Mark Fleming. Creative Writing. Blog

Men With Pens: Edinburgh Book Festival 2025

10/8/2025

Over the Spring, multi-award winning poet and playwright Ross MacKay led a series of workshops - entitled Men With Pens - for creative writers living with mental health conditions, one group in Perth, the other, Edinburgh. Exchanging letters offering inspiration, these penpals convened at the Edinburgh Book Festival to share their work.

Ross MacKay

Men With Pens was the brainchild of Scottish writer, Ross Collins Mackay. Based in Fife, Ross has spent several years garnering an impressive CV of literary endeavours.

A recipient of the Peggy Ramsay Foundation Bursary, Ross was artist-in-residence with the National Theatre of Scotland in 2024. He has won a Literature Matters Award from the Royal Society of Literature, a Tom McGrath Trust Maverick Award, and the William Soutar Award for Poetry in 2020. That same year, he won a global 'Search for a Storyteller' talent competition judged by a certain Simon Cowell.

Previously, Ross has been the artistic director of puppetry company, Tortoise in a Nutshell, whose productions have toured globally, winning prestigious awards. He is also a former Scottish Young Magician of the Year.

Despite Men With Pens clashing with Oasis at Murrayfield, the rest of the Festival, and even an earlier parade by the Royal Black Perceptory, a night of exceptional literary delights unfolded at the Edinburgh Book Festival

Men With Pens was based on a straightforward concept. At a time when we all seem to spend so many waking hours immersed in digital noise, Ross identified the simple, quiet potency of resorting to handwritten communication. Much of his writing workshop mentoring is driven by offering creative prompts to encourage participants to put pen to paper. Taking this a step further, he reached out to two groups of men living with mental health conditions; one group meeting in the AK Bell Library in Perth, the other in Granton Library in Edinburgh.

Over four months, paired anonymously, these men exchanged letters outlining what inspired them to write. Common themes emerged, particularly the cathartic power of harnessing creative writing to help promote wellbeing and destigmatize mental health conditions. As well as letters, examples of the work produced at the monthly get-togethers were shared, inviting comment from penpals. These regular exchanges of nuggets of literary inspiration motivated each of the writers to maintain the project's momentum.

The wonderfully talented storyteller, Claire Mulholland was on hand at some of these workshops to offer a selection of finely-woven traditional tales to further inspire participants.

After four months of joyous writing, an emotive potpourri of flash fiction and memoirs were collated by Ross, before the five writers (Peter Dunlop, Mike Munro and Andrew Whyte from Perth; Neil Renton and Mark Fleming from Edinburgh) were introduced for the first time at an exclusive Edinburgh Book Festival event on Saturday 9th August 2024.

After being ushered to the venue by the Book Festival’s Director of Communities and Equalities, Noelle Cobden, the guys performed readings of their work to the delight of the audience. Peter Dunlop provided striking artwork as a slideshow backdrop to compliment the spoken word samples.

Like so many events at the Edinburgh Book Festival (now in its 42nd year) this was a life-affirming hour!

Miami Showband: the day the music died

31/7/2025

50 years ago today, in the small hours of 31 July 1975, one of the most notorious incidents of 'The Troubles' in Ireland unfolded. Three musicians from one of the country's foremost pop groups were murdered.

The last official photo of the Miami Showband. Source: stephentravers.org

Youth uniting

On Wednesday July 30 1975, the Miami Showband, amongst the foremost exponents of the mid-70s Irish ‘showband scene,’ performing popular pop/rock covers and original material, entertained an enthusiastic audience of around 450 fans at the Castle Ballroom in Banbridge, County Down, Northern Ireland. Although the building is long gone – youngsters from the area now frequent the Roller Dome built in its place – during its 1960s and 1970s heyday, the Ballroom regularly attracted sizeable crowds.

Like music venues across this part of Ireland, this location was regarded as a sanctuary for young revellers from either side of what had long been a society partitioned by religion. On entrance, punters strolled up a grandiose marble staircase against an evocative background aroma of cigarettes, burger meals, and cleaning chemicals, while reaching the summit provided access to a labyrinth of rooms – immediately on the left, the click-click of the pool table; to the right, the ballroom, equating to good times, dancing, and the perennial hormonal rushes of youthful romance.

By the early 1980s, teenagers would also be hunched over Donkey Kong or Crazy Climber in other rooms, but as before, pupils from Banbridge High and St Patrick’s (the local Roman Catholic school), would integrate, partitioned into sub-cultures primarily dictated by whether they preferred listening to punk, disco, soul, heavy metal, folk, or whatever.

Teenagers socialising over arcade games, crashing cigarettes, forming relationships -sometimes as fleeting as the time it took to pot the next black - is such a familiar picture I can practically hear the electronic squeaks of the Galaxian and Space Invaders we developed repetitive strain injuries from mastering in Rollo’s café in Shandon: in our case, pupils or ex-pupils of Tynecastle High, Foresters, and St Augustine's. The difference between the two scenarios, two words imbued with the weight of centuries: The Troubles.

Site of the atrocity, near Buskhill. Credit: Dean Molyneaux

Bogus roadblock

The Miami Showband packed away their gear after another successful night. After all, this was a band at the top of their game. Formed in 1962 by Dublin's answer to Brian Epstein, Tom Doherty, they never rocketed to the heady height of The Beatles (few of the Fab Four’s contemporaries did). 'The Miamis,' with their revolving line-up of talented members and ever evolving musical styles, achieved seven number one singles in the Irish charts. But after that rousing performance in Banbridge, the band unwittingly found themselves sucked into The Troubles' remorselessly indiscriminate black hole.

