Northwords Now Issue 40

The FREE literary magazine of the North

Caw

by Alistair Lawrie

Christ wid ye believe it but? Here ahm sittin on this here wa wi ma wee pal Mooney when this great bastern knicht comes clatterin past – wan o thae fuckers that acts like the world owes him a livin. Aye an that’s the truth o it anaw isn’t it jist? Awthin in sight his demesne – that’s whit he caws it but aw the bastard means is that his faither’s faither’s faither was better at cuttin thrapples than ony ither cunt. Aye but does he no get himself doon affae his great brute o a horse an awa wi’t in amang thae trees? An the look on his face. This bastard didnae sae much look like he wis plannin tae kill some cunt as like somebody that wis awready tastin how much he wis gonnae enjoy daein it. I says tae Mooney “Somethin’s up here, pal. Let’s hang on an hae a squint at whit this fucker’s up tae.” Christ an wis ah no right? We’d jist hopped ontae the other side o the dyke whan this wee fucker appears an this wan had a bint wi im. Too skinny fur ma taste like – need a bit o flesh on them ah aye say. Onywey the pair o them are hardly aff their cuddies afore they’re at it like knives, ruggin at each ither’s claes. There’s wan o thae queer silences grips the wids, ye ken like awthin’s listenin. Naethin but the odd gasp fae the twa that’s screwin. Mooney an me are haudin oor breath cos we ken whit’s comin. He comes in a rush, teeth bared in a grin as wide’s a grave, in his hauns this battleaxe near as big’s himsel. The fucker’s roarin like he wants the world tae hear whit he’s daein, foamy globs o spit aw owre his face. Mooney looks at me like as tae say,”S’this amateur hour?” Still anaw we hop up ontae the wa tae hae a proper look jist as the big fucker reaches his haun richt doon tae grab the other cunt. An Christ s’that no when he rolls owre sidieways an the bint’s lyin there wi a great muckle knife; as the big yin stretches back his airm wi that great bastern hatchet, does she no push upwards wi baith hauns on the knife. Right in the fuckin thrapple. Pure dead magic so it wis. A beauty. Ah couldnae hae did it better masel. The dark faced fucker’s draps the axe an’s runnin aboot wi baith hauns tae his neck. Stupid cunt, as if that’d make the blood spurt slower. No that it maittered. The other bastard he picks up the axe an puts it atween the big fella’s shooders. Game owre. An here’s the pair o them grinnin aw owre their faces at ane anither an Mooney nods at me that wiselike way he has an ah think, Christ they planned it this way. Ahm that caught up in admirin how gallus they’ve been that ah gey near forget till Mooney gies me a wee nudge an says, “Ah’ll tak the hair, Hughie.” There starin up at me are the big fucker’s eyes.