Glue

by Irvine Welsh

  Elton would extravagantly hug the maestros, overcome with emotion. Hysterically and in halting sobs he’d introduce them as ‘. . . my great friends . . . Mr Eric Clapton and Mr Johnny Guitar . . .’ before being led from the mic by a sympathetic George.

  Elton and George would take turns to hug Guitar, which might be a bit dodgy with the boys watching it on the Silver Wing telly, what with them being poofs and all that. But the gadges would surely understand that showbiz people, artists, were, by their nature, more expressive and passionate than the rest of humanity. Mind you, Guitar didn’t want anybody taking the piss. The bitter punters left behind, Juice Terry being a prime example, would play up that one for all it was worth. Ugly rumours would be developed on the basis of one innocent, emotional, theatrical guesture. Johnny would have to think long and hard about those hugs from Elton and George. They could be misconstrued by the unaware and twisted by the jealous. He thought of Morrissey singing We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful. Well, they would just have to, because Johnny Guitar, yes, that was GUITAR, not Catarrh and not John Boy, was on the move. Kathryn Joyner was just a stepping stone. She was a nobody. Once he was established, that old dog would be traded in for a succession of younger models. Pop starlets, TV presenters, party chicks, they would all come and go as he played the circuit with ruthless abandon before finding true love with some intellectual but beautiful woman, perhaps a young post-modern academic, who would have the brains but also the heart, to understand the complexity of the mind and soul of a true artist like Johnny GUITAR.

  Things couldn’t be taken for granted though, Juice Terry was a rival. But he just wanted to use Kathryn. Granted, Johnny did too, but he was using her to become ultimately independent and self-sufficient. Terry’s vision ended at her shelling out for a few beers, some charlie, a curry and then shagging him before they settled down to a night of watching the telly in that stagnant pit of his. That would be a result as far as that fat frizzy-heided jakey was concerned. It would be criminal to let Kathryn be exploited for such trivial concerns. She was worth more than being used as a glorified remote control.

  And then there was Rab Birrell. The typical cynical schemie intellectual, too much of a critic to ever achieve anything in life. Birrell, so smug about telling you how things are and what is and isn’t shite that he forgets that the years are rolling by and he’s still done nothing more than sign his name every fortnight and do a few modules at Stevenson College under the twenty-one-hour rule. Birrell, who actually believed that talking his pompous shite about politics to half-pished or jellied cunts in west-side pubs was going to raise their consciousness and inspire them to take political action and combine to change society. What would Birrell want with Joyner? To tell the daft Yankee cow that she was suffering from false consciousness and should reject the world of capitalist entertainment and give her money to some bunch of nae-mates sad cunts who called themselves a ‘revolutionary party’ soas that they could go and visit other dippit fuckers like themselves in different countries on ‘fact-finding missions’? The problem was that Birrell’s poxy nonsense might have a moonies type of appeal for a rich Yank who had probably tried every other kind of religion, politics, medicine or lifestyle fad going. Rab Birrell, in his self-righteous way, was more dangerous to Johnny’s ambitions than Juice Terry. After all, she’d soon get bored of living on the dole in Saughton Mains with a fat cunt and his mother. It was a long way from Madison Square Gardens. But those political and religious cunts could get right intae yir heid. Brainwash ye. Kathryn had to be protected from them as well. Johnny shot a glance over to the bar where the predators were grazing at their watering hole. Spurred on, Catarrh continued, — Ah write songs n aw.

  — Wow, Kathryn said. Johnny liked the circles her mouth and eyes made when she did that. That was it with Americans. They were so positive about things, no like here in Scotland. You couldnae share your dreams and visions here, not without some bitter cunt sneering at you. That ‘ah kent his faither’ brigade. Well they could aw fuck off, because his faither kent them as well and they were, are, and would always be a set of fuckin wankers.

  Kathryn felt another rush from the ecstasy and she had a surge of goodwill towards Catarrh. He was a really cute guy, in a dirty, ratty sort of way. Best of all, he was thin.

