Glue (54 page)

— Ah kent it wis you! What ye daein here!

— Er, I’m in with some friends — er Terry over there . . . 

— Yir jokin! That fuckin waster, Juice Terry! A friend ay yours! The woman wobbled incredulously. — It’s aw he kin dae tae git oot ay his bed once a fortnight tae sign oan. How dae ye ken him?

— We just got talking . . . Kathryn said, her own amazement mirroring the woman’s as she contemplated the question.

— Aw aye, eh kin dae that aw right. That’s the one thing eh kin dae. Jist like ehs faither, she spat with real hostility. — Listen, hen, the woman pulled out a taxi card, — will ye sign this fir ays?

— Yeah . . . of course . . . 

— Ye goat a pen?

— No . . .

The woman turned to the barman. — Seymour! Gies a fuckin pen! Gies it! Here!

Her raucous tones stung the already overworked barman into further activity. Terry heard them, recognised them and looked up in slow apprehension. It was that big cow his auld man had been with, after he’d left Juice Terry’s Ma. Big Paula fae Bonnington Road. Her that used tae run the pub. Kathryn was talkin tae her n aw! This was fuckin nonsense, Terry thought, ye come doon tae Leith tae avoid cunts ye ken and ye find yirsel surrounded by them.

Kathryn was happy to sign and get back to Terry and the boys with the drinks. Terry had resolved to ask her what Big Paula was
saying about him but had got into an argument with Rab Birrell which was becoming increasingly hostile. — Any cunt that does that deserves tae fuckin well die. That’s ma view, Terry snapped, challenging Rab.

— Bit that’s shite, Terry, Rab argued, — that’s what ye call an urban myth. The casuals widnae dae that.

— These casual cunts are fuckin bampots, Terry stated. — Razor blades in the flumes? What’s aw that aboot? You tell me.

— Ah’ve heard that story, Catarrh agreed. In fact, this was the first occasion he’d heard this. Catarrh had run with the fitba casual boys years ago but had extricated himself when the enterprise became a little rich for his blood. None the less, he still did everything in his power to stoke up their notoriety and his celebrity by association.

This annoyed Rab Birrell. He’d enjoyed being a casual, although those days were long-gone for him. It was far too heavy now with all that surveillance shite these days, but he’d loved it. Great punters, great times, great laughs. What the fuck was Johnny playing at spouting all that bollocks? Rab Birrell hated the way that people were so anxious to believe over-the-top bullshit. To his mind, it only kept others in a state of fear and served as a social-control mechanism. He loathed but understood the manner in which some of the police and media celebrated that kind of nonsense, after all it was in their interest. But what was Johnny doing backing up that sort of shite? — Bit that’s aw it is, jist a fuckin story . . . made up by some twats . . . ah mean, what would they want tae dae that fir? What would the so-called casuals, even though they dinnae exist any mair, want tae be pittin razor blades in the flumes at the Commie Pool fir? Rab Birrell reasoned, looking at Kathryn in appeal.

— Cause thir bams, Juice Terry said.

— Look Terry, you never even use the Commie Pool. Rab Birrell again turned to Kathryn. — Eh cannae even swim for fuck’s sake!

— You can’t swim! Kathryn accused, giggling slightly at the thought of Terry’s love handles spilling over a tight pair of swimming trunks.

— That’s nowt tae dae wi anything. It’s the mentality ay cunts thit pit razor blades on the flumes ay a public swimmin pool that wee bairns yaze, what dae ye say tae that? he cross-examined.

Kathryn considered this. It was the work of sickos. She thought that kind of thing only happened in America. — I guess that’s pretty gross.

— Nae fuckin guessing aboot it, Terry stormed, switching back to Rab Birrell, — it’s oot ay order.

Rab shook his head. — Ah agree wi ye. Ah’m agreein that tae dae that is oot ay order, bit that’s no the casuals, Terry. No way. Does that sound like them tae you? Aw aye, we’ve formed a mob tae go swedgin at the fitba, so lit’s aw go doon the Commie Pool and pit razor blades in the flumes. That’s bullshit. Ah ken a lot ay they boys; it jist isnae thair fuckin style. Besides, thir isnae even any casuals these days. Yir livin in the past.

— Bams, said Juice Terry stroppily. While he had to admit that what Rab Birrell said was logical and probably correct, he hated to be bested in an argument and grew even more belligerent. Even if it wasn’t the casuals who did that, Birrell should be big enough to concede the more general point that they were bams. But naw, no smart poofy college-cunt Birrell. It proved another point to Terry: never gie a schemie an education. There was Birrell on some poxy course at Stevenson for ten minutes and he thinks eh’s fuckin Chomsky.