By the summer of 1975, their only original member, guitarist Clem Quinn, had departed. The lineup now consisted of Tony Geraghty (guitar), Des Lee (saxophone), Brian McCoy (trumpet), Ray Millar (drums), Fran O’Toole (vocalist), and Stephen Travers (bass). Only two of the musicians now hailed from the Republic; four were Northern Irish – for the record, two were Protestants, two Roman Catholics.

After packing up, they wolfed down a welcome supper of Irish stew. These lads were nothing if not professionals – there were no demands for cocaine or groupies on their rider. They then clambered into their VW minibus to head back to Dublin. Ray, from Antrim, who’d opted to visit his parents, waved his bandmates off, while their manager, Brian Maguire, drove ahead.

The van had been coasting down the A1 when, approaching Buskhill in County Down at around 2.30 in the morning of 31st July, their headlights bathed a British Army patrol gesturing for them to pull inn. This checkpoint would no doubt have been viewed as an inconvenience, nothing more. All in the band, especially the Northern Irishmen, would’ve been used to army or RUC checkpoints, particularly on roads approaching the border with the Republic. Still wearing their stage attire, the musicians heaved themselves out into the balmy July night to find the soldiers were wearing Ulster Defence Regiment (UDR) uniforms. (Britain’s then largest infantry regiment, the UDR were locally recruited with a Protestant to Catholic demographic of 84% to 16% upon its initiation, dipping to around 97% to 3% by 1972 as the violence wore on.) The UDR men ordered them to line up, hands on their heads. The five complied, and since these soldiers were speaking with Ulster accents there was even some banter about the gig. What none of the band could possibly have known was that their khaki uniforms were merely a cover.

To carry that hatred around for 50 years, I wouldn’t be strong enough to do that.

The atrocity

These UDR soldiers were also members of the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF), a loyalist terrorist group who had spent years wreaking murderous havoc amongst the Nationalist community, not to mention infighting their equally lethal paramilitary rivals, the Ulster Defence Association (UDA). The real objective of this operation was to place a 10-pound bomb under the van, timed to detonate when the vehicle was travelling through Newry. The anticipated outcome for this latest in Ireland’s lengthy litany of atrocities was for it to be blamed on the Provisional IRA, prompting the Irish government to tighten border security to stem the south-to-north flow of weapons.

However, dodgy soldering led to the timebomb exploding prematurely. The two UVF men inside the van were killed instantly. (An arm was later discovered in the adjoining field, tattooed with ‘Portadown UVF’). Des was thrown into a ditch. As the sound of the explosion rang out, the remaining terrorists opened fire. Struck by nine 9mm rounds, Brian, son of the Orange Lodge’s County Tyrone Grand Master, died instantly. Fran and Tony took to their heels but were also gunned down. Stephen, hit by a bullet which broke into 16 pieces, played dead. Cowering in the darkness, waiting for the voices to recede, Des eventually summoned the courage to crawl up the embankment. Thumbing a lift, he alerted the RUC. When the security forces arrived at the charnel house, personal possessions, clothing and a photo of the band scattered amongst bodies, body parts and spent cartridges, the van a smouldering shell, Stephen was discovered seriously wounded.

Aftermath and legacy

The Miami Showband massacre entered The Troubles' already bloodstained catalogue as one of its most notorious incidents. However, Ray and the two survivors, Lee and Stephen, decided the show had to go on. Three months later, having recruited guest musicians, they played at Galway’s Seapoint Ballroom to over 2,000 people, with hundreds turned away, to rapturous response.

Although the Miami Showband called it a day after Des moved to South Africa in 1978, they have performed intermittently ever since. By the late 1970s, the showbands had had their time in the spotlight. The baton of bridging the sectarian divide, bringing young people together to enjoy music regardless of their cultural background, had passed to Northern Ireland’s more raucous punk bands: The Undertones, Stiff Little Fingers, The Outcasts, Rudi et al.

Fran O’Toole had once opened for The Who for an RTE Special and was also memorably described by Phil Lynott as ‘Ireland’s best soul singer.’

Stephen Travers went on to wage a legal battle against the British Establishment and the Ministry of Defence. He penned his story, The Bass Player: Surviving the Miami Showband Massacre, while in 2019, Netflix released a major documentary based on his book, The Miami Showband Massacre; A Survivors’ Search for the Truth. This was Emmy-nominated in 2020. He has described his ‘second life’ as an author, composer, and international speaker on peace and reconciliation. He doggedly fought on to expose what he perceived to be ‘state-loyalist’ collusion, his David v Goliath struggle concluding on December 13th, 2021 (one day before what would've been my Monaghan-born father's 100th birthday.) Under a British government threat to bar all prosecutions related to The Troubles, Stephen made the difficult decision to allow settlement. “I know there are complex and sensitive legal issues around it but all I want is a wee bit recognition.” He has also been quoted as saying he bore no hatred for the killers. “To carry that hatred around for 50 years, I wouldn’t be strong enough to do that."

