Glue (17 page)

— Aye, c’moan boys, simmer doon eh, Carl goes, wrappin an airm roond Terry, then pullin at the cunt, forcin him tae brek ehs stare at me. Terry protests, but Carl’s play-wrestling um, forcin um tae join in. — Fuck off Ewart, ya milk-boatil-heided cunt . . .

Then ah says, — Ah meant it as a fuckin joke. Dinnae go fuckin thinkin yir the big wideo cause ye goat lifted at the fitba, Terry. Dinnae go fuckin well thinkin that, ah tell the cunt.

Terry pushes Carl aside n looks at ays. — Dinnae you fuckin well go thinkin that you’re the big wideo cause yuv been cairryin a fuckin knife.

A knife. The boy’s face.

Ah feel cauld. Ah feel thit ah’m alaine, thit they aw hate ays.

Birrell’s backin the cunt up n aw. — Aye, you pack that shite in, yir gaunny git in big bother, ah’m tellin ye Gally. N ah’m sayin that cause ah’m yir mate. Yir patter’s gittin brutal.

Tellin mi fuckin

Ivray cunt fuckin tellin mi

The boy’s face. That Polmont cunt. Nivir flung a fuckin punch at the fitba, the fuckin shitein cunt. Greetin oan ehs ain like a wee lassie doon at Spencer’s. Nivir jumped in for Dozo whin they Clerie boys wir ready tae go until they saw me wi the blade. N what eh did tae the boy wis takin real liberties. Dozo wis pannellin the boy. Thir wis fuckin nae
need. N ah jist stood thair n lit um hand ays back the blade. Ah took it, ah took it like a fuckin tube. Ah’m fuckin shitein masel. Ah turns tae Carl. — What’s aw this?

— You’re oot ay order, Gally, Carl goes, pointin at ays. — Nae fuckin chibs.

Ewart, the fuckin Herts cunt, tellin me ah’m oot ay order. Aw aye. Aw sure.

Billy’s starin at ays. — The polis came last night, eftir you legged it. Asking everybody what went oan.

Ah’m lookin at thum aw. Thir aw lookin at me the same wey the likes ay Blackie n aw they cunts at the school dae. Supposed tae be yir fuckin mates. — Aye, n what did youse fuckin well say tae thum? Bet yis fuckin well grassed ays!

— Aw aye, aw right, aye, dae ays a favour, Billy goes. Terry jist looks at ays like eh hates ays. Carl’s standin back a bit, shakin ehs heid.

— Youse ken nowt, ah goes n ah turns n starts walkin away.

Carl shouts, — C’moan Gally!

Billy goes, — Jist leave um.

Ah hears that cunt Lawson shoutin in an American voice, aw high, — Cue-tee-pie . . . bye, bye cue-tee-poi . . . n ma blood’s fuckin boilin.

He’s fuckin gittin it.

Ah goes doon the road, past the church n the Birrells’ stair, then ower intae oor scheme. Ah sees auld Mr Pender comin doon the hill fae the Busy Bee pub, n ah shout, — Hiya, but eh ignores ays, lookin away quickly. What’s up wi him now? Ah’ve nivir done nowt tae him.

When ah pass Terry’s square, ah look ower tae his bit tae see if Yvonne or any ay her mates are aroond. Ye wonder how it is that Terry’s such a cunt, n Yvonne’s that nice.

Yvonne’s lovely.

Thir’s naebody aboot but, n ah goes ower tae ma ain square n up the stairs. Ah wis jist in time, cause ah sees a big bunch ay Herts boys, Topsy n that, headin this wey. Topsy’s awright, n eh’s Carl’s mate, but thirs some ay thum thaire that wid be bound tae git wide if they saw thit ah wis oan ma ain. Ah’m no in the mood for any cunt gittin wide the now. Thir’s that graffiti thaire oan the stair waw in rid felt pen:

LEANNE HALGROW
4
TERRY LAWSON
True by both.