  — Thir’s one ay the songs thit ah wrote . . . it’s called Social Climber. Ah’ll jist sing ye the chorus: ‘Ye kin be a social climber, ye kin git right oaf the dole, but remember who yir friends are, or you’ll faw doon a black hole . . .’ Catarrh crackled, sucking down more mucus from the back of his nasal cavities to lubricate his dry throat. — But that’s jist the chorus likes.

  — It sounds really neat. I guess it’s saying that you gotta remember your roots. Dylan wrote something similar . . .

  — Funny you sayin that, cause Dylan’s one ay ma biggest influences . . .

  Back at the bar, Terry and Rab’s brief unity didn’t last. Frustrated at Catarrh’s success, Terry was getting a mischievous rather than loved-up buzz from the E. — ‘Business’ Birrell. That’s a good yin, eh, he laughed, looking at Rab for a reaction.

  Rab looked away and shook his head with a tight smile.

  — Business Birrell, Terry repeated softly, his voice wobbling in mirthful disdain.

  Even through the luxuriant bullshit-free clarity the pills afforded him, Rab had to admit that Terry was a supreme wind-up merchant. — Terry, if you’ve goat anything tae say tae ma brar, say it tae him, no me, Rab smiled again.

  — Naw, ah’m just thinkin aboot the headline in the paper that time, Birrell Means Business. Mind ay that?

  Rab slapped Terry on the back and ordered a couple of Volvics. He couldn’t be arsed getting into it. Terry was okay, he was his mate. Yes, he was jealous of Rab’s brother, but that was an issue for Terry to resolve. Sad cunt, Rab thought cheerfully.

  In Terry’s head he was playing the mantra: Billy Birrell, Silly Girl. He minded that one: fae way back at primary school. Then there was Secret Squirrel. He had made that yin up. Billy hated that! This starts Terry thinking back though, or rather forward from that point, about how pally he and Billy Birrell were. They were great mates; it wasn’t Terry and Rab or Terry and Post Alec back then it was Terry and Billy, Billy and Terry. The two of them, and Andy Galloway. Galloway. He was some cunt. You missed that wee fucker. And Carl. Carl Ewart. N-SIGN. The techno star. It had been Terry that had given him the name. Terry tried to think about the influence the name N-SIGN had on Carl’s deejay career. It meant everything. He was entitled, surely, to a cut of his old mate’s earnings for suggesting that. Carl Ewart. Where was that cunt now?

  Rab sucked on one of the Volvics and let the music take him into the dance. The pills were excellent. He was cynicial of E’s potential as a life-changing force; it had motivated him into going to college, but he felt that he had taken it as far as it could go. It was now just in the alcohol, speed, charlie, and, on occasions, downer mix which made up the menu on nights out. When you got pills of this quality though, it made you reconsider. A vibe of the good old days of a few years back was apparent: the place was glowing in that sense of carefree unity. And now, without actually realising what he was doing, he was talking to not one, but two fuckin gorgeous birds. More importantly, from Rab’s point of view, he was doing it without any of the bullshit baggage of self-consciousness or trying to be smart or aggressive to hide the fact that he was a shy Scottish schemie with a brother and no sisters and had never really learned how to talk to women properly. But no problem now. It’s easy. You just say, how’s it going, having a good one? and things flow without testosterone or social conditioning playing their ugly tricks. You see one of the girls, Lisa’s her name, she’s dancing away, her long blonde hair swishing side to side, her white top glowing with an electric-blue sheen, her arse looking like it rules the world, and it does, as she swings in a sensuous groove. He sees the deejay, Craig Smith, executing a difficult mix and pulling it off with the casual nonchalance of an e
xperienced New York pizza chef in Little Italy, throwing together one of those appetising creations. All those girls and the deejay just working them all, knowing that the boys will fall into line. That’s Lisa, a willing prisoner of the groove. But it’s the other one, Charlene, that dark-heided wee gypsy-lassie who Rab finds the real work of art in this exhibition of the sheer, overwhelming, magnificent beauty of women. She’s telling him that she’s wanting to gouch and now she’s sitting on the knee of one Robert Birrell in order to do this and she’s rubbing his back and he’s stroking her arm and she says to the boy Birrell, — Ah like you. Does the Birrell gadge mumble something in gruff embarrassment, does he spoil the moment by the alcoholic, flighty, ‘Ye fancy a shag then?’ or does he look around all paranoid, worried that he’s been set up for ridicule by some so-called mate like Juice Terry?

