Glue (61 page)

— They can’t help it, Terry, they become obsessed, Kathryn repeated.

Terry hissed in dismissal. — That’s a load ay American shite. Ah become obsessed wi people, he thumped his own chest. — Every cunt does. So what? Aw ye dae is huv a wank aboot them, then ye become obsessed wi somebody else. What sort ay fuckin radge wants tae stand aroond ootside hooses in the cauld street waitin fir somebody they dinnae ken tae come oot? Answer ays that if yis kin, he looked challengingly around the table. — Kin yis fuck. These cunts need a fuckin life, he said dismissively, slugging back some beer. He turned to Alec, who was telling Rab about some disability pension he was entitled to. — You ivir been stalked, Alec?

— Dinnae be stupid, Alec replied morosely.

— Stalked by a few fuckin publicans that’ve been daft enough tae gie ye a slate, eh Alec? Rab ventured.

Alec shook his head, waving his beer around to make a point. — Aw that stuff, it’s aw American, he advanced, then in sudden recognition turned to Kathryn, — nae offence like, hen.

Kathryn smiled cagily. — None taken.

Terry was considering this point. — Alec’s no wrong but, Kath, it’s the fuckin Yanks thit cause aw the bother in the world the day. Ah’m no slaggin you oaf or nowt like that, but it hus tae be admitted. Ah mean, aw that serial-killer shite that they huv, ower thair: what sortay wey is that tae behave? Terry challenged. — Some sad, glory-huntin cunts tryin tae make a name fir thumsels.

Lisa smiled, and looked at Rab, who seemed as if he was going to say something, but instead had decided to try and get a stain out of his strip.

— It widnae happen in Scotland, Terry contended.

— Naw but, Rab interjected, — that Dennis Nilsen boy wis Scottish, n he wis the biggest ever serial killer in Britain.

— Wis eh fuck Scottish . . . Terry began, but the confidence ebbed from his voice as recognition bit home.

— Aye eh wis, eh wis fae Aberdeen, Rab stated.

They looked around at each other. — Eh wis, Johnny agreed, and Charlene, Lisa and Alec nodded in confirmation.

Terry wasn’t going to be outdone. — Awright then, but notice that eh didnae kill any cunt in Scotland, it wis whin eh moved tae London eh started aw that, Terry smiled.

— So? Lisa said, sitting up in the chair and staring at him.

— So eh wis corrupted by the English. Scotland hud nowt tae dae wi it.

— Ah dinnae see how ye kin say that whin the boy wis brought up in Aberdeen, Johnny shook his head and sucked back some snotter. The charlie was fucking his beak right up. It seemed to stream out the front and be blocked up the back. How was that possible? This fuckin nose.

— Aberdeen but, Terry scoffed — What else kin ye expect fae they cunts? They shag thir fuckin livestock up thaire, so thir no gaunny huv any respect fir people, now ur they?

Johnny was struggling with his breathing and Terry’s line of thought. — What dae ye mean by that?

— Well, think aboot it: a cunt like that goes tae the big city, thir’s nae sheep tae abuse, so eh jist turns oan people n starts abusin thaim. It’s the modern society, Terry argued, — littin they cunts travel, takin thum ootay thir natural habitat, it gits thum aw confused, he shrugged, breakin off and nodding to Lisa. — Anywey, this conversation’s gittin a wee bit depressin. So ah think it’s time fir another wee poodle’s leg, he said, producing a wrap of cocaine from his pocket.

Rab and Johnny started spitting out the riff from
The Eye of the Tiger
as Terry started chopping out more lines of coke. At that point the letterbox rattled and they looked around the table at each other in paranoia, especially Alec. — Put that shite away! Ah’m no wantin drugs in ma hoose! he whispered with urgency.

Terry shook his head and ran his hand through his corkscrew hair. It was heavy with sweat. — It’s jist the fuckin post, ya daft cunt.
You
should ken that. This, he observed, looking at the lines of cocaine, — is only a wee bit ay personal. Move wi the times Alec, dinnae be such a dinosaur!

It was indeed the mail, and Alec went through to pick it up, grumbling, — Well dinnae expect me tae touch that shite, it’ll kill yis, he wheezed, exiting as they laughed, nudging each other, nodding at the cans and bottles strewn all over the kitchen. They clammed up like naughty kids in the presence of a teacher as Alec headed back in, black-framed reading specs on, scrutinising a red phone bill. — Ah need tae finish that joab fir Norrie, Terry, he moaned.

