WEE ECK

By Russel D. McLean

 

     “Say anything, and I’ll do ye!”

      I clenched my fists, stood my ground. His voice scared me, but I wasn’t going to let him see that.

      “D’ye understand, ye prick?”

      He hadn’t changed much since school except he somehow managed to look even more dirty than I remembered. His face was a battleground of plukes, even now when we were both in our mid-twenties. He hadn’t washed since the last time I saw him, when we were both sixteen and he’d sat sullenly across the table from me. Our proximity an accident of the alphabet rather than any kind of conscious choice.

      “I asked if ye understood me?”

      “Aye,” I said.

      “So be sure ye do!” He turned and walked out the shop. I watched him go, feeling my arms begin to shake as I forced myself to slowly relax.

      “What was all that about?” Andy, the boss, had witnessed the end of our confrontation. He came over to stand beside me. As ever, I felt dwarfed by his presence. He was not only well over six foot tall, and his body was wide, too. An unkind person might have called him fat, but they’d have found out soon that it was mostly muscle.

      “Nothing,” I said.

      “You’re sure?”

      I shrugged it off. “Sure, I’m sure,” I said. I started picking up the DVDs from the pile on the floor, got on with stocking the shelves.

      Andy stood there for a minute, watching me. He didn’t believe me that the confrontation had been nothing, but there was nothing much he could do about it. After a moment, when he realised I wasn’t going to say anything more, he left me alone.

      I waited until he was out of sight before I let loose a troubled sigh. Wee Eck hadn’t been much to worry about at school, but looking at him now, I couldn’t help but wonder whether he actually had the bottle to follow through on his threat. 

The police popped by my flat that evening. Two wee uniformed bobbies who couldn’t have been much older than me but tried to act like they were. I invited them into the living room. They had to clear space on the sofa to sit down. One of them briefly examined the back on a DVD case and said, “Good film, man.”

      I wasn’t into discussing movies, however. There were more pressing concerns. “I’m having second thoughts,” I said.

      “Why?” asked the officer who wasn’t a film fan.

      “He came to my work today,” I said. “He threatened me.”

      “We know Eck,” said the film fan. “He’s a regular at the station most Friday nights. He gets pissed and then he starts a fight. He never wins.”

      “So you’re saying I could take him?”

      That got a smile from the film fan. The other officer, however, remained stony-faced.

      “I’m saying,” said the film fan, “that Eck’s nothing to worry about.”

      “Aye,” I said. “He wasn’t back at school either.” 

“Aw, Christ, man, I never recognised you!”

      I didn’t recognise him either. Not right away. Wee Eck had been something of a joke at school. He’d been the wee runt, the one even geeks like me made fun of. He came to school in hand-me-down clothes, and his face looked the surface of the moon, covered in angry pits that demarked his struggles with acne. He looked like he didn’t know how to spell “shower”, never mind use one. He was a persistent under achiever and even thought he wanted to spread the myth that he was a hard man, he was as far away as it was possible to get from being a tough guy. He may have filled out a bit, but it wasn’t enough.

      I remembered at school, Eck had been the one that guys like me picked on. We got kicked about by the big boys and we took it out on Eck because he was weaker than us and because he seemed to think he should have been a tough nut. Arrogance and his pathetic, scrawny body combined to make Eck the lowest of the low in school and it was clear nothing much had changed.

      “It’s Eck, man,” he said. “It’s me; Eck!”

      When I finally realised who he was, I feigned pleasure at seeing him. It had been bad enough when I thought some stranger was trying to rumble me for change. Now that I knew him, it only made things worse.

      “What’re ye doing with yourself?”

      “Working,” I said, and foolishly gave him the name of the store, hardly thinking about what I was saying in my desperation to fob him off and get away.

      “Aw, Christ, man,” he said. “Been in there a few times. Got some braw films, like.”

      “Thanks,” I said.

      “Got banned fer three months, too.”

      “Great.”

      “Aw a misunderstanding, like. Picked up something and forgot I had it on me.”

      “Of course.” I was looking for a get-out, any way to escape.

      “Anyway, man, like I was saying, ye got any spare change on ye?”

      “Really, Eck, I…”

      “Hey, it’s cool,” he said, laughing. He gripped my hand to shake it before I knew what was going on, reached out with his other hand to pat me on the shoulder. I was too taken aback to protest. The hand clapping my shoulder my shoulder slithered down my arm, brushed roughly against my open jacket.

      “I’ll see you round,” he said.

