Glue (35 page)

Alec stands up, pointin at the wee guy. — Did you dae that shite, ya dirty wee fucker?

— Aye . . . eh . . . eh goes n brandishes the knife again. — Who are youse!

Time tae sort this right oot. — Pit that fuckin doon, ya wee radge, cause see if ah huv tae come ower thair n take it oaf ye, ah’ll stick it right up yir shitey wee erse, ah warns the boy. Eh kens ah’m no jokin as well. Ah takes a step forward, and eh moves back.

Then behind um, thir’s this shamblin, shivering, sweating figure who looks familiar. — Terry, eh gasps, — Terry Lawson . . . what the fuck are you daein here, catboy?

— Spud . . . for fuck sake, what’s the story? This wis oor fuckin joab man, we’ve been casin this joint fir months!

It’s Murphy. Spud Murphy, fae Leith.

— We wir here first likesay, eh insists.

— Sorry mate, ah shakes ma heid, — nowt personal, but we’ve pit too much stake-oot time intae this joab fir it tae be jeopardised by a couple ay fuckin junkies. Yi’ll huv tae shift . . .

—
Ah’m
no a junk . . . the young boy starts tae protest.

— And you ya dirty wee cunt, shitein oan the flair! Fuckin animal! Alec roars, pointin at the mess oan ehs Harrington jaykit.

— It’s the boy’s first joab, Alec, Spud protests.

— Aye, ah widnae huv fuckin guessed or nowt like that, ah sais, shakin ma heid. — Cannae git fuckin staff these days, eh mate?

Spud pits ehs hand ower ehs face, moppin ehs brow wi the sleeve ay ehs jaykit. The perr cunt looks fuckin destroyed. — Nowt’s gaun right the day . . . eh goes, then looks up, — . . . look, wi’ll huv tae share . . . split it two weys.

Ah looks at Alec. We baith ken that we’ve goat tae git the fuck oot ay here soon. Ye cannae hing aboot. The young boy’s goat nae gloves oan and Spud’s wearing what looks like a daft pair ay fuckin mittens that ye wouldnae be able tae pick anything up in. These cunts’ll be happy wi some ay the CDs tae sell in the pub. — Awright, youse kin take the CDs.

— Eh’s goat a big collection like, Spud concedes. — Videos n aw.

Ah gits a wee tour aroond. Spud’s in a bad wey, stupid junkie cunt.
Gally used tae hing aboot wi that Matty Connell mate ay his. Telt him never tae get mixed up wi they boys. Ye can never trust a junkie, and ye never,
ever
work wi one. Brekin aw the fuckin rules here. This thing sterted straightforward n it’s gone erse-ower-tit quickstyle. As we go up the stairs ah catch up wi Spud. Ah mind aboot no trustin junkies, n he’s livin proof, cause this mate ay his ripped him n ehs pals oaf. They hud a big skag deal doon in London, n the boy absconded wi the loot!

— Heard that Renton cunt stiffed yis, mate. You, Begbie n Sick Boy, that’s what they tell me, ah said. — What’s aw that aboot, eh.

— Aye . . . that wis a couple ay year ago. No seen um since.

— How’s the rest ay the boys, Sick Boy n that?

— Aw, eh Sick Boy’s still in London. Eh came up tae see ehs Ma a few weeks back but, and wi hud a few bevvies.

Never phoned
me
up, the cunt. Still, ah eywis liked Sick Boy. — Good. Tell um aw the best when ye see um. Great cunt, Sick Boy. N what aboot Franco, he still inside, aye?

— Aye, Spud says, the very mention ay that name makin um a wee bit uncomfortable.

Good, ah’m thinkin, best place fir the cunt. Disnae ken when tae screw the nut, that boy. Eh’ll kill some cunt or git killed ehsel, that fucker, nowt surer.
Worse
thin Doyle, that cunt. But ah’m mair concerned wi the contents ay this hoose thin the contents ay Mr Begbie’s mind, such as they are. The music system and the amps are state ay the art. Soas the telly. Thir a musical family n aw, two violins and a trumpet in a recky room doon in the basement, and one ay they Hammond organs. The kids’ve goat some computer games and thir’s a couple ay new bikes. In the bedroom thir’s some jewellery, but just one or two pieces that look worth anything. A couple ay wee antique tables that’ll go tae some bent dealer out ay town through Peasbo. The CDs and LPs are worth fuck all, Spud and his wee mate can have the lot and flog them for whatever shite the loser cunts want tae cook and shoot intae thir veins.

The next stage is tae git the merchandise oot the hoose, intae the van and oaf tae the lock-up. Ah dinnae want Spud and the young boy comin thaire wi us mind you, a secret location’s meant tae be jist that, n it widnae be fir long wi they gabby cunts in tow.

— Why did ye no pit yir van in the driveway, Spud?

— Thought people might see it fae the hoose next door.

— Naw, the trees block it, ah tell um as wi go intae the big
bedroom. — Ye wirnae gaunny go right oot the front door wi some ay that gear wir ye?