Anti-sectarian human rights group the Pat Finucane Centre has described the massacre as one of the 87 attacks perpetrated by the ‘Glenanne Gang,’ a loose alliance comprising UDR soldiers, RUC police officers, and loyalist paramilitaries. A report by the Historical Enquiries Team raised collusion issues about the involvement of an RUC Special Branch agent. Des and Stephen testified about an officer in a different uniform speaking with a ‘clipped English accent’ overseeing the bogus roadblock.

Relatives received nearly £1.5 million in damages to settle claims against the Ministry of Defence and Police Service of Northern Ireland, without any admission of liability.

Two UDR men and one former soldier were eventually given life sentences for their part in the atrocity.

Twelve hours after the massacre, the UVF issued a statement fabricating a story that their gunmen had returned ‘intense fire’ from inside the van. The funerals of their two victims were conducted by former South Antrim Democratic Unionist Party (DUP) MP and Free Presbyterian Minister, the Reverend William McCrea. Later granted the title The Lord McCrea of Magherafelt and Cookstown, after five decades public service, McCrea currently sits in the House of Lords. McCrea officiated at several Loyalist paramilitary funerals over the years. The DUP were the only political party to initially oppose the Good Friday Agreement (the political settlement instigating the 'peace process' which helped successfully conclude the major portion of The Troubles) on the grounds paramilitary groups had not pre-emptively decommissioned their weapons.

On Saturday 2nd August in Portadown, more than 400 loyalists and 15 bands are expected to participate in an event billed as the ‘Harris Boyle 50th Anniversary Memorial Parade,’ to commemorate the gunmen blown up by their own device.

Events commemorating the innocent victims will be held at the site of the attack, near Newry, joined by Des and Stephen, and former road manager Brian Maguire. Additional events will take place in Dundalk and Newry.

Miami Showband website

Stephen Travers website, with links to his work.

Book cover for The Bass Player: Surviving the Miami Showband Massacre

The Bass Player: Surviving the Miami Showband Massacre by Stephen Travers

A plaque commemorating the victims of the Miami Showband Massacre, July 1975, Parnell Square, Dublin.

A plaque commemorating the victims, Parnell Square, Dublin. Credit: Gordon Munro.

The Salt Path: triumph over despair

4/6/2025

Raynor Winn's memoir describes a middle-aged, Middle English couple setting off on an arduous journey across coastal paths after ending up 'on the street.' In Mairi Anne Elliott's adaptation, set against enchanting landscapes, flawless performances by Gillian Anderson and Jason Isaacs gives their story depth.

Raynor Winn's The Salt Path (Penguin 2018)

Here’s a stark statistic posted by homelessness charity Shelter England: “Half of working renters are only one pay cheque away from losing their home.” Adapted from Raynor Winn’s bestselling memoir, Mairi Anne Elliott turns an everyday story of eviction into an enthralling odyssey set against England’s fabulous southwestern landscapes. Propelled by wonderfully understated performances from Gillian Anderson as Ray and Jason Isaacs as her devoted husband of 32 years, Moth, we see how thin the veneer really is between the home comforts most of us take for granted and destitution.

Ray and Moth’s reaction to losing most of their worldly possessions is to head off on the 630-miles trek along the longest uninterrupted path in England, Minehead to Poole, snaking around the coasts of Somerset, Devon, Cornwall, and Dorset. Trying to get by on a weekly budget of £40 is remarkable enough. That they are doing so after Moth’s diagnosis with Corticobasal Degeneration (a rare, life-limiting degenerative brain disease) injects their cross-country journey with a purpose beyond A to B. You almost feel every painstaking limp as Moth gamely struggles up steep stairwells carved into rockfaces centuries ago; about turning is not an option.

They encounter various reactions to their homeless state. Initially, their attempts to find emergency accommodation or access government hardship payments are dashed against the wall of faceless bureaucracy - in a soulless DWP office, Moth is asked whether or not he expects to live longer than one year. As no definitive timescale can be placed on his degenerative condition, this disqualifies him from making any claim. Dogwalkers are irate about coming across their tent pitched nowhere near camping sites. Londoners who own a plush West Country retreat believe Moth to be a renowned poet who has hit hard times. After inviting him back for selfie opportunities and a massage, upon discovering he is just some random down-and-out, he and Ray are summarily sent on their way. At one point, Ray and Moth trudge through what their guidebook informs them is the site of a former leper colony; the irony is not lost on them. On the other hand, they are also unexpectedly generous offers from strangers.

It’s bad enough the tent they are living in fails to prevent crippling cold, or shelter from high tides. Technology also conspires against the plucky couple. Forgetting to cancel the home insurance leaves them at a cash point stating £1.38 is available. Their daughter phoning to complain she’s stranded en route to a holiday job in Croatia reinforces the powerlessness they feel having been forced to go off-grid.

But in facing adversity, Ray and Moth never sink into abject pessimism. Quite the reverse. Detached from the rat race, strolling along headlands overlooking majestic seas, dining on noodles while being scrutinised by a falcon, and those occasional encounters with Good Samaritans crossing their path, give them a positive perspective. Their sense of hope, especially ever-sanguine Moth, and the enduring love they have for each other, shines brighter than any of the life-affirming Devon sunsets they are fortunate to experience every day.

