Glue (11 page)

. . . 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.

— Spell ‘sir’ will you, Mr Galloway? eh asks.

— Eh . . . ah goes.

— Wrong! There is no ‘a’. Spell ‘sir’.

— S-I-R.

— Correct. S-I-R. Not S-U-R, eh sais. — Andrew Galloway . . . he looks at his watch. — Well, Mr Galloway, registration, as your associates tell me, commences at eight-fifty. Not eight-fifty-one. Eh sticks ehs watch in ma face n taps it. — Certainly not nine-o-six.

For a while ah thought that the cunt wis gaunny jist lit us go withoot giein us the web, cause eh’d been struttin aroond like eh’d made a big point. One ay us should huv sais ‘sorry sir’ or some shite like that, cause it wis like eh wis waitin oan us tae say somethin. Bit naw, we wir sayin nowt like that, no fir that wanker. So eh marched us intae ehs office. Thaire’s the web sittin oan the desk, it’s the first thing ah see. Ah goat a sinkin feelin in ma guts.

Blackie slapped ehs hands thegither n rubbed thum. Thir wis big chalk marks oan ehs blue suit jaykit. We’re standin in line. Ah’ve goat ma hands oan the radiator behind ma back, warmin thum up fir what’s tae come. Blackie gies the web sair. Eh’s rated one ay the top three behind Bruce fae Tecky n mibbe Masterton, the Science cunt, though Carl reckons eh’s hud it sairer offay Blackie thin eh did offay Masterton. — Our society is founded on responsibilities. One of the cornerstones of responsibility is punctuality. The late never achieve anything, eh sais, lookin at Billy, — in sport, Birrell, or in anything else. A school which tolerates lateness is by definition a failed school. It is a failed school because it has failed to prepare its pupils for a life of work.

Carl wis gaunny say something. Eh eywis speaks up fir ehsel, that cunt; yuv goat tae gie it tae um. Ye could see um, sortay hestitatin,
gittin ready. Then Blackie looked at him, wi ehs neck juttin forward and ehs eyes bulging oot. — Do you have something to say, Ewart? Speak up then, boy!

— Please sir, Carl goes, — it’s jist thit thir isnae really any jobs now. Like where muh Dad works, at Ferranti’s, they jist peyed oaf a loat ay men.

Blackie looked at Carl in sheer disgust. The fuckin coupon oan the specky cunt; ye kin see thit eh thinks the likes ay us are nowt. That goat me gaun. — United Wire huv peyed oaf people n aw, sir. And Burton’s Biscuits oan the estate.

— Quiet! Blackie snapped. — You’ll speak when you’re spoken to, Galloway! Insolent young man, eh sais, lookin us up n doon like we wir sodjirs oan report. — There’s plenty of work for those that are prepared to work. Always has been, always will be. The lazy and the work-shy on the other hand, they will always find an excuse for their indolence and sloth.

Funny, but him sayin indolence and sloth made ays think ay Terry, n he’s jist aboot the only one ah ken whae is workin, even if it’s jist oan the juice lorries. Ah wis tryin no tae look at Billy n Carl, as though ah could tell that Carl wis startin tae snigger. Ye jist ken. Ah could feel masel gaun as well. Ah kept ma heid doon.

— What would have happened, Blackie asked us, now pacin up n doon, n lookin idly oot the windae, then pickin up the web oaf ehs desk n swingin it aboot, — if Jesus had been late for the last supper?

— Eh would’ve goat fuck all tae eat, Carl spat oot the side ay ehs mooth.

Blackie goes spare. — WHAA-AAT!! Who . . . who said thaatt . . . you . . . you . . . you . . . little animals! Ehs eyes jist bulged oot like the cunts in cartoons whin they see a ghost, like in that
Casper
. Eh starts chasin us roond the table swingin the fuckin lash. It wis like the fuckin bit at the end ay Benny Hill, n wi wir aw laughin like fuck, shitein it in a wey but laughin, bit then eh gits Carl n starts thrashin at um, and Carl’s protectin ehs face, but Blackie’s gaun mad. Billy jumped roond n grabbed Blackie’s wrist. — Let me go, Birrell! Take your hands off me, you fool of a boy!

— Yir no supposed tae hit um like that, Billy said, standin ehs groond.

Blackie stares at Billy, then lowers ehs airms n Billy lets go. — Put your hands out, Birrell.

Billy looks at him for a bit. Blackie goes, — Now! Billy puts ehs
hands oot. Blackie gies him three, but no too hard. Billy disnae even flinch. Then eh does the same tae me, but no Carl, who’s rubbin ehs leg through ehs ice-blue Jam Tart Sta-prest whaire Blackie’s web caught um.

