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— Like a footballer’s agent? They’re very well paid, Avril says.

Joey Parke shakes ehs heid. — Parasites. Thir takin money oot the game.

— Naw, naw, naw, ah explain. — Ah wis thinkin mair as an agent for aw they blonde burds thit they huv oan the telly; the likes ay Ulrika Jonsson, Zoë Ball, Denise Van Outen, Gail Porter n aw that. Then ah think aboot it n say: — But it’s the likes ay Sick Boy n that, that’s an auld mate ay mine, they would git in thaire first. That’s the kind ay job that they gie tae these cats, nae offence tae the boy, likes.

Sick Boy. Some cat.

Avril listens aw sort ay patient, likes, but ye tell she’s no that impressed. Parkie goes oan aboot wantin tae dae the job ay Drug Czar. This gets a few ay them slaggin oaf that job n the boy thit’s daein it, and well, that’s oot ay order as far as ah see it.

So ah leaps tae the cat’s defence, likes. — Naw, man, ah think it’s a great idea, cause some ay the quality ay the gear these days is pure crap. It’s aboot time the government were daein something aboot that instead ay just throwin people in jail aw the time. Moi’s opinion, ma petite chats, moi’s opinion.

A boy called Alfie pits oan this daft grin, then turns ehs face away. Then ah sees Parkie’s laughin and shakin ehs heid. Eh goes: — Naw, Spud, yuv goat the wrong end ay the stick, man. That boy’s meant tae
stoap
ye fae takin drugs.

That gits me thinkin, n ah starts feelin sorry fir the dude, cause there’s a gadgie that’s goat ehs work cut oot. Ah mean, ah ken how difficult it is tae stoap masel fae takin drugs, nivir mind every other cat. What a thankless task for the poor boy. Ah dinnae see but, how they huv tae gie that joab tae a Russian boy when there’s plenty punters in Scotland could dae it.

So thir gaun oan n oan aboot this. The weird thing aboot this group is thit we spend mair time talkin aboot drugs than we dae oan them. Sometimes whin yir straight, it really makes ye want thum, sortay pits ye in mind ay thum whin ye wirnae thinkin aboot thum, ken? But the Russian Drug Czar boy’s pit me in mind again ay thon Dostoevsky book n that insurance policy ay mine. We goat it when the pramkicker came along, n ah wis clean n daein the slabbyin. Then they stoaped the slabbyin, man, peyed us aw oaf. But when ah did that hoose n goat sent doon, ah mind ay this boy in Perth gien me that Russian dude’s book
Crime and Punishment
. Thir’s eywis a copy circulatin roond in the nick, but ah never bothered before, no bein much ay a reader, likes. Liked this yin but, n it fair goat me thinkin aboot yon policy.

In the book, the gadge kills the auld money-lendin wifie that everybody hates. Now if ah wis tae top masel it wid pure be suicide, n they dinnae pey oot for that. But what if ah wis tae git killed, murdered likes, by some other party? Aye, the insurance thing hus tae be done; fir Ali and the wee gadge. It’s the wey forward. Ah’m pure chronic, man, so when ye think aboot it, it makes sense tae leave the gig. Ah love those kittens tae death, but let’s face it, man, ah am one big liability. Cannae make money, cannae keep straight, cannae stoap bringing grief back hame tae the bosom of. Ah am killing that chick slowly, man, she’ll soon be back oan the gear herself, then wee Andy’ll git taken away. Naw, ah’m no huvin that. So it’s the insurance, man. Split. Leave the gig, makin sure the Ali-cat and Andy-cat are provided for. It’s like that
Family Fortunes
thing whaire they ask the gadges what they want, likesay £20,000 insurance bread or a fucked-up, penniless, unskilled, junkie wi a ragin habit which will jist not go away. No much ay a contest for the sane of mind, man. So it’s time tae go, bit it hus tae be done jist right.

The big, bad shock ah wis oan aboot came yesterday when ah wis lookin aroond the gaff for her purse n some dosh, n ah found a diary by mistake. Well, ah jist couldnae help masel, man, hud tae huv a wee nose. Ah mean, ah ken it wis wrong n that, dead wrong, but cause wi hudnae been speakin ah jist hud tae git intae her state ay mind. Big mistake but, man, ignorance wis pure bliss. What sort ay goat ays wis what she wrote: it wis like she was talkin tae wee Andy.

I don’t know where he is, your daddy. He’s let us down again, pal, and I’m the one again who’s got to be strong. Your dad can mess up, but I can’t. Just because somebody has to be strong and I’m just a wee bit better at it than your weak, stupid daddy. I wish he was a real bastard, because that would make it easier. It makes it hard that he’s the nicest man you’ll ever meet, and don’t let anybody tell you different. But I can’t be his ma and your ma as well. I can’t cause I’m not strong enough. If I was strong enough I would, even though I know he’d be taking me for a mug. I’d still do it though, if I was strong enough. But I’m not and I have to put you first. Just because you’re that wee.

