Books, Poetry & Prose: [33] The Substitute: An Extract from my Novel



Books, Poetry & Prose

Samples of my very own Poetry and Short Stories, and one or two not so short stories, as well as my thoughts on Books, Writing, Life and the Universe.

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Location: Gold Coast, Australia

I was born in Motherwell, an industrial town in Scotland. I have lived in various parts of the world, including Edinburgh, London, New York, Seattle and now Australia's Gold Coast Hinterland where I have settled with my Australian wife Kerrianne. If you are into Books, Literature and Writing, welcome to my weblog. If not, welcome anyway.

  • [72]The Politics of Ignorance and Fear
  • [71]What Celtic Means To Me
  • [70]Aussie Cave Man
  • [69]No Shit
  • [68]Smoking Damages Your Brain
  • [67]Whatever Happened To Private Grief?
  • [66]A Lucrative Enterprise?
  • [65]To A Fart
  • [64]Scotland's Shame
  • [63]Bank Aid
  • [62]It's A Girl Thing
  • [61]The Kids Are Alright
  • [60]Return to Sender
  • [59]Gender Poetry
  • [58]Humour for Wordsmiths
  • [57]The Gold Coast
  • [56]A Glasgow Dynasty : Part 6 - Erchie's First Sale
  • [55]I Haven't Lived
  • [54]A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 5 - Slappin' a Polis
  • [53]A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 4 - Pissin' up a Close
  • [52]The God Delusion
  • [51]Maternal Advice
  • [50]A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 3 - Broken Biscuits
  • [49]A Killing Kindness
  • [48]A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 2 - Pissin' in the Sink
  • [47]A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 1 - The Man Fae The TV Licence
  • [46]A Slap on the Face
  • [45]How Did We Survive?
  • [44]The Black Hole
  • [43]Buried Alive
  • [42]The World Cup
  • [41]In the Movies...
  • [40]My Favourite Writers: James Kelman
  • [39]Vital Football
  • [38]My Favourite Beer
  • [37]The Dream
  • [36]Comb For Sale
  • [35]McNulty's Law
  • [34]Beware of the Dog
  • [33]The Substitute: An Extract from my Novel
  • [32]Books That Became Films
  • [31]Tall Boys and Wide Girls
  • [30]My First Novel: The Substitute
  • [29]My Favourite Writers: Louis de Bernières
  • [28]My 25 Favourite Films
  • [27]Decisions Decisions
  • [26]Devil's Desire
  • [25]Pain or Pleasure
  • [24]Out of the Mouths of Babes and Sucklings
  • [23]No More Tears
  • [22]Dame Muriel Spark 1918-2006
  • [21]10 Things I Miss About Scotland
  • [20]Little Red Riding Hood
  • [19]Natural Bridge
  • [18]Journey to Nowhere
  • [17]Westminster Man
  • [16]My 25 Favourite Albums
  • [15]Bless Me Father
  • [14]Overdrawn
  • [13]I've had it with Born-Again Christians
  • [12]Moonwalking
  • [11]My 25 Favourite Books
  • [10]Heroes and Sinners
  • [09]Thinking of Kerry
  • [08]An American Dream
  • [07]Never Again
  • [06]Under A Bridge
  • [05]Deep-Fried Madness
  • [04]Man in a Bookshop
  • [03]Was There A Time?
  • [02]The Executioner
  • [01]Will I Know Her?
  • Click Cover The Substitute to view my book

    Moby Dick


    "Nobody is perfect, but if you strive for perfection, you will never descend to mediocrity."


    Kerrianne



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    MAKE POVERTY HISTORY
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    The Schoolboy
    Our Lady's High School, Motherwell 1966

    Fyodor Dostoevsky
    Fyodor Dostoyevsky

    [33] The Substitute: An Extract from my Novel


    Chapter 7

    Heavy rain rattled against Aileen O’Brien’s bedroom window, adding an extra percussion to the Country Rock sound which was fed from her bedside radio. Terry surveyed the elements with disdain.

    “What a day to make a comeback.”

    He stood in front of the window and looked down at the quagmire which was his beloved Jupiter Ground. Aileen came into the room carrying two mugs of hot tea and handed one to her boyfriend.

    “Aren’t you nervous?” she said.

    “Maybe just a little bit. But I would have preferred a better day than this for my return.”

    “It is only a friendly.”