Ian Colquhoun: how surviving an appalling attack inspired him to become an author

2/4/2025

Livingston-born Ian Colquhoun is a neurodivergent author, actor, stuntman, and historian. Aged 24, he suffered an unprovoked, brutally violent assault, resulting in the loss of his legs. He has since channelled his energy into writing a diverse range of acclaimed books.

Ian Colquhoun, Scottish author, actor and historian

Born in Livingston in 1978, Ian Colquhoun has written 12 books so far, on a broad spectrum of subjects. A social history of his hometown. Intriguing histories plunging readers into Ireland’s ‘Great Hunger,’ the Battle of Culloden, and colonial warfare in Victorian Sudan. Histories of his beloved Hibernian Football Club, from anniversaries of key events for each day of the year, to the story of the club's most turbulent period, 1990 to 1991, when Hibs battled back from near extinction to win Hampden silverware. But his candid autobiography, Burnt, a jaw-dropping account of survival defying the term nonfiction, truly sears into the reader's imagination.

Aged 24, while living in Ireland, Ian was the victim of an unprovoked assault. Knocked unconscious by a pickaxe, he was left for dead when the house he was in was set alight. Dragged free by a police officer, as he remained in a coma, his mother concurred with the agonising decision presented by Ian’s medical staff: both legs were so badly burnt - right to the bone - they required amputation. Before emerging from the seven-week coma, he received the last rites three times. But Ian’s story is one of off-the-scale resilience. Multiple operations and years of painful rehabilitation have imbued a fierce resolve. For this remarkable and inspirational young man, unbelievable tragedy has become cathartic.

Although wheelchair-bound, he passed his driving test. He has trained as a stunt man. Turning to acting, he played a wounded sailor in a 2007 made-for-TV documentary, Ocean of Fear: Worst Shark Attack Ever, about the aftermath of the sinking of the USS Indianapolis in the Pacific Ocean during World War Two. Anyone who has seen Steven Spielberg's Jaws will be familiar with one iconic scene, where Richard Shaw's Quint describes being one of the stricken vessel's shipwrecked crew floundering amongst a shark feeding frenzy. His co-star, Richard Dreyfuss was the documentary's commentator. Ian's acting career progressed to an episode of long-running Scottish crime drama, Taggart. He appeared in a promotional film credited with helping Scotland being awarded 2014's Commonwealth games.

Not only has he lectured about his predicament to physiotherapy students at Edinburgh University, he has written a self-help book for amputees. in 2007, Ian guested on Channel 4's Richard and Judy, discussing Burnt. In 2025, his prolific writing shows no sign of abating: he has now turned his storytelling skills to dark fiction.

As he remained in a coma, his mother concurred with the agonising decision presented by Ian’s medical staff: both legs required amputation. Before emerging from the seven-week coma, he received the last rites three times.

Interview with Ian Colquhoun:

Your life story almost reads like a pitch for the next instalment in the Final Destination franchise. Burnt goes into your horrific experiences in greater detail. But when did you decide to channel your recovery into becoming a writer?

After the fire, I was physically unable to do my old warehouse job. I’d always been good at English and interested in history, so, I did a short course at the University of Edinburgh in 2004. During that course my talent was ‘spotted’ and I was persuaded to study further. A couple of years later, out of the blue I received an offer from a publisher to ghost write my survival memoir, I told them I’d write it myself. It took two weeks. The rest , as they say , is history.

You’ve published several books delving into history, particularly during Britain’s colonial period. What drew you to this source?

As I grew up, my reading age was always higher than my actual age. I grew up reading Beau Geste and The Four Feathers, and watching old films at my gran’s house in Edinburgh on Sundays, stuff like Zulu, Khartoum and They Died With Their Boots On. Small, doomed groups fighting vast odds have always fascinated me.

How about Hibernian. What made you decide to translate your love of the Hibees into print? Have your Hibs histories been well received? Do you still go to Easter Road regularly?

I did my first piece of Hibs journalism when I was 14, I interviewed legendary groundsman, Pat Frost, while visiting Easter Road on a school project in 1992. I have ADHD and a photographic memory, so, when I became a writer, it seemed natural to write about the football team I love, after all, we spend so much of our lives absorbed by our football teams. They’ve been well received, my Hibs books, fans like the narrative style I use, I think. I still buy two season tickets every season but I can’t go as often now, due to chest problems whenever I go shouting and bawling at football.

From a mental health angle, did your physical injuries prompt any mental injury? If so, how have you coped?

Weirdly, in 2023 specialists diagnosed me as AuDHD, so, it went undiagnosed all my life. It actually may have helped me to deal with the attack in which I lost my legs and the years of suffering after it, so the doctors now say. I do have PTSD and that’s been a bit of a nuisance over the years, I find that keeping busy is great medicine – but my cat, Jack Sauzee, has been the best therapy for the PTSD.

Finally, two decades on from that fateful party in Dundalk which altered the course of your life, how is life for you in 2025? What are you currently working on?

Life is kinda sweeter now, though still a lot of pain, illness and anxiety. I swim a lot and since my AuDHD diagnosis in 2023 I’m no longer afraid of my own imagination, so, I’ve started writing dark fiction set in Scotland – the first two novels are out later this year – they’ll blow your mind!

Burnt, along with Ian's other books, can be ordered via his website.

Contact Ian for any further information about his writing, past/present/future here.