      He turned and walked quickly west along the pedestrianised Nethergate. I reached for my jacket, almost instinctually, felt my inside pocket.

      My heart jumped.

      “Hey!” I shouted, and ran after him. People’s heads turned, intrigued by my yell and the fact that I was running after the wee, skinny, dirty guy whose pace picked up when he realised he’d been caught out.

      Eck had never shown much interest in PE at school, but now he was running like he’d been on the sprint team. All the same, it was a short lived burst of energy and I outlasted him in stamina. I caught up with him outside KFC, where I grabbed his shoulder and whirled him round to face me. “Give me my wallet,” I said.

      “I don’t have yer wallet.”

      “Give me my wallet.” I made a grab at him, hoping to find it in his pockets.

      “Get lost, man!” He shoved me back, and I stumbled a little.

      I grabbed him by the collar, swung him off his spindly legs and smashed him against the window of the restaurant. “You stole my wallet, you prick!”

      A heavy hand landed on my shoulder. “Calm down, please, sir.” 
 I let go of Eck. He stepped back from me, looking wary. His eyes swivelled left to right and back again as if he was looking for some escape even though none would be forthcoming, not with the two police officers making sure neither of us had the chance to make a break for it.

      “He stole my wallet,” I said.

      The police officer whose meaty hand had grabbed my shoulder regarded me with suspicion. I felt myself shrink under his gaze, like I was guilty of something, even though I couldn’t think for the life of me what it was. I said, again, “He stole my wallet.”

      The second officer turned Eck so that he was facing the window. He frisked Eck and came out with two wallets. One was a cheap Velcro-rip affair. It wasn’t mine. The other was dark leather, expensive. I recognised it immediately. It had been a present from an old girlfriend and while she had been unreliable, the wallet had seen me through rich and poor. The policeman found the cinema pass with my photo, which he took to be reasonable proof since the name matched all the cards in the wallet.

      He passed it over to me and said, “You want to press charges, son?”

      “Aye,” I said. “Bloody right I do.” 

After the police officers left my flat, assuring me that Eck wouldn’t bother me at work again, and that he’d really be in the shit if he decided to pop round here, I double locked the front door: snib and main lock. I checked the windows. I double checked the hatch in the hall that led into the attic space I shared with the flat next door. There was an entrance in both our flats, and a third hatch out in the hall. It was an old building and clearly the original designers hadn’t considered security too much of an issue. About a year earlier a burglar had climbed into the hatch out in the hall and broken into the flat next door. I’d been lucky. Although afterwards we’d taken precautions and ensured the hall hatch was locked at all times, I couldn’t help but feel that if Wee Eck was as determined as he had looked earlier, it would probably look like a welcome mat to him.

      But what was I really scared of? I’d kicked Wee Eck’s arse in high school and I could probably still do the same, now. All the same, I’d seen something in him that morning I didn’t remember from school: a kind of fiery hate in his eyes that verged on the psychopathic. It was a look that made me think of Robert Carlyle’s character in Trainspotting, except this wasn’t Robert Carlyle simply pretending to be a psycho. Ten years had passed since Eck and I had been at school. People can change a lot in such a short space of time and not necessarily for the better.

      I slept badly that night, aware of each little sound. The floorboards compressed as the night got colder, creaking gently. Before it had never bothered me, but now each sound was like a footstep, as though I was not alone.

      Finally, I turned on the bedside lamp, the light dispelling the shadows that hung around the corners of the bedroom. After that, I was asleep within minutes. My dreams were filled with memories from my school days, of the bullies and the bastards who used to intimidate me and my crowd; the casual kickings, the way the rugby lads used to throw their boots at my head and laugh like it was a big joke.

      I used to laugh, too, because it was easier than fighting back. If you didn’t give them any shit then things wouldn’t get any worse. That’s the way it worked back then. The big lads took out their frustrations on the folks like me and we took out our frustrations out on the poor bastards like Eck: turn on them, mock them, push them about a bit. Everyone did it. It wasn’t bullying. It was the law of the jungle, the nature of school life. Eck was down the bottom of the chain. He didn’t matter. And more importantly he couldn’t hurt us back.

      When I woke from the dreams, I felt ashamed for what I had done in school, but I told myself that I was no more guilty than anyone else had been. And it was who you became that was important. I had grown past that. I could no longer be held responsible for any of that bullshit. 

The next morning I showered, dressed, went to work as though it was a normal day.

