Glue (20 page)

The grocery boxes are spread over the cellar flair where the whistlin poof, clad in ehs green overalls, is makin up his floral displays. He’s good at it as well; his hands twist and tease these wires and a real work ay art is created in minutes. Ah widnae ken where tae start. Ah take a look at the order slips stuck tae each boax, n starts plannin oot ma route. It’s no too bad the day. Yir best startin at the furthest away yins at Colinton, n workin yir wey in. It’s mair encouragin. The worse time is oan Setirday mornin, whin it’s me oan one week n Topsy the next. Thir’s been a few times that one or other ay us hus missed the Herts bus, especially if it’s a faraway game n they huv tae leave early.

Topsy warned ays aboot Poofy George whin ah started. — Eh’s an auld poof awright. Ah mean, eh disnae grab yir erse or nowt like that, bit ye ken eh’s a poof by the wey eh talks n minces aboot.

Sure enough, auld George lisps, sprayin ma face wi gob like eh sprays ehs displays wi ehs water gun. Pointin tae one order eh tells ays, — Take that yin oot tae Mrs Ross first, son. She wis oan the phone demandin it. An awfay palaver.

So ah start loadin up the auld black-framed delivery bike, and fae up the stairs ah kin already hear Topsy n Deborah, that barry-lookin student burd, laughin loudly at somethin.

I’m running late and this boot Mrs Ross has this wee poodle wi a tartan collar that ey nips at ma heels. This time eh’s really goat a hud ay me, ehs teeth uv broke ma skin n ma troosers might be ripped. Ah’ve hud this up tae ma fuckin eyeballs, so ah droaps the heavy boax oan toap ay it. Thir’s a yelp and the bastard whimpers and whines, struggling tae free itself fae under the weight ay the box. Hope ah broke the cunt’s back.

That fat auld sow comes tae the door. — What’s happened! she screeches, — what have you done to him!

She pulls the box off, and this fuckin thing scrambles back inside.

— Sorry, but it was an accident, I smile. — He bit my leg and I dropped the box in fright.

— You . . . you . . . stupid . . .

Ah always find that the best thing tae dae in that position is tae stay cool n jist repeat yirself. The auld boy telt ays that’s how the union taught them tae negotiate. — He bit my leg, and I got a shock and dropped the box by mistake.

She looks at me in sheer hate, then turns and lumbers in after the dug, — Pipuhrr . . . Pipuhrr . . . ma wee laddie . . .

Ah wisnae exactly wreckin ma chances ay a tip, cause that tight auld cunt, though fill ay shite, still wouldnae part wi a fart. On the Slateford Road ah goat ma lungs pumped wi crap fae the fucked exhaust of a corpie bus: thanks Lothian Region Transport. Ah did get a ten-bob bit fae Mrs Bryan later oan which cheered ays up, but it was past closing time when ah goat back tae the shoap at Shandon.

They were standin ootside, waitin tae lock up. Newman was looking at his watch, a face like some cunt had let one go under his nose. — Come on, come on, eh cheeps away. Topsy n Deborah are sniggerin n that Mrs Baxter’s lookin aw humpty, checkin her watch in imitation ay her boss. The cunts are actin like it’s ma fault thir held back late, me thit does aw the fuckin real work n aw. Ah’m thinkin that it would be great tae see some cunt burst that fuckin Newman’s mooth,
or better still, see um tryin tae go that bike oan ehs ain, n watch a corpie bus crush him, and it, intae the tarmac oan the Slateford Road.

Topsy n me watch that Deborah go away doon the road. Imagine gaun oot wi a bird like that! We watch her go ower the bridge at Shandon. — Ride that any day ay the week, Topsy goes. — She’s goat a felly but.

