by Unknown
Cousin Dode’s pupils expand like black holes sucking in everything around him. — Ah dunno that yin, whit’s that yin, he goes, more than just impressed, actually pretty fucking excited.
Well, I didn’t know what his one was, but I’m fucked if I’d ever admit that to a soapy cunt. — The hair of the dog, I wink. — Appropriate at the moment.
Cousin Dode twists his head to the side and regards me keenly. — You’re an intelligent man, ah kin tell. It’s guid tae meet somebody oan ma wavelength, he shakes his head and a pained expression moulds his coupon. — That’s the thing, ah dinnae meet that many people oan ma wavelength.
— I can imagine, I say with a deadpan nod, which goes completely over his macaroon-bar-and-spearmint-chewing-gum head.
— Ah mean, yir mate Spud, a lovely fellah, but mibee no that sharp. But see, you, you’ve goat it up tap, he drums his own head with his index finger. — Aye, Spud wis sayin that yir intae makin fillums n that.
Strange that Murphy’s deigned to give me such a favourable press. Not porn, but films, no less. It gets me entertaining the sentimental notion that maybe I’ve been a bit hard on my sticky-fingered chum. — Well, you’ve got tae, Dode. What’s it they say: ars longa, vita brevis.
— Art is long, time is short, wahn o’ ma favourites, he nods with a big grin which splits his face.
Eventually di fella Morphy comes in, looking a bit fucking wired as well. As the Weedgie rat-shagger heads off to the bogs, I make my intense displeasure known. — Whaire the fuck have you been? We’re no runnin oan Tipperary time here. I’ve had tae listen tae that boring twat gaun oan and oan!
But he’s looking fucking well pleased with himself. — Couldnae help it, man, ah ran intae June, likes. Hud tae help her wash up, it just hud tae be done, ken?
— Aw aye, I knowingly observe. I might have fuckin well guessed. That’s Spud though, can’t resist any form of temptation, although I’d have tae be desperate before I’d fucking well dae rocks wi June. Funny, but I wouldn’t have thought it of her, especially with the bairns aroond, but I suppose everybody’s on it now, and to be fair to her, she’s goat those frazzled and worn-oot crack-hoor looks tae a tee. — So how is June? I ask, not knowing why. I mean, it’s not as if I particularly care.
Spud purses his lips and blows air through them, making a vulgar farting noise which is too loud and might have occasioned some embarrassment had it been delivered in a hostelry of class. — She’s lookin well rough if the truth be telt, man, he says, as this Cousin Dode character emerges from the toilet and gets up another round.
— I’ll bet she is, I nod, and we all know why.
Dode raises a glass of lager and clicks Spud’s. — Awright, Spud! Wur oan wahn the night! Then he repeats this stupid exercise with me, and I force a grin of superficial bonhomie.
Growing somewhat anxious for any diversion from my present company, I give the young barmaid a gentle sunny smile, of the kind that would have, in my youth, sent her involuntarily reaching up to tidy her hair. Now all I get is a coolish twist of the mouth in reciprocation.
So we trek around several bars and wind up in the town, eventually hitting the famous City Café in Blair Street, an old haunt of mine. I note the pool tables, a new addition since I was last in here. They’ll have to go: encourages too many simpletons. On that note, I’m getting seriously fucked off with this Cousin Dode character’s incessant droning on, to the extent that I’m actually delighted when I see Mikey Forrester come in with this obviously deranged but sexy-looking hoor in his slipstream.
I’ll be Mister Popular in the City Café, I’ve really upped the quality of the client base. I’ve got in tow the biggest junky scruffbag Leith’s ever produced, a Weedgie Hun and now scabby Forrester; rubbish dressed as fancy goods if ever there was. I’m thinking, what am I: a fuckin soap-free zone all of a sudden? The bar staff will need to get Rentokil in at closing time.
— It’s Mikey Forrester, I indicate to Dode. — He’s a partner in a couple of saunas and runs a stable of tasty wee hoors who gam for their supper. It’s the age-old trick: gets them turned ontae gear and then has them working in the hole-sale department tae pey for it, if ye catch ma drift.
Dode turns and nods, giving Mikey a casual once-over of mild disapproval laced with envy.
— Aye, eh, Seeker does that n aw, Spud says, that slack-mouthed idiot leer of the troubled adolescent still sticking to his face like shite to the neck of a bottle, even after all those fucking years.
