by Laura Hird
This was one of the best things in this space game for Mikey Devlin: to just stop Earth time and check every cunt out. Tazak was getting impatient though. It was too much of a psychic energy outlay and it could even send a vibe to The Elders who would investigate and their game would be up before it really started. The best way to halt Earth time, was to pick a small, rural spot at night and freeze proceedings in the locality. Operating on this sort of scale was crazy. Tazak was growing irritated with Mikey’s fannying about. – C’moan ya cunt! he shouted, – Wuv goat tae fuckin nash!
– Aye … aye … Mikey was looking a slim dark-haired girl up and down. – No bad, he commented, – no bad at aw.
Tazak stared with disgust at this chunky, hairy Earth female, with its ugly strips of fur above its tiny eyes; its weird head, with its large, protruding nose and that horrible swelling around the lips of the big mouth. They were truly a repulsive looking race, yet biologically not so different from his own people. He remembered back to his studies at The Foundation as a lesser, where the others had mocked his small eyes and called him ‘The Earthling’. It was ironic that he should be down here now, mixing with them.
He shuddered in recall at the occasion, when, with Mikey, he had coupled with one of these creatures, a small, almost hairless female. They were all in a very high transcendental state at the time, but he had felt disgusted with himself afterwards. Even more irritated by this recall, he hissed at his Earth host, – Ah sais nash! Wuv goat things tae dae!
– Aye, right then ya cunt, Mikey moaned. He had to concede, there were things to do.
13
Shelley was dreaming again. She was on the ship and the alien was standing over her. There was a man there this time, a human being. It wasn’t Liam. It looked a little bit like Alan Devlin.
14
Ally Masters was having the dream also. He was coming home with Denny McEwan and Bri Garratt through the city centre. Sole Fusion had been a good one but the fanny werenae biting and, if the truth be told, the E’s were a bit smacky. He was feeling them. Everything seemed to be slowing down. Then, through a blurred haze Ally felt himself walk towards this strange light. It was more than an inappropriate appreciation of a distant streetlamp brought on by the pills. This was an amorphous mass of protoplasm and he was heading through it, it seemed to be forming a structure around him. He sensed that others were walking alongside him, but he couldn’t turn his head. He tried to shout to Denny and Bri but nothing came out.
Then, in a strange instant he found himself fully awake and in what seemed like an immense white amphitheatre.
– Is this the fuckin whitey tae end aw whitey’s or what? Ally asked, looking at Bri and Denny. His friends’ eyes had shrank to pinpricks. He felt a strong ammonia-like sting in his nostrils.
– No fuckin real man! Denny said, tentatively touching the white walls which had looked smooth but on closer examination and touch, seemed to be composed of tightly-packed glowing encrustations.
Then, where there had previously only seemed to be a wall, a door opened and two large aliens, naked save for a loin cloth to cover their genitals, and devoid of bodily hair, walked into the huge amphitheatre. – Awright boys. How yis daein? one of them asked.
The Earth thugs were too shocked to reply. Then, without looking at his friends, Bri Garratt asked, – Aw fuckin hell man … what the fuck’ve wi goat here …
– Fuckin aliens man! Wild! Denny McEwan gasped.
– Well fuckin aliens or nae fuckin aliens, nae cunt fucks wi the Hibs crew, Ally snarled, then turned to the Cyrastorian youths. – … ah dinnae ken what youse cunts are aboot, but if yis fuckin well want bother yis uv came tae the right fuckin place … The East Terracing Top Boy pulled out his stanley knife and advanced towards the tall, thin creatures.
The aliens remained unfazed by Ally Masters’ approach. The Earth Casual sensed his hosts’ dismissive arrogance. He lashed out at the spokesperson, only to feel his blade bounce against an invisible wall which the Hibs Boy could just about visualise as a quivering and pulsing translucent membrane, just a few inches from his would-be-victim.
– Yir shitey fuckin stanley knives are fuck all use against oor force field, eh Earth cunt! the alien sneered.
– Fuck … Ally moaned.
– No sae fuckin wide now, ya fuckin earth tube, another alien laughed.
