Glue (12 page)

— Ah’ve heard thit
Soldier Blue
wis pish, Billy sais.

— Naw Birrell, ye goat tae see it man. The bit whaire they chop
the bird’s heid oaf n it flies intae the screen, ah thoat it wis gaunny land in ma fuckin lap.

— That wid huv knocked ye oot ay yir stroke whin ye wir wankin oan yir ain in the back row, Carl sais, n wi aw laugh.

Terry shuts um right up though by singin a bit ay that Rod Stewart song. —
Oh Maggie I couldn’t have tried anymo-ho-hore
 . . . Then eh points at Carl, —
She made a first-class fool outah you
 . . .

Wir laughin at Carl now, whae’s lookin oot the windae at some passin Huns. — Quite a few Soldier Blues oot thair, eh goes, tryin tae change the subject.

Terry ignores Carl n starts laughin ower at me, — Ah eywis huv tae tell this wee cunt aboot the films in the Classic. Ah’ll be daein it fir a while n aw cause it’ll be ages before eh looks auld enough tae git in.

Billy’s laughin at ays, n Carl is n aw, though ah notice he’s never tried tae git intae the Classic.

— Stroll on, Mr Lawson, ah sais tae Terry, — ah kin git intae the Ritz.

— Big deal, Mr Galloway. Yi’ll be fuckin shavin next. Then what? Spunk?

— Plenty spunk here, Mr Lawson.

— Jist lookin fir somewhaire tae pit it aw, eh goes, n every cunt laughs. Cheeky cunt. It wis eywis the patter tae speak tae each other like the teachers spoke tae ye. That’s minded ays aboot the Ritz though, a good time tae change the subject. — Naebody fancy gaun tae the Ritz this week? It’s goat that
Zombies
oan. A double-bill wi
The Great British Striptease
.

— Git tae France, Terry laughs, glancin oot taewards the windae, what dae wi need that fir? We’ve goat aw the zombies in the world tae pagger oot thaire, eh points ootside tae some passin Huns. — Then the night wi git intae the fanny up at Clouds n it’ll be the Great British Striptease right enough. Fuck the pictures, lit’s huv it aw fir real!

That goat me thinkin, then a chant of ‘No Surrender’ went up from the street ootside and my guts turned. Ah didnae ken whether ah wis intae aw this! — What aboot Dozo n that, whaire are they cunts? Look ower thaire! A tall guy wi long hair and a star V-neck jersey was draped in an Ulster flag. The cunt looked ancient. — Ah’m no paggerin wi a cunt that’s fuckin forty, ah sais.

Ah wis still fuckin fifteen years auld.

— Pagger any radge that messes, wee man, Billy goes.

— How did youse git oan this mornin, ah asked um, tryin tae change the subject again. Ah hate bein called wee man.

— Four-one, eh said.

— Whae fir? ah asked.

— Whae dae ye think? It wis Fet-Lor we wir playin. Thair pish. Ah scored yin. Alan Mackie goat two, eh sais, lowerin ehs voice.

Billy hud come fae the Setirday fitba. Eh played fir Hutchie Vale n eh wis the captain ay oor school team. Ah think eh wis a wee bit jealous ay the likes ay Alan Mackie though, cause eh’d signed S-forms wi Hibs yonks ago, but naebody hud offered Billy any contract. — Doogie Wilson take yir gear hame?

— Naw, ah gied it tae ma wee brar n jist came straight here, didnae want tae miss anything, eh sais, noddin tae me tae look at the next table, then ower tae Terry n Carl whae’re starin acroass.

It wis these two lassies sittin at a table acroass fae us. One ay thum’s awright, big teeth n long brown hair. Quite a tall lassie. She’s goat a rid hooded Wrangler toap oan. The other yin’s wee-er bit wi short black hair. She’s wearin an imitation leather jaykit n she’s smokin a fag. Terry’s lookin ower at them. They’re lookin back, laughin tae each other. — Hi, ma mate fancies you, eh shouts ower tae one, pointin at Carl. Carl wis cool though, eh didnae git a beamer. Ah would’ve.