— Aye, jist one charge wi holdalls fill ay stuff, eh goes, then looks at me hopefully, — we’ve nae place tae store the bigger gear.

Eh can forget it. Never work wi a junkie. — Sorry mate, cannae help ye oot, but yi’ll git the CDs n vids intae they holdalls.

Ah look at um expectin a big argument, but eh’s fucked. No that eh’s the type tae argue. A great gadge, but too easy-gaun, that’s his problem. So every cunt takes the pish. Sad, but true. Eh’s sittin doon oan the brass-framed bed. — Ah’m feelin ropey, man . . .

— That monkey oan the back making ehs presence felt, eh mate? ah say, lookin through the drawers. Some nice wee silk undies.

— Aye . . . Spud shivers, tryin tae change the subject. — So how long are the cats in this gaff away fir?

— Two weeks.

Spud’s now lyin oan the bed, curled up, lookin aw cramped and sweaty. — Ah could mibbe chill here for a bit man . . .

— C’moan, mate, ye cannae stey here, ah half-laugh.

Eh’s breathin heavily now. — Listen, catboy, ah’m jist thinkin that this might likesay be the place tae git oaf the gear . . . a nice pad like this . . . the chilled vibes . . . jist fir a couple ay days . . . hole up n dae the cauld turkey thing . . .

Livin in a dreamworld that cunt. — As ye wish, Spud, jist dinnae expect me tae keep ye company. Ah’ve business tae sort oot, boss.

Ah’m oaf doon the stairs wi as much blag as ah kin cairry, wantin tae git away fae the daft cunt n get the fuck oot ay here. Alec’s boggin, still smellin ay that wee bastard’s runny shite that eh’s been draggin through the hoose. Eh’s made attempts tae clean it oaf um but now that eh’s found the drinks cabinet ehs tannin the whisky. Ah’m fuckin well annoyed here. — C’moan you, ya jakey cunt, what the fuck are ye like?

— A wee straightener, Alec wheezes, tryin tae get himself upright in a big padded leather chair, — a wee gold felly, a wee dock n doris, eh smiles. Then eh looks at the wee boy, whae’s gaun through the videos n CDs. — The boy here’ll help ye wi the liftin, it’s the least eh kin dae eftir coverin me in shite!

The wee guy’s lookin aw despondent. Then ehs face lights up n eh huds up
Ragin Bull
. — Is it awright if ah keep this yin?

— We’ll see, mate, bit jist gies a hand wi this telly the now, ah say, n eh’s no chuffed, but eh’s goat an end and we’re oot through the
kitchen, trying tae dodge that runny shite. — Did naebody tell ye that the shite is the
last
thing ye dae, eftir you’ve removed everything ye want tae nick?

Eh looks aw vacant.

— Also, ye dinnae shite right in yir escape route. Egress, ah warned the wee cunt.

Eh’s a good grafter though, and we’ve soon goat the van loaded. Perr wee fucker. Years ago, when thir wis loads ay manual joabs for the working classes, a wee cunt like that would be graftin away, workin fir the company store until eh keeled ower luggin some furniture intae a rich fucker’s hoose. But eh’d be a law-abidin citizen. Now, apart fae suicide, crime’s the only option fir the likes ay him.

Oot the corner ay ma eye, ah notice two rugs oan the waw. Ah ken it’s a rich cunt’s crack tae dae that, but ah’m thinkin, they must be valuable if they dinnae want any fucker walkin oan thum. They do look top-quality, so ah gets ah hud ay them, rollin thum up, while that mingin auld cunt Alec’s fillin a holdall full ay booze. It’s gittin way beyond a joke wi him n the bevvy. If that cunt could brek intae Fort Knox, ah swear thit eh’d be jumpin ower the gold-bullion stacks tae git tae the cupboard where some security guard keeps ehs drink.

— Whaire’s Danny, the wee boy asks. Ah nearly forgot; that’s Spud’s real name.

— Up the stairs, in a bad wey, ah explains, then pointin tae the end ay they rugs ah’ve stacked thegither, ah tells um, —Goan git an end ay this, pal.

— Awright, eh says, n eh picks it up. Eh gies ays a wee grin, — Sorry aboot the shite oan the flair n that. Ah jist goat aw excited aboot bein in here . . . ah couldnae help it.

— Everybody does it first time, usually right in the middle ay the flair. That’s eywis the wey tae check whether yuv been done by a novice or an amateur, the presence ay shite oan the flair.

— Danny . . . eh, Spud said that n aw. Ah wonder what fir, eh?

This hus been a tea-leaf’s point ay discussion since the auld testament. — Some people say it’s aw tae dae wi the class war. Sort ay like, yous’ve goat the loot but we’ve beaten yis, ya bastards. But me masel, ah reckon masel that it’s mair tae dae wi reciprocation.