  Does he fuck. Robert Birrell just goes, — Ah like you n aw, and there’s no self-conscious, jerky, frozen-time look into the eyes, no tense pause for the interpretation and misinterpretation of the signal. There’s just two mouths and tongues coming together in a relaxed, languid way and two psyches twisting together like snakes. Rab Birrell is both pleased and disappointed at the same time to note that there is no erection in sight because he is on a transcendental love trip with this Charlene lassie but a shag would be nice and he must bear this in mind because priorities change later but fuck that just now. Just sitting here snogging, touching her arm. After Joanne had gone, he’d spent a night screwing a girl he’d picked up in a pub, without getting anywhere near this level of intimacy.

  Lisa is next to them and she’s saying to Rab, who’s come up for air, — Ye like cocktails?

  — Aye . . . Rab says hesitantly, thinking that this lassie has no need to buy him a drink, an expensive cocktail . . . besides, he’s on the E trip . . .

  Lisa looks at Charlene and laughs, — She could tell ye a few.

  Taxi

  — Yuv goat tae admit it but, eh pal, thit Scotland’s a friendly place, the young guy at the bar said to him. Franklin thrust his hand further into his trouser pocket. — Eh that’s right pal, eh.

  — Yeah, he replied nervously.

  — We’re different fae the English, the young man emphasised. He was skinny, had short hair, bad skin and wore a long sweatshirt, which hung on him like a tent, and baggy trousers frayed at the edges. The last couple of pubs had been brighter than the first ones, but there was still no Kathryn.

  — Ah kin git ye anything ye like but, mate, you name it. Ye wantin a bit ay broon?

  — No, I don’t want anything at all, thank you, Franklin countered curtly. His hand tightened round the notes in his pocket.

  — Ah kin git ye some speed, good stuff. Or some E’s? Pure MDMA mate. Charlie. Oaf the rock n aw mate, best yuv ivir hud, the youth scratched at his arm. Two white marks out each side of his mouth gave his lower jaw a puppet-like appearance.

  Franklin gritted his teeth. — Nothing thanks.

  — Git ye some jellies. The boy’s jist ower the road. Geez twenty offay ye the now, n ah’ll be back in a minute.

  Franklin just stared at the young man.

  The youth extended his palms. — Awright then, ye kin come up tae the boy’s hoose wi me. Test the gear. How does that sound?

  — I’m telling you, I’m not interested.

  A group of stout men in their fifties were playing darts. One of them came over. — The boy telt ye, ya junkie cunt, eh’s no interested. Now git the fuck oot ay here!

  The young boy cowered away, and headed for the door. As he exited, he shouted back at Franklin, — You’re fuckin well chibbed, ya fuckin Yankee cunt!

  The darts players laughed. One of them came up to Franklin. — Ah’d git oot ay here if ah wis you, mate. If ye want tae drink in Leith, yir better gaun doon tae the Shore. Roond here yir face’s goat tae be kent or yi’ll git some cunt oan yir case. It might be welcome, it might no, but that’s what’ll happen.

  Franklin gratefully took the man’s advice, his own experience not exactly contradicting that proposition. He headed down to the waterfront and had a couple of lonely, maudlin drinks. There was no sign of Kathryn and there were loads of pubs and restaurants here. It was useless. He’d called back at reception, but she hadn’t returned to her room. Despite this, feeling defeated by now, he intended to turn in. He got another cab back up to Edinburgh.

  — American, aye? the cabbie asked as they sped up the Walk.

  — Yeah.

  — Over fir the Festival?

  — Yeah.

  — Funny, cause you’re the second American ah’ve hud in ma cab the night. You’ll never guess who the first one wis, that singer, Kathryn Joyner.

  Franklin fused rigid with excitement. — Where, he asked calmly, trying to keep control, — did you take her?