The top alien gestured languidly and the stanley knife tore out of Ally’s grip and stuck in the wall. – See Earth cunt, youse think thit yir a hard crew but yir jist a bunch ay fuckin shitein cunts in the whole intergalactic scheme ay things. We’ve no even started here yit. Whaire’s yir top boys hing oot?
– What the fuck dae youse cunts want? Ally demanded.
– You tae shut yir mooth fir a second, the alien smiled through his thin lips. – Ah’m Tazak, by the way. Ah ken youse cunts so dinnae bother wi the introductions. Tazak lit up a cigarette. – Ah’d crash the ash, bit ah’m runnin a wee bit low. Anywey, here’s how it is; thir’s nae fuckin wey that youse cunts’ll run us, dinnae even think aboot it. But we’re here tae help youse. We need cunts doon here tae run the fuckin show fir us. We want youse cunts, cause youse speak oor fuckin language. Could’ve landed in California in the desert like in aw they crap films ay yours, but we went tae Midlothian but, eh.
– How here but? Masters asked.
– Goat tae land somewhere. Might as well be here as anywhere else, eh. Besides, we ken the score. It’s only Scotland. Nae cunt listens tae youse dippit fuckers. Anywey, we’ll make every cunt listen tae us. Whae runs things doon here now?
– Like, the main men n that? Ally asked.
– Aye.
– Well, that’s like in London, or Washington, eh, Denny turned to Ally, who nodded.
– Fuck off, these cunts dinnae rule us, Bri tapped his chest.
– Aye, but that’s the fuckin Government ya cunt. Like Westminster … or The White Hoose. That’s whaire the real power is.
– The only fuckin White Hoose ah ken is the one in Niddrie … Denny laughed.
Tazak was growing impatient. – Shut it the now Earth cunt! Wir talkin serious business here! We’ll fuckin gie they cunts a wee demonstration ay what we kin dae. They kin pit the polis oan as much fuckin OT as they like … this is the mentalist crew in the universe thir dealin wi here! They’ve no seen real fuckin swedgin yit! We’ll fuckin show thum swedgin! Swedgin thit could tear a fuckin solar system apart!
The top boys looked at each other. This alien cunt, this Tazak, talked a good pagger. They would bide their time and see if the cunt could deliver. They could feel the adrenaline pumping through their bodies. Masters and his crew sensed that they had been preparing themselves all their lives for something like this to go off, and they were determined not to let the colours down.
15
The chippy was doing great business. Not from the travellers who were barred by the growing number of police from crossing over the fly-over, but from the reporters and camera crews who had come to observe the phenomenon. However, Vincent, the proprietor, was still a far from happy man. There had been a break-in the other night. The fags and cash had been secured in a strongroom and the lock was intact. The thieves, in their frustration at only being able to get some confectionery, had splashed the contents of industrial sized chip sauce containers all over his shop. He had an idea who the culprits were. It had to be that Ian Simpson and that Jimmy Mulgrew. He’d see Drysdale about this.
16
The energy was there. It was telling them to come to Scotland. In London, in Amsterdam, in Sydney, in San Francisco, the posses on their comedowns heard the message. They would all head to Rosewell in Midlothian for the greatest ever gathering of human spirits. The energy crackled in the air. Posse leaders, seemingly driven, pointed the way to this small settlement on the fringes of Northern Europe. The authorities, sensing something was in the air, watched and waited.
At the chippy, Vincent is dumbfounded. The lock for the strongroom is intact and the cash
is all there, but the cigarettes miraculously seem to have vanished.
17
It’s almost 4.00 am and Andrew, Jimmy’s dad, feels that his son should be asleep and his mates should be home, instead of upstairs in Jimmy’s room playing those cheap Tartan Techno tapes which they buy in the Asian Discount Stores up the South Bridge. Parental control had become a blurred concept since Jimmy had filled out and met his old man’s warning gazes with challenging, hardened eyes.
Jimmy’s dad is not too sensitive though, and as long as it’s low enough for him to hear the satellite telly, then it’s not a problem. The Doctor’s valium has taken the edge off Andrew’s pain. His wife is long gone. She got fed up with Andrew’s depression, impotence and lack of cash since his redundancy from Bilston Glen and went to live with a Day Centre worker in Penicuik.