    She stood next to him and placed an arm round his waist.

    “Yes, I know. You weren’t planning on watching were you?”

    He turned to face her.

    “Why, don’t you want me to?”

    “Well, it’s just that, it’s my first real match for months and I’d rather just get it over with.”

    “And you don’t want me there to distract you.”

    She smiled warmly.

    “It’s not that. It’s just...”

    “I understand. It’s alright Terry. My mum wants me to go into Glasgow to do some shopping. I did promise her.”

    “Then that’s settled.”

    He turned towards the window again and stared up at the grey sky.

    “Can I ask you something Terry?”

    Aileen moved behind him and wrapped her arms snugly round his waist. She pressed the side of her face against his back.

    “Sure you can. What is it?”

    “You didn’t have anything to do with what happened to that boy Mitchell did you?”

    “Of course I didn’t.”

    He turned to face her and placed his hands on either side of her head, forcing her eyes to look up into his.

    “Why did you ask me that? What have the police been saying to you?”

    “Nothing Terry. I just told them the truth.”

    “You don’t really think I did it do you?”

    “I wouldn’t blame you if you did after what he did to you.”

    “But you were with me all the time. How could you doubt me?”

    “Only until you went home because of your sore head.”

    They both looked intently into each other’s eyes, Aileen searching for answers and Terry hardly believing his ears.

    “And you think I went back to the disco and cut up Sanny Mitchell?”

    “No, I don’t Terry. I know you wouldn’t do such a thing.”

    “Then what are you trying to say?”

    “Well, the policeman did suggest to me that you could’ve put someone up to it.”

    “I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”

    Aileen felt alarmed as she saw Terry’s face redden with rage.

    “I’m going.”

    He drew away from her and grabbed his jacket.

    “Terry, he said he would’ve done the same thing if he was you.”

    “And you fell for it.”

    Terry stormed out of the room and out of the house. Aileen followed him to the door and called after him as he raced down the stairs.

    “Terry, I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry.”

    She punched the door in frustration as tears flowed down her cheeks. She stood motionless until she could hear his footsteps no more.

    “What’s the matter Aileen?”

    Mrs O’Brien had heard the row and led her daughter back into the house.

    Terry sat at the back of the number forty-one bus as it moved along Muir Street towards the town centre. He watched droplets of rain race each other down the window and thought of Aileen. As he calmed down again he began to regret losing his temper with her. But uppermost in his mind was a feeling of utter dread. He had lost his temper with her, he told himself, because it had crossed her mind that he may have been capable of carrying out such a savage attack, whether or not the victim had it coming. But deep within himself he feared the possibility that he may indeed have been responsible. The question nagged at his insides like an extension of the police interrogation. Where had he gone after leaving Aileen’s flat that night? Try as he might, he could not remember. Did he go straight home? Had he gone for a breath of fresh air? He knew the headache was genuine enough. The excruciating agony was something he could never forget. Did he go back to the disco for some reason? He could not come to terms with the blackout. He remembered he had taken a mouthful of cheap wine but the quantity was nowhere near enough to affect his memory.

    Eventually he forced himself to accept that the memory loss was a direct result of the severe headache, but he could not yet rid himself of the terrible doubts which ran over and over again in his mind, each time leading inexorably towards Sanny Mitchell. He recognised that he could perhaps, in time, come to terms with himself if he had committed the assault in a fit of revenge. What he could not accept, and what now tied his stomach in knots was the thought that somehow he may have carried it out without knowing it, without being in control of his senses, without being able to remember a thing about it.

    He decided there was no sense in attempting to play football in his present frame of mind. He knew he would not be in a position to do justice to himself until he had found a way of unburdening himself of the terrible fear which tore at his insides. He knew there was only one way to do that. He would speak to Sanny Mitchell, who would be able to confirm that he had nothing to do with the attack. They had become quite friendly after all, he reminded himself, so he could see no reason why he should not visit him in hospital and perhaps even convince him that he hadn’t put someone else up to it. Terry immediately felt more at ease, having come to a decision. He relaxed now in the knowledge that he would soon be free of the terrible doubts which tormented him.

    Rose Johnstone could never understand how anyone could waste good food. Throughout her impoverished childhood she had learned to fully appreciate what little was placed in front of her. Now, even when times were much easier, she could not bring herself to turn her nose up at anything, so it was with a heavy heart that she found herself scraping her husband’s untouched breakfast into the waste bucket.

