Glue (21 page)

Mibbe it’s jist the cunt’s big grin, the enthusiasm that eh hus fir
everything, and, of course, the fact that ah’m completely desperate tae git me hole, but ah kin think ay worse arrangements right now.

The steeple ay the church comes intae view, and we’re back in the scheme. Terry insists we go tae the Busy Bee. Ah’ve no really been in pubs that much n ah’ve never tried tae git served in The Busy. — C’moan Wank-Boy, once yir a regular doon The Busy, aw they wee birds’ll be impressed by that. Ye cannae be a wee schoolboy aw yir life, eh smiles, then accuses, — They tell ays yir gaunny stey oan n aw.

— Ah dinnae ken, it depends oan ma . . .

Ah dinnae git a chance tae explain. — Then yi’ll go tae college, which is school, then become a teacher n be back in the school. So yi’ll end up nivir huvin left school. Yi’ll huv nae money, eh lowers ehs voice as we head up the hill, wi the shoaps n the low-rise pillbox ay The Busy opposite. Eh stoaps n pits ehs hands oan ma shoodirs. — N ah’ll tell ye one thing, pal, one wee formula thit they nivir bothered tae teach
me
at school. One wee fuckin mathematical sum that might’ve saved a loat ay time n trouble, n that’s:
nae
money equals
nae
fanny. Eh stands back, lookin aw pleased, lettin this sink intae ma heid. Then eh slips me the fiver that eh goat offay Lucy. — Go up tae the bar n ask fir two pints ay lager. That’s ‘two pints ay lager’ eh goes in a deep voice, no ‘two pints ay lager’ eh goes again, this time in a high, shrill tone. — Dinnae embarrass me like that wanker Gally did whin ah took um in there. Eh goes up tae the bar n sais: two pints ay beer, please mister, like eh wis askin fir sweeties.

Ah’ve been in pubs, n ah’ve been up the Tartan Club loads. — Ah ken how tae order a drink, ya fuckin wank.

So ah strides in wi um, n up tae the bar. It seems a long walk but, n every cunt’s lookin at me, like thir sayin, ‘he’s nivir eighteen’. By the time ah gits thair the barman’s noddin at me and ah feel like ma voice is gaunny crack. — Two pints ay lager please mate, ah goes, aw gruff.

— Goat a sair throat pal? the barman laughs, and so does Terry n another couple ay boys that are standin at the bar.

— Naw, it’s jist . . . ah goes aw high, n every cunt’s pishin thirsels.

The guys serves us but, n Terry sits in the corner. Ma hands are shakin n ah’ve spilt half the pint before ah gits tae the seat.

— Cheers Carl, nice one mate, eh toasts ays, takin a big gulp. Then eh shakes ehs heid. — That fuckin Pamela cunt, giein Lucy aw that shite aboot me.

— Aw she’s daein is backin up her mate but, Terry. It’s the same fir lassies.

Terry shakes ehs heid. — Naw, naw, naw, lassies ur different. You dinnae understand that cow’s game, Carl. She’s fuckin well gantin oan it, n nae cunt’s giein her it. So she’s gittin aw spiteful, jist cause ay Lucy gittin engaged. Bit it’s ma ain fuckin fault, ah should’ve soarted her oot.

— How?

— Should’ve gied her a length on the q.t., just tae shut her fuckin mooth. Needs rode, that’s her problem. That’s the difference between men and women. Any bird that isnae gittin it, it makes thum aw spiteful n jealous. We’re no like that, eh goes, takin another big gulp fae ehs lager. — Gie’s that change ya cheeky cunt, n ah’ll git thum in.

Ah hand ower the notes n coins, n eh bounds up tae the bar. Gulpin hard, ah try tae force the pint doon, or at least make some reasonable progress before eh comes back wi mair. When eh reappears wi the drinks eh’s obviously hud an idea. — So, Carl, ah wis thinkin, ah’ve either goat tae gie that Pamela yin, or git some other cunt tae. You’re spoken fir now, so mibbe ah should send fir Birrell. If nowt else, it’ll keep the cunt away fae oor Yvonne for a bit. Imagine that wanker’s chat-up lines but, Terry goes, daein a brilliant exaggerated Birrell impersonation, talkin in terse, clipped tones. — I am Billy. I live in Stenhouse. I play fitba and I box. I have to train very hard. It is brutal. The weather is nice. Do you want tae have sexual intercourse with me?

We’re sittin thair pishin oorsels n wir daein it ower n ower again fir ages. Me n Terry could write comedy scripts fir Monty Python when we git like this.

After the third pint ah phone hame n tell my Ma tae keep ma tea n ah’ll git it later. Ah tell her that ah hud some chips fae Star’s. She disnae say anything, but ah kin tell she’s no too chuffed. When ah sits back doon, this auld boy comes in. Terry gies ays a beamer by sayin that eh’s Maggie Orr’s uncle, and eh introduces me as a ‘close friend’ ay his niece’s. — Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more! eh goes, impersonatin the boy ootay Monty Python. Cheeky cunt Terry: it’s him that shagged her and it’s me eh’s tryin tae git the blame fir it! This Alec gadge isnae bothered but. Eh seems a bit drunk.

