by Irvine Welsh
Billy looked over to the corner of the park, beside the wall where everybody went to fight, to settle disputes which had broken out in the playground or the scheme. He’d battered Brian Turvey a few times there. Topsy, Carl’s mate. A game boy but, didnae know when he was beaten. Kept coming back. That tactic often worked: he’d seen a few guys who had done Topsy be worn down by his persistence and just capitulate on the second or third time so that they could live in peace. Denny Frost was an example. Half-killed Topsy a few times, but got so sick of being attacked or pulled up that he just got it over with, lying down to the boy.
It never bothered Billy though, he’d kick Topsy’s arse every day of the week for the rest of his life if the cunt wanted it. After the third time, Topsy had the good sense to consider that the long-term effects of the Doctor Martin boot on the brain cells might impair future economic and social opportunities. He was a game cunt but, Billy reflected, with a strange mix of approval and contempt.
Terry breathed in the damp, fetid air, its fusty vapours tugging at his throat and coating his lungs. The alcohol and charlie binge had given his immune system the dynamo of a low T-count hiver and he fancied that he could feel the tuberculosis incubating in his lungs.
The grey gets in, Gally once told him. Not after the first time, but the second time, when he’d done that eighteen months in Saughton. When Gally came out he said he’d felt part of the grey matter in his brain setting into breeze-block concrete. Terry thought of himself; yes, there were now some grey hairs in the temples of that brown corkscrew.
The grey gets in.
The scheme, the government employment scheme, the dole office, the factory, the jail. Together they created a squalid stink of low expectation which could choke the life out of you if you let it. There was a time when Terry felt that he could keep it all at bay, when the weaponry in his social arsenal seemed substantial enough to just blow big Technicolor holes in it all. That was when he was Juice Terry, wideo, fanny merchant, and he could skate above the ice as deftly as Torvill and Dean. But struggle, survival, they were a young cunt’s game. He knew some of them, the young team, and how they now held him in the same affectionate contempt with which he had regarded Post Alec.
Now the ice was melting and he was sinking fast.
Becoming one with the grey.
Lucy had told him about the problems their son was having at school. Like father . . . it was the unspoken assertion on her lips. He thought of his own father, as estranged from him as he was from his son. Terry had a sickening, mature reflection that there was nothing he could do to be a more positive influence on the kid’s life.
Still, he had to try.
At least Jason had him, poor bastard. Jacqueline didn’t have Gally.
Carl was getting his breathing under control. The air smelt sweet and strange, yet common to his experience. The park seemed familiar and different, all at once.
Terry’s glance was a plea for affirmation. Billy was lost in thought, but it was like he was groping for something. He looked to Carl who nodded at him.
Billy began to speak slowly and deliberately, looking at the broken glass and the purple tin at his feet. — Funny, he began, as if he were a lawyer, — eftir it aw came oot, Doyle came doon tae the gym. Ah goat in the car wi him. Eh said tae ays, ma mate’s soundin like a Dalek. Your mate’s lucky eh’s deid. It disnae need tae go any further now. Billy shot hard, alternate glances at Carl then Terry, then Carl again. — Tell ays, Carl, you wirnae thaire that night, roond at McMurray’s, wir ye?
— Ye mean wi Gally likes? Carl asked. He was thinking back to the funeral. Billy had mentioned this.
Billy nodded.
— Nup. Ah didnae ken that McMurray had been done that weekend. Ah just thoat we wir oot on the pish, ah didnae huv any idea that Gally did that.
Terry shuddered inside. He had never believed that confession was good for the soul. Growing up in police interrogation rooms had taught him that keeping tight-lipped was the best policy. The dice was loaded against you when it came to officialdom. The way was to tell them fuck all, and only that if they beat it out of you.
But something was happening; the pieces of the circumstances of Gally’s death were coming together. Terry’s head was buzzing.
Looking at Carl and then Billy, he said quietly, — Ah went roond tae Polmont’s that night wi Gally.
Billy shot a glance at Carl, and they both looked back at Terry. Clearing his throat, Terry continued, — Ah didnae know eh goat in touch wi you first, Billy. It must’ve been eftir you telt um tae leave it. We went for a drink, n ah tried tae talk um oot ay daein anything. We only had a couple, doon the Wheatsheaf, but ah kent that Gally’s mind was made up to confront McMurray. Ah wanted tae be thaire, cause . . .
— Ye wanted tae back up yir mate, Carl finished the sentence for him, looking coldly at Billy.