— Soon, Alexis, soon.

They snorted another line of posh, all except Alec. The cocaine seemed to change the dimensions of the kitchen. It had first seemed intimate and welcoming, even in its squalor, but now it was as if the walls were inching in as they themselves expanded outwards. Everybody was talking over everyone else in a cacophony of noise. The dirty, unwashed dishes, the smells of stale fried food, it all grew intrusive and distracting. They decided to hit the Fly’s for a few beers.

4.10 pm

Bangkok. The worst is still ahead, a terrifying thought. But the madness has abated. The girls in the gift counter at the airport look fantastic, better than any of the whores downtown. I wonder how much they get paid for that. Their scrubbed decency. The way they smile all the time. Are they happy, or is it just American customer-care smarm at work? Emotional labour, you get all that in the service-industry world we live in. Smile, though your heart is breaking. We’re all like the slaves in the fields now, putting on the front that says ‘everything’s fine, boss’ while we worry about how to make ends meet.

You come out of Australia, travel north-west then west-west and it all gets uglier. I got the lassie to sing that Bowie refrain ‘draw the blinds on yesterday and it’s all so much scarier’ for that track I’ve been trying to do. It’s shit but. My music is shite. I don’t feel it any more. This is the most sensible thought I’ve had in ages, which means that I’m getting it together a bit now. We are the HM, the HMFC. We won the fuckin cup and I missed it.

Sydney but, another world. Fuck the Scottish Cup; pulling right up into the square between them and letting rip on the sound system.
Mixmag
or maybe it was
DJ
carried the article HAS N-SIGN LOST THE PLOT?

Lost the plot?

Never fuckin well had it to lose.

As if any cunt cared. That’s the beauty of being a deejay, you may have your acolytes but you are eminently replaceable. In fact, you’re just holding back those who have more to say, but it’s the same with artists, writers, musicians, TV personalities, actors, businessmen,
politicians . . . you carve out your wee niche and you just sit there, gumming up the social and cultural pipelines.

N-SIGN cunts it up in Ibiza. N-SIGN top caner. Fuckin shite. All the dance press: fuckin mythologising shite. I used to love it all as well, I really did.

Helena’s sorted this out for me.

Helena, I can’t stop thinking about her now, when it’s too late. The story of my life. Care from afar. Pine from a distance. Pledge all the things I’m going to say to her until she’s in the same room as me when I can only say something bland. I need to tell her I love her. I need a fuckin phone. There’s still the demon’s face and the little bears that dance around with the accordions, and I’m trying to explain to them that I need my mobile phone to phone my girlfriend and tell her I love her.

A woman sitting opposite me holding a child reaches over and shakes me. — Please be quiet . . . you’re frightening him . . . She turns to the advancing hostess.

Thirty-five and I’m already
persona non grata
: fucked, past it, a non person. My needs are nothing. The kid there, he’s the future. And why not? — I’m sorry, I plead, — I’m a coward, I’ve been running away from love. I need to phone my girlfriend, I need to tell her I love her . . . I look around at all the horrified faces, the O of the air hostess’s mouth. I think that if it was an American film they’d all be cheering and whooping now. In real life they just think, air rage, a nutter on board who could feasibly jeopardise all our fucking existences even though it may just be related to the fact that we’re squashed up like sardines back here and we lose ten feet per year in the second-class to the first-class and if I precipitated a crash, killing ‘some of the finest business brains’ up front, would capitalism grind to a halt, would the multinationals crumble? Of course, just like there would be no more dance music with the demise of N-SIGN Ewart.

A girl is talking to me. — If you don’t be quiet and keep your seat belt fastened and sit still, we’ll be forced to apply physical restraints, I think she says. I think that’s what she said.

Maybe I’m just gieing my mind a treat.

Another crap airplane meal, another Bloody Mary to stop the shakes. The voices in my head are still there, but are less threatening, like tripping, speeding friends chatting in the next room, maybe making one or two thoughtless but not really malicious comments. I don’t mind this kind of insanity, it can be quite comforting.

I’m on the plane again. Going home.

All those bodies. No, not another funeral.
Your mother seems to be fearing the worst
.

The worst. I don’t know about the worst. Yes I do.

Gally died.

