Free Paying For It by Tony Black

listened the first time. I’d sooner I wasn’t the one being hoicked out my bed in the wee hours by knuckle-breakers telling me to give you a message.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘Is that it? Oh . Is that all you’ve got to say?’
    ‘Mac, did they … hurt you in any way?’
    ‘No. But they gave me a pretty bloody graphic description of what they’re capable of in that department.’
    ‘Stay put. I’ll come over.’
    ‘No! Will you fuck! I’ll tell you what to do, now, listen up …’

IT WAS THE first game of the season, don’t ask me which season. My old man’s playing days of the seventies and eighties are a time I’ve tried to wipe from my mind. I say tried. If only I could.
    There are some moments I’ll never forget.
    I’m about six when he comes in with a good bucket in him. I’m watching The Six-Million Dollar Man on telly. Steve Austin has just thrown some gadgie into a brick wall. I’m gripped by the slow-mo action but hit light speed when the mighty Cannis Dury announces himself – don’t want to give him any ideas.
    ‘Three fuckin’ goals!’ he says.
    My mother smiles, rushes out of her seat. I know she’s no idea what he’s talking about, we both spent the afternoon at the park.
    ‘Well, done!’ she says placing a little kiss on his cheek, rubbing her hand on his back.
    ‘ Well done ?’ The smell of whisky fills the room with the rise of his voice. ‘Is that it? Well- fucking -done? I put three goals past the league champions and I get this kinda shite from you. Look at you! Have you been sitting there all day in your baffies while I’m out running my arse into the ground?’
    She shrinks back from him, but it’s too late. The back of his hand knocks her over the coffee table. Her head lands in the fireplace, knocking out the bulbs behind the plastic coals.
    ‘Get up!’ he roars. He’s taking off his jacket, rolling up his shirt sleeves. ‘Get up you lazy bitch.’
    I’m frozen still. I shut my eyes. Will he still see me if I do this?
    ‘Get up!’ There’s anger pouring from him. His eyes are bulging, burning red, the same colour as my mother’s blood on the white shag pile.
    She struggles to her feet. I can see her trying to walk, but her steps are unsteady and she collapses on the couch.
    ‘Up, up you useless bitch!’ he shouts.
    Flecks of spittle are pouring from him, they lash my face. I close my eyes again but I can still hear him yelling, roaring. The smell of whisky makes me feel sick. I’m trying not to move, but I know he’s seen me.
    ‘What are you looking at?’ he says.
    My heart quickens. In a second I’m running. I’m fast, round him and out the door in a flash. I feel the swish of his hand tracing my path, but he’s missed me.
    ‘Get back here, you wee bastard.’
    ‘Cannis, no! Leave the laddie,’ says my mother.
    ‘Shut it!’
    There’s another sound – a hard fist connecting with my mother’s face. Then the noise of her collapsing on the floor.
    I run to my room and bury my head under the pillows on my bed. But I can still hear the yells.
    ‘Three goals,’ he’s saying. ‘Three goals … Three goals …’
    I’m praying the Scotland call-up will come soon.

I MET MAC at the ‘Big Foot’, the Paolozzi sculpture on Leith Street.
    ‘You hungry?’ he said.
    ‘Could eat a horse – and chase the rider!’
    ‘Aye, well, keep that thought. You might not have such an appetite once you hear what I’ve got to tell you.’
    We headed through Picardy Place, past the Sherlock Holmes statue, to the Walk. This part of the city is its schizoid heart. Where the New Town’s rugby shirts and tweed caps give way to scores of tin-pot hard men and Staffies. I spotted three neds with fighting dogs in under a minute. Like the animal makes up for the undernourished frame, the coat-hanger shoulders, the general one-punch demeanour. Still, a merciful lack of shop fronts pushing shortbread and tartan down this way.
    As we walked, Mac kept shtum. His front teeth