by Irvine Welsh
Ah waited as they went back in and got the second dog, Gent holding it by the collar to save its injured forelegs and Doyle taking the back legs. In it went wi the other yin.
Ah wisnae intae aw this. What goat me wis thit naebody hud telt ays what aw this shite wi the dugs wis aboot. — What the fuck’s gaun oan here, ah asked. — This is fuckin brutal. What yis playin at?
— Hostages, mate, Doyle winked. Then eh started laughin ower at Gent, who jist creased up. Gentleman looked that weird whin eh laughed, like a real mad axe maniac. Doyle goes, — These cunts ken too much. They might gab, grass us aw up. Aw ye’d need tae dae is tae git one ay they Doctor Dolittle fuckers oan the case, n wi aw go doon. C’moan, Birrell, you sit in the front wi Marty, ah’ll keep ma boys company in the back.
Ah goat in, and Gentleman sais tae me, — Nivir liked Alsatians. No a dug ye kin take tae. If ah wis gittin a dug it wid be a Border collie.
Ah didnae say nowt, cause Doyle starts up again. — Not Alsatians, German shepherds eh boy? eh purrs away fir a bit, before sneerin, — Shitein cunts but, a fuckin Rottweiler or a pit-bull widnae huv goat taken that easy. Eh’s been at the speed, and eh passes some roond. Ah jist take a wee dab cause ay school the morn, but maist ay it comes away fae the silver foil in Gentleman’s big wet fingers.
We motored doon tae Gullane, still aw that chuffed wey but huvin tae listen tae Doyle’s sick banter wi the dugs in the back. He was a psycho. The wey ah saw it, he wisnae right in the heid. — Ken what they say, they fuckin tribes in Africa n that, eh goes, grindin ehs jaw, ehs eyes poppin oot ay ehs heid, — they say thit if ye kill some cunt, ye take thir power. It’s the fuckin hunter thing. That means thit we’ll huv the power ay they fuckin dugs! We fuckin well did they cunts!
Gentleman just said nowt, sat ahead, drivin. That Police and Thieves song keeps gaun roond in ma heid. It wis like Doyle nivir expected um tae speak n eh wis directin everything taewards me, which ah didnae like. — You’re sound Birrell, ye dinnae say much, like Marty here. Aye, ye dinnae say much but ye ken the fuckin score. Thir’s nae fuckin bullshit aboot ye. Lawson, oan the other hand, he’s a different story. Ah ken eh’s yir mate, n dinnae git me wrong, ah like the boy, but eh’s a bullshitter. Whae’s that wee mate ay yours, the cunt that chibbed that boy in the hand at school?
— Gally, ah goes. No that ah’d call that a chibbin. Jist the wee man showin oaf tae some cunt that goat wide. They things git aw exaggerated.
— Gally, that’s it. He seems a good wee cunt. Seems game. Ah saw um once at the fitba. It’s Hibs–Rangers at Easter Road in a couple ay weeks. We should aw go, a mob ay us fae the scheme n any other cunt whae’s game. Ah ken some boys fae Leith. That would be barry, git a few tidy cunts thegither n pagger wi some Glesgay boys.
— Aye, yir on, ah sais, cause it certainly would. Ye need yir entertainment. Life gits too borin otherwise.
Gentleman, still drivin in silence, passes ays a piece ay chewin gum.
Dozo starts tellin jokes. — What dae ye call it in Glesgay, whin ye git two cunts oan drugs, huvin a knife-fight wi each other? eh asks, then nods tae Gent, — Dinnae tell um, Marty.
— Dinnae ken, ah goes.
— A square-go, Doyle laughs loudly, liftin one ay the dugs’ heids up n lookin at it in the eye. — A square-go, boy! That’s a fuckin good one, eh pal? That is a fu-kin beau-tee . . .
It wis a relief tae git doon tae Gullane and team up wi the rest ay the boys. They were unloading the copper wire, Terry and Polmont rollin one wheel doon oantae the beach.
They got a shock when we slung oot the two dugs and dragged them whimpering along the car-park. One, ah think it wis the game yin wi the broken legs, hud pished and shat in the van. Doyle was furious. — You’re gaunny die ya dirty cunt, eh rasped, bendin right ower it. Then eh jist suddenly changed, impersonatin that Barbara Woodhoose woman n goes, — Warrkeyysss!
Once we got the bales into position, Doyle doused them in paraffin and set them alight. As the wooden core and wheels started tae catch, the plastic really began to melt and a brilliant, huge flame flew up, coming off the copper. Aw these poisonous vapours filled the air, and every cunt moved doonwind, except that Polmont, whae didnae seem tae bother. The blaze started to burn green, and it wis an amazing sight, ye could look at it aw night. It wis like in school, where they tell ye that the blue bit ay the flame in the Bunsen burner is cauld. Ye felt ye could jist walk intae the green flame and it would feel like magic. Ah wis tryin no tae think how tired ah wis, ah could feel it even through the speed n excitement, n how ah hud the school in the mornin and ah’d git it fae the auld lady when ah sneaked back in.