This wee cunt looks glaikit again. Eh’s nivir gaunny work fir NASA in the design field, that’s a racing cert. — Giein something back in return, ah explain. — That’s how we feel uncomfortable aboot giein jakeys money in the street, even if wir flush at the time. They say thit ye
dinnae feel happy in a transaction if one person’s takin n the other yin’s giein. Nivir bugged me, mind you, if ah wis the yin daein the takin that is. But aye, that’s what they reckon.

The cunt’s noddin, but ye kin tell ehs loast.

— So, ye want tae leave behind a wee present, a personal callin card, ah explain n make a fartin noise. The wee boy laughs at this, that’s the cunt’s level but, eh. — Tell ye what though, mate, ye want tae change yir fuckin diet, less roughage n a bit mair iron if ye want tae keep oan at this game. Try switchin fae lager tae Guinness.

— Right, eh sais, like eh seriously thinks it wid be a good career move.

Alec’s staggerin taewards the van, ehs bag stretched wi the weight ay the boatils in it.

Ah’ve goat the auld jakey n ah’m tryin tae boost um, help um up intae the front ay the Transit, behind the wheel. Eh’s struggling, but eh keeps a hud ay that bag like it’s goat the fuckin crown jewels in it. Finally, eh gits in. — Ye want me tae drive, ah asks, cause he’s well fucked.

— Naw, naw, ah’m okay . . .

Nippin roond ah shut the back ay the van n open the gates. The wee cunt stands watchin then asks ays, — What aboot me and Spud, when dae we git oor share?

Ah laugh at the dippit wee fucker, and climb intae the passenger seat. Ah pick up a copy ay the
Daily Record
oaf the dashboard. It’s aboot a week auld. — What star sign ur ye, mate?

Eh looks up at ays fir a second. — Eh . . . Sagittarius . . .

— Sagittarius . . . ah goes, makin like ah’m lookin it up in the paper. — As Uranus is active, you will have a lucrative time, particularly if you listen to more experienced colleagues in the area of work . . . there ye go, mate! Check this: compact discs and video cassettes make a particularly good investment at this time of year and hawking those goods around scheme pubs for the currency of the realm is likely to be a barry earner.

— Eh . . .

— What the paper’s sayin, mate, is that your share’s still in the hoose thaire. They videos n aw that are worth a fortune! N as fir the CDs . . .

— But . . . eh stutters.

— We’re cuttin oor ain throats here! Aw this stuff, ah nods behind ays, — wir gaun tae huv tae fence it, n it’s aw traceable. We’re the
ones takin the risks. Next time ah see ye, ah’ll buy ye a pint n some jellies fir yir labour.

— But . . .

— Naw mate, go in thair n git they CDs n vids intae they holdalls. Hurry, or ye’ll be fucked!

Eh considers this for a minute, then scurries back in, as we tear oot the driveway and intae the street. — Mugs, ah laugh, catchin a whiff ay Alec, whae smells even mair foul than usual.

This van’s a bit like Alec, it might be fill ay juice, but it’s tired n wheezing. It also makes a fuck ay a racket. As Alec takes a corner a bit sharp, there’s a clatter in the back and we’ve no stacked they goods as well as ah thoat. — Fuckin hell, Alec, slow doon or take a refresher drivin test! Yi’ll huv the fuckin polis oan our case. Straighten up!

This seems tae sober him up a wee bit, but by the time wi gits tae the industrial estate eh’s runnin up the fuckin kerb n thir’s another crash in the back.

Ah decide tae say nowt this time. The whites ay ehs eyes’ve gaun yellay, and that’s no a good sign. It’s like any minute eh’s gaunny start swattin imaginary demons. We gits up tae the lock-up, drives in and unloads the stuff, me daein practically aw the graft as Alec, sweatin and moanin, throws up twice. The pallets are stacked tae high heaven, wir like a fuckin discount warehoose here. — This lock-up’s nearly fuckin fill, Alec, we’ll huv tae git some ay this auld stuff doon tae Peasbo.

— Ehs shoap’s still packed wi stuff, Alec says, restin oan a big Marshall amplifier.

Ah’m gittin pissed oaf wi aw this. — Well, it’s gittin fuckin ridic, Alec, it’s gittin soas wir daein joabs jist tae pey the rent fir a lock-up fill ay gear wi cannae even fuckin sell.

— Problem is now, Terry, Alec coughs, — . . . that if ye hud oan fir six months wi electrical goods, nae cunt wants them . . . depreciation ay goods . . . obsolete . . . technology n that . . .

— Ah ken, bit ye cannae huv hoat gear in the shoaps, Alec, the polis jist need tae trace one item, some cunt panics n blabs n then we’re fucked.

— . . . change . . . obsolete . . . technology . . .

The myth aboot grasses was that people grassed mainly oot ay snideness and spite, or personal gain. That mibbe happens in top-level crime, or at the other end, tae some poor cunt daein a bit ay paintin n decoratin n gittin ehs giro stoaped cause ay some poisonous bastard. For the likes ay us but, maist grasses are just thick cunts who gie ye
away oot ay stupidity. They dinnae mean it, but they get mouthy in the pub and confused and intimidated in the interrogation room n thir easy for experienced polis tae brek doon.