by Unknown
It looks different doon here, man, aw redeveloped; the docks now aw smart bars and restaurants, loads ay yuppie converted warehooses. It wis sayin in the paper thit they moved the prossies fae whaire they eywis worked cause ay the complaints fae the residents. That tae me’s pure no fair, cause thuv eywis worked thair n cats ken what the place is like before they move in.
Ah gits intae this big auld bar, aw sortay wid-panelled, n orders one ay they cauld Guinnesses. Ah looks outside tae whaire the seagulls are swirlin, n ah kin see thit a cruise ship’s come in.
Thing is, ah’m sittin thair n Curtis heads in. — Thoat ah saw ye comin in. Ah says t-t-t masel thit . . . n the perr wee gadge goes aw spazzy n the face, ehs eyes blinkin, — . . . Sp-Sp-Spud widnae come in here.
Well, man, ah made a big mistake. Wi me gittin guttered wi Rents last night, the peeve wis still in ma system n eftir a few pints ah started tae feel a bit pished. Wee Curtis is pure celebratin n aw cause eh’s been in some orgy wi they lassies fir this film thit Sick Boy’s makin now. Ah pure dinnae like tae think aboot Ali workin in that pub wi aw thaim roond thaire. Sometimes ah think aboot him tryin tae git hur involved, git her intae aw that, n ma blood just goes pure cauld. Cause eh kin make people dae things they pure usually widnae dae. But no Ali, man, naw, no ma Ali. N ah pure didnae want tae go roond thair tae the school tae see her n Andy aw listless n stunned, so ah take some base speed offay Curtis tae try n straighten masel oot.
Whin ah git roond tae the school, ah feel barry, bit right away Ali’s eyes telt ays thit it’s one ay they yins whin ye think ye feel good bit yir really wrecked. She’s wearin this hooded, fur-lined jaykit ah’ve no seen before n a jumper n leggins n boots. She looks barry. The wee gadge is wrapped up well, skerf n hat n that.
— What do you want, Danny?
— Hiya, Dad, the wee man goes.
— Awright, sodjir? ah goes tae the boy, then tae Ali: — Barry news. Ah’ve come intae some dosh n ah want tae take yis tae Disneyland . . . Paris . . . or Florida if ye want! N ah’ve finished the book, it’s posted away tae the publishin cats! N ah met Mark yesterday, Rents, like! Eh’s been in Amsterdam but wi went oot n hud a few beers. Eh thinks it’s a barry idea, the book n that . . .
Her face husnae changed at aw but, man. — Danny . . . what are you on about?
— Look, lit’s jist go tae the café n wi kin talk aboot it, ah sais, smilin at the wee man. — A milkshake at Alfred’s, eh, pal?
— Aye, eh goes, — but in McDonald’s. Thaire milkshakes are better.
— Naw, man, naw, cause Alfred uses only the best ay stuff, McDonald’s milkshakes are aw sugar, thir bad fir ye, man, thir evil. Globalisation n aw that, man, it’s aw wrong . . . n ah sees ah’m rantin n Ali’s lookin daggers at me, — . . . but wi kin go tae McDonald’s if ye want, likesay . . .
— No, Ali saws coldly.
— Aw, Mum, the wee chap goes.
— No, she goes, — we’re too busy. Auntie Kath’s expecting us back, and I’m working tonight, she says. Then she turns tae me and goes up aw close, n fir a second ah think she’s gaunnae kiss me but she whispers in ma ear: — You’re oaf yir fuckin face. Keep away fae ma son when you’re on drugs! Then she turns n takes Andy by the hand, n they walk away.
Eh turns n waves a couple ay times, n ah force a smile n wave back, pure hopin thit eh cannae see the tears in ma eyes.
Ah go back tae the Shore, tae another pub. It’s busy n thir’s a jazz band oan. Ah’m down, man, the life’s been ripped ootay me. Ah’m jist thinkin what’s the point in havin cash whin the people ye want tae spend it oan dinnae want tae be wi ye? What huv ah really goat wi thaim away?
Naw, man, it’s aw fucked.
