by Unknown
I had a long lie-in the following day, did some work and shopping, then cooked a casserole for the girls. Later, I called home. My mother picked up the phone and whispered mouse-like greetings I could hardly make out, before I heard a click, the sound of the upstairs line being picked up. — Princess! A voice boomed, and another click indicated that Mum had hung up. — How’s chilly Jockoland?
— Quite warm actually, Dad. Could you put Mum back on for a minute?
— No! I most certainly could not! She’s in the kitchen being a dutiful wife and cooking my dinner, ha ha ha . . . you know what she’s like, he chirped, — happy in her kingdom. Anyway, how is this very, very expensive college course of yours going? Still on for a first, ha ha ha!
— Yeah, it’s okay.
— When are you coming home to see us then, will you get down here for Easter?
— No, I’m working shifts up here in the restaurant. I might make it one weekend . . . I’m sorry the course is expensive, but I’m enjoying it and doing well.
— Ha ha ha . . . I don’t grudge the expense, sweetie-pie, anything for you, you know that. When you’re a famous film producer or director in Hollywood, you can pay me back. Or get me a part in a film, as Michelle Pfeiffer’s love interest, now that would be up my street. So what else have you been up to?
Wanking off old guys in a sauna . . .
— Just the usual.
— Boozing all my hard-earned cash away, I’ll bet! I know you students!
— Well, maybe a little. How’s Will?
My father’s voice grew a bit distant and impatient. — Fine, fine, I think. I just wish . . .
— Yes?
— I just wish that he had some normal friends, instead of the lost causes he seems to collect. That pansy boy he’s hanging about with now; I told him that he’ll get tarred by the same brush if he’s not careful . . .
The ritual of the weekly phone call to my dad, and I initiated it. It shows how desperate I am for company. Lauren’s gone home to Stirling for a long weekend. Dianne’s still in the library most of the time, working night and day on her dissertation. Last night she took me to her family home in some part of the city I didn’t know, and we had a drink with her mum and dad who are really chilled, cool people. We even smoked some grass.
So today I’m hanging around the uni out of boredom, waiting in some anticipation for the boys coming back from Amsterdam. Chris tells me that he’s putting on a drama production for the festival and he asks me if I’d like to get involved. But I know what he really means. He’s nice enough but I’ve fucked so many guys like him in the past; the sex is fine for a month, rapidly growing dull unless it becomes a gateway to something else; what: status, economic gain, love, intrigue, S&M, orgies? So I tell him, that I’m not interested, too busy. Busy hanging around with these strange local guys, some of them knocking on a bit now. Rab, the bastard who rejected me. Simon, who seems to want the world, and who apparently fancies that it’s only a matter of time before he gets it. And Juice Terry, happy as things are. And why not? He’s shagging everything and has enough cash to throw around on drinks. This makes him a formidable power as he’s already living out a dream he’s been preparing for all his life. No need to make it less sordid, or to go more upmarket, no, all he wants to do is just fuck, drink and bullshit.
Terry was so often in the old port of Leith, I’d joke to Dianne and Lauren that he was like Mr Price in Mansfield Park, ‘once in the dock-yard, he began to reckon on some happy intercourse with Fanny’. This was something we’d got into after I realised that Terry continually referred to every woman as ‘Fanny’. So around the flat we started calling each other Fanny and began quoting passages from the book.
Now I’m alone, filing my nails and the phone rings. I thought it might be my mum, calling for a chat while Dad’s at work, but I’m surprised, though not unpleasantly, to find that it’s Rab in Amsterdam. At first, I think he more than misses me, he regrets not shagging me when he had the chance. Since he’s got into all this stag stuff, his hormones have raced and he laments not having got his piece of the action. As do I, but I will. Now he wants to be Terry or Simon, for a few weeks, hours, minutes, before his kid comes along or before he ties the knot.
I play it cool, asking about Simon and Terry.
There’s a chilly silence for a couple of beats before he speaks. — Never really seen that much ay them. Terry’s whoring aw the time during the day, and cruising lassies in the clubs at night. I think Sick Boy’s probably daein the same. That and trying tae pull scams. Eh keeps gaun oan aboot contacts in the industry n aw that, n it does your nut in after a bit.
Sick Boy: vain, selfish and cruel. And that’s his good side. But I think that it was Wilde who said that women appreciated downright cruelty more than anything else and at times I’m inclined to believe it. I think Rab does too.
— That Sick Boy, he’s a fascination to me. Lauren was right, she said that he gets into your head without you noticing, I say wistfully, not forgetting that I’m talking to Rab on the phone, but trying to make out that I am forgetting.
