But these were the best times. The worst were the boxing lessons he gave us. He had a thing about me being too uncoordinated, especially with my limp, and considered Bernard too effeminate. He bought us cheap, plastic boxing gloves and set up a ring in the living-room, with four confiscated traffic cones defining its perimeters.
Bernard was even less interested in the boxing than I was, but Dad would force us to fight until one or both of us broke down in tears of misery and frustration. The gloves caused a great deal of scratching, scarring and tearing, and it looked as if we'd been slashing rather than punching each other. Bernard was older, bigger, and heavier-handed, but I was more vicious and had quickly sussed out that you could do greater damage with slashing swipes than punches.
— C'moan Roy, Dad would shout. – Punch urn, punch um, son . . . Keep that jab gaun Bernard . . . dinnae fuckin slap um like a pansy . . . His coaching advice was always a bit one-sided. Before the fights he used to whisper to me: — You're a Strang son, mind that. He's no. Mind that. Right? Mind, yir fightin fir the Strang name. He might git called a Strang, but eh's no. Eh's a fuckin crappin eyetie bastard son.
On one occasion when I had marked Bernard's eye and swollen his lip, John could scarcely contain himself:—Keep that fuckin jab in ehs eye, Roy! Poke ehs fuckin eye right oot!
I kept jabbing away at that reddening queer face, my body tight with concentration as Bernard's eyes filled with petulant unease.
BANG
QUEER-FACED CUNT
BANG
TAKE THAT YA FUCKIN SAPPY BIG POOF
BANG
I opened up his eye above the brow with a tearing twist of the glove. I felt a jolt of fear in my chest and I wanted to stop; it was the blood, splashing out onto his face. I was about to drop my hands but when I looked at Dad he snarled at me to fight on: — GO FIR THE KILL, NAE FUCKIN PRISONERS!
I battered into the fearful face of my broken-spirited pansy half-brother. His gloves fell by his sides as I kept swinging wildly, urged on by John's frenzied cries. Bernard turned his back on me and left the room sobbing, running up the stairs and locking himself in the toilet.
— Bernard! Ye'll huv tae learn tae stick up fir yirsel! John smirked, a little worried as Ma would not be pleased when she came back from the shops in Leith and inspected the damage. On that particular occasion, I came off the best, but it wasn't always like that. Sometimes it was me who beat a humiliating retreat, overwhelmed by pain and frustration.
At such times I envied my younger brother Elgin, silently rocking or gently humming, trapped in a world of his own, exempt from this torture. Perhaps Elgin had the right idea; perhaps it was all just psychic defence. At times I envied Elgin's autism. Now I have what he has, his peace and detachment from it all.
As for me and Bernard, those fights made us fear Dad and hate each other.
Bernard was
Ber no I've no time for this.
Now the nurses are back. They're doing something to me.
THIS IS ALWAYS UNPLEASANT
Tum the cabbage, prevent him rotting away . . .
I have to go deeper.
Deeper.
DEEPER
DEEPER
Away from them.
Better.
Now it's time to go
to
the
hunt – – – – – – –
There is one lush green national park which is unique. Nowhere else in the world does such a park exist in a major city. Only a few miles separate the centre of the city from this park where game animals and the large carnivores which prey on them exist in the splendour of half a century ago
– – – Easter Road Nairobi got to stop this shite deeper deeper– – – –
The area of the park, around fifty square miles, is small in comparison
I'm not deep enough. I can hear her. Nurse Patricia Devine. She's confessing to me, her vegetable priest, he who cannot affirm or condemn. I've found my perfect role.
—You always think that the next one will be different and I suppose I let my emotions get the better of me, got all carried away and read what I wanted to read between the lines. He was so charming, so wonderful, so understanding but, yes, that was before he got me into bed . . .
Sobbing sounds.
— . . . Why am I telling you this. . .why not . . . it's not as if you can hear me, it's not as if you'll ever wake up. . .oh God, I'm so sorry I said that . . .I'm just upset. I didn't mean that, I mean some people do wake up . . .they do get better . . . I'm just not myself just now Roy. you see. l let this one get right into my head as well as into my pants. Letting them into your pants is bad enough, but when they get into your head . . . it'slike . . .
