by Unknown
— You can’t . . . she gasps almost tearfully.
— Yes, I can.
— But . . .
— Lauren, you’re so priggish, and your views are antiquated.
Aggravated and choleric, she rises unsteadily, propelling herself to the window, clasping the edge of the sill and looking out onto the street. There’s a few raised eyebrows at her abrupt move but most of us are too into the drink and the talk to notice or bother. Rab goes to her and starts talking to her. He’s nodding to her in a placatory manner and then he comes over and says to me: — I’m going to get her home in a taxi. You want to come?
— No, I’ll hang out here for a bit, I say, looking at Terry and Simon and bartering wry grins.
— She’s upset and pretty fucked on that skunk and somebody should sit with her in case she throws a whitey, Rab says.
Terry slaps Rab’s back again, this time hard enough for us all to sense the punitive force lurking in the camaraderie. — For fuck sakes, Birrell, slip thon dozy wee hoor a length and get her thawed oot.
Rab looks at Terry with cold steel in his eyes. — Ah’ve goat tae get hame tae Charlene.
Terry shrugs as if to say, it’s your loss. — Looks like it’s doon tae me again then, he smiles. — Sex therapist Lawson. Purely as professional caseload, likes. Tell ye what, Rab, you tuck her up in bed n ah’ll be doon later, he laughs.
Rab looks at me a bit longer but I’m not going home to sit and self-justify to that closet lesbo frigid little moraliser. I want a piece of the action. All my life I’ve been looking for it, and it’s my quarter-century this year, how long have I got before my looks have gone? People go on about Madonna, but she’s the exception to the rule. It’s the Britneys, the Steps, the Billies, the Atomic Kittens and the S-Club Sevens that count and they’re all fucking babies compared to me. I want it now, need it now, because there is no tomorrow. If you’re a woman and you have looks, you are in possession of the only finite resource worth having, the only one you’ll ever have, that’s what it screams to you in magazines, on telly, on the cinema screen. EVERY FUCKING WHERE: BEAUTY EQUALS YOUTH, DO IT NOW! — Let Dianne sit up with her, I tell Rab. Then I turn to the others. — I want a fucking piece of the action, I shout.
— You are fuckin sound! Terry hugs me in a genuine, delirious joy. My head’s spinning now as Simon goes downstairs with a tense-looking Rab and a shaky Lauren to let them out.
Craig’s setting up the camera, a simple DVC on a tripod, as Terry and Mel start snogging. Ursula’s fallen to her knees at Ronnie’s feet and she’s unbuttoning his flies. As Simon comes up the stairs, I’m thinking that I should do something now, but as I stand up, something rises in my chest and I start heaving. I feel somebody, I think it’s Gina, helping me to the toilet, but the room’s spinning and I hear laughter and groans and Terry saying: — Lightweight, and I want to sort myself out but I can hear Gina shouting: — Fuck off, Terry, she’s no well, and I’m shaking and shivering and the last thing I hear is Simon’s voice making a loud toast: — To success, folks. It’s gaunnae happen. It will happen! We’ve got the team, we’ll get the cash. One just simply can’t see any possible spectres at the feast!
17
OOTSIDE
Nivir fuckin well slept last night. Didnae fuckin well want tae. Jist sat up lookin at they waws, thinkin: the morn, ah’m fuckin ootay here. Kept that cunt Donald up aw night wi ma tales. Last chance the cunt’ll huv tae hear anybody talkin sense cause thill probably pit some fuckin dippit cunt in the cell wi um. Nae fuckin conversation. Ah telt the cunt, enjoy it while ye kin, ya cunt, cause thill pit some fuckin sad cunt in here wi ye n that’ll be you, bored tae fuck.
— Aye, Franco, eh jist goes. Ah tell um the fuckin loat: aboot aw the birds ah’ll be ridin n aw they wide cunts thit’ll be fuckin well gittin it. Ah’ll be fuckin cool aboot it n aw but, cause ah’m no comin back in here, that’s a fuckin dead cert, bit thill be some cunts thit’ll be huvin sleepless nights whin they find oot thit ah’m back oan the fuckin scene.