I shake my head. — Seeker just rides them but, it’s the only way a mess-on-legs like him can get his Nat King, I explain. I allow myself to feel a slight bit of unease at this slag-off as I reach into my pocket to feel the bottle of GHB which Seeker himself supplied to me this affie. Another man who does have his uses, albeit within a strictly proscribed arena. I pull Spud towards me to whisper into his ear, noting that it has a blob of brown wax plugging it. My nose crinkles with distaste at the rancid, yeasty odour: — I’m going to have a word with Mikey about some business. I crush a twenty into his hand. — You keep soapboy happy.
— Excuse me a second, chaps, just going to say hello for old times’ sake, I explain to Dode, and head over in the direction of Forrester. Forrester’s the sort of guy that nobody really likes, but everybody seems to end up doing business with. He flashes me a smile and his teeth remind me of the Bingham district of the city; the whole scheme substantially rebuilt since I last saw it. I’m surprised that Mikey’s opted for a tasteful natural-effect capping, rather than going for gold. He’s got a sunbed tan and his salt-and-pepper thinning hair has been shaved like a cue ball. The silver-blue cloth on him looks quality. Only the shoes, expensive leather, but needing a polishing, and, crucially, the white towelling socks, a bulk-buy Christmas pressy to every nutter from their mother since the early eighties, give him away as an ex-Murphy soulmate.
— Hi, Simon, how’s it gaun?
I feel grateful that he’s chosen to call me Simon instead of Sick Boy and respond accordingly. — Graceful, Michael, graceful. I turn, smiling to his company. — Is this the lovely young lady you were telling me about?
— One ay them, he grins, then goes: — Wanda, this is Sick . . . eh, Simon Williamson. He’s the boy ah wis talking aboot, jist back up fae London.
This lassie’s very tidy; slim, sleek and with dark looks so, well, Latin, she should come with a Cousin Dode phrase. She’s in that first flush of junk hoordom, where they actually look really great, just before the big decline kicks in. Then she’ll need to go on the pipe to get up and keep working and her looks will go and Mikey or some other cunt will relegate her from sauna to street, or crack den. Ah, Dame Commerce, a grand old lady who rocks in such predictable ways. — You the movie man? she asks wastedly, presenting that smackheid’s lugubrious, slightly arrogant bearing which I seem to have encountered in every other social transaction since I was about sixteen years old.
— Pleased tae meet you, sweetheart, I smile, wrapping my hand round hers and planting a kiss on her cheek.
You’ll dae, hen.
So Mikey and I quickly come to a casting arrangement. I like this Wanda lassie; even though she’s completely reliant on Mikey and therefore totally in his power, she’s still unguarded about showing her contempt for him. Which only really makes it all the more pleasurable for him to incrementally increase his hold over her. She’s got pride though, although the junk will suck up the vestiges of that before it gets to her looks, a formula which spells quids in for Mikey.
So we’re all set, and I head over to Spud and Dode, the latter telling the former, quite loudly, about women. — That’s the only thing ye kin dae wi wummun, love thum, he drunkenly contends. — Ah’m ah right thair, Simon? Tell um!
— You could be on to something there, George, I smile.
— Love thum, n be brave enough, be strang enough tae love thum. Fortes fortuna adjuvat . . . fortune favours the brave. Ah’m ah right thair, Simon? Ah’m ah right!?
Spud tries to
cut in, thankfully saving me the bother of attempting to mouth an enthusiastic affirmation to this fucking rat-shagging oaf. — Aye, but sometimes it’s likesay . . .
Cousin Dode cuts him off with a swish of the hand, which nearly knocks another boy’s full pint from him. I nod at the guy in mild apology. — Nae buts, nae sometimes. If they complain, gie thum mair love. If thir still complainin eftir that, even mair love, he proclaims stridently.
— Exactly right, George. I firmly believe that man’s capacity to give love exceeds woman’s capacity to receive it. That’s why we rule the world, it’s as simple as that, I curtly explain.
Dode looks at me open-mouthed, his eyes rolling slowly like a fruit machine being nudged towards the jackpot. — This man here, Spud, this man’s a fuckin genius!