— Ah’d heard that happened at the flumes. Heard that the blood flowed rid fae one ay the chutes intae the pool, Catarrh stated with insect coldness, his eyes narrowing and his lips tightening. He savoured the shiver and disgusted pout he thought he saw from Kathryn. — Flowed rid, he repeated under his breath.

— Bullshit, said Rab Birrell.

Catarrh though, was warming to his theme. — Ah ken they boys as well as you Rab, you should ken that, he said in an ominous tone, hoping that Kathryn would pick up the enigma and sense of danger in it, be suitably impressed, blow out Juice Terry and take Catarrh home with her to America. They’d go through a ceremony, if only for green-card purposes, and resident alien status would be his. Then he’d be installed in a studio with a top backing band and return to Britain with a triumphant string of Claptonesque guitar-led hits behind him. It could happen, he thought. Look at that Shirley Manson lassie oot ay Garbage, her that used tae be in that Goodbye Mr McKenzie. One minute standing behind Big John Duncan and a set ay keyboards on stage at The Venue, the next setting America alight. He could do the same. Then they’d call him Johnny Guitar, his real name, instead of the hideous degradation he’d been saddled with.

Juice Terry had the munchies bigtime. He was thinking that he could go a curry. Terry was fed up with the way the conversation was
heading: straight into Catarrh’s casual tales. He would go on for ever if you let him. Everyone else had heard them several times before, but that never stopped Johnny. Especially now that he had a new ear to bend in Kathryn. Terry fancied that he could see way down the line to Catarrh on his deathbed. There he would be lying, a ninety-year-old wizened Catarrh with tubes hanging out of him. A dithering, sedated auld wife and concerned children and grandchildren would have their ears close to him to hear his breathless, croaking last words and they would be: . . . — and then thir wis that time we were at Motherwell . . . nineteen eighty-eight, eighty-nine season, ah think . . . we hud a mob ay aboot three hundred . . . aaagghhhh . . .

Then the line on the ECG would go flat and Catarrh would head off to that great swedge in the sky.

No, Terry wasn’t having any of that shite this evening. That cunt forgot that it was people like him, Juice Terry, who put in their shift on the terracing before there was a big, hard, fashionable team as back-up. The old scarfer crew back in those days were, admittedly, a pretty crap mob. They tended to romanticise the odd glorious victory, but gloss over or ignore the numerous times that they were ran; Nairn County (pre-season friendly), Forfar, Montrose. Also, they had more vindictive battles with each other than with anybody else. A shite mob really. He had to admit that the casuals who followed them were a class apart, but no Birrell or Catarrh. They were never anything like top boys.

Terry changed the subject quickly. — Bet you’ve goat tons ay dosh but eh, aw they hit records, he ventured at Kathryn, returning to one of his own familiar themes. Fuck Catarrh, he was the one setting the agenda here.

Kathryn smiled benignly. — I’m lucky I guess. I get well paid for what I do. I had a run-in with the IRS a while ago, but my back catalogue’s doing okay. I got a bit put by.

— Ah’ll fuckin bet ye huv! Terry sang, pulling in Catarrh and Birrell. — John Boy! Rab! Hear this! What’s aw that aboot? You tell me! He nodded at Kathryn.

Her eyes took on a faraway look. — Sometimes money isn’t everything . . . she said softly, but nobody was listening.

— Well peyed fir whit she does! Gold records! Number-one hits! Ah’ll bet yir fuckin well peyed! Right then, Terry rubbed his hands together, — it’s settled. The Ruby Murray’s oan you!

— What . . . Ruby . . .

— The curry, Terry smiled, — bit ay grub, he added, making eating gestures.

— Could handle a fuckin nosebag but eh, Rab Birrell admitted.

Catarrh shrugged. He didn’t like to waste drinking-time eating but you could get lager with a curry. He would have some popadoms, they fitted the bill. Johnny instinctively distrusted any kind of foodstuff which didn’t resemble crisps.

— I don’t wanna eat anything . . . Kathryn said in horror. She had come out to get away from Franklin and his obsession with her eating. Her drink-addled mind seized the full implications of this. Perhaps they had been hired by that control freak, to get her to eat. It may be all an elaborate ruse, the whole damn thing.

— Right, ah’m no sayin that you huv tae eat, that’s your business, bit ye kin watch us. C’moan Kath, you’ve goat the poppy. Ah’m skint till ma giro oan Tuesday and thir’s nae chance ay a sub fae that Jewish cunt Post Alec until ah’ve done the fill week at the windaes.

— I wanna buy dinner for you guys. I can do that, but I don’t wanna eat anything . . .