Ah look roond at the band, the young lassie oan the clarinet, whae’s really good, makin such a beautiful sound ye could jist likesay greet, man. Then ah see the auld boy at the bar, wi a big smile oan ehs face. At that point a horrible thought hit ays; everybody in this bar, everybody here, n Ali n ma wee Andy even, they’ll aw be deid soon. In ten or twenty or thirty or forty or fifty or sixty or whatever years it takes. Ah, they beautiful people, man, and aw the weird and horrible and mental yins, they willnae be here, they willnae even exist. In nae time at aw really.
Ah mean, what the fuck is aw that aboot, likes?
Ah head up fae the Shore, back hame. Ah dinnae ken what tae dae. Ah’m no long in the hoose whin Franco phones me up, tellin ays tae meet him in Nicol’s the night. Says eh needs tae talk tae me aboot June. Mibee Franco’s noticed that she’s no lookin sae well either. Mibee the cat does care, eftir aw. Eh tells ays Second Prize is oot wi him. Be good tae see Secks, like. — Be thaire at eight bells. Ah’ll fuckin well see ye.
So ah’m sortay thinkin aboot it, but ah’m no that much company the now, likes. Then thir’s another call n it’s Chizzie the Beast. Straight eftir Franco n aw. Must be something aboot jail time. Chizzie but, ah’ve been avoidin that bad cat. — Mental the other week thaire, eh. No comin oot for a wee drink, chav? eh goes.
— Nah, man, takin it easy, eh, thinkin thit ah’m no gaunnae be in his company again anywey.
Ehs voice goes that sortay nasal, creepy wey. — Ah saw yir missus the other night thaire, chavvy, that wis hur workin behind the bar in that Port Sunshine. She’s pretty tidy. They tell ays youse huv split up but, eh?
Ah feel ma blood runnin cauld, man. Ah cannae say nowt.
— Aye, ah wis thinkin thit ah might ask ehr oot sometime. Ah bit ay winin n dinin. Ah ken how tae show a burd a good time, me, eh! Aw aye, that’s one thing ah ken awright.
Ma hert’s gaun pure thump thump thump, man, bit ah laugh n make light ay it n then ah say: — Eh aye, ah’ll come oot fir a pint well. It’ll dae me good. Mibee hit the toon again. Kin ye eh, meet ays in Nicol’s pub in Junction Street? Thir’s a couple ay tidy burds work behind the bar. One’s meant tae be game, likesay.
Eh bites it. — Now yir talkin, Murphy. When?
— Eight a’cloak.
But ah’m no gaun, no tae that Junction Street shitehoose, ah’m gaun doon the Port Sunshine tae keep an eye oan things.
58
LUCKY BONUS
A h’ve dragged that cunt Second Prize oot, n uv phoned up Spud Murphy cause ah want tae git tae the boatum ay this shite wi June. Some cunt’s goat the wrong end ay the fuckin stick here, or some cunt’s tryin tae fuckin well wind me up. Mates. Nae cunt’s yir fuckin mate, ye see that the aulder ye git. Second Prize, oan the pool table, aw fucking edgy, tryin tae drink a fuckin tomatay juice like a fuckin poof. Ah’ll gie the cunt tomatay juice. Fuckin anti-social cunt. — Aw that stuff aboot alcoholism’s a load ay shite. Ye kin manage a fuckin pint, it’s no gaunnae kill ye. One fuckin pint!
— Naw, ah cannae drink, Frank, the doctor’s said, eh goes, ehs daft wee eyes aw that dippit sortay brainwashed wey they cunts go wi what they call the light ay they Lord in thum. Light ay the fuckin Lord ma erse.
Baws tae aw this shite. — What the fuck dae they cunts ken? They telt muh ma tae stoap smokin. She smokes sixty a day. Shi says tae ays, ‘What um ah gaunnae dae, Frank, ah need a fag fir ma nerves. It’s the only thing thit works, they pills ur nae good.’ Ah jist turns roond n sais tae hur, ‘If ye pack in the fags yi’ll ken aw aboot it.’ Shi’d go intae fuckin shock n that wid fuckin kill hur. Ah telt ur, ‘If it isnae fuckin broke, thir’s nae need tae fuckin well fix it.’ So ye kin manage one fuckin pint.