— So ye like him, he says, and in what I think is quite a petty and spiteful way.
I feel my jaw tighten. There’s nothing worse than a man who won’t fuck you when he has the chance and then goes all funny when you consider fucking somebody else. — I didn’t say I liked him. I said he fascinates me.
— He’s scum. He’s a pimp. Terry’s just an idiot, but Sick Boy’s a scheming cunt, Rab coughs with a real bitterness I’ve never heard from him before. It’s only then that I realise that he’s a bit drunk or stoned or both.
This is strange. They used to get on well. — You’re working with him on a movie, remember.
— How could I forget, he sniffs.
Rab seems to have turned into Colin: possessive, controlling, disapproving and hostile, and he hasn’t even fucked me yet. Why do I seem to have this effect on men, to bring out the worst in them? Well, I’m not taking this. — And you’re having your little boys’ stag night together in Amsterdam. Find a whore, Rab, enter into the spirit of it if you want laid before you get married. You’ve had your chance here.
Rab’s silenced for a bit, then he says: — You’re mental, trying to effect nonchalance, but you can tell by the tone of his voice that he knows he’s behaved inappropriately, been undignified, and for somebody as proud as him, that’s a terrible thing. He’s fooling nobody, he wants me, but you are just too fucking late, Mr Birrell.
— Aye, he says, breaking the silence, — you’re in a funny mood the day. Anyway, the real reason I called was to speak to Lauren. Is she there?
Something crashes in my chest. Lauren. What? — No, I feel my voice waver, she’s gone to Stirling. Why do you want her?
— Aw, that’s awright, I’ll call her at her mum’s. I said to her I’d check if my old man had this software which converts the stuff she’s got on the Apple Mac she uses at home to Windows. Anyway, he’s got it and he’s happy to install it for her. It’s just that she said it was quite urgent, cause she had stuff on the Mac she needed . . . Nikki?
— I’m here. Enjoy the rest of your stag, Rab.
— Cheers, see ye, he says, hanging up.
I can see why Terry gets really wound up by him. At first I couldn’t, but now I can.
27
TENSION IN THE HEID
Muh heid is fuckin nippin. This fuckin migraine. Too much thinkin, that’s ma problem, no thit some ay the thick cunts roond here wid understand that. Too much gaun oan in ma heid. That’s what comes ay huvin fuckin brains; makes ye fuckin well think too much, think aboot aw the fuckin wide cunts thit need tae git thir fuckin faces burst. N thir’s loads ay thum n aw. Crappin bastards, thir ey laughin at ye behind yir back, aw aye: ah ken n ah kin tell. They think thit ye dinnae see, bit ye fuckin well see awright. You ken. Ye eywis fuckin well ken, surein ye fuckin dae.
Ah need some fuckin Nurofen. Ah hope Kate gits back fae her ma’s wi that greetin-faced bairn
ay hers soon, cause a ride eywis helps, cuts oot aw the fuckin tension in the heid. Aye, whin ye shoot yir duff it’s like gittin yir fuckin brain massaged. Ah cannae understand aw they cunts thit say, ‘No the now, ah’ve goat a heidache,’ like in they fuckin films n that. See, tae me, that’s whin ye need a fuckin ride. If every cunt had a ride whin they hud a heidache, thir widnae be as much fuckin trouble in the world.
Thir’s noise at the door; that’ll be her now.
Bit hud oan a fuckin minute. Naw it’s fuckin well no her.
Some cunt’s tryin tae fuckin well brek in here . . . cause ay me sittin wi the light oaf cause ay ma heid nippin. That’s thaime thinkin thit nae cunt’s in! Well, some cunt’s fuckin well in awright!
Game oan!
Ah roll oaf the fuckin couch oantae the deck, like one ay they Bruce Willis or Schwarzenegger type ay cunts, n crawl along the flair, standin up against the waw behind the livin-room door. If they ken whit thir daein thi’ll fuckin well come ben here first, instead ay gaun up the stairs. The door flies open, the cunts huv fuckin well forced it. Thir in now. Ah dinnae ken how many, no a loat by the sound ay it. But it disnae matter how fuckin many come in, cause thir willnae be any fuckin well gaun oot.
Barry . . . this is fuckin barry . . . Ah stands behind the door, waitin oan the cunts. This wee fucker steps in, cairryin this baseball bat, the fuckin wee bastard. A big disappointment tae me. Ah shuts the door behind um. — Lookin for something then, cunt?