No
Don't want this
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER– – – –Mwaaa! A loud, nasal sound. The sound of an adult Stork threatening a human intruder. I look around and Sandy Jamieson is boldly starting the ugly bird down.
— Net the bastard, Roy! Net the cunt! he shouts.
My psychic quality control is bloody bloody bloody damn well fucked and everything has changed and suddenly I'm standing with a ball at my feet on a football pitch. I slam it into an empty net. A couple of players in the same jerseys grab me in celebration; one of them seems to be Lexo, oh fuck naw, no Lexo, and I try to get free but he willnae let ays go and over the shoulder of his crushing bear hug I see Jamieson looking deflated, his hands resting wearily oan his hips.
3 The Pursuit
Of Truth
The old man had always been a nutter, but it seemed to me that he started to lose it really badly when we were preparing to move to South Africa. He probably knew he was a fuckin loser and this was his last throw of the dice to make something of his life. His nervousness was apparent, he was smoking more than ever. He would sit up most of the night, either with my Uncle Jackie or even sometimes with Tony, who was only fourteen but was very mature in certain ways for his age. Anytime we were out and he saw a young lassie, Tony would mutter, — Ah'd shag the fuckin erse oafay that . . .
From an early age Tony hung around with girls fae the scheme. He was always driven by hormones and completely oblivious to any other forces like logic or conscience which might serve as a counterbalance. It was inevitable that he would get some dopey cow up the stick, which he did. Her father came round to the house looking for justice. John instantly freaked out, threatening to blow him away with his shotgun. I remember this incident as I was trying to watch Superboy on the telly. The introduction was in full swing and Superboy and his loyal friend Krypto were flying through the air, dedicated to what the commentator described as 'the pursuit of truth'. I remember looking down at Winston Two, who sat curled up in front of the electric fire. I stared at the soft-breathing beast and thought of how his rib cage could be so easily shattered by simply jumping on it with a pair of heavy boots. I had a pair of heavy boots. It was something to think about. The scar tissue on the wounds Winston Two had given me tingled.
Elgin was sitting on the settee, his expression vacant, lost in a world of his own.
My concentration, divided between fantasising the slaughter of my canine assailant and watching Superboy, was shattered by my father's voice coming from the front door and ricocheting around the concrete blocks of the scheme.
— YOU KEEP YIR FUCKIN HOOR AY A DAUGHTER AWAY FI MA FUCKIN LADDIES OR AH'LL GIT MA FUCKIN SHOTGUN N FUCKIN WELL BLAW YIS AW AWAY!! RIGHT!!
I stealthily sneaked outside to see the guy timidly capitulate, leaving his daughter to face the alternatives of abortion or single parenthood. His conversation with the old man probably convinced him that these were sounder options than marrying into my family.
I crept back into the living-room, leaving my, father bellowing at the retreating man, as every net curtain in our block and the one opposite twitched. John Strang was at it again. A bit later he came in, shaking, and Tony followed him sheepishly, tears in his eyes. My Dad looked down at me. I kept
my attention on the set but he snapped, — Roy! Doon tae the shoaps fir ays. Forty fuckin Regal!
— How's it ey me that hus tae go? How no Elgin? It was a stupid thing to say. It just came out in my anger at being disturbed from my telly programme.
My Dad shook with rage. He gestured over to my brother who was now rocking on the couch. On sensing that he was being referred to, Elgin let out a steady mmmmmmmm.
— He cannae go! HE CANNAE FUCKIN WELL GO!! Ye fuckin well ken that, ya stupit wee . . . use the brains God gied ye, Roy. Like ah sais, the fuckin brains God gied um, he turned to Vet.
— It's no as if he's a stupid laddie . . . my Ma said to him.
— A dreamer, that's whit the school sais! Like ah sais, a dreamer. Heid stuffed too fill ay they fuckin comics!
I felt a horrendous tremor rumble through me as Dad's eyes burned with inspiration. — Ah'll fling aw they daft comics oot! How wid ye like that! Eh? Ah'm asking ye! How wid ye like that!
— Ah'll go . . . ah'll go . . . I helplessly whined.
