Thongs Read online

  There were about forty men on the street, most of them ragged, disheveled, and wearing dirty white scarves at their necks, as though they had just got up and had come out for some reason – not particularly urgent – to discuss the morning's news. The church bells were still tolling and their sound on the cold, windless morning seemed to be devoid of all significance. No one, certainly in Rose Street, paid any attention to them. They were there in the background, a sound monotonous and plangent in the atmosphere, and for all their movement, as flat, static, and lifeless as the red coin of sun above the level of the roofs. But there was something in the air. It was too quiet. The policemen knew it and the men, while they feigned innocence, knew that the policemen knew it, but they didn't care, for sooner or later they would have to go away, and then it would happen. By the time the policemen returned, at no matter what strength, it would be too late. It would be over.

  The policemen remained in that way, a close and casual triangle, talking in the middle of the street for about five minutes, and then, as casually as they had come, they went, walking the length of the street without so much as a glance to either side, leaving Johnnie on the right unnoticed, ignored, and flicking yet another stub of cigarette where they had walked with their shining boots.

  The last of them was now out of sight round the corner. Johnnie nodded to a youth on the opposite side of the pavement. The youth shambled after them as far as the corner. There he hesitated to light a cigarette, looked up and down the intersection as though to satisfy himself that there was no traffic before he crossed, and then actually did cross to the wider-angle view on the opposite pavement. A moment later he looked back at Johnnie, nodded, and held his right thumb upwards, discreetly, at waist-level. Johnnie returned his nod and opened his jacket. The razors were still there, one white and one black, the sleek silver tongues at the non-cutting end of the blades pointing diagonally towards his armpits where, in the sleeve-holes of his vest, he now hooked his thumbs. At the same time he glanced down towards the other end of the street and the men, following his gaze, folded their newspapers.

  Allison was approaching at a quick walk along the pavement.

  The trio appeared suddenly, the father slightly in advance, and then the mistress holding the sixteen-year-old daughter by the hand. The father carried a long belt of heavy black leather in his right hand.

  Johnnie saw him at once and took up his position in the center of the roadway. The crowd pressed forward and back like an ebbing tide. There was a distance of about twenty yards between the two men, the elder of whom, carrying the belt and followed at a few yards' distance by the two young women, now raised his eyes under the skip of his cap and stared drunkenly along the center lane of the street where his son, a razor in each hand crouching ready for battle, awaited him. There was an utter silence in the street. All eyes were trained now upon Razor King, who had halted, his feet apart, swaying, his powerful shoulders hunched forward like a gorilla's, and with the belt of black leather trailing the ground near his right boot. Somewhere, high above the roofs, the church bells were still tolling.

  Then, suddenly, the sixteen-year-old girl had broken away from the other and was running the length of the street towards Johnnie, screaming his name. No other noise. Just the harsh strident scream of the girl and the clatter of her shoes on the stone. It took her about four seconds to reach him. And then, shifting his position slightly to meet her onrush with his left shoulder, Johnnie struck sideways with his forearm, sending her sprawling to the gutter at the feet of the nearest spectators. He was immediately on guard again, crouching, the razors held at chest level eighteen inches in front of his body. The girl was gathered into the crowd and held there by Allison and another man. In the tension of the moment as she tumbled, her skirt fluttering upward, in the gutter, no one noticed the thin red weals which disfigured her thighs.

  Razor King had not moved. His small bloodshot eyes stared out derisively beneath his low forehead. Now, with a peculiar shambling walk, he advanced slowly and dangerously toward his son.

  He was of exactly the same stature as Johnnie, only thicker, with battle scars all over his body. His nose had been broken by a bottle flat into his face. His clothes hung in tatters from his body, but at the neck a spotless white silk scarf was wound, and his cap, like Johnnie's, was sharp and immaculate.

