Callum
Glasgow, October 2005
Blood was funny when it dried. Went all brown and flaky, like rust on an old bike chain.
I flexed my fingers as I walked, watching the last remnants of fresh blood rip off my knuckles. Two hundred quid in my pocket, where it belonged. Where it should've stayed in the first place if those bastard Travelers hadn't robbed my mum.
The Tinkers had always been seen round Glasgow, just like everywhere else in the UK. Filthy beggars and thieves. But if you needed work done cheap and fast, they would do it. Supposedly.
Yeah, they might nick something cheap off you when you weren’t looking, but most knew that was the payoff from hiring the Tinkers.
This lot took the money and didn’t do the work at all, something Mum just couldn’t afford.
My tie was a mess, hanging loose and spotted with blood – mine or theirs, I couldn't say. I’d worn the yellow one today so there’d be no hiding it when I walked in the door. Mum would go mental when she saw the state of my uniform. The blazer was properly fucked, sleeve half-torn at the shoulder, the crest of Lochend Community High School barely hanging on by a thread. But she wouldn't have to look at the mold spreading across our bathroom ceiling anymore, or smell that sewage stench coming up through the pipes. Two hundred quid would sort that proper, this time with a real plumber.
Those Traveler lads were bigger than me, yeah. Stronger too. But they weren't expecting some half-Arab schoolboy to track them down, to have the bottle to step right up to their caravan site.
I’d been getting called a Paki and a street-shitter since I could speak. Odd they thought a bit of name calling would get me to back down.
My shoulder throbbed where I got slammed against their van. Worth it though. The look on their faces when I got back up, when I kept coming. When I told them about my mum, about how she'd worked overtime at Tesco for three weeks to save that money. About how they'd laughed at her when she called about the unfinished job. They weren't laughing by the end.
Passing the off-license on the corner, I caught my reflection in the window. Christ, I looked a sight. Split lip, uniform covered in mud and blood, my curly hair wild as a vagrant's. My father's hair, that. Only bit of him I'd got, besides the olive skin and the money he sent on birthdays, if I was lucky.
Or rather, if Mum was lucky. I didn’t fucking need it. The way he made us both jump through hoops for money when he had so much of it made me want to split his head open right along with the Tinker boys. But I didn’t get that bit of luxury. Instead, I had to learn Arabic and write the bastard letters every week to show him my progress.
I didn’t want to, but the little bit of money that got sent kept Mum from having to take up with some lad to help out with the bills. So I wrote the bloody letters.
The Easterhouse estate flats came into view, grey and grim against the darker grey sky. I should have been worried, probably. There'd be hell to pay if those Travelers came looking for payback. They traveled in groups, everyone knew that. Family. Clan. Whatever they called it. Tomorrow at school, I'd have to watch my back, maybe take the long way round.
But right then, climbing the piss-stained stairwell to our flat, all I could think about was Mum's face when I handed her the money. How for once, just once, I'd managed to make something right in her world.
The key turned in the lock, and I straightened my tie. Tried to wipe some of the blood off my knuckles onto my already ruined trousers.
She was going to shout. She was going to cry. But she was my mum, and nobody got to treat her like she was nothing. Not the council, not those Travelers, not my absent father. Nobody.
I pushed open our flat door and the first thing I heard was Mum crying. Not her usual tired tears neither—proper sobbing, the kind that shakes your whole body. I dropped my bag and went straight back to the kitchen, found her on the floor, her work uniform still on, mascara tracked down her face.
And there, bold as brass at our kitchen table, sat this old woman I'd never seen before. Just sipping away at one of Mum's good teacups like she owned the place.
Her eyes hit me first – this mental shade of blue that couldn't be real. Like someone had stuck radioactive ice crystals in a corpse's skull.
"Mum?" My voice cracked. "What's wrong?"
The old woman set down her cup. The china made this delicate little clink that somehow sounded like a threat. "The money you took from my grandsons," she said, calm as you like in that fucking Irish accent. "You'll be giving that back now."
