THE IMAGES

MONDAY DECEMBER 6th 1976
DANBRAY - ALL SAINTS SCHOOL : LATE AFTERNOON
Dave spent the better half of the afternoon in the Geography class learning how land is analysed and the correct terms which are used in conjunction with the said process, the session being rounded off with a touch of geology. It didn't even interest him vaguely. The pouring rain against the classroom window did nothing to brighten his spirits either as it painted the scenery in drab grey obscurities. Neville Badder was a reasonable sort and tried his best to teach his pupils something at all times, even regularly organising trips and field outings. These were poorly attended though, due not only to general apathy on the pupils behalf, but the fact that Badder was perceived as a total, out and out, raving queer to 98% of the school. It was an unfortunate misconception, but the truth tended to have little influence in an all boys school where sexuality was the only issue more significant than where you lived and what team you supported. To all intents and purposes the teacher was defined as a ‘shirt lifter’ first and a decent guy last. Dave didn’t care one way or another how Badder was generally perceived as he distractedly drifted through the first part of the afternoon and then finally decided to go home. The school, the unending rain, and all the things to do with ‘All Saints’ were just too overwhelmingly depressing on a wet winter Monday.
On the way to the train station, he walked past Pete’s, the small, squalid shop that lay near the school and was supposedly off limits to all the pupils. It was a dirty, woody brown colour painted over dirty brown wood and the windows looked as if they hadn't been cleaned since the Clyde Blitz. To anyone with a sense of hygiene the place was absolutely unthinkable as a food store. The residents round about, however, found the shop perfectly satisfactory for their needs. Between the locals and the schoolkids, Pete, the owner, had a thriving business but somehow just never got around to tidying the joint up,,, he didn’t need to, he was making a very healthy living even after paying off the weekly ten percent of the gross protection money that all the businesses in the area had to.
The drizzle seeped into Dave's hair and dribbled down his back, making him increase his pace to Olympic speed standards as he marched down the steep hill in his zest to reach the train station, valiantly attempting to catch the three thirty three home to Hellenford.
The thoughts of Pamela failing to appear at lunchtime, spending a wasted chunk of the afternoon in Geography instead of the Art rooms and then getting soaked did very little to cheer him up. Harris and himself, even Bill sometimes but more rarely Sto, spent a lot of their time in the Art rooms. Sometimes helping Jack Lyons, Principle of Art and part-time sophisticated Spiv, to print posters and T-shirts for Strathclyde and Glasgow University or even occasionally just for a sanctioned outside customer to make a few bob on the side. The rest of the time the friends made posters and executed projects purely for themselves… but on most occasions it was to make extra money.
Arriving at the train station Dave lit up a Marlboro and drew on it with a relaxed satisfaction. He was not surprised to find the British Rail stop almost deserted, the only sign of life was the Police van which now patrolled every half hour after the riot by ‘All Saints’ had notoriously written off an entire six carriage train in the space of five stops from Danbray East to Levenvale before the summer holidays. The old waiting room was painted in peeling grey and mustard, the wooden benches which were left over from the days of steam were engraved with years of bored commuters messages and carved gang symbols. The ticket office window was about one foot square and was sealed off with a blank piece of board. Dave heard his yellow fronted train approach in the distance and went out onto the platform eagerly, glad to leave the dank room behind him.
Jumping on and easily securing a seat on the sparsely populated afternoon transportation, the blue train buzzed into life and rushed off down the coast route. It was predominantly inhabited by the middle classes leaving Glasgow and the interim 'Urbania' in the background. Dave mentally thanked the Gods every time he made the journey home to Hellenford that he didn’t live anywhere on the other line… he’d have been written off with that ravaged train to ‘Thugtown’.
The sound of the vehicle was monotonic, a repeated, unchanging rhythm which became indelibly printed on his brain during the short journey. It was only a seventeen-minute ride home for Dave, but it was always the same. It never changed - nothing ever did.
