by Unknown
On the new information, investigating officer DI Douglas Gillman said: ‘It’s true that we have received some additional information on this case which may or may not be of use to us at this point in time. We are appealing for a male caller, who phoned on Tuesday evening, to get back in touch.
Meanwhile, the victim’s grieving family endorsed the police calls for members of the public to come forward. His sister Mrs Janice Newman (34) said: ‘Gary was a great guy who didn’t have a bad bone in his body. I can’t understand how anybody could be covering up for the monster who killed my brother.’ If anybody has any information about this case, the number to contact is 0131–989 7173.
That’s fuckin shite. That’s the first thing they tell ye in the nick, if the polis start daein that thir fuckin desperate, it’s jist thir wey ay pittin the fuckin heat oan. Then ah starts thinkin aboot that cunt Second Prize, aboot how the fuckin cunt’s no been in touch. That fuckin pish-heid mooth, gabbin shite . . . another fuckin so-called mate . . .
FUCKIN GOD . . .
No thit ah believe in that religion shite, these cunts uv caused mair bother thin fuckin nonces, ower in Ireland n that. N it’s been proved thit they priest cunts ur the biggest fuckin nonces oot the loat, so the whole fuckin thing aw fits thegither when ye think aboot it. That Murphy’s fuckin deid. That’s the problem wi some cunts but: they nivir just fuckin take the time tae fuckin well sit doon n think aboot things. Nae fuckin brains.
Kate comes in, n eftir she’s made the tea n pit the bairn doon, she starts washin her hair. Now she’s blow-dryin it. Dinnae ken what she wants tae wash ur fuckin hair fir whin shi’s steyin in. Mibee it’s fir the morn, fir hur shift at that fuckin clathes shoap. Ah bet thir’s some cunt workin thair or in some ay the other shoaps in that fuckin centre thit’s goat thir eye oan hur. Some fuckin wide cunt thit thinks thir it. One ay they pretty-boy, fanny-rat types like Sick Boy, cunts wi nae fuckin conscience thit’ll jist yaze a lassie.
As long as she’s no goat her fuckin eye oan the likes ay him. That gits ays thinkin. — Mind what happened wi you n me, whin wi first goat thegither? ah goes.
She looks up at ays, clicks oaf the dryer. — What dae ye mean? she sais.
— Mind, in bed, n that?
Now she’s lookin at ays like she kens whit ah’m talkin aboot. That means she thinks aboot it n aw. — That was ages ago, Frank. Ye wir jist oot ay jail. It disnae matter, she goes, screwin up her face a bit.
— No now it disnae, bit it fuckin matters tae me what cunts ken aboot it. You’ve no said nowt tae nae cunt aboot that, huv ye?
She pills oot a fag n lights it up. — What . . . of course no. That’s between you n me. It’s naebody’s business.
— Too right, ah goes. — Yuv no said nowt but, huv ye?
— Naw.
— No even tae that fuckin Evelyn? ah asks hur. Before she answers, ah goes: — Cause ah ken what happens when burds git thegither. Yis talk. Eh? Aye, yis fuckin dae.
Ye kin tell this hus goat her fuckin well thinkin. She’d better fuckin no be lyin tae me, no for her sake. — No aboot that but, Frank. That’s private n aw that wis ages ago. Ah nivir even think aboot it.
Aw, so shi disnae even think aboot it. Disnae even think aboot the fact thit she spent two weeks kippin up wi a boy thit couldnae fuck her. Like fuck she disnae think aboot it. — So yis dinnae fuckin well talk then, you n that fuckin Evelyn, n that other fuckin mate ay yours, her wi the fuckin hair . . .
— Rhona, she goes, aw wary.
— Fuckin Rhona. Yir tryin tae fuckin well tell ays thit yis dinnae fuckin well talk. Aboot yir fellys, likes?
Her eyes’ve went aw wide, like she’s feart. What’s she fuckin well goat tae be feart aboot but? — Aye, wi talk, she goes, — but no aboot that sortay thing, likes . . .
— No aboot what?
— No aboot intimate stuff, stuff thit goes oan in bed n that.