Jimmy should be sleeping. Fuckin school, Andrew thinks, then remembers that his son left last year. Andrew feels that Jimmy’s mother must be giving their son money. Money which goes on drugs when Andrew finds himself lucky to manage a fuckin pint down the club on a giro day. That selfish wee cunt and his mates were always off their tits on something or other. Like the other night; they had come back in some state. Acid. He knew what it was. These wee cunts thought that they had invented drugs.
It’s ten years since he was made redundant from the pit. History had vindicated Scargill, sure, but that counted for fuck all. The times had been about selfishness and greed and Scargill was simply out of time and Thatcher was in. Andrew had put in his shift on the picket lines, went on demos, but had sensed from the off that it wasn’t going to be a glorious time for the old industrial proletariat. The vibe was important. The vibe then was small and petty and fearful, with too many people eager to brace the false certainties their masters and assorted lackeys bleated out.
In a way it was healthier now: nobody believed in anything these lying bastards ever spouted. Even the politicians themselves seemed to rap out the old bullshit with more desperation than the traditional smug conviction we’d grown accustomed to. The vibe was changing alright, but what was it changing into?
Boom boom boom. The tartan techno beat thudded insistently. Boom boom boom. Andrew hit the volume button on the handset, but the fuckin tartan techno, it was moving up too, keeping pace. Then Mrs Mooney next door was thumping on the wall. Andrew let his knuckles go white on the rests of the chair.
Upstairs, Jimmy and the boys are celebrating. The duty cop at the sub-station, PC Drysdale had given them the coveted crime number they required to advance their Criminal Injuries Claim. Dysdale had taken in the young team’s fictitious rantings all too eagerly. He had little time for the local yobs, but far less for those fucking travellers who were making life on his patch a complete misery. It would only take one flashpoint incident for something horrendous to go off, then his promotion board chances would be well and truly jeopardised. Drysdale’s instincts told him to wade in and bang up some likely-looking crusties. This sensitive policing bollocks had its limitations. However, he knew the line that Cowan, the head guy on the promotion board would be taking.
18
The Hibs Boys were being less than co-operative with the aliens. – How the fuck should we help youse? Ally Masters asked Tazak.
The alien puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette. – Youse kin dae what yis fuckin well like …
He was interrupted by another voice: – Cause we’re daein you a favour ya fuckin radge! A human figure stepped out from the shadows and the Earthlings stood shocked at the presence of one of their own kind.
The Hibs Boys started in disbelief. It was Mikey Devlin, Alan Devlin’s brother. The cunt that had vanished. Now he was back. He was still clad in Nike’s!
– Mikey Devlin! Ally Masters said, looking Mikey up and down. – Very … eh, eighties gear, ma man. The trainers like. Whaire ye been hidin?
– Hyperspace, eh, Mikey smiled, – N ah’ve goat a tale tae tell youse cunts thit’s a loat mair important thin fuckin labels.
He told the boys the story.
– But how could ye just leave like that? Bri Garratt demanded.
– Turn yir back oan yir mates? Ally asked.
– Turnt ehs back oan Scotland, Denny McEwan sneered.
The parochialism of his old crew was getting on Mikey’s tits. – Fuck Scotland ya daft cunt! Ah’ve been aw ower the fuckin Universe! Seen things youse cunts couldnae fuckin well see in yir wildest dreams!
– Fuck it Mikey. Dinnae come back here n slag off Scotland, that’s aw ah’m sayin, Denny held his ground.
Mikey looked tiredly at Tazak. These cunts were just not getting the message. – Scotland … he scoffed. – It’s jist a fuckin spec ay dust tae me. Shut the fuck up aboot Scotland. Ah’m back here tae make us the top fuckin crew oan Planet Earth!
19
The weather had broken. It pished rain from the heavens. Trevor Drysdale tried to get a good night’s sleep for his promotion board interview the next day. Only the thoughts of those crusty bastards, drenched in a cold field gave him the warm satisfaction to lull him into a soft dreamland. As anxious as he was the next morning, Drysdale had prepared well. Interviews were all about cracking codes, finding the current vogue; one minute liberal rhetoric, the next the hard line. The best professional in any bureaucracy was always the one who could control his or her prejudices and learn the dominant spiel with conviction. How one acted, of course, was totally irrelevant, as long as the espousal was effective. With Cowan, it was the liberal bullshit he wanted, so Drysdale would give him it, in shovel loads. For Cowan, this was almost as important as personal tidiness.