The wee cunt turns roond n starts waving the bat in front ay ays, but eh’s fuckin well shat it right away. — Oot ma road! Lit ays oot! eh shouts. Ah recognise that wee cunt! Fae the pub, fae Sick Boy’s pub! He kens me n aw, n eh’s eyes go wider. — Ah didnae ken it wis your place, man, ah’m just gaunnae go . . .
Fuckin right the wee cunt didnae ken. — C’moan then, ah smile at um. Ah points tae the door. — Thaire it is. Whit ye fuckin waitin fir!
— Oot the wey . . . ah’m no wantin any bother . . .
Ah stoap smiling. — Yuv fuckin well goat it whether yir fuckin well wantin it or no, ah tell um. — So gie’s that fuckin bat now. Dinnae make ays take it oaf ye. Fir yir ain sake, dinnae make ays dae that.
The wee cunt’s standing fuckin tremblin, n ehs eyes start fillin wi water. Fuckin wee poof. Eh lowers the bat n ah grabs ehs wrist n takes it offay um, then ah grab ehs throat wi ma other hand. — Whit did ye no fuckin well leather ays fir, ya radge? Eh? Fuckin shitin wee cunt!
— Ah didnae . . . ah didnae ken thit . . .
Ah lits um go tae git the bat wi baith hands. — This is what ye fuckin should’ve done, n ah lamps the wee cunt wi it.
Eh pits ehs airms up and the bat cracks intae the wee cunt’s wrist n eh lits oot this scream like a dug gittin run ower, n ah’m fuckin leatherin right intae um wi it, thinkin aboot what eh’d huv done if Kate n the fuckin bairn wir here.
Ah stoap whin ah see that thir’s blood oan Kate’s fuckin cairpit. The wee cunt’s lyin aw fuckin well curled up n screamin like a fuckin bairn. — SHUT UP! ah fuckin shout at um. They waws are paper-thin n some cunt’ll be oan tae the fuckin polis.
Ah find an auld dishcloth n pit it ower the cunt’s heid whaire it’s split n pit ehs basebaw cap back oan um, that’ll stoap the fuckin Roy Hudd fir a bit. Then ah git the cunt tae turn oot ehs poakits n gie um stuff fae the kitchen tae clean the cairpit wi. Thir’s nowt here, jist some fuckin change, a set ay hoose keys n a wee bag ay pills.
— They Es?
— Aye . . . eh’s fuckin well scrubbin away, lookin roond aw worried.
— Nae fuckin ching?
— . . . Naw . . .
Ah check the fuckin locks oan the door. Thuv been forced oot wi him shoodirin it, but the wid husnae fuckin split, which is just as well fir that wee cunt. Ah pit them back in. It’s as flimsy as fuck but, n it’s gaunnae need replaced.
Ah goes back tae whaire the wee cunt’s still scrubbin. — They blood stains better fuckin well come oot. If ah’m gittin fuckin gyp fae hur fir huvin blood on hur cairpit, ah’ll make it worth ma while n show yis fuckin blood awright.
— Aye . . . aye . . . thir comin oot . . . eh goes.
Ah finds oot thit the cunt’s called Philip Muir n eh’s fae Lochend. Ah’m lookin at the cairpit. Eh’s no made a bad joab. — Right, you’re comin wi me fir a bit, ah tells um.
The wee cunt’s too feart tae say anything n wi gits tae the fuckin van. Ah opens the front passenger seat n eh gits in. Ah strolls roond tae ma seat n climbs in, kennin that eh’s shitein it too much tae make a dash for it. — You navigate, pal, you ken whaire wir gaun.
— Eh . . .
— Wir gaun tae your hoose.
Ah sticks oan the radio n wi drives doon tae Lochend. This van’s fucked, oan its last fuckin legs. Thir’s that barry auld Slade song oan, ‘Mama Weer Aw Crazee Now’, n ah starts singing along tae it. — Slade’s fuckin barry, ah tells the wee cunt.
We pills up ootside the fuckin gaff. — Yir ma n dad’s?
— Aye.
— Nae cunt in?
— Naw . . . bit thill be back soon.
— Wi better fuckin nash then, c’moan.
So wi git inside n ah’m checkin oot the gear. Thir’s a barry telly, flat-screen job, n it’s goat a video, one ay they new types wi the compact disc, but wi fuckin pictures like, a fuckin VDU or whativir the fuck the cunts call it. Thir’s a new stereo n aw, one ay the yins wi the tons ay fuckin speakers. — Right, cunty baws, start fuckin well loadin up, ah tells the wee fucker.
