by Unknown
I get up another round of drinks. I’m feeling envious of Sick Boy, Terry, Rab and anybody else who’s in a shagging scene with those two, and I decide to get myself into this little club asap. I’ve absolutely no doubt that Sick Boy’s shagging one or both of them.
But it’s visiting time, so we get round to the hospital and head up to the ward. — Awright, Mark? Terry says warmly. — How’s the Dam?
— No bad, Terry. Bummer aboot the wedding tackle, likes, I commiserate. Terry’s another guy I mind of from way back, he was always a character.
— Aye . . . accidents will happen but, eh. Goat tae keep it soft, no that easy wi aw they fit nurses here.
— Well, think long-term, Terry, I urge, nodding towards the girls, who’re deep in conversation, — you’re going to need it.
— Too fuckin right, it’s the spice ay life. A future withoot sex . . . he shakes his head in genuine fear, and it is a horrendous thought.
I’m aware that Mel and Nikki have been smirking away, conspiring about something. There’s an air of mischief about them. Then they suddenly pull the blinds around Terry’s bed. To my astonishment, Nikki gets her tits out and Mel follows suit, and they start kissing each other slowly and deeply, and caressing each other’s breasts. I’m blown away, trying to square this with the Edinburgh I left.
— Dinnae . . . stoap . . . Terry squeals, his stitches must be splitting and his erection rising under its cage. — FUCKIN STOAP IT . . .
— What dae ye say? Mel asks.
— Please . . . ah’m no jokin . . . he whines, his hand over his eyes.
They eventually desist, laughing their heads off, leaving him spitting in agony. We keep it brief after that, with Terry longing for us to go.
— Are you coming for a drink, Mark? Mel suggests, as we make our way out the ward.
— Yeah, let’s have some whisky together, Nikki purrs. I’ve met tons of lassies like her in clubs: flirty, oozing a forceful sexuality. It crackles around your ears for a bit and makes you feel special, before you realise that they’re like that with everyone. But I don’t need any encouragement to join them. I’m keen for company, although my guts are feeling a bit dodgy and peristalsis is underway. — I need tae go tae the toilet. I forgot about the curry-house and pints-of-lager culture over here.
I take my leave and find the men’s WC. It’s a big lavvy; latrine, a row of sinks and six aluminium partitioned shithouses. I head into the trap nearest the wall, whipping down the winners and losers and the keks before I start dropping the contents of my guts. What a relief. As I start wiping my arse, I hear somebody come into the bogs, then into the trap next door.
As they settle and I finish my hole-cleaning, I hear a curse, followed by a rap on the metal wall. The voice seems familiar. — Hi, mate, thir’s nae fuckin bog paper in this trap. Gaunnae fuckin well slide ays some under?
I’m about to say, sure, and share a moan about the poor maintenance of the bog, when a face snaps into my head and my blood runs cold. But it can’t be. Not here. It just fuckin well can’t.
I look under the space at the bottom of the partition, a gap of about ten inches. A nice pair of black shoes. But they’ve got segs in them. And the socks.
The socks are white.
I instinctively pull my own trainered feet away from the edge as the voice menacingly shouts: — Git a fuckin move oan!
Shakily, I take some paper from the dispenser and slowly slide it under the door.
— Awright, the voice gruffly mumbles.
As I pull up my shreddies and trousers, I reply: — No bother, putting on as posh a voice as I can, all the time sweating in sheer terror. I quickly exit, without washing my hands.
I can see Rab, Nikki and Melanie waiting for me by the drinks machine, but I turn the other way and hop down a corridor, shaking. I have tae get a move on. I should stay cool, look out from a distance to see who comes out that door, to be sure one way or the other instead of this torture in my head, but no, ah need tae get as far away fae this fuckin hospital as ah can. That cunt is real. He lives. He is outside.
49
HOME ALONE 2
It wis that fuckin June oan the phone, sayin tae fuckin well come roond cause Sean’s fuckin hurt Michael. N ah’m thinkin tae masel that it might teach that daft wee cunt Michael tae no be as much ay a fuckin wee lassie. — Dinnae fuckin well bother ays the now, ah tells her. If she wis lookin eftir the bairns right they widnae be gittin intae fuckin bother.
Now ah’ve goat the other yin gaun: — What is it, Frank?
Ah pits ma hand ower the receiver. — That fuckin June. Gaun oan aboot they bairns fightin. That’s what laddies are meant tae fuckin well dae, ah sais. Ah takes ma hand back oaf.
— Jist fuckin git roond, Frank! She’s still screechin doon the phone at ays in that high fuckin voice. — Thir’s blood everywhere!