Typewronger Bookshop: Open Mic

31/3/2025

In 2017, Typewronger Books launched as a pop-up at Leith Walk Police Box. Since moving into gallery space further up the Walk (at 4A Haddington Place), Typewronger has evolved into an Aladdin's Cave of books and zines, as well as a creative hub for a diverse community of writers, musicians, and artists.

Typewronger Books, Leith

" Typewronger CIC (Community Interest Company) is a not-for-profit social enterprise committed to fostering creativity within Edinburgh and further afield. We do this through running Typewronger Books, a bookshop selling new books, indie publications, zines and prints; and Typewronger Riso, our print studio.

Published on Typewronger's website, the above mission statement encapsulates the vibrant vibe driving this Leith venture. That Typemonger initially plied its trade from the Leith Walk Police Box chimed with myself - prior to his health deteriorating, a close family friend, former police officer, Derek Allan, presented free lectures about the history of Leith and Edinburgh's police boxes from this very location.

Typewronger's Open Mic evening

When my friend and co-author of Heids Up, Neil Renton, came across a flyer for an 'open mic' event at Typewronger running on Sunday March 30th, we rocked up with our anthology, bookmarked with the respective pieces we'd chosen to read out. The format is straightforward. Upon arrival, free wine, beer or soft drinks are offered, while those wishing to participate add their names to a list. The time available is divided by numbers; tonight, this equated to a five-minute slot each.

Tee introducing the Open Mic event

Typewronger's initiator, Tee, explained since time was of the essence, a bell would 'ping' to indicate 30 seconds of the five-minutes allocation remained, followed by a final gong. After a quick demo of how to adjust the mic, the first of a dozen or so names was called. There were poems, prose pieces, readings from novels-in-progress, and flash fiction. As well as spoken word, a musician treated the audience to serene harp melodies. When his name was called, Neil read one of his pieces from Heids Up, 'Songs in the Key of Strife - Noel Gallagher Wrecked my Mum's Funeral'; I read an excerpt from my short story, 'YCL!' - also included in the anthology.

Here are photos from the Typewronger event, together with the stories themselves (including the full version of 'YCL!')

Neil reading from 'Heids Up'

Mark reading from 'Heids Up'

SONGS IN THE KEY OF STRIFE – NOEL GALLAGHER WRECKED MY MUM’S FUNERAL

Neil Renton

I’ll never forgive Noel Gallagher for spoiling my mum’s funeral.
He didn’t turn up with the Primrose Posses and start a drug-filled fight with brother Liam, rolling about in the cemetery and crushing carnations left by well-wishers. He didn’t piss Jack Daniels over the cucumber sandwiches at the wake. The ones without crusts but that curl up because no one wants them. He didn’t wear Adidas trainers and an olive parka when the dress code was black suit and tie. He didn’t even turn up changing the lyrics to (What’s The Story) Morning Glory?
In fact, he didn’t ruin my mum’s funeral. I did. But as always, I like to blame others for my mistakes and the inevitable demise they cause.
You should try it one time. Just don’t blame me because I’ll pass that buck to someone like a multi-millionaire Mancunian singer-songwriter I’ve never met before.
I don’t think a son ever recovers from his mum dying. They spend nine months carrying us around in their bellies and the rest of their lives carrying us about in any other way they can. They’re pillars of support, always in your corner even if you’ve backed yourself into it without any space for another.
They’ll always find a way.
My mum was there for me when I needed her. Even if I didn’t deserve her. So, given the chance, I wanted to repay her in a small, tiny amount. I wanted to make her proud and to make her remembered.
And, in an office above a Masonic Hall in Leith, my chance to shine broke through the dust-covered windows.
We were arranging the order of service, and we needed music. That’s when it hit me. As I loved music, I was going to honour my mum in the most spectacular fashion by making sure there was a song that was suitable for her.
My mum (my dear old mum whose face I can see as I type this and I want to see her face in real life) loved the Bee Gees. To be honest, anyone with half a clue about life would feel the same.
Noel Gallagher, one of my musical heroes, did an interview in Melody Maker. It was just when Oasis were breaking through. He had to pick ten songs for an imaginary jukebox and one of his choices was a Bee Gees song.
I’ll pick that, I thought. I put forward the title and the guy helping us sort stuff out took a note of it, and we continued organising the service.
What could go wrong?
The funeral was a funeral. Everybody whispering in that tone they usually keep for phoning in sick from their darkened bedroom. People sorry for our loss. Some words spoken as a tribute. A loving and fulfilling life condensed into a few minutes.
Then came my moment. The song played that was special to my mum so we could close our eyes, bow our heads and think of her.
Which we did.
I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. The Bee Gees song I picked on the ancient advice of Noel Gallagher was ‘You Don’t Know What It’s Like.’ It’s a beautiful song. If you don’t believe me, go on. Give it a listen.
It’s a song that has a time and a place. And as it started, it hit me why Noel recommended it. The time and the place was on a Friday night, over a bottle of wine with that person you love and you’re about to love all night long.
The time and the place wasn’t on a Tuesday morning at your mum’s funeral. It’s a love song. A different kind of love song. A fact I soon realised.
The tune gets off to a fitting start. “There’s a light. A special kind of light. That’s never shone on me.” That was appropriate as my mum was about to be cremated.
It went from bad to worse. “I’m a man!” Barry Gibb screams. “Can’t you see who I am?”
“I can’t see,” I can imagine my dear old mum saying. “I’m dead.”
Then there’s more taunting from the falsetto legend. “You don’t know what it’s like to love somebody, the way I love you.”
Again, my mum was probably saying from the discomfort of her coffin she was spinning in, big problem with the emotion being returned right now.
When songs get played at funerals, there’s never usually a reaction other than sobs and eyes dabbed with hankies. This response was even more subdued.
Deep down inside, I think my mum would have approved of the selection. Maybe had a laugh from the unforgiving corner I’d managed to back myself into.
I hadn’t intended to fuck things up, but I did. To the point that the only way I could have made an even bigger mess was if Noel Gallagher had said his favourite Bee Gees song was “Stayin’ Alive.”