20
Clint Phillips had been body-swerving Jimmy and Semo since his hospital discharge and the registration of the crime with PC Drysdale. They meet up with Dunky by the quarry, who tells them that Clint has intimated to them that he does not intend to share out the proceeds from the Criminal Injuries Compensation Board. Jimmy and Semo decide to put the frighteners on Clint. They will steal a car and drive it at high speed at him, across the forecourt in the garage. – Show the cunt wir no fuckin aboot here, Semo said.
21
Trevor Drysdale looks at his reflection in the mirror. He has back-combed and blow-dried his hair. He looks a bit poofy with a quiff, Drysdale thinks, but Cowan would approve of the softer image, which is much less severe than his normal brylcreamed look. Drysdale considers that he cuts quite a dash in his light grey Moss Bros suit. He was moving out of this ugly hell-hole, taking on supervisory responsibilities. The South Side Area station was calling.
Drysdale notes that the heavy rain had stopped. He takes the car into the city, allowing himself plenty of time. He parks about half-a-mile away from that huge, pristine, structure; a true temple of law enforcement, that is the South Side Area station. Drysdale elects to walk, so that he can come upon the building that will surely be his new home, to orientate himself slowly and gradually to his new surroundings.
22
Jimmy and Semo’s attempted scare on Clint was a failure. As they parked in waiting across the road, Clint was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Jimmy’s anger rose as he saw Shelley and Sarah go into the garage and disappear into the back shop with Alan Devlin.
– That Devlin cunt … Jimmy hissed.
– Hud on the now, Semo smiled, – we’ll show that fucker.
Alan Devlin was fucking Sarah across the table, and Shelley was watching them, thinking how uncomfortable it looked as to how it felt when her and Alan were actually doing it.
Devlin was well into his stride when a loud, repetitive car horn blasted from the forecourt. – Fuck! Marshall! He snarled, pulling out of a tense Sarah, who tugged her skirt down and her knickers on in almost one movement. Devlin janked on his trousers and ran into the front shop. Jimmy and Semo were in the car, with the window wound down. They were waving bags of crisps and some other stock they had taken from the shop while Devlin had been on the job.
– YOUSE UR FUCKIN DEID YA WEE CUNTS! Alan growled, chargi
ng towards the car, but the boys sped off down the road.
At this point Clint came across the forecourt, licking an ice cream cone.
– Whair the fuck’ve you been? Devlin hissed.
– Ah jist goat a cone … fae the van … Clint gasped weakly, as Shelley and Sarah giggled in the shop doorway.
– Ah fuckin well telt ye tae keep shoatie! Devlin snapped, and in a swiping movement knocked Clint’s cone from his hand onto the oily forecourt.
The younger man’s face flushed red and his eyes watered as he registered the chuckles emanating from the girls.
Jimmy and Semo had decided to keep the car and go into town to score more drugs. They had managed to successfully punt the acid to a posse of travellers. The stolen car, a white nissan micra, was, by co-incidence, exactly the same colour and year as that driven by Allister Farmer, a member of the local police promotion board for the South Side of Edinburgh. The co-incidence became a cruel one as Farmer, heading up to the South Side Area office to conduct some promotion interviews, was overtaken by Jimmy and Semo’s car as they sped up into town to head down to Alec Murphy’s at Leith.
Having passed Farmer, Jimmy giving the outraged plain-clothed cop a languid V-sign, they tore up St Leonard’s Street. As Trevor Drysdale was walking along the pavement, thinking of his responses to the questions that would be asked at the interview, he was unawares that he was passing a huge, murky, oily puddle which spilled onto the road from a blocked drain. Drysdale had little time to react as a white nissan micra sent a sheet of filthy liquid flying over him. In an instant Drysdale’s quiff was plastered to his cranium, and one side of the light grey suit had turned a wet black.