— Well done, lads. You’ve taken your punishment like men, eh went, aw nervous. The cunt kent eh wis oot ay order. Eh nodded tae the door. As we went oot, we heard him say, — Like Jesus would have done.

And we goat the fuck oot ay thaire n up tae the reggie cless before wi aw cracked up again. Up thaire the first thing ah saw wis Caroline Urquhart gaun oot the door. She’s no goat the broon skirt oan, it’s a long, tight black yin. Ah watched her go doon the corridor wi Amy Connor. — Rides, Birrell went. Miss Drew looked at us and ticked our names off in the register. Ah gied her the thumbs up and wi headed oaf tae oor clesses.

The first load ay them came oot ay Waverley. We wir sittin in the Wimpy opposite, nae colours, ’cept for Billy, whae’d taken the skerf oot ay ehs poakit n made a big show ay pittin it oan. Carl wis a Jambo, he wisnae bothered, but me n Terry never hud oor skerfs oan. — Take the skerf oaf, Billy, these cunts’ll be ower here, ah telt um.

— Fuck off ya shitein wank. Ah’m no feart ay they Glesgay wankers.

Birrell’s fuckin things up for every cunt. This wisnae whit wi agreed. Ah looks ower at Terry. — That wisnae whit wi said, Billy, Terry tells um. — These cunts’ve goat the numbers. Thir aw crappin bastards whin ye git thum oan thir ain, one against one. Bit they’ll nivir go fir that.

— This is the wey tae dae it, Carl said, — like they West Ham boys ma cousin Davie n ehs mates met eftir Wembley. They telt us when they went up tae places like Newcastle or Manchester, they never wore thir colours. That’s what we have tae dae: merge wi the Huns crowd, find some cunts who’ve goat the mooth and batter the cunts.

— Only a coward doesnae wear thir colours, Birrell goes, — ye wear them wi pride, even against aw the odds.

Terry’s shakin ehs heid, as eh clicks ehs lighter oan n oaf. Ye kin
smell bevvy oan ehs breath. Eh said eh rode that Maggie lassie, n that shut Carl up fir a bit, cause he wis tryin tae git intae her. — Listen Billy, whae made that fuckin rule up? Glesgay cunts, wi aw thir Irish shite, the fuckin orange n the green. That suits thaim, cause they’ve goat the numbers. It’s easy tae be wide whin yuv goat fifteen thousand skerfed wankers behind ye. Guaranteed. Bit how many ay these cunts would want tae ken us wi even numbers? Answer ays that if ye kin.

This is Terry talkin sense fir once in ehs puff. Ah kin tell Billy’s listenin. Eh strokes ehs chin. — Awright Terry, but it’s no jist an Irish thing, it’s a Scottish thing, comes fae Culloden whin the English widnae lit us wear clan colours. That’s what your auld man wis sayin Carl, mind.

Carl’s noddin, rubbin the logo oan this plastic bag eh’s hudin. Ehs auld boy’s eywis tellin us aboot history n things, whin wir up at the hoose. Bit it’s no like the history ye git taught at the school, aw English kings n queens n aw that shite thit nae cunt’s bothered aboot.

— Aye, bit whae keeps it gaun? ah sais. — Terry’s right, Billy. It’s playin intae thair hands. They Orange n Celtic cunts are ey dressed like radges wi aw thir colours n badges n flags. Like wee fuckin lassies oan parade at the Leith Pageant. They swarm aw ower ye cause they ken every cunt’s gaunny jump in fir them. See whae wants tae ken when we go as a team and we’ll huv it wi the same numbers ay a squad ay them. Jist boys against boys, nae hidin in the crowd. N the beauty ay it is, the rest ay them willnae ken wir Hibs!

Billy looked at ays n laughed. — We kin spot a Glesgay wanker a mile away withoot colours. They’ll be able tae spot us jist the same.

— Ah dinnae see how ye kin check yir heid fir lice at distance, Terry laughed, n wir aw joinin in, then eh goes, — Mind youse, ah’m sure that bird in the film last night hud lice in her pubes.

— Git away, ah goes.

— Ah’m tellin ye, Gally, ye want tae huv seen this boot. Fuckin hell. N the size ay the welt oan the boy thit wis giein her the message . . .

Terry eywis went tae the Classic up in Nicolson Street oan a Thursday night, tae watch the dirty films. Ah tried tae git in once, but ah goat knocked back fir lookin too young. — Whit wis oan? ah asked.

— The first yin wis called
Hard Stuff
, the second yin wis
I Feel It Rising
. Bit we steyed oan fir the late show,
Soldier Blue
. Fuckin barry film.