Glue

by Irvine Welsh

  Lisa felt the muscles in her own face stiffen. Charlene seldom swore, she was a puritanical wee bird in lots of ways, she considered. — So what wis . . .

  — Please, just let me talk, Charlene said. — Something happened . . .

  Lisa quickly stuck on the kettle and made some tea. She sat in the chair opposite the couch on which Charlene had crumbled, and listened as her mate poured out to her what she had been greeted with on her return from Ibiza. As she talked, Lisa saw the reflecting light hitting the silk walls which framed Charlene, so small on the couch opposite her.

  Don’t tell me this, hen, don’t tell me this . . .

  And Charlene kept talking.

  In the walls she could see the reverb of the darkened old pattern underneath, clashing with the new stuff. It was the wallpaper, the old horrible wallpaper, it seemed to keep coming through the paints. Three coats, with good silk vinyl paint as well. You could still see the crap coming through but, still make out that nasty old pattern.

  Please stop . . .

  Then, just when she thought her mate had finished, Charlene abruptly recommenced, switching into this cold monologue. For all the terror and nausea it induced in her, Lisa couldn’t bring herself to interrupt. — His stumpy nicotine stained fingers with the dirt under the nails pushing and thumping at my almost hairless vagina. The whisky breath and accompanying gasp in my ear. Me, rigid and fearful, trying to keep quiet, in case she woke up. That was the joke. She’d dae anything no tae wake up. Me, trying to keep quiet. Me. The sick, dirty diseased creep. If he was somebody else, or I was somebody else, I might even feel sorry for him. If it had been another fanny his finger was inside.

  She should have stripped the walls. Got rid of all that old shite. No matter how many coats you put over it, it always came through.

  Lisa went to speak, but Charlene raised her hand. Lisa felt frozen stiff. It was so hard for her to listen, she could only imagine how difficult it must have been for her pal to start speaking, but now the poor lassie couldn’t stop if she wanted to. — I should be a frigid virgin, or a nympho; I should be, what is it they call it, sexually dysfunctional. No way. My ultimate revenge on him, ma metaphorical two fingers to his literal one, is that I’m no . . . Charlene stared off into space. When she continued, her voice rose an octave, it was like she was talking to him. — and I’m glad of my hatred and contempt for you cause I know how to receive and give love you sad prick, because I was never the one who was strange or weird or repressed and I never fucking well will be . . . She turned to Lisa and jolted where she sat, as if switching back into the space she was occupying. — Sorry Lees, thanks.

  Lisa was across onto the MFI couch and hugging her friend for all she was worth. Charlene briefly took the comforting, then pulled away a little, looking at her with a calm smile. — Now what was aw this fighting talk aboot gittin pished, drugged and laid?

  Lisa was taken aback. — We cannae . . . ah mean . . . she stuttered in disbelief, — . . . what ah’m tryin tae say is that, eh, it might no be the best time for you . . . I mean, we’ve done aw that for two weeks an it didnae make him go away.

  — Ah only went away cause ah thought that he wis gone for good. Why did she let him back in the hoose? It’s ma fault, ma fault for gaun away. Ah shouldnae huv went away, Charlene shivered, her gold-ringed fingers wrapped round a mug of tea. — Wir gaun oot though, Lisa. One other thing, can ah crash here for a bit?

  Lisa crushed Charlene further, — Ye ken ye can stey here for as long as ye like.

  Charlene forced a smile. — Thanks . . . did ah ever tell ye aboot ma rabbit? She trembled as she held the cup in both hands though it was warm in the flat.

  — Naw, Lisa said, bracing herself, looking at the walls again. They definitely needed more paint.

  A Welcome Alternative to Filth and Violence

  The Festival Club is hell for Franklin, but the organisers of the event insisted that he and Kathryn come along. A brightly dressed man in a blue corduroy jacket and yellow chinos bounded up to Franklin and limply shook his hand. — Mr Delaney, Angus Simpson from the Festival committee. Excellent to see you, he said, in an English public-school voice. — This is Councillor Morag Bannon-Stewart, who represents the City Council on the committee. Eh . . . where’s Miss Joyner?

  Franklin Delaney let his face twist in a saccharine smile. — She had a slight cough and a tickle in her throat, so we decided that it was better she stayed in and had an early night.