Ah slams the phone doon n flings ma jaykit oan.
— We’re meant tae be gaun oot, Kate goes, lookin at me aw soor-faced.
— Ma fuckin son’s bleedin tae death, ya daft cunt! ah tells her, stormin oot, thinkin thit she deserves a rap oan the jaw for bein sae fuckin insensitive. Might fuckin well git yin n aw. She’s startin tae git right oan ma tits. That’s birds fir ye. Aw aye, it’s aw nice at the start: the honeymoon period, nivir fuckin well lasts but, eh no.
The van’s fucked so ah’m oot intae the Walk n the first cunt ah sees in the street’s Malky, comin oot ay the bookie’s. N ye ken fuckin fine whair eh’s headin if eh’s comin oot ay thaire, that’s intae the fuckin boozer. Cast-iron fuckin cert. No seen the cunt since ah hud tae boatil that wide cunt Norrie at the caird school. — Awright, Franco! Time fir a peeve?
Ah’ve goat tae nash, but ah’ve goat a chokin thirst oan ays. — Need tae be a quick yin but, Malky. Domestic fuckin crisis; one cunt giein ye it in one ear oan the phone, the other one giein ays it in the hoose. Better oaf in the fuckin jail.
— Tell ays aboot it, Malky goes.
Awright cunt, Malky. Funny, thinkin aboot Norrie takes ays back tae the time whin ah smashed Malky’s heid yonks ago ower an argument aboot somethin oan the telly roond at Goags Nisbet’s place. What wis it again? . . . tennis. Cannae mind whae wis playin bit it wis that fuckin Wimbledon. Aye, ah broke a boatil ay sherry ower the cunt’s heid. That’s aw forgotten aboot now though, cause every cunt wis fuckin steamboats n they things happen. Aye, Malky’s sound. Eh sets up two pints ay lager n ehs tellin ays aboot this daft cunt Saybo fae Lochend.
— That Saybo cunt hud this flick knife in ehs pocket. The radge goat intae a row wi Denny Sutherland’s mob n some cunt booted at ehs knackers n missed, n hit the poakit wi the knife in it. It set oaf the knife, n it wis one ay they cunts oan this big spring, n it went right intae the cunt’s baws.
Ah’m tryin tae think aboot whin ah boatiled Malky back then. Wis it aboot tennis, or wis it the squash? It wis ay they games wi fuckin rackets. He backed one cunt n ah backed the other . . . fuck knows, it wis aw a haze.
Malky’s tellin ays thit Nelly’s moved back up fae Manchester, n eh’s goat the tattoos removed fae ehs coupon, usin that fuckin surgical technique. Nae wonder, the cunt wis a fuckin mess; desert island oan the foreheid, snake oan one cheek, anchor oan the other. Fuckin tube; makes ye a sittin duck at an ID parade. Cunt eywis fancied ehsel as the boy. Well, it’ll be good tae huv the cunt back, so long as eh disnae fuckin well start thinkin ehs some cunt thit eh fuckin well isnae.
Eftir a couple ay wets ah gits roond thaire n sees her at the fit ay the stair, arguin wi some cow whae turns oan her heels and heads in when she sees me comin. — Whair you been! Ah’m waitin oan a taxi! she sais.
— Business, ah goes, lookin at Michael. The wee cunt’s goat a bit ay sheet eh’s hudin tae ehs chin. It’s covered in blood.
Ah looks at Sean n moves towards him, n eh steps back n cringes. — What you been fuckin daein!
She butts in. — It could’ve severed ehs neck! Could’ve cut right through a bloody vein!
; — What fuckin happened but?
Her eyes are poppin oot her fuckin heid like she’s oan something. — Eh got a bit ay chicken wire n strung it across the door aw tight, jist at Michael’s neck height. Then eh shouted the laddie through, tellin um that ET wis oan the telly, ken that phone advert when the boy’s takin a penalty fir Hibs against Herts. Michael ran ben aw excited. Lucky eh didnae measure right, n eh didnae run intae it at neck height. If eh did it could’ve took ehs fuckin heid right oaf!
Ah’m thinkin, that’s quite barry but, cause, see tae me, that fuckin well shows initiative. Me n Joe ey did that kind ay thing tae each other as bairns. At least it shows thit eh’s goat the spirit tae dae things, no jist fuckin well sit playin fuckin video games aw the time like some bairns nowadays. Ah looks at Sean.
— Ah goat it oaffay Home Alone 2, eh sais.
Ah jist looks at that fuckin stupid cunt June, ma hands oan ma hips. — So it’s your fuckin fault, ah sais tae her, — littin him watch they fuckin videos.