Ah looks her right in the eye. — So ye dinnae talk aboot stuff thit goes oan in bed like, no tae yir mates?
— Of course no . . . what is this, Frank, what’s wrong? she asks.
Ah’ll tell ur what the fuck’s wrong awright. — Right then, what aboot the time whin a bunch ay us wir oot, doon the Black Swan, mind ay that time? That Evelyn wis thair n her wi the hair, what’s it ye call yon piece again?
— Rhona, she says, aw worried. — But, Fran . . .
Ah snap my fingers. — Rhona, that’s the yin. Right, now, see that cunt ye wir wi before me, the cunt ah fuckin panelled up the toon? ah asks n hur eyes go wider. — Ah mind wi wir in the pub that time, the Black Swan, n you says thit eh wis shite in bed anywey, that’s what ye fuckin well sais aboot the boy that time, mind?
— Frank, this is silly . . .
Ah points at her. — Answer the fuckin question! Did you fuckin well say that or did ye no fuckin well say it?
— Aye . . . bit ah wis jist sayin that . . . cause ah wis relieved tae be away fae him . . . ah wis relieved tae huv you!
Relieved tae fuckin well huv me. Relieved tae be away fae that cunt. — So ye wir jist fuckin sayin it fir effect. Tae impress me n yir fuckin mates.
— Aye, that’s it! she nearly sings oot, like that’s hur oaf the hook.
Disnae fuckin realise thit she’s jist fuckin catchin hursel oot wi aw that crap. Jist like aw they cunts thit cannae keep thir fuckin mooths shut; jist talkin hersel intae a deeper fuckin hole. — Right. So then it wisnae true, eh wisnae fuckin shite in bed. Eh wis brilliant. Eh wis much fuckin better thin me. Is that the fuckin truth then now, is it?
Now it’s like she’s jist aboot fuckin greetin. — Naw, naw . . . ah mean . . . it disnae matter what eh wis like in bed, ah wis jist sayin this cause ah hated um . . . cause ah wis gled tae be rid ay um. It disnae matter what eh wis like in bed . . .
Ah gies a wee smile at that. — So, ye wir jist sayin it cause it wis fuckin ower, cause yis wir fuckin history.
— Aye!
She’s talkin fuckin shite. It disnae add up. — So, what happens if we split up? If we’re fuckin history? Ye jist start sayin they things aboot me, roond every fuckin pub in Leith? That’s it then, eh?
— Naw . . . naw . . . it’s no like that . . .
Ah git her fuckin well telt. — Better fuckin no be! Cause see if you ivir breathe a word ay that, thi’ll be nowt fuckin well left ay ye eftir it. Thi’ll be nae fuckin trace thit you ivir fuckin existed . . . right?!
She fuckin well looks through tae the bairn’s room n then looks back at me. Then shi bursts intae tears. She thinks ah’m gaunnae hurt her fuckin bairn like ah’m some kind ay a nonce cunt. — Look, ah goes, — dinnae greet, Kate, c’moan . . . look, ah didnae mean it, ah says, n ah’m ower n ah’ve goat ma airm roond her n ahm gaun, — . . . it’s jist thit thir’s a loat ay people thit hate ays, ken? Some cunts’ve been sayin things, behind ma back n that . . . n huv been gittin stuff . . . stuff through the post . . . dinnae gie thum weapons . . . that’s aw ah’m fuckin well sayin . . . dinnae gie thum weapons tae yaze against ays . . .
N she’s goat ah hud ah me n she’s sayin: — Naebody’ll hear a bad word aboot ye fae me, Frank, cause yir nice tae me n ye dinnae hit me, but please dinnae make ays feart like that, Frank, cause he used tae dae that n ah cannae live like that, Frank . . . yir no like him, Frank . . . he wis rubbish . . .
