'Here's the bird that never flew
Here's the tree that never grew
Here's the bell that never rang
Here's the fish that never swam'
The Glasgow coat of Arms
1983. Hysteria spills onto the streets of Glasgow. The Screech of sirens; whirring in the wind.
A child has fallen. Blood has been shed.
A puddle descends on the street from a mother's tear; A countries outcry.
As night falls, a lily dances wildly in the breeze.
Scorched metal glints menacingly beneath the pale glow of the moonlight.
The blood of the innocent creeps slowly through the cracks in the pavement, draining away to the sewerage below leaving in its wake, a stain of terror.
Welcome to Machete City.
Abandoned alone, away from the city centre stood a suburb known locally as 'the Estate'. Landscaped in dreary grey high rise, Seven blocks, each thirteen stories high reaching towards the gods but failing, and instead, yielding towards the mouth of Hell. It was the devil's playground for the dregs of society; murderers, rapists, thief’s, drug pushers, pimps, working women and rent boys selling their souls to pay for their smack. It also played home to the poor and impoverished working class families that couldn't afford to live elsewhere in the city; Struggling to make an honest and decent living. The streets were drenched in graffiti, burnt out cars lay abandoned. Rats scurried the pavements encouraged by the stench of piss. Colour and happiness lay elsewhere. This was a warped version of Kansas with the Emerald city laying not doon a yellow brick road but just across the Clyde. Away from the sinners of the estate lived families who had been born and brought up there all their days. The estate was run by two in particular, the McVeigh’s and the Finnegan’s. Each living at opposite ends of the estate, each fighting to be number one. Old grudges being passed like a torch, relaying down the line of offspring. Spreading poison from generation to generation.
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A hush falls over the normally noise laden streets of the estate. No children can be seen playing hide n' seek, or tag. The Fishwives having a gossip while hanging their washing are missing, the men out fixing their clapped out motors are gone.. the junkie isn't shooting up at the corner. There's no sound of the local bike faking her orgasm in exchange for heroin. The alki beating his wife for hiding his wages can't be heard. All is still and quiet. The silence threatens to engulf the estate. From a window, six floors up on one of the high rises stands a boy.. he looks out over the estate with vacant, tear stained eyes. He is watching his youth fly through the bright blue sky.. in search of a finer land. Never to be seen again. He whispers his goodbye.
The flat. A home. Is dirty and cramped full of people crying and drinking. Rising damp covers each wall. Wallpaper hangs loose, threatening to come undone and fall at any time. It looks like it hasn't seen a paint brush since the 40s... the white wood work is stained yellow with age and nicotine. Each piece of old rickety furniture including the two battered sofas don’t match. An old coffee table lies in the middle of the floor, perched on a tattered orange and brown swirly carpet. It has been covered to preserve the wood by old newspaper. A lily stands in a beer bottle and acts as a centrepiece. The house is fit for bursting with mourners. There are women crying into sweet sherry, men supping at whiskey in silence or whispering in hushed tones. The hoose is awash with pain and guilt. You could cut through the tense atmosphere with a knife. A photograph of a young laddie about sixteen lies on the mantelpiece. He's grinning wildly. Looks like its been taken at the seaside, the boy paddling in the water. He looks happy. Over by the window a younger boy stands. He's wearing an old black suit that looks two sizes to big for him. He has his back to everyone in the room. No one can see his face but by the way his shoulders are moving up and down I guess he's crying.
The estate had been run by gangs for decades. Unprovoked violence and casual attack was the normal state of play. Each gang had there side; the north boys were recruitments of the Finnegan family known as the Keelies. To the south lay the Weegies, the brotherhood of the McVeigh’s. Each had marked their own territory with terrifying relativity. In the middle lay no mans land; francies’ park. This is where battle would commence. War would ensue. Army’s would stand shoulder to shoulder, ready to lay down there lives with no real idea of the purpose. It wasn't their fight, it just so happened that they were born into a corrupt world where violence coursed through their veins. It was their heritage. The gangs were identified with coloured bands worn over their clothes on their upper arms. The weegies bands were blue. The keelies green. The blue to signify the following of the Queen and her royal blood. Green to show devotion to the pope. Both gangs carried weapons. Shanks, blades, rocks tied on string, belts... and pretty much what you would expect to find in a toolbox. But recently the weapon of choice had been a machete. Armed with their razor sharp jungle blades made these boys- men. Only the boys in the highest ranks were allowed to carry a machete.. they were the big cats of the gangs. The leaders into war; to be followed to victory.
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Evelyn Finnegan was the sweetest sixteen year old that you could ever lay your eyes on. Her childlike figure had vanished and in its place were the curves of a goddess. She had long golden blond hair, piercing green eyes, a small rose bud mouth, and the breasts of Bananarama-collectively. It had only taken one clock of her wiggly little arse to send Garry McVeigh into a frenzy of lust. They had been gettin it on for close to six months when they were caught at it.. humping like jack rabbits up the back close. Chrissie Finnegan didn't take too well of the news that his wee sister was getting a seeing to by a McVeigh. So he saw to it that Garry would never touch his sister again. He made damn sure Garry didn’t get the chance to touch anyone again.
It was an accident. Confrontation gone wrong. A fight that got outta hand, lost control, lost his mind. Garry lost his life.
The machete fell to the ground. Slipped from the hands of its seventeen year old master. Garry lay on the pavement bleeding his defeat all over his favourite footie top. Chrissie vomited his victory down the legs of his trackies. Violent rage had taken hold of his body and he was shaking so hard and his breathing heavy. He looked up from the ground. Garry wasn't breathing. There were people around him now. Muted sounds of men shouting, women screaming. Evelyn crying. Then silence, realisation, oh my god. What had he done….
Craig McVeigh stood at the window of his high rise hell hole known as home. Dressed in a black suit that was two sizes too big for him. He watched as below boys and men. The Finnegans and the McVeigh’s. Came to the spot his brother was killed and laid their weapons down. Laid their truce on the ground. He watched as the lilies in francies Park danced wildly in the wind. Behind him he heard an Irish song being chanted. In the distance he heard a hundred penny whistles humming out the sash. He watched as the pimps and the thieves, the junkies and the skanks came to his brothers shrine to pay their respects. He watched as his youth flew off into the distance.. high in the sky away to find finer pastures. He reached into the inside pocket of his suit. Garry's suit. He whispered a fond farewell to his youth, eyes lowered as he pulled out his future. The sun lay its warmth and glare on the cold, hard metal of his machete.
Nal Brady
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