Kite was worried that his accent would slip, that he’d pronounce certain words in an English way and reveal his secret life in the south.
‘I’m very relaxed,’ said the leader, looking to his left, where the older of his two companions, a short, muscular skinhead, was rolling a cigarette. ‘Pete, are you relaxed?’
‘Aye, Danny.’
‘Robbie, are you relaxed?’
‘Aye, Dan. Very relaxed.’
There was nobody else on the platform. Just Kite standing outside a waiting room being sized up by three drunk Scots who would likely beat him up and steal his Walkman if they had the chance. Kite moved further along the platform, but Danny saw this and followed him, Robbie and Pete close behind. It was like being surrounded by a pack of hyenas on the scent of their prey. Kite knew that he couldn’t run, that it was important to stand his ground, but he had heard stories of flick knives and muggings and wondered what it would take to make them walk away.
‘Got a smoke, pal?’ said the leader, coming right up into his face. He had a gold stud earring in his left ear and a Beastie Boys VW necklace. His breath stank of alcohol. Kite winced as he thought of his father.
‘Maybe,’ he replied.
At that moment, the Stranraer train came south through the sea mist hanging low over the tracks. Nobody spoke as it drew in beside them. There were four carriages, all seemingly empty. Kite had a packet of Marlboro Reds in his jacket pocket but reckoned Danny would grab the whole thing if he took it out and offered him one.
‘Where you off to, big man?’
‘Stranraer,’ Kite replied, forgetting how to give the name a Scottish inflection. ‘You?’
‘None of yer’ fuckin’ business, ya’ cunt.’
They were standing between two of the carriages. Kite felt his chest contract and walked to the left, expecting the youths to follow him, but either Robbie or Pete – Kite couldn’t tell which – suddenly hissed and whispered: ‘Hang on, Dan. Check this.’ To his surprise they then boarded the carriage next door, laughing gleefully as they did so, leaving Kite alone. Something must have caught their eye: a new target, a new figure of fun. He felt a wave of relief, particularly when he saw that there was an elderly man a few seats away reading the Glasgow Herald. There surely wouldn’t be any trouble while he was around. He wouldn’t let an eighteen-year-old kid get beaten up in plain sight. Kite was safe. The train pulled away from the platform and he sat down.
Then the situation deteriorated.
Through the doors that separated Kite’s carriage from the rear of the train, he could see the three young men gathered around a table. They were speaking to somebody. Pete was on his feet, laughing and swigging from the bottle of Smirnoff. Danny and Robbie had sat down. Kite saw that they were talking to a young black woman. A non-white face on the west coast of Scotland was as rare as a non-white face in the classrooms and playing fields of Alford. They had chosen their next target.
Kite stood up and looked more closely through the doors. The woman was trapped at the table with Robbie beside her and Danny in the facing seat. She was about thirty and looked frightened. Kite checked the rest of her carriage. There was nobody else around. He was tired and hungover and dreading the long Easter shift ahead of him, but knew that he had to do something. His father would have expected it. It was the way Paddy Kite had raised his son.
‘Excuse me,’ he called out to the old man. His Alford accent had returned. He hadn’t bothered to smother it. ‘I think a woman might be getting hassled next door. Will you keep an eye on me?’
The old man, who was wearing a black anorak and a cloth cap, barely acknowledged what Kite had said. He didn’t want any trouble, didn’t want to get involved. Kite shouldered his bag and opened the first of two connecting doors. The train rocked through a set of points and he almost lost his balance as he opened the second door and entered the carriage. He heard Robbie saying: ‘No, come on. Where are you from, darlin’?’ as he was hit by a rancid smell of stale vomit and spilled beer. Pete had now sat down. The woman was surrounded.
‘How’s it going here?’ Kite called out as casually as possible, finding his Scottish accent. ‘Everything OK?’
Danny was startled to see Kite coming towards him. Kite put his bag on a nearby seat, removed the set of Walkman headphones from his neck and zipped them inside an outer pocket.
‘You asked me for a cigarette,’ he said, tapping his jacket. ‘I found some more.’
He looked at the woman. It was impossible to tell from her expression if she was relieved that Kite had come to help her or if she believed that he was a friend of the men who had surrounded her and was coming to join in the fun.
‘We’re OK thanks, pal,’ Danny replied.
‘So what’s going on?’ Kite asked. ‘Are you all friends?’
He was beside the table now, a sheen of sweat inside his shirt, his heart racing, but determined not to appear scared or weak.
‘No. Are youse friends?’ Danny asked.
‘She your sister?’ Robbie added, and the three hyenas erupted in laughter.
Kite decided to speak to the woman directly.
‘Are you OK?’ he said.
She was too frightened to reply.
‘You still havenae told us where you’re from, darlin’,’ said Pete, ignoring Kite as he finished the last of the vodka. Kite could feel Danny bristling and looked down at his tattoo. He wondered what it would feel like to be punched by an arm that size. There were three black students out of twelve hundred and fifty boys at Alford. One was the son of an African politician, another an American from New York, the last a scholarship boy from London. During a football