— Naw, ah cannae . . .
— Look, ah’m gittin ye a fuckin pint up n that’s aw thir is tae it, ah tells um n goes ower tae Charlie behind the bar, n gits up two pints ay lager. Cunt better fuckin drink it n aw; ah’m no wasting fuckin money oan bevvy fir nowt. As ah takes the pints back ah sees a cunt comin intae the bar, but it isnae fuckin Spud. Ah goes tae Second Prize tae rack up at the pool. — Right, prepare tae git fuckin slaughtered, ya cunt.
Ah’m thinkin aboot muh fuckin ma n how ah tried tae dae her a favour. No thit it makes a fuckin bit ay difference tae her. As long as she’s goat hur fuckin bin
go. Ah’d shut they places doon if it wis up tae me; waste ay fuckin time n money. It’s no like the hoarses, it’s no as if thir’s any fuckin enjoyment in it.
Anywey, Second Prize’s gittin it now. Ah does um one game, n wi sterts another yin, n ah’m lookin at the door. Thir’s still nae sign ay Murphy. — Yuv no touched that pint, ya cunt, ah goes tae Secks.
— Aw, Franco . . . ah cannae, man . . .
— Cannae or willnae, ah goes, lookin right intae the cunt’s eyes. Then, for some reason, ah looks behind ays at the boy standin thaire at the bar, readin the racin section ay the Record. Something aboot him. Ah kent the cunt fae inside, or kent ay the cunt. Eh wis a fuckin beast. Ah kent aw ay they cunts, made it ma business tae mind faces. They’d aw try n hide fae me, cause they kent ah wanted tae look thum in the fuckin eye. What wis it thit eh’d done again? Was he the yin that took the bairn, or that raped the blind lassie, or goat a hud ay the wee boy? Cannae fuckin mind. Aw thit matters here is thit this fuckin thing, this thing here, is a fuckin beast. Ah see the cunt, sittin thaire, in the same pub as me n Second Prize, jist sitting thair at the fuckin bar wi the fuckin Record.
Charlie at the bar, servin that cunt ehs fuckin pint, like eh wis normal, n they auld cunts, sittin in the corner, lookin at me. Aw cheery smiles n that, but thir lookin at me in the same wey as they look at yon cunt. Aw they see is some bad cunt fae the fuckin jail. Well, ah’m no like yon cunt n ah nivir fuckin well will be. This cunt, drinkin thaire, jist as eh fuckin well pleases! Walkin the fuckin streets, hingin roond the schools, waitin fir wee bairns n follyin thum hame . . .
Aye, thaire it was, grazing at its fuckin watering hole, ma fuckin pub. A fuckin beast. Takin the fuckin pish! — Thir’s a fuckin beast through thaire, ah goes tae Second Prize whae’s rackin up, — a fuckin beast oan the loose, eh, ah tell um.
Second Prize’s looking at ays like eh isnae even gaunnae dae nowt. Aw that fuckin Christianity n forgiveness shite’s went n turned ehs heid. Every cunt’s fuckin well loast the fuckin plot back here. — Boy’s jist in fir a bevvy, Frank, leave um alaine, eh. C’moan, eh goes, splittin the pack, aw quick like eh kens ah’m gaunnae go up tae the cunt.
What’s fuckin wrong wi every cunt?
N ehs starin up at me n blinkin, like eh’s seen the look in ma eyes n eh lowers ehs heid n goes: — You’re stripes, Frank, but ah’m no really listenin cause ah’m still giein this cunt at the bar the eye.
— A beast, ah goes tae Secks, dragging out the ssss in beast, then ah goes tae take ma shot n ah gits this pain whin ah bend doon, whaire that June cunt chibbed ays. Ah grimace n fuckin well hammer a green stripe doon, imaginin thit it’s that beast cunt’s heid. Ah’m runnin oot ay fuckin patience here.
— Nice one, Franco, Second Prize says or somethin like that, but ah cannae hear the cunt cause ah’m lookin back up tae the fuckin bar.
