Glue

by Irvine Welsh

  The driver looked at him as if he was mental. — Thir’s loads ay them open late. It’s the Festival.

  — The first one with a late licence in Leith, he repeated.

  The driver had been working a long, tiring shift, taking daft cunts who didn’t know what they wanted to do, or where, or when, around the town. They expected him to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of the Festival. Number thirty-eight, they’d shout for the venue, as if they were in a Chinese takeaway. Either that, or they’d name the actual show. The driver was sick and tired of it all. — Thir’s Leith n thir’s Leith mate, he explained. — What you ken as Leith might no be what ah ken as Leith.

  Franklin looked nonplussed.

  — Dae ye mean doon the Shore, or the Fit ay the Walk, or Pilrig, where Edinburgh becomes Leith? Whaire in Leith?

  — Is this Leith yet?

  The driver looked at the Boundary Bar. — This is the start ay it. Jist git oaf here n keep walkin. Thir’s a loat ay pubs but.

  Franklin exited and wearily handed the man some cash. It was no real distance at all. He tried to do a quick calculation and fancied that he could have covered Manhattan for the same tariff. Angrily Franklin entered a spartan bar, but there was no Kathryn to be seen. Indeed, it was impossible to even visualise her in such a place. He didn’t stick around.

  Passing another bar, he discovered that the driver was right, she could be anywhere, they did all seem to have a late licence.

  In the next one, there was still no Kathryn, but he ordered a drink. — Large scatch, he nodded to the barman.

  — Is that an American accent mate, aye? a voice said in his ear. He’d been vaguely aware of somebody standing next to him. Turning, he saw two men, both with crew-cuts. They looked conventionally tough, one of them with dead eyes, totally at odds with his big smile.

  — Yeah . . .

  — America, eh Larry. Ah fuckin loved ower thair but. New York, that’s whaire ah wis. Ye ower here fir the Festival mate, aye?

  — Yeah, I’m . . .

  — The Festival, the man snorted. — Load ay fuckin pish if ye ask me. Wastin fuckin good money oan nowt. Hi! he shouted at the barman, — another fuckin whisky fir oor American buddy here. Fir me n Larry n aw.

  — No, really . . . Franklin began to decline.

  — Aye really, the man said, in a tone so coldly insistent it was all Franklin Delaney could do to stop himself shuddering.

  The barman, a big, ruddy, stocky man with black-rimmed glasses and a sticking-up mop of sandy-coloured hair sang cheerfully, — Three large whiskies comin up, Franco.

  The other man, the one called Larry, let his face crease in conspiracy. — Tell ye what but, mate, American burds, game as fuck. Well up fir it. That’s what ah dae whin it’s Festival time, fire intae anything wi an American accent. Aussies, New Zealanders n aw. Game as fuck, he said, lifting the glass to his lips.

  — Ignore that cunt, mate, eh’s a fuckin sex case, the man called Franco said, — aw eh thinks aboot is gittin ehs hole.

  — Naw bit, Franco, some cunts say it’s the colonial thing, brekin away fae the hang-ups ay the auld world. What dae you think mate?

  — Well, I don’t really . . .

  — That’s fuckin shite, Franco snapped, — burds ur fuckin burds. Disnae matter whaire the fuck they come fae. Some ride like fuck, some dinnae.

  Larry raised his hands in appeasement, then turned to Franklin with a glint in his eye. — Tell ye what but, mate, you settle an argument, between mates, likes.

  Franco looked at him challengingly.

  — Naw bit, this cunt’s a man ay the world, you’ve travelled aboot a bit, eh mate? Larry quizzed, a mischievous smile on his lips. — So tell ays, if ye kin, dae American burds shag mair thin European burds?

  — Look, I don’t know, I just want to have a drink in peace and head off, Franklin replied.

  Larry looked at Franco, then he lunged forward, grabbed Franklin’s lapels and bundled him against the bar. — So we’re no fuckin good enough tae drink wi, ya fuckin Sherman cunt? Take a fuckin drink oaf us n aw!

  Franco stepped in and started to slowly prise Larry away. But Larry kept his grip on Franklin, whose heart was pumping.

  — Settle down now, lads, the barman said.

  — Lit go ay that cunt, Larry, ah’m fuckin well tellin ye, Franco said in a low voice.

  — Nup. Eh’s gaun ootside wi me. Eh’s gittin done.

  — If thir’s any cunt gaun ootside wi you, it’s me. Ah’m fuckin seek ay your patter, Franco growled.