It hit ays hard, man. Read it once, twice, and it must be said, found masel sheddin one or two tears, no just for me, but for the catgirl authoress. Aw that love goin tae the wrong place. Ah mind when ah wis younger ah wis just crazy, crazy, crazy aboot that lassie, but ah thought, this is a wee bit oot ay yir reach, man. A top-six SPL chick isnae gaunnae hook up wi an East of Scotland League journeyman. But the Junk Cup kin be a great leveller and there’s the luck ay the draw tae consider. Aye, one time we were walkin hame thegither eftir a session, totally fucked, when it jist sortay happened. Ah think aboot what eight years wi me has done tae her. Naw, ah’ve got tae let her go, and leave the gig, and gie her a good pey-oaf.

It’s got tae be done, man.

So it’s after the counsellin do, ah’m shamblin up the Walk, tryin tae get intae a stride pattern before the old cramps and sweats commence and ah start spazin oot. Ah’m trying tae cheer maself up by thinkin aboot blondes and books and ah’m contemplatin that intelligent blonde lassie, the one wi the deep voice that’s meant tae be the thinkin man’s chug. Ye’d be able tae talk Russian novels awright wi her, too right. Oan that very subject, thir’s a wee bookshop opened up and ah cross ower tae huv a quick look inside. Problem is thit the timin’s a wee bit oaf n this nippy motor nearly hits ays, horn blarin as it tears past me doon the street. Ah git a jolt ay fear like yir skeleton jumps oot ay yir body n does a wee jig before hoppin back in.

Ah’m safe, safe, safe but. The shoap’s got that fusty auld smell thit auld bookshoaps’ve goat, bit thir’s new stuff here n aw. Thir’s an auld fat boy wi silver hair n glesses n eh’s pure keepin ehs mincers oan the boy Murphy here. Ah’m huvin a wee browse but, n ah spys yin oan Leith’s history. It’s aw auld stuff but, though mind you, ah suppose that’s what history’s meant tae be aboot! Ah look at its last section oan contemporary Leith, n it’s aw
Royal Yacht Britannias
n aw that stuff, nowt aboot the YLT even. Some cat should write the
real
history ay the famous auld port, talk tae the punters that were aroond; like the auld cats that worked the docks, yards n bonds, drank in the boozers, hung oot wi the Teds, the YLT, the CCS, right through tae the present, aw the wee gadges wi the sovies oan thir fingers, they hip-hop rappy kids like ma wee mate Curtis wi the stammer.

Ah pits the books back, n ah heads back oot intae the street n continues up taewards fair Edina. Then, acroass the road, at the cashpoint oan the corner, ah see a boy who looks familiar, and it’s Cousin Dode, a Glesgey felly likes. Ah’m straight ower, this time watchin fir traffic.

— Dode . . .

— Awright there, Spud, eh sais, ehs eyes flickerin in a sort ay disapproval, then suddenly lightin up. — S’pose yir wahntin a bung?

Jist like that, the Weedgie boy said it, man, n ah couldnae believe it! Withoot ays askin, jist like that! God bless those Glasgow Hun cats. Great boy, Dode. Sortay stocky wee boy wi greyish hair whae goes oan aboot how great Glesgey is, but well, obviously, the boy lives through here but, man. — Eh, ah dunno when ah’ll be able tae square ye up, catboy . . .

— Hi! This is me yir talkin tae! Dode points tae ehsel, and we’re over the road intae the Old Salt.

— Just been in n chenged ma pin number. They let ye dae that in ma bank, Dode explains, — personal like, so thit yi’ll remember it easier. Bet your bank disnae let you dae that, eh sais, aw superior.

Ah’m sortay thinkin aboot this. — Eh, ah never really bother wi banks, man. Once when they sent ays oan this scheme, daein the slabbyin, likes, they made ays git an account. Ah goes, no, catboy, ah’m no a bank sortay gadge really, jist gie me cash, but they jist goes tae ays: sorry, man, pure modern gig, likes, ken?

Dode nods n goes tae speak, but ah press on cause ye cannae let Weedgies start, man, cause as cool as those cats are, once they git intae this ‘awright, big man, how’s it gaun, by the way’ stuff, well, those cats could spraff for Scotland. If ye selected a talk team tae represent the country it’s an absolute cert at least eight or nine fae the eleven would be Weedgies. So ah goes oan: — Well, they let me get intae the bank for a bit. But they kicked ays oot whin the green gages stoaped. The East Fife’s goat an account, well, she’s really the Lemon Curd but ah call her the East cause it’s sortay likes ay common law, man, ken?