    “You could’ve told me you weren’t hungry before I started cooking.”

    Tommy stood at the kitchen sink, looking out at the rain-drenched blocks opposite.

    “I’m sorry love. I’m just not up to eating this morning.”

    Rose sat down at the kitchen table and took a cigarette from her packet.

    “You’re not still worried about Terence are you?”

    She leaned back against the wall and looked at her husband.

    “I don’t know Rose,” he turned and sat opposite her. “I’d never have believed for one moment that it was him but...”

    “But what?” she glared at him. “You’re not going to sit there and tell me you think Terence knifed that boy are you?”

    “No, no Rose. Just let me finish.”

    She drew deeply on her cigarette and waited for him to continue.

    “I just can’t understand why he should leave Aileen so early.”

    “He told you he had a headache.”

    “Has he ever had a headache before? And how many lads of his age would leave a disco and a girlfriend to go home to bed early on a Saturday night because of a flaming headache?”

    He punched the table to emphasise his point.

    “How do you know how bad he was feeling? It may have been worse than an everyday headache. I never thought I’d see the day when you would accuse your own son...”

    “I’m not accusing him of anything Rose...”

    “Then what are you doing Tommy?”

    She stood up abruptly and began to pace up and down behind her husband.

    “I’ll tell you what’s going through your mind shall I?”

    She raised her voice now as anger welled up inside her.

    “You want him to say he did it.”

    “What? That’s bloody ridiculous.”

    Tommy raised his voice even louder.

    “You want to believe that your son was man enough to wait for the chance to get his own back on the thug who nearly killed him.”

    “You don’t know what you’re saying woman.”

    “Then I’ll tell you the truth and I want you to listen good and proper Tommy Johnstone.”

    She sat down again and leaned forward so that she was only inches from her husband. She began to speak calmly and evenly once again as she delivered her message.

    “Our Terence is the most gentle, loving. sensitive son any parent could ever wish for. I know a lot of boys would have taken their revenge on that lad Mitchell. But I’ve been watching our son very closely since all this happened. He hasn’t an ounce of hate in his body. He just picks himself up and gets on with his life. Oh I remember how I felt as I watched him lying in that hospital bed looking like a lump of meat.”

    Tommy winced and closed his eyes as the picture came to his mind.

    “I wanted his attackers to suffer. I wanted revenge on the cowards who did that to my boy. But what about Terence? He was the one who was lying there. Did you ever once hear him complain or talk about getting his own back? If he had wanted to he could have got him any time he wanted. He could’ve picked any one of a hundred people who would’ve gladly done it for him. But no, that’s not how my son’s mind works. I’ve come to know more about him in the last few months than I did all those years before. I suggest you get to know him as well Tommy. Then you’ll see what real courage is. You’ll find out what being a decent, honest, caring person is all about. Then you’ll know that our Terence could not possibly have attacked that lad. Not the Terence I know anyway.”

    Rose wept uncontrollably as she ran out of the kitchen and into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Tommy sat staring at his hands, feeling as though he had been run over by an express train. Deep within himself though, he knew that Rose was right.

    Terry had some difficulty finding his way around the hospital. He had been moved from block to block in his search for Sanny Mitchell, as each enquiry sent him to another part of the complex. As he stood at the reception area of Block C, a haggard old man in blue and white striped pyjamas approached him and spoke in a trembling voice.

    “Got a cigarette son?”

    “Sorry, I don’t smoke.”

    Terry stepped back as he caught a whiff of the old man’s breath.

    “Can I help you?”

    The voice came from behind him. He turned to face a young, attractive nurse who smiled warmly.

    “Yes, I’m trying to find a patient. Sanny Mitchell. I’ve been all over the hospital.”

    The lady escorted the old man towards the entrance to a ward.

    “On you go Charlie. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

    She watched the old man for a few seconds before returning to Terry.

    “Mitchell you say. Are you a relative?”

    “No. But I am a friend. Is he here?”

    The nurse sat down behind a desk and proceeded to look through some files.

    “Visiting isn’t for another hour,” she said, without looking up.

    Terry moved towards her and placed his hands on the desk.

    “Couldn’t I see him for just a minute?”

    She stopped working and raised her head to look at him closely.

    “A friend you say.”

    “That’s right. We played football together.”

    He contented himself with a half truth.

