THE YEAR OF OPEN DOORS
AIDAN MOFFAT THE DONALDSON BOY
ILLUSTRATION BY DAVID GALLETLY
D ear Police,
This is a confession, although it is an anonymous one, so you may be inclined to consider it a boast. I can assure you that this is not my intention. As a woman of retirement age who has spent almost every available Sunday in one Church or another, I can solemnly swear that I feel a genuine sense of remorse for my crime. Although, admittedly, these feelings are not so strong as to compel me to provide you with my name, and I should hope that you have more important matters to attend to anyway. Mine was a petty crime, and thanks to your recent cost-cutting exercises in the area and a reduction in the number of local officers, I expect you would have neither the time nor the resources to concern yourself with the mere theft of a mobile telephone.
But before I confess, allow me to paint a background that may encourage you to sympathise with my very minor offence. I have lived in the village of West Kilbride all my life and have always loved it here. I am active in the community, I am well known and, if I may say so myself, a respected denizen of our little hamlet. I was lucky enough to be able to retire before my sixtieth birthday, but unfortunately this was due to my husband’s early and sudden death by heart attack. His life insurance policy paid quite handsomely, so once it was cashed I had no further need to work and chose to remain in our home by myself. I continue to socialise and have many friends from the surrounding towns of the region who often come to visit and stay, but for the most part I live in our three- bedroom cottage alone (pets not included). This was never a cause for concern until recently. Ever since North Ayrshire Council decided to close the local police station on Alton Street and swiftly reduce our community officers in number until we were left with only two, it seems that the village has become overrun with vandalism, hooliganism, littering, foul language and the deadly menace of so-called ‘boy racing’. My neighbours and I have all fallen victim to the defacement of our homes with hideous and indecipherable graffiti; we have suffered the drunken destruction of our private property, including rainwater down-pipes, garden fences and motor vehicles – there was even an incident involving a broken living-room window. There is the constant roar of revelry between the hours of 7 pm and 2 am, including extreme profanity, obnoxious singing and violent battle cries; there is the ever-present detritus of said revelry, e.g. lager cans, beer and wine bottles (often smashed to pieces), food packaging etc.; and, of course, the aforementioned ‘boy racing’, making our intimate little streets extremely dangerous and potentially lethal, not to mention the noise pollution caused by the constant thump and hiss of the inhumanly fast music that the drivers of these vehicles seem to use as inspiration. There is one individual who is guilty of all of the above and much, much more, a particularly nasty young ruffian – a ‘Ned’ as us Scots call
28 THE LIST 22 Jul–5 Aug 2010
such characters – by the name of Steven Donaldson, or ‘Donny’ as he is known to his legion of thugs. I should expect that you are already familiar with both him and his family. His mother and father are similarly dislikeable, as were his grandparents, and I know for a fact that they have all been arrested for various offences over the years, including at least one incidence of very serious theft. They remain very unpopular in the village, and I have often found myself crossing to the other side of the street whenever their hideously obese figures come into view. Yes, fatness seems to be the family curse and young Steven is by far the biggest of them all, his shaven head doing his repugnant, chubby mug no favours whatsoever. He is physically quite monstrous, but his massive bulk seems to afford him a threatening presence and the local ‘Neds’ appear to revere both him and his vehicle. He drives a ridiculous little red Vauxhall Corsa adorned with those laughable sports stripes that yobs seem to favour – two parallel white lines painted from the front tip of the bonnet to the back edge of the roof. How he manages to squeeze his hideously flabby body into the driver’s seat of such a small car is a mystery to all but the greatest of physicists, but nevertheless he can be seen at the wheel almost every night, racing through the village at dangerous and illegal speeds whilst more than likely over the acceptable alcohol limit. He and his foul companions tend to congregate in the train station car park even though it is clearly stated in the sign posted there that such loitering is strictly prohibited and punishable by law. I live very close to the station (forgive me for not revealing precisely where) and his constant presence has me living in a state of perpetual terror. One Thursday, a few weeks ago, as I was catching the train to Glasgow to spend the day shopping for a new dress to a friend’s granddaughter’s wedding, I saw the Donaldson boy’s car parked at the station. It was empty, however, and he was nowhere to be seen, having left the vehicle on display at a jaunty angle across two spaces so as to attract attention. The reason for this became apparent as I approached: there was an A4 sheet of paper sellotaped to the inside of the window, advertising that the car was for sale, including a mobile telephone number for potential purchasers. I paid this no mind at the time although I was highly irritated by the way the vehicle deliberately used two spaces, flaunting a complete disregard and contempt for the car park’s rules. I went to Glasgow as planned, found a suitable dress and a pair of shoes to match, met with a friend for an early evening dinner, then caught the 7.45 train back home. When the train made its regular stop at Stevenston en route, a young girl, who was outrageously drunk and could barely stand, sat down on the opposite seat from my own. She was quite clearly what might be described as a ‘Nedette’ – a young, female yob dressed in standard issue tracksuit and decorated with grotesque jewellery. She also smelled quite vile, of cigarettes and cheap tonic wine, but thankfully this was her only intrusion into my otherwise to wear
peaceful journey because moments after she sat down and sent a text message on her mobile telephone, she fell asleep (or perhaps passed out is a more appropriate way to describe it). She had left her phone lying on the seat beside her and I noticed that it was exactly the same make and model as my own – and this is when I was inspired to commit my crime. When the train pulled into West Kilbride she was sound asleep, and I waited until the rest of the passengers in my carriage had disembarked before I very quickly and discreetly snatched her telephone and stashed it in the bag that held my new dress. I must confess that it was all very thrilling. When I walked through the car park, the Donaldson boy’s car was there (but different two spaces) with the sign still in the window, so I in
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nonchalantly read and memorised the number, repeating it constantly in my mind until I reached my kitchen and found something to scribble it down on. I was breathing very heavily by this time, still dizzy from the rush of the theft, my plan beginning to