— Could be oan the lookoot fir a bairn. Ma fuckin bairn mibee, eh, ah sais, n now ah’m movin up tae the bar.
Second Prize is gaun aw whingey n eh goes: — Franco . . . c’moan . . . n eh picks up the untouched pint n says: — Lit’s huv that drink, but it’s too late for that shite now, eh kens ah’m no listenin, n ah jist goes ower n moves up n ah’m standin right behind the nonce cunt.
— Six fuckin six fuckin six. The number ay the beast, ah whispers aw softly in the cunt’s ear.
The boy turns round sharply. Eh looks wide, like ehs heard aw this before. Then ah’m starin right intae um, like um pokin aroond in ehs soul, seein aw the fuckin fear now, but seein somethin mair, the rottenness in it, the fuckin dirty rank rottenness in this cunt, but it’s like eh kin see the same in me, like we’re fuckin sharin somethin. So ah’ve goat tae act, before the rest ay the cunts see it n aw, cause ah’m no the same as that, no fuckin wey.
What kin ah see in this cunt . . .
Ehs view ay ehsel, aw forged through the brutalisin ay others; it’s crashin aroond him as eh stands before ays, the boy eh vaguely kent as Begbie. Aye, eh’s terrified, dizzy wi fear and pain; fuckin perversely, deliciously sick. Ehs mind and body ur playing aw sorts ay tricks oan um. N this cunt is seein the effect eh ehs power over other people by feelin the impact ay ma power oan him. Eh’s feelin the absolute liberation ay surrender, ay complete and total capitulation tae the will ay some other cunt. N it’s fuckin well beyond violence, it’s beyond even sexual; it’s a kind ay love, a fuckin bizarre, vainglorious self-adoration, way past the fuckin ego even. Ah’m findin somethin . . . ah’m . . .
Naw . . . naw . . . stoap this noncey shite . . .
Bit it’s what bein a hard man is aw aboot; it’s a journey, a fuckin self-destructive quest tae find yir limits, cause they fuckin limits eywis come in the form ay a harder man. A big, strong, stiff-hard man whae can dae it for ye, whae can teach ye, show ye whaire ye stand, where yir fuckin parameters ur. Chizzie . . . that’s the boy’s name . . . Chizzie.
Naw . . . the cunt goes tae speak, n ah cannae lit um fuckin speak. Ah feel muh eyebrows raise a wee bit, jist as muh gless is risin up tae this beast’s . . . what’s it they call him? . . . this Chizzie cunt’s neck.
The cunt fuckin well yelps n huds ehs neck n the blood’s spurtin oot aw ower the bar. Must have goat a vein or an artery. Thing is, ah didnae even fuckin well mean tae dae that tae the cunt, it wis jist a fuckin lucky bonus. Lucky fir him, cause ah wanted it tae be slower. Wanted tae hear um fuckin squeal, n plead n beg, like they bairns eh beasted probably did. But the only screamin ah hear comes fae that daft cunt Second Prize as the beast’s blood pumps oot, n one ay the auld cunts goes: — Jesus Christ.
Ah spins aroond n tans Secs acroass the fuckin jaw tae stoap um wailin like a fuckin daft wee lassie. — Fuckin shut it, you!
Now the beast’s staggerin against the bar and fawin doon, its blood pumpin oot ower the lino flair. Second Prize is standin back by the jukeboax, recitin some daft fuckin prayer.
— Ootay order, Franco, Charlie goes, shakin ehs head, — beast or nae fuckin beast, this is ma pub.
Ah jist looks at the cunt, n points a finger. Second Prize is still sayin a fuckin prayer, the radge. — Listen, ah says tae Charlie n the two auld boys, — that cunt’s a beast. Could have been your bairn or mine next, ah goes, n the cunt kicks oot n dies n it feels aw sortay peaceful, n ah feel like ah’m a fuckin saint or somethin. — So, Charlie, ah goes, — gie ays ten minutes, then phone the polis. It wis two young cunts that topped the boy, ah tells every cunt. — Any cunt grasses . . . n grasses ower a beast, well, it’ll no jist be thaime thit gits it, it’ll be every cunt they fuckin well ken. Goat that?