— Ah’ll fuckin bet she hus, ah nod, admirin the wey her ankles oan these high shoes tapered up tae they calves. Her skirt went tae below the knee, but it wis that tight, ye could tell her thighs and erse were barry. We hud a great system fir gittin a deek at her n Vicky: tit when standin oan the ladder stackin the toap shelf; legs when lookin up fae the lower shelves. One Setirday mornin when Vicky wis oan, she wis wearin this short skirt wi they wee white panties. Ye could see her pubes, curlin oot oan either side. Ah thoat ah wis gaunny pass out. Ah hud a wank aboot it that night and shot that much spunk ah thoat ah’d huv tae go oan a saline drip up the hoaspital jist tae replace the fluids. Her pubes: just the thoat ay thum. Enough. — Ye headin fir hame? ah ask Tops.

— Naw, ah’ll see ye the morn. Ah’m gaun tae ma Nana’s fir ma tea the night.

Topsy’s Ma n Dad hud jist split up, so eh wis spendin mair time at his Nan’s at Wester Hailes. So ah leaves um, n nips ower the Slateford Road, n doon the steps. Ah stoaps oaf at Star’s Fish Bar fir some chips cause ah’m starvin, then ah head oantae Gorgie Road. Ah’m walkin past the slaughterhoose n makin ma wey tae the scheme when ah see thum comin taewards me.

It wis Lucy ah noticed first, her white-blonde hair glowing in the sun like science-lab magnesium ignited. Ah wish ah hud hair like it; white, aye, but wi that crucial tint ay blonde, which separates class fae semi-albino milk-boatil heidedness. She’s goat a fawn pair ay troosers oan, the kind that come up tae the mid-calf, n this yellay toap that ye kin see the bra through. Thir’s a white jaykit draped ower her wrist. Then ah looks tae her right and there’s that familiar big mass ay corkscrew curls. Thir walkin a bit apart fae each other, like thuv been arguin. Lucy’s face is set in that harsh, determined wey. The beauty n the beast, right enough. She could dae better, that’s for sure. Mind you, that’s jist jealousy talkin n ah suppose it means that she should be wi me, no wi that cunt.

They see me, n they start tae pull thegither a wee bit. — Luce. Tez.

Lucy’s got her hair tied back, n her skin looks as smooth as yir granny’s best china, that’s if ma granny hud any best china. — Awright, she goes, her eyes sharp and her bottom lip turned doon aw soor.

Terry makes a big fuss ay ays. Ye ken eh wants somethin. — Heeeyyy . . . Mr Ewart! It’s The Milky Bar Kid! Then, like eh’s jist thoat ay somethin, — Just the man! Tell her, Carl, eh sais, noddin at Lucy.

— Dinnae start, Terry, Lucy hisses at him, — jist droap it.

— Naw, nivir mind dinnae start. It’s you thit’s been makin accusations aboot me. Dinnae go makin accusations aboot people if ye cannae listen tae the truth!

The cunt’s gittin right oan ehs high hoarse here, pittin oan that big, hurt, outraged voice. Now ah
ken
eh wants something.

Lucy glowers at him n lowers her voice. — It’s no me, it’s Pamela, ah telt ye!

It comes oot in a low growl, n it makes ays think ay Piper Ross, the poodle ah droaped the boax oan.

GRRRRRRR!

— Aye, n ye believe that cow before me, before yir ain fiancé! Terry spits oot, hands oan ehs hips, shakin ehs heid, pittin me in mind ay an exasperated fitba player whae expects nae justice fae a biased referee.

Lucy looks steadily at the cunt for a second or two, then turns her gaze oan me. — Is what eh sais true, Carl?

Ah looks at thaim baith in turn. — It might help if ah kent what the fuck yis wir oan aboot.

— Him, she nods at Terry, still lookin at me, — eh went away wi a lassie at Clouds. A lassie fae your school!

Lucy went tae the WEC before she left last year, so she’ll probably no ken lassies at oors. A lassie fae oor school. Stuck-up Caroline fae reggie. In ma art class. Wee Gally’s eyes jist aboot pop oot ehs fuckin heid every time she walks intae a room. Dinnae really think much ay her, but she
is
a ride. Lawson
is
a lucky cunt.