— Ah’m fed up, no hard up, she sais back.

Terry pit ehs hand through ehs corkscrew hair. It’s really tight n curly, even mair thin usual, so ah’m sure that cunt’s hud it permed oan the sly. Eh looks awright but, in that dark-blue Adidas top n they broon Wranglers.

Ah feel a dig in ma ribs. — Dinnae you be shitein oot, Gally, Birrell sais tae ays, ehs voice aw low.

Cheeky cunt him but. — Stroll on, Birrell. It’s you thit’s fuckin well shitein oot . . .

— How am ah . . .

. . . — shitein oot ay the plan wi agreed. Wir gaunny fuckin git a couple ay wide cunts n have them. Wi wir even gaunny git a Huns skerf n wear it fir disguise, mind, ah sais. — That wis the plan wi agreed.

Billy shook ehs heid. — Ah’m no wearin any Huns skerf.

— Fuck that, Terry said.

Carl’s sittin thaire, waitin tae jump in. — Ah’m no bothered aboot wearin one. Ah dinnae want tae wear a Huns skerf, bit ah broat this, fir
camouflage likes, eh sais, pillin a Rid Hand ay Ulster flag ootay ehs plastic bag.

Terry looks at ays, then at Billy, who’s right up n eh’s torn the flag fae Carl’s hands and pulled oot his lighter. Thir wis two blank clicks before Carl managed tae git it back eftir a struggle which wis gittin a wee bit nasty. — Cunt you, eh Billy, Carl goes, ehs face as rid as the fuckin hand oan the flag.

— Dinnae bring oot a Huns flag in front ay me, Birrell says, aw nippy.

Carl folds the flag up, keepin it oot ay Birrell’s reach, but eh’s no pittin it away. — It’s no a fuckin Rangers flag, it’s a Protestant flag. You’re no even a Catholic, Birrell, what you gittin oan tae ays fir a Protestant flag fir?

— Cause yir a cheeky milk-boatil-heided Herts wanker and yir gaunny git yir mooth burst, that’s what fir.

It’s a wee bit chilly here, Billy’s goat one ay they moods oan um. Terry turned away fae the birds and looked ower at him. — Cool it, Birrell, ya cunt, thir’s aw the Huns in the world tae pagger wi, dinnae start fightin each other.

— Jam Tart toss shouldnae be here, Billy goes. — Bet ye Topsy n aw yir mates fae the bus thit huvnae gaun away wi Herts’ll be here wi the Huns, eh sneered.

— Ah’m here wi youse, but, um ah no, Carl sais back.

As eh said that, ah clocked a team ay Huns, mibbe aboot oor age or wee bit aulder, come intae the Wimpy. We went quiet. Then they seen us, and they went quiet n aw. Ah could tell they wir lookin at Carl’s Rid Hand ay Ulster flag and Birrell’s skerf and tryin tae work it aw oot. Birrell wis starin back at thum. Terry wisnae bothered, he wis still lookin at they lassies. — You goat a felly? he shouted ower.

The bird wi the long broon hair n the teeth looks um ower. — Might huv. What’s it tae dae wi you?

Ah’m tryin tae git a wee sketch at her tits bit ye cannae make thum oot under that toap.

— Naw, cause ah’m sure ah saw you wi a felly at Annabel’s one time.

— Ah dinnae go tae the Annabel’s, she sais, but she’s lookin aw that chuffed n shag-happy wey back at um, n that cunt’s in thaire.

— Well it wis somebody thit looked like you . . . Terry’s up and squeezin in beside her in thair booth. That cunt isnae shy.

A couple ay the Huns start singing
The Sash
. These cunts’ll be as
nippy as fuck, cause it wis oan the telly the other day thair that the Pope’s comin tae Scotland. No that ah gie a fuck aboot that. Ah do gie a fuck aboot they wankers gittin aw wide through here but. Birrell’s happy though, cause thir no lookin at him. — These cunts . . . wi dae these cunts, eh sais tae ays. Thir wis a guy wi a mohican n a rash ay spots doon the side ay ehs face, n a fat cunt wi blonde curls.