The passing scenario was cold and alien, especially on a blustery day like this. His eyes stared ever still out the window, watching but not really seeing. The train careened through the long tunnel and under the slum like houses at the edge of town and was soon following the sprawling river Clyde north. The junk which came from the river usually ended up on the polluted sands which separated the patched greenery from the brown murkiness of the water. Rocks jutted from the river's edge and a broken ship lay overturned and long abandoned in the rising silty sand. The unkempt undergrowth ran sporadically along with the train, as did the ever growing mass of junk that people abandoned by the waterfront.
On the other side of the river, dense clouds of grey and black loomed over the large hills which flanked the other shore. The rain fell heavily enough to make the lights from the power station at the bottom of the hill look as though it were miles away. It was a bleak and desolate landscape, hardly the type of thing to provide relaxation on the way home from work in the evening - if you ever looked out of the window. Dave watched it all drift by him in a haze, vaguely aware of how it typified the whole area. All of it was left in a state of disinterest. There were only three stations to Hellenford and they passed in the same grey miasma he had learned to mentally obliviate from his consciousness over the past five and a half years.
The old pier on the edge of Hellenford finally loomed into view through the veil of rain telling Dave the journey was nearly over. The pier was like fate's symbol of victory to Dave. Once it was a well kept, busy structure, and now it lay in pieces, abandoned, weather beaten and vandalised. It was as though it was a deterrent to those who try to make something of themselves - the eternal 'you-can-never-win' syndrome. It was a strange symbol to associate with, but Dave's current mode of thinking followed much the same tragic pattern.
All of it just induced the term 'uncaring’ in his mind. Automatically his thoughts flicked directly to Pam. Like a behavioural conditioning response, the mere thought of the word ‘Pam’ set him mind drifting along a well-worn mental process. She was an enigma to him, one minute as nice as can be and the next she's off flirting with whoever happens to be there. It was an ongoing waking nightmare he had begun to feel was impossible to escape from, just like quicksand. Once again he felt his sense of depression loom over him just like the dark clouds above as he left the train, exited the cavernous station and began to walk home slowly.
Pam was becoming a real downer for him. Sometimes things were good and at most other times it was uncomfortable even to be with her when she started her stupidity. For the most part he didn't even really care for her, or so he regularly tried to convince himself. Maybe he didn't. Perhaps it was because he saw Mhic with a good relationship or even Bill and Sto's string of pick-ups and he simply felt the need to do the same. The whole thing was a mystery - why was he blighted with the curse of falling for someone who wasn’t there for him as consistently often as she tended to be? It was getting to be a very intricate and uncomfortable situation that seemed to be growing like a tidal wave of discomfort. It would have been bad enough if it were simply the Pam problem, but it wasn't. To some extent he no longer felt truly confident about his own individuality as opposed to the group identity of his friends as a whole. One body with five heads, that is what they had now become. They were like a bizarre sect and had been for years, loyal to each other and no one else - but were they all secretly scared from one another? It was impossible to quantify.
Walking past all the houses on Montrose Street, Dave didn't even think about how the buildings all looked the same, his mental preoccupation blinded him to all but the subject on hand. He stopped in front of the large, two storey building that was his house but not his home. Standing at the bottom of the drive he suddenly felt very lonely and the entire construct seemed to be melting as though made of ice as he watched through the watery haze. The rain fell relentlessly and dripped from the pale green building as though the very essence of it was dispersing. Flicking the stub of another cigarette into a puddle he was pleased at how appropriate the thought of the icy building was. Just like the eroding relationships inside, melting away bit by bit, until…? Dave walked up the short drive and reassured himself that he’d be long gone by that time, or at least he sincerely hoped so.