— Barry, Terry enthused, — ah like a bird that pits her hand in her purse. Ah’m no one ay they auld-fashioned cunts, ah believe in equality fir fanny. What wis it that commie cunt said? Terry asked, turning to Rab, — You should ken this bein a student, Birrell. Fae each accordin tae thir abilities tae each according tae thir needs. That means thit you’re in the chair. This is Scotland, we share n share alike here, Terry said, then considered the itch in his piles and the damage a vindaloo could do the next morning. Fuck it though, you sometimes just had to go for it.

— Okay, Kathryn smiled.

— See you, Catarrh slurred, — you’re sound, ken that, he said, touching Kathryn’s forearm gently. — Thir’s tons ay manto aroond here thit never think aboot pittin thir hand in thir purse.

— Some ay thum oan fuckin good wages n aw . . . her thit works fir the Scottish Office . . . Terry shook his head bitterly, recalling a night out he’d had a while back with a lassie he’d met in the Harp. The cow guzzled her wey through half his fuckin giro in Bacardi and vanished withoot gieing him as much as a peck on the cheek. While he was annoyed at Johnny’s ostentatious display of tenderness towards Kathryn, he was forced to admit that he had a point.

— What is this manto? Kathryn asked.

— Eh fanny . . . eh birds . . . chicks, ken? Terry explained.

— My god. Don’t you guys have any personal politics?

Juice Terry and Johnny Catarrh looked at each other for a couple of seconds and shook their heads slowly in unison. — Nup, they agreed.

Charlene stood before Lisa, who was grinding her teeth in exasperation. Before her friend could speak, Lisa said, — Aw it’s you. Right. Wir gaun oot. Wir gittin pished, drugged and laid.

— Can I come in for a bit first, Charlene asked meekly, her dark, haunted eyes staring right into Lisa’s essence.

Lisa looked at the bags at her friend’s feet, and Richard, the video and vibrator were erased from her mind like they never happened. — Aye . . . come in, Lisa urged quickly, stopping to pick up one of Charlene’s bags.

They went through to her lounge and dropped them on the floor. — Sit doon, Lisa ushered, — what’s up? Wis thir naebody in?

Charlene’s eyes looked strange and wild to Lisa, and the younger woman cackled like a witch, a flickering spasm twitching the side of her face. — Aw aye, somebody wis in awright. Somebody was fuckin well in.

Lisa felt the muscles in her own face stiffen. Charlene seldom swore, she was a puritanical wee bird in lots of ways, she considered. — So what wis . . .

— Please, just let me talk, Charlene said. — Something happened . . .

Lisa quickly stuck on the kettle and made some tea. She sat in the chair opposite the couch on which Charlene had crumbled, and listened as her mate poured out to her what she had been greeted with on her return from Ibiza. As she talked, Lisa saw the reflecting light hitting the silk walls which framed Charlene, so small on the couch opposite her.

Don’t tell me this, hen, don’t tell me this . . .

And Charlene kept talking.

In the walls she could see the reverb of the darkened old pattern underneath, clashing with the new stuff. It was the wallpaper, the old horrible wallpaper, it seemed to keep coming through the paints. Three
coats, with good silk vinyl paint as well. You could still see the crap coming through but, still make out that nasty old pattern.

Please stop . . .

Then, just when she thought her mate had finished, Charlene abruptly recommenced, switching into this cold monologue. For all the terror and nausea it induced in her, Lisa couldn’t bring herself to interrupt. — His stumpy nicotine stained fingers with the dirt under the nails pushing and thumping at my almost hairless vagina. The whisky breath and accompanying gasp in my ear. Me, rigid and fearful, trying to keep quiet, in case she woke up. That was the joke. She’d dae anything
no
tae wake up. Me, trying to keep quiet. Me. The sick, dirty diseased creep. If he was somebody else, or I was somebody else, I might even feel sorry for him. If it had been another fanny his finger was inside.

She should have stripped the walls. Got rid of all that old shite. No matter how many coats you put over it, it always came through.

Lisa went to speak, but Charlene raised her hand. Lisa felt frozen stiff. It was so hard for her to listen, she could only imagine how difficult it must have been for her pal to start speaking, but now the poor lassie couldn’t stop if she wanted to. — I
should
be a frigid virgin, or a nympho; I should be, what is it they call it, sexually dysfunctional. No way. My ultimate revenge on him, ma metaphorical two fingers to his literal one, is that I’m no . . . Charlene stared off into space. When she continued, her voice rose an octave, it was like she was talking to him. — and I’m glad of my hatred and contempt for you cause I know how to receive and give love you sad prick, because I was never the one who was strange or weird or repressed and I never fucking well will be . . . She turned to Lisa and jolted where she sat, as if switching back into the space she was occupying. — Sorry Lees, thanks.