Glue (60 page)

Terry was strutting around the hall like an actor rehearsing lines, while Lisa was laughing and wringing her hands together in anticipation, as the others emerged.

— What’s the story here? Johnny asked.

Terry waited until everybody had gathered round in bleary confusion and then produced the essay and began reading it out loud.

— Listen tae this. Stevenson College, Media and Cultural Studies, Robert S. Birrell.
Ma, He’s Making Eyes at Me
by Lena Zavaroni discussed from a neo-feminist perspective. Ha ha ha ha . . . deek this bit here . . .

in spite of her mounting arousal in the face of the growing attentions from her would-be suitor, Ms Zavaroni maintains her mother as a continuous reference point.

Every minute he gets bolder

Now he’s leanin on my shoulder

Mama! He’s kissin me!

This declaration constitutes an exceptional display of sister-hood, illustrating a bond far beyond the mother–daughter inter-generational relationship. We learn at this point that the Zavaroni character, or more accurately
voice
, trusts her mother as a confidante in circum . . .

— Leave it, Terry. Rab ripped the papers from Terry’s hand. Lisa was laughing in gleeful disgust as she watched Charlene’s adoring eyes on Rab. It was repulsive.

— An ‘A plus’ n aw! Phoah! Terry mocked. — Gold star fir Rab!

— That wis great though, Charlene said to Rab.

— I guess I never thought that much about the content of the lyrics in that number before, Kathryn said. She didn’t mean it to sound sarcastic but Terry’s laughter and Rab’s tetchy expression showed her it had certainly been taken that way.

Rab quickly changed the subject, smiling at Charlene in sheepish, grateful acknowledgement and suggesting that they all go to the café for breakfast, then a beer. Terry had already undertaken a systematic audit of the contents of the fridge and the cupboards in Rab’s kitchen. — The only place we’ll git a bit ay nosh is the café. Ah wis huvin a look at some ay the stuff you’ve goat ben thaire. It’s a right lesbian larder this, Rab, it hus tae be said. Two guys livin thegither, eatin like that? Phoah.

— Are you gaunny talk shite aw day or are we gaunny go tae the café? Rab snapped.

— I guess Terry could do both, Kathryn quipped, to Johnny’s laughter.

— Fuck the café, Birrell, ma appetite’s shot tae pieces wi these pills n that charlie. Lit’s git a few beers in, Terry said, smiling coolly at Kathryn. That cheeky fuckin Yankee cunt wis gittin intae the crack. Well, she’d better no get intae it too much at his expense or she’d fuckin well get it back tenfold. Nae fuckin star treatment here.

Lisa and Charlene nodded in agreement, and Kathryn and Johnny did too. Terry drank in the approval.

— Bacon, egg, sausage, tomatay, mushroom . . . Rab protested.

— Fuck off, Birrell, Terry scoffed, — wir oaf oor tits here still, or at least the heavyweight crew are, eh Leez, he winked at Lisa who gave Rab a hard stare, — . . . it’ll be months before we’re ready fir solids.

Kathryn was especially happy to carry on drinking. She put an arm around Johnny. That boy could fuck. Every time she put her hand on
that prick in the night it had stood to attention. Then she was right on him, enclosing him, pulling him into her and he was giving it to her as though his future depended on it.

— Eh, you’ve got the gig the night, mibbe ye need tae git some kip, back at the hotel n that, Johnny ventured.

Kathryn shivered inside. She wanted to keep going. — I’ve got plenty of time to go for a goddamn beer first. Don’t be such a drag, Johnny, she teased.

— Jist sayin likes, Johnny moped. He had to admit that he would have to recharge the batteries before getting back into the scratcher with her. The fuckin randy cow wouldnae leave ays alaine aw night, he reflected. If she wanted that level of sex all the time, well, apart from anything else, there was no way he’d be able to keep up to pace with the guitar. Contracts would have to be signed sharpish, before he was shagged away to nothing.

— Aye, Johnny, dinnae be a fuckin radge. The lassie’s entitled tae a bevvy when she’s in Scotland, right Kath? Terry felt like adding, ‘Especially eftir spendin the night wi a daft wee cunt like you’, but he bit his tongue. Besides, he had done alright. Lisa stood up and took his hand. — C’mon, sexy, she laughed. Terry puffed himself up like a rooster and moved over to the coffee table.

Rab Birrell felt almost physically sick. That mingin fat jakey cunt always seemed tae get his fuckin hole. He remembered Joanne, his old girlfriend, telling him that her pal Alison Brogan said that Terry was the best shag she’d ever had. Juice Fuckin Terry! It beggared belief. — Erection like one tin ay Irn Bru stuck oan toap ay another, Alison had told Joanne, who gleefully passed the news on to Rab. The thing was, at the time, Rab minded being pleased for his friend. He wasn’t fuckin pleased now.