The cunt probably wrote it ehsel. Ah splatter it wi gob, watchin the colour run doon the waw. Cheap fuckin ink. Fuckin Terry thinks eh’s that wide, wi ehs nigger fuckin hair n the cunt’s fuckin Ma’s shaggin a fuckin Nazi now. Fuckin wide fat stupid fuckin tube. Supposed tae huv rode every fuckin bird n battered every fuckin laddie in the scheme. Like fuck. The hard man. Like fuck. N fuckin Birrell n fuckin Ewart . . . backin um up . . . cunts.

Ah goes tae ma room n puts oan the first LP ah ivir boat, The Jam’s
This is the Modern World
. Cropley comes in n ah pat him wi a tremblin hand as ma tears splash oan ehs heid. Tears that nae cunt’ll see. Ever.

Ah’ll nivir stey oan at school. Ah’ll nivir get a joab. Ah’ll nivir get a ride.

Thi’ll pit ays away.

Sunday night is as borin as fuck. Ah’m pillin the yellay rubber ring fae Cropley’s mooth. Eh’s growlin through ehs nostrils. Eh’s goat some grip oan um. The ring’s aw covered wi ehs slavers.

— Andrew, enough! muh Ma goes, — yir gaunnae pill that animal’s teeth oot! Ah cannae afford tae pey vet’s bills tae git um a set ay false teeth, or whatever it is that they need, she starts laughin, n me n Sheena do n aw, at the thought ay Cropley wi falsers.

So ah lits the ring go. Eh’s goat it, n eh jist brings it back tae ays tae git ays tae tug it wi um again. — Yuv goat it, Cropley, gaun, blow, ah sais. Dugs urnae that bright really. It’s just a load ay shite: that Barbara Woodhoose oan the telly. She couldnae train a dug like Cropley or one ay they stray dugs that attack ye whin ye try tae go across the park tae school. Birrell booted one in the throat the other week n it went away whinin. Eh sais that dugs are like people, some ay thum urnae as wide as they think. Carl sais eh wis gaunny start bringin ehs airgun tae school fir protection. Ah telt um eh’d better no shoot ma fuckin dug, or ah’d shoot him, mates or no.

Cropley gits bored or forgets, n leaves the ring. But muh Ma hus tae whack um whin eh tries tae ride Sheena up the leg whin she gits up tae go tae the lavvy. She’s laughin n sayin — Git doon Cropley! Git doon! Sheena probably disnae even ken what it is thit the dug’s daein,
or mibbe she does. Muh Ma does but, n she’s thrashin um wi her slipper n it takes ages before eh lits go.

Ah’m laughin like fuck so she gies me a clatterin n aw, wi her hand, right acroass the side ay ma heid. It wis a beauty, n ah felt ma ears pop. — It’s no bloody funny, she screams at ays.

It’s throbbin whaire she’s thumped ma heid n ah’m still laughin, even if ah feel aw dizzy n deef in one ear. — Whit wis that fir?

— That’s you teasin the dug, Andrew Galloway. Yi’ll huv the perr animal wild, she says.

Aw aye. Ah jist rubs ma heid n ah picks up the paper at the telly page. The eardrum jist sortay pops back n ah kin hear fine again. What ah hate maist aboot Sunday night is thit thuv goat
The Rockford Files
oan the BBC n
The Professionals
on STV, right at the same fuckin time. Takin the fuckin pish these cunts, ye think they could plan better.

Ah feel muh Ma sittin doon beside ays oan the couch n she’s pittin her airm roond ays n giein ays a hug n rubbin ma heid n it’s like she’s nearly greetin. — Sorry darlin . . . sorry ma wee darlin, she sais.

— It’s awright Ma, it nivir hurt, behave yirsel! ah laughs, but ah’m nearly greetin n aw. It’s like wi her daein that, ah’m turnin intae a wee bairn again.

— Sometimes it no easy for me, son . . . she looks at me, — . . . ken?

Ah’ve goat a lump in ma throat n ah cannae say nowt, so ah jist nod.

