Storms always lit the sky on nights like these, Joe thought.  But only in old movies.  The heavens had opened tonight, and God shouted down at the rain-slashed streets at what had been done.  Joe felt like shouting too, but to shout would be to release the hurt tearing at his heart, and he didn't want the feeling to drain away in a futile grimace of despair, because part of the hurt was the helplessness, and it could only be healed by action.  And that meant...

	Glasgow was a place much loved by rain.  The clouds embraced the brooding tenements like old lovers in a tearful reunion.  Joe did not heed the rain, a thousand thousand raindrops had found their final rest on his balding head in his lifetime, and his haggard expression was that of a man who would see a million more without flinching.  Glasgow rain did that to a man.  It wasn't machismo, people just didn't notice it after a while.

	He had more on his mind, his daughter for one.  Part of him had wanted to stay with her, to be with her.  But the female ranks close on the menfolk when this sort of thing happens; why should he be shooed out of his own living room?   He would have words with his wife later for that... much later.  You would think that they were blaming him for it, all men guilty by association with the bastard who had taken his little daughter and...

	He had run from the house then.  If he couldn't stay, he would go out and do something.  Find the bastards.  Kill them maybe.  Make them suffer, certainly.  Nobody does that to...  and gets away with it.  His daughter, the little girl who had pulled the fairy from the top of the department store Christmas tree as he held her up to see it; the daughter who was his only reason for putting up with the misery and indignity of his thankless job in the fruit market.  The same daughter he had held to the window of the Rottenrow hospital to the crisp city sky and proclaimed her life to the heavens.  She was his... life.  And now...

	And this wretch at his side, who was he anyway?  Rab, her boyfriend apparently, fat lot of use he had been when they came for her.  But that wasn't fair.  At the news, sitting there in the comforting colours of his living room, hearing what had happened, Joe could look at nothing but his own white knuckles, and the single tear in Rab's eye which refused to fall down his cheek, but hung there as a testimony to grief held back.  The boy was OK, he saw in his face the same rage and despair as he felt.  And a younger man would be useful if...

	The rain was thinning but the sky was darkening.  Joe knew where to go.  He knew where the local hang-out was.  Delinquency was honed to a fine art on the streets of No Mean City, and drug culture turned every street corner into respectable shops for all manner of coloured and powdered goodie.  And the rain didn't stop them.  Despite their expensive designer jackets and their spotless baseball caps, the customers were out and about, and trade was brisk in the drizzle.

	Joe knew which one to get.  Thinking to the previous week, it was obvious.  He had been coming home from work, walking in the rain on a night much like this, thinking of the long evening by the fire stretching out in front of him.  The corner of Commons Road and Kilsyth Parade was a typical hangout, but Joe had passed by without incident every day for 30 years.  That night must have been a slow business night, or maybe it had been the package he was carrying.  They seemed suddenly interested in him that night, shouting him over.  He had ignored them and walked on, perhaps the wrong move thinking back on it.  They had grabbed him, but Joe could see the boredom in their faces.  The leader of them, a big fat skinhead with a very effeminate dangly earring had the parcel off him and ripped open before he could speak.  The summer dress, which he had bought for his daughter that day, was strewn over the pavement.  If they had expected a reaction from Joe, they weren't going to get it.  He merely stared him out, saying nothing.  They had pushed him away up the road, laughing and jeering at him, waving the torn dress after him like a banner of victory.

	It all fitted into place: he was the one.  That big skinhead... and he would get it now.

	It was almost dark when the pair reached the end of Commons Road.   The crowd was there, smaller than usual, because of the rain.  The big skinhead was propped on top of the green phone-line cabinet, with various cronies and henchmen leaning nonchalantly around him.  A couple of hippie types were scoring, one with a caftan that looked like an old rug and was the sort of get-up that deserved a good doing anywhere else in the city.  They were buying some blow from a dealer on the edge of the fray.  Younger children were fighting with sticks further down the street, and Joe wondered what their parents must be thinking letting them out amongst this scum.  But the parents were probably scum too, he grumbled.

	Joe did not mess about.  He strode up to the corner, Rab fell in behind him, watching his back.  The skinhead waved his two bodyguards away as they closed Joe's path to their leader.

	"Let the man in, boys." he said, grinning at his cronies.  "Mibbes he's buying the night."

	Joe pulled himself up to his full height.  "The only thing I'll be buying the night is a wreath for yer grave, son."  He grabbed the skinhead by the shirt; he could feel the quality of the silk, and felt the pearl buttons pop as they gave.  His senses were preternaturally alert, he could smell the beer and cigarettes from the skinhead's breath, he could see every pore on his face.  But his eyes were black.

	The skinhead shook his whole body in an effort to throw off the sudden grip.  "Wait jist a minute, faither"  He beckoned the bodyguards away: the glint of polished steel at their sleeves a welcome reminder of his power.  "That's no way to be speaking to an upstanding member of the community likes maself.  Yer lucky ah'm in a good mood the night.  Noo, leave go the shirt before my boys here make mince oot yer face."