— Thing is but, Rab, Terry smiled, raising an eyebrow and squeezing Lisa’s hand, — ah’ve goat tae tell Alec that ah cannae dae the work wi um at the hotel. The windaes like. Ye goat any beer left?

— Aye . . . Rab had plans for that carry-out, but he guessed that it would be futile to lie as Terry would already have been through every cupboard in the gaff, — . . . but it’s eh . . . Andrew’s . . .

— Wi’ll fuckin well replace it, Rab. Kath’s goat poppy! Terry snapped in stagey outrage.

— Yeah, that’s cool. I can buy the drinks from you, Kathryn volunteered.

— Naw, ah didnae mean . . . Rab vainly protested. The bastard
had got him again, made him look petty. Rab Birrell turned in time to clock Terry’s gleefully sadistic grin. He had really wanted to hit a café or get some food in from the garage and do a fry. He wasn’t hungry either, but his stomach tended to give up what he drank if there was no lining of food in it. Now they were off out on the pish, heading straight out to Post Alec’s and they were using his beer. He’d try to grab a roll
en route
. This thought all but evaporated, though, after he had one of the killer lines of posh Terry had racked up.

Kathryn was relieved at this. Her eating disorder, aided by the pills and powders, had reasserted itself and she couldn’t handle the idea of fried food. Rab Birrell’s attempts to tempt her with his description of the Scottish breakfast had merely restored her dread of solids.

— Alec’s no gaunny be chuffed aboot this. Wakin um up at this time in the mornin and tellin um eh’s working oan ehs ain . . . Johnny reasoned as the lager clanked in the binliners he carried, — especially as we’ve nae purple tin. Alec’ll no be intae this continental shite.

— Which was purchased by a certain student ponce named Robert S. Birrell! Terry laughed, tensing into seriousness as they flagged down two of a group of approaching taxis.

— We’ve goat a cairry-oot, Terry, that’s aw that he’ll be worried aboot, Rab said, almost to himself.

It had been a long time since Terry had been up the town. He normally never got further than Haymarket, and only that far in a bleary state. The gentrification and commercialisation of his city was doing his head in. He looked across at the new financial district and up Earl Grey Street. — Whaire the fuck’s Tollcross gone?

Nobody answered and soon they were rendezvousing at Alec’s place in the Dalry colonies.

— Jamboland, Rab said, stepping out of the taxi.

— Neat, Kathryn replied.

— No really.

Terry shot Rab a look of disapproval. — Shut the fuck up aboot the fitba for a minute, ya borin cunt. It’s Hibees this, Jambos that, wi you. Kathryn’s no interested.

— How dae you ken? You cannae speak for her.

Terry let out a long, exasperated breath, then shook his head. This cunt Birrell was a glutton for punishment. He never knew when to give up. Well, that didn’t matter, cause Juice Terry would slap the cunt down all day if he had to. Savouring a vestige of twisted, paternalistic affection, Terry looked at Rab Birrell and Kathryn in turn. When he
spoke it was in clipped but indulgent tones. — Right, Kath. Hibernian Football Club. Heart of Midlothian Football Club. What do these names mean to you? he asked.

— I dunno . . . she began.

— Nothing, he said curtly, turning to Rab, who was now looking quite uncomfortable. — So shut the fuck up, Rab. If you please.

Rab Birrell felt gutted. That cunt Terry! That fuckin . . .

— Well, I did notice Hibernian on Rab’s badge, she said, pointing at the crest on Birrell’s away strip.

Rab saw a shard of light and recklessly rushed into it. — See, he said. That was the annoying genius of Terry. If you ignored him, he just walked all over you. If you got into it with him, you demeaned yourself by getting down to the cunt’s level. And he always excelled in disguising his pettiness as something higher.

— I do beg yir pardon, Roberto. Kathryn did notice the badge on that colourful, if no exactly fashionable, strip that you’ve been wearing aw night, so by aw means please feel free tae give us aw a, what would you students call it? . . . a retrospective analysis ay the nineteen ninety-one League Cup-winning season. Or mibbe, as an alternative, he pulled an exaggerated, cheery face, — we could just go up and see Alec and have a wee drink.

They mounted the steps to Alec’s, and Terry rapped on the door, Rab stunned and silent behind him.