— How’s it ma fuckin –
— Showin fuckin videos thit pit violent ideas intae bairns’ heids, ah snaps at the cunt, but ah’m no gaunnae argue wi ur, no here in the fuckin street. Cause if ah do, she’ll git fuckin well battered, and that wis what finished us in the first place, that fuckin cow windin ays up soas thit ah hud tae fuckin well batter her crust in. The taxi comes n wi git in. — Ah’ll take um up n git it stitched, you fuck off, ah tell her. Cause ah’m no wanting seen oot wi that mess. People might think thit wir still gaun oot thegither. Ye dinnae huv the auld bones ay last week’s chicken-in-a-basket whin ye kin huv a new McDonald’s, that’s what ah eywis say.
Aye, she’s goat they fuckin crack-hoor looks awright, n see if she’s fuckin well rockin up in front ay they fuckin bairns . . . but naw, she disnae even ken whit rocks are, it’s jist thit she does huv they fuckin worn-oot looks.
Ah grabs Michael n takes um intae the taxi, n wi speed oaf, leavin they cunts in the street. The wee fucker’s still huddin the bit ay sheet against um. It’s oot ay order but, Sean daein that tae um. — Does he pick on ye a loat? ah ask.
— Aye . . . Michael sais, n ehs eyes ur aw glassy like a wee lassie’s.
This wee cunt needs telt some fuckin words ay wisdom n eh needs telt thum now, or ehs gaunnae grow up wi ehs life a fuckin misery. Nowt fuckin surer. N she’ll no bother, naw, no her. She’ll jist wait until something goes wrong again n then fuckin shed aw they fuckin crocodile tears. — Well, dinnae start greetin aboot it, Michael. Ah wis the youngest wi yir Uncle Joe, n ah goat it jist as bad. Ye huv tae learn tae stick up fir yirsel. Jist git a fuckin basebaw bat n batter the cunt’s heid in, wait till ehs asleep n ehs kip, like. That’ll fuckin well sort um oot. Worked wi Joe, only wi me eh goat a half-brick ower ehs heid. That’s what yuv goat tae dae. Eh might be stronger thin you but ehs no fuckin well stronger thin a half-brick acroass ehs fuckin chops.
Ye kin see the wee cunt thinkin aboot this.
— N yir lucky yuv goat me tae tell ye aw this, cause see whin ah wis your age n it wis me n yir Uncle Joe, ah nivir hud any cunt tae pit me right, ah hud tae work it aw oot fir masel. That auld cunt thit wis ma faither, he didnae gie a flyin fuck.
The wee cunt’s aw squirmin in ehs seat n pillin a daft face. — What’s up wi ye now? ah ask um.
— We got told not to swear at the school. Miss Blake says it’s not nice.
Miss Blake sais it’s no nice. Nae fuckin wonder Sean tried tae sort this wee cunt right oot. — Ah ken what that Miss Blake fuckin well needs, ah tell um. — Teachers ken fuck all, take it fae me, ah point at masel. — If ah’d listened tae any fuckin teacher, ah widnae huv goat fuckin anywhaire in life.
The boy’s thinkin aboot that yin, ye kin fuckin tell. Like me, that wee cunt, a deep fuckin thinker. We get intae the hoaspital, up tae that A&E n the nurse comes n does this daft fuckin assessment. — That needs some stitches.
— Aye, ah goes, — ah ken that. Gaunnae pit thum in fir um well?
— Yes, if you just take a seat you’ll be called, she goes.
Then we’ve goat tae wait fuckin ages. What a load ay fuckin shite. The time it takes ye tae make a fuckin assessment, ye could huv the stitches in. Ah’m runnin oot ay patience here n ah’m jist aboot tae take the wee fucker away n gie um a hame-made joab, when we gits called. Aw the fuckin questions they ask, it’s like they think it’s me thit fuckin well did it tae the wee cunt. Ah’m jist aboot tae fuckin well lose it here, but ah’m huddin oan tae make sure he doesnae grass up Sean, even by mistake.
Whin we finally finish ah whispers tae um,: — N dinnae grass Sean up at that fuckin school, either, tae yon Miss Blake, or whatever ye call the cunt, right. Tell thum ye fell, mind.
— Okay, Dad.
— Nivir mind okay, jist make sure ye mind what ah sais.
Ah tell um tae wait here while ah go tae the bog fir a fag. Cannae even git a fuckin smoke anywhere nowadays.
