Ruth blew in her hands. “Freezing in here.”
“What’d you do last night?”
“Babysitting. Again. I called to see if you’d come over.” She reached and pressed the red smudge on his hand. “What’s that?”
“From the scout hall. I went to see some bands.”
She picked one of her fingernails. “Last night?”
He nodded.
“D’you not wash?”
Mack walked in and waited in front of semi-circle of chairs. The talking faded. He clapped his hands together and welcomed everyone, apologised for the broken heating. He said they were going to warm up with some old Sunday school songs. “In these Arctic conditions the actions are mandatory,” he said. Everyone bowed heads for the opening prayer.
Someone strummed the chords on an old acoustic guitar. The words came from a Bible verse: The name of the Lord is a strong tower. The righteous run into it and they are saved. At “strong” Mack made you flex your biceps. At “run” you had to jog on the spot.
They sat. An older girl got up and showed some slides of wee kids in Africa. Most of them had AIDS, she said, and she’d gone there to help build a new school. She paused every few sentences, reached and pushed her glasses up her face. Her face was flat with only a thin wedge of nose. In her slides the building was just a shadowy box of bricks, messy lines of cement in-between and carpeted with sand. All the black kids were laughing, delighted. There was a photo of them ganged round the girl, hugging her legs and fingers holding the peace sign, while she beamed at the camera. Her nasally voice stopped and she admired the picture glowing on the wall, her face making a sad match.
A new boy got up to read the Bible passage. It was the parable of the sower: a farmer scatters his seeds. Some falls in the path and birds eat it. Some falls on shallow soil, grows fast and burns in the sun. Some falls in thorns and gets choked to death. A wee bit lands in good soil, and it grows and grows and grows. New boy was nervous and stuttered his way through, tracing the words with a finger. “Whoever has ears, let them hear,” he read and closed his bible.
“Amen.” Mack took the floor. “Whoever has ears, let them hear,” he repeated and for a moment he went silent.
When he opened his eyes, he switched on the overhead projector. He slid on a picture of a man dressed as a scarecrow with a daft grin, fake nose and straw hair hanging round his manky face.
“This is Worzel Gummidge,” Mack said, “the greatest scarecrow that ever lived.”
Folk laughed.
Mack told them how the scarecrow came to life, how he would switch between different heads when he required certain skills. He was petrified of bonfires. If ever he was scared or cornered he froze, becoming a lifeless scarecrow again.
Mack paused and swallowed. “Jesus’ parable of the sower speaks to everyone. None of you,” he waved a finger around the hall, “or me are safe from this simple wee tale. Especially not old Worzel.” He smiled and slid the picture off. The next slide said 1. The Seed on the Path, three bullet points underneath.
Nicky shifted his leg till it grazed Ruth’s. Hers inched away and she cleared her throat. He stared at the carpet. If you stared long enough the pattern became evil wee faces. Once they appeared, he let his eyes cross and the faces blurred and rose, swarming around. He moved his foot, squashing them back into the floor.
He blinked and looked and Mack had turned to their side of the group.
“So many of us,” he was saying, “Are like Worzel. We have different heads for different situations. And like the seeds on the path, we’ve never even sprouted the tiniest of roots.”
Bible spread in one hand, he turned to the other side of the hall. Nicky dipped his head again. He rubbed his thumbs across his palms, feeling wee bubbles of skin. The drumsticks were giving him blisters. It’d never happened before. Janet Johnson had glared over her piano that morning and when the service ended she took him aside and told him to never play like that again. It’d been so fast people couldn’t fit in the words. If he wanted to be a real musician he had to learn to listen. She pointed at her ears.
Sid wanted to play much faster – as fast as Slack Grannies. He said so after the gig. He said Slack Grannies rehearsed four times a week. When they’d finished school, none of them took proper jobs. The band was their job. Soon they’d be in a recording studio, making their demo CD. Record labels were waiting to hear it. The singer was called Gerry. “Gerry doesn’t give a flying fuck though man,” Sid said. “He says the labels don’t know shit. They’re full of corporate gobshites in Paul Smith suits.” Gerry had a massive black hammer and sickle tattoo on his chest and he smoked skinny wee joints without tobacco, just pure weed. They looked like stick insects with the legs pulled off, Sid said.
The wee hall was silent. Mack coughed. He took the slide off and pushed a second one on. 2. The Shallow Ground it said. Three more bullet points were underneath.
Ruth yawned and blew into her hands again. She tapped Nicky and said, “D’you remember that scarecrow programme?”
“Kind of. Not really.”
“It sounds freaky. I reckon everyone that made those old kids’ programmes was on drugs, don’t you?”
He smiled. She crossed her legs and her shin rested against him.
She said, “I never knew Mack was so mental when he was younger. The other night he was telling me all his stories. Well, some of them. I’m sure there’s loads. D’you know his friend ended up in prison? He was in a fight outside a pub and punched this guy and the guy fell, smacked his head on the kerb and died.”
Nicky glanced. Mack was talking to the new boy in the corner, shaking his hand.
Ruth went on, “So when this mate of his was in prison he ran out of cigarette papers and started using the Gideon bible. He was smoking the bible. Then one day he was in the middle of making it and the words caught his eye. So he shakes the stuff off the page and reads it. It was out the Gospels and he got converted.”