— Think ah'll no? Eh? Think ah'll no? Ah'm asking ye! Think ah'll no?
— No ehs comics fir fuck sakes, John, Ma pleaded. — No the laddie's collection ay Marvel comics.
There was self-interest underpinning her concern as my Ma was a big fan of the Silver Surfer.
— Well then, git! Dad snorted. — N dinnae think thit yi'll no huv tae improve yir schoolwork, son!
I was putting my coat on in the lobby when Dad came out. — Ah'm jist gaun . . . I said, terrified of those intense, blazing eyes.
He put his hands on my shoulders. My head was bowed. — Look at ays, he said. I looked up, but I couldn't stop my eyes from watering. — Whit's wrong? Look son, ah ken thit ah'm harder oan you thin the rest. It's cause you're the one wi the brains, son. Ah ken that. It's jist thit ye dinnae use these brains. Like ah sais, brains, he tapped his large forehead. — Ah hud brains n ah didnae use thum. Ye dinnae want tae end up like me, he said, looking genuinely tormented with remorse. — Sooth Efrikay, it'll aw be different thair though, eh?
— Aye. N wi'll be able tae go tae a Safari Park, Dad? I asked.
— Ah've telt ye! Ah'm gaunny git a joab as a Park Ranger. Wi'll be practically livin in a Safari Park.
— Barry, I said with genuine enthusiasm. I was still at the age where, despite being embarrassed at their weirdness, I essentially believed in the omnipotence of my parents. I skipped along to the shops.
The old man was right though. I was a dreamer, stuck in my own world for much of the time. I'd have my head buried in the adventures of the Silver Surver and the Fantastic Four and the likes. This was because I never really fitted in anywhere. I was quiet at school, but had got intae trouble for stabbing a laddie with a compass. They were laughing at me. They called me Dumbo Strang or the Scottish Cup because of my ears. On top of all my other Strang defects, I had to be cursed with those protruding lugs. I was, though, working out a simple formula: if you hurt them, they don't laugh, and I can't stand anybody laughing at me. I had learned that I could take pain. Physical pain I could take. If you can stand pain you're going to give any cunt problems. If you can stand pain and you arenae feart and you're angry. Pain I could stand. Them laughing at me; I couldnae take that.
The teacher and the headmaster expected me to feel guilty for what I had done. They expected me to fear them. I didn't fear them. I lived in a houseful of sociopaths so the disapproving threats of middle-class teachers calling me a warped, evil and nasty little creature didn't bother me, they just lowered my self-esteem further, became a set of terms of reference for me to embrace.
But it wasn't as if I was disruptive at school; I was nothing. I withdrew as much into anonymity as I could. I wanted to be invisible. I wanted nobody to see the misshapen, twisted Dumbo Strang. I just sat at the back of the class and daydreamed.
At home in my bedroom, I rubbed my cock to illustrations of Sue Storm, The Invisible Girl, in my Fantastic Four comics. The drawings of Sue being kidnapped and restrained were the biggest turn-ons. Sometimes you got well-defined tits, arse and lips in the drawings.
I wonder now if the pursuit of the Marabou is about anything as fundamental as the pursuit of truth. I'll have to go deeper to find out.
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER – – – – – Now I'm back in the hunt, heading deeper, because I feel the heat and see the light. On my face, in my eyes. I feel the warm, dusty sweet air in my lungs and cough and wonder if it registers in my slumbering near-corpse up in the other world.
We had got back into town and Sandy, forever the sport, had traded our photography equipment for an old jeep. — All this has to do is to get us out to Dawson's. He'll sec us alright, Sandy smiled.
— But your equipment, Sandy . . . I felt awful, knowing how keen Sandy was on photography. He always said ruefully: the camera never lies.
— Photos won't be much good against the Stork. We need hardware, and Dawson's the chap to get it for us. The time for photographs is later on!
— I can't wait, I said excitedly. — I can think of lots of things I want to photograph!
We found cheap lodgings in a poor area of the town and spent the evening drinking bottled beer in a spartan hut of a bar.
— Do you have any food? Sandy asked the bartender.