This Cousin Dode chap is one of those typical Weedgies who get drunk very quickly, pished as lords after about one or two peeves. Then, instead of doing the decent thing and passing out, they seem to maintain that state for fucking ages; lurching around, repeating the same mundane, obsessive message but with escalating stroppiness. — Thank you, George, I nod. — But I have to say that I’m getting a bit fed up with bars. You see, it’s a bit of a busman’s holiday for me, and it’s full of gadges, I nod over towards Forrester, — that I don’t particularly want to be around. Let’s get a carry-out and head off somewhere.
— Aye! Dode roars, — everybody back tae mine! Ah’ve goat an absolutely fuckin blindin tape ah wahnt yis tae hear. A mate o’ mine’s goat this band . . . thir the best. The best, ah’m tellin yis!
— Fantastic, I smile, grinding my teeth. — Is it alright if I phone for some company to join us, as in the female sense of the term? I shake the red mobby.
— Is it awright? Is it awright! Whit a man! Whit a man! Dode exclaims to all the drinkers crushed in groups around us, as the hairs on the back of my neck attempt to leave the bar in embarrassment. Some people would be chuffed by this endorsement, but not me. I firmly believe that a good character reference from a witless moron is far more damaging to one’s standing than condemnation from the hippest ranks of the cognoscenti.
We head for the door, me taking the lead and passing through the crowd with haste, pausing only to smile at a girl in a tight green two-piece who has a pretty face, but one that is topped with a bad Manchester perm. Then there’s an involuntary stall as I work my way around two ballooning thirty-somethings who’ve ditched the diet for good and decided that the rest of their lives will consist of vodka, Red Bull and comfort eating. Then I swerve to avoid an oncoming posse of goldfish-mouthed shifty-eyed young men who push to the bar.
Dode’s still singing my praises to Spud as we stride out into the night. I shiver. It’s not the cold, it’s not the drugs. It’s me feeling the heights, depths and breadth of my deceit, and Cousin Dode’s praise measuring out its monstrous but exquisite parameters. Fuck me, it’s good to be alive.
35
Pin Money
We go back to the Dode cat’s gaff wi some drinks. Sick Boy’s boat a boatil ay absinthe n aw, which is a bit dodgy likes cause it’s Dode wir wantin tae git wasted, no the loat ay us. Sick Boy looks aw distastefully at the Huns’ picture oan the waw n ah faw oantae that big leather couch. The weight oaf the feet, right enough.
The George Cousin seems delighted at the prospect ay some sex kittens comin along, n tae be perfectly honest, man, it might no really be the worse thing in the world. Ah think Sick Boy wis jist sayin it tae make sure we goat back but, ken.
Dinnae tell the Cousin that but, cause these are not the words thon west-coast cat wants tae hear. — Whaire’s they burds, Simon, are they gemme . . . ?
— As fuck, Sick Boy nods. — Excellent sports. They make stag movies, the lot, the sickest cat in the basket purrs as Dode rolls ehs eyes and puckers ehs lips. That one Sick Pup nods tae me, then puts ehs hand tae his mooth in a gabbing movement as eh starts filling the absinthe glasses.
— Eh, ah start, making a diversion, — so tell ays, Dode, how is it you git called Cousin Dode? as ah see Sick Boy casually spike Dode’s gless wi GHB. Ah’m no really intae aw this, man. They say thit if ye pit too much in, a gadge’s hert kin jist likesay stoap, man, jist like that. Sick Boy seems tae ken what eh’s daein though, it’s like eh’s carefully measurin it wi ehs eye.
Dode’s only too happy tae tell the tale and oblige ma curiousity, likes. — The story behind that wahn: this mate ay mine, through in Glesca, Boaby ehs name is, he jist calls everybody ‘cousin’. Sick Boy hands him the drink. — It’s jist the boey’s patter, like, since we wir wee weans in the Drum, he says, taking a swallay. — Then a few punters fae the toon oan nights oot, whae wurnae in the know, kept hearin um talk aboot Cousin Dode . . . so it jist sortay stuck, eh goes, still nippin away at the gless.
Soon Dode’s eyes ur gittin heavy n eh disnae even notice whin the Sick Cat takes oaf the tape ay that band ay ehs mates, n changes it for the Chemical Brothers. — Stag movies . . . eh slurs, n eh’s sinkin intae that couch as ehs eyelids shut, then ehs right oot fir the count.
Me n Sick Boy are straight through the gadge’s pockets, n ah thought ah’d feel a bit bad aboot this, cause Dode’s awright really. But naw, man, that auld thievin gene kicks right in and ah’m buzzin, riflin the cunt for aw eh’s worth, but Sick Boy goes: — Fuck off, leave it, nodding tae the wad ay cash ah’ve taken fae ehs poakits.