He shouted an unenthusiastic greeting to anyone who may have been there, walked into his room, threw down his bag, flicked off his coat and turned the radio on. As he dried his hair on the dark blue towel, Dave indifferently gazed round his little sanctum, a ’67 Beatles poster facing the bed, a large Aerosmith promo for ‘Rocks’ with an Alice Cooper ‘Billion Dollar Babies’ Dollar pinned just below, Paul McCartney nodding from behind his left handed Rickenbacker bass and a quad sized cinema poster advertising Robert Altman's ‘MASH’ were all decorating the flowery papered walls. Chairs, wardrobes and dressers were neatly placed leaving as much floor space as was possible and in the far corner lay his beloved black Yamaha bass and Fender combo amp. It might not have been a Malibu beach house but it was the nearest he could get to it in this house of torment.
Lying back on the bed, Dave listened to the faceless voice on the radio rabbit away – the last section of David Hamilton’s mindless verbiage irritated him too much to relax and he reluctantly got up again. The discontent flooded through his system, he was uncertain where he hated being most – home or school.
After getting changed into his worn blue jeans, white T-shirt and pale red jumper he paused and reflected what to do next. With a little shrug he began to briefly tidy up his domain and eventually found he could take no more of what was now Terry Wogan’s inane Irish lilt about ‘fighting the flab’ and he switched off in complete disgust… Radio One, the voice of ‘Young Britain’! With little delicacy he investigated his albums pausing indecisively at 'Band on the Run' and then continued on until he dug out Ronnie Wood’s first solo album. Dave tossed the vinyl onto the antiquated stereo and lay back down on the wide bed, the sole living human in the ghost town of the Macklin residence. ‘Now Look’ filled the room and whether through fatigue or frustration Dave felt himself drifting off into another troubled sleep by the time Woody’s version of Anne Peebles 'I Can't Stand the Rain' came on, the irony was completely lost on the sleeping figure.

Mr. Macklin was a tall man in his mid fifties with faintly receding grey hair and overly prominent, almost bulging eyes. Always neat and tidy, well groomed as if still in the RAF, even in his casual mode he looked as if there was a stiffness to his every movement. Rigid was probably the most appropriate adjective that synonymously came to his family’s mind at the mere thought of him. With no warning he strode right into Dave’s room without knocking, throwing the door aside as if it was specifically designed to do nothing more than impede his current mission.
"Get up!" he shouted to Dave. "It's dinner time. You can't expect to just lie there all day, can you? I don't suppose you did the garden work yet or even tidied up the workshop? No, too much to hope for, isn't it? It's time you learned some responsibility, my boy!"
Raising his head a little Dave looked up, still drowsy but silently eyeing the intruder with a genuine contempt.
His father moved towards him a couple of paces, “Come on, rouse yourself, David, the world doesn’t stop just for you!”
Dave jumped up from the bed and his father stopped dead in his tracks, staring in sudden silence.
"It's not my fault." Dave mouthed slowly and clearly.
"What do you mean it's not your fault? Of course it's your fault! Nobody tied you to the bed. You don't do anything to help in this house, all you do is take. I don’t know what’s the matter with you. It’s about time you started to pull your socks up before it’s too late, my boy. And… it is your fault!"
"I mean it's not my fault that I'm your boy. Excuse me, I'm going for my dinner." came the reply as he contemptuously strode past his father and left the room.

The large dining room was warm as Dave sat down at the table, it only tended to be warm when Mr Macklin was expecting to use it and at all other times the heating was switched off. Already seated were his twin sisters Julie and Elaine, both naturally dark haired, bright eyed, large mouthed and very pretty - a year or so his elder. Elaine, wearing a red polo neck and black slacks, smiled to him and raised her eyebrows as if acknowledging the conspiracy they felt between them. Julie, the one with a mass of dyed blonde streaks used to define her individuality from her twin, was in a long sleeved, blue and white striped dress. She merely looked across to Dave with an expression she seemed to have borrowed from her father’s limited repertoire. Sitting with arms folded, Dave watched his mother dispensing food to the plates and undertaking the domestic tasks that seemed to compose the majority of her daily life – sometimes he wondered what she had wanted to do with her future when she was young and how she had ended up in this emotionally dysfunctional zoo.
