Glue

by Irvine Welsh

  Then poofy-fuckin-drawers Carl Ewart goes, shakin ehs heid, — Thir’s too much testosterone floatin aroond here . . .

  If thir hudnae huv been aw that testosterone flyin aboot wi him n Topsy eh widnae huv goat in the paper in the first place, n eh probably would’ve been oan ehs wey tae ridin that student bird by now. Aye, thir’s eywis too much testosterone for him when it’s other people’s. Eh nivir seems tae mind it when it’s in ehs ain baws. Ah lap Carl up, but ah jist cannae help but think thit that wis barry what that lassie did tae the arrogant cunt.

  Spin oan that yin, Mr Deejay!

  The cheek ay that fucker is that eh owes it aw tae us. If eh hudnae been mates wi me n Birrell eh would have been bullied tae fuck at school, that’s a cert. Fuckin guaranteed, the fuckin Milky Bar Kid thair. And then eh widnae have hud the confidence tae ponce aroond behind a set ay decks like eh hud a cock the size ay the Blackpool Tower. Aye, the smart cunt thinks eh’s god’s gift tae fanny nowadays but ah kin mind ay when eh wis grateful tae any fuckin hounds thit wid gie um it. Used tae think eh wis it, wi that shite band him n Topsy hud, but top-quality fanny widnae look at um until eh goat ehs decks n ehs club nights n ehs wad ay cash.

  This Premier-minge lager lassie’s still shoutin at Billy, even as her wee mate’s tryin tae take her oot. She’s the wee tug in tow: a dumpy wee bint in a black dress wi curly hair n quite blotchy skin. Aye, it’s no jist testosterone, thir’s a fair auld bit ay oestrogen flyin aroond n aw, n maist ay it’s comin fae that lager bird. Tae me that means an itch that cannae be scratched, no by her felly at any rate. Eh’s still hudin ehs nose up. — Is nobody going to say anything about that, she points at him, — is nobody going to stand up to them?

  This lassie’s goat a fuckin blocked drain awright, so the only thing tae dae is tae send fir Dyno-rod Lawson here! Ah moves forward, winking at Billy. — Is that how you get your kicks, Birrell, terrorising people, defending fascists? You can stick your club, ah spit, turnin tae the Cool Lager Lassie, her mate Curly-Wurly n the injured felly, — I’m out of here!

  Sure enough, as ah step outside, they’re no far behind ays. Mark n ehs mate ur makin sure they stey oot n aw. The perr cunt’s bundled intae a taxi and sent hame, or up tae the A&E oan ehs tod. The bird that splashed Ewart is livid at the perr fucker. — He was bloody useless, she craws as the taxi speeds oaf.

  — Are you okay? ah ask her.

  — Yes I’m okay! she shouts at me. Ah stick ma hands in the air.

  Her pal grabs her, then comes over to me, tuggin oan ma sleeve. — I’m sorry, thanks for sticking up for us in there.

  The lassie that splashed Ewart is aw tense, she’s bitin at the skin aroond her nails. Ah wink at her, aw placatory like, and she gies ays a tense smile back.

  — Listen, ah say tae her mate, — ah think your pal’s in a bit of shock. I’m going to get us another taxi. This lassie, the wee Curly-Wurly, nods thankfully at me.

  Ah jump intae the street and shout one doon, divin in the back n hudin the door open. They look at me for a second, then pile in.

  We’re heading back to their flat in South Clerk Street. Ah chat up the wee Curly-Wurly, thinkin thit if ah gie her the time ay day, ah’m double-bound tae be asked up. Sure enough, they invite ays up for a drink and a spliff. It’s a cooler pad thin ah reckoned, young professional rather than studenty. We sit and talk about clubbing and politics. Ah’m sittin back lettin thaim lead the conversation, but it’s typical studenty shite and ah huv tae admit ah’m findin it hard tae feign interest. The main objective is tae slip in the odd tellin glance, which ah do oan occasion. The lager-lout’s too wired tae notice, but her mate’s gantin on it.

  They baith seem a bit jagged, as if thir oan a comedown, and they tell me that they’ve been canin it a bit since they went oot oan Friday night. — I wish we could get more fucking pills, the Lager Lassie goes.

  Ah pills oot the couple that Gally gied ays and dishes them oot. — Take these, thir really good.

  — Wow . . . snowballs. Are you sure?

  — Be my guest, ah shrug.

  — That’s really so lovely of you, the Lager Lassie smiles at ays. Ah act cool, cause this type ay fanny’ll jist cock-tease ye till yir baws explode if ye seem too keen.