  Now, less than ten yards apart, neither man moved. From the windows on the fourth story above the street, because of the dark clothing of the men and because of what they held in their hands – the one, razors, the other, the long black belt – the slow approach had appeared almost beetle-like. The impression was accentuated by the minute tremor in the posture of the younger man and by the slight swaying motion of the other as he advanced. When the latter came to a halt, the whole street seemed to halt with him, to freeze to immobility, the crowd paralyzed by its own acute lust for violence, strung taut as a man is at the instant before he is involved utterly in love or dying, the protagonists seized in the religious certainty of their commitment, and the young woman in the yellow polo-neck jersey – the mistress – her long red hair falling to her shoulders and emphasizing the smooth rise of her breasts under the fine wool, at a dead stop, the muscles of her haunches rigid under her tight skirt and her feet in high heels riveted to the stone where she stood now, slightly to the side, nearer to the father than to the son, and unable to move.

  Closer, at street level, where a light wind brushed a scrap of paper along the gutter, movement was more perceptible. The men were not still. The crouch of the younger man was not static. It deepened the tensions doubling and redoubling themselves at every fiber. And the older man, halted momentarily, had paused only so as not to provoke a sudden movement on the part of the other, but he was going forward now, an inch at a time. His voice when it came was gruff, ominous, and strangely calm at the same time. It created the urgent necessity, as certain chords do, for resolution.

  "Pit ... doon ... they ... weapons!"

  Johnnie didn't flinch. All things seemed suspended. He made no move to obey his father's order.

  "Pit ... doon ... they ... weapons, Johnnie!"

  The slight note of wonder, even perhaps of hysteria, in the repeated command seemed to draw the crowd actively into the situation. It participated in the nightmare.

  The voice which shrilled out now was irrelevant, absurd. It was Allison's. Her face craned whitely forward from behind the daughter whom she held, close to her chest.

  "Ye bloody well asked for it, Gault!"

  Razor King's face became contorted with fury. The black belt shook in his fist. He glared hatefully behind his son in the direction of the voice.

  "Aye, Allison! Ah've got you marked!" he bellowed. "This is your fuckin work an ye'll pay for it! Ah'll come roon tae you in jist aboot two meenutes!" He looked at Johnnie again, his face set and his bloodshot eyes narrowed to slits.

  "Ahm tellin ye for the last time, Johnnie! Pit ... doon ... they ... bliddy ... razors!"

  At that moment, and for the first time, Johnnie wavered. His muscles seemed to slacken. A low moan escaped the crowd. Razor King breathed outwards through his twisted nostrils. His chin was tilted slightly to one side, giving the head a cocked appearance.

  It might have been over.

  But the next voice, a harsh slum woman's scream, acted as the detonator.

  "Ayee! Awa' back hame an get yer bliddy erse skelpit! It's no that long ago yer mither wiped it fur ye!"

  Johnnie moved then, straight for his father.

  With a thin animal snarl Razor King hurled the belt down. His hands flashed for his vest pockets and the gleaming blades cut forward at his son's rush. Johnnie ducked, too late to avoid having his left cheek slashed open to the bone, but quick enough to be under his father's guard and to butt him with all his power with a knee to the groin. Razor King screamed with rage and pain and toppled backwards, bent like a hinge. Johnnie hesitated for a split second, and then, with the wild cry of a wounded animal, leapt cutting and kicki
ng forward. More like a ghoul than a man he went in, his cheek streaming red blood, his mouth bellowing inarticulate words, and his terrible razors cutting. Razor King went down under the onslaught, powerless to protect himself. And Johnnie had no mercy. His boots began systematically to break the bones of his father's body. At that moment he was insane.

  Somewhere in the near distance a police whistle blew, a thin clear sound in the cold morning air. That was the signal for the rammy to begin.

  Somebody at the edge of the crowd leapt in with a broken bottle. It was Beck. He was on to Johnnie before the latter knew he was confronted by another assailant and the beer bottle struck jaggedly into his head above the left ear. He collapsed at once, the razors tumbling from his clenched fists.