Funny thing wis, ah thoat thit the night wid drag, bit nup, it jist fuckin well flew past. Hud tae slap that cunt Donald awake a couple ay times whin the rude fucker drifted oaf. Cunt wis lucky thit ah wis chuffed tae be gaun oot or eh’d’ve goat a fuckin loat worse thin jist a fuckin slap ah kin fuckin well tell ye. Tired or no fuckin tired, manners nivir cost nae cunt fuckin nowt. No huvin thum bit, well, that’s cost quite a few cunts, ah kin fuckin well tell ye.
Screw comes in wi the fuckin breakfasts. Ah goes: — Ye kin take mine away. Ah’ll be in the café ower the road in two ooirs’ time.
— Thoat ye might want something, Frank, eh goes.
Ah jist look at the cunt. — Naw, ah want fuck all.
The screw cunt, McKecknie, jist shrugs n fucks oaf leavin jist one breakfast fir Donald.
— Aw, Franco, man, Donald goes, — ye should’ve said thit ye wanted it soas thit ah could’ve hud thum baith!
— Shut it, ya fat cunt, ah sais, — ye need tae fuckin well lose weight anywey.
Funny thing wis bit, see, as soon as the cunt started eatin, ah gits as hungry as fuck. — Gie’s a fuckin bit ay that sausage then, ya cunt, ah goes.
Cunt fuckin well looks at ays like eh wisnae gaunnae fuckin gies it. Muh last fuckin day n aw. Ah jist springs ower n grabs it oot ay the cunt’s tray n starts noshin it back.
— Aw, Franco, man! Moan tae fuck!
— Shut the fuck up, ya cunt, ah goes, pittin the other sausage n then the egg oantae the roll. — If ye cannae fuckin well dae anything wi a fuckin good hert, then some cunt’s gaunnae come along n make ye fuckin well dae it.
That’s the wey it goes, in here as well as ootside. Ye cooperate: fine; ye dinnae: burst mooth. Now the cunt’s sittin wi a face like a well-skelped erse.
Ah tell the soor-faced cunt a few tales tae cheer um up a bit, aboot aw the shaggin n bevvyin thit’s gaunnae be done doon in Sunny Leith, cause the poor bastard’s gaunnae ken aw aboot it whin ah’m away. Eh’s no goat what it takes tae git by in prison; two fuckin suicide attempts that cunt’s hud in here, n that’s jist since eh’s been sharin a cell wi me, so fuck knows whit eh wis like before.
McIlhone, the screw thit’s littin ays oot, comes along fir ays. Ah say cheerio tae Donald, n McIlhone slams the door shut on the poor wee cunt. It’s the last time ah’ll hear that fuckin sound. Eh hands ays ma gear and takes ays oot through one door, then another. Ma hert’s beatin like fuck and ah kin see the ootside doon a hallway, through two doors, wi the visitors bit in between. We go intae the hall where the waitin room n reception are. Ah take a deep breath as an auld wifie opens the door tae git in, littin aw that fresh air come through. Ah sign fir ma gear n walk through that fuckin door. McIlhone’s wi ays every step ay the wey, as if ah’m gaunnae try n sneak past the cunt tae git back intae the fuckin nick. Eh goes: — There ye go, Franco. That’s you.
Ah jist looks straight ahead.
— We’ll keep the cell warm fir ye. See ye soon.
The screws eywis say that n the cons eywis shrug n go, ah’ll no be back, n the screws sneer n gie ye a look thit says, aye, ye fuckin well will, ya daft cunt.
Bit no me. Ah’ve rehearsed this yin. N ah wis hopin thit it wis that cunt McIlhone thit wis littin ays oot. Ah turns tae the cunt n says softly, soas thit nae cunt else kin hear: — Ah’m oan the ootside now. Same place as your missus. Mibee ah’ll be back in here eftir ah’ve cut her fuckin heid oaf, eh. 12 Beecham Crescent. Two bairns n aw, eh.