  Stars and Cigarettes

  Terry and Johnny, both attempting to pursue a certain agenda, were getting a bit irritated as people kept coming up to Kathryn. This E’d brotherhood and sisterhood was okay, but they had business to attend to. Thus Terry found himself in accord with Catarrh when Johnny asked Rab Birrell, — Let’s go back tae yours.

  — Eh, awright, said Rab . . . I’ll just see. He hedged his bets, looking over at Charlene and Lisa. Rab was determined that he was going nowhere without Charlene. They were up for it, but it was Kathryn who was at first reluctant. — Terry, I’m having such a great time!

  As usual, Terry had an answer. — Aye, but that’s when ye should move oan. Whin yir huvin a great time. Cause if ye wait till yir huvin a shite time before ye go, ye jist take that shite time wi ye tae the next place.

  Kathryn thought about this, and conceded the point. This night had started off strange, but had slowly turned into something wonderful. And Terry had come through for her so far, so she was happy to go along with him. Terry, for his part, was surprised to see that two of the girls he’d seen earlier on were with Rab Birrell. They were the ones who’d been with the lassie he’d insulted.

  Lisa looked at him and pointed, — That wis brilliant! Her Ma’s minge gittin eaten by a pit bull!

  Rab looked nonplussed as Charlene and Lisa laughed their heads off. Terry did too, then said, semi-apologetically, — Sorry tae take the pish oot ay yir mate . . .

  — Naw, it wis barry, Lisa smiled, — she’s a stuck-up cow, her. She wisnae wi us. We jist bumped intae her, eh Char?

  — Aye, Charlene agreed. Rab had given her some chewing gum and she was chomping twenty to the dozen.

  — Great, Terry nodded, all the time aware that he’d have never dreamed of apologising if he believed the girls were really offended.

  They got their coats and exited into the cold. Kathryn was transfixed by the E-inspired orange sodium tracers from the street lamps and she didn’t see the man get out of a taxi and walk right past them into the club. They carried on down the road for a bit, before veering off a sidestreet and into a stair. The steps were worn down as they climbed up one flight, then another. — Where’s the goddamn elevator, huh Kath, Terry coughed in a put-on American drawl as they mounted step after step to the top-floor flat.

  — Too fuckin redge, ya cunt, Kathryn said in a bad Scottish accent, trying to mimic a phrase Johnny Catarrh had taught her in the club.

  So the American singer Kathryn Joyner found herself back at the flat of Rab Birrell. Lisa was impressed by the size of Rab’s record collection. — Magic, she said, rummaging through the vinyl and CDs which were racked on the walls. Rab Birrell neglected to mention that most of them were somebody else’s, a deejay pal of theirs, and he was just looking after them, and the flat for that matter. — Anything anybody wants tae hear?

  — Kath Joyner! Terry shouts — Sincere Love!

  — No Terry, damn you! She never sang that fucking song any more. Never since Copenhagen. She hated it. It was the one she’d co-written with him. It was the one that every asshole seemed to ask her for.

  Charlene makes a plea, — No mair dance music the now, Lise, ah’m danced oot eftir
that fortnight in Ibiza. Find some indie stuff, some rock ’n’ roll.

  — A wee bit thin on the ground wi that, Rab confesses.

  — Current rock ’n’ roll music’s shite. The only person daein anything interestin thair now is Beck, Johnny ventures.

  Kathryn’s eyes widen. — Gad Jahnny, thet is so right! Play Beck. Beck is just the coolest spirit!

  — Aye, that’s barry, Terry agrees, moving over to help Lisa search. He looks in the pile of seven-inch singles. — Goat it, he says, moving over to the record deck. He puts the music on, and the familiar pub jukebox riff of Hi-Ho Silver Lining fills the air.

  — What the fuck is that? Lisa asks, as Rab starts sniggering. Johnny does too.

  — Beck. Jeff Beck, Terry went, singing, — Ha ho silvah ly-nin . . .

  Kathryn looks solemnly at him. — That wasn’t the Beck we had in mind, Terry.

  — Right, Terry says, deflated, sitting down on a beanbag.

  Rab Birrell gets up and puts on Shannon’s Let the Music Play and starts briefly dancing with Charlene and Lisa, before grabbing Charlene’s hand and leading her over to a seat built into the bay window of the flat.