  — I only wanted a drink, Franklin pleaded.

  — Right, Larry said, letting go of Franklin. He pointed over Franco’s shoulder at the American. — You’re gittin it, he snarled, before heading out the door. Franco followed him, turning quickly to the visitor and saying, — You wait here.

  Franklin wasn’t going anywhere. Those guys were animals. He watched the guy stride, gunfighter-style and with murderous intent, out the door after his former friend.

  The barman rolled his eyes.

  — Who were those guys, Franklin inquired.

  The barman shook his head. — Dinnae ken. Thir no regulars in here. They looked bad news, so ah jist thoat ah’d better humour thum.

  — I’ll take another scatch, a large one, Franklin said nervously. He needed it to stop shaking.

  The barman came back with a double. Franklin went to reach for his wallet in his inside pocket. It was gone.

  He ran outside to where the two fighting men would be, only they weren’t fighting. They were gone. He looked up and down the darkened thoroughfare. All his cards and his big notes were gone. He checked his money in his trouser pockets. Thirty-seven pounds.

  The barman appeared in the doorway of the bar. — Ye gaunny pey me fir that drink, or what? he asked sourly.

  Stone Island

  Davie Creed had got stocked up on the pills and powders for the weekend, but it seemed like every cunt wanted them tonight. That was the Festival. That Lisa bird was tidy. Her mate was worth one as well, a bit po-faced though. Creedo had tried to get them to stay but they’d been anxious to move on. He would have caught up with them later, but the phone kept ringing. Later on Rab Birrell came up with Johnny Catarrh and some fat corkscrew-heided cunt and this skinny hag with an American accent. Looked like an older, Belsen version of that Ally McBeal on the telly. Possibly worth one if a bit pished.

  That corkscrew-heided cunt looked well dodgy. Creedo didn’t like the way he was eyeing the record decks and the telly. A tea-leaf if ever there was one. And these threads . . . what a fuckin jakey. And Rab Birrell, in a replica away top! Creedo fingered the button-on Stone Island label on his shirt, its comforting presence ensuring him that the world hadn’t gone crazy after all, or if it had, he’d managed to isolate himself from its lunacy.

  Terry had heard of Davie Creed. He hadn’t realised that the boy had such prominent scars. It really was quite a bad pattern. Catarrh had said that somebody had decked him, stuck a metal milk crate on his face and jumped on it. Normally you took Catarrh’s stories with a pinch of salt but in this case it looked exactly like that had happened.

  Try as he might, Terry couldn’t stop looking at Creedo’s scars. Creedo caught him and all Terry could do was smile and say, — Cheers for sortin us oot, mate.

  — Ah sort oot they boys anytime, he said, taking care to coldly freeze Terry out of the equation.

  Rab Birrell was looking at Davie. He hadn’t got fat, and he had the same thick fair hair, but his face had bloated and reddened incongruously, probably due to the drink and charlie. It got some people like that. Catching the tense vibe in the room, Rab said the first thing that came into his head. — Saw Lexo the other night . . . his conviction faded as he recalled that Creedo and Lexo had fallen out years ago and never got back on terms, — at the Fringe Club likes.

  Terry said something like, — So that’s where all the sartorial boys about town are drinking now!

  Creedo choked in a silent rage. Birr
ell and Catarrh had brought a wide jakey cunt up here and they were now bandying Lexo fuckin Setterington’s name aboot, in his fuckin hoose. — Right, ah’ve got things tae dae, ah’ll see yis. Creedo nodded to the door and Rab and Johnny were only too happy to leave.

  At the bottom of the stair Terry said, — Tell ays that cunt wisnae nippy as fuck.

  — Ye goat the drugs, Terry, that’s aw that we wanted.

  — Manners cost nowt, what kind ay impression is that tae gie an American guest ay Scottish people?

  Rab shrugged and opened the stairdoor. In his peripheral vision he noted a taxi and bounded into the street, flagging it down.

  Sydney Airport, NSW,

  Australia

  Wednesday 11.00 pm

  I really need something for the plane. Tranquillisers or shite like that. I’m charging into the chemist and I almost knock over a display of razors. Cunt, cunt, cunt. — Cunt, I spit through my teeth, and the wee lassie on the counter looks at me, sees a smelly fuckin jakey. Helena’s up alongside me, graceful and clean, like a careworker with an unruly client, sorting it out as change flies out my pocket, through my hand and across the floor.

