How a Scruffian Starts Their Story, page 1
How a Scruffian Starts Their Story
by Hal Duncan
1
- I was born under a bad signpost, says Foxtrot Wainscot Hottentot III.
- I was stolen from gypsies, says Puckerscruff of the urchins.
- I was raised by werewolves, says Flashjack of the hellions.
- I ran away from the circus, says Joey Picaroni.
- I bought me soul from the Devil, says King Nuffnmuch O'Anyfnk of the tinkers.
- I was a teenage virgin mum, says Bananastasia Roaminhopper, rightful Princess of Russia (allegedly.)
- I took the King's shilling and died in all his wars, says Ratatat Dan. But not for the likes of you.
- You see, says Gob, a Scruffan's story needs a hook.
•
They sit on the living-room foor of the Scruffan squat — their crib, they call it — in a rough circle round the old freplace that's now shrine to a sound system. There's beer cans and bottles strewn between them, baccy packets, squishy black and gubbins scattered among the booze, chucked from here to there at a gesture or word - skins? The scamp, Foxtrot, is lucky if he looks eleven. Joey must be at least seventeen. Well, they all must be at least whatever they look, and then some. And then maybe a lot.
- You've gotta open with swagger, says Gob.
•
The Scruffan-to-be looks at them as if they're bonkers, thinking that he can't really improve much on his opener... and closer really: I ran away from home cause my Dad used to beat the fucking crap out of me.
The truth isn't quite as simple as that, he supposes, not quite. Maybe the word beat doesn't do justice to the fucker's repertoire of tortures, the physical and the psychological, like his fondness for holding a cigarette up to No-Son-of-Mine's eye, so close he could smell the singed eyelashes. And there's the whole issue of why...
2
An early memory (he must have been even younger than Foxtrot - or younger than Foxtrot looks, of course, given what they've told him about Fixing): the boys' changing rooms at primary school; a smartarse asking if he knew what a hard-on was, aiming to best him on street cred because this quiet, sensitive boy was an easy target; him saying he knew fne well cause he had one right now; a friend calling him a retard afterwards, telling him you never said that sorta stuff; him asking his Mum why; his Dad going ballistic. No son of mine...
•
Or a later memory, from when he was the age Puckerscruff is Fixed at, maybe younger — thirteen or so: looking at DIY porn on the Internet with his best mate, Harry, mostly the fucked-up gross-out stuff where hideous old freaks do the weirdest shit; the two of them laughing at each other's mugged horror and mock-retching; the phwar s and nudges when they clicked onto the proper porn; and him knowing fne well it was Harry's reaction that thrilled him more than anything on screen, the thought of Harry hard. And then when the actual fooling-around started...
•
- Don't watch, says Harry. Gayboy.
He can't help watching his mate going at it though. And it was Harry who'd fucking decided he was bursting for a wank anyway, while they were lying there in the tent, talking about the girls at school that Harry fancied, and the one he... thought was really pretty, Charlene. Whatever. It was Harry who was totally being the gayboy, pulling his jeans and pants down to play with himself, not even getting into the sleeping-bag frst.
Gayboy? No, he's bi. Like that character in Doctor Who. He's just really picky about girls, yeah?
3
- Yeah, he says, fag smoke trailing out in practised exhale. Dylan's a year older than him and hot, indie as fuck with his purple and yellow undies showing, jeans dragged down to his hips by the bullet belt. A bit emo maybe with the razor-blade scars on his forearms — the thin type that come from not cutting too deep — but that just makes Dylan think his cigarette burns are impressive. He says he does it to himself, of course. Said the bruises round his throat were from auto-erotic asphyxiation.
He slips a hand into Dylan's waistband as they snog.
•
He's never really come out. Everyone just knows it - Sarah, Katie and Jennie, who think he's so cool because of his sexploits; Topher and Stevie, who're awed at how he can just hit on guys like that; all the straight boys at the parties or piss-ups in the cemetery... who know how much he fancies them because they couldn't really not know. It's not really an issue in social circles where everyone has a poster of Conor Oberst on their bedroom wall. He's lost count of all the guys who've said he gives better hand-jobs than their girlfriends.
•
He's never really been caught. It's not like his Dad ever checked the web history on the computer. It wouldn't have made any difference anyway; he's not a retard like Topher, whose Mum had a Serious Talk With Him when he left Firefox open on fucking Gaydar. It's not like Dad found a stash of gay porn mags, or heard about him sucking off some schoolmate, cause who the fuck needs mags when you've got XTube, and like any of their parents have a clue the shit they get up to.