— Back up ma mate? Ha! Terry laughed bitterly, tears welling in his eyes. — I fuckin well shat aw ower ma mate!
— What ye oan aboot, Terry? Carl cried, — ye went doon thaire tae back um up!
— Shut up, Carl, git intae the fuckin real world! Ah went thaire cause ah wanted tae hear whit wis gaunny be said between they two, because . . . because thir wis things thit ah didnae want McMurray tae say tae Gally . . . if eh telt Gally . . . ah jist couldnae huv it.
— You fuckin . . . you fuckin . . . Billy wheezed. Carl put his hand on his shoulder.
— Calm doon, Billy, listen tae Terry.
— Thir wis things wi me n Gail, Terry coughed, — McMurray n her hud split up cause ah wis . . . but it hud been gaun oan fir years. Ah didnae want Gally tae ken. Gally wis ma mate!
— Ye should’ve fuckin well thoat ay that when ye wir shaggin ehs wife every time his back was turned, ya cunt, Billy spat.
Terry raised his head to the sky. He seemed in great pain.
— Just listen, Carl pleaded with Billy. — Terry, he urged.
But Terry couldn’t be stopped now. It would have been like trying to squeeze toothpaste back into a tube. — Gally took the crossbow, wrapped it in a black bin-liner. He was gaunny dae McMurray. Ah mean really dae the cunt. It wis like eh didnae care aboot anything else. It wis like eh hud nothing to lose.
Carl swallowed hard. He’d said to Gally that he’d never tell anybody about the HIV.
— Aye, Terry coughed, — Gally wis different. Something had cracked in um. Mind how eh wis in Munich? Eh wis worse that night, fuckin deranged the cunt wis, he tapped his head. — The wey eh saw it, McMurray took ehs liberty, ehs wife, ehs bairn. Made him hurt the bairn. Ah tried tae talk him oot ay it, Terry said, now whining, — but ken what? Ken what kind ay cunt ah am? Part ay ays thought that if eh goes thair n does McMurray, then it’s awright. It’s a fuckin result.
Billy looked away.
Terry clenched his teeth. His nails dug into and scrapped along the green paint of the park bench. — Ye ken the state eh wis in then? Ye remember the perr cunt’s state ay mind? Us, daft laddies, jokin n drinkin, while that perr cunt wis crackin up . . . cause ay me.
Carl closed his eyes and raised his hand. — Cause ay Polmont, Terry. It wisnae you she left um fir, it wis Polmont. Mind that. It wisnae right what ye did, but she didnae leave him cause you wir shaggin her. She left him fir Polmont.
— That’s right, Terry, keep it in perspective, Billy said, and reached out and pulled on his sleeve, looking away, before asking: — What happened thaire, mate?
— The funny thing wis, Terry began, — we thought we’d huv tae kick the door doon. But naw, Polmont just opened it and let us in. He walked through, like eh expected us. ‘Aw it’s youse,’ eh goes. ‘Moan in.’
— Ah mean, we jist looked at each other. Ah wis expectin the Doyles tae be thair, expectin some kind ay trap. Like a big fuckin ambush. Gally seemed tae freeze. Ah took the bin-liner oaf um. Gie’s that, ah telt um.
— Polmont . . . eh, McMurray but, eh wis in the kitchen oan ehs tod, makin some coffee. Cool as fuck; no even cool, mair
resigned. ‘Ah’m gled yis came along,’ eh telt us. ‘It’s time wi sorted aw this oot,’ eh goes, but eh’s lookin at me rather thin Gally.
— Gally looked at me, aw confused. This wisnae what eh expected. It wisnae what ah expected. Ah wis shitein it. It wis guilt, but it wis mair thin that. It was the thought ay Gally hatin ays, us no bein mates any mair. Eh wis startin tae tipple something wis up.
— Then McMurray looked at um. ‘You did time for what ah did, n ye never grassed ays’, eh said tae Gally. ‘Then ah took up wi yir bird . . .’
— Gally looked at him, stood thair glarin in shock. It wis like the cunt’d taken aw the words oot ay the perr fucker’s mooth, stolen ehs big fuckin speech.
— Polmont wisnae gloatin but, it wis like eh wis tryin tae explain. But, me, ah didnae want um tae explain. Ah wanted ehs mooth shut. But eh went oan aboot ehs Ma, tellin Gally aboot the night way back, ootside Clouds. Ehs Ma hud died earlier that year, eh said. Wi cancer. She wis jist thirty-eight. Ah mean, Terry said, — ah’ll be that age next year. But eh kept gaun oan aboot it. Eh telt ays thit he jist went mental. That eh lost it. That eh didnae gie a fuck aboot anybody . . . eh wis a young laddie . . .