  Reedy and the Parlour Maid stand back, a bit embarrassed at this. It’s the same story at the booking desk, then the checking-in desk, then customs. But I got on the flight, Helena’s powers of persuasion thankfully stronger than officialdom’s bullshit. Without her, I’d never have lasted five minutes in the airport, let alone got on the plane.

  I’ve got to get home though.

  My old man. All the poor old bastard ever asked of me was that I keep in touch. I couldn’t even do that. A selfish, selfish, selfish cunt. It was never in my genetic inheritance to be that way. My mother, my father, they were never like that, nor their parents, never so spoiled, self-indulgent, weak and egotistical.

  Be yourself, he always used to say to me when I was a kid. I was always a bit hyperactive, always having tae fucking well show off, and my mother used to worry how I’d be at family do’s, whether or not I’d be an embarrassment. My old boy never bothered but. He’d just take me aside and tell me to be myself. That’s all you need tae dae in life. Just be yourself, he’d tell me.

  Far from being an easy option, it was the most difficult, challenging thing anybody ever asked of me.

  Now I’m ready to go through the gates and I’ve said goodbye tae Reedy and Celeste Parlour, who’ve headed to the bar. Helena’s here with me and I’m squeezing on her hand, wanting to stay, needing to go. I’m looking into her eyes, unable to speak, hoping that it’s all in there, but fearing that all she can read is my fear and anxiety for my old boy. I think of the time she said to me that she’d love to see London. I launched into a tirade telling her that London was a dull, overhyped, repressive and snobbish city; that Leeds or Manchester were far more interesting places to be in England. I just hated the lazy, touristy complacency of her remark. Of course, I was giving away my own neuroses, all my own hang-ups. It was a simple, innocent comment, and I acted like a boorish, overbearing cunt, as I always did to anyone I was in a relationship with for too long. Excessive drugtaking has reduced me to a twitching, bitter shell. No, it’s not even a good excuse. My head’s fuckin gone; all the drugs’ve done is helped me along the way.

  She holds me tight. She’s so scrubbed, and clean, all the things I’d sneer at, which I really loved about her. I know that she’s doing this out of duty, that this is her parting shot and she’s going to tell me that it’s all over after this. I’ve been here before, it’s no more than I deserve, but I want things to be different. — I’ll phone your mother and tell her you’re on your way, she says. — Try to call her from Bangkok. Or if you feel too fucked and you think it’s going to upset her, call me and I’ll phone her. Carl, you really should go through now.

  She moves away, and I feel her hands slip through and out of mine, with a sick, jarring blow to my heart. — I’ll phone you. I’ve got a lot of things I need tae say . . . I . . .

  — You should go, she says, and turns away.

  Shell-shocked, I stagger through the airport security. I look around to see if she’s there but she’s gone.

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Thursday 12.41 am

  The Bitterest Pill is Mine to Take

  Kathryn had done loads of coke at one time, but she’d never tried ecstasy before. She felt a sense of trepidation as she swallowed the bitter pill. — What happens now? she asked Rab Birrell, looking round at the growing throngs of people in the club.

  — We jist wait till it comes oan, Rab winked.

  So they did. Kathryn was just starting to get bored when she felt a beautiful nausea gripping her. But the queasy feelings quickly wore off and she was soon aware that she was never so light or tuned into the music. It was fantastic. She ran a hand down her bare arm, enjoying a delicious, rapturous unravelling of tension. Soon she was on the edge of the dancefloor, settling into the deep house groove, moving by unselfconscious instinct, lost in the music. She’d never danced like this before. People kept on coming up to her, shaking her hand and hugging her. When they did this after a gig when she was wired, it felt intrusive and made her anxious. Now it felt wonderful and warm. Two of the people hugging and greeting her were girls called Lisa and Charlene.

  — Kathryn Joyner, a top head . . . Lisa said in an enchanted endorsement.

  Catarrh saw his chance and moved in. He started dancing with Kathryn, pulling her in towards the heart of the bass. Kathryn felt herself being swept along with the groove in a bouncy rush. Catarrh was an old soul boy, and he really knew how to dance to house music.

  Juice Terry and Rab Birrell looked on from the bar in mounting dismay though Rab managed to draw considerable comfort from the fact that Terry looked even more upset than he did.

  Terry couldn’t stand it any longer, he decided to head to the toilet, maybe take a line ay that charlie. He didn’t go out so much these days, but when he did, he preferred charlie to E’s. In fact, he didn’t know why he’d taken a pill. The booths were full of people doing lines though, and it was better to save the charlie for later. Standing at the latrine, Terry whipped out his cock and did a long E pish, the kind that never seem to be finished, even when they are.