	Joe tightened.  "Scum like you...  What you did to my lass was..."  He couldn't find the words.  All the way along the road he had been rehearsing his opening lines, the clear and precise explanation that he was going to give before he beat the shit out of this guy.  But it was all gone.  The feel of his shirt, the hair of his chest tickling his knuckles, his relaxed breathing, the effeminate earring... The thought of him and his daughter... "I'm gonny fuckin kill you for that, son"  Matter of fact, simplicity itself.

	The skinhead began to get agitated.  "Hey look mister, I don't want tae hurt ye.  Mess yer wee dress up, aye.  Push ye aroon a bit, jist a wee bitty fun, know?  But I don't know anything aboot yer lassie, faithur.  I heard aboot it, terrible fuckin thing, bastards that did it should be castrated, but nothin tae dae wi me, ye hear?  Noo, ye'd better fuckin leave ma shirt."  With some effort, he prized Joe's hands off his silky grasp.  Joe was strong, but the guy was younger than he was.  "Better noo.  Boys, show the man on his way."

	The henchmen moved in, grasping Joe's old shoulders in that assured way the young treat the old.  Joe resisted for a second, then something gave in him.  Maybe he had always known that it was nothing to do with these people.  Even though they were junkie dealer scum, he believed the skinhead was telling him the truth.  Joe could see it in his cavernous eyes.  The skinhead straightened his shirt, fingering the thread where the expensive peal buttons had come away.  "But faither..."

	The skinhead punched Joe smartly on the chin, a blow that would have floored him if he hadn't been held on both sides by the henchmen.  "That's for messin ma fuckin shirt."

	It all happened quickly.  Joe was sagging in his captor's grasp after the single blow, and they dragged him away staggering to the side.  The breath had been knocked out of him, but it wasn't just because of the punch.  The big skinhead was still straightening himself: If it hadn't been for his chunky designer-clad arm still smoothing out the silk, the kitchen knife which Rab lunged at him would have killed him instantly.

	"Ya fucking rapist bastard..." Rab screamed as the blade buried itself in leather sleeve.  Joe had no time to react from the sidelines. The two henchmen dropped him gasping on the pavement and rushed to their leader.  Rab had lost his grip on the knife after the initial failed lunge, and was grappled to the ground by the two bodyguards.  He was crying, his tears mingling with the dirty rainwater as the two neds pulled him to his feet.  They help him securely in front of the skinhead for whatever punishment was to come.

	"You tried tae stab me, ya fucker"  The skinhead stammered.  "You tried tae kill me."  He was astonished that someone had dared to attack him.  "I don't fucking believe it"  He juggled the knife in the palm of his hand.  "Bastard."  And with that he plunged the knife hilt-deep into Rab's stomach.

Rab fell instantly.  The henchmen dropped him, shocked by the act.  He was still weeping as he hit the ground.  The gang scattered, leaving only an echo of running footsteps.  Even the children had gone.  They were alone on the corner, the last two men on earth.

	"Oh fer fuck sake, Rab..."  Joe crawled over to him through the puddles of dirty rain.  "Oh jeezus, Rab, yer stabbed son."  Joe was shaking, his hands skirted round the blade handle as it protruded in an ugly dark finger from the boy's guts.  "Get an ambulance, somebody!"  Nobody was there.  "Get a fucking amb...", Joe collapsed face down in the sludge, whimpering at the situation.  Nobody was here, nobody was going to call an ambulance. Rab was stabbed and he was going to die...

	"Faithur..."  Joe looked up, Rab was trying to speak.

	"What is it son, don't try tae speak"  The blood was pooling around them, a slow flood of crimson black on the inky pavement.

	"I really gave it tae him, didn't ah daddy"  Delirium.  He was coughing between words now, and his eyes were already seeing things beyond this earth.

	"Ah'm no yer Da, son.  Noo, try no tae talk."  He looked around frantically for someone to help them, but the unforgiving streets had forsaken them.  Not a soul stirred in the drizzle.  In the logic of the streets, nobody was to be witness.

	"I never meant tae dae it, ye know."  He began spasming for a few seconds, and a bloody grin spread across his face.  Joe raised his upper body onto his own knees, supporting his shoulders with his chest.  The blood flow was abating, slightly, clotting around the wound.  But it was too late.  "Ye've got to know that, Daddy, I never meant it."

	"I know, son, I wanted tae kill him as well, but we had the wrong guy"  Still nobody around.

	"I never meant to hurt her, Daddy"

	Joe went cold.  The death was imperceptible, one staggered breath ended, and in the space where another would have torn the silence, none came.  Alone was the way he wanted it now, as the rain stopped and the clouds broke, a primeval cry rose up between the canyons of red sandstone tenements over the hills and valleys of the city, and in a room, streets away, a child began to cry.



Revenge - p1









Revenge - p1 of 9