  The crowd, excited by the continuous blasts of the police whistles, became a riot. Women fled screaming to the doorways. Men, uncertain whether to flee or to attack, were struck down from behind and trampled underfoot. No man wanted to be a victim. Razors, bicycle chains, and broken glass appeared in their hands. A moment later Rose Street was involved in one of the most venomous brawls that ever took place in the Gorbals.

  The police made a truncheon charge as soon as they arrived, sixty of them, thirty from either end of the street, forming an impenetrable blue cordon. They struck brutally in two waves and the crowd caved in, those who could, escaping into the closes.

  Fifteen men, including Johnnie, were carried by stretcher to the infirmary, thirty-two – amongst whom were four women – by police van to the central police station, and Razor King alone by horse ambulance to the morgue.

  Gertrude

  -1-

  The first time I saw her was when he pushed her in front of him and told her to strip. Just like that. She was frightened. You could see she had been half-unwilling to come. She glanced over to where I was lying on the cot. It seemed to take her by surprise, that I was there, I mean. And that made her hesitate. My father was half drunk as he always was in those days.

  "Get yer bliddy clothes off!"

  She looked as though she wanted to get out. She was unsure of him. Although afterwards she told me she wanted it too. Like we all want it, hard, like a pain. I could see her body was quivering. That set me on edge. It was infectious. To see flesh shudder like that. You wanted to touch it. That night was the beginning of something new for me. I envied her. I couldn't take my eyes away.

  "In front of her?"

  She was looking at me.

  "You go to sleep," my father said to me. But I could see he didn't care. She did. At first anyway. Not after. I thought at that time she was innocent. I didn't know.

  I pretended to close my eyes.

  "Now get yer bliddy clothes off!"

  She didn't hesitate long. She slipped out of her canary-yellow pullover. She always wore that. It suited her. It had a roll neck. The straps of her brassiere were dirty. It was made of white satin and was taut and pearly over her full breasts. There was sweat on her belly just below her rib cage, and under her armpits where the hair was black, and wet like a soft paintbrush, not red like her hair.

  Then she removed her skirt. She had big thighs, smooth and big. And they looked slightly hot and sooty near the crotch where the satin was, and that looked greasy as satin does from sweat. Hazel's cunt sweated a lot. I could see that.

  My father was watching her. He had lit a cigarette. He was still wearing his cap which he wore low over his eyes, like a visor. He was looking at her feet first, the high heels, and then at the smooth stocking-clad legs, and then higher up at the white expanse of thighs, ballooned and soft under the elastic from her garter belt. She had nice flesh.

  My father made a kissing sound with his lips. And then he laughed.

  She was embarrassed.

  "Take aff yer bosom-bag!" he said with a sneer.

  Her nipples were big, not quite red. More like the color of an old dental plate. They were the firmest breasts I had ever seen. You wanted to lick them. I could see why my father wanted her. He could see she was hot.

  He was still smoking, the cigarette held between his lips, and the smoke rising in a steady wisp in front of his small screwed-up eyes. I watched fascinated as his right hand unbuttoned his fly.

  His thick white cock sprang out like a living thing and grew between his fingers into a shining poppy. He played with it gently, looking at her, a conductor with his baton. I could see he was smiling as it rose and fell like a pointer in his hand.

  My own naked body had become numb and heavy under the blanket. It was as though I discovered my hand at my crotch. I didn't remember moving it there. My fingers were already sticky with the sap that flowed from my cunt.

  I was getting prettier. The boys were already beginning to look at me. And the old man who repaired boots in Cumberland Street had waggled his penis just as my father was doing now. He went through the glass door that led to his back shop and if a girl was alone, he would take it out and tap the glass with it. You would be standing waiting and suddenly notice it, like a big finger beckoning you. The last time I had been there I nearly went. I wanted it and I didn't. I think he knew that. But I didn't want to have a baby. I left the shop without the boots.