Ah felt the chib in ma poakit. Ah cut a cunt at the school one time, even if it wisnae really much ay a cut. Glen Henderson. It wis oot ay order, the boy wisnae bein that wide. Ah mind ay the cunt twistin ma airm back in the first year whin eh wis wi they cunts eh’d been at Primary wi, so ah owed um, but really it wis me thit wis jist showin oaf this time. Ah hudnae meant it tae happen like that. It wis ehs hand, ah stuck it in ehs hand. Ah shat ma pants fir days n case it went back tae the polis, the teachers, or hame tae muh Ma. The boy Glen said nowt but. In a way it wis barry cause eftir it, that wis the first time Dozo Doyle or Marty Gentleman or any ay that team spoke tae ays. Bit ah shat ma pants still aboot what ah’d done. Here though, it would be different. Nae comebacks, jist some Glesgay cunt ye’d nivir see again. Ah dinnae like the idea ay cairryin a blade, no really, but every cunt kens these slummy wankers cairry knives. Mind you, half these glory-huntin cunts arenae real Glesgay, thir fae fuckin Perth n Dumfries n places like that, speakin in a fake Weedgie accent. They want tae be seen as Glesgay, soas that every cunt’ll think thir hard. Want us aw tae think thit thir aw like that boy fae the Special Unit or somethin. Ma fuckin hole. Naw, ah dinnae like cairryin a knife, but it makes ye feel good tae huv that extra back-up. Jist tae scare cunts wi like. — You take yir skerf oaf n ah’m game, ah’ll follay ye eftir thum, ah said tae Birrell.

Birrell ignores me n takes a paper plate n sets it oan fire wi the lighter, hudin it aw carefully, lettin it burn doon. Thir’s a lassie in a Wimpy uniform tidyin up, and she’s seen um, but she disnae seem bothered.

Billy’s gittin as wide as fuck. Eh’s rated the third-hardest cunt in our school, behind Dozo n Gent, ivir since eh battered Topsy in the second year. But ah reckon eh could take Dozo in a square-go, wi Billy bein intae the boxin n that, but ye nivir git a square-go wi the likes ay Doyle. Carl hated it when Birrell n Topsy hud that big pagger in the park, cause eh’s good mates wi baith ay thum.

— Billy, moan tae fuck, yi’ll git us flung oot, Carl moans, then turns tae me, — See this cunt fir fire . . .

Billy lits it burn doon, turnin it soas it disnae burn ehs hand, then droaps it intae the cup. — Burn, ya Orange bastards, eh sais softly.

An auld wifie wi silver hair, n wearin glesses, a hat n a yellay coat looks ower. She’s jist starin. The perr woman looks a bit dippit. It must be shite tae be auld. Ah’ll nivir git auld, no me.

Stroll on.

Then Dozo Doyle n his crew came in; Marty Gentleman, Joe Begbie, Ally Jamieson n that mental lookin cunt wi the slicked black hair n the bushy eyebrows. The cunt that goat expelled fae Auggie’s then came tae us. Eh wis jist at oor school for a few weeks before they expelled him n aw. Eh wis a year above us. They pit um in Polmont fir a bit. Jamieson n Begbie ur fae Leith, but they ken Dozo n Gent fae the toon.

They came ower tae us. It wis barry, cause the Huns stoaped singin, aw except one. They started tae stand a wee bit apart fae each other, n busy thirsels wi other things, like orderin burgers.

Noticin the effect that they wir huvin, Dozo’s boys started giein it the walk bigtime, every slow step rubbin the Rangers boys’ faces in the fact that thir gaunny dae nowt. Dozo goes, — Billy, Gally . . . what’s this? Eh looked at Carl’s Red Hand flag. Carl shat it. Ah cut in. — Eh . . . wi took it oaf this daft Hun doon the station. Fir disguise, like you says. Nae colours. Take it oaf Billy, ah nudged Birrell, and the cunt did, though eh wisnae chuffed.