Ah see the cunt’s face go a bit rid n ehs eyes start tae water. Eh goes tae speak, bit they rubber lips ay his are gaun aw fuckin spazzy.
Ah jist turns n goes.
Ootside.
2
Porno
18
POOFS’ PORN
One fuckin thing ah’m gaunnae dae is tae find the fuckin sick cunt that kept sendin ays that fuckin filthy poofs’ porn whin ah wis inside. Added six months oantae muh fuckin sentence whin ah battered this wide wee cunt thit laughed
whin ah sais: ‘Lexo n me’s partners.’
Ah wis taking aboot the fuckin shoap wi hud.
So that’s muh first fuckin port ay call. Somethin’s up, cause that big cunt stoaped comin intae the fuckin nick tae see ays ages ago. Jist like that. Nae fuckin explanation. So ah gits a bus tae Leith, bit whin ah gits doon ah sees thit the fuckin shoap isnae even thaire! Ah mean, it’s thaire, bit it’s aw fuckin changed. Intae some fuckin daft café.
Ah sees him but, sittin behind a counter readin the fuckin paper. Cannae miss yon big cunt, the fuckin size ay um. The place is fuckin empty; an auld wifie n two dippit cunts eatin a breakfast. Lexo, servin food in a café like a big fuckin lassie. Eh looks up n clocks ays, nearly daein a fuckin double take. — Awright, Frank!
— Aye, ah goes. Ah looks aroond at this dump, aw wee tables n sortay Chinky writin oan the waws n daft fuckin dragons n that. — What’s aw this?
— Made it intae a café. Nae dosh in used furniture. At nights it turns intae a Thai café. Popular wi the new Leith trendies n the student population, eh grins, aw fill ay ehsel.
Fuckin tie café? What the fuck is this cunt oan aboot? — Eh?
— Muh girlfriend, Tina, she runs it really. She’s goat an HNC in caterin. Reckoned the place wid dae better as a café.
— So you’ve done no bad, ah sortay accuses the cunt, lookin around, littin um see thit ah’m no fuckin chuffed.
Ye kin see the cunt’s ready tae pit ehs cairds oan the fuckin table. Ehs voice goes aw even n low, as eh nods fir ays tae come through the back. Now ehs lookin ays in the eye. — Aye, hud tae sort masel oot. Nae mair dealin. Too much fuckin heat fae the bizzies. This is Tina’s now, he sais again, then goes: — Of course, you’ll be taken care ay, mate.
Ah’m still lookin at um, leanin back against the waw, then glancin through tae the kitchen. Ah kin feel um tensin up a bit, as if ehs worried thit ah’ll jist fuckin well kick oaf right now. Thon big cunt fancies ehsel, but hands the size ay shovels mean fuck all whin thir’s a chib in yir gut. Aye, ye kin see ehs eyes gaun tae the kitchen, jist whaire mine went n aw. So ah pits the big cunt right in the fuckin picture. — Nivir been tae see ays for a bit in the jail, eh no, ah goes.
Eh jist looks at ays wi that wee fuckin smile thit eh’s goat. Ye kin feel thit the cunt’s goat nae fuckin time fir ays really, underneath it aw eh’s jist wantin tae stomp ays aw the fuckin wey doon Leith Walk.
Lit um fuckin well try it. — N ah’ll fuckin well tell ye somethin else, half ay the auld shoap wis fuckin mine so that makes it thit half ay this is fuckin mine, ahm sayin tae the cunt, lookin oot at the café, scannin muh new fuckin investment.
N ye kin see thit the cunt’s blood’s fuckin bubblin but eh’s still giein ays aw the shite ay the day. — Ah cannae really see ye servin tea n rolls, Frank, but we’ll come tae some arrangement. Ah’ll see ye awright, ma auld mucker, ye ken that.
— Aye, ah goes, — ah’m fuckin well needin sorted oot fir some cash right now, ah tells the big cunt.
