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This man seemed to be in his early twenties. He wore indigo denims and his belt was laced under the logo so as not to obscure the proud Armani badge. He was handsome—or he must have been close to it once—but there was something already spoiled about him, like good butcher's meat that had been left out. Despite the heat he had been wearing a puffy bomber jacket. When he removed it, Mungo could see his arms were roped with lean muscle that spoke to a heavy trade, or years of fighting, or both.
His hair was clipped short. His fringe had been combed forward in a gelled line, the hairs formed little saw-toothed points, as though they had been cut by pinking shears. Mungo stared at the damaged skin of his knuckles. He was honey-coloured in the way Scottish people seldom were; perhaps his family were chip-shop Italian or Spanish by way of the Black Irish.
Any trace of that romance was lost as he said in flat, glottal Glaswegian, "Haw. Dinnae be botherin' wi' auld St Christopher." He spoke without looking directly at either of them. "He'd bore the arse aff a horse."
Mungo was left to ponder why he was on a bus with St Christopher, while the other man went back to picking his nose. As the man's pinkie searched the inside of his nostril Mungo noted how he wore sovvie rings on all of his fingers and that his forearms were snaked with interlocking tattoos. He was a man covered in words: from the logos on his chest, to his shoes, to his jeans, to his skin. He had written on his flesh with a sewing needle, women's names, gang names: Sandra, Jackie, RFC, The Mad Squad. Here and there, the blue biro-ink had bled, it wept beneath his skin like a watercolour and tinted him a pretty violet hue. Mungo read his arms carefully. He committed as much as he could to memory.
Excerpted from Young Mungo by Douglas Stuart. Copyright © 2022 by Douglas Stuart. Excerpted by permission of Grove Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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