Ah eywis back Carl up, cause it wis him ah started gaun tae the fitba wi yonks ago. Ehs auld boy used tae take us tae Hibs one week n Herts the next. That wis when ah picked Hibs n Carl picked Herts. It wis funny cause Mr Ewart comes fae Ayrshire and eh supported Kilmarnock. Eh used tae embarrass Carl n me by wearin the Killie skerf when they played at Easter Road or Tynie.

Ma Dad nivir bothered wi the fitba. Eh claimed eh supported Hibs, but eh nivir went. It wis only cause eh once won Spot the Ball in the
Evening News
that week, whin it wis a picture fae Easter Road rather than Tynie eh pit the winnin cross oan. Ah mind everybody sayin that we’d be buyin a big hoose, but muh Ma goat a new washin machine n ah goat Cropley the dug. Muh Dad used tae say, — At least ah goat somethin back fae the Hibees. Ah support the team that supports me.

But he supported nae cunt.

Mr n Mrs Ewart eywis looked oot fir ays whin muh Dad wis away. The Birrells did n aw, and muh Uncle Donald, takin ays oan trips n that; Kinghorn, Peebles, North Berwick, Ullapool, Blackpool n aw that
stuff. But the Ewarts maist, n they nivir made a big thing aboot it, it nivir seemed like they wir daein ye a favour.

So ay eywis try tae look oot fir Carl tae make up fir it. Ye huv tae look oot fir the cunt sometimes, because eh goes ehs ain wey n sometimes people git the wrong idea. It’s no thit eh’s bein wide, it’s jist thit eh disnae try tae crawl up tae aw the hard men. Eh eywis hus tae be different, that cunt.

Anywey, it seemed awright wi Dozo, which wis a relief tae me! Probably tae Carl n aw, cause that cunt rules the scheme. — Whaire’s Juice? eh goes. That wis what wi called Terry cause eh wis workin oan the juice lorries. Ah nodded tae the booth acroass fae us. Terry hud this lassie’s palm oot n eh wis pretendin tae read it. — Eh’s thaire, ah goes. — The fortune teller. Eywis thoat the cunt wis a fuckin gyppo right enough!

Dozo laughed at this, which made ays feel good, cause along wi Gentleman, eh wis the hardest cunt at school, n ah hudnae really spoken
that
much tae him. This wis me gittin right in wi the main men, jist as much as Terry n Billy wir, mibbe even mair.

Dozo goes, — Awright, Terry?

Terry’s been that intae the birds eh’s no seen them come in, or
made oot
eh’s no seen them come in. — Doz-oh! Gent! Ally! How’s the boys! Gaunny batter fuck oot ay some Huns the day, eh! eh says loudly, n the Huns that had been that noisy comin intae the place started tae slink oot aw quiet. Terry liked tae think eh wis fourth-hardest whin he wis at school. Ma erse.

Dozo Doyle laughed back at Terry, like they baith kent the score, then smiled at the two birds. — Yir girlfriend, aye? eh asks Terry.

— Workin oan it mate, workin oan it . . . Terry said, turning to the bird beside him. — Ye gaun oot wi ays then?

— Mibbe, she sais. The lassie’s goat a bit ay a beamer. She’s tryin no tae make oot thit she hus, bit she hus.

That cunt Terry isnae slow cause the next thing eh’s fuckin well snoggin wi her, n a couple ay the boys start cheerin.

Dozo’s no lookin that happy but. Eh’s goat plans, n eh disnae want any birds gittin in the road. — We’d better nash, eh says.

Wi aw stands up, and even that dirty cunt Terry breaks oaf ehs clinch. That cunt’s as wide as fuck. Ah heard um say tae her, — Under the cloak at Frasers, eight.