Glue (29 page)

Ah turn tae see whae tooted and it’s Billy’s car wi Terry in it wi him.

They get oot and he’s right oaf doon the road sharpish, increasin ehs pace. Nae wonder. When eh gets tae her n the bairn, eh picks up Jacqueline and sticks her oan ehs shoodirs.

That cunt
sticks ma fuckin bairn oan ehs shoodirs.

They head doon the road. That fuckin Gail hoor’s the only one lookin back at us. Terry’s up alongside me n eh’s smilin aw coolly at her and she turns away.

— What’s the story? Billy asks, noddin tae auld Mrs Carlops whae’s comin doon the road wi two big bags ay messages.

Ah’m no gittin Billy or Terry involved in this again. That Polmont’s fuck all; he dies. And Doyle? Ah look at Billy’s scar. Ah’ve nowt tae lose. He kin have it n aw. — Nae story, ah tell him. Ah try tae
smile over at Mrs Carlops. Perr auld cow, she’s toilin in the heat wi they two big bags ay shoppin.

Billy goes ower tae Mrs Carlops and takes the bags off her and sticks them in the boot ay ehs car. Eh opens the passenger door. — You git in thaire, Mrs Carlops, n take the weight oaf yir feet.

— Ye sure, son?

— Ah’m jist gaun that wey, Mrs Carlops, doon tae muh Ma’s, so it’s nae bother at aw.

— Tryin tae cairry a wee bit too much, she wheezes, climbing in. — Ah’ve goat oor Gordon’s faimlay comin up fae York so ah thoat ah’d git some stuff in . . .

Terry’s lookin at this, as if either Mrs Carlops or Billy is a bit daft by being in this situation, then eh turns sharply tae me. — They cunts fuckin you aboot again? eh goes tae ays.

— Jist leave it, Terry, ah tells um, but my voice sounds breathless n ah’m diggin ma nails intae the palms ay ma hands.

Terry raises ehs hands in a defensive posture. Eh looks like eh goat caught in that downpour. Ehs hair n jaykit are wet. Billy’s eyes follow
them
right doon the street. The wee yin oan
his
shoodirs. The thing is, the worse thing, she really likes him. Some things ye cannae fake. Ah take a deep breath, then try tae swallow this thing thit’s jammed in ma throat. — What youse up tae?

Billy says, — Ah’d just finished trainin. Ah wis drivin past the Grange when ah saw this radge prowlin aroond the streets. Eh nearly shat a brick when ah peeped um.

— What wir you daein prowlin aroond they big hooses up the Grange, as if we didnae ken? ah ask Terry.

— Ah’m mindin ma ain business, eh nods doon the road, they’re oot ay sight now, — so ah’d like you tae extend me the same courtesy, Mr Galloway, eh says.

— Fair enough, ah agree sharpish.

— Youse fancy a pint? eh asks.

Billy exhales sharply, lookin at Terry as if eh’s jist suggested taking up noncing. — No way, ah’m gaun tae git auld Jinty Carlops hame, then ah’m oaf tae muh Ma’s for ma tea. Ah’ve goat tae keep in shape, ah’m in trainin mind.

Terry starts thrashin ehs chist wi ehs index finger. — So are we Birrell, for the hoaliday in Munich at the Beer Fest.

But Billy’s no impressed. — Right, ah’ll leave yis tae it then. See yis
doon at Carl’s club the morn’s night, eh goes, movin tae the car. Then eh turns back tae me n winks, — You take it easy, okay pal?

Ah smile n force a wink back. — Right, cheers Billy.

Birrell hops off intae the motor, leaving me and Terry. — That Birrell’s a fast worker, eh kens how tae pull awright, Terry laughs as Billy n auld Mrs Carlops head off. — Wheatsheaf? eh sais.

— Aye. Awright. Ah could dae wi a bevvy, ah tell um. Ah could fuckin well dae wi a few.

We head tae the Wheatsheaf. Terry sets up the beers n pumps up the jukey. Ah’m still dazed, aw ah kin think aboot wis ma crossbow bolt explodin intae that Polmont cunt’s heid, eftir the samurai sword’s taken it offay ehs shoodirs, that is. Send the contents tae Doyle in a box. Aye, you kin huv it n aw, ya cunt. The power ay no giein a fuck.

Then ah think aboot the bairn. My Ma. Sheena. Naw, ye always gie a fuck.

Terry comes back wi a couple ay pints ay lager. Terry’s a capital gadge, one ay the best. Eh acts the cunt sometimes, but thir’s nae badness in him. — You gaunny sit thaire in a world ay yir ain? eh asks.

— That cunt, wi ma bairn. Him . . . ah seethe. — . . . and her, that fuckin hoor. They fuckin well deserve each other. Ah ken that loads ay cunts gied her the message, every fucker warned ays, every cunt’s been thaire, they says. Ah widnae listen but.

Terry looks at ays, aw grave, like eh’s annoyed. — Bit fuckin sexist thaire, Mr Galloway. What’s that aw aboot? What’s wrong wi a bird likin a bit ay cock? We like fanny.