YCL!

Mark Fleming

When the alarm bleats, Dimitri just heaves the duvet tighter. Sophie scratches the ink band around his arm until he groans. ‘Proud of your tat, eh, Dimbo? All about my individuality, Soph. Aye, right, mate. Page after page of they Celtic knots in the Tribe catalogue. With your spindly arms …Reminds me of school sports day, eh. When we had to chuck quoits over a stick.’
‘Mmmh?’
‘Get my breakfast while I shower, Dim.’
When she persists digging at his skin, he lets out a longer moan, burying himself under the covers.
‘Boys with more get up and go in the Walking Dead last night, eh.’ About to tug his tumbleweed hair, her phone beeps. ‘Danni girl?’ Stares at the text.
*
Typically, the 24 was late, so she speedwalks up to the care home from the stop, then swipes herself in. Creeps past the manager, Mags Laidlaw’s door. But it’s open.
‘Eh. Morning …’
‘Sophie. About time. Straight to Betty Stevenson, now.’
Her order’s cut short by her phone. Cradling it, Laidlaw pokes around in a plastic box crammed with odds and ends. Snapping at whoever’s at the other end, she wafts her hands at Sophie, making her feel like a bad smell.
‘Old boot,’ she murmurs, heading to the lift, jabbing the third floor. Along the corridor, snores. Coughs. ‘Fraser Mallan, your lungs are pure hacking, mate,’ she calls as she passes his door. ‘You sound like the crows that fixed me with their beady eyes when I passed the main gates.’
Sophie enters Betty’s bedroom. ‘Danni.’ Danni’s at the window, watching the sunrise.
'Blackford Hill’s on fire this morning, Soph. Beautiful.’ About turning, she marches over to Sophie and they hug.
‘Your yacks are red raw, Danni girl. You look ripped, though I ken your only vice is WKD Blues.’
‘Her bed alarm went off, around twenty to six, Soph. I’ve come in to check. Soon as I clocked her, I just knew. Dr Inglis suggested she might’ve had a spasm, enough to trigger her alarm, eh. He says cause it was sudden, it’ll be reported to the Procurator Fiscal.’
‘This is so shan, eh?’
‘Look at her, Soph.’
‘Trying not to, Danni girl.’
‘No, look at her, Soph. Her face. It’s changed. Even in just a couple of hours. It’s no Betty anymore.’
‘Ayeways wanted to go in her sleep, eh?’
Danni nods, reaches out, brushes her cheek. ‘So cold.’
‘Poor Betty.’
‘Listen, Soph. Liam’ll be waiting for me. Needing my kip. Need a fucking drink, more to the point. I started giving her a bed bath. You can finish.’ She steps over and they embrace again. ‘Catch you, Sophie.’
‘Aye. Same time the morn, Danniella, pal.’
As Danni’s footsteps recede, Sophie turns to the bed. Betty looks asleep. But her eyes are a wee bit open, as if trying to focus on her. From countless bed baths, Sophie can recognise her body like reading a map. Below her wrinkles, the veins are its road network, still gorged with blood. Red cells trapped inside the gridlock of their pointless journeys.
Steam curls and weaves from the plastic bowl on the chest-of-drawers. ‘Imagine that was a witch’s potion, Betty. Maybe toss in an eye of a bat, see if it’d bring you back, eh. That witch in her office down the stairs could probably cast a spell or two, mind. Nah. Fuck that. Seen enough zombies on the box last night.’
Poking inside disposable gloves, she plucks the sponge. Wrings it.
‘I hate it when a patient goes, Dimitri,’ Sophie says aloud, rehearsing how she’ll tell him later. ‘While you were sparking up your first doobie-do, I was washing a cadaver on twelve quid an hour.’ She leans in closer. ‘I’ll have you looking your best for the undertakers, Betty.’
Sophie catches herself in the bedside mirror, tears trickling down her freckly cheeks. She clocks the purple and green streaks she was in too much of a rush to notice earlier. ‘Dim helped me colour my jet-black locks last night, Betty. Cool as, Dimbo. Dye proper worked this time.’
The detergent catches the back of her throat. Reminds her of the smell in the bogs in Opium after somebody’s hurled and they swamp the tiles with bleach. Two days ago, when she gave Betty her previous bed bath, her hair was peroxide. Almost white. After that, she wheeled the elderly woman down to the TV lounge. They watched This Morning.
‘Betty, mate. Mind the other day? You were telling me about being a chorus girl at the King’s Theatre. About being a WAAF. Married at my age, 19, to Kenneth, a sailor. Not Ken or Kenny. Kenneth. He was on the convoys, you said. On the convoys taking supplies to Russia. His ship was torpedoed. Lost by what you cried the Cola Peninsula. Not drowned. Lost. That’s how you put it, eh. His body lost, like a bus-pass, or that pack of 17 Regal that dropped out my pockets in a cab after our Christmas night out.’