And he’s right, man; ah’m jist gettin a bit greedy thaire, thinkin the boy widnae miss a few notes oaffay that healthy wad. Ah ken what Sick Boy wants but, that Clydesdale card, which we find and confiscate.
We go doonstairs tae the cashpoint at 11.57 p.m. and key in the number, neither ay us in the slightest bit surprised when it works, withdrawing £500, n daein jist the very same again at 12.01 a.m. — Weedgies, eh, Sick Boy chuckles a bit, then adds affectionately, — Doss cunts.
— Aye, and a good thing n aw but, ah tell um.
— Too right, Sick Boy says, handing ower half the wad, but stallin a bit before eh lits it go intae ma mitt. — Nae skag, mate. A nice wee present for the missus, eh.
— Aye, right, ah tell um. The cat’s even telling ays how tae spend the dosh now, man, and that is just no oan. But this does feel good, like auld times, me n Sick Boy, scammin away tae fuck n it reminds me that back in the day we wir good but, man, we wir the best. Well, mibee no as good as a few boys ah kin think ay, mind you. Ah feel pure bad aboot the Cousin Dode boy now cause eh’s awright really, even a sortay pal, but it’s done now, ken. N eh shouldnae be sae superior, likesay, wi that Proddy supremacist stuff, man. Ye act aw high n mighty, somebody’ll cut ye doon tae size. Sick Boy should mind that n aw; but hey, man, that’s me soundin like Franco now!
But we’re back up tae Dode’s flat and wi pits the caird back intae ehs wallet n the wallet back intae ehs poakit. Sick Boy makes some black coffee and lits it cool, then makes Dode sip it. The caffeine brings him back up, n ehs legs sortay kick oot, hittin the coffee table n spillin some drinks.
— Whoa, catboy, whoa!
— You were out for the count, Dode, Sick Boy laughs as our favourite Weedgie boy, aw sort ay bemused, sits up, rubbin ehs eyes.
— Aye . . . Dode says as eh starts tae git ehs bearings. — That absinthe is mental, by the way, eh groans and looks at the clock oan the mantelpiece. — Fuck me, tempus fugit, right enough.
— Typical soapdodger, says Felinus Vomitus, which is like ma new Latin name fir yon Sick Cat, — they talk a good session, but when it comes down to it they can’t stand the pace with the Leith boys!
Dode lurches up n staggers taewards the cairry-oot in pure defiance. — Yis wahnt tae see drinkin? Ah’ll show yis drinkin!
Me n the Sickest Cat gie each other a quick wee scan, hoping that the Dode boy passes oot again before eh runs oot ay money.
36
Scam # 18,743
The clanking of heavy aluminium barrels on the stone floor. The loud camaraderie of the brewery delivery squad as they roll another one from the lorry,
onto the mattress, then down the wooden chute, the guy at the bottom letting the cushion break its fall before catching it and stacking it. But that banging, those loud voices.
My head is very fucking sore. I remember with some terror that I agreed to go to my mother’s this evening, for a family meal. I can’t think what would disturb me more in my condition, her indulgent fussing or the old boy’s indifference, occasionally slipping into full-blown hostility. That Christmas, years ago, when he got me in the kitchen and whispered in drunken malevolence: — Ah’m wide for your game, ya cunt, and I mind of being confused and fearful. What had I done that he’d rumbled? I realised later, of course, that it wasn’t a specific, he was just projecting his own self-hatred, saying that he understood me, my nature, because he shared it. The crucial difference he missed, though, was that he’s a loser and I’m not.
But my heid is nipping. That sesh last night: what a performance to go through for just five hundred bar of a Weedgie’s cash. Of course, Mr Murphy is delighted with his share of our ill-gotten gains, but for me the whole thing was simply a trial run.
Spud may have done well in a devalued domestic Cup fixture, but that doesn’t mean that he can be considered for the European ties. Alex?
It’s horses for courses, Simon, and I’d be inclined to bring in the Renton fellow, from Europe. He’s a temperamental player and he’s let us down in the past, but sometimes you need to take that risk at this level. Alex Ferguson proved that with Eric Cantona. But I seriously think that the Murphy boy would be out of his depth in this one. I still like the look of this Nicola Fuller-Smith girl though.
