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.