      I tried not to think about Wee Eck, told myself he was still the same scrawny shrimp I’d gone to school with. I told myself he wouldn’t be bothering me again.

      I met him at lunch, outside a wee bakers who did takeaway chips and mince at lunchtimes.

      “Ye talk tae the polis?”

      “Aye,” I said, feeling my heart hammering. But enough was enough, I thought. It was time to stand up for myself. “I told them you were a fucking criminal.”

      “Cocky little bastard, aren’t ye?” His hand moved fast. I looked down, saw he was holding a knife to my stomach. It was small but sharp and he pressed the tip against me. He waited until I looked back at his face before he said. “Ye’ll tell them, aye? What I told ye tae tell them?”

      “Fuck off, Eck,” I said, feeling an odd surge of bravado. He wasn’t going to knife me. Nobody knifed a man in broad daylight right in the centre of town. “I’m sorry about what we used to do to you at school, but I didn’t have it so easy either, you know?”

      I tried to back away, but he put a hand on my shoulder and said, “This has got fuck all tae dae wi’ school, ye bampot, I told ye; say anything tae the polis and I’ll do ye. I’m no the same wee prick I used tae be.”

      I tried to say something, but all that came out of my mouth was a dry croak. He pressed the knife tip against me, so I felt its sharpness even through my jumper.

      “So what’s it gonnae be?” he asked.

      I didn’t even thinking about what I was doing. I jumped back at the same time as my right hand moved down and grabbed his wrist. He struggled to push the knife forward, but I managed to hold his hand where it was. I twisted his wrist. He tried to struggle against it, but it was a losing battle.

      His free hand whipped out, caught me in the belly. I let go of his wrist and staggered back, He came for me, and I reached out to grab both his arms. We fell to the pavement together. People were gathered round, now, watching the two of us fight. I wondered why no one was helping me, why they were all standing there gawking. Some naïve part of my brain still believed in basic human kindness, but none was forthcoming amidst their voyeurism that lunchtime.

      I gripped the wrist that held the knife. I twisted and struggled, hoping he would drop it. He was on top of me and his eyes were wide, his pupils dilated, the whites road-mapped with red. Veins stood out in his forehead.

      He pushed.

      I pushed.

      Twisted.

      Then: resistance. Like I’d shoved his arm into his stomach. I pushed again.

      Eck opened his mouth in an “O”. He lifted his head and quit struggling. I pulled out from under him. He was on his knees, his hands clutching to his belly.

      I saw the handle of the knife sticking out. He looked for all the world like he was holding it in there, maybe even giving it a wee push. I saw blood seep between his fingers.

      I looked down at my own hands and saw blood there, too. I wasn’t the one bleeding, however.

      Somebody shouted, “He just stabbed that boy!”

      Somebody else said, “Where’s the polis?”

       I felt someone smash into me from behind, an expert rugby tackle that brought me down hard on the pavement. My cheek smacked against the stone. I felt the skin rip and tear.

      My face stung.

      My eyes watered.

      I felt the blush of fear and embarrassment that I hadn’t felt since I’d been in school. I thought I heard someone laughing as I was pinned to the ground.

      A knee hammered into the small of my back. Hands grabbed my arms, pulling them so they were behind my back.

      More voices. The words were confused.

      Something cold snapped over my wrists. The metal pinched.

      The sound of sirens: an ambulance.

      I closed my eyes, concentrated on the stinging sensation in my cheek. I told myself that I had no choice, that if I hadn’t got him, he’d have got me.

      An authoritative voice told me I was being detained. I listened to the words, thinking that this was some kind of dream.

      After all, I wasn’t the criminal. And I told myself they’d have to see that.

      In my head, I heard Wee Eck laughing, like he finally got some cosmic joke. I thought to myself that maybe I understood it, too. I let go and allowed myself to laugh with Eck, like he’d been the world’s greatest comedian. It was only when I opened my eyes and saw the paramedics finally giving in and preparing to load Eck’s corpse into the back of the ambulance that my laughter turned to tears.

      Whether they were for myself or Eck, I guess I’ll never be able to say. 

 

Copyright 2006 by Russel D. McLean

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Russel D McLean is the author of several short stories which have appeared
in various publications including Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine,
Thrilling Detective and the upcoming anthology, Fuck Noir. He is also the
editor of the noir ezine Crime Scene Scotland (www.crimescenescotland.com)
and hopes that one day the zine will be updated on schedule. Check out
Russel's blog at http://www.theseaymeanstreets .blogspot.com