Glue (47 page)

This morning though, it was doing his fuckin nut right in. As he crossed under the dual carriageway and strode into the shopping centre it seemed to him as if he was seeing the neighbourhood through the eyes of some pampered public-school ponce who wrote those
occasional social concern articles for the broadsheets. Everywhere dugshit, broken gless, aerosol spray paint, Valium-stunned young Ma’s pushing go-karts of screaming bairns, purple-tinned jakeys and bored youths looking for pills and powders. Terry wondered whether this was because he was depressed or whether it was due to the fact that it had been so long since he’d gone down the shops for himself.

What the fuck was up wi the auld girl, he pondered. She had been a bit funny lately, but she’d just hit her mid-fifties mind you, which, Terry supposed, was a dangerous age for a woman.

Rab Birrell stooped out of the taxi and almost maintained the same posture over the short distance from the kerb to the door of the Fringe Club. He felt like an alcoholic sneaking into an off-licence. If anybody he knew was passing . . . as if they would. But the boys could turn up in all sorts of places these days. Acid House and fitba casuals had a lot to answer for. Now you had a clued-up class of ordinary punters who would inexplicably be where you least expected them, usually having it large. Birrell had the fanciful vision of the Fringe Club being full of gadges, secret lovers of the arts. While Rab himself knew little about the arts, he just loved the Festival atmosphere, the way the city buzzed.

His flatmate Andy followed Rab into the club. Rab flashed the two memberships his brother Billy had managed to secure for them. His brother also managed to get Rab two tickets for a preview of a film, which they’d both enjoyed. Rab Birrell looked around at the London media and arts crowd present. These cunts had even opened up branches of their own clubs up here for the duration of the Festival, so that they could get through the whole three weeks without the risk of accidentally leaving the side of the wankers they incessantly bitched about the rest of the year. Birrell was bitter that it was this class of people who generally decided what you read, heard and saw. He cast critical, appraising glances around. Like a class-war connoisseur, he savoured a perversely satisfying glow of affirmation when a certain look, gesture, comment or accent met his expectation.

Andy saw his disdain and made a face at him. — Settle down, Mr Birrell.

— It’s awright for you, you went tae Edinburgh Academy, Rab teased, clocking a pair of smart-looking women standing at the bar.

— Exactly. That makes it worse for me. I went to school with the likes of those cunts, Andy replied.

— Well, ye should be able tae communicate wi them better, so git the drinks in, then go ower tae they birds and start the chat.

Andy raised his eyes in compliance and Rab was just about to move over when he felt an arm on his shoulder. — They didnae tell ays that they lit schemies in here, the huge figure grinned at him. Rab was six foot but he felt like a midget beside this giant of a man. He was all muscle, with not an ounce of fat on him.

— Fuckin hell, Lexo, how ye daein man? Rab smiled.

— No bad. Come ower n huv a gless ay champagne, Lexo said, gesturing into the corner where Rab spied a poncy-looking cunt and two women, one twenties, one thirties. — These twats are fae this TV production company. Thir daein a documentary oan casuals n they signed ays up as a technical adviser.

Rab clocked with approval the yellow Paul and Shark yachting jacket Lexo sported. It was one of those reversible numbers, which came in handy in the old days for identification purposes. He remembered Conrad Donaldson QC’s performances back in the day: — You say one of the accused wore a red jacket, then it was black. This while another had a black jacket which miraculously turned blue. You admit you had been drinking alcohol. Did you take any other intoxicating substance that afternoon?

The prosecution would object and it would be sustained, but the damage had been done. Lexo and Ghostie always insisted that the boys that went with them were well turned out. He remembered them sending two renowned game-scrapers home, simply because they were wearing Tommy Hilfiger (‘Schemie Hilfiger’) tops and jeans. — Ah’d rather be done than dress like that, Ghostie had stated. — Ye need standards. That’s awright if yir fae somewhaire like Dundee.

Lexo had more or less gone legit since his pal Ghostie’s demise at the hands of the polis. — Ye gaun tae Easter Road the morn? Rab asked.

— Naw, ah’ve no been doon fir ages, Lexo shook his head.

Birrell nodded thoughtfully. These days you
were
more likely to find some of the old crew in the Fringe Club than at Easter Road.