Sophie smoothes the sponge up and down her legs. ‘Bones with a shiny layer of skin, Betty. Like this is a waxwork of you, mate. I can imagine you on the stage, mind. Dancing in front of a packed audience. Everyone smoking. Most of the lads in uniforms, trying not to get caught drooling over the chorus girls. I could see it all. Easily. When you told your stories about the old days, I could see it all so clearly. It was like you were painting pictures with your words. You’ve some photie collection, eh. Flicked through your albums over many a cuppa, eh, mate? You giggling at some of the memories, eh. The stories beyond the freeze-frames. Me picking up on your excitement, eh. You explaining who’s who. All the names, eh. People long gone. They’ll be waiting for you, mate. Loved the way you could mind the names. Couldn’t have told me who Dermot and Alison were interviewing yesterday morning, but you could travel back in time. Decades. Seen all your photies in Darth Laidlaw’s office. You’ve not had visitors since I started here, eh. If no next of kin shows out the woodwork, sniffing around for a Will, they’ll wind up in landfill.’
Sophie rubs into the bloated stomach. ‘Stretchmarks like Cramond beach when the tide’s out, eh. Here, Betty. Might as well tell you. Dimitri’s turning into a right wankstain. I know you’d laugh if you heard me say that. You liked telling Darth Laidlaw where to go, eh. But Dim just uses. In the old-fashioned sense of the word, I mean. Give him a roof over his head and all I ask in return is he visits the jobcentre once in a blue moon.’
She dunks the sponge into the basin.
‘Know what’s even worse, Betty? He’s not even a great shag. I might very well sack him soon. The night, why not? Seeing you this morning, like this, Betty, that’s the icing on the cake. Put me on a right downer, eh. That’s it, by the way. I’ll tell him straight. After Emmerdale, mind. Not provoking any nasty drawn-out scenes before my programme, eh.’
Sprinkles trickle towards her crack. Sophie pokes into her belly button. ‘How tickly is this? You’d usually be creasing yourself, eh. Giggling like fuck. If anything could bring you back, mate, it’d be this, not CPR. If you were still a teenager, bet you’d have your belly button pierced, eh, Betty? D’you like mine? Never did show you, ayeways meant to.’
Prising open the buttons of her blue tunic, Sophie tugs the material aside. Flashes her navel-ring. ‘Dim’s treat, Betty. He eBayed a dose of his old boy’s records to cover it. Happy Mondays. 808 State. The Roses. Thankyou, Madchester! My Ma’ll kill me! So what, Betty, eh?!’
Working into the tiny white weeds between her legs, Sophie chews from a Juicy Fruit discovered in her tunic, then spits out foil. Hums a snippet of Bring Me The Horizon. ‘Dim plays them to death. I know he’s been playing them cause when I get back the Bluetooth speaker’s cranked the fuck up. Their singer Ollie’s a ride, but.’
Sophie delves the sponge between the body’s legs. Noticing the brown smear, she paces back to the bowl. Rinses it a good few times, squeezing until her fingers hurt.
‘I can mind everything you were telling me the other day, Betty? After you’d taken your meds. Sounded a wee bit of a ramble but I could tell by the tone of your voice it wasn’t rambling at all. It was heartfelt, eh? Before the war, you joined the Young Communist League. YCL, you said, raising your fist. Sounds like a gang! When you were my age, you were rioting on the streets. Outside the Usher Hall when Mosley the blackshirt gave a speech. Some of your mates in that YCL went all the way to Barcelona to join … What was it you said? The Brigades? Fighting Franco? Dying fighting Franco. Dim and his mates spend hours killing Nazis on Call of Duty. But Spain? You’d struggle to get them out their fucking bedrooms. What else? Oh aye. Winston Churchill? The great British war hero. There was a General Strike and nearly a revolution up here. Churchill wanted to send English soldiers into Glasgow to machine-gun the strikers, keep our lads confined to barracks. I can mind what you said, Betty. In case they sided with their people before their crown. I also mind what you were saying about the Italian blackshirt leader. Il Duce? Churchill cried him a genius for the way his soldiers ended strikes. You’d be pleased I minded all that, Betty. I could tell it was important to you, cause you were getting pure potty-mouthed, eh. Danni wouldn’t have had a Scooby about any of that. Know what she’d say, Betty? She’d say Betty was havering about that dog from the insurance adverts.
Revolution reminds me of Rezerection, Betty. That was a mega rave held at Ingliston, according to Danni. Her Ma and aunties went to that. Bet your Ma was never off her face, Betty. But rave’s not my scene, Betty. Hate that hardcore shite. I met Dimitri at Opium. The first time we did it we were listening to Nirvana. Lithium. While I jumped my first bones. What was yours? Some scratchy 78? Vera Lynn? More to the point, Betty, was it a sample or an extended dance mix, eh? With Dimbo, I blinked and missed it.’
Sophie dumps the sponge in the bowl. Stares out the window where the sunrise has gone from red to gold. ‘Wow, Betty. Pity you missed this yin. Your last yin, yesterday, that was so dull in comparison. Grey and drizzly.’
Plucking out her moby, she captures a few snapshots. Turns to Betty. ‘You shared so much with me. Highs and lows. Your Ma and waste of space of a stepdad sending you out to work when you were a lot younger than me, cos your Da had been killed in the Great War, years before, and there was no welfare. Or the time you were found wandering the streets, greeting, when your own kids were getting too much, when you were cracking up and shit, like my sister did. But in they days, you nearly lost your kids, eh, cause there was no such thing in the dictionary as post-natal depression. Only madness. Specially when it was women cracking up.