Mr. Macklin walked into the room and noisily seated himself, immediately starting to complain again. "You'd better get some manners into you David or I'll knock some into you. You spend most of your time in a haze. If you applied yourself properly to school or even to your work here, you'd get on a lot better in the long run. One day you're going to have to stand on your own two feet, Sheila and I won't be here looking out for you forever. What are you going to do when you have to go out into the real world and make your own way? Have you ever thought what you’ll do then? There’s no safety net out there you know! I just don’t know what you’re thinking about, wasting your time day in and day out. I'm sure it's those useless friends of yours - you could pick a better shower than them, surely? Always up to some mindless mischief at best, filled with all their smart answers! Try and imagine where they’ll end up in a few years and see if spending so much time with them remains so appealing."
Julie smiled eagerly, tapping into her father's bigotry, "What have they ever done for you, David, except help you waste the best years of your life… all of them, especially that Jonn Harris, he's the very worst of them. He’s too big for his own boots, thinking he’s so clever and always having something to say about everything you can think of. That one’s always up to something, always making his clever little comments - he's nothing more than an arrogant waster who’ll end up with nothing! For nearly six years you've hung around with him, David, you should've learned by now! Dad’s absolutely right, everyone else can see it… why can’t you?"
"Give up, Julie, we all know you don't like Jonn.” Elaine smiled with her very best 'bitchy smile'. "I seem to remember a time when you were pretty keen on him… remember? Are you sure he isn’t such a horror just because he knocked you back at all those parties when you've tried to pull him? Isn’t that it? And why would you want to spend some time with a… what was it you called him? What did you just say… an ‘arrogant waster’? Maybe it’s a good thing you’re seeing Martin now. Harris might be an opinionated loudmouth but he can certainly stand up for himself and the things he thinks, whatever else, whether you agree with him or not. I think they’re all just like anyone else’s friends and they’re not stupid socially or academically. Actually, I think Jonn and Mhic are very nice in some ways, quite dishy too! Lots of the girls in our year liked them! I’m sure you remember that far back, ‘Jooles’!"
Julie's anger smouldered but she said nothing, allowing Elaine to feel a little glow of double victory within herself, remembering how Harris had been banned from their house when he was fourteen after a heated debate about Mr Macklin’s preposterous claim that ‘there wasn’t a single German alive today who wasn’t ashamed of what they did during the war’. Harris’s assertion that they were probably no more ashamed than the average Briton and a lot more similar to a British ‘Tommy’ than anyone liked to admit, post war, had evolved and finally resulted in her father going into total meltdown and finally stomping out the room swearing the teenager would never be allowed to set foot in his home again.
Dave ignored both of the twins. "Listen, I'll choose my friends without anyone else’s help - OK? And I think I'm a bit too old at eighteen to be taught 'manners' by you… whatever that lesson would involve." he said to his father.
"Why you…” his father started, beginning to lean forward and rise from his chair at the same time.
The bone china cup with its gold rim and ornate floral decoration fell from Mrs. Macklin's hands and splintered to pieces all over the floor.
"For God's sake, can't you all just give this a rest for a while? Please! All I ever hear in this house any more is bickering. Now stop it – all of you!" she screamed as if near to hysteria before rising and sweeping the shards neatly away.
A cold and awkward silence fell on them all. She could feel the cumulative, ongoing strain of these constant battles and it was beginning to tell on both her physical and mental health. This situation seemed to be never ending and progressively getting worse. It was also becoming harder and harder to sit on the fence any longer.
The meal was undertaken in a stony silence while the air hung with a stormy stillness. The clatter of cutlery fought against the sound of the rain and the banging of the slates in the rising wind for the supremacy of sound. The seconds dragged by into unending minutes with nobody uttering a syllable, not even to request another family member to pass the condiments. Dave ignored them all, mentally praying for the world to end so he could escape this unending torment. It was less than half an hour of torture but it seemed to be much longer before the evening meal was finally consumed.