    “I suppose a couple of minutes won’t do any harm.”

    She stood up and walked along a narrow corridor. Terry followed her without waiting to be asked.

    “And he could do with some cheering up I suppose.”

    She opened a door and pushed her head inside.

    “A visitor for you Mr Mitchell.”

    She turned to Terry and held the door open for him.

    “Two minutes and not a second more.”

    Her warm smile belied the authoritative tone. Terry stepped into the room and looked expectantly at an empty bed. He stood for some moments before he noticed the figure of a man leaning over a sink, his back to the door.

    “Hello Sanny. I hope you don’t mind but I thought we’d better have a chat.”

    The man did not move but Terry thought he heard gurgling sounds coming from his mouth. Terry moved slowly towards him.

    “Sanny, it’s me. Terry Johnstone. Are you alright?”

    A hoarse choking sound rose from the man as he began to raise his head and turn round slowly.

    “Is there anything I can do?” said Terry nervously.

    He recognised the profile of Sanny Mitchell as he turned towards him.

    “Sanny. It’s me. I’d like to...”

    Terry’s heart almost stopped and he stepped back as Sanny let out a pitiful cry of terror and anguish. Terry opened his mouth to speak but no words would form as he looked into the youngster’s tortured eyes. The left side of his face showed a series of scars which stretched from just above his eye and down to his lower jaw. Another ugly scar ran from above his right ear, across to his eye and down, across his cheek, over his mouth, slicing through his lips and stopping at the centre of his chin.

    Terry was overcome with a mixture of abject revulsion and a feeling of immense pity for the boy. He was then gripped with a sense of fear and alarm as he watched Sanny tremble and cower in terror. He was staring at Terry with a look of sheer horror. His body shook and his face was contorted in a convulsion of shock and fear. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he backed away from Terry, reaching the corner where he could retreat no further. Terry was unable to move as he watched the pathetic figure sink to his knees, covering his face with his arms.

    “Leave me alone. Please go away.”

    It was the voice of a tortured child pleading for mercy.

    “Don’t hurt me, please. I didn’t do nothing. Please don’t hurt me.”

    Terry swallowed hard and forced himself to speak.

    “It’s ok Sanny I’m not going to...”

    “Why? Why did you do it?”

    The boy wept uncontrollably, his entire body trembling.

    “What are you talking about? You know it wasn’t me.”

    Terry felt his stomach tighten and a panic began to rise in his head.

    “I thought we had made it up. Why did you have to come back and do this to me?”

    “No, you’re wrong Sanny. You must be mistaken.”

    Terry was crying now as he pleaded with Sanny to release his tortured mind of the terrible guilt which was now gripping him.

    “I saw you Terry. You followed me into the toilet and took out a Stanley knife. Oh Christ I wish you could’ve killed me instead of this.”

    He collapsed in a heap and started punching the floor frantically, his whole body heaving under his hysterical sobbing. Terry shook his head in disbelief, trying to shake the nightmare from his memory.

    “Oh dear God. Please forgive me.”

    He turned and ran, tears streaming down his face. The young nurse called after him as he rushed past her. She watched him run into the car park where he fell to his knees and was violently sick.

    “Men,” she asided to a colleague. “They’re just big softies really.”

    Terry spent the next few days shut away in his bedroom., refusing to respond to anyone. His parents made every effort to talk to him, cajole him, plead with him, but all to no avail. He spent most of the time lying on his bed and staring at a blank ceiling, hoping upon hope that a bolt of lightning would reach down and strike him. Time and again he buried his head in the pillow in an attempt to erase the image of Sanny Mitchell’s badly mutilated face. Sleep was no refuge as his every dream was haunted by the cowering figure on the floor of the hospital ward.
    Aileen paid several visits but could find no way through the torment which enveloped him, shutting him away from reality. He realised that the only answer was to escape. If he was ever going to succeed in freeing his soul from the pain which tore at his heart, he would have to drag himself out of the blackness and find a new world, a fresh existence, far removed from the sordid memories which tied him to a sense of guilt and self-loathing.