Then Doyle went tae the Transit and came back wi these lengths ay washing-line rope. Eh goat it roond the collar ay one dug, then the other, and flung the other end ower the branch ay a tree. Eh strung them up, hoisting them, wi Polmont and Gentleman helpin um. As they struggled, choking in the air, Polmont thrashed one with the bat. Terry was shaking his heid, but eh hud a big smirk on his face. Doyle came forward wi the paraffin can. Ah felt disgusted, but excited n aw, cause ah’d eywis wondered what it wid be like tae see something living burn tae death. The dugs kicked as Doyle poured paraffin over them. He held one’s jaws and crudely slashed the tape open with his Stanley, drawin blood as eh slashed through a bit ay the gum n aw. — Lit’s hear this cunt scream, eh laughed, daein the same tae the other.
The dugs were choking and howling. Brian, whae hud been quiet, stepped forward n said, — That’s enough. Ah’m tellin ye.
Dozo went up tae ehs cousin, extendin ehs palms, hands in the air, like eh wis gaunny plead wi um. Then eh rammed ehs heid oantae the boy’s nose. Thir was a snap and blood spurted. It wis a good, clean shot. Brian held ehs face in ehs hands. Ye could see the fear n shock in ehs eyes, through ehs fingers. Ye kent thit thir wis gaunny be nae comebacks. — Is that enough Bri? Is that enough? Eh paced aroond Brian, aroond the carpark, then took a step taewards ehs cousin again. Terry looked away, oot ower the sea, as if he didnae want tae witness nowt. Ah looked at Gentleman.
— Awright? eh said, no botherin.
— Aye, sound, ah goes.
— Is this okay wi you Birrell, Doyle smiles, lookin ower at the dugs. One isnae strugglin anymair. Its eyes are open n it’s still breathin but, jist hingin fae its collar, bound n covered in paraffin, it’s like it’s too weak tae fight anymair. The other yin wi the broken legs is still buckin away. One ay its legs is really bent ower, aw deformed. It wid be kinder now for thum tae die. Naebody would take them now, they’d have tae git put doon anywey.
Ah jist shrugged. Thir wis nowt any cunt could dae tae stoap Doyle. Ehs mind wis made up. Any cunt thit did wid probably end up gittin the same treatment as the dugs.
— Terry? Dozo goes.
— Ah’ll no phone the RSPCA if you dinnae, eh smiles, sweepin a hand through that corkscrew hair.
This is fuckin dead brutal but. Brian’s sitting doon on the sand, still hudin ehs nose. Doyle’s turned back tae um. Eh points doon at um. — Mind how it is thit yir here wi us. Cause we fuckin sorted this oot! Mind that. Dinnae tell other cunts what tae dae n what no tae dae. Dinnae think you kin jist come in here n run the fuckin show!
Doyle torched one dug, then the other. They screamed and kicked as the flames wrapped roond them. After a bit, ah cannae watch, so ah turns upwind, away fae them, n looks doon the deserted beach. Then thir’s a splatting sound. The rope must’ve goat a big dousing ay the paraffin n aw, cause it burns through and one ay the dugs faws n tries tae get up n scramble doon the sand tae the sea. It wis the game yin wi the burst legs but, so it didnae git far.
The other one let oot a low howl and then it stopped strugglin and when its rope burned it fell and lay still.
— Ye cannae huv a fuckin proper beach barbecue withoot the hot dogs, Terry smiled, but eh didnae look comfortable. Then him n Polmont n Doyle started laughin, aw that hysterical wey. Me n Gentleman said nowt, neither did Brian.
Later, when we aw went hame, T
erry n me agreed that we widnae talk aboot that night tae anybody. Ah took the next day oaf school. Whin muh Ma asked whaire ah wis, ah jist telt her ah wis at Terry’s. She raised her eyes. Ah hud goat Rab tae say that ah’d goat in earlier than when ah did. Eh’s awright that wey, oor Rab.
Ah thoat aboot the dugs a bit. It wis a shame. These dugs were killers, aye. Trained tae show nae mercy. Ye cannae dae that tae a dug but. Kill the thing, aye, fair enough, but tae dae what Doyle did shows thit ye urnae right in the heid. That’s Doyle but, eh. Ah wanted tae keep away fae him eftir that, n ah wish ah hudnae said that we’d aw go tae the fitba thegither. Thing is, ah nivir really liked that bastard. Nor that sneaky Polmont wanker. Gentleman, ah dinnae ken aboot. He’s done nowt tae me, but him and Doyle are as tight as a duck’s hole.
