Divided City Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Theresa Breslin

  Praise for Divided City

  Copyright

  About the Book

  A dark stain, spreading . . .

  A young man lies bleeding in the street.

  It’s Glasgow. And it’s May – the marching season. The Orange Walks have begun.

  Graham doesn’t want to be involved. He just wants to play football with his new mate, Joe. But then he witnesses a shocking moment of violence . . .

  A gripping tale about two boys who must find their own answers – and their own way forward – in a world divided by differences.

  WINNER OF THE CATALYST BOOK AWARD

  This book is for Glasgow

  Chapter 1

  Footsteps.

  Running.

  Graham didn’t hear them at first.

  He was walking fast, eating from his bag of hot chips as he went. Taking a detour via Reglan Street. The kind of street his parents had warned him never to be in. The kind of street where your footsteps echoed loud, too loud – because there was no one else about.

  From either side the dark openings of the tenement building mawed at him. It was the beginning of May and fairly light at this time in the evening. But even so . . . Graham glanced around. The sky was densely overcast and shadows were gathering. He shouldn’t have lingered so long after football training.

  Graham dug deep into the bag to find the last chips, the little crispy ones soaked in vinegar that always nestled in the folds of paper at the bottom. He wiped his mouth and, scrunching up the chip paper, he threw it into the air. When it came down he sent it rocketing upwards, powered by his own quality header. The paper ball spun high above him. Graham made a half turn.

  Wait for it . . . wait for it . . .

  Now.

  ‘Yes!’ Graham shouted out loud as his chip bag bounced off a lamppost ten metres away. An ace back-heeler! With a shot like that he could zap a ball past any keeper right into the back of the net. He grinned and thrust his hands in the air to acknowledge the applause of the fans.

  At that moment noise and shouting erupted behind him, and Graham knew right away that he was in trouble.

  Footsteps.

  Running.

  Coming down Reglan Street. Hard. Desperate.

  Pounding on the ground. Beyond them, further away, whooping yells and shouts.

  ‘Get the scum! Asylum scum!’

  Graham turned. A teenage boy was racing towards him. As Graham watched, the boy stumbled, tripped and fell. Tried to get up. Then, groping in his pocket, brought out a mobile phone. Started to dial, changed his mind. Looking round in panic.

  At the end of Reglan Street nearest the playing fields, huge shadows danced. The outline of the hunters – distorted and elongated against the bright floodlights used for night games on the football pitches. Graham saw them gather together, become one monstrous creature, then break apart. Their twisted shapes thrown out ahead of them as they came. Seeking. Searching.

  Graham’s legs stopped working. He was too far from the main road. Too far to run. This gang would catch him easily.

  The boy got to his feet. Faltered. Went past Graham. Limping.

  Now Graham was caught. Trapped between pursuer and pursued.

  If he began to run the gang of boys would think he was running from them – might mistake him for the one they were after. His heart was hammering. He didn’t want to get involved in this.

  He had to get off the street, find somewhere to hide. If he could get into one of the tenements and through to the other side, there might be a way out across the backs. Over a wall and down the maze of lanes and alleys between the buildings.

  The victim had the same idea. Graham saw the boy stagger into a close entrance.

  One of the gang ran past Graham, shoving him roughly aside. His face shone with sweat and excitement.

  The baying of the other boys sounded nearer, shouting and jeering.

  ‘Scum! Scum!’

  And then a string of swear words.

  Graham jumped onto the pavement and over to the entrance nearest him. Most tenements and blocks of flats didn’t have open entries any more. But often, especially in areas like this, they’d be lying ajar because people didn’t bother, or the door catch was broken. This one was locked firm against him.

  Graham pressed himself against the door, glad of his skinny frame. The remainder of the gang came down the street, veering onto the pavement as they spotted him.

  One of them pushed his face up against Graham’s. ‘Where’d he go? Where’d he go?’

  He had a knife in his hand.

  Graham’s eyes widened in terror. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t take his gaze from the knife. The boy raised his knife. ‘Speak, ya wee—’

  Graham shook his head. The older boy was half out of it with drink or drugs or both. The rest of them ran on. They shouted from further down the street.

  ‘We’ve got him! He’s here!’

  Graham crouched in the doorway. He heard them dragging the boy from his hiding place. The thudding sound of someone being kicked. If he covered his ears perhaps he wouldn’t hear. Graham wrapped his hands and arms all the way round his head. To block out the sound. The noise. Grunting laughter of the attackers.

  He waited. Whimpering.

  Nothing. No scream. No cry for help.

  Then footsteps. Running away. Diminishing.

  Graham took his hands from his head. He stepped from the doorway onto the street. Went slowly forward to look at the huddled body lying on the ground. Beside the paper ball of his chip bag there was a puddle of liquid. Under the light of the street lamp it reflected dull red. It was seeping from below the body of the boy. Moving out towards Graham’s feet.

  A dark stain spreading.

  Chapter 2

  Joseph Flaherty – Joe to his friends – also made a chip-shop stop that evening.