— N Gally spoke up at last, eh goes, ‘Ah did time for you. Ma bird, ma daughter’s wi you!’ eh squealed in pain.
— ‘Yir bird isnae wi me. She’s away. Took the bairn,’ eh says, lookin straight at me.
— Gally goes, ‘What are ye oan aboot . . .?’
— Ah shakes the bin-liner. ‘Eh’s bullshittin ye, Gally,’ ah telt the cunt. ‘Fuckin bullshittin ye! Gie the cunt it!’
— Polmont ignores me, turns tae Gally. ‘Ah loved her. She wis a cow, but ah loved her. Still do. Ah love the wee lassie n aw, she’s a great wee bairn. Love her like she’s ma ain . . .’
— Gally got radge at this. ‘She’s no your ain!’ Eh stepped forward.
Terry stopped, swallowed hard. Carl started to shiver, put his hands to his head. Billy looked not so much at Terry as into him, trying to see his soul, trying to see the truth.
Terry took a deep breath. His hands shook in front of him. — Polmont was gaunny say it then, ah kent what eh wis gaunny say tae Gally in front ay me. Or mibbe eh wisnae, ah dinnae ken! Ah didnae ken! Ah dunno if ah meant tae scare um or shut um up or if it wis an accident, but ah pointed the bow at him and ma finger wis roond the trigger. It jist went off or ah fired, ah still dinnae ken, whether ah meant it or no, ah jist felt this wee bit pressure.
Billy was trying to work this out. What was McMurray going to say to Gally? Surely that Terry had taken Gail away from McMurray. Surely that was it. Or that Terry had been shagging Gail for years. When they got married, Carl was the best man. Billy remembered his speech. He said that Terry should have been the best man, cause it was him that got Gail and Gally thegither. Terry.
The words he used: Terry was Cupid.
— Aw fuckin hell, Terry said, taking a gulp of air and continuing in a low whine. — Thir wis a hissin sound and the bolt ripped oot through the bag. It flew straight intae his neck. Eh didnae scream, eh jist staggered back n made a gurglin sound. Gally edged away. Polmont’s hands were at his ain throat, then eh went ontae ehs knees and the blood came oot, dribblin ontae the kitchen flair.
— Gally was in shock. Ah grabbed ehs airm and pilled him oot the door. We went doon the road. Ah wiped the crossbow clean, broke it up and dumped it oot at Gullane.
Juice Terry Lawson paused, feeling a slight smile play on his lips at the thought of Gullane, and he glanced briefly at Billy, who remained blank-faced. So Terry continued. — On the wey oot, we stoapped n Gally called an ambulance for Polmont. It saved the cunt’s life. Gally did! Gally saved ehs life! Every cunt thought that he shot Polmont but it was me! It wis me! He wis the yin that saved the cunt’s life. Ah’d huv let that fucker bleed tae death. The bolt hit ehs Adam’s aypil; it missed the spinal column, the carotid artery and the jugular vein. But eh would have choked on ehs ain blood! If it hud been up tae me! The ambulance came and they wheeled him in and gave him an emergency op. It crushed his voicebox, now eh’s got one ay they robot things that eh presses in ehs throat. But eh nivir said nowt, the boy never grassed ays. Eftir Gally died ah thought eh would’ve.
Carl looked at Terry. — The cunt couldnae fuckin well speak tae grass anybody. He forced a strange laugh.
It didn’t lighten Terry’s mood though. — Gally jumped cause eh kent aboot me n Gail . . . n when eh died eh took the blame wi um, n it kept the likes ay the Doyles oaf ma trail . . . Ah shot Polmont, n ah killed Gally!
Carl was the only one who knew that Gally was HIV positive. Gally had made him swear not to tell. But Gally would understand. He felt sure that Gally would understand. — Listen, Terry; you n aw, Billy. Ah’ve goat something important tae tell yis. Gally wis HIV positive. Wi the skag. Eh used tae bang up wi Matty Connell n aw they cunts doon in Leith, some boys that’ve been deid for years.
— That’s drastic, that’s . . . Billy said, trying to get to grips with it.
Terry was silent.