“So d’you think he smoked the whole Old Testament?”
She frowned.
“Before he got to the Gospels I mean.”
She tutted and shook her head. “Anyway, point is he gets out of prison and ends up convincing Mack to become a Christian.”
Mack was packing his things into a rucksack. He looked over and both of them were staring. He grinned.
Ruth went back to picking her nail polish. “I want chips now. A big greasy bag of chips.”
“Let’s get chips then.”
Her hands dropped to her sides. “It’s too late. And I’ll get fat.”
“Come on,” Nicky punched her arm softly. “Let’s get some. The shop’s still open and you’re too skinny anyway.”
“Should we? I can’t stop thinking about them now.” She leaned forward and grabbed his arm with both hands, “Where’ll we go?”
“Anywhere you want.”
She let go and jumped up. “I’ll ask Mack. He can drive us.”
The blonde girl was on her own in a skirt to her knees with a wee slit up the back. It looked too narrow to walk in. She was swivelling her arse and taking tiny steps like a wind up toy. The seam was straining.
“Awright,” he said when he caught up.
Neither of them replied.
“Good weekend?”
“Heard you were at that mosher thing on Saturday,” Pete said. “When d’you join that freak show.”
“I play drums with some of them.”
“You’re in a mosher band? That’s the gayest thing I’ve heard. Where’s your mosher chain?”
“It’s a punk band.”
Pete laughed.
At the school gates Jennifer Black came towards them and he asked Danny Donnelly for a fag.
“Get to fuck,” he told him.
Nicky walked away. He found Sach on the wheelchair ramp. They nodded at each other and he sat.
“I went to that scout hall thing at the weekend.”
“See any decent combos?”
“Slack Grannies. Mostly old-school stuff.”
Sach nodded. “My brother was in a band with that guy. The singer. They fell out cos it was meant to be straight edge.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Anti-drugs and anti-booze. Minor Threat and Black Flag for example. The other guy kept turning up pished and stoned the whole time.”
“So your brother never drinks or anything?”
“We’re forbidden. All intoxicants are forbidden.”
The bell went and they both got up from the ramp.
“You’ll never drink either?” Nicky said.
“I’m not supposed to get my hair cut either.”
Nicky looked at his bowl cut. “Mibbe you shouldn’t’ve bothered.”
“Ha ha, fuck off,” Sach said. “Yours isn’t much better.”
The blisters on his hands had burst and he’d peeled the flaps of dead skin away. Underneath the red flesh stung and seeped and left wet dots on the drumsticks.
“The middle bit sounds shite,” Sid said.
Fadge sighed. “The whole song’s shite. I hated it the first time, now I never want to hear it again.”
“Try learning it. Messiah only heard it about five minutes ago and he knows it.”
“Course he fuckin’ does.”
“And when you getting that string fixed man? You’re a joke.”
Sid turned to Nicky. “It’s still too slow but. We need to do it again.”
Fadge went to moan. Sid nodded the speed he wanted and Nicky clicked it in.
During the chorus the bedroom door opened. A girl came in. It was the scout hall girl, the one in the Descendents T-shirt. On her way across the room, she reached and twisted a tuning peg on Fadge’s bass. He aimed a kick at her and she danced away grinning and sat on the couch, boots on the edge of the glass table. She was small, with short black hair.
When they were done, Fadge said, “What d’you want?”
“That sounded a bit shit. No offence.”
“It’s your idiot brother’s fault,” Sid said. “He’s an embarrassment to your family.”
The girl nodded, “Yeah. My mum’s taking him to get put down.”
“Why the hell are you here?” Fadge said.
“I thought we should spend more time together.”
“We’re busy. Fuck off home.”
“Mum says you need to come home now or your dead. You’re still grounded and she says you were only supposed to be out an hour. And you’re a fat bastard.”
Fadge mumbled and unplugged his bass, leaving the lead buzzing on the carpet.
“Sid,” the girl said. “I need booze for the party.”
“Me too,” Fadge said.
“It’s me and Melissa. We need voddy.”
“Wine. And you owe us for the last time anyway.”
“Right. Hang on.” Sid picked up a piece of paper and smoothed it on his knee. He turned to Nicky. “What about you?”
Fadge started laughing. “Shit. I just noticed – Annie, you and him have the exact same hair cut.”
Sid laughed.
The girl glared at Nicky. She chucked an empty fag packet at Fadge. “Fuck off Gordon.”
“My party on Saturday,” Sid said. “You need a bevvy. Place your order.” He held the paper and pencil like a waiter.
“I didn’t know about it.”
“You’re coming though. What you having? Your Uncle Sid’ll sort it.”
“I’ll be awright.”
Sid was waiting. Fadge and Annie were too.
Nicky picked a splinter from one of the drumsticks. He stared at the snare drum and shrugged. “Cider?”
“Good choice sir. I’ll bring you with the biggest and nastiest bottle on the menu.”
Fadge grinned. “The Messiah’s getting fucked up.” He slung the bass over his shoulder.
“Wait up.” Annie said. On her way past, she gave Sid a punch.
The door closed behind them. “Those McFadgens are a bunch of bastards,” he said, rubbing his arm.