The beers keep comin n ma face goes aw flushed n heavy. The next time ah go up, the barman’s smilin away, like eh kens ah’m really pished. When we get oot the pub ah’m fucked for a bit as the air hits ays. Ah mind ay singin
Glorious Hearts
n Terry singing
Glory to the Hibees
at each other as wir gaun doon the road, then nowt.

It’s morning n ah wake up oan Terry’s bed, oan the ootside ay the covers and fully clathed, thank fuck, in ehs Ma’s hoose.

Thir wis this noise in ma heid like a drill, n it’s Terry snorin ehs heid oaf. Ah look up n ah see that mop ay corkscrew curls. Eh’s right in the bed, but at the other end ay it fae me. Ehs feet’s next tae ma heid, n although they dinnae smell, the room’s boggin, it’s fill ay ehs fart gas. Ah woke up wi a hardo, which is mibbe cause ah need a pish n mibbe cause ah hud this strange dream aboot Sabrina n Lucy n Maggie last night. It wisnae through bein in the same fuckin bed as Terry anywey!

Ah hear fitsteps oan the stairs n Terry’s Ma comes through wi a cup ay tea in each hand. Ah’m kiddin oan ah’m asleep but ah can hear a gagging, chokin noise and the mad, uncontrolled rattling ay cup oan saucer. — My god, what huv youse been eatin . . .

She puts the saucers oan the bedside table. — Made a bloody mess in the bathroom, which ah hud tae clean up. It’s not good enough, Terry, it’s just not good enough.

— Geez fuckin peace . . . Terry groans.

Ah open ma eyes n sees Terry’s Ma standin at the door, fanning her hand in front ay her screwed-up face. — Hiya, Mrs Laws . . . ah mean Mrs Ulrich.

— Your mother and father are worried about you, Carl Ewart. Ah phoned up from next door and told them you were here. Ah said that ah would make sure you got some breakfast and got off tae school. As for this one, she looks at Terry, — you have to get up for your work. You’re late! You’ll miss that lorry.

— Aye, aye, aye . . . Terry moans as Mrs Ulrich leaves the room.

Ah gies ma nuts a scratch. Ah git up n nip through tae the bathroom, shieldin ma hard cock, clathed but still worried in case somebody catches me in the hall. In the bogs ah dae a long pish, huvin tae bend ma cock really sair soas ah dinnae pish oan the flair which smells ay sick n disinfectant. Ah go back through and Terry’s asleep again, the lazy cunt. Disnae like a kip much that cunt, eh no.

Ah head doonstairs for the front room. Terry’s Ma’s there, sittin in a chair, smokin a fag. — Awright, Mrs Ulrich, ah goes.

She says nowt but jist nods tae ays.

— Another night oan the tiles? this voice goes. Ah jumps, ah didnae see Walter, Terry’s stepfaither, sitting thaire in the corner, readin the
Daily Record
. Terry doesnae git oan wi the boy, but ah think eh’s okay. Eh cracks ays up, the wey eh talks, that German accent, in a
mixture ay ordinary Scottish n posh, formal English. Terry hates the poor bastard though.

— Aw aye, Mr Ulrich . . .

Terry comes ben, probably worried thit we’d start talkin aboot the cunt behind ehs back which, ah suppose, wi fuckin well wid if eh hudnae come through. Eh goes past ehs Ma intae the kitchen n opens the door ay the fridge n pills oot a pint ay milk n starts drinkin it.

— Terry! ehs Ma goes. — Use a glass! She shakes her heid aw disgusted, then asks um if eh wants an egg roll n a sausage roll.

— Aye, Terry says.

— Same for you, Carl? she asks ays.

— Sound, Mrs Ulrich, ah say, giein her a wee smile, aw cheery likes, bit ah dinnae git one back fae her.

— You go round and see your mum before you go to school, she warns.

Ah laughs a wee bit, cause ah’m still pished fae the other night. Drinkin in the Busy! Me n Terry! Pished!

Ah kin tell thit Terry’s Ma’s no too chuffed n thit she’s workin up tae say somethin. She’s aw tense, Terry’s Ma is. Ye kin feel the fuckin atmosphere a mile away. Sure enough, she lits rip, jist whin ye think ye might huv goat away wi it. Aw Mas dae that, mine is really good at it. Think yir gaunny git away withoot gittin yir heid nipped, then boom! The fuckin knockoot punch! That’s you well snookered. Yir ma’s the best friend yi’ll ever huv in yir life but. Ah could never say whae ah loved best between my Ma n Dad. It must be pretty horrible for Terry, huvin another guy sittin where ehs real Dad should be. It would just kill me. — That wis a terrible bloody racket you made last night, Mrs Ulrich says tae Terry. — Woke up the whole bloody block wi yir nonsense.

— Aye, Terry says.

— Mr Jeavons next door was banging through!

— He’s gittin fuckin blootered, that cunt, Terry goes under his breath.

— What? She pops back oot fae the kitchen like a fuckin jack-in-the-box.

— Nowt.

