, I never. I wish I’d have took one more of the dreads. Just one. Then I could keep this one the way it is. And I could undo the other one. I would like to see what his hair’s like if you combed out the dread. What it’s really like underneath. I think it would be fair and soft and a bit wavy.
Clare.
The door opens and Danny comes in. I stick the dread under my red T-shirt on the bed.
Oh, you’re there, he says. He knows now. You can see it in his face. He’s got his dark look again. I wonder how they telt him.
Aye, I was just gonny pack, I says. How you doin?
He looks at me then. Like he’s never saw me before. His brows are knitted and his green eyes are the colour of his combat jacket.
Aye, alright, he says. How about you?
Alright.
Aye, pair of fucking upper-class wankers, when it comes down to it. He says it low, but he sounds dead angry.
What’ve they says to you?
Never you mind. Just remember, don’t let the bastards grind you down.
No.
C’mon. Better get our skates on. Bus leaves at eleven.
Do you love her? Laetitia?
He gies me a look. But he says nothin.
I roll up my T-shirt wae the dreadlock inside it and push it to the bottom of my rucksack.
It makes no difference, anyhow, he says. She’s gettin off in London.
Wae Julian?
No, he says and he looks at me kinda sharp. He’s comin back to Glasgow. Forget it but, Clare. Birds of a feather, know what I’m sayin?
Aye, right.
I stuff my book and my CD player and the rest a my clothes in my rucksack.
The train station’s hoachin. We have to go through it to get to where our bus is leavin from. There’s folk fae the demo all over, waitin for trains. It looks like some a them’s slept here. There’s a group sittin on the ground. One guy’s in a long coat wae a red and yellow scarf, even though it’s warm the day. He’s rollin a joint right out in the open, like he doesny gie a fuck. Another guy’s playin a guitar and a lassie’s hittin a wee drum thing and singin. I wish I was goin on the train. I wish Farkhanda was here and we were goin on the train thegether.
The two buses fae Glasgow are parked near the station. I don’t see any sign of Julian and Laetitia. Danny slings his rucksack on the pavement. He’s lookin around too, but tryin no to look as if he is. I feel sorry for him. I put my rucksack down next to his and stand beside him. I wonder what bus they’ll go on.
Folk are startin to gather. I recognize Bernadette and her pal standin smokin. She gies me a wave and I wave back. I know more a the faces now, fae the restaurant. I see the guy who started the fire speakin to a few a his pals and laughin. One a them’s the guy wae the Spartacus T-shirt. He’s still wearin it the day. It must be boggin.
I feel Danny goin tense beside me. Then he starts talkin in a loud voice.
Aye, so just leave your bags here and the driver’ll stow them in the side a the bus.
I look round and Julian and Laetitia are walkin towards the buses. It’s funny, even though he’s cut off his dreads, I still see him wae them. Before I see him, if you know what I mean. I still get a shock at how he looks now.
Hi, guys, Laetitia says, dead cheery.
Danny makes a point a no lookin at her. He bends down and unbuckles his rucksack, pushes his hand down the sides as if he’s lost something, then buckles it again and stands up facin the other way.
Laetitia and Julian kinda exchange glances and she shrugs her shoulders. She doesny seem that happy right enough. No as happy as she’s tryin to sound. And Julian still isny lookin me in the eye. That suits me. Means I can get a good look at him. Try and take in what he’s done to hissel. What they done. It’s funny how bare naked he seems. His face, I mean. And he’s no comfortable, you can see that. Like he needs his dreads to hide behind and suddenly they’re no there. So he doesny really know where to put hissel. Where to put his face. It makes him look a lot younger. More kinda scared. Like he’s no really as sure of hissel as he tries to make out. I think it’s his eyes. They dae look huge now when there’s no hair gettin in the road. I try to remember the exact colour of them when I seen them close up in his bed. Blue. Goldy flecks like wee strands a his tobacco. And I have to turn away, cause I start to get wet and I feel the tears prickin at the same time.
That’s when I notice Laetitia watchin me fae under her dark hair. She’s standin a few feet away and she comes over to me and puts her arm through mine.
Glad to be going home, Clare?
No really. I keep my face half turned away.
I am, she says. Back to real life.
I say nothin.
It’s warm today, isn’t it?
If she thinks I’m gonny talk about the weather…
It was fantasy, you know, Clare. You and Julian. He’s all wrong for you.