— Nae bother at aw, buddy boy, eh goes, n ehs countin oot some twenties.
Ma heid’s buzzin, ah dinnae ken whether um comin or gaun here. Ehs handin ower some dough, bit at the same time comin oot wi shite. — Listen, Franco, ah hear that Larry Wylie’s still knockin aboot wi Donny Laing, eh sais.
Muh heid shoots up n ah meets ehs eyes. — Aye?
— Aye. Wis it no you thit goat thaime crewed up thegither? Lexo goes aw that fuckin smiley innocent wey then gies ays this sort ay severe stare n nod, like eh’s tryin tae say thit thir takin the fuckin pish.
N ah’m tryin tae work oot in muh fuckin heid what eh fuckin means, n what the fuckin score is, n whae’s takin the fuckin pish oot ay whae n eh goes: — N you’ll never guess whae’s got the Port Sunshine now. That auld pal ay yours. Sick Boy, they used tae call the cunt.
Now ah’ve goat a proper fuckin migraine startin, like one ay the yins ah used tae git inside the fuckin jail . . . ah feel like muh heid’s gaunnae fuckin explode. It’s aw fuckin changed roond here . . . Lexo wi a café . . . Sick Boy wi a pub . . . Larry Wylie workin fir Donny . . . ah’ve goat tae git oot ay here intae the air, git time tae fuckin well think . . .
N this big cunt’s gaun oan. — Ah’m gaunnae go tae the bank this affie, Frank, git ye a proper wad tae see ye through. Till wi kin sort oot something mair long-term like. Ye steyin at yir ma’s, aye?
— Aye . . . ah goes, heid thumpin, no really kennin where ah’m fuckin gaun, — ah suppose . . .
— Well, I’ll nip roond the night. We’ll get a proper blether. Right? eh goes, n ah’m jist nodding like a daft cunt, ma fuckin temples throbbin as this auld cunt comes in n wants a bacon roll n a cup ay tea, n now this bird in an overall comes in behind um n Lexo nods tae her n she serves the auld bastard. Lexo’s goat a pen n a notepad n eh’s writin doon a fuckin number. Eh waves one ay they newfangled phones, nae cables like, in muh face. — That’s ma mobile number, Frank.
— Aye . . . ah goes, — ivray cunt’s goat one ay thaim now. Ah’ll fuckin well need yin. Git ays yin, ah goes.
— Ah’ll see what ah kin dae, Frank. — Anywey, eh sais, looking ower tae this lassie, — ah’ll let ye git oan.
— Aye . . . see ye later, ah goes, gled tae walk oot intae the fuckin fresh air. The smell ay grease in thair wis giein ays the fuckin boak. Ah still cannae believe the wey it’s aw changed, oor furniture shoap. Ah goes tae a chemist next door n the lassie gies ays these Nurofen Plus pills. Ah takes two wi a boatil ay water n goes up the Walk fir a bit. Thir fuckin barry n aw, cause eftir aboot twenty minutes the heidache’s away. Ah mean, it’s weird cause ah kin still fuckin feel it, it’s jist thit it isnae that sair anymair. Ah double back tae look intae the café n see that Lexo cunt arguin wi ehs bird, no sae fuckin fill ay ehsel now. Aye, half that fuckin shoap’s mine, n if ehs peyin ays oaf, eh’d better make it worth ma fuckin while.
Aye, ah kin see the cunt, sittin doon now at a table in the windae, fuckin well schemin away. Well, ah fuckin well am n aw, ya big cunt. Ah strides up the Walk, scannin the fuckin coupons oan the passers-by, tryin tae find some cunt ah recognise. What huv wi goat here but? Two dirty cunts wi dreadlocks, white boys n aw, walkin past like they fuckin belong here, then a poncey cunt wi a wee dug comes oot ay a shoap n gits intae this smart fuckin motor. Who ur they fuckin cunts? They urnae Leith. Whaire’s aw the real gadges now? Ah looks intae ma book n stoaps oaf at a call boax n dials Larry Wylie’s number. It looks like it’s fir one ay they smart fuckin portable phones. Lexo better get ays one ay thaime . . .