  Not enjoying the sensation that he was pissing his troosers and continually checking to make sure that it was just an illusion, Terry tried to fix his hair then exited. Outside the toilet, three girls, done up to the nines in club gear, were talking, smoking cigarettes. One in particular looked stunning to him. She’d made a real effort and he always appreciated lassies that did that. He approached cheerfully and said, — You look gorgeous, doll, it hus tae be said.

  The girl looks this fat guy in the strange threads up and down. — And you look auld enough tae be ma faither, she replies.

  Terry winks at her pals then smiles at the girl, — Aye, and ah would’ve been n aw if that pit bull terrier hudnae been chewin oan yir Ma’s minge at the time, he states cheerfully, exiting with the laughter of the lassie’s friends sweet music in his ears.

  Terry got back to the bar where Rab was still standing, watching Johnny and Kathryn dancing. — John Boy’s enjoying ehsel.

  — That’s the only wey Catarrh kin bag off. Stick oan a white shirt, neck an ecky and dance wi a bird that’s E’d up, Terry sneered. Although he’d put that cheeky fucker outside the toilets in her place, he was still rankled at her comment. He looked at Birrell and Catarrh. The five or six years between him and them seemed more like ten. Somewhere between his age and theirs, gadges had started to look after themselves a bit better. Terry lamented the fact that he was just on the wrong side of a cultural schism.

  Catarrh was well into his pills, and he loved the way they made him effortlessly surrender to the beat. He put Kathryn through a pretty gruelling shuffle on that dancefloor, waiting until the glistening beads of sweat which formed on her head underneath those strobes merged into their first rivulet, before taking that as his cue to nod across to some free seats
in the chill-out area.

  — You sure can dance, Johnny, Kathryn said as they sat down close to each other and pulled on the Volvic. Johnny had a chaste arm round her thin torso which felt good for them both. There was something really fresh and beautiful about this boy, Kathryn told herself, feeling the pill flutter through her as she luxuriantly spread her arms.

  — Ah play guitar n aw, ken. That’s how ah got ma name, Johnny Guitar. Played in bands fir years. Ah love dance music, but ma first love is rock ’n’ roll. Guitar, eh.

  — Guitar, Kathryn smiled, looking searchingly into Johnny’s magnificent, dark eyes.

  — Aye, see thir wis this boy called Johnny ‘Guitar’ Watson n that wis barry cos wi baith played guitar n hud the same name eh. That wis how ah goat the name Johnny Guitar, eftir the boy. Black boy likes, American n that.

  — Jahnny Guitar Wahtson, I guess I’ve heard of him, Kathryn lied, in that vague American stoner way, which seemed designed not to cause too much offence.

  — Ah like ma acoustic, but ah kin be the mad axe warrior fae hell whin ah like tae n aw. And wir no jist talkin aboot a few Status Quo numbers or Smoke an the Water here . . . so, Catarrh prepared his pitch, — . . . if yir ever needin a guitarist, ah’m yir man.

  — I’ll bear that in mind, Johnny, Kathryn said, stroking the back of his hand.

  This was all the encouragement Catarrh needed. A myriad of opportunities shuffled through his brain. Elton John and George Michael on stage in a massive, televised, stadium charity extravaganza, when who should come on, from each wing, wielding their axes, looking cool and focused, but with those slightly ironic, knowing nods to the audience and the cameras, but Eric Clapton and Johnny Guitar. Elton and George would ceremoniously bow and wave each axeman to the front where a blistering, showy-but-tight-as-a-duck’s-arse guitar duet building up to new heights through its twenty-minute duration would be picked and battered from the strings of those Gibson Les Pauls by the legendary guitar hands, sending the audience into a state of uncontrolled rapture. Then Elton and George would move back to the front of the house and recommence Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me and a close camera shot would reveal, to billions of viewers, the tears streaming down Elton’s face, so overwrought would he be at the blinding performance of the maestros. At the end of the song, he’d completely break down and implore: — Come back on . . . Eric . . . Johnny . . . and the two axemen would look at each other sagely, in mutual respect, shrug and reappear to the biggest cheer of the night. Catarrh would stride forward confidently (his talent deemed that he had a right to such a stage) but not arrogantly (he was, after all, still an ordinary guy from the Calders, that was why the punters loved him) and give that slightly self-deprecating smile which made the guys envious and the chicks wide and wet in the nether regions.