    The realisation gripped him with a suddenness which brought him out in a cold sweat. Abruptly he got to his feet and went down on his hands and knees. He groped blindly amid the darkness under his bed until he felt the smooth, soft leather. In an instant he pulled his football boots from under the bed and held them close to his chest. He sat on the edge of the bed and brushed some hard-set mud from the soles with the sleeve of his shirt. Tears of comfort and relief rolled down his cheeks as he contemplated the options in front of him. For the first time in his life he thanked God for having bestowed a talent upon him. A talent which he would now use to the fullest of his abilities. A talent which would lead him away from the sorrow of his present predicament and into the wider, safer world of fame and fortune.
    Rose Johnstone brushed away a tear as she prepared a meal for her son, the first meal he had asked for in several days.

    “I’m sorry if I’ve been difficult mum,” he said with genuine regret. “It’s just that
    I’ve been a bit down these last few weeks.”

    “Don’t worry son. There’s no need to apologise. I’m just glad you’ve found your appetite again.”

    “Could you let me have a couple of quid today mum?”

    “I don’t see why not. Can I ask what it’s for?”

    “I want to go up to town and do a bit of shopping. I need a new football for a start.”

    “What a good idea,” she agreed enthusiastically. “Why don’t you ask Aileen to go with you?”

    “I don’t think so mum,” replied Terry, rejecting the idea out of hand.

    “But she’s been round asking for you almost every day. I just thought you might want to show her some appreciation.”

    “I just want to be on my own today mum.”

    “Very well Terence. It’s up to you of course.”

    Tommy arrived home late from work that afternoon. He had popped into the Railway Tavern with a few work colleagues and had expected a rough reception from Rose.
    “Sorry I’m late love. I had a couple of pints with the lads.”

    “That’s fine Tommy,” she called from the kitchen. “Sit yourself down. Your tea will be ready in a few minutes.”

    “I don’t believe it,” he said as he sat down and scanned the sports pages of his daily newspaper. “What have I done to deserve this?”

    “Terence and I had a good long chat this afternoon,” she announced as she sat down opposite him.

    “What? Where is he? Is he in his room?”

    “No,” she smiled broadly. “He seems to be his old self again. He asked me for some money for a new football as a matter of fact.”

    “Did he now? Well that’s great news isn’t it. I told you he’d come round in the end. Is this for me?”

    He picked up a letter which was lying on the coffee table in front of him.

    “Yes,” replied Rose as she got to her feet. “It came this morning. I’ll make you a cup of tea while you’re waiting.”

    Rose returned to the kitchen as her husband examined the handwriting on the front of the envelope. It was addressed simply T Johnstone and it occurred to him that it could be for Terry.

    “Ah well. There’s only one way to find out.”

    The note inside was grubby and the writing untidy and hurried. He read the two words scribbled at the top, Dear Terry. His first instinct was to replace it in the envelope and put it aside till Terry got home, but something about the feel of the letter urged him to read on. His heart pounded as the contents of the letter unfolded before his eyes. Perspiration formed on his forehead and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He sat back into the armchair and let the letter fall onto his lap.

    “Oh my dear God,” he cried as Rose returned with a mug of tea. She hurriedly placed the cup on the table and picked up the letter and started reading.

    Dear Terry,
    I hope you don’t mind but I did that Mitchell good and proper. I did it
    for you so don’t be angry. He deserved to die after what he did to you
    but I decided to make him suffer. So don’t worry any more. He can’t
    touch you now. Maybe we can get together some time. I’d like that.
    I’ll wait for you to get in touch. All the best for now.
    Robert.


    “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” cried Rose as she dropped to her knees at the feet of her husband, staring at the letter with tear-filled eyes. “Oh God, not this. Please, not this.”

    She buried her head in her hands, still holding the letter which crumpled under her tears.

    “Take it easy Rose,” said Tommy as he moved forward and held her by the shoulders.

    “How can you say take it easy?” she raised her voice in exasperation. “What are we going to do?”

    “Nothing,” said Tommy firmly. “We’re going to do absolutely nothing.”

    He took the letter from her and tore it unceremoniously into little pieces and threw it into the waste basket.

    “We do nothing. We say nothing. We forget we ever read it.”

    “I knew he’d come back to haunt us,” said Rose through her tears. “What if Terence finds out? He’d never forgive us.”

    “Don’t even think it Rose,” said Tommy forcefully. “He won’t need to find out. We tell him nothing. Just pull yourself together and don’t think about it. If only for Terence’s sake at least.”

    Rose sank her head in her husband’s lap and smothered her tears. She felt the ghost of her past touch her life with icy, haunting hands. Tommy comforted her as he winced against the cold shiver which ran down his spine.

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