Ah sit up straight n pill her heid intae ma chest. — S’awright, ah goes, bit ah’m thinkin: you dinnae fuckin well ken me at aw, hen. Bit ah kin feel muh heid startin tae nip n muh fuckin hert startin tae beat hard. Ah’m thinkin aboot thum aw: Second Prize wi ehs loose mooth, Lexo, that cunt Renton, n fuckin Scruffy Murphy. Aye, that cunt wis lucky eh didnae fuckin well git it good. Still fuckin well might. Tryin tae fuckin set me up! That’s thinkin like a fuckin nonce. He wis fuckin lucky.
N that cunt seems tae ken aboot that Chizzie nonce n aw. Ah’ll find oot whair eh kens aw that shit fae n beat it oot ay him. Thinks cause wi go back that’ll save um.
Will it fuck save um.
&nbs
p; No fuckin wey am ah gaun back inside but, that’ll be the fuckin day. But ah huv tae watch ma step here. It’s like every cunt kens, n even though ah ken masel it’s jist ma fuckin mind playin tricks oan ays, ye jist ken thit thir aw startin tae close in. N ah’m strokin Kate’s hair bit ah’m tensin up n ah need tae git the fuck oot ay here cause ah cannae be held responsible for what ah might dae. So ah sits up n tells her thit ah’m gaun oot tae watch the fitba.
— Right . . . she goes, lookin ower at the telly, as if tae say, ye kin watch jist as easy here.
Ah nods tae the screen. — It’s better doon the pub wi the boys. Ye need tae git the fuckin atmosphere.
She thinks aboot this for a while, then goes: — Aye, it’ll dae ye good, Frank. It’s aboot time ye goat oot instead ay jist sittin in that chair.
Ah’m tryin tae think what the fuck she means by that. Mibee it does look fuckin suspicious steyin in aw the time, but ah hud that wee Philip cunt screwin a hoose in Barnton fir ays. Gave the cunt another two sovies back fir ehs trouble. Ah should git oot but. Mind you, she’s awfay fuckin keen tae git ays oot. She cannae go oot cause ay the bairn, but she kin huv some cunt up though. — You jist huvin a quiet night, aye?
— Aye.
— No huvin nae cunt roond? That fuckin Rhona?
— Naw.
— No huvin that Melanie hing-oot roond? She’s doon Leith aw the time.
— Naw, ah’m jist steyin in n readin ma book, she goes, showin ays this book.
Readin fuckin books. Thir aw shite, jist put ideas in cunts’ heids. — Huvin nae cunt roond at aw?
— Nup.
— Right, see ye then, ah goes, flingin oan muh jaykit n headin oot intae the cauld. Just as well thit nae cunt’s comin roond. Cunts like Sick Boy, ye ken the wey his mind works. Sayin tae that fuckin Melanie, ye must huv plenty tidy wee mates whaire fuckin game tae be filmed gittin rode by . . .
FUCKIN . . .
Ah fuckin punch the waw in the stair . . .
Cunt kens what eh’d fuckin well git if eh ivir tried that.
Oan the wey doon tae the boozer uh sees that cunt June gaun along the Walk, n ah makes oot like ah’m croassin the road eftir her. Ah’ll gie the cunt restrainin order; cheeky fuckin cunt, ah widnae go within twenty-five fuckin yards ay that sow. Aw ah’m daein is tryin tae fuckin tell her it wis Murphy n Sick Boy’s fuckin fault, gittin aw fuckin mixed up, bit the cunt turns n runs doon the road! Ah shouts eftir her tae fuckin stoap, soas ah kin explain, bit the daft cunt’s away. Fuck that dozy hoor!
Ah snap oan the fuckin mobby n remind the cunts tae git doon thaire, Nelly n Larry, cause ah ken thit Malky’ll be thaire awready, hudin up the fuckin bar. Malky the fuckin alky. Sure enough, the cunt is thaire n Larry n Nelly urnae fuckin far behind. Thing is, it’s the fuckin same vibe in here. Every cunt seems tae gie ye the look thit fuckin well goes ‘aye, ah ken you, ya cunt’. N this is mates thit wir talkin aboot here, or so-called fuckin mates.