— Yir a good boy, Andrew, always have been. You’ve been nae problem tae me at aw. Ah love ye, son, she sobs again.

— Aw Ma . . . Ah gies her a hug back.

Sheena comes ben fae the lavvy n me n muh Ma pill away fae each other oan the couch like wir a young couple huvin a sly snog n huvin tae quickly sit up straight. — What’s wrong? Sheena goes, aw feart.

— It’s awright darlin, she says. — Jist huvin a wee blether. Come and sit doon oan the couch wi us, she pats the seat next tae her, but Sheena sits doon oan the flair at her feet and Ma’s goat an arm roond me n one roond Sheena, strokin her hair, sayin daft things like: — Ma wee bairns . . . n ah feel nice but embarrassed at the same time, cause ah’m a bit fuckin auld for this, but, well, she’s upset, so ah say nowt, n Sheena’s goat one ay her hands n she’s hudin it in baith hers n ah’m gled that ma mates cannae see me now.

Wi settle doon tae the telly n the bell goes eftir a bit n it’s Carl.
— Want tae come roond ma bit n watch
The Professionals
? eh asks, ehs eyes aw eager.

Ah look at um, sortay hesitatin fir a wee second. Eh kin tell that ah dinnae want tae come. But ah dinnae want um thinkin it’s because ah dinnae want tae leave muh Ma right now though. So ah switches it ontae Terry n this eftirnoon. — That Terry’s a wide cunt. Eh’s gittin ehs fuckin mooth burst.

— Aye, Carl sais, aw weary. Eh kens that Terry n me are the best ay mates, even if wi git oan each other’s tits sometimes. — C’mon tae mines n watch
The Professionals
.

— Awright, ah goes. Ah wanted tae watch
The Rockford Files
wi Ma n Sheena, but fuck it, it’ll be good tae git oot the hoose.

Ah tell muh Ma ah’m gaun roond tae Carl’s, feelin a wee bit guilty aboot leavin her n Sheena, a bit awkward aboot no steyin. But she’ll be awright! It’s jist women fir ye, as ma Uncle Donald says. Muh Ma’s fine aboot it but, she nivir bothers if it’s Carl or Billy’s but she doesnae like ays gaun doon tae Terry’s. Sometimes whin we go tae Terry’s tae dae glue or huv a bevvy, ah tell muh Ma wi wir doon at Carl’s or Billy’s n it’s jist cider. Ah think muh Ma n Mrs Birrell n Mrs Ewart really ken that we’re doon at Terry’s but.

So we go roond tae Carl’s bit. Ah like it at Carl’s cause it eywis feels warmer than in our hoose, but ah think that’s jist cause ay the fitted cairpits thit go waw tae waw. It gies ye the feelin thit it’s mair sealed. Likes in oors we’ve jist goat the auld cairpits thit ma uncle hud, n they dinnae go aw the wey tae the waw. Thir’s new furniture n aw, sort ay big comfy chairs in a light wid frame thit ye jist sink intae. Carl says thit they come fae Sweden.

— Aye, aye, here’s the other fitba hooligan! Carl’s auld man sais, but eh’s jist jokin. That’s the thing aboot Carl’s auld boy, eh eywis hus a crack wi ye n eh disnae go aw mumpy like other auld cunts.

— No us, Mr Ewart, that’s jist Terry, eh Carl? ah goes, ah couldnae resist that yin.

— That laddie’s gaunny git ehsel intae big trouble one ay these days, you mark ma words, Mrs Ewart goes.

Carl looks at her and says, — Ah telt ye before Ma, it wisnae Terry’s fault. It wis nowt tae dae wi him really.

That’s one thing aboot Carl: eh eywis backs everybody up.

— Ah saw um oan the telly, walkin roond that pitch wi a big, daft grin oan ehs face. Perr Alice must’ve been affronted, Mrs Ewart says, headin oaf intae the kitchen.

Mr Ewart shouts eftir her, — It wis aw a bit silly, but aw the boy wis daein wis laughin. Whin they make a law against that then wir right up the Swanee, eh says, but Mrs Ewart’s no responded.