Kathryn was still a bit spaced-out. The food, the drink, the pills, the charlie and the shagging from Catarrh had left her in a dislocated, slightly deranged state. Now a door was opening at the top of a set of steps and a red-faced man appeared before them. Kathryn was roughly aware that he was the same one who was cleaning her windows yesterday with Terry. He wore a yellow T-shirt with a withered plastic cartoon man on it. The shade-wearing man was in a big car with an implausibly large-breasted woman curled under his arm. One of his hands grasped a foaming glass of beer, the other was on the steering wheel. There was a faded slogan underneath it: I LIKE MY CARS FAST, MY CHICKS HOT AND MY BEER COLD. Post Alec looked in disbelief at their assembled ranks, letting out a throaty incomprehensible sound. — Ahy . . . yay . . . Kathryn couldn’t ascertain whether it was a greeting or a threat.

— Shut yir fuckin mooth, ya moanin jakey cunt, wuv goat a cairry-oot here, Terry shook the bottles at Alec. He nodded to Kathryn. — Kathryn fuckin Joyner, ya cunt!

Alec looked at Kathryn, his blue eyes sparkling in his destroyed red-lead-paint face. Then he switched to the others . . . the usual collection of youngish wasters and daft wee lassies trailing along in their wake. What the fuck were they after? His eyes settled on the clanking binliners. The cunts had drink . . .

— Alec, Catarrh said meekly, before gobbing some snot over the balcony.

Post Alec ignored Johnny, ignored them all. He knew to go straight to the source of any trouble, and exactly where that source was. Looking straight at his mate, he argued in a low moan, — It’s no oan, Terry, but he was already moving into the house and shaking his head and Terry was following him in, — this time ay the fuckin mornin. Pit the beer in thaire, he said pointing at the fridge.

— Ah sais stoap fuckin moanin, Terry laughed, handing him over a bottle of beer. He started issuing the drinks and making introductions.

— Listen, what aboot the windaes? Alec asked.

— Plenty time fir that. The boy’s gaunny be in the PMR fir a wee bit yit, Alec. Wi kin take a day oaf oan the pish.

— Wuv goat tae dae this job, Terry. Ah’m tellin ye.

— One day isnae gaunny make any fuckin odds. A day for democracy, Alec, a day fir the common man.

— Norrie’s livelihood!

— One day, Alec, then we blitz the joab. Soak up the Festival atmosphere! Dinnae be sae fuckin humpty! Git a bit ay culture intae they bones ay yours, Alec, that’s what you need. Yir too caught up in the philistine world ay commerce, that’s your problem. A wee bit ay art fir art’s sake!

Alec had already opened a beer, not bothering to check the label. Rab Birrell sat down around the big table, pulling Charlene onto his knee. He wanted Terry to register that Alec hadn’t even noticed that the beers were continental lagers, but Terry wasn’t paying attention.

Lisa sat on a rickety kitchen chair and looked at Charlene canoodling with Birrell. She was eating out of his hand. That lassie could be so undignified. He was a ponce, that Rab. Not like Terry. He was an animal. It was brilliant. He had a great personality as well, no like some younger laddies ye met. Lisa sat forward and wedged her legs tight together. She could feel the throb where he’d fucked her. Big and hard. Yes. Yes. Yes. The coke still buzzed in her as she sipped at her beer and made a sour face. It was pony, but she let it shift some dregs
of powder from the back of the throat. Lisa wanted to drink some cocktails and then go back with Terry for another session. He was into that Kathryn Joyner though, you could tell. She was okay, but she was an auld boot and as skinny as fuck. Thinness looked daft on a woman that age. Scraggy.

Kathryn looked at the two young Scottish girls and at first she thought of Marleen Watts, the blonde cheerleader back at school in Omaha. Then Marleen became not one, but two blondes, the ones who looked up at her from the bed from either side of Love Syndicate’s Lawrence Nettleworth. The man who was her fiancé. Then that image faded and in her mind’s eye the young Edinburgh girls became a vision of what she had lost. When E’d last night she appreciated their youth, now she was coveting it. She wanted to throw up everything she had consumed. And yet

And yet last night had been so good, it all just didn’t really seem to matter. It came to Kathryn in a flash: she had to get out more.

Now she was talking to Lisa, about something she’d never talked about before. The discussion had gone from music, to fans, to obsessive fans. — So you hud a stalker, Kathryn? That must’ve been scary as fuck, Lisa said.

— Yeah, it was pretty awful at the time, I guess.

— He must’ve been a fuckin sad case, Charlene said with real bitterness.

— In a way it is sad, I read a laht about it when I had mine. It’s a shame, they really need treatment, Kathryn said.

Terry snorted in contempt at this comment. — Aye, n ah ken the fuckin treatment they need n aw: a fuckin burst mooth. Sad fuckin cunts. That’s the fuckin treatment ah’d fuckin well gie they cunts.