Terry winks at ays fae ower her shoodir. Eh’s croassin the road, shakin ehs heid, blabberin tae ehsel, — Ah’m gaun ower here, ah’m keepin oot ay it, ah’m no sayin nowt . . .

— That’ll be the day, ah snorted tae Lucy, hopin she would git the joke, but she disnae. So ah clear ma throat and dae what ma auld boy always telt me tae dae when yir under pressure in negotiations and ye
need tae bullshit. Look at the bridge ay thir nose, between thir eyes. Focus oan that. They think yir lookin at thum in the eye but yir no. — Tae be honest Lucy, ah start, realisin that wis a mistake. Ye never say ‘tae be honest’, cause it means straight away thit yir lyin. Ma faither taught ays that, aboot how union men negotiate. Ah carry on but. — Ah wish tae fuck eh hud’ve went away wi some lassie fae the school.

— What dae ye fuckin mean by that? Her gorgeous big eyes narrowed intae poisonous slits ay hate.

— Well, it would stoap ays huvin tae listen tae um gaun oan aboot you aw the time. It’s Lucy this, Lucy that, see whin we git mairried . . .

She looks back acroass the road at Terry, whae’s shakin ehs heid, lookin aw hurt n sad. Then she turns back tae me. — Honest . . . is that what eh sais?

— Gen up.

She stared hard at me for a second or two, and if she’d held it a bit longer she’d’ve saw ah wis bullshittin her. But she turned back tae Terry again. Ah wanted tae say tae her big, sad, lovely eyes; naw Lucy, Terry’s a cunt. Eh treats you like shite and makes a fool ay ye. But
ah
love you.
Ah’ll
treat ye right. Just let ays come hame wi you n ride yir fuckin brains oot.

Ye could never imagine somebody like Sabrina bein that gullible and undignified. Then ye realise what they say aboot love bein blind and ye ken that she probably does really love him: the poor, daft cow. Or, at least likes him enough tae believe that she loves him, which is as near tae the same thing as yi’ll git.

She’s movin acroass the road and ower tae him, n she’s tryin tae link airms wi him n eh’s jist turnin away, raisin ehs airms up soas she cannae git a hold ay them. He’s brushin her off and comin over tae me, as she follows tearfully. Terry’s ranting away: — . . . trust! . . . yuv goat tae huv trust whin yir gaun oot wi somebody! Whin yir engaged!

— . . . naw Terry . . . listen . . . ah didnae mean . . .

— Ah agreed tae everythin! That’s what hurts the maist! Ah’ve said thit ah’d stoap gaun tae the fitba! Ah’ve said that ah’d git another joab, even though ah like the yin ah’ve goat! Ah’ve said thit ah’d try tae save up!

— Terry . . .

Terry punches ehs chist. — Ah’m the one thit’s daein aw the givin, and now this! Ah’m supposed tae huv went away wi some lassie thit ah’ve never seen in ma puff!

— Ah’m tryin tae tell ye . . . Lucy tries tae get a word in, but she must ken by now that shi’ll never stoap Terry in full flow.

A mad gleam comes intae the cunt’s eye. — Mibbe ah should go wi other lassies if ah’m gaunny git blamed fir somethin ah didnae dae. Might as well jist dae it, eh sais, gaun aw rigid. Then eh looks at me. — Might as well
just
do it, eh Carl?

Eh makes the jussst seem like a long whisper.

Ah’m sayin nowt, but Lucy’s pleadin wi um now. — Ah’m sorry, Terry, ah’m sorry . . .

Terry stops abruptly. — Bit ah’ll no. Ken how?

Lucy glares at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed in shock and anticipation.

— Ken how? Ye ken? Ye ken how?

She’s tryin tae figure oot what the cunt’s on aboot.

— Ye want tae ken? Ye want tae ken how? Eh? Eh? Ye want tae?

She nods slowly at him. Thir’s a couple ay boys go past, n thir laughin tae thumselves. One catches ma eye n ah cannae help but lit a wee smile slip oot.