  The way my father moved his cock reminded me of the boot maker. There was something sly abut it. Ingratiating and threatening at the same time. A big smelly finger. You wanted to put your nose to it. At that moment I felt jealous of Hazel. She was excited. And she was going to get it. Like a fist. My own body already felt it.

  "Rub yersel'!"

  My father's lips were drawn back over the yellow stumps of his teeth in a kind of snarl.

  Slowly, hesitantly, Hazel lowered her right hand to her mound. Her fingers slipped into her delicate cleft. Her body shuddered. In her high heels she seemed a little unsteady, like a fine racehorse on icy cobbles. Her body quivered under the motion of her fingers and her long red hair splashed down over her firm breasts. Through her hair, her green eyes stared at him almost defiantly.

  He let his hands fall to his sides and tossed his belly so that his cock swung up and down as though on a spring. He grunted each time he did so. He was trying to make her hate him. To make her hotter.

  Her nostrils were quivering. She looked beautiful. I envied her.

  He shuffled towards her, his knees close together, until he was almost touching her bare flesh and then his right hand shot out viciously and pushed her backwards towards the bed. For my father, fucking was rape. He was a wolf and he liked nice fat fear-ridden bitches for his lust. White thighs.

  It was a high bed built in an alcove. It was broad and shadowy. It must have stood nearly three feet from the floor. As she fell backwards her naked buttocks slapped against the wooden side. He held her there in a firm grip. She was wilting. He was muttering obscenities at her while his hard calloused hand worked roughly between her soft legs until her head drooped like a bell of burnished copper on his shoulder. His prick was hard and flat against her naked belly now, and his hands slipped 'round behind her to support her smooth buttocks. He lifted her quivering torso high so that she toppled backwards, all legs, the thighs apart like broken calipers. I could hear her panting. From where I lay I could see only her legs now, all the power gone out of them, dangling like white creepers over the side of the bed. The rest of her, her soft front, arms and head, was out of sight on the bed.

  Razor King walked over and switched off the light. At the same time he locked the door.

  He seemed to be unaware of me. In the darkness I thought frantically of the old shoemaker behind the glass, trying to see him. If it had been then, I would have gone like a sleepwalker.

  Behind closed eyelids I heard Hazel groan as though she had been wounded for a long time. The bed shook. I shuddered.

  Somewhere above there was the sound of a clothes pulley going up on its iron wheels and a woman's laughter, like the sound of a night animal beyond the damp walls. The atmosphere of the room seemed suddenly to be impregnated with the smell of young woman and male. T
he grunting grew furious. And the slap of wild bellies. I pulled the blanket over my head and passed the flat of my hand downwards slowly over my own throbbing front. Someday soon, I felt, it would happen.

  -2-

  The next morning, Sunday, I was awakened by the sound of church bells. People were already moving about in the rooms and passages of the tenement. Night changed to day gradually, for the tenements were never silent. The inhabitants were born, they made love, and they died, in the same rooms, and often at night. Just before dawn, and before the sounds of the milk carts in the street outside, there was probably more silence than at other times, an hour's silence before the paraffin lamps went on in the fetid rooms. And all night long doors slammed and people shuffled about, moving for whatever purpose to the common latrine on the stairs.

  My father was snoring heavily in a drunken sleep. His new mistress lay with the upper part of her body exposed and with one slim white foot sticking out of the covers at the bottom of the bed. I had the impression that she was not sleeping. I knew why.

  When Hazel allowed my father to bring her home, she made what many regarded as the most important decision of her life. And there was no going back. From the moment that he took her on the bed, she was a marked woman. She belonged to him, like his bloody razors.

  Razor King, the werewolf of the Gorbals.

  More like an animal than a man, he emerged from our one-room flat in the tenement, and before he had reached the street, the word of his approach had traveled a block. Men retreated behind doors or crossed to the opposite pavement; women appeared at the doorways smiling, showing off their ragged figures.