  Like Graham, he didn’t go straight home after football training on a Friday either. Instead, Joe went into the city centre to earn some pocket money at his aunt’s hairdressing shop. Not that he’d be seen dead in the place when it was open. Too many women clack-clacking away. But on Friday night he dropped by to help tidy up after their late opening and get things ready for the busy Saturday. The shop was on the corner of the Gallowgate and High Street. It was his granny’s shop really, but his gran was getting too old to do much
, so it was mainly Joe’s Aunt Kathleen, his dad’s youngest sister, who ran the place. And on a Friday night the two women were always keen to finish and catch the last bingo session at the Forge. So it was Joe who did most of the clearing up by himself. He preferred it that way. He’d pull the outside steel shutter down, lock himself in the shop and put his music on.

  He got off the bus at the Tron and went into a nearby chip shop.

  ‘Got them ready for you, Joey.’ The shop owner smiled at the boy as he pushed open the door.

  Joe took the bag of chips, pulled out the top one, blew on it and bit off the end. The hot vinegary taste seared his tongue and he took a quick drink from a can of Irn-Bru to cool his mouth. He chatted to Sergio for a while about the football. The Italian was a Celtic supporter, though there was nothing in the shop to let you know that. No colours or badges or magazines like the Celtic View lying on the counter. Wouldn’t take the risk of antagonizing any customers who might support the other side. Joe asked him if he was going to the Celtic v Rangers match tomorrow.

  ‘No one to cover for the shop,’ said Sergio. ‘And I wouldn’t close up. I do good business on the day of an Old Firm game.’

  They talked of Celtic’s chances. Joe was confident, but Sergio shook his head.

  ‘Carmichael’s a great new player,’ he said, ‘but that latest signing from Italy has me worried.’

  ‘I thought Italians could play better than anyone in the world?’ said Joe.

  ‘So they can,’ said Sergio. ‘But he is Calabrese.’

  Joe laughed. ‘What’s wrong with the Calabrese?’

  Sergio narrowed his eyes and clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. ‘They are Calabrese,’ he said.

  Joe told him about the goal his team had scored in the last minutes of tonight’s game.

  ‘We thought we’d get slaughtered. We’ve never played against a proper eleven-a-side opposition before. But our defence stood up to them, and we stole the game in the last seconds. I think Jack Burns, the coach, had his eye on me. Well, me and this other boy, Graham. I’m hoping I get picked for the Glasgow City first team. We’ve a whole set of trials to get through. The sessions are next Wednesday and Friday, and the first game of the tournament is a week on Sunday. Glasgow’s been drawn against Liverpool in the first leg. Just think, Sergio. I might be in the team that represents Glasgow! All the cities in the UK are taking part. It’s a new Cup, a Gold Cup, the UK Inter-Cities Youth Team Gold Cup.’

  ‘Sounds exciting,’ said Sergio, not letting on that Joe had told him about the Gold Cup every single week for the past few months.

  ‘And tonight’s goal. It was ace,’ Joe went on, his eyes glowing. ‘This is me’ – he picked up a bottle of tomato sauce – ‘and this’ – he pointed to the vinegar bottle – ‘is my team-mate, Graham.’

  Sergio watched as Joe, using the jars of pickled onions as goalposts, described the goal. ‘Looks like what Harald Brattbakk did against St Johnstone when Celtic won the League in nineteen ninety-eight,’ he commented. ‘I was at that match. Brattbakk came haring down the field to pick up a cross from Jackie McNamara and blasted it into the back of the net.’

  ‘Exactly like that,’ said Joe. ‘I got the pass across to Graham at the right time. And you should have seen him thump it away. He’s a brilliant player.’

  ‘But you put the ball at his feet,’ said Sergio loyally. He tapped his head. ‘That type of play takes brains as well as skill.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I can’t say I thought it out,’ said Joe. ‘It was more like instinct. I just knew he’d move into position. And he told me afterwards that he sensed that I would bring the ball to him. We understand each other.’

  Joe finished his chips as he walked towards his granny’s shop. Draining the last of his Irn-Bru, he lobbed the can into the air ahead of him. He caught it with his foot as it returned to earth, and then began to dribble the empty can along the street.

  A high kick from Scotland’s captain. It’s a loose ball. Anybody’s. But here’s Flaherty! Joseph Flaherty, Scotland’s hero, has captured the ball!

  Nothing could stop him now.

  The glitter of gold was upon him.

  The commentator’s voice rose to a shriek.

  Joe Flaherty is storming down the field! This undersize, underage, football player from Glasgow has full mastery of the ball. Demonstrating incredible talent from someone of his age! Although he is years younger than his team-mates, the international squad insisted he should be included. Only months ago, at an extraordinary meeting of the Scottish Football Association the board unanimously agreed that this boy from the great city of Glasgow should be allowed to play for Scotland. And now, in this final of the World Cup, they’ve been proved right.

  The streets of the Garngath, Joe’s part of the city, are empty tonight. Every single resident is in front of a TV or listening to a radio. Special screens have been set up all over the city. In George Square the match is being beamed onto the front wall of the Glasgow City Chambers. The great and the good have gathered, mingling with ordinary folk. Sharing a bench with a grandstand view of the park are the Lord Provost of the city, J. K. Rowling and Ewan McGregor, watching this nail-biting final together with Joe’s dad, granny and Auntie Kathleen.

