Glue (31 page)

So that fucker goat a dressin doon n ah goat a half-ersed letter ay apology:

Dear Mr Lawson,

I am writing to apologise on behalf of the Dept of Employment regarding comments that were allegedly made to yourself by one of our officers. It is accepted that the alleged comments were inappropriate to the investigation of your case, and may have been misconstrued.

Rest assured that the matter is being dealt with internally in the appropriate manner.

Yours sincerely,
RJ Miller
Manager
.

America, that would be the place fir me. Any cunt gits wide thair, they slap a fuckin lawsuit up thir erse, or up their goddamn ass, as they Shermans pit it. What dae ye get here fir being abused by they official cunts? A half-herted apology which makes nae sense. Alleged comments ma fuckin hole. Even wi ma Edinburgh School Leavers Certificate ah ken shite English when ah see it. Naw, the Yanks wid huv it aw worked oot. It’s aw aboot rights thair, nane ay that class-system shite like here. They’d pit fuckin snobby auld tarts like that right in thir place. Too right hen; stick a few fuckin bools in yir mooth n think ye kin gie that dry auld fanny ay yours a wee frig under the table cause ye see a boy wi a scheme address comin in. Ye think ahm gaunny play the subject in your wee domination game?

Nein, mein schwester, nein, cause ich bin ein Municher soon. So jist youse keep the auld civil tongue in yir heid, cause yir up against an international man ay the world here.

Italia ’90, shaggin fir Scotland. Be the same in Munich. Guaranteed.

One thing ah wis right aboot though: the polis wirnae interested. Ah’m surprised they didnae go right tae Birrell’s hoose, wi his rep for startin fires. No now but, as eh said tae that boy in the
News
when they exposed the cunt’s arson convictions, ‘the only fires I start these days are in the ring.’

See the dole the day but; well, credit whair it’s due. Ah’ve goat tae fuckin well hand it tae the cunts, lessons have been learnt. Firstly, it’s a tidy bird oan the counter that calls ays up intae her booth and second, she’s much cooler, it’s the softly-softly approach.

— This is the third time that’s happened to me, ah explain, tryin tae keep a smirk oaf ma face. — The last place ah started in only went n caught fire. The one before it hud tae shut wi flood damage. Ah’m starting tae think ah’m cursed!

The flood damage one wis for Italia ’90 back in the summer thaire. Aye, ah’m really gaunny sit in a piazza n Rome, surrounded by fine vino and grade-A fanny when ah could be workin in the blazin hoat kitchen ay a restaurant at the beck n call ay some rid-faced frustrated alko art-school reject called a chef, and at the height ay summer, for twenty pence a week.

Aye, right. Why did ah no think ay that yin?

But this wee yin here oan the desk jist smiles back at ays. Aye, this lassie’s cool awright. As her eyes go tae the forms ah’m gittin a deek ay her tits, but surprisingly she’s no that well-stocked in that department. It’s funny, but she looks like she
should
huv a good bit ay tit oan her. It’s the smile, n the kind ay confidence, that fuckin vivaciousness. Still, it takes aw sorts, n ah widnae say no if it wis pit in front ay ays oan a plate, ah’ll tell yis that fir nowt. Yuv goat tae, it’s the spice ay life, that’s what ah eywis say.

This lassie’s as sweet as an unexpected tax rebate. We agree thit ah’ll jist huv tae keep up the good fight until they kin send ays along tae dae something suitable. — It wis whin the juice lorries finished, that’s what snookered me, ah explained tae her.

It did n aw; eftir that ah changed ma line ay work.

Speakin ay which, it’s time tae see Uncle Alec, cause thir’s
real
work tae dae. Ah’ve yet tae meet a cunt that goat rich fillin burgers.

Ah call Alec ‘Uncle Alec’ as a joke, cause ah goat tae ken the auld cunt yonks ago when ah wis shaggin ehs niece. So ah step intae the Western Bar n eh’s thaire, watchin the go-go but no really watchin ehr if ye ken whit ah mean. Ah’ve never been intae the go-go’s masel; ah like tae see birds gittin thir kit oaf whin thir wantin shagged, no jist whin thir wantin tae dance. The whole thing seems a bit too remote tae me. No enough fuckin romance. But that’s jist me.

Eh’s standin at the bar wi ehs
Daily Express
oot. That’s how auld-school that cunt is; a remnant fae the time when the
Express
hud the best racin section. Nae cunt buys it now. Ehs eyes move fae the racin form, tae the go-go’s form. — Alec, ah goes, pushin through tae the auld fucker.

— Terry . . . eh slurs. The cunt’s half-pished again. — What ye wantin?