— Ah’ll tell ye how. Cause ah’m a mug. Cause ah love you. You! Eh points at her in accusation. — Naebody else. You!

They stand lookin at each other in the street. Ah move a couple ay steps doon the road, in case anybody else comes past. Thir’s a boy in overalls, like eh’s jist come fae the slaughterhoose, n eh’s lookin ower. Lucy’s lip trembles, n ah swear tae god, it’s like thir’s tears wellin up in Terry’s eyes.

They lock intae this embrace, right thaire in the street opposite the slaughterhoose. A van goes past and toots its horn repeatedly. A guy leans oot the windae n shouts: — SOMEBODY’S OAN THIR HOLE THE NIGHT!

Terry looks at ays ower Lucy’s shoodir, n ah expect a wink, but it’s like eh’s that intae ehs performance thit eh disnae want tae brek ehs rhythm. Lucy and him exchange deep and meaningful glances, as they would say in that Catherine Cookson book thit ma Auntie Avril gied my Ma tae read. Ah’ve hud enough ay this, n ah turns away n starts gaun doon the road.

— Carl! Stall the now! Terry roars.

In the distance ah see them kiss. When they break off, words are exchanged. Lucy goes intae her bag. Pulls oot her purse. Produces a note, a blue note. Hands it tae Terry. Another deep stare. A few mair words. A wee kiss oan the cheek. They walk away fae each other, both
turning back tae wave at the same time. Terry blows a kiss. Then eh comes bounding ower tae me. Lucy glances back again, but Terry’s grabbed a hud ah me n we’re wrestlin n jostlin each other doon the road.

— You’re a star, Ewart! Ye deserve a fuckin drink fir that. You jist saved ma erse! C’moan, the Milky Bars’re oan me! Eh waves the fiver. — Well, Lucy really, but ye ken what ah mean, eh laughs.

— Jist dinnae pill that yin oan ays again, Terry, ah say, but ah cannae help but laugh, as ah grab ehs Levi’s jaykit collar and push him up against a lamppost. Then ah try tae be serious, — Ah’m no gaunny lie tae her tae cover up fir you.

— C’moan mate, you ken the rules, eh sais, loosenin ma grip and smoothin ehsel doon. — Yuv goat tae back up yir mates. It wis you thit taught ays that, eh goes. It’s aw bullshit of course, n eh’s bein wide tae git in ma good books. Of course, wi baith ken it’s workin and thir’s nowt ye kin dae aboot it. We’re mates. — So dinnae take the strop. Come tae think ay it, talkin aboot burds, ah heard that you did a sneaky yin fae Clouds wi this wee Ginger, eh sais, talkin aw creepy, like through ehs nose.

Ah say nowt. It’s the best wey. Lit the cunt read what eh wants tae in ma face.

— Aye! Different story now! Eh nods, aw that knowin wey. — So it’ll be you that’ll be needin the alibis soon, pal.

— How come?

— That wee Maggie Orr’s still goat the hots fir ye, eh winks, deadly serious.

— Bullshit, ah tell um. It wid be nice tae believe, but ye cannae kid a kidder, as the auld boy would say. — How’s it she knocked ays back n went wi you then?

Terry digs ehs elbays intae ehs side, thrustin ehs palms oot. — Gift ay the gab, mate, eh explains, — but you’re learnin fast awright. That wis a performance n a half thaire wi Lucy. Aye, you’ll git it offay wee Maggie soon. Guaranteed. Ah’m mair intae her mate, this Gail lassie. That wee four-eyes, you’ve seen her aroond. Wait till ye see the erse oan this. Whin ye git it stripped oaf . . . phoa ya cunt thit ye are, eh goes, drawin ehs tongue slowly acroass ehs lips. — Naw, the best arrangement tae suit aw perties; you n yir bird fae Clouds n me n Lucy gaun oot proper, then you n me ridin that Maggie n Gail oan the side. Sounds finger-fuckin good tae me!