Ah’m fuckin dreamin here but, and ma bus is comin. Ah’m no gaunny go tae war wi a nutter like Doyle over a few quid for copper, but eh’s gittin telt aw the same.
Ah git oan the bus and climb upstairs. It’s turnin oot no a bad day. Ye git a barry view ay the castle fae the toap ay a bus gaun doon Princes Street. Traffic’s brutal but. Ye kin see how it is Glesgay people git aw upset aboot Edinburgh, cause they’ve nowt like the castle, the gairdins n shoaps n that. People say thir’s slums in Edinburgh, n that’s true, but the whole ay Glesgay’s a slum, n that’s the difference. That’s how thir like Apaches. Nutters like Doyle stand oot like a sair thumb through here, but ye’d nivir notice them in Glesgay.
Ronnie Allison fae the boxin club gits oan. Ah’ve turned away but eh’s seen me n eh comes ower and sits beside ays. Eh’s clocked the Hibs skerf hingin oot ma poakit right away.
— Aye, aye.
— Ronnie.
Eh nods doon at the skerf. — Ye’d be better spendin an eftirnoon doon the boxin club thin oan the terraces. Ah’m headin thair now.
— Aye, you’re jist sayin that cause yir a Jam Tart, ah sortay half-jokes.
Ronnie shakes ehs heid. — Naw, listen tae me Billy. Ah ken ye play fitba as well, n like watchin it, n aw that. Yir real talent’s as a fighter though. Mark ma words.
Mibbe.
— Aye, you’ve goat talent as a boxer, son. Dinnae throw that away.
Ah want tae play fitba. For Hibs. Jist tae walk oot in the colours at Easter Road. Alan Mackie’ll nivir make it. They’ll see through him. Too flowery, a patter-merchant. — This is ma stoap, Ronnie, ah sais, risin n makin him git up tae lit ays oot.
Eh looks at ays like eh’s an actor in that Crossroads, the bit whaire they come back at the end fir a one-liner, eftir ye think it’s aw finished. — Mind what ah sais.
— See ye, Ronnie, ah goes, turnin n spinnin doon the staircase tae the bottom deck n the doors.
It wisnae really ma stoap, ah’d be better steyin oan tae the next yin, but it wis good tae be oan ma ain. Wi aw the traffic oan Princes Street, I’d be nearly as quick walkin doon tae the Wimpy.
Andrew Galloway
Lateness
In a wey it wis Caroline Urquhart’s fault that we wir late. Yesterday in reggie she wis wearin that broon skirt wi the wee buttons up the sides n they tights wi the big patterned holes that go up the inside and the ootside ay her leg. Ah wis thinkin aboot it whin muh Ma woke ays up wi tea n toast. — Hurry up Andrew, the boys’ll be roond in a minute, she said, as she eywis did.
Ah lit the tea go cauld, cause ah wis thinkin aboot if the holes in her tights went right roond then thir would be one where her fanny wis, n if she wis wearin nae pants aw that ah’d need tae dae wid be tae lift that skirt up n poke ma cock in, n fuck her acroass the desk in English while nae other cunt would be able tae see or hear, like one ay they films or dreams whin they’d aw jist be lookin at the board, n the soak thit ah keep under ma mattress hus come oot n it’s roond ma stiff cock n Caroline’s goat the eye make-up n lip gloss oan, n her face is set in that strict, superior wey, like whin we wir oan oor bikes doon Colinton Dell n we saw her hand-in-hand wi that lucky big auld dirty cunt that’s aboot thirty or somethin, bit naw, she’s wi me now n she wants it aw right n . . .
. . . uugghhh . . .
. . . beuh . . . beuh . . . beuh . . .
. . . the soak’s filled up again.
It took ays a minute tae come tae ma senses. Muh new earring wis still in fae the night before. Ah hud it oan again up the club at the table tennis. Last Friday but, ah minded tae take it oot cause Miss Drew sends ye tae that cunt Blackie if yuv goat one oan at the school. Ah dug oot ma chinos (the cunt banned Levi’s n aw), the dessy boots, the blue Fred Perry n the yellay n black zipper baseball toap.
Gulpin back the tea ah ran through fir a quick wash ay ma face. Ah could hear the cunts doonstairs at the door; Billy n Carl. Muh Ma’s moanin again, so ah hud a quick splash; face, airmpits, baws n erse n ah pilled oan the clathes, still munchin at the toast. — C’moan laddie! she shouted. Ah checked ma drawer by the bed; makin sure the knife wis still thaire. Ah mind ay pickin it up n stabbin that cunt fae The Jam n the poster oan the waw. Ah regretted it a wee bit, cause it’s a good poster n that boy’s awright. The cunts in The Jam wear barry clathes. English poofs but.