Then came the second shock, it should have been a minor one but it wasn’t. The news was that on the day before Gally’s death, Polmont had been viciously attacked in his own hoose. He barely survived. We never knew about this at the time. Aye, it should have been a minor shock, because we didn’t give a fuck about Polmont, but it seemed so inextricably linked tae Gally’s demise.

There was a lot of rumours going around. It was a strange few days leading up to Gally’s funeral. We seemed to need to believe that Gally had nothing to do with the assault on Polmont, and everything to do with it at the same time. It was as if both things were required to somehow vindicate his life, or more likely his death, in our eyes. Of course, you couldn’t get both, you could only get the truth.

Nobody seemed to know in those confused days, just what exactly had happened to Polmont. Some say that he was shot in the neck, others that he had his throat cut. Whatever it was, he survived the attack and spent some time in the hospital. The wound had definitely been in the throat, because his voice box was shattered and, in order to speak, he had one of those funny things installed, the ones that you press. The Dalek, we called him.

Obviously, the finger was pointed at Gally, but I knew the wee man didnae have that in him. For my money, it had to be one of Doyle’s mob. They were volatile cunts and no matter how hard you believe you are, just because you’re in that company, you’re actually one of the most vulnerable people on Earth, when the fall-out comes. As it always does. Polmont could have wound up one of them for any number of reasons; grassing up, ripping off, shitting out, all valid reasons in their book for extreme chastisement.

Shortly before the funeral I got a phone call from Gail. I was flabbergasted when she said that she wanted to see me. She pleaded, and I didn’t have the heart to say no. I was Gally’s best man, she said. Then she appealed to my vanity and sense of self by saying that I was always fair, that I never judged people. This was patent bullshit, but we always like to hear what we want to hear. Gail was an ace manipulator, and she did it without realising, always the best way.

I mind the wedding. I was a bit green for the best man’s speech but
the older cunts indulged me. There was an ugly, unspoken consensus, or maybe it was just my paranoia, that Terry would have been the best man for the job. More confident, worldly, that bit aulder, a married man with a kid on the way. Fuck knows what I said, I can’t remember.

Gail looked beautiful, she looked like a real woman. Gally, by contrast, seemed to shrink further in the jaykit, with the ridiculous kilt. He looked about twelve years old instead of eighteen, no that long oot the YOs. The wedding photos said it all, a complete fuckin mismatch. There were some dodgy cunts on her side at the reception, a Doyle sister and a couple of cunts who I didn’t know but who hung aboot with Dozo. I still have some of the wedding pictures. The Doyle sister and Maggie Orr were the maids of honour. I look about fourteen tae Gally’s twelve, wee laddies with our mas, or big sisters at any rate.

I was chuffed because I was there with Amy, from the school. I lusted after that lassie for two years, then when I went oot with her — I think the wedding was our second date — all I could do was look for flaws. Once I’d got a shag, that was it. There I was though, swanning around with the squeaky arrogance of the just-had-his-hole kid, as if I’d invented sex.

Gail stole the show. She was sexy. I envied Gally. Just out the nick and going to bed every night with a lassie who was eighteen going on twenty-one. Even though the shotgun marks were almost visible on the side of his head, Gail wasn’t showing. Terry’s wife, Lucy, she was up the stick at the same time. I mind of Terry and her having a blazing argument and her going hame in a cab. I think Terry went away with the Doyle sister later on.

I wanted to meet Gail in a bar, but she said she really needed to talk in private, and she came to my flat. I was concerned. I worried that if she wanted me to fuck her, I wouldn’t be able to say no.

In the event, I shouldn’t have been bothered. Gail was a mess. She looked terrible. All her vivaciousness and aggressive sexuality had drained away. Her hair was lank, there were circles under her eyes. Her face looked swollen and puffy, and her body looked shapeless in the baggy, stretched, cheapo leisurewear she wore. I suppose it was hardly surprising: she’d lost her daughter’s father and now her boyfriend had been shot in the neck. — Ah ken ye must hate me, Carl, she said.

I said nothing. It would have been pointless to deny it, even if I had been of a mind to want to try. She could see it writ large, all over my face. All I saw was my best mate lying still on the ground.

— Andrew wisnae a saint, Carl, she pleaded. — Ah ken ye were ehs friend, but thir’s a side tae people in relationships . . .

— Nane ay us are saints, ah said.