It's not like his Dad needs the fucking excuse.
4
He kicks back on the swing, but lets his heels scuff on the rubber of the playpark's surface, drag him back to a rest. The chain is biting cold in his hand, the plastic wet under his arse, and it's getting dark; but so fuck? His ribs are still sore and he feels more like jumping in the river than going home. He sniffs, rubs a teary eye. It's just the cold though, yeah? That way a wind in winter makes your nose run and your eyes water. He wouldn't last long in the water at all in this weather.
•
He clocks a shadow over by the trees, knows straight off what it is
- here, at this time of night. He just sits on the swing, gazing in the direction of the lurker, until the guy cruising him gets the message, starts strolling forward, unlit fag in hand.
- You got a light?
- Yeah, here.
- Cheers. You want one?
- Thanks.
A pause as the guy studies his bust lip, the bruise on his cheek.
- You scruffying, yeah? he says.
- Huh?
The guy seems to lose nerve, takes a hurried draw of his fag, looks away.
- Never mind. Sorry, I thought... you...
•
- You're no son of mine, the fucker says.
The fucker's hand is thick-fngered, big-boned, not podgy but meaty, like it was made for punching the shit out of him. The skin is rough and ruddy, skin that burns in the sun rather than tanning. It should be covered in black hair, like a fucking troglodyte's but it's more freckled than anything. Still, the sovereign rings and the DIY tattoo on the back of it - a crude, biro-and-compasses R.F.C. in block capitals - those give it the right thuggish quality. It's weird what you focus on.
•
5
It's weird how people just walk by him as he sits there on the bench, weird how they have no idea that he doesn't even belong in this city, never mind this park. He just got off a train at King's Cross, picked a direction and started walking, kept walking until he found a quiet place to sit down, and have a fag, and think; to them he's probably just another teenager bunking off school.
He trails a fnger across the carved-up wood of the bench: names and insults; gang initials; band names.
He's never heard of The Scruffans.
•
- Orphans, foundlings, latchkey kids, the children down by the fountain are chanting.
The Scruffan-to-be takes a path curving off to the right and up the hill, towards a statue of a mutton-chopped Victorian gent that nestles in rhododendron bushes. But he keeps his pace to a stroll; the half-dozen chavs he's taken the turn to avoid aren't paying him any mind and the park's busy; no need to advertise himself as a target. It's just... because he's trying not to be noticed... he just knows...
- Oi! Check this gaylord out!
Fuck.
- Urchins, changelings, live-by-wits.
•
- Oi, you! Oi, gaylord!
He knows it's just giving them what they want, but still... He stops, turns, tells them to fuck off. He's just fucking had enough. Behind the chavs, the kids at the fountain stop their hopscotch game, nudge each other, point his way. Yeah, yeah, come see the show. Except... they carry on chanting.
— Rascals, scallywags, ruffans, scamps. A group of punks his own age, sitting on the grass, clamber to their feet. Sweet. A whole fucking audience of They start unhooking chains, wrapping them round hands as they join in the chant.
— Scoundrels, hellions, Scruffans STAMP!
6
He's not sure what's happening now; doesn't seem like the chavs are either, jeers turning to nervous aggro as they clock the chains. They must be off their home turf themselves. But if these other kids are some local gang, they're... a fucking weird mix for it. Shit, there's even a couple of skaters with them now.
All of them have weapons — chains, cut-throat razors and fucking — Christ, even the kids have Stanley knives. And all of them advance with slow menace, fourishing chains like nunchuks, thumping weapons against chests, stamping feet. Choreographed in perfect time with the chant.
•
As the Scruffan-to-be takes the spliff offered by Flashajck, he can't help studying the perfectly - impossibly perfectly - intact hand, the one the punk had raised when the Scruffans were only a few yards from the chavs, close enough that they could see this wasn't a trick. The one Flashjack had taken a pair of secateurs to, snipped off the pinky with
That had sent the chavs running. He'd been too shocked to do anything except gape.
- Fuck me, that hurt, the punk had said. Should see your face though.
•
He passes the spliff to Gob.
That's just how his story starts, he thinks. I ran away from home cause my Dad used to beat the fucking crap out of me. I came to London and found the Lost Boys, these Scruffans who have some... thing they stole that makes you like them. Unaging. Indestructible. Fixed. He tries a more twisty opening, turns it over in his mind: I kissed the boys and made them cry... in ecstasy. Yeah, whatever.
- You want my story? he says eventually. Fuck, it ain't even begun.
Gob grins.
- Now, that's way better, he says.
Hal Duncan, How a Scruffian Starts Their Story
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