— Eh only got intae it cause eh wis fucked off aboot Gail n Polmont n the bairn, Terry, Carl said. He raised his voice. — Terry! You fuckin well listenin tae me?
— Aye, Terry said meekly.
— So it wis that cunt Polmont that fucked him up by taking the poor wee cunt’s liberty, he said, his eyes red. — Ah mean, ah’m sorry tae hear aboot the boy’s ma, and ah am, cause ah’ve jist . . . ma faither. But two wrongs didnae make a right, n he hud nae right tae dae that tae Gally.
Billy ruffled Terry’s curls. — Sorry tae gie ye a hard time thair. This shocked Terry, even through his dejection. But, Terry reflected, he didn’t really know the boy now. It had been ages. How much did you change? — Ye did the right thing, Terry, Billy added. — Mibbe ye did it for the wrong reasons, but ye still did the right thing, ye backed um up, like ah should’ve.
— Naw. Terry shook. — If ah’d stoaped um fae gaun eh’d huv been here the day . . .
— Or me, when eh asked me first, Billy said.
— That’s fuckin bullshit, Carl said, — it wid huv made nae difference. Gally topped ehsel because eh wis fucked up by what had happened tae him wi Polmont n Gail. Eh never knew aboot you n Gail, n ye wir enough ay a mate tae try n spare um that. Ye risked a bad doin fae the Doyles and a long prison sentence for assault, or worse, jist tae keep Gally fae knowin. But the HIV wis the last straw wi um. Eh would’ve topped ehsel anywey.
— Aw this stems fae Polmont slashin that boy, Billy said.
— How far back dae ye want tae go? Should Gally huv hud the blade oot at Clouds?
— It’s me. It stems fae me no being able tae keep ma fuckin cock in ma troosers, Terry said miserably.
Carl smiled. — Look Terry, you and Gail were in a shaggin scene. Big fuckin deal. Yi’ll never stop people wantin tae shag. It always hus happened, it always will. It cannae be avoided. Gaun aroond aw tooled-up can be avoided. Eh topped ehsel cause he hud the virus. It wis his choice. It wouldnae huv been mine, but it wis his.
It was Polmont, Carl considered. He thought of his father, the influence he’d had on Gally growing up. The rules: never grass. No, sack that thought. But that was the problem with a moral code, everyone had to subscribe to the same one for it to work. If a few people took the piss and got away with it, everything collapsed.
Billy thought back to the time with the Doyles at the Wireworks. How Doyle had asked about Gally for the fitba a few Setirdays later, and how the Wee Man had been so eager to impress. About how this had carried on to Clouds when Doyle was fighting with the boy. What had come from that? All this? Surely not? Life had to be more than a series of unsolvable mysteries. Surely we were entitled to some fuckin answers.
To Carl Ewart, the world seemed as brutal and uncertain as ever. Civilisation didn’t eradicate savagery and cruelty, it just seemed to render them less lurid and theatrical. The great injustices continued and all society seemed to do about it was obscure the cause-and-effect
relationships around them, setting up a smokescreen of bullshit and baubles. His worn-out brain raced with thoughts which staggered between murkiness and clarity.
Billy had to phone Fabienne in Nice. He’d get out there next week, relax for a bit on the Côte d’Azur. He’d been working too hard, taking too much on. One day he’d be independent of Gillfillan and Power, that was always his goal and he never let up in pursuit of it. But when he saw the likes of Duncan Ewart, or when he thought about age’s reductive effects on his own parents, well, life was too short.
— How’s . . . eh, your thyroid gland, Billy? Carl asked.
— Fine, Billy said, — but ah need the thyroxine. Sometimes ah forget n take too much, n it’s like ah’m oan speed.
Terry wanted to talk some more. Billy had a French girlfriend, Rab had said. Carl had a lassie out in Australia, a New Zealander. He wanted to know about them. There was so much more to talk about. He’d see Lisa later on. It was great to see Carl again, even under the terrible circumstances with poor auld Duncan.
To think that he’d been so down on Carl after Gally’s death. He’d misread things, thought that Carl wanted tae get intae all that ‘lit’s jist take an E and tell each other how much we miss and loved Gally’; thought that he was just into cheapening his memory. But it wasn’t like that. It never had been.
Carl was thinking about this. The memory of Gally seemed to be sliding in and out of reality, like he himself was on the plane. He morbidly saw this as a sure sign that death was closing in. He saw it in his father’s eyes. He’d cool it on the drugs and get into shape. He was a middle-aged man, halfway through his three score and ten, not a boy.