— Yir some boey, Spud, Cousin Dode smiles, putting a hand oan ma shoodir. —
Interdum stultus bene loquitur
, eh, mate.

Dode’s quite a bright cunt for a soapdodger, likes, kens loads ay Latin n that. — Too true, Cousin Dode . . . eh, what does it mean, but?

— It means that ye, eh, talk a lot ay sense, Spud, eh sais.

Well, that’s eywis nice tae hear, sortay welcome words soothin tae the auld ego n that, so that’s me well chuffed. Also, that twenty bar the good Cuz slipped intae ma mit is appreciated n aw, it maist certainly is.

13

Whores of Amsterdam Pt 1

T
he DJ’s good; you can tell by the number of trainspotters jostling around the box to watch him, and how relaxed he is in the face of the almost pensive-looking audience who’re just waiting for something to happen, little knowing, most of them, that it already is.

Sure enough, he slips in
that
tune and they explode, shocked at the ferocity of their reaction, suddenly realising that he’s been toying with them, tweaking them for a good half-hour. As the cheer goes up he gives a canny, sly smile which sparks across the dance floor.

Across the floor of
my
club, here on the Herengracht, ‘the gentleman’s canal’ in old Amsterdam. I sip my vodka and Coke from my vantage point in the shadows at the back of the house, aware that I should be looking after this guy, extending the hand of friendship and hospitality like I do to all my guest DJs, even the ones who I think are arseholes. But Martin can look after this boy, I’m keeping out the road as he’s from my home town and known to me. I’ve nothing against people from my home town, I just don’t like running into them over here.

I see Katrin, her back to me, wearing that short, dark-blue dress, tight to her thin body which tapers up to her neck, the shock of razor-cut blonde hair sprouting from her head: she’s standing with Miz and some shaggable porno teen he’s picked up. I can’t tell what kind of mood Katrin’s in, I hope she’s taken a pill. I put my arm around her waist but my spirits dip as I feel her tense at my contact. Nonetheless, I make the effort. — Good night, eh? I shout in her ear.

She turns her head to me and says in a gloomy German voice: — I want to go home . . .

Miz catches my eye and flashes me a look of understanding.

I move away from them, over to the office, and see Martin in there with Sian and this Brummie lassie who’s started hanging around with them. They’re doing lines of coke, which are chopped up, spread across the pine desk. He holds up a rolled fifty-guilder note to me as I contemplate the urging, eager saucer eyes of the girls. — Nah, ah’m alright, I tell him.

Martin, nodding at the lassies, throws a wrap on the desk, and pulls me into the small ante-room where we keep the photocopier and the clandestine conversations. — You okay?

— Aye . . . It’s just Katrin . . . you know how things are.

Martin’s face crinkles under his greying brown hair, and his big teeth flash in wired alert. — You know my advice, mate . . .

— Aye . . .

— Sorry, Mark, but she’s a miserable cow and she’s making you the same way, he tells me yet again, then he points to the door of the office. — You should be having the time of your life. Drinks, chicks, drugs. I mean, look at Miz out there, he shakes his head. — He’s older than either of us. You only get one life, mate.

Martin and I are partners in the club, the same in so many ways, but the difference is that I can never be as flighty as him. When I get together with somebody, I believe in sticking it out. Even when there’s nothing left to stick out. But he means well, and I let him bend my ear for a bit, before heading back to the floor.

And I find myself looking for Katrin, straying down to the front of the house. For some reason I glance up, and the DJ, the Edinburgh guy, catches my eye for a brief second and we give each other a thin-lipped smile of acknowledgement, and something uneasy rises in my chest. Then I turn away and catch sight of Katrin by the bar.

14

Scam # 18,737

A
ll those people who have no place in the new Leith are here on my first day at the helm. A load of dirty auld mingers and these wee tartan techno and hip-hop cunts wi the sovies on every fuckin finger. One of the cheeky little bastards even calls me Sick Boy! Well, the only drugs that’ll be dealt here will carry the Simon Williamson seal of approval, you insolent wee fuckers. Especially as yesterday I had the good fortune to run into an auld associate called Seeker, and now my pockets are fairly bulging with pills and wraps of ching.

And auld Morag will have to go; a fat wifie with retro National Health frames is too old-skool Leith for the type of regime the Williamson boy plans to institute. Too seventies, Mo. Style police: nee naw nee naw nee naw . . . She’s serving one of the wee cunts now, or trying too. — F-f-f-four p-p-p-pints ay l-l-l . . . the boy says tae the sniggers of his mates, his face twisting in impersonation of a stroke victim as Morag stands in open-mouthed embarrassment.