Ah think that eh’s tryin tae wind ays up, but eh’s no, eh’s serious.

— Aye, but when she wis meant tae be wi me, that’s what ah’m talkin aboot.

Terry says nowt tae this. Eh looks ower n clocks Alec comin intae the pub. Eh shouts ower, — Alec . . .

Alec looks fucked off. Eh’s walkin wi a stoop as eh comes ower tae us.

— What’s up wi your face, Terry asks.

— Went tae see her the day . . . eh says, aw morosely. — Ethel, eh wheezes softly.

— Aw, Terry goes.

Alec means that eh’s been tae the cemetery, or the chapel ay rest ah think they call it at the crematorium. Ethel wis ehs wife, the woman that died in the fire. Inhalation ay smoke. This wis yonks ago, when ah first kent um. Alec’s son’ll no talk tae him cause they think it wis Alec’s
fault. Some say it wis Alec wi the chip-pan, bevvied, others thit it wis an electrical fault. Whatever it wis it wis bad news for him, and for her.

— What yis wantin tae drink? Terry asks Alec, then me. Ah shrug, so does Alec. — Trust me tae pick the fun company, eh goes.

Ma heid was pounding and ma mooth was as dry as a nun’s twat as I planned tae get a bus back hame tae chill oot a bit before Carl’s club starts. As ah watched the streetlights separate wi ma movement taewards them, ah realised that ah wis near Larry Wylie’s new gaff n ah wis wonderin whether eh’d want some ay they E’s offay me. The entryphone system’s broken but the stairdoor’s open. As ah climb the stairs ah’m aware that the E buzz is runnin doon and that ah’m still fucked wi the bevvy fae yesterday.

That cunt Terry can fairly piss it up. Training for the beer festival he says. Well, it’s been a long and dedicated training programme for the cunt, aboot fifteen years approximately. If Billy could pursue boxin wi the same single-mindedness, eh’d huv unified the World Title by now.

Ah pressed the doorbell, knowin already that it’s gaunny be a mistake. Ah’m just propelled taewards disaster; thir’s fuck all ah kin dae aboot it. The worst has already happened, the rest is just details.

Who gie’s a toss?

Larry was even nippier than usual when he answered the door, eventually, after shouting behind it, — Who’s that?

— Gally, ah told him.

Larry looked urgently at me, checkin nae cunt’s comin up the stairs behind ays. The fucker looks wired, the paranoia’s tearin ootay him, so tangible ye could stick it between two slices ay breed. — Come in, quick, eh said tae ays.

— What’s up? Ah git the question oot as eh pills ays intae the hoose n slams the door behind me, then bolts it twice, sliding home two industrial-sized fuckers.

Eh pointed through tae the room. — A load ay bullshit here, eh gestured through, lookin ahead, lost in focus. — Fat Phil, ah stabbed the cunt, eh said bitterly.

Ah felt like turnin oan ma heels right then, but that’s a loat ay metal tae git through and Larry’s state ay mind was obviously volatile, even by the cunt’s ain horrendous standards. Besides, ah’ve nae fear, ah’m jist curious. Ah decided that right then wisnae the time tae ask
why
eh stabbed Phil but. — Is eh awright?

Larry looked at ays as if ah wis bein wide for a second, then eh burst intae a big, beautiful, beaming smile. — Fucked if ah ken, eh went, then changed in a flash intae business mode. — Ye want that base speed? eh goes wi mair than jist an air ay impatience.

Ah’m here tae sell, no tae buy. — Eh aye, but ah’ve goat some good E’s here Larry . . . ah telt um, but the cunt wisnae listening.

Ah follayed Larry ben the front room, then through tae the kitchen oaf it. Fat Phil was sitting at the kitchen table. Ah nodded tae him, but his eyes were starin off intae the distance, seemingly focused on something. He kept a fold ay sheeting pressed tae ehs stomach. It was a bit bloody, but no really saturated or nowt like that.

Larry was aw tense and animated. Ah wondered if he was speeding. — Which will bring us back to doh . . . eh sings, aw
Sound ay Music
-style, theatrically pleased wi ehsel, thumbs in imaginary braces. Then eh gits glesses oot ay a kitchen cupboard, follayed by a boatil ay JD, pourin two large nips fir me n him. — Whaire’s the fuckin Coca-Cola? Eh? eh sais, then eh shouts through the room next door, — WHICH CUNT’S NICKED THE FUCKIN COKE?

Ah heard footsteps fae a bedroom and Muriel Mathie came through with some bandages n a pair ay scissors. She was wearin a guy’s checked shirt, which might have been Larry’s, and looked at me tensely as she went over to Phil.

— Nae Coke? Larry asked, his face set in a challenging smile.

— Nup, she goes.

— Ye gaun doon tae the garage fir some? eh urges. — It wis youse thit fuckin well drunk it. How’m ah tae offer a guest a drink?

Muriel spun roond brandishing the scissors at Larry. The lassie wis fairly jolting wi rage. — You fuckin git it! Ah’ve hud enough ay you Larry, ah’m tellin ye!