Ah cannae stoap takin the blade oot tae look at it. That Friday ah wis tempted tae take it tae school, but ah didnae want any mair bother. Ah stick it in the drawer. Ma shouted ays again. Running doon the stairs n ah nearly tripped ower the dug, eh wis jist lyin thaire in ma wey, no movin. — Oot ma fuckin road, Cropley! ah roared at um, n eh sprung up n we wir oot the door n headin doon the road.
Billy wis nashin like fuck that mornin n eh wisnae happy at aw, but eh didnae say nowt at first. We croased ower the dual carriageway. — Kin you no git ah fuckin bend oan, Carl went tae ays, bit that cunt’s no really bothered aboot bein late, eh wis jist tryin tae wind up Birrell.
— See if Blackie’s oan late duty . . . Billy went, bitin ehs bottom lip.
— Blackie’s nivir oan fuckin late duty oan a Friday! Eh wis oan yisterday whin eh nabbed Davie Leslie, ah telt thum.
It wis a dull mornin even though it wis summer, n it looked like it wis gaunny pish doon later. Still, it wis as close as fuck n ah wis sweatin like a pig jist cause ay the rate wi wir walkin at.
We heard a horn fae this lorry jist as we croassed the sliproad. We looked up n it wis the juice lorry and thaire wis Terry in the passenger seat, that mop ay curly hair stickin oot the windae. — Hurry along now boys, you’ll be late for school! eh goes n a high, pit-oan posh voice.
We gied um the v’s back. — Jist you be thaire the morn fir the game! Billy shouted. Terry made a wanker sign oot the windae.
Thinkin aboot the morn made us feel good, so wi hud a bit ay laugh on the rest ay the wey tae school. Setirday the morn! Fuckin barry!
But Blackie wis oan the fuckin late duty whin we got tae the school. We peeked roond tae check fae behind the hedges that grew up alongside the school fence. The cunt wis thair awright: standin aroond oan the steps wi ehs hands behind ehs back. Billy couldnae resist it, eh pushed Carl oot intae ehs view. Carl jumped back but the cunt clocked us and shouted: — You boys! I see you! Come here! Carl Ewart! Come here!
Carl looked back at us and walked oot aw that feart n sleekit wey, like the dug whin it’s goat oot n steyed oot fir ages chasin aw they bitches in heat. Ah ken how the perr cunt feels, but ah hope he hus mair luck thin me!
— There’s others! I know there’s more! Come here or you’ll be in serious trouble!
Billy and me nodded tae each other and shrugged. Thir wis nowt that we could dae except tae jist walk right through they school gates n acroass that tarmac playground at the front doors whaire that cunt wis standin lookin like fuckin Hitler. Bastard and a half that eh is, ehs wee moustache n specs. Thank fuck ah minded tae take oaf that earring.
— I will not tolerate lateness, Blackie went, then eh looked at Carl. — Mr Ewart. I might have guessed. Eh looks at me for a bit, as if eh’s tryin tae place ays. Then eh goes tae Billy, — It’s Birrell, isn’t it?
— Aye, Billy said.
—
Aye? Aye? he sortay shrieks, pointing tae his specs. It sounded like some cunt hud grabbed ehs baws. — Eyes are what you have in your head you stupid boy! We speak the Queen’s English here. What do we speak?
— The Queen’s English, Billy said.
— Do we indeed?
— Yes.
— Yes what?
— Yes, sir.
— That’s better. Right, inside, the lot of you, Blackie went, and we follayed intae the school hall and corridor.
Whin wi gits ootside the cunt’s office eh stoaps us by grabbin ma shoodir hard. Eh looks at Billy n goes, — Birrell. Birrell, Birrell, Birrell, Birrell, Birrell. The sportsman, isn’t it?
— A . . . yes, sir.
— The football. The boxing, yes. Football and boxing, isn’t it, Mr Birrell? Eh’s still grippin ma shoodir hard, diggin intae it wi ehs fingers.
— Yes, sir.
Blackie considered Birrell wi a genuine sadness in ehs eyes. Eh lits go ay ma shoodir. — So disappointing. You of all people should be showing leadership, Birrell, Blackie says, glancin at me n Carl like wi wir rubbish. Eh looked back tae Billy who wis just starin ahead. — Leadership. Sport, Birrell; sport and time are indivisible concepts. A football match lasts for how long?
— Ninety minutes . . . sir, Billy goes.
— A boxing round is how long?
— Three minutes, sir.
— Yes, and school also functions on the concept of time. When does registration commence?
— Eight-fifty, sir.
— Eight-fifty, Mr Birrell, eh says, then eh turns tae Carl. — Eight-fifty, Mr Ewart. Then eh looks at me. — What is your name, boy?
— Andrew Galloway, sir, ah goes. The dressin-doon the cunt wis giein us wis fuckin mortifyin, cause thir wis gadges gaun past fae the other classes, n lassies n aw, n they wir aw laughin at us.