The rage that had barely cooled flared up again. "Like fuck I will." I stepped toward her, fists already clenching. "Get out of our flat before I bash your head in, you old witch."
"Callum." Mum's voice was raw. "Please, love. Just give her the money."
"Listen to your mother, boy." The old woman's voice was soft, almost kind. "Unless you want your father in Amman to stop sending those checks." She smiled, showing teeth too perfect to be real. "Which he certainly will when he hears about your mother's new friend. Tommy, isn't it? The mechanic?"
My blood went cold. Nobody knew about Tommy. Nobody. He was the first bloke that actually took Mum to dinner instead of treating her like stopover.
If Dad found out, he’d cut us off good and proper then. Even though he never saw fit to marry Mum in the first place.
I lunged for the old bitch, got my hands on her shoulders, started dragging her toward the door. Woman or not, nobody came into our home and—
"Does your mum know you're intentionally tanking your grades so she'll let you go in the military?"
I froze, halting right in place, though not loosening my grip on her one bit.
The way she smiled up at me turned my blood cold.
I hadn't told a soul, hadn't even written it down, that I wanted to go in the Army. It just wouldn’t be up for discussion with Mum unless it was my only option. So I spent the last year carefully calculating exactly how poor my marks needed to be for Mum to give up on uni dreams without suspecting I was doing it on purpose.
The old woman's blue eyes found mine, and now I could see something ancient in them. Something that knew too much. My hands fell away from her shoulders.
"Clever lad," she said softly. "Now you understand. The money, please."
My fingers trembled as I pulled the folded notes from my pocket. Two hundred quid. All that fighting, all that pride, gone in an instant. But what choice did I have? She could ruin everything. Not just my plans, but Mum's whole life. One word to my father about Tommy and the money would stop. We'd lose the flat. Everything.
"Good boy." She tucked the money into her cardigan like it was nothing. Like she hadn't just reached into my head and ripped out everything I thought was private. Everything I thought was mine.
She straightened up, smoothed her skirt. Picked up her handbag like this was just a normal social call. "Oh, and Callum?" She paused at the door. "My grandsons won't be bothering you at school. But you might want to consider being more careful who you pick fights with. Not everyone will be as... understanding as I am."
The door clicked shut behind her.
In the kitchen, Mum was still crying, softer now. I should have gone to her. Should have helped her up, made her tea, promised everything would be okay.
Instead, I stood there, my whole body vibrating with impotent rage. Wondering what else she'd seen in my head. What else she might tell.
I snapped my bullshit self-pity off like the tap and turned on my heel, rushing to Mum.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." I dropped to my knees beside her on the linoleum. "I'll get a job. Tesco's always hiring. The garage where Tommy works—"
The slap caught me off guard, snapped my head sideways. I could feel the imprint of five red fingers blooming across my already bruised cheek.
"Your father," Mum choked out, "has promised one thing in fifteen years. One thing, Callum. He'll pay for university." Her voice cracked. "That's your ticket out of here. Out of this..." She gestured at our shabby kitchen, the mold creeping down the walls. "And you'll not throw it away."
"I will go," I said, pulling her close. "I promise. But after the Army, Mum. After I've done something that matters. Something that’s not about him."
She sobbed into my ruined blazer, and I held her tight, breathing in the familiar smell of her hair – chip oil from the Tesco deli, the cheap shampoo we shared.
When her crying quieted, I helped her to her feet, steered her to a chair. Started filling the kettle, wiping down counters, putting the world back in order like I could somehow erase the last hour.
But as I scrubbed at a tea stain that'd been there since Christmas, my mind was already working. There had to be a way to fight whatever power that old witch had.
Did they all have it, the Tinkers? Or just the ones with the blue eyes?
There had to be a way to protect what was mine. If the Travelers had their magic, their knowing, then I'd find something stronger. Something darker.
I looked at my split knuckles, still oozing. Fists wouldn't be enough with what I’d just seen. But I'd learn. I'd find a way. And next time that old woman—or someone like her—saw into my head, she'd wish she hadn't.
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