by Irvine Welsh
Brian Doyle, the cousin, went wi Gentleman doon tae see Pender durin the day, droppin oaf this white Transit van. The auld boy gied them a tour ay the site, pointing oot whaire the dugs patrolled and showin them where the huge rolled bales ay copper wire were stacked.
Wi met up the Busy. Brian Doyle seemed an awright gadge. Eh wis aulder thin us, but even he still seemed a bit wary ay ehs younger cousin. Eh warned us that thir wis a loat ay weight in the wire bales and that we’d be lucky tae get away wi two in the van.
Pender, suckin oan this Ventolin inhaler, wis a fat, unfit-lookin auld boy. Eh seemed awfay nervous, especially aboot the dugs. He never went into the grounds, never came intae direct contact wi them. His car was parked ootside the office, and eh came in through that wey. Eh could hear thum ootside though. Sometimes one ay them jumped up at the windae and shit him up when the perr cunt was trying tae watch ehs telly. — Magnificent specimen, eh said tae Gentleman, but then eh went, — evil bastard but.
The other cunt involved wis a boy called McMurray, but everybody kent him as Polmont, cause eh’d been in the approved school thair. Thir wis something funny aboot that radgeworks. Eh’d been at oor school once and tried tae git wide wi a wee mate ay mine called Arthur Breslin. Wee Arthur was a good gadge, harmless like. Ah pilled up this Polmont boy n eh shat it. This wis yonks ago, back in first year, but these things stick wi ye.
So me, Dozo Doyle, Terry n this Polmont cunt went doon tae Granton later that night tae check oot how we were gaunny git in. We hung roond the chippy doon thaire, the Jubilee. We stood at the bus stoap, eatin oor chips, lookin intae the groonds the factory stood in.
Ah didnae like the look ay the big sign in the groonds. It hud the darkened outline ay an Alsatian’s heid wi the notice:
SECURICOR WARNING:
GUARD DOGS PATROL THESE PREMISES
— That fence looks fuckin high, Terry said. — N thir’s they hooses opposite. Some nosey cunt’s bound tae see us. Aw they auld-aged pensioners that cannae git tae sleep.
— Aye, ah ken, that’s how wir no gaun ower it, wir gaun through it, Dozo Doyle goes, eatin ehs fish n clockin a couple ay boys that went intae the chippy.
Me n Terry wir aw ears.
— Ah’ve goat they big, industrial wire cutters, they’d go right through that. Eh ran ehs hand along the fence. — Thir huge cunts, they snap the big padlock chains. Ye need tae yaze baith airms, he smiled, demonstratin for us.
Ah wisnae sure aboot that brutal wanker at aw, but it’s a bit ay a laugh though, eh. Something tae dae that isnae too borin.
— Aye, we cut it just here, eh went, pointin tae a section ay the fence. — This cunt, eh said, punchin the grey, aluminium bus shelter, — keeps us covered fae the hooses and fae any passin motors. Then we deal wi dugs, brek intae the office n tie up Pender. Thir might even be the wee bonus ay a cash boax thair. Ah ken eh sais thir isnae but ah dinnae believe the auld fucker. Eftir that, we load the copper wire intae the van. We cut oor wey oot the bottom gate, through the padlock chain, n drive oot through the front. The other watchies oan the estate might see a van leavin, but that could jist be another watchman finishin: no as suspicious as a van gaun in. It’s pish-easy.
— We’ll no aw git intae the van but, Terry said.
Doyle looked at Terry like eh wis a bit slow. Ah mind ay thinkin that Terry widnae take that fae anybody else. — Marty kin drive as well as Bri, eh sais, aw impatient, like eh wis explainin tae a bairn. — We git a second van, a wee yin, n leave it parked ower thair, eh nodded, taewards they other parked cars. — Then we meet up wi the rest ay thum oot at the beach in Gullane.
Ah looks at Terry, but waits for him tae say something. — What for Gullane? eh asks.
— Because, ya daft cunt, the black bits ay Doyle’s eyes went aw big, — we need tae burn the plastic coatin offay the copper wire before wi kin flog it. A deserted beach’ll be the best place fir that.
Terry nodded slowly, ehs bottom lip stuck oot. Ye could tell eh wis impressed by Doyle. Terry eywis fancied ehsel as a tea-leaf, but the likes ay the Doyles, it’s in thair blood. They’ve been at this fir generations.
It aw went accordin tae plan. Except for Doyle, the wey he cairried oan. That radge is fuckin beyond brutal.
The night we were daein it, ah went roond tae Terry’s. We hud a can ay lager in his bedroom, n pit oan the Clash’s first album. Police n Thieves went doon well. Ehs Ma looked awfay suspicious, like she kent something wis gaun oan. It wis eleven o’clock at night and we wir gaun oot. Police and thieves, oh yeah-eh-eh . . .