The boy’s still shitein ehsel n ah’m watchin oot fir nosey cunts in the street. Any cunt blabs aboot this, n it’s doon tae him, eh kens that. Wi git intae the van n take the gear back tae Kate’s. The barry thing is thit thir’s a Rod Stewart CD wi aw the hits oan it. Ah fuckin poakited that right away.
Whin wi comes back, she’s ben the hoose wi the bairn. — Frank . . . the lock . . . she’s pointin doon at they screws, back oan the fuckin flair again. — Ah jist put ma key in n they fell right through . . . she sees the wee cunt, standin behind me. He’s shitein it again cause ay that fuckin lock, n eh fuckin well should be.
— Awright, ah goes, n wi head oot n come back in wi an end ay the telly each.
She’s goat the bairn up in her airms. — The lock . . . Frank, what’s gaun oan? What’s aw this? She’s lookin at the set.
— This wee mate ay mine here, ah tells her, explainin the story ah’d worked oot, oan the wey back in the motor. — Eh’s a right wee fuckin good Samaritan, eh, pal? Came intae some gear, so ah sais bring it doon here. It’s better thin your auld stuff.
— But the lock . . .
— Aye, ah’ve fuckin well telt ye aboot that but, Kate. Mind ah sais: that lock needs fixed. Ah’ll git ma mate Stevo oan tae it, he’s a locksmith, he’ll sort it aw oot. Look at this but! New fuckin DVD n aw! Huv tae trade in aw they auld videos now.
— It’s awfay nice, she sais. — Thanks, Frank . . .
— It’s no me thit ye should be thankin, it’s Philip here, eh, pal.
Kate looks at the shitein wee cunt. Eh’s goat some fuckin eye oan um now. — Thanks, Philip . . . but what happened to your face n aw that?
Ah cuts in. — It’s a long fuckin story, ah tells hur. — What it is, is thit Philip here owes ays a few favours, so whin eh goat a new stereo n telly fir ehs pad, eh phoned ays up n goes, you kin take the auld stuff if ye like. So ah fuckin well thinks, this is jist gaunnae be a load ay fuckin junk, ken, but the wee cunt sais it’s jist eighteen months auld!
— Ye sure, Philip? It looks awfay dear . . .
— Ye ken they young cunts, it’s goat tae be the fuckin fashion wi thum. That’s like the fuckin Stone Age tae they cunts! Aye, Philip thoat ay me first, but some other wide bastard thought he wis due it, tried tae pit the fuckin bite intae the wee cunt here. So, ah picks up the baseball bat, — wi went doon n hud a wee word wi the cunt, pit um right, eh, Philip?
The wee cunt gies a daft grin.
Kate’s gittin the telly plugged in n set
up. — It’s a great picture! She’s like a fuckin wee lassie at Christmas. — Look at that, she sais tae the bairn, — Bob the Builder! Can we fix it! Yes we can!
— Nowt but the best, hen.
The wee cunt says fuck all, eh’s lucky tae be alive. Ah’m thinkin thit ah might huv uses fir a daft wee muppet like that. Ah takes um ootside. — Right, ye kin go now, but yuv tae meet ehs doon the Café del Sol bottom ay Leith Walk at eleven the morn’s mornin.
— What fir? Eh asks, looking aw feart again.
— A joab. Wee cunts like you git intae too much fuckin bother if they urnae workin. The devil makes fuckin work fir idle hands, eh. Mind, Leith, eleven o’clock. If ah’m late, ask fir Lexo. N keep oot ay bother, cause yir fuckin workin fir me now. Mind, the café the morn.
The wee radge’s stoaped shakin but eh still looks fuckin scoobied. — Dae ah git wages?
— Aye. Ye git tae stey alive. That’s yir fuckin wages, ah whisper tae um. — Tell ye what but, ah goes, seein that eh’s goat sovies oan jist aboot every finger, — nice rings but, mate. Take thum oaf.
— Aw, man, no muh sovies, please, man . . .
— Oaf, ah goes.
The wee cunt starts pillin at thum. — They willnae come oaf . . .
Ah pills oot ma blade. — Right, ah’ll git the cunts oaf fir ye, ah tells um.
Funny, but they came oaf awright eftir that.
The wee cunt hands thum ower, aw sad, n ah poakits thum, keepin one back n giein um it. — Ye did awright the day. Keep daein awright, ye git thaim back in payment. Git wide or fuck up, ye die. The café the morn, ah tell um, n go back in n shut the door.
Ah bell Stevo oan the mobby, tellin the cunt it’s an emergency.
Kate goes: — That stereo’s brilliant, Frank! Ah cannae believe it! It was so good ay the laddie.