The Young Team

by Graeme Armstrong

There’s ma best mate, Danny Stevenson.

The kinda wee guy yi wouldnae leave yir goldfish wae.

Most lassies caked themselves in the stuff, their necks generally a different colour fae their faces. They huv that plasticky look, like somebody’s moulded them fae plasticine n smoothed oot the edges.

That’s yir best n only defence aboot here, the boldness inside.

Ma maw is just a wee quiet hard-workin wuman n ma da died years back.

McGiver wisnae like the rest ae the teachers. They fired referrals at yi constant n fucked yi oot intae the corridors fur talkin or carryin on. Yi spent as much time oot there as yi did in a class. The big yin cared n wis tryin tae help us.

A never carry cos A don’t want tae kill somecunt. There’s nae comin back fae that.

We aw hope fur a massive gang fight n maybe part ae yi, deep doon, hopes we don’t see a soul.

A’m just glad it wisnae ma new Berghaus jakit that git chopped. Ma arm wid heal but that defo wouldnae.

You have the potential for great things and it’s time you realised it. It will be harder for you, but so, so much more worthwhile if you achieve it.’

We’re on borrowed time always, wae every second stolen and destined fur inevitable n painful failure but every moment ae it pure electricity.

Normality, the elusive state ae peace, which we take fur granted and mourn only when furthest fae it.

The two ae us huv a wee bit ae brains in our heads, we’re no stupit. If we huv tae speak pure properly but, it’s a bit ae an effort n doesnae feel right. Monica hus obviously been practisin. A’ve dropped the pure neddy patter fae ma younger days. A kin hear ma voice n words changin the elder A git.

People judge yi by yir voice. When yir talkin like this people think you’ve nae intelligence. They think you’ve been dragged up n come fae a bad home. It’s aw aboot low-status lingo, know wit A mean?

The real gold is the different lassie, the shy wan, the odd wan wae quirks n hidden depths. Yi feel a spark when yir wae them n they make yi feel – things – yi never even knew existed.

A’m a young Scottish male n A’m supposed tae be hard as nails. A’m a fuckin ticket n a YTP wan n A’ve git enemies n a hard shell but A’m broken underneath n A need help.

The attacks pass after aboot ten minutes but A’m left less me after every one.

A git the feelin only a Scot kin when yi cross the border, like even the air changes or suhin n, even though things looked just the same, that these fields ir yours n those wans ir theirs.

Wumen suffered as witnesses n nurses tae our wars, it wis the wans who love yi who cleaned yi up n hud tae deal wae the aftermath, time n time again.

It wis nae real reflection on the parents, the lives we chose fur ourselves.

This place is ma personal labyrinth n soon as yi return, yir runnin aboot the hedgerows, lost as fuck n dodgin a minotaur a minute.

A dunno wit ma face looks like. Maybe showin the usual mix ae pain n futility that yi become accustomed tae aboot here, routine tragedy, run ae the fuckin mill.

It took major fuckin baws tae git aff anyhin n the rewards ir endless, cos at the end ae that thin margin is the promised land ae peace n redemption n precious normality. That’s worth fightin fur and livin fur.

Yi wrong a person tae tag along in their dream, cos yi don’t belong there. Ultimately, yi wid waste it, change it in unforeseen ways n alter wit it could huv been. Withoot us, she kin travel n dream uninhibited.

Aboot here, in Lanarkshire, Glasgow, the west n the rest ae Scotland – belongin meant yi wur in a fuckin young team wae troops fae yir area n yi got mad-wae-it n defended yir scheme.

Those wur the best wans, the young summers, six weeks ae warm, sweet nothingness. Yi kin never git those back.

These dreams ae another life came fae hur somehow. She’s the true unsung hero ae this story.

Yir character is defined by the choices yi make and the life yi huv is often the result ae them.

It’s playin as we pass the Campsie hills on our right. They’re lit orange towards the west as the sun goes doon, castin their dark silhouette beyond the green fields. Ma eyes ir fixed on them till they fade oot ae view. They ir ma true north, the pilot stars that wull guide me home if A git lost, blue n forever.