We met Dozo and Brian Doyle at the chippy at the Cross, then doon tae the Longstone tae meet Gentleman and that Polmont boy. Husnae goat that much tae say for ehsel, that boy. Usually ah like that, ah’m no intae the likes ay thaim that mouth oaf aw the time. What’s it they say aboot empty vessels? Ye look at politicians oan the telly n aw that, they kin talk awright. Eywis huv, eywis will. Dinnae seem tae be as good at sortin things oot but. Or mibbe just no that good at sortin thum oot fir the likes ay us.
They pile in the back and we drive doon tae Granton. The place is deserted, except for a crowd ay boys standin ootside the chippy, long since shut. Thuv been drinkin, it’s jist local boys, boys like us, hingin aboot thir ain scheme, bored, no wantin tae go hame. Doyle watched in anger fae the van. — These cunts . . . ah’m gaunny go ower thair in a minute n tell thum tae fuck off, eh snarled, runnin ehs hand through ehs hair. Whin eh pills it back ye kin see eh’s goat that V-shaped hairline, like Count Dracula.
— They might be game, Brian goes.
— We’ll fuckin well huv thum, Doyle spits.
— Ah came here tae chorie, no tae pagger wi some radges, Brian says. — Start anything here n yi’ll huv every cunt oot; the polis, these cunts ower the road in the hooses, the fuckin loat.
Doyle was aboot tae say somethin when Terry cut in, — Looks like thir headin away.
Sure enough, the boys wir leavin, though two radges wir keepin it gaun. — Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, Doyle hissed. — Right, eh goes eftir the boys hud said thir hundredth farewell, — these cunts die, n eh opened the front passenger door.
Brian grabbed ehs shoodir. — Stall ya cunt, eh goes. — Meant tae be daein a fuckin joab.
Dozo Doyle looked at him, ehs eyes aw harsh, n ehs jaw set.
— You fuckin tryin tae pill me up Bri? eh asks in a low voice.
— Naw . . . ah’m jist sayin thit . . .
— Dinnae fuckin try n pill me up, eh sais softly. Then eh spits oot through clenched teeth: — Nae cunt pills me up! Right!
Brian sais nothing.
— Ah sais right! Dozo hisses.
— Ah’m no tryin tae pill ye up. Ah’m jist sayin thit wir here tae dae a fuckin joab.
— Fine, Dozo goes, aw smiles, then eh turns tae me, like it’s me eh wis talkin tae aw along. — Jist as long as ye dinnae try n pill ays up, eh sortay sings.
— These cunts are away now, Terry goes, — lit’s git this fuckin show oan the road. Ah dinnae mind bein in the back ay a van wi a bunch ay birds, but no youse cunts. This cunt here, eh looks at me, — he’s jist fuckin well lit one go n aw. Ya filthy bastard, Birrell!
— Fuck off, ah goes, — dugs smell thir ain dirt first. Cheeky fucker him. That’s Terry but: brutal.
We opens the doors and wi get oot wi the tools. Doyle’s goat this long glove, then this sort ay padded tube thing thit eh slips roond one airm. It’s made oot ay a traffic cone. Eh takes this auld jaykit wi um. It smells brutal, like ay deid meat. Even though the streets are deserted, it must look fuckin drastic, six boys coming oot a van in Granton Road in the middle ay the night. Way past brutal: we’re jist fuckin amateurs really.
The good thing wis that we cut through the wire dead quick, it snaps in one go under they big bolt cutters. Polmont and Brian keep shoatie fir any cars or passers-by fae inside the bus shelter. Martin Gentleman gits through first, then Terry, then Doyle, then me. Ah nod fir Brian and Polmont tae come ahead.
Thir
jist through whin ah hear a dug barking, then it comes runnin, oot ay naewhaire, right up tae us! It seems tae realise that we’re in a group n it stops tae a sharp halt like thir wis a force-field a few feet in front ay us. Terry jumped back but, and stepped away. Polmont wis right back oot through the fence. Doyle though, had crouched in an action position, that big tube thing fitted roond ehs airm. The dug arched doonwards, about ten feet away, its ears back, snarling. Doyle wis just snarling back at it, hudin ehs bound-up n padded airm in front ay it, pullin the auld coat ower the groond like a Spanish matador. It wis like the poster ma Aunt Lily brought ays back fae Spain, the yin oan ma bedroom waw, the one ah want tae take doon but the auld girl moans thit it wis a present:
PLAZA DE TORRES
EL CORDOBES
BILLY BIRRELL
— C’moan then ya cunt . . . moan then . . . think yir fuckin wide . . . Doyle goes.