Wir watchin the Hibs match oan Sky. A good fuckin run thir oan now, n they nivir fuckin lose oan Sky. That Zitelli scores wi a barry overheid kick. Three–one, too fuckin easy. Everybody still seems tae be talkin aboot yon beast cunt but. N there’s me jist sittin thaire, wishin thit they could talk aboot something else, but at the same time ah’m fuckin lovin it.
— Ah bet ye it wis one ay the young team, they boys drippin wi the sovies, Malky goes. — The bastard probably touched one ay thum up or something like that whin eh wis a wee laddie, eh’s filled oot n grown up now, n it’s bang! Take that, ya clarty beast cunt!
— Mibee, ah goes, lookin ower at Larry, whae’s goat a big, daft smile oan ehs face. Fuck knows what that cunt’s sae fuckin happy aboot.
Now the cunt tells everybody a fuckin joke. — This grocer in Fife is in ehs shoap n it’s freezin cauld n ehs standin ower the electric-bar fire. A wifie comes in, looks at the counter n goes tae um, is that yir Ayrshire bacon? The grocer looks at her n says, naw, ah’m jist warmin ma hands.
Ah dinnae git that cunt’s sense ay humour at aw. Malky’s the only cunt thit laughs.
Nelly turns roond n says: — See, if ah met the cunt thit did that fuckin beast, ah’d buy the cunt a fuckin pint right now.
Funny, the wey eh says it makes ays want tae shout: git yir fuckin hand in yir poakit then, ya cunt, cause eh’s right fuckin here, bit mates or nae mates, the fewer people thit ken the better. Ah keep thinkin aboot Second Prize. See, if he’s gone back on the pish n started blabbin . . . Larry’s still smilin away, n ah’m gittin nipped here, so ah goes ben the bog n hus a fuckin line.
Whin ah comes back ah sits masel doon, n some cunt’s goat another round ay lager in. Malky points at the full gless. — That’s yours thaire, Frank.
Ah nods tae the cunt, n takes a gulp, lookin ower the toap ay the pint at Larry, whae’s starin at ays, wi that fuckin daft smirk oan ehs face.
— What the fuck ur you lookin at? ah asks the cunt.
Eh shrugs ehs shoodirs. — Nowt, eh goes.
Fuckin well jist sittin thair lookin at ays like eh kens everything thit’s gaun oan in ma fuckin heid. Nelly’s picked it up as well as ah hands um the wrap ay ching under the table. — What the fuck’s up here? eh asks.
Ah nods ower at Larry. — Cunt’s jist fuckin well sittin thair wi a daft fuckin look oan ehs face, starin at me like ah’m some fuckin daft cunt, ah goes.
Larry shakes ehs heid n raises ehs palms up n goes: — What? as Nelly’s eyes go aw hard. Malky looks aroond, across at the bar. Sandy Rae n Tommy Faulds are drinkin up thaire, n thir’s a couple ay wee cunts oan the pool table.
— So what ur ye fuckin sayin then, Larry, eh? ah asks um.
— Ah’m no sayin nowt, Franco, Larry goes, lookin aw innocent. — Ah’m jist thinkin aboot that goal, n eh nods tae the screen behind ays as a replay comes oan.
So ah’m thinkin, awright, ah’ll lit it go, but sometimes that cunt kin be too fuckin wide fir ehs ain good. — Right, well, dinnae fuckin sit lookin at ays wi that daft fuckin wee smile oan yir face, like some fuckin dippit cunt. If yuv goat anything tae say tae ays, jist fuckin well say it.
Larry shrugs n turns away, as Nelly heads fir the bogs. That’s no bad ching, nowt but the best offay Sandy. For me it’s nowt but the best anywey. Cunts ken better thin tae sell me gear that’s cut tae fuck.
— Your mate Sick Boy’s some cunt, eh, Franco? The dirty movies n that, Larry grins.
— Dinnae mention that cunt’s name tae me. Cunt’s goat a few wee fuckin hairies gittin rode upstairs in ehs pub n the cunt thinks eh’s a fuckin big Hollywood producer. Like that fuckin Steven Spielberg cunt or whatever they call the fucker.
Nelly comes back fae the bog n Malky looks at um n goes: — Whaes fuckin shout is it?