Ah look aroond the cramped bar. Too many pryin eyes aroond here. Ye kin jist see that pished auld cunt now, shoutin in ma ears aboot this joab eh’s sorted oot, then the music stoaps n the whole bar kens what yir up tae. Naw. It’s startin tae worry me thit ah’m the one that’s huvin tae dae mair n mair ay the thinkin fir the both ay us. And it’s aw aboot basics n aw, that’s what gits oan ma nerves, it’s aw aboot fuckin basics, basics that cunt should be aware ay. — Naw, lit’s take a walk doon tae Ryrie’s.

— Awright . . . eh goes, finishin ehs pint, and follayin me oot the door.

So wir paddin the hoof doon through Tollcross and along Morrison Street, n ah’m pickin up pace cause thir seems tae be a nice, tight erse ahead.

Yes . . . fuckin wee doll. Short skirt, barry thighs.

Alec’s puffin and huffin cause eh cannae keep up wi ays. — Hud oan, Terry, whaire’s the fuckin fire?

— Doon below, ah say, pattin ma groin, n noddin ahead.

Alec hacks up some green n yellay phlegm n coughs it intae the gutter withoot brekin a stride.

— Ye can only git a good idea ay the bum by checkin the thighs, ah’m tryin tae explain tae the cunt as we’re bouncin doon the street behind this cute erse n long hair. Of course, it’s a waste ay time tryin tae explain this tae a jakey whae husnae hud a ride in years, naw
decades, n whae’d walk ower a crowd ay naked supermodels tae get tae a tin of Tennent’s Super, but there ye go.

The point ah wis tryin tae make, hud eh been receptive, wis that some punters see an erse oan a bird and go, phoah, nice erse, but that’s jist amateurs. The point is they only see the erse. The pro always checks the thighs (and the waist)
and how they relate tae the erse
. That wey ye kin gauge the whole bird. Any cunt can huv a nice erse, two buttocks, but how does that fit wi the rest ay it?

Well, in this case fuckin good. The thighs are shapely and firm, thick enough tae suggest power and tae display the erse but no big enough tae dominate it or pit it in the shade. Good thighs should
display
an erse, tae its best advantage. Every trophy needs a decent plinth. Spice ay life.

Alec’s mind is elsewhere. — It’s a tidy gaff, eh explains breathlessly, referrin tae the doss wir gaunny dae ower next week, the big hoose up the Grange. — The security’s piss-poor . . . the boy’s a professor at the Uni . . . the cunt’s written a book oan the new security state in Britain. Says private-security firms run by gangsters are takin ower fae law n order . . . so the cunt doesnae huv any alarms or fuck all . . . cryin oot tae be done . . . hud oan, Terry!

Cryin oot tae be done, eh sais. No half, ah’m thinkin, but the bird turns doon the side street and heads up the hill.

That wis the Tories’ biggest achievement: tae make huvin principles cost ye. Private health care, cooncil-hoose sales, mortgages, floggin the nationalised industries, if ye dinnae join in and tow the line yir a mug, even if aw thir daein is helpin them tae stick thir hand in yir poakit fir the rest ay yir puff. Bit yir that chuffed wi yir wee bit ay paper n yir wee piece ay plastic ye cannae see it. Aye, principles cost. Well, thir gaunny cost this cunt dear enough soon, and his insurance, if eh’s goat any, that’s guaranteed.

— . . . faimlay’s away tae Tuscany fir two weeks so it’s all systems go, eh gasps, as we stroll intae Ryrie’s and order a pint for me and a half n half for him. Alec’s face is flushed even mair thin usual as eh nods tae ehs cronies. First exercise the cunt’s probably hud in years.

— Whaire’s that?

— Italy, eh says, lookin at me as if ah’m a radge. — Thoat you wir no long back fae thaire! Eh nods as eh slides doon a wee gold yin.

Well, thir widnae be any World Cup games thaire n besides, ah wis eywis shite at geography back at the school. Ah ken how tae git tae the
Grange awright, n back tae oor lock-up at Sighthill n that does ays fine, thank you.

Italy was barry but, the World Cup. The standard ay fanny wis superb, particularly the young birds. They fair seem tae pit oan the beef as soon as they’ve goat the ring oan thir finger but; like that auld Benny Hill sketch. What’s aw that aboot?

Alec’s dented the half n goat another round up, even if ma pint’s barely an inch doon. Eh’s the best housebreaker in the business, or eh used tae be. Now it’s a struggle tae keep um straight. Ye dinnae want any cunt fuckin up oan the joab. So it’s no that ah dinnae trust the cunt, just that ah fancy headin up tae the Grange tae check it aw oot tae ma ain satisfaction. Ah cannae tell that auld fucker this though; eh’d git as nippy as fuck. Ah’m still the young apprentice tae him, n ah eywis will be, but eftir another pint ah make ma excuse and take a fast black up thaire.