Rab and Andy had a drink from the flutes, then excused themselves. Lexo had business to attend to and was already zoning them out of the company after he’d made the show of introducing
them. Through having shared a room with his elder brother Billy for years, Rab understood the attention span of the hard cunt better than most. They gave, they took, on their own terms. Forcing them to engage through pushy conversation only irritated them. Rab Birrell was also finding it a bit nauseating the way the TV people were hanging on Lexo’s every word and getting visibly aroused at his anecdotes, selectively crafted to portray him as a great leader who pulled off spectacular swedging victories against all odds. As Rab and Andy took their leave, Lexo said, — Tell yir brar ah’m askin fir um.

Rab could guess Lexo’s comments to the eager media types now. It would be something along the lines of: Aye, that’s Rab Birrell, no a bad cunt. Used tae fancy ehsel as a casual for a couple ay seasons, but eh wisnae a top boy. Bright cunt, at college now, or so they say. Ehs brother Billy’s a different story though. Used tae be a good boxer . . .

Billy was always a different story. Rab was thinking about the envelope that his brother had given him, a few days before, at the family home. It contained two Fringe Club memberships, two cinema tickets and five hundred quid. He looked down to see and feel the wad, making a substantial bulge in his Levi’s pockets.

— Ah dinnae need this, Rab had responded, without attempting to hand it back.

Billy waved him away, then raised his hands. — Take it. Enjoy the Festival. Students dinnae huv it easy, he added. Sandra nodded in agreement. Wullie was plugged into his PC, surfing the Internet. He spent most of his time checking out websites on the computer Billy had bought them. The Internet and cooking had become his twin obsessions since his retirement.

— C’moan Rab, it’s nowt tae me. Ah widnae dae it if ah couldnae afford it, Billy implored. And Billy wasn’t being flash, well maybe a bit, but mainly he was just being Billy. He was looking after the people close to him simply because he could, and that was that. But Rab saw the expression of cloying indulgence on his mother’s face, and wondered why this couldn’t have been done privately, just the two of them. As he pocketed the envelope with a restrained, lame-sounding, — Cheers, he thought how strange it was that your brother could be your hero and nemesis at the same time.

Billy would be relaxed in a place like this, every bit as in his element as Lexo was now. Rab wasn’t at ease though. He thought it might be a good idea to head over to Stewart’s or Rutherford’s. They would probably be full of Festival types slumming it, he considered.

Tuesday 7.38 pm

I want this to be over. You take too much because you want to feel or see something different, but only for a short time. I can’t take this because I’ve got to the point that I’m not learning anything through it. It’s just another fuckin struggle. What the fuck is staying awake for days and days meant to teach me? Like when we were kids in the summer and we would spin and spin in front of the flats until we had some daft trippy blackout and then we’d lie panting, sick and dizzy on the grass. The grown-ups, sittin out in the sun, would tell us to stop. They knew we were only fucking ourselves up and that no higher consciousness awaited. There was a time when I thought that they were trying to stop us from gaining entry into a secret world, but now I know that they just couldn’t be bothered cleaning up after all those sick, puking little cunts.

But I’m doing it again, lying to myself in the name of oblivion. I want to see and feel less, rather than more, that’s why I’m off my tits. Bottom line: I’m fucking up and for no apparent reason.

ssssssssssHHOOOOMMMMmmm

It’s hitting me hard now, all the trips and pills I swallowed. All the powders I took up my fucked-up hooter.

wwwhhhhhOOOOSSSSShhhhh

I cry out to hear my voice reverberate across the Blue Mountains, but I can’t even see the other fuckers and I’m right in the middle of them. I can’t see the dense, lush foliage, which surrounds the clearing we’re dancing in. No, I cry, but I can’t hear my voice, nor can anybody else, what with the relentless throb of the bass, and I feel the contents of my guts separate from me and the soft ground rushes up to my face.