Then wi goat a shock; this other, bigger dug rockets forward, jump in right ower the growling dug oan the deck n launchin itself at Doyle. Eh stuck ehs padded wrist up, n the dug bit intae it. Ah ran at the other dug n it leaped back, then tensed up, gaun low again n snarlin away, its nostrils twitchin. Doyle wis still wrestling the big dug, but Gentleman was ower and stood ower its back, then let ehs fill weight doon oan it. It yelped n slowly crumpled tae the groond under ehs bulk.
Terry’s next tae me n wir keepin oor eyes on this other yin. — Dinnae ken aboot this Billy, eh goes.
— Naw, this wank’s shat it, ah sais. Ah steps forward n the dug moves back.
Gentleman’s still oan toap ay the other dug pinnin it doon, n eh huds its snout in baith hands as Doyle wrestles ehs airm free.
Brian, hudin a baseball bat, n me n Terry: we’re still facin oaf the other dug. — Jist watch the cunt’s mooth, Brian says. — Aw they are is teeth n jaws. They cannae punch or kick, they kin jist bite. C’moan then cunt . . .
Polmont’s back in and eh’s passed the bolt cutters tae Doyle. Gent’s still oan the dug, now hudin its jaws shut wi ehs big hands, n pillin its neck back, its heid pushed intae ehs chest. Doyle puts the bolt cutter ower one ay the dug’s front legs and thir’s a horrible snap, followed by a muffled yelp. When he does the same tae the second, thir’s a strange echoey howl. Gentleman lets the dug go and it tries tae stand but yelps and it’s like it’s dancing oan hoat coals; it hobbles, squeaks and topples ower. It’s still snarling though, and it’s pushing itself along on its backlegs, trying tae get tae Doyle. — Wide cunt, Doyle goes, before booting it hard in the face. Then eh stomps oan its rib-cage a couple ay times n the growl becomes a whine and ye ken that the dug’s spirit’s broken.
Gentleman starts bindin the dug’s snout thegither wi brown, plastic tape, the kind they use whin ye flit hoose, for the removals n that, and does the same tae its back legs.
Doyle’s ower tae us n the second dug, n eh throws ehs coat oot at it, n the radge grabs it. Before it lets go we aw run forward and steam the bastard, pinnin it doon, me pushin its heid right intae the soft gress. Terry’s shakin like a leaf as he huds it doon wi Brian, n Polmont’s booted it in the side, causin it tae twist, makin it nearly rip free fae ma grip. — Dinnae kick it, hud it! ah shouts at the wank, n eh gits doon n grips it.
Polmont gets up and blooters the second dug in the stomach. Thir’s a big whine fae it, and huge bubble comes oot one nostril. — Fuckin deserve tae die, eh says. Then Gentleman’s ower n eh’s oan its back, hudin and tapin its mooth shut, then its front paws thegither, then its back yins.
— Wir no finished wi youse cunts yit, Dozo smiles, as we go through the grounds in the dark, leavin both ay the dugs lyin thair helpless.
As we gets further fae the perimeter fence the gress under our feet becomes saturated with muddy water. — Shhhite, ah goes, feelin the cauld wet seep intae ma trainers.
— Sssh, Terry whispers, — nearly thaire.
It wis pitch dark but, n ah’m relieved tae see the light oan in the office ahead at the boatum ay the hill. It starts tae git steep as the bank descends tae the car park by the foreshore road. Suddenly ah hears a scream. Ah tensed up but it wis only Polmont, whae’s fell ower. Gentleman silently yanks the tossbag tae ehs feet wi one tug.
Efter a bit, we’re squelching through mud and by the time we hit the concrete ay the loading bay, ma feet are soaked right through. It still feels barry but, like a Bond film, or some commando movie when they brek intae the enemy HQ.
We git doon tae the office n Pender willnae let Doyle in. — Open that fuckin door, ya auld cunt, eh’s shoutin in the windae.
— Ah cannae, if ah let ye in the office, thi’ll ken ah wis in oan it, Pender whinges.
Gentleman stands back, then runs at the door, bootin it in wi two kicks. — Aye, eh goes, — best make it like we goat in fae the ootside.
— Ye dinnae need tae be in here! Pender goes, shitein it. — Everything you need’s ootside!
Gentleman’s right in though, lookin aroond like that Lurch oot ay the Addams family. Polmont throws a load ay papers oaf the desk, n tries tae yank the phone oot by the socket, like they dae in the films, only the cunt disnae budge, once, twice. Gentleman shakes ehs heid, tears it fae ehs hands and rips it oot.
Terry’s gaun through aw the drawers. Auld Pender’s daein ehs nut. — Dinnae Terry . . . yi’ll git me ma fuckin books!