It’s pissin doon up the Grange, n ah stand under a big elm tree, one ay the cunts that survived the plague ay Dutch Elm disease that hit here a few years ago. That’s fuckin Edinburgh fir ye, even the fuckin trees’ve goat thir ain epidemic. Surprised the Weedgies didnae make mair oot ay that. Still, ah’m gled ay this cunt’s cover cause it soon rains oot tae a misty shower. The backstreets here are weird, aw guest hooses. Ah dinnae like this; too much to-ing and fro-ing. Our street’s mair residential though, but ah dinnae stoap too long. Casin this area, ah kin
feel
the curtains twitchin oan schemie alert every time ah step oaf one ay the main roads. Aye, the gaff looks quite secluded, but it’s crazy gaun too near it in this state ay paranoia. Mibbe head back up later oan when it’s darker.

Ah’m walkin doon taewards the bus stoap when ah sense this car pullin up alongside ays.

It’s the fuckin polis. Guaranteed.

Fuck.

Ah hear some cunt shout ma name n announce themselves as Labdicks n ah nearly jump oot ma skin but ah stey cool n turn slowly n and it’s fuckin Birrell, in ehs motor. So ah gits in, gled ay the lift, cause it’s sterted tae pelt doon again. Birrell’s hair’s gittin quite long for him,
it’s damp n it’s sterted tae lie oan the scalp. The motor smells like a tart’s bedroom, aw aftershaves, mooses n gels. Sporty cunts are the biggest closet poofs under the sun. N ah dinnae really think that birds go fir that tartyness in a man. They prefer the mair natural boady smells, real birds anywey. Ah suppose the kind that Birrell’s intae, but; these prissy wee anorexic tarts wi expensive clathes and soor faces that wid split in two if they hud a decent fuckin length up thum, they probably lap up that shite.

So we huv a blether aboot Italy n start lookin forward tae Munich in October, no that thir’ll be anything for me tae look forward tae if this joab disnae come oaf.

When wi gits back doon oor bit, jist at the shoaps, we’re ready tae pill intae the scheme when ah clocks Gail wi the bairn. Then ah looks up the road n thaire’s fuckin Heid-The-Baw n wee Gally, squarin up tae each other!

Ya cunt ye!

Wee Gally looks aw cocky n Heid-The-Baw’s well upset. — Billy, stoap here, look, ower at the shoaps, ah tell um.

Birrell does a barry
Miami Vice
-style halt n reverse n we’re straight oot the car. Billy shouts ower n Gally turns tae us. Heid-The-Baw’s straight doon the fuckin road as if ehs life depended oan it. It does n aw; that cunt’s gittin his. No that Gally or anybody else wid need any help wi that wanker.

Gally’s a bit shaken, so ah take the cunt up the Wheatsheaf whaire ah hud half-arranged tae meet Alec. Birrell’s bloused oot tae keep fit fir ehs fight. Ah gie the cunt it tight, but good luck tae the boy. Eh’s good at it n aw, eh’s no a bad boxer. Ah dinnae think eh’s as good as every cunt’s makin oot mind, they aw git cairried away wi this ‘local hero’ shite. Ye cannae say that though; every cunt just thinks it’s jealousy. But good luck tae um.

Gally n Alec, what a pair. Gally starts oan aboot the wee lassie, then Gail, then Heid-The-Baw, the Polmont cunt, n Alec’s greetin intae ehs beer aboot ehs wife that died n that fire, n how ehs son disnae talk tae um. Sad, but it wis yonks ago now, n eh wants tae try n screw the nut a bit. Thir’s no much ah kin say tae either ay thum. Some
fuckin drink this hus turned oot tae be. — C’moan boys, wir huvin a wee bevvy here!

They both look at me like ah’ve suggested a spot ay fuckin child molestin.

We end up at Alec’s wi a cairry-oot but the night continues in the same depressin wey for a bit; Gally n Alec giein it aw that ‘we’ve fucked up everything’ shite.

It really did fuck perr Gally’s heid when Gail told him she was shagging Polmont. That she was leaving him, for
Polmont
, of all people. Anybody else in the fuckin world. They fought, n Gail was the same size as Gally, n ah dunno whae ah’d’ve pit ma money oan there.

Ah mind us talkin aboot it eftir. Ewart sais that Gally wis wrong to hit Gail, no matter what. Billy said nowt. So ah asks Carl if Gail was right to hit Gally. Then it wis his turn tae say nowt. And now Gally’s recountin it all, what happened that night, aw fir the benefit ay Alec, whae’s loast in ehs ain misery. — Ah shouted at her, then she did back at me. We battered each other. She struck the first blow. Ah loast it, ah hud her by the hair. Then Jacqueline had ran through from the bedroom to stop her mummy and daddy hurting each other. Gally coughed, looked at Alec. — Gail hud her hands roond ma throat. Ah lit go ah her hair, and made a fist, drawing back ma arm tae punch her. Ma elbaw hit Jacqueline in the face, broke her cheekbone like it was the frame ay some . . . small mammal. Ah didnae ken she’d come intae the room. Ah couldnae look at ehr smashed, battered wee face. Gail called the ambulance, the cops and ah was back in the jail.