Wednesday 11.14 am

Terry was having problems. Big problems. He had always had a woman to look after him. Now his mother had left. His mother, gone the way of his wife. And she had remained friends with his ex, for the sake of her grandson Jason, or so the auld boot always claimed. But she had probably talked all this over with Lucy, the two of them conspiring against him, backed up by that big twat Lucy had got together with. He’d never been serious about that relationship, if he was honest to himself. It was just a ride off a smart-looking bird who knew how to dress on a night out. It lasted a year, which was about a year longer than it would have had the kid not come along. Vivian was different. She was a wee gem and he’d treated her like shite. The only long-term girlfriend he’d had. Three years. Loved her, but treated her like shite and she always forgave him. Loved and respected her enough to realise that he was damaged goods: to leave her, let her move on. After that night on the bridge he went off the rails. Naw, he was never on the fucking rails, what was he on aboot?

There had been other, episodic, short-term cohabitations. A series of women had occasionally moved him in, only to realise that the problems which led to their use of Valium, Prozac and other tranquillisers paled into insignificance beside this new status quo. In his mind’s eye, their faces melded into one vague, disapproving pout. In no time at all they would clean up and kick him out, back to his mother’s. But now his own mother had gone. Terry considered the ramifications of this. To all intents and purposes he had been abandoned. His own mother. What was it about women? What was their problem? But Terry wasn’t quite abandoned. The phone rang and it was his buddy Post Alec.

— Terry . . . Alec croaked dryly into the receiver. Terry knew Alec well enough to recognise a formidable hangover. Admittedly, this didn’t require great powers of deduction as Alec only operated in two basic modes: pished and hungover. In fact, Alec’s continuing existence on the planet over the last five years constituted a major setback for the sciences of physiology and medicine. Alec had acquired the nickname ‘Post’ due to a short period of legitimate employment with the Royal Mail.

— Awright Alec. The four hoarsemen ay the apocalypse oan yir fuckin back again mate, aye?

— Ah wish thir wis jist the four ay the cunts, Alec moaned. — Ma heid’s nippin. Listen Terry, ah need a wee hand wi a joab. Legit likes, he added almost apologetically.

— Fuck off, Terry said incredulously, — when did you ivir dae anything legit in yir puff, ya chancin auld cunt?

— Gen up, Alec protested, — meet ays doon Ryrie’s in half an ooir.

Terry went to get changed. Climbing the stairs he headed into his bedroom, taking stock of the house as he went. He’d have to maintain this tenancy, not just a drag, but a major hassle. Still, the auld girl might come to her senses.

Giving the flat a quick survey, Terry considered that the replacement windaes the council had put in had made a big difference. It was a lot warmer and a lot quieter now. Mind you, there was still a damp patch which kept coming through under the windae sill; they’d been out a couple of times and done some work on it, but the cunt kept coming back. It reminded Terry of Alec. He had to admit that the place needed redecorating. His room was a state. The poster of the lassie tennis player scratching her arse, and the one of the nude which traces Freud’s profile, ‘what’s on a man’s mind’. There was the one of Debbie Harry circa the late seventies, early eighties and Madonna a few years later. He had one of All Saints now. They were rides. The Spice Girls, they were just like the birds you could meet in Lord Tom’s or any meat market on Lothian Road. You wanted the classy, unapproachable type of birds on your wall. Terry only bought dirty mags when an unapproachable star posed nude.

The thin young woman looked tense and pale as she sat cross-legged on the bed of the hotel room, taking a break from reading a magazine to light a cigarette. She looked up, vaguely distracted, and blew a smoke ring as she contemplated her surroundings. It was just another room. Rising to look out of the window she saw a castle on a hill towering above her. Although that was unusual enough, it still didn’t impress. To her, the view from the window had assumed the same dulled and flattened aspect of one of the pictures on the wall. — Another city, she mused.

There was a rhythmic, intimate knock on the door and a chunkily built man came in. He had a crew-cut and wore a pair of silver-rimmed glasses.

— You okay, honey? he enquired.

— I guess.

— We should phone Taylor and go to dinner.

— I’m nat hungry.

She seemed so small on that massive bed, the man thought, focusing on her bare arms. There was no meat on them and just contemplating its absence made his own abundant flesh quiver. Her face was a skull with plastic-like skin stretched over it. As she reached over and flicked her cigarette ash into the bedside ashtray he thought about the time he’d fucked her, just the once, all those years ago. She had seemed distracted and didn’t get there. He could arouse no passion in her and after the event he felt like a sad charity case who’d been given a handout. A goddamn insult, but his own fault for trying to mix business and pleasure, not that there had been much of the latter.