— Now we’ll huv tae tie you up n aw, Doyle goes, — soas thi’ll no suspect nowt.
The auld boy sees that eh’s no jokin n eh nearly went intae a panic attack. — Ah cannae . . . ah’ve goat a bad hert, eh bleats, n ah saw that Polmont sneer at that.
Ah went tae speak up oan the auld boy’s behalf, cause eh wis terrified. — Jist leave um, ah goes.
Doyle looks slowly roond at ays. So does Gent. Terry stoaps ehs rummagin n pits ehs hand oan ma shoodir, — Nae cunt’s gaunny hurt auld Jim, Billy, wir daein it tae keep um oot ay bother. If they see him like that thi’ll ken eh wis in oan it, eh sais, turning tae Pender. — Will no dae it till wir ready tae leave Jim, n the Securicor guys’ll find ye soon efter when they come tae pick up the dugs.
— But the door’s broken . . . the dugs might get in n get ays . . .
We aw laughed at that. — Naw, Doyle said, — there’ll be nae dugs aroond.
Terry looks ower at Pender, — So thir’s nae cash in here then, Jim?
— Naw, no in here. It’s aw jist admin. As ah sais, thir’s hardly anybody workin here now . . .
Terry and Doyle seem tae accept that. Terry clocks ma trainers, oor muddy trail intae the office n right across the car park. — What have I told you about sensible footwear, Birrell, the correct footwear for the job? You wouldn’t play soccer in slippers, would you boy? eh goes, in a teacher’s voice, the yin him n Carl eywis dae.
Doyle laughs along at this, so does that Polmont wanker. Every other radge’s goat boots oan, it’s only me wearin trainers n ah feel a bit ay a toss n it’s fuckin brutal. Ah mind ah wisnae happy wi that, wi Terry gittin aw wide, showin oaf tae Doyle. The cunt could’ve been oan a burst mooth if eh kept that up.
But wi were in. We did it, that wis what counted.
Gentleman and Brian start liftin the big bales and wi manage tae get two in the back ay the Transit van. We cut oaf some strips fae a third bale n load that n aw. Then Gent does the chain ay the gates wi the wire cutters, which are covered in the dugs’ blood. We pull the gates open. Before we go, we take auld Jim inside.
The perr auld cunt’s sortay in shock, as we bind him tae the chair wi the plastic tape. Ye kin tell whin eh wis sittin up the Busy, being boat pints by Terry n Doyle, that eh nivir bargained fir this. It’s dead brutal for the perr boy. Eh’s slaverin oan aboot aw the men that used tae work here; how many thir wir, where they came fae, n the like.
— Well, that’s aw gone now, Pender, Doyle says, — along wi the copper wire! Right boys?
We nod, n Terry n Polmont ur laughin thir heids oaf.
Polmont takes the baseball bat n wields it, kung-fu style, slowly movin up tae aul
d Jim. — Wi’ll make it realistic, Pender, like ye wir a fuckin hero thit pit up a struggle . . .
Ah grabs the wanker’s airm, n Gentleman hud moved forward n aw, tae be fair tae um. — You wantin that bat ower your heid? ah sais.
— Ah wis only jokin, eh goes.
Like fuck eh wis. Any encouragement offay us n auld Pender’s heid wis split open. Dozo wis lookin at ays as if eh wis gaunny say something, then ower at Polmont, as if eh should’ve stuck up for ehsel. Eh really looked at Polmont like that wanker hud embarrassed him.
— Jim, Dozo sais tae Pender, — when they Securicor cunts come, if they ask where the dugs are, jist tell them that they’ve escaped.
— But . . . but . . . how could they escape? eh goes.
— Through oor hole in the fuckin fence ya radge, Doyle tells um.
— Bit thir still tied up, back up thaire, Brian goes, pointin tae the top road.
— Aye, now they are, Dozo Doyle winked.
Ah saw what Doyle meant as we made oor wey back. Terry, Brian and Polmont drove straight oot the front gates, along the Shore Road with the wire. That wis the riskiest wey, ah supposed, but me, Gentleman and Doyle, we hud the maist hassle, huvin tae go back through the grounds in the darkness and mud. The dugs were where we left them, still struggling, the vicious one bleedin heavily fae its leg wounds. We could hear their soft whines through the tape.
Doyle bent down beside the uninjured Alsatian and stroked it aw reassuringly. — There, there boy. What a lot ay fuss, eh cooed, then in sortay baby-talk, — Dot a dot ay duss . . .
Then Gentleman came ower and he and Doyle picked up an end each of the dug, its front and back legs, and took it through the fence. Gent had parked the white Ford and eh let go ay his end ay the dug tae open the back doors. Then they slung the dug intae the van, and it squealed in pain through the tape as it hit the floor.