— We have the best homemade steak pie and mashed potatoes in Africa, said the barman, — followed by the most scrumptious apple crumble absolutely drenched in whipped cream!
— Gosh, that's just what we could do with after all that travelling, Sandy said eagerly, and we sat down to a feast.
Despite the bartender's enthusiasm, the food simply wasn't up to scratch. That night I experienced a fevered, alcoholic sleep. The Storks were pursuing me in my dreams. Then it was the group of youths from the large, municipal building. I woke up more than a few times covered in sweat. On one occasion I came to absolutely terrified, after having been followed by something which did not reveal itself, but which I could sense lurking in the shadows. This thing suggested such horror and evil that I dared not trust myself to the mercies of sleep. I left Jamieson slumbering heartily and sat up at an old, marked wooden table, writing up my notebook.
The next morning we set off. The burning, sweltering sun had turned the dark continent into a vast furnace. I was weary and out of sorts. Nothing felt right. My bare legs in my khaki shorts stung with pain every time they came into involuntary contact with the hot body of our jeep. Avoiding such unwanted bonding was impossible when we were shaking in gravelly ascent towards the Alpine Moorlands, our four-wheel-drive vehicle still struggling to negotiate the rough surface and steep inclines.
My discomfort lifted as almost imperceptibly we found ourselves travelling through an environment I can only describe as paradise. My awareness of it started as we passed through a magnificent belt of juniper and podocarpus, and I began rushing on the magical fragrances that filled the air, before we reached the high altitude bamboo forest with its mighty gorges, sylvan glades and fast trout streams.
— Isn't this heavenly! I exclaimed to Sandy.
— I'll say, Roy, Sandy agreed, tearing open a packet of chocolate biscuits. – Munchie wunchies, he smiled.
We drove past a couple of elephant and buffalo herds grazing in a grassland clearing and Sandy even claimed to have spotted a rare black rhino. Ahead was our destination, one of Dawson's lodges, No. 1690, which lay approximately 7,000 feet above sea level in the heart of the forest.
On our way up a particularly challenging incline, Sandy passed over the large joint he had been smoking. After a couple of enthusiastic tokes I was feeling somewhat out of sorts. Generally, when I take drugs of this type I can reserve a small central part of my brain for sobriety. This becomes a lens, through which I can, with concentration, view the world with a certain clarity – – – but it – – – was all fuckin
Simply Devine, Patricia.
Sidney Devine. I'll be back, Sandy.
— Your girlfr
iend looked nice. I hadn't seen her before. Still, I suppose I'm quite new on this ward.
What girlfriend? Surely that fat hoor wisnae back. Some mistake surely. She'll be gettin fucked by somebody else long ago and good riddance. And I gave that fuckin boot a ring. Fuckin joke. Git back tae Fathell, Dorie my love.
No don't talk about her that way don't talk like that about Dorie who isnae real nowt's fuckin real
Stay cool
— I think she's a bit shy. Very pretty though. You're a bit of a dark horse, aren't you Roy?
I've not got much to say for myself, Patricia. Plenty to think about though.
— You know Roy, I heard all about you. It came as a shock to me.
— Right Nurse Devine, let's get him changed.
— Oh, Staff, Right.
Caught again Patricia, caught blethering to the veg.
Fuck getting changed.
Fuck getting shaken aboot like a pea in a whistle . . . this whistle the whistle
This requires DEPTH.
D
E
P
T
H– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
After circling around on a path on the periphery of the forest for a while, we eventually pulled
is . . . I feel really bad about us moving him into the corridor like this, Bev.
— I know Tricia, but it's only going to be for a couple of nights, then he'll have his room back. Won't you, Roy?
Ah dinnae gie a fuck where ye pit ays. Stick ays oot wi the rubbish fir aw ah care, ya cunts.
—I think it's terrible though. Some rich private patient needs the room, so a long-term.coma victim is dumped in the corridor until the wealthy case is ready to go . . .
—The hospital needs the funds these people bring in though. Tricia.
—Well, I'm just glad I'm not on duty when we have to explain to the family what he's doing in the corridor.
Deeper.
Can't I get some shagging interest in this? Conjure up a fleshy hologram of Nurse Patricia Devine and fuck her no no no