  Within half an ooir, thair up again. They wir callin the boyfriend guy aw the tossers under the sun, but now wir aw sittin wrapped roond each other oan the couch n the heatin’s up full n thir tellin ays how nice ah am, strokin ma face n hair n clathes n aw that. Balm tae the fuckin ego, this is. But ah’ve nivir really hud problems wi the ego, it’s the fuckin id ah’m interested in. Ah’m thinkin that ah should maybe try n screw the nut, but thir’s the auld amphetamined pervert in ma heid, blazin away aw sleazy n licentious n eggin ye oan tae further depravities. — Huv we goat a take-oan then, girls? ah ask. — Two a side, wi one man sent oaf, that’s the odds ah like!

  They look at me, then at each other, and slowly but surely, the clathes start tae come oaf n we huv a great wee night tae wurselves.

  In the night ah woke up and had a wee peek at they scarlet harlots. Sleep can be a cheatin cunt; it’s giein them a sortay bearing and demeanour ay innocence they didnae warrant. What the fuck is that aw aboot? Sleep my erse, it’s unconsciousness. Any undertaker could make a deid Charlie Manson look ‘peaceful’ in half an ooir.

  Ah git dressed and oot intae the cauld night, feelin lonelier and mair guilty than I’ve felt in my life and longin tae see Viv. But ah’ve goat some scent and fluids tae get rid ay first.

  Competition

  This gaff certainly looks fuckin easy. Alec came through oan the surveillance, ah’ll huv tae gie the mingin auld toerag ehs due. Just as well, cause ah never goat a chance tae, no wi the Secret Squirrel pillin ays up like eh did.

  — The hoose is completely detached and has a huge back and front gairdin wi a wooded driveway tae the side, leadin tae a garage. Ye cannae see the side lane from the road, cause ay the bushes n the overhanging trees, Alec had explained, soundin like an estate agent. Eh disnae fuckin well look like yin, mind you.

  After gaun past in the van a couple ay times ah get out and open the black-painted wooden gate and Alec gets set tae drive the motor right doon the side ay the hoose. Ah clocks that the back patio doors are expensive and double-glazed. Alec’s right though, the mug’s got a simple glass-panelled door in the side lane which ‘affords access’ tae the kitchen.

  Alec’s puffin and heavin wi the auld van here. At first the daft bastard tries tae drive in head first which means we’ll have tae reverse oot in an emergency. No way. That auld wank is fuckin up badly, forgetting his ain rules. — Egress, Alec, mind egress, ah hiss, tappin the van windae.

  Eh reworks the manoeuvre, reversin clumsily intae the driveway. As we go in and ah shut the gates, ah clock this auld blue van parked right ootside in the street. It’s aw beat up, even worse than ours. It looks abandoned, nae wey is that an unmarked cop vehicle. If it hus been dumped, it’s bad news cause it means that some nosey cunt roond here’ll soon be oan the blower tae the tow-away fuckers.

  The risk factor’s gaun up awright.

  Alec gets oot the van and eh’s lookin aw tentatively at the fuckin windae pane in the kitchen door. As we go in ah see the reason fir ehs worry. The cunt’s been smashed right in. — What the fuck’s gaun oan here? eh whispers. — Ah dinnae like this, lit’s git back in the van and get the fuck oot ay here!

  Wir huvin nane ay that. — No fuckin way . . . some cunt’s tryin tae rob oor fuckin gaff! Lit’s git this sorted right oot!

  We open the door and tiptoe intae the kitchen through the darkness. Ma boot scrunches oan some broken gless. As we walk across this tiled flair, all of a sudden there’s an almighty crash and ah almost shite masel. Ah realise it’s Alec, eh’s fell heavily oan ehs erse. — What the fuck . . . ah spit through the darkness at the clumsy drunken cunt.

  — Ah slipped oan something . . . eh moans.

  Thir’s a hell oaf a smell n aw, really fuckin pungent, and it’s that b
ad perr Alec begins retchin. Ah’m startin tae think that the filthy fuckin jake’s follayed through when ah realise that somebody’s shat across the flair, n that’s what Alec’s slipped in. — Dirty fuckin . . . eh gasps, as eh pebble-dashes the tiles wi puke.

  Then in front ay us, ah sees this figure, standin in the doorway. Ah catch a glint fae a shard ay moonlight and ah realise thir’s a knife in its mitt. A young boy, about eighteen, n eh’s shitein it. Tremblin, wi the knife wavin aboot in front ay um. — What dae youse want? Danny! Eh twists ehs heid n hisses up tae the stairs.

  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.