  — Oh . . . a pity, there’s some people from the press and local radio here. Apparently, Colin Melville from the Evening News just had a phone call on his mobile, saying that she’d been seen out in Leith tonight . . .

  Leith. Where in fuck’s name was that, Franklin itched to ask. Instead, he said coolly, — I think she did pop out earlier, but she’s safely tucked up in bed now.

  Morag Bannon-Stewart took a step forward into Delaney’s personal space and whispered, whisky-breathed, — I do hope she’s alright. It’s so good having a popular artist that all the family can enjoy. This used to be such a wonderful Festival. Now it’s a celebration of filth and violence . . . He studied the broken blood vessels in her papiermâché face as she ranted on.

  Tensing up, Franklin threw back his double scotch, then signalled for another. That fuck-up Kathryn. Now he had this semi-drunk old bat from the council hitting on him. But the radio guy said she was seen in Leith. That couldn’t be more than a taxi ride away. As soon as he could, Franklin excused himself by making out he was going to the toilet. Instead, he sneaked out the door into the night air.

  Gimme Medication

  In the curry house something strange was happening to Kathryn Joyner. The American singer was feeling a real, deep, violent hunger. The lager and one of Rab Birrell’s joints they’d smoked going round the corner had brought on the munchies and the curry smells were intoxicating. Try as she might Kathryn could not stop a tight ball of hunger stick fast in her throat, almost choking her. The crisp, inviting bhajis, the aromatic and spicy sauce which covered tender chunks of the marinated beef, chicken and lamb dishes, the colourful vegetables sizzling in their pans, they made her taste buds throb from two tables away.

  Kathryn couldn’t help herself. She ordered up with the rest of them and when the food came, she attacked the dishes with a ferocity which might have raised more than an eyebrow in fussier company but which seemed perfectly natural to Rab, Terry and Johnny.

  Kathryn wanted the void inside of her filled: not with medication, but with curry, lager and naan bread.

  Terry and Rab had restarted the old argument. — Urban myth, Rab declared.

  — See if ah wis tae punch you in the mooth, wid that be an urban myth?

  — Nup . . . Rab replied warily.

  — Well fuckin shut it aboot urban fuckin myths. Terry stared at Rab, who averted his gaze to his fork.

  Rab was angry. Obviously at Terry, but also at himself. He’d picked up a load of jargon from the Media and Communication Studies Course he had enrolled on at the local FE college and he was tending to use it more and more in everyday conversation. He knew that it irritated and alienated his mates. It was just showboating, as he could express the same concepts adequately enough in words that were common currency. Then he thought, fuck it, am ah no allowed tae have new words? It seemed such a self-defeating cultural constraint. But this was really irrelevant as he was mainly angry because he was Billy ‘Business’ Birrell’s brother. Being ‘Business’ Birrell’s brother carried certain burdens of expectation, one of them being that you didn’t back down to cunts like Juice Terry.

  ‘Business’ was a heavy puncher and won his first six professional fights inside the first few rounds on knockouts or stoppages. His seventh contest, though, was a disaster. Highly fancied, he was outboxed and outpointed by Port Talbot’s Steve Morgan, a skilful southpaw. During the fight the normally explosive ‘Business’ looked listless and sluggish, rarely throwing a punch on target and a sitting duck for Morgan’s searing jab. The
consensus was that had Morgan carried a punch, ‘Business’ would have been in real trouble. The officials and ringside doctor picked up that something was wrong.

  A post-fight medical and subsequent tests revealed that Billy ‘Business’ Birrell suffered from thyroid problems which adversely affected his levels of energy. While medication could control this, the British Board of Boxing Control were forced to revoke his licence.

  However, ‘Business’ was respected and known to be a man not to mess with. The fact that he’d been beaten by his medical condition, rather than by his opponent, and that he had refused to go down or capitulate in any way further enhanced his heroic status locally. Rather than curse the cruel luck which snatched possible greatness from him, Billy Birrell had cashed in on his local fame and opened a popular and profitable pre-club bar called, inevitably, The Business Bar.

  The problem Rab Birrell had was that, as a thoughtful and speculative man, he lacked the explosive dynamism to match his brother’s fighting prowess or entrepreneurial zest. Rab felt that he was always going to play second fiddle to ‘Business’ and was caught between trying to establish himself in his own right and allowing himself to be carried along on his brother’s slipstream. He felt, whether it was real or imagined, that he was looked down on by the type of people who idolised his brother.

