The Credit Draper Episode 17

Avram only had eyes for his namesake. Patsy Gallacher stood stomping eagerly by the touchline in his green and white hooped jersey, hands on hips. He seemed smaller, younger and skinnier than the other players with wide ears and hair that sat stiff on his head like a flat, black cap.

He didn’t move for the ball but waited for the game to come to him.

Boys closest to him were calling out to him but he just flicked a shy wave back at them as he kept his attention on what was happening on the pitch.

“Hey, Patsy,” Avram shouted, his excitement and the noise of the crowd giving him the courage to call out. “I’m called Patsy too.”

“Shut yer gob,” said Solly.

But Avram persisted. “Hey, I’m Patsy too.” Some boys laughed, but Patsy Gallacher turned round.

With hardly a pause, he seemed to pick out the source of the comment, looked directly at Avram, and smiled.

Avram felt the heat rush to his cheeks. All he could do was raise his hand weakly in vague acknowledgement.

Then there was a call to the player from the pitch, the leather ball thunked at Gallacher’s feet and he was off jinking his way to the Hi-Hi’s goal.

A huge roar lifted Avram out of his blessed daze.

Hysterical

“What happened?” he asked an hysterical Solly.

“Yer hero scored. That’s what. A real beauty.”

Patsy Gallacher strode back to the centre spot, shyly accepting the handshakes of his team-mates. Avram joined in as the crowd around the ground chanted his name.

“I want to play for Celtic,” Avram said. The final whistle had gone, he was following Solly out of the exits, still wrapped up in the glorious excitement of seeing Patsy Gallacher play. Celtic had won 4-0.

“Aye. And so does half of Glasgow. The Catholic half.”

“I mean it.”

“Just ’cos Patsy gave you the wink.” “It’s not that. I really believe…”

A hand pawed at Avram’s shoulder bringing him to a halt. A red pock-marked face leered over him.

“Whaur’s yer colours, boy?” the man snarled at him with a blast of whisky breath.

He tried to shake away but the grip held firm.

“He disnae have any colours,” Solly answered.

“Ah’m no taukin’ tae you. Ah’m askin’ yer pal here.”

“He disnae understand.”

The man raised an arm at Solly as if to whip him. “Ah said Ah’m no taukin’ to youse.”

Then he took an end of his green and white scarf, shoved it so close to Avram’s face he could smell the damp of the wool.

“Ah’ll ask ye agin. Are ye a Fenian or are ye a Proddie b ***** d?”

Avram hung taut at the end of the man’s arm, staring at his bulging eyes, not knowing what to say.

“Are ye green or blue, boy? Are ye for the Celtic or are ye a’ Proddie?”

“He’s Jewish,” Solly shouted.

Information

“Jewish? A Jew?” the man grunted. “A bloody Jew.”

He shook Avram hard as he considered this information. Then he snorted. “Are ye a Fenian Jew or a Proddie Jew?”

Before Avram had time to answer, Solly snatched his arm, pulled him away. “Run! Run for it!”

Avram ducked. The man stumbled, clawed out for support then fell to the ground.

A bottle broke in his pocket. Avram watched as whisky poured on to the road in an amber trickle to mingle with blood from the prostrate body.

“Come on,” Solly shouted. “Run! Run! Run!”

But Avram didn’t want to run. He had witnessed far greater violence than this, delivered by men far more fearsome than this pathetic drunk.

Instead, he stayed, hovering above the body. He wanted to kick this man.

To feel his belly cave in softly against his foot, to hear the wheeze that would issue hoarse from the man’s lungs.

An act of revenge against the adult enemy, those vodka-fuelled riders who had come on skilful horseback to terrorise his village.

But he had underestimated the tenacity of his opponent.

A hand grabbed out from under the heap of overcoat on the ground, snared his ankle.

He lost his balance, tripped over the man’s outstretched arm.

He threw out his hands to break his fall, but as his head swung close to the ground, he felt a cool slash to the side of his forehead.

Then large adult hands came from above pulling him to his feet.

“Calm down, lad,” said one of those who held him. “Just calm down.”

“He’s cut,” said another. “That drunken eejit glassed the boy.”

Avram thrashed vainly with his feet against his captors. Tears of frustration rose in his eyes.

“Proddie Jew boy,” the drunk shouted up at him.

But Avram finally managed to wriggle free, raced away, his heart beating a tomtom rhythm up and down his chest.

Dodged

He dodged through the pockets of supporters, glancing back every few paces to see if he was being followed.

But the path behind him was clear. He eased off his pace until the fingers of the crowd tapered out.

Solly was waiting for him at the top of the road.

“For Christ’s sake, Patsy. What’s happened to you?”

“What do you mean?” Avram leaned forward, hands on his thighs, his breath pumping hard in his lungs. “There’s blood running all over yer face.”

Avram touched his cheek, his forehead, felt the warm stickiness on his flesh.

Avram didn’t want to run. He had witnessed far greater violence than this, delivered by men more fearsome than this drunk.

The Credit Draper is the first in a trilogy by J. David Simons. He has written five novels and is published by Saraband. His work can be purchased at saraband.net