But Nelly ignores um cause ye kin tell eh’s aw that wey whin yuv been in the bogs thinkin aboot somethin n ye want tae talk tae every cunt aboot it. — Ken what gits oan ma fuckin wick, eh goes, then before any cunt kin say what, eh says: — Every cunt here’s done time, n eh takes a big sup ay lager. A bit’s dripped oantae ehs blue Ben Sherman, but eh disnae notice. Clarty fuckin cunt.
We’re aw lookin at each other n noddin away.
— Ken whae nivir does time? You ken, eh looks at me, — ah ken, eh points at ehsel, — you ken, eh looks at Malky, — n you ken, eh sais tae Larry, whaes face breks intae that fuckin smile again.
N the thing is, ah’m thinkin aboot that big cunt Lexo, the first cunt thit came intae ma mind right away, but Nelly surprises ays by gaun: — Alec Doyle. What’s he done? A year? Eighteen months? Fuck all. That cunt leads a charmed life.
Malky looks aw seriously at Nelly. — So what ur ye sayin then? Ur ye tryin tae say that Doyle’s a grass?
Nelly’s eyes are set aw that hard wey. — Aw ah’m sayin is thit the cunt leads a charmed life.
Larry’s face goes aw serious. — Yir no wrong, Nelly, eh says softly.
— Fuckin surein ah’m no wrong, Nelly says, lookin annoyed tae fuck.
Malky turns roond
tae me n asks: — What d’ye reckon then, Frank?
Ah look aroond the table at them aw, n right intae thir eyes, Nelly’s n aw. — Doyle’s eywis been awright in ma fuckin book. Ye dinnae jist call some cunt a grass unless ye kin back it up. N that means wi facts. Wi hard fuckin facts.
Nelly disnae like that, but the cunt’s no sayin nowt. Naw, eh’s no happy at aw. Yuv goat tae watch that cunt, cause eh kin jist fuckin well kick oaf like that, but ah’m fuckin well watchin um awright.
— Good point, Frank, Larry goes, nodding away aw sly, — but Nelly’s goat a point n aw, eh sais, takin the wrap fae Nelly n gaun tae the bogs.
— Ah nivir called any cunt a grass, Nelly sais tae me as Larry heads oaf, — but think aboot what ah sais, eh goes, then turns n nods tae Malky.
Aye, Larry hud better think aboot things n aw. Fuckin stirrin cunt. Thir’s eywis somethin gaun oan wi that cunt, n eh’d better make sure ah dinnae fuckin well find oot what it is.
Well, wir aw wired oan the fuckin ching n wi opt fir movin oan. Wi huv one in the Vine, then a couple in Swanney’s. It’s still the real Leith doon here, but everything is fuckin well changin. What gits me is what they done tae the Walk Inn. Cannae believe that, ah hud some great nights in thair. We hit another couple ay boozers, then end up back where wi started.
That wee Philip cunt’s hingin aboot n aw. Here, in this fuckin pub. Dinnae want that wee cunt n his mates hingin aboot a boozer ah use. — You, fuckin blow, ah tells um.
— Eh, ah’m waitin oan Curtis, eh’s comin doon wi the motor, eh goes. Then eh says, aw fuckin hopeful: — Eh, ye couldnae git ays some coke, could ye?
Ah looks at the wee cunt. — Whaire ur you gittin the fuckin dosh fir ching?
— Offay Curtis.
Aye, that fuckin well figures. That fuckin crew ay Sick Boy’s, they cunts eywis seem tae be in the dosh. A couple ay people huv said that Renton’s been seen aboot again, up the toon n that. See, if Sick Boy’s seen um n husnae fuckin telt ays . . .
But this wee Philip cunt’s still hingin aboot. Ah nods ower tae Sandy Rae, whae’s sittin wi Nelly at the bar. Larry n Malky are pished, playin the bandit. Sandy comes ower. Sorts the wee cunt oot wi a couple ay gram wraps. The big, gangly wee cunt wi the tadger comes in, then they go ootside intae the motor n ah hear it tearin up the road.