— Franco, Larry goes, aw cool, like the wide cunt jist expected ays tae phone. — Ye phonin fae the jail?
— Naw, ah’m phonin fae the fuckin Walk, ah tells um.
Then eh goes silent for a bit, n ah hear um ask: — When did ye git oot?
— Never mind that. Whaire ur ye?
— Working up in Wester Hailes, Frank, Larry goes.
Ah starts tae think aboot this. Cannae face the auld lady yit, huv her nippin ma fuckin heid. — Right, ah’ll meet ye in half an ooir at the Hailes Hotel. Ah’ll jist fire up in a fast black right now.
— Eh . . . ah’m workin fir Donny, Frank. Eh might . . .
— It wis me thit fuckin well goat ye workin wi Donny in the first fuckin place, ah tells the cunt. — Ah’ll see ye in the Hailes in an ooir, jist gaunnae dump muh fuckin stuff it muh ma’s, then fuckin well shoot up in a fast black.
— Eh, right. See ye then.
Ah slams the phone doon, thinkin, that fuckin toss’ll be right oan tae Donny Laing, aw fuckin thrilled tae be the bearer ay bad fuckin news. Aye, ah ken that cunt awright. So ah gits doon tae muh ma’s n she’s greetin n makin a big fuckin fuss aboot how good it is tae huv me back n aw that shite.
— Aye, ah goes. She’s pit oan loads ay weight. Ye notice it mair here, in her ain hoose, thin ye did oan prison visits.
— N ah’ll need tae tell oor Elspeth n Joe.
— Aye. Nae scran oan the go?
She pits her ha
nds oan her hips. — Yi’ll be starvin right enough, son. Ah’d make ye some soup, but it’s ma bingo in a bit, n well, a usually meet Maisie and Daphne at the Persevere fir a wee drink first . . . hur voice drops . . . — bit ye kin go tae the chippy. Yi’ll probably be lookin forward tae gittin a proper fish supper again!
— Aye, ah goes. Ah’m thinkin, at least ah kin fuckin eat it oan the wey tae see Larry.
So ah heads oot, gits the fish supper n flags doon a fast black. The cunt gies ays a wide look like eh’s no that chuffed aboot ays eatin in the back ay ehs fuckin cab, bit ah stares the cunt doon n eh fuckin well shites it.
So ah’m intae the Hailes n Larry sets up the drinks. Eh’s wi a couple ay boys, whae eh gies the nod tae n they melt away intae the fuckin corner. So ah’m crackin oan wi Larry, catchin up. Larry’s a good fuckin mate, dinnae care what any cunt says aboot um. At least the cunt came tae see ays in the fuckin jail. Bit the cunt kin be a sneaky fucker n ah wanted tae see what him n fuckin Donny wir up tae, fuckin surein ah did. Goat tae watch ah no git too pished but, wi Lexo’s wad burnin a fuckin hole in this poakit here. Larry’s look tells ays thit mibee they fuckin threads uv goat oan ur a bit oot ay date. That cunt likes a fuckin peeve, but eh wants tae sort oot some business first.
Wi downs oor drinks n heads doon that auld track thit runs through the scheme, the yin thit they went oan aboot bein the new fuckin Princes Street whin it wis built. Now it’s jist a concrete path thit leads fae the shoapin centre doon tae the flats, wi two banks ay gress oan either side. Build a new Princes Street in a scheme? That’ll be the fuckin day.
Larry’s as fuckin shifty as ever. Eh’s lookin at they wee lassies thit ur skippin ootside ay the block ay flats. — Must mind tae come doon here in a few years’ time, eh smiles.
The wee lassies ur singing: — Mystic Meg said tae me, whae ma boyfriend’s gaunnae be . . . n that fuckin Larry sais tae ehsel: — W-Y-L-I-E, spellin oot ehs ain name.