Well. You’re going for your final flit, Betty. And what’d your last word of advice have been? I’m going to tell Dim we were just a hiccup in the drink of life. Except. Well. It’s not always that easy, eh? I’m in love with him, Betty. What d’you say to that?’
Betty farts. Jump-scared, heart pattering, Sophie chuckles. ‘Christ, Betty. Laidlaw would’ve had to scrape me off the ceiling, there! My pulse is doing a BPM Danni could dance to, mate.’
She imagines Betty’s eyes flickering open; hears her infectious laughter, mischievous as a schoolkid at the back. But she also recalls Laidlaw lecturing with her mouthful of Morningside marbles and impersonates her. ‘Even after the heart stops, Sophie, other functions continue. Hair still grows. Fingernails. Acid persists at the bowel contents, creates gas pockets. Still the most comical thing I’ve heard for yonks, mate. Like you were summing up my immature dickhead of a BF. Not just that. It’s like your message from beyond, eh. What you think of the way Darth Laidlaw talks to you lot. The way Dim said it when I mentioned it to him. Like a Nazi officer at the station platform outside one of they camps. You, that queue. You, that queue. But tell you what, Betty. From this bed, you’ve shared your life with me. First stage performance. First crush. Through to your grand finale, the sun on fire outside your window. Hope you seen some of it. The last thing you ever seen, eh.’
Footsteps approach. Unfamiliar voices. Sophie bends down to Betty. ‘Aw. Your wee face.’ Kisses her cold lips. ‘Bye, Betty. You were a mate. Ayeways.’
Tugging the sheet over her wizened tits, she notices a white wire jutting out. ‘One of the undertakers might be a horny old cunt, Betty. Giving you the glad eye and that, eh. Might even be kinky. Into that necrophilia. You might get another ride yet, Betty, eh?’
Sophie tweaks the hair. When Laidlaw’s right at the door, she shoves it into her tunic. Laidlaw and two guys in black suits enter, the men wheeling a trolley, wheels squeaking. Sophie can’t watch them lifting Betty off the bed. Up till now, she’s coped with her lying still; imagining she’s like a coma patient where you can still talk to them. She knows it’s nothing like that, but also wonders if maybe Betty’s spirit’s still close by, if that’s what happens. But when these strangers position themselves to haul her off the bed, she’s not the person anymore. She’s just another of today’s bodies to get loaded into the back of their van, stacked into some container in a mortuary within the hour.
Sophie struggles to hold it together. Her insides are churning. Whether she’s on the verge of greeting or giggling, she has no idea. So, she stares at Kenneth’s handsome face in the bedside wedding portrait, recalls something Betty once told her. The Arctic Ocean contains so much salt, it doesn’t freeze, but still gets way below freezing point. Hypothermia only takes minutes.
‘Thanks, Sophie. You can head to the kitchen now. Start serving breakfasts.’
*
At the bus stop, Sophie sketches left and right, unfolds the Rizla paper. Breaking open a snout, enough for a oneskinner, she empties the baccy shards, then delves into her pockets for the last crumbs of the 16th. She notices the white hair stuck to the clingfilm. A sob rushes up out of nowhere and tears are streaming.
‘All I’ve got left of you, Betty. Know what? I’m popping it into the spliff. Dim would love that. When he’s stoned, he stares right through me, like he can see me, but can’t see me. Then he’ll mumble, Soph? I can see. Clear as a bell, babes. I can see how everything’s connected. We’re all the Cosmos, Soph.’
Sophie sparks up. As she sucks the first drag deep into her lungs, she hears the hair crackling. It adds an acrider scent to the smoke. She inhales even more, holding it in, holding onto this piece of Betty’s DNA long as she can.
‘Fuck me, mate … I feel the soles of my trainers leaving the deck … Feel like I’m levitating, Betty.’
A hearse halts at the junction ahead. Sophie recognises the two undertakers, the one driving now wearing a top hat. A bouquet is propped by the coffin in the back. ‘MUM.’ As she watches the black car driving off, heading for Mortonhall, she’s picturing Betty’s wedding photo. Betty radiant in white, hair long, auburn. Kenneth in his navy-blue uniform. Buttons polished. The biggest smiles of their lives.
She can see Kenneth in his tunic, but right at his end. Lifejacket keeping him afloat for his last few gasps. A tiny dot in a periscope, ship sinking behind. Kenneth not even watching the waves lifting him up, settling him down. Lifting him up. Settling him down. In his mind’s eye, focused only on his love, and a vision of her swanlike legs kicking into the spotlights.
‘We’re all the Cosmos, Betty.’

Signed copies of Heids Up (which has been praised by fellow Scottish writers, Ian Rankin, Alan Bisset, and Tommy Mackay) are available to order from TartanMoon for £7.99.

Heids Up by Neil Renton and Mark Fleming

<<Previous