  While Rab was pondering this, Juice Terry was trying not to believe his ears. He had positioned himself on the same side of the table as Kathryn and was shocked when she pulled him to her and whispered in his ear, — Listen Terry, one thing I want you to know, there ain’t gonna be any sex between us. You’re a neat guy and I like you as a friend, but we ain’t gonna screw. Okay?

  — You’re intae Catarrh . . . or Birrell . . . Terry felt his world falling apart. His sexual options were shutting down faster than the hospitals, while Rab’s and Johnny’s, by contrast, were opening like prisons. He’d been bombed oot with that Louise as well. A tidy wee lassie, but a bit young for him and more importantly, knocking about with Larry Wylie, who was back outside. So that was that. Louise, though, she never had any records on the jukey in the Silver Wing or the Dodger.

  Kathryn was repelled and at the same time attracted by what she saw as the monstrous ego of Terry and his friends. There they were, three semi-bums from a shitty part of a city she had barely heard of and they acted like they were at the centre of the universe. She’d never known any of the rock ’n’ roll greats to have egos that size. The thought of her, Kathryn Joyner, who’d been all over the world, who’d graced the covers of style and fashion magazines, going with one of those under-achieving slobs was ridiculous.

  Absolutely ridiculous.

  Kathryn cleared her throat. She gripped Terry’s arm lightly, as much to orientate herself as to comfort him. And she’d liked it when Johnny Catarrh did it to her.

  — No, I ain’t into any of them. We’re friends, you, me and the boys. That’s all it is, that’s all it can ever be, she smiled and looked around. — I gotta find the restroom, she announced, pulling herself up and moving with a slight stagger in the direction of the toilet.

  — How is it they septics call the lavvy the restroom? Ye dinnae go thair fir a rest, Rab Birrell laughed.

  — Ye jist go thair tae pish n dae drugs, Johnny considered.

  Terry waited in silence until she disappeared behind the toilet’s swing doors and then turned to Rab. — Fuckin skinny stuck-up rich American cunt . . .

  Rab Birrell smiled broadly in between his mouthfuls of chicken jalfrezi. — You’ve changed yir fuckin tune. What happened tae Kathryn this n Kathryn that?

  — Pah, fuckin septic cunt, Terry muttered bleakly. Few people took rejection well, but Terry was worse than most.

  Birrell’s eyes lit up in realisation. — She fuckin KB’d ye. Ye thoat ye wir oan yir hole n she KB’d ye!

  — Fuckin smart cow thinks thit she kin jist swan aroond wi the likes ay us whin it suits her . . .

  — Dinnae start hatin her jist cause she’s no gaunny gie ye yir hole. If ye hated every fucker that didnae want tae shag ye it’d be a fuckin long list! Rab took an enjoyable gulp of Kingfisher, draining his glass, and signalled for another round as Catarrh nodded in grim enthusiasm.

  — It’s cause ah’m a pleb tae the likes ay her, that’s what it is, Terry said, buoyed up slightly at the prospect of more beer paid for by Kathryn.

  — Terry, that’s nowt tae dae wi it, Rab dismissed, — the lassie jist disnae fancy ye.

  — Naw, naw, naw, Juice Terry said wearily. — Dinnae lecture ays oan birds, Birrell, ah fuckin understand birds. Nae cunt kin tell me aboot fanny. Nae cunt roond this fuckin table anywey, he said challengingly, drumming the table for effect.

  — American birds ur different, Catarrh ventured, instantly regretting it.

  Juice Terry’s smile widened like the River Almond hitting the Forth Estuary. — Right then, John Boy, you’re the big fuckin expert oan American fanny. Aw they American birds you’ve shagged, compared tae aw they Scottish yins. So you tell ays the difference then! Terry let out a raucous, breathless laugh and Rab Birrell could feel his sides shaking.

  Catarrh shifted slightly in his seat, his expression and tone taking on a sheepish, defensive bent. — Ah’m no sayin thit ah’ve shagged tons ay American birds. Ah’m jist sayin thit American birds are different . . . like oan the telly n that.