I look at her then. Right in her fuckin ballet dancer face. Right in her big chocolate eyes.
Oh, aye? I says. How would you know that?
I bend down and pick up my rucksack. Leave her arm hangin there. I can feel the surprise comin off her even wae my back turned. I walk past Danny to the door of the bus. It’s still shut and the driver’s sittin wae a newspaper spread over the steerin wheel. Must be an old one. Unless he reads Italian. It’s the nice driver, but. The one wae the twinkly eyes. No the wee fat grumpy one wae the greasy hair. I chap the door and he looks up. I smile and he pulls the lever that hisses the door open.
Any chance I could get on and get my seat? I’m cream crackered.
Aye, on you go, pal. It’s still twenty minutes afore we leave, mind.
That’s OK. I hold my rucksack in front of me and climb on.
That you? The door hisses shut behind me.
Thanks, Charlie. You’ve saved my life. Sometimes I hear myself soundin just like my ma.
No bother, hen. He goes back to his paper.
I walk up the aisle to the seat next the long back one. If they’re comin on this bus, I’m no wantin them behind me. And they wouldny sit in the back seat. They’ll want a seat to theirsels. I take my CD player out my bag, alang wae the book that I’ve no read a word of since we got here. Then I reach down into the bottom and burrow my fingers intay the middle of my T-shirt. I pull out the dread and stuff it quick in the pocket of my hooded top under my coat, take my coat off, roll it up and put it on the rack. Then my rucksack. And I sit down.
Out the window, everybody’s still millin about. Laetitia’s got her back to the bus and she’s talkin to Julian. His face is pale and it looks like it’s floatin over her dark head. Like the moon. No the full moon – a quarter moon, maybe. One wae a bit hollowed out it, like the hollows under his cheekbones. He clocks me watchin him and I look away. I put my earphones on, close my eyes and kid on I’m listenin to a CD.
It’s dead hard when you really want to see what’s goin on, but I keep my eyes shut till everybody’s on the bus. I keep them shut till they’re sittin down and the engine’s started. Naybody sits next to me. When I open them, I see Julian and Laetitia are sittin thegether a few seats down fae me on the opposite side. Laetitia’s in the window seat. Her head’s on Julian’s shoulder. No sign a Danny. He must a went on the other bus.
Now all I have to do is work out what I need to think about. I count off on my fingers.
One: how far is London fae Florence? I was sleepin half the time on the way here, so I don’t remember. Somebody’ll know.
Two: what night is Danny’s meetin? Assumin Julian will still be goin to it. Thursday night, I think. Aye, Thursday.
Three: how am I gonny get out of goin to school the rest of the week? Farkhanda’ll nip my ear till she pulls the whole story out a me.
Four: I need to think what to tell my da about the demo. That’ll be OK. There’s plenty there. The Greens and the Spanish TUC. The banners – USA E ISRAELE I VERI TERRORISTI. And the fairies. He’ll have a good laugh at them. Same as Julian. And I’ll tell him about the wee French guy and the singin. He’ll like that. Mr Abensur and his coffee machine. Da’ll tell me what bit of Africa he probably comes fae, plus the reasons why. And the David, of course. I’ll tell him about David and Il Prigioni.
Five: Ma’s a different ballgame. She’ll take one look at me and know right away. I’ll have to keep out her road as best I can, till things settle down. Till I know what I’m doin.
I look out the window. We’re already on the outskirts of Florence. I don’t recognize any a the streets. Must be a different route fae the demo. When the road opens out, we pass a long line a they tall thin trees. They’ve got no leaves on them except at the very top. The sun’s catchin them, turnin them gold. Like artists’ brushes wae dods a gold paint on the tips, pointin to the sky.
Julian’s head’s leanin on the seat in the direction of the aisle. Laetitia’s head’s still on his shoulder. I can just see her black hair between the seats and a slash of her red jumper. I want to touch his head. See what his new hair’s like.
I feel in my pocket for the dreadlock and close my hand around it. It’s warm now wae bein next my body. I rub my thumb back and fore in a wee hollow bit. A wee felty hollow. Now and again I can feel an individual hair, but mostly it’s a thick matted bunch. A piece of rope to hold on to.
I look out the window again. I wonder if there’ll still be leaves on some a the trees by the time we get back to Glasgow.