  Despite a brutal tackle, Flaherty is still up and running! Cutting his way through the defence. It’s a miracle how he manages it! In previous rounds he astounded Argentina, jinked round the Germans and bamboozled Brazil. Now he’s doing it again! No one can touch him!

  He’s heading straight for the goal mouth! The keeper runs out to meet the attack as he sees the approach of this human fireball. Flaherty feints to the left. The ball rockets from the toe of Flaherty’s boot. The keeper leaps to save it. But the ball is curving towards the RIGHT-hand corner. The keeper has dived the wrong way! The ball goes whizzing past his ear. Blootered into the back of the net! What skill! What amazing dexterity! What cunning! Flaherty sent the keeper for a fish supper and drove the winner home!

  It’s a goal! It’s a goal!

  There goes the final whistle!

  Yes! Yes! Yes!

  Scotland has won the World Cup! And it’s all down to a goal from Joe Flaherty.

  The park is in an uproar!

  Garngath has gone mental. Up on the hill where Joe lives they are pouring out onto the streets, singing and dancing. People are weeping in George Square. Joe’s granny is hugging the Lord Provost. His Auntie Kathleen has kissed Ewan McGregor.

  Back to the pitch.

  ‘Flaherty! Flaherty!’

  They want Joe Flaherty. They are cheering themselves hoarse. Joe steps out onto the pitch. They chant their hero’s name. Now, to the tune of ‘Skip to My Lou’, they are singing specially for him . . .

  ‘Joe! Joe! Super Joe!

  Joe! Joe! Super Joe!

  Joe! Joe! Super Joe!

  Su-per Jo-seph Fla-her-ty!’

  Modestly Joe raises his arms to wave to the crowd.

  ‘See you!’ A voice screeched from above Joe’s head. ‘I’ll stoat your heid off that wall if you kick a can at ma windae again!’

  Chapter 3

  Graham’s breath was coming in great ragged gasps.

  The boy on the ground was bleeding. He’d been stabbed!

  Graham saw blood pooling slowly beside his body. Real blood. Graham knelt down.

  Basic first aid wasn’t going to cover this. It needed a doctor . . . an ambulance. The boy’s mobile phone was lying in the gutter. Graham picked it up. He tried to steady his breathing. His fingers stabbed at the numbers. 999. He asked for an ambulance and gabbled out the location. When the operator began to talk to him he cut off the power.

  Still kneeling, Graham looked up and down the street. It was empty. He could just leave and no one would know he’d been here. There was nothing more he could do. He began to get up.

  As he did so the boy’s eyes opened and he recoiled in fear.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Graham. ‘I’m not going to
hurt you.’

  ‘You’re not one of them?’

  ‘No,’ Graham replied hoarsely. The boy’s jacket was open. The front of his T-shirt was sodden with blood. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he went on. ‘I’ve phoned an ambulance.’

  The boy gripped Graham’s arm. ‘No police. Please. No police.’

  ‘Not the police, the ambulance,’ said Graham. ‘I think you’re hurt quite bad.’

  ‘I too believe I am hurt badly.’

  ‘Why did they attack you? Are you in a gang?’

  ‘I am not in a gang.’

  ‘What did you do to annoy them?’ asked Graham.

  ‘I breathe.’

  What did the boy mean, ‘I breathe’? Everybody breathed. Graham shook his head to show he didn’t understand, but the boy’s eyes were drooping closed. ‘Bog it. Bog it. Bog it,’ Graham said under his breath. Why did this have to happen now when tonight had been almost perfect?

  His football training session earlier had been great. Fantastic. The best ever. Their first proper game against a local senior boy’s club and he’d scored a goal!

  Right at the end he collected a pass from the fair-haired boy who, like Graham, never missed a training session. A neat cross, landing right at Graham’s feet. They had trained regularly together since this special football training had started, yet rarely played on the same side. But tonight the coach, Jack Burns, had decided they should play together for this match, Graham in centre mid-field and the other boy in defence. The boy – Graham only knew him as Joe – had come up on the wing in the dying minutes of a no-score match. A frustrating game against a team of boys who were technically better and heavier, but Graham’s team had held them off for an hour and more. And then, at the death, it happened. A long kick-out from the keeper, picked up by Joe, and, suddenly, there’s electricity in the air. Eyes on the ball, Joe swept downfield, running towards the by-line.

  Watching the ball arc against the evening sky, Graham felt time draw out . . . slow down. Saw the opening. Even before Joe pulled down the ball, Graham was racing through the defence. Hardly checking what was happening elsewhere; only thinking, If there’s a break, if by some miracle the ball is in that space just as I arrive, I’ll be ready to take advantage. He sensed rather than saw what Joe was doing. Only knew he had to be there to capture the pass if it came. And there it was! A squared cross from Joe. The ball travelling to Graham’s feet. Set up for him. Clear path to goal.