Mr. Macklin sat back from the table slightly, his meal now completely finished, and waited for his wife to get up and remove the plates before serving him his coffee. He looked over at Dave earnestly and spoke quietly. "I hope you'll be doing the tools tonight, David".
"I told you yesterday, I'll do them at the week-end. I'm doing something else tonight!" he replied.
"Going out with you're useless friends again? God alone knows what you all get up to, one day you people will all end up in the papers at this rate. Try and take some responsibility here, pretend you’re an adult. You should be doing something to contribute to this household instead of just taking, day in and day out. Listen well, David, if you don't get on the ball you'll be looking for a roof over your head - and it won't be here!"
"Again!" Dave responded automatically, subtly reminding his father of the previous sentence that he'd already inflicted some years ago.
His father ignored the barb and simply continued his diatribe. "Now, if you can’t manage to face up to the idea of hard work then why don't you at least go out with Peter? Now that’s someone who’s a decent sort and his family are the type of people who are a pleasure to be around – not like the bohemian Liberals some of your stupid friends have been bred from."
Dave placed his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Peter Torrence’s family respectability seems more to do with successfully ‘getting away with it’ than being genuine social icons. I seem to remember his father was in the papers a couple of years back when he was investigated for buying Council Contracts… or have you conveniently forgotten that? Is that what I should aim for? Become a white collar criminal because that’s fine so long as you get away with it by bribery and blackmail? I wouldn’t trust Peter Torrence as far as I cold throw him, he’s like a slug… and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!”
His father’s face reddened and the veins on his temples began to pulse as if jumping to some unseen jungle beat. The opening mouth began to respond but Dave merely continued without pause.
“Listen, I'll pick my own friends. Whatever else my friends might be – they’re honest and their families are decent, caring people. So just give me some peace!"
Mrs. Macklin removed her glasses and stretched her hand out to Dave’s.
"David, your father is only telling you what he thinks is best for you. Listen to him, please." she almost pleaded.
"Like he listens to me? Sure thing!" the dark haired youth said throwing his spoon away in contempt, abandoning what was left of his tardily consumed dessert.
Mr Macklin finally jumped up from his seat. "Don't dare speak to your mother like that in front of me, boy, or you'll be out of this house before you know what's hit you!"
Dave turned to him, fists clenched and blood pounding, his eyes ablaze with anger.
"Yeah? Then maybe that'll be two of your children you'll have gotten rid of, won't it?" he said coldly.
The silence fell round the table like an icy hand, everyone was shocked. No one spoke or even looked at one another for what seemed like an eternity. Finally Mr. Macklin found his voice.
"Susan was… weak, she… she left of her own accord. I didn’t throw her out, just told her to… The verdict was ‘Accidental Death’, not my fault. It wasn’t. She was simply weak, too weak to be… nobody could help her!" the man stammered.
Dave looked at him with disgust. "The verdict! The verdict? You know perfectly well why she did it. You know perfectly well who is responsible… you make me sick!"
Dave got up, staring at his father, and left the table. His accusing eyes never left the man as he walked all the way to the door.
"Where do you think you're going?" his father demanded without turning round, almost shouting after him.
"Out!”

Dave pulled on his old leather bomber and pulled his steel capped boots on, picked up the shimmering black, full face crash helmet and walked out of the house. Kicking open the garage door, the faint glow of the nearby street light revealed his black, fourteen year old, 1962 BSA bike he and his useless friends had laboriously restored during the hot summer that year. It was gleaming in the dimness before him. Straddling the machine, he kicked it into life. The bike shuddered with power and spewed its' fumes abundantly into the garage. Dave rolled forward, revved the bike up to the red and released the clutch swiftly, the small stones in the yard scattered from under it – shooting backward like bullets.
In a few minutes he was clear of Hellenford suburbia and the black bike roared off into the cold night as he headed for the back road. Dave’s face was taut under the helmet as he drove the long way towards Pamela's house. Gunning the monster up to sixty, Dave looked up to the sky to see the dark clouds rolling together, he smiled at the thought of the storm to come.