  — Shite, Terry snapped. — Fanny’s fanny. Same the world ower.

  — Listen, said Rab, changing the subject to spare Johnny’s blushes, — ye think that she’s stickin her fingers doon her throat n pukin up aw that curry in the bogs?

  — She’d better fuckin no be. A fuckin waste, Terry stated. — Fuckin bairns starvin, oan the telly n that, n some cunt daein that!

  — That’s what they dae though, birds like that, bulimia or whatever ye call it, Catarrh considered.

  Kathryn returned from the toilet. At one stage she thought that she was going to be sick, but it passed. Normally, she did go to vomit up that toxic food before it converted into fat cells, corrupting and warping her body. Now it felt comforting, that heavy, warm, fluid centre, which had once spelt disease.

  — See that club’s oan the night, at the Shooting Gallery, fir the Festival, ken? Rab Birrell offered.

  — Barry. Fancy a bit ay clubbin eftir, Kath? Trip the light fantastic? Juice Terry ventured.

  — I’m nat really dressed for it . . . but I don’t wanna go back to the hotel . . . but . . . well, okay, she said. It seemed important to stay out, to keep going.

  — Need tae get some drugs but. Speed n some eckies, eh, Rab said. Then he turned to Catarrh. — Ye gaunny phone Davie?

  Terry shook his head. — Fuck speed, git some charlie fir later oan. Is that cool, Kath?

  — Yeah, why not, Kathryn acquiesced. She didn’t know where this adventure was heading, but she had decided now that she was along on the trip all the way.

  Rab saw Terry’s face distort with a twist of smugness. — Kath’s in the rock ’n’ roll business, Rab. She’s no wantin any ay yir schemie speed. Nothin bit the best now.

  — Ah like speed, Rab protested.

  — Awright Birrell, play the fuckin workin-class hero aw ye want. Yi’ll git nae medals fae us though, mate, right John Boy! He turned to Catarrh.

  — A bit ay charlie would be sound, Catarrh said, — fir a change likes, Rab, he appealed to Rab in order to mitigate his betrayal. Catarrh was normally a big speed freak and snorting coke played havoc with his already dodgy sinuses.

  The Rabbit

  Lisa had remembered Angie talking about Mad Max, Charlene’s rabbit. The one she had as a kid. She minded her once saying something on a come-down after a night’s clubbing and pill-popping. Something weird, where you can’t quite remember the detail, but you recall the ugly, troubling sensation. Something that can be easily parcelled off and filed under ‘druggy shite’.

  Something happened to her rabbit. Something bad, cause Charlene had been off school for a bit. That was as far as
it went in Lisa’s memory.

  Then Charlene started to talk again. About the rabbit.

  Charlene told Lisa that she loved the rabbit, and how the first thing she did every morning was go down to the hutch and check on him. Sometimes, when the drunken shouts of her father or the sound of her mother’s screams got too much, she’d sit at the bottom of the garden, holding and stroking Mad Max and willing it to stop.

  One day when she came home from school, she saw the hutch door open. The rabbit had got out. Something caught the corner of her eye and she slowly looked up at the tree. Mad Max was nailed to it. Huge, six-inch nails, smashed right through his body. Charlene tried to pull him off the nails, to cuddle him, even though she knew that he was dead. She couldn’t pull him off. She went inside the house.

  Later that night, her father came in drunk. He was shouting and sobbing, — The bairn’s rabbit . . . they gyppo cunts next door . . . ah’ll fuckin kill thum . . . He saw Charlene sitting in the chair. — We’ll git ye another rabbit, hen . . .

  She looked at him in simple, contemptuous loathing. She knew what had happened to the rabbit. He knew that she knew. He slapped her ten-year-old face hard, and she fell to the floor. Her mother came in and protested and he hospitalised her, knocking her unconscious and breaking her jaw with one punch. He then went off to the pub, leaving the kid to call 999 and an ambulance. Through her shock it took her what seemed ages to manage to dial.

  After having told her this story, Charlene stood up briskly, and smiled cheerfully. — Whaire are we gaun then?

  Now Lisa wanted to go to bed.

  An American in Leith

  It proved difficult to find a cab, and three went past him before Franklin flagged one down and headed off to Leith. He instructed a driver, whom he thought was surly, to stop at the first bar in Leith that had a late licence.