— It’s just not good enough, Terry! Mrs Ulrich goes, then heads back intae the kitchen.

— Aye, awright then! Terry snaps. Disnae like ehs heid bein
nipped, Terry doesnae, n ye kin see ehs point cause wir feelin rough here. Ye jist want tae take it easy for a bit. She’s well oot ay order showin Terry up when eh’s goat mates in the hoose. Terry’s hands ur white grippin the chair airms.

His Ma’s back oot again. — This isnae a doss house, Terry! This is a home!

Terry looks aroond, hacked oaf, like eh disnae believe this. — Aye, some fuckin hame.

Mrs Ulrich comes oot, her hands on her hips. Terry must git that offay her, cause he stands like that a loat n aw. Aye, ah’m still well pished fae last night. It’s funny the things thit ye notice whin yir pished, no like actually drinkin, but
recoverin
fae the drink, likes. — We’re only tryin tae get a wee bit peace, your stepfaither and I . . . she turns to the Gerry boy . . . — Walter . . .

— Aw, leave them, Alice, they’re jist bloody daft, eh says.

— Jist shut the fuck up n
gies
a wee bit ay peace then, Terry shouts, lookin up fae the paper, — ma heid’s fuckin nippin!

She turns oan him screamin, — This is yir mother speaking! she points at hersel. — Your mother, Terry! She sortay implores, like she wants him tae ken whit she’s gaun oan aboot, n eh does in a wey, bit she’s well oot ay order embarrassin Terry like that in front ay a mate. Ah looks at him n nods ower at her, as if tae say, dinnae take that shite.

Tae gie Terry ehs due, eh’s no fuckin well takin it. — Shut the fuck up. Gaun oan n oan . . .

Terry’s Ma jist goes aw stiff n stands thaire, like she’s in shock. Fuckin rigid she is. Ah’ve goat that semi back again. Ah look ower at Walter n ah wonder if he’s giein Terry’s Ma the message. Ah’m thinkin tae masel, wid ah shag Terry’s Ma? Mibbe aye n mibbe naw, bit ah’d like tae watch her oan the joab, jist tae see whit she acted like whin she wis gittin rode. She vanishes back intae the kitchen.

Terry’s stepfaither pitches in, cause eh feels eh hus tae back up Mrs Ulrich, but ye kin tell eh disnae gie a fuck. Terry wid take um in a square-go. Easy. Walter kens that Terry’s gittin bigger n stronger n he’s gittin aulder n weaker, so it’s no fir him tae try anything oan. — It’s no that we object tae your drinking Terry, Mr Ulrich goes, — I mean, I also like a drink. It’s this
excessive
drinking all the time that I cannae understand.

— Ah jist drink tae firget, eh, Terry goes, smirkin at ays, n ah starts n aw.

Terry’s Ma’s jist come back oot, wi some rolls oan a plate. They look good. She goes, — Don’t be so bloody stupid, Terry, what dae ye mean forget? What the hell dae
you
have tae forget!

— Fuck knows, cannae remember but, eh. Must be workin! Terry goes, n ah gies um the thumbs up. Ya beauty! She fuckin well walked right intae that yin! Ah’m wishin Gally wis here now tae see that. A fuckin classic: the best ever.

— You can laugh, Terry, but it’ll catch up wi ye, his stepfaither goes.

— It’s no as if wir drinkin aw the time, Terry laughs, — sometimes wir oan drugs n aw, eh.

Ah start sniggerin away, a low-level laugh, vibratin like that new electric shaver ma auld boy goat fir ehs Christmas. The Remington, as advertised by Victor Kiam, the cunt that boat the fuckin company.

— I hope that you’re no intae any ay that nonsense, surely you’ve got more sense than that, Terry’s Ma says, shaking her heid and puttin the rolls doon in front ay us. — Dae ye hear that, Walter? Dae ye hear it? This is what Lucy’s getting. This! She points at Terry.

Walter looks across at him, aw stern. — That little girl will not stand for that kind of nonsense if you marry. If you think this then you are living in the paradise of a fool.

— Leave her ootay it, eh sneers, ehs teeth aw bared, — she’s goat nowt tae dae wi you.

Walter looks away. Terry’s Ma shakes her heid. — Perr wee Lucy. She wants her heid examined. If eh wisnae ma ain flesh and blood . . .

— Aw, will you jist fuckin shut it, Terry goes, tossin ehs heid back in disgust.

Ehs auld girl’s shakin, like she’s huvin a stroke. — Hear that? Dae ye hear that? Walter!

The auld boy’s jist noddin ehs heid fae behind the paper, usin it like a shield, tae black oot the scene in the room.

Mrs Ulrich turns tae Terry. — This is your mother speaking! Your mother! Then she turns tae me. — Dae you talk tae your mother like that, Carl? Then, before ah kin say anything, — No. Ah’ll bet you dinnae. She looks at Terry. — N ah’ll tell ye why. Cause he shows some respect, that’s why. That’s why!

Terry just shakes ehs heid. Eh bites intae the egg roll n the yolk squidges oot ower the cairpit.

— Look at the mess! Walter! Ehs Ma’s ragin.