Ah lowers ma voice n looks ower at him. — Did you ever git intae bother at fitba, Mr Ewart? ah goes. Ye kin say they kind ay things tae Carl’s faither, even though ah expect him tae say, ‘Dinnae be bloody cheeky, aw that sort ay thing didnae happen in ma day.’

Eh jist smiles at me and winks. — Aw aye, that’s always gone oan, eh sais, — youse think ye invented it aw, but yis dinnae ken the half ay it.

— Is it Ayr United that Kilmarnock batter? ah ask.

Eh shakes ehs heid n laughs. — Well, Ayr n Killie are rivals, aye, but they arenae that often playin in the same league. So maist o’ the real bother doon there used tae be at the big junior games. Ah wis a Darvel man and in the cup games against the likes o’ Kilwhinning or Cumnock thir wis always bother before, during n after the game. It sometimes got very, very vicious as well. If they had the numbers, ye would never have heard o’ Rangers versus Celtic!

Mrs Ewart’s made some tea, n she brings it through oan a tray. — Quiet Duncan, ye shouldnae be encouragin they laddies! She’s laughin though.

Mr Ewart grins, like he’s windin her up. — It’s jist social history, that’s aw. Ah mean, ah dunno what it’s like now, but they were all minin towns. The work was hard n thir wis a lot of poverty. People had to huv an outlet. It wis pride in yir toon or village, in whae ye are, whaire ye come fae.

— Well
they
dinnae need an outlet. Thi’ll end up in the bloody jail, that’s where they’ll end up, she warned.

Carl smiles at me and ah try no tae look back, soas no tae annoy Mrs Ewart. Ah ken ye shouldnae really say things aboot yir mate’s ma, but ah really like Mrs Ewart. She’s goat barry tits. It makes ays really feel ashamed, but ah’ve hud a wank aboot her before.

The Professionals
came oan n we settled doon tae watch it. Ah kept lookin ower at Mrs Ewart’s legs, the wey she kicked oaf they slippers. She catches me n smiles, n ah gits a beamer n looks back at the screen.
The Professionals
are barry. Ah’d be Doyle n Carl wid be Bodie, even if Doyle’s goat hair like Terry.

Doyle.

Polmont.

The knife.

The boy fae Clerie.

Ah look back tae the screen. Even though it wis great, ah could still feel that sick, dreaded Sunday night feelin settlin in, worse thin ever.

Whin ah wake up ah’m a bit happier though, in fact it’s the first time in yonks thit ah’ve been lookin forward tae the school oan Monday. Ah fuckin hate the place, n ah cannae wait till summer until ah’m sixteen n ah kin git the fuck oot ay it. They tell ays ah should stey oan, they say thit ah could be good if ah applied masel mair. Aw ah like but, is French. If they’d lit ays dae French aw the time, or mibbe another language like German or Spanish, ah’d nivir be oot ay school. The rest is shite. Ah’d like tae go tae France tae live one day, n huv a French bird, cause the lassies ower thaire are beautiful.

Ah’m wantin tae hear aboot the match but ah’m no wantin tae hear aboot ootside Clouds. It’s probably blown over by now though.

Clouds! Blown over by now!

But it worries ays whin ah think aboot it. Sometimes ah feel thit things are awright, then ah git this shudder thit nearly stoaps ma hert. Muh Ma kens thit something’s up wi ays. Ah find it hard tae meet her eyes. Ah’m up right away n oot early, callin roond fir Billy n Carl first, which nivir usually happens.

Wi gits tae the school n it’s Monday assembly in the Gym Hall. McDonald, the heidie, he’s sittin up thaire on the platform, lookin aw grave n serious. Thir’s a loat ay chatterin which stoaps as soon as eh gets up. — It’s indeed unfortunate that we have to start our week on a sour note. Mr Black, eh says, nodding tae Blackie whae stands up next, settin oaf another buzz ay whispers aroond the hall.