Charlie goes: — Naebody’s grassin up nae cunt ower a fuckin beast, Franco. Aw ah’m sayin is thit ah’m tryin tae run a fuckin business. Mind, it’s only been five or six years since that Johnny Broughton shot that boy deid in this very fuckin bar. How does that look fir me?
— Ah fuckin ken that, Charlie, bit it cannae be fuckin well helped. Ah’ll see ye awright, ye ken that, ah sais, headin ower n boltin the front door shut. Dinnae want Spud or any other cunt walkin in here the now.
Ah gits a cloth fae behind the bar n wipes the edge ay the table n the cue n aw the baws. Ah empties oor pint glesses n washes thum. Ah turns back tae Second Prize. — Rab, we’re oot the back. C’moan. Mind, Charlie, ten minutes, then the phone call. We wirnae here, right?
Ah gaze roond at the two auld cunts. One’s Jimmy Doig, the other’s Dickie Stewart. They’ll no say nowt. N Charlie’s miffed aboot the fuckin mess wi the polis n that, but he’s nae grass. — Ah’d gie the place a good dustin, Charlie, ah goes, — ah mean, a beast’s been in here, eh. Dinnae ken what’s fuckin infected, ah says, turnin tae the auld boys. One ay them’s cool, the other cunt’s shakin. — Youse awright?
— Aye, Frank, aye, son, nae bother, the cool boy, Jimmy Doig says. Auld Dickie twitches a bit, but manages tae git oot: — Awright, Frank son.
Then we’re oot the back, oot through a wee yard gaun intae a side alley, makin sure thit nae cunts ur in the street or lookin oot
fae the flats above.
Gittin oot, wi head up tae Spud’s n ah’m hopin thit that late cunt’ll still be in the hoose. Ah tells Second Prize tae fuck off back up the toon cause eh’s shakin like that Shakin Stevens, the boy thit fuckin did they bad Elvis impersonations oan Top ay the Pops.
Spud’s oan the stairs, oan ehs wey oot, aw worried whin eh sees ays. — Eh, Franco . . . sorry ah’m late, man, ah goat stuck oan the phone wi Ali . . . tryin tae sort things oot. Ah wis jist oan ma wey doon tae Nicol’s.
— Ah’ve no even been doon masel yit. Ah wis jist up the toon wi Second Prize, cunt didnae want tae come doon tae Leith, eh no, ah goes. — Says eh’d git involved wi the peeve again.
Eh jist looks at ays n says: — Aw. Then eh asks ays: — Ye wanted tae ken somethin . . . aboot June?
— Fuck it, it’s nowt, ah goes, then sais tae um: — Listen, ah cannae come wi ye doon tae Nicol’s. Ah’ve hud a bit ay an argument wi the bird n ah need tae go back n see hur, but ah’ve goat tae go roond ma brar Joe’s first.
— Right . . . eh, ah’m jist gaunnae go doon the Port Sunshine fir one then, see Ali n that.
— Aye, ah goes, — fuckin burds, eh? N ah leaves um at the boatum ay the stair n heads roond tae Joe’s, hopin thit that nosey hoor ay a wife ay his isnae in as a fuckin ambulance n two polis cars head screechin doon the fuckin Walk.
3
Exhibition
59
Whores of Amsterdam Pt 7
I’m back in Amsterdam, but it doesnae feel like home any more. I’m wondering if that’s because I’m not with Dianne, or cause I am with that lying cunt Sick Boy. Either way, pull or push, the Dam’s not the refuge it once was.
I could hardly pull myself away from her to get on that plane with him. The way her love made me fearless; even my Begbie paranoia was waning dangerously. The cunt could have been stalking me with an axe during those leafy walks along the Colinton Dell, for all I knew or cared. When I first met her she was just a hip, precocious schoolie, which is a lot more than I was. I was just a wanker. Dianne now but, she’s a woman; cool and intelligent, not really the mad raver I thought she’d be, but smart, bookish and therefore sexier than ever.