Larry looked at me wi a smirk oan ehs face. Eh spread ehs airms n extended ehs palms. — Ah wis merely enquiring as to the status of the Coca-Cola, eh sais. — It’ll have tae be neat, Gally. Chin chin, eh toasts, n we take a swallay.

Sharon Forsyth came in from the same bedroom and looked over the scene, as excited and awestruck as some wee starlet who’s landed a
part in a big movie. — This is mental . . . hiya Andrew, she said, smilin at me. Sharon wis wearin a bottle-green cotton sleeveless crop-top. She hud her navel exposed and it hud been pierced. Ah’d never seen that before. It looked cool, sexy, slutty. — Brilliant Sharon. Sexy, ah telt her, pointin tae it.

— Ye like it? Ah think it’s just barry, Mr Macari, she giggled. Her hair looked greasy and unkempt. Could dae wi a wash. Ah might offer tae wash it for her if she’s intae gaun uptae Fluid. Carl disnae like that crowd in the place but. Calls them the ‘schemie element’. Fuckin cheek ay him, even if eh means it as a joke. Ah’ve always been intae Sharon and ah went away with her when ah came out of the nick, the proper nick, a few years ago. Aw ah thoat aboot wis sex when ah wis inside, but when ah goat oot, ah hud loads ay shite in ma heid cause ay that Gail cow and ah couldnae get it up. Sharon but, she never made me feel bad aboot it. That’s what ah call class in a bird. She seemed tae accept ma prison-does-things-tae-a-man speech.

— Wis it sair tae get done?

— No really, but ye huv tae keep it clean. But long time no see . . . c’mere . . . We gied each other a euphoric dancefloor embrace. Great lassie, Sharon, even though ah could feel the grease fae her hair oan ma face, clogging up ma ain pores. Ah’m wonderin if Larry’s shaggin her. Probably. Eh’s definitely shaggin Muriel.

Over her shoodir ah saw Muriel, still tending Phil, steal a quick glance at Larry who shot her back a challenging stare as if to say ‘what?’ before he started digging around in a drawer.

As Sharon and me broke our hug Fat Phil grunted something. He was breathing heavily, and Muriel was muttering to herself.

— Goat some fuckin good skag, Larry smiled. — Ye want a bang?

Skag? Eh’s a fuckin comedian. — Naw, that’s no ma thing, ah tell him.

— Isnae what ah heard, eh winked.

— That wis a while back now, ah tell him.

Sharon looked at Larry. — We’ll no git intae a club if wir aw skagged up, Larry.

— Starin at waws is the new niteclubbin. Sais so in
The Face
, eh grinned.

Muriel attempted tae take Phil’s shirt off but he brushed her away, the movement causing him more pain than her. Muriel persisted, — You’ve loast a loat ay blood here, ye’d better git tae the hoaspital. Ah’ll git an ambulance.

— Naw, Phil wheezed, — nae hoaspitals, nae ambulance. He was sweating profusely, especially from his head. It gathered intae beads which dotted ehs face.

Larry nodded in acquiescence.

This was the kind ay scene where aw officialdom, even the maist benign ay the emergency services, wis instinctively distrusted. Nae polis. Nae ambulance, even though eh might be bleeding tae death. Thir seemed a bit mair blood oan the sheetin now. Ah could see Fat Phil in a hoose that wis burning doon around um n him shoutin: Nae fire brigade!

— But you’ve goat tae, yuv goat tae, Muriel said and then she started shrieking, like she was having a panic attack, and Sharon went to calm her.

— Dinnae git hysterical or it might rub oaf oan Phil . . . Sharon turned tae Phil whae wis still looking ahead, sheet crushed tae his gut. — . . . Sorry, Phil, but ye ken what ah mean, it’s like if she makes it sound worse thin it is you’ll worry n yir blood pressure’ll git high n yi’ll bleed faster . . .

Larry nodded approvingly, — That’s right! Try tae see some fuckin sense, Muriel, yi’ll jist make it fuckin worse, eh snorts. Eh had his works and ushered ays intae the other room. — These cunts nip ma fuckin heid. Thir’s some people ye cannae fuckin help, eh says, like a social worker wi a heavy caseload, who’s just come tae the end ay his tether.

Ah’d decided that ah wanted a shot when he asked me again. It wasn’t that ah said yes, it’s just that ah couldnae say ‘naw’, or say ‘naw’ and mean it. My body seemed tae go cold, and ma thoughts aw disconnected and abstract. It wis a bit daft as ah’d been up aw night on the piss with Terry and ah wisnae in the best condition for this.

As Larry produced the works and started cookin, ah wis gaunny say ‘ah’ll just chase mine’ but it sounded so daft and pointless.

So there ah wis, tappin up a vein. Larry spiked ays. As soon as the gear surged through ma system it completely overwhelmed me and ah lost control and passed out.

Ah thought that ah’d been fucked fir just a few minutes but Muriel was shaking and slapping me and she was obviously relieved when ah was coming to. Ah smelt, then saw, the sick on my chest. Larry was sitting watching a Jackie Chan video. — Surrounded by fuckin lightweights, eh chuckled withoot humour. — Telt ays you could handle the broon n aw.