It takes ays fuckin ages tae find the cunts, ah end up huvin tae climb a whole fuckin flight ay stairs. Whin ah gits thaire ah’m needin a fuckin shite n aw. Ah’m sure that fuckin ching ah hud wis cut wi fuckin laxative. Aye, some cunt’s gaunnae git thir fuckin jaw rapped. Ah gits intae one booth n whips doon ma keks before ah realises thit thir’s nae paper in this bog. Supposed tae fuckin keep thum clean, n thir fuckin hoatbeds ay infection. Nae wonder every cunt oan the NHS is droapin like fuckin flies. Lucky thir’s some other cunt daein a shite in the next fuckin trap. — Hi, mate, ah rap oan the aluminium waw, — thir’s nae fuckin bog paper in this trap. Gaunnae fuckin well slide ays some under?
Thir’s a silence fir a bit.
— Git a fuckin move oan, ah shouts.
Some paper comes slidin under the door. Boot fuckin time n aw.
— Awright, ah goes, n starts wipin ma erse.
— No bother, the guys sais, a sortay posh cunt. Probably one ay they doaktirs thit’s pokin aroond every cunt, aw fill ay thirsels. Ah hear one door go n then the other. Dirty cunt didnae even wash ehs fuckin hands. Fuckin hoaspital n aw!
Lucky fir him the clarty bastard wisnae thaire whin ah came oot. N ah gies ma hands a good scrub cause ah’m no a filthy cunt like some. See, if it wis that cunt thit pit ma bairn’s stitches in wi manky hands . . .
50
‘. . . a fish casserole . . .’
That Mark is a funny guy. I’m wondering if we embarrassed him with our tit-flashing at poor Terry. We waited for him outside the toilets, but he just vanished without coming for a drink or even saying goodbye. — Mibee eh shat ehsel, Mel laughed, — hud tae go hame tae change!
So we had a couple and I went home and waited for my Glasgow caller, and cooked a fish casserole while talking to Dianne. She’s been interviewing the girls from the sauna, Jayne, Freida and Natalie.
Dianne is happy with the way things are going. — I really appreciate you putting me in contact with those girls, Nikki. I’ve now got enough for a statistically valid group, which gives my tests some kind of scientific credibility.
She’s a sharp girl and she’s got the work ethic big time. Sometimes I envy her. — You’ll rule the world, honey, I tell her. I head to the kitchen and fill up a watering can and put on a Polly Harvey tape. I start watering the plants, one or two of which look a bit neglected.
I can hear my mobile ringing in the front room and I shout for Dianne to pick it up. She seems to be listening to someone for a while before going: — I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong person. I’m Dianne, Nikki’s flatmate.
She passes the phone over and it’s Alan. He was so pleading and desperate he couldn’t even tell an English and an Edinburgh accent apart. I think about him, working up there in that bank, waiting for the gold watch.
— Nikki . . . I want to see you again . . . we need to talk, he whines, as I make my way to my room. Poor Alan. The wisdom of youth married to the dynamic energy of old age. A banking combination, but not a bankable one. Not for him, anyway.
They always need to talk.
/> — Nikki? he pleads painfully.
— Alan, I tell him, indicating that, yes, I’m still here, but probably not for much longer unless he stops wasting my time.
— I’ve been thinking . . . he says urgently.
— About me? About us?
— Yes, of course. About what you said . . .
I can’t remember what I said. What stupid extravagant promises I made to him. I want what he has and I want it now. — Listen, what are you wearing, boxer shorts or Y-fronts?
— What dae ye mean? he whinges. — What sort of a question is that? I’m at work!
— Don’t you wear underpants at work?
— Yes, but . . .
— Do you want to know what I’ve got on?
There’s a pause over the phone, followed by a long — Whaa . . .
I can almost feel his hot breath in my ear, the poor darling. Men, they’re such . . . dogs. That’s the word. They call us dogs, or bitches, but it’s projection, because they know that’s exactly what they are, that’s their nature: salivating, excitable, undignified pack beasts. No wonder dogs are called man’s best friend. — It’s not sexy lingerie, it’s faded, washed cotton smalls with a couple of holes in them and frayed elastic. The reason for that is that I’m a student who’s skint. I’m skint because you won’t give a simple printout with the names of your branch account holders with their numbers. I don’t have their pin numbers, I’m not going to rip them off. I just want it to flog to this marketing company. They pay me fifty pence a name. That’s five hundred quid for a thousand names.
— We’ve got over three thousand customers at our branch . . .
— Honey, that’s fifteen hundred quid, all my debts paid off. And I’d be so keen to reward such enterprise.
— But if I get caught . . . he lets out a slow exhalation of breath. Alan’s constant state of misery debunks the notion that ignorance is bliss.
— Sweetheart, you won’t, I tell him, — you’re far too resourceful.
— I’ll meet you tomorrow at six. I’ll have the lists.
