Glue (38 page)

— Bullshit! ah shout.

— Naw Carl, eh goes. — Ye dinnae get they wide fifty-year-auld
bastards in Pringle jerseys thit ye see in Leith pubs, the ones thit eywis want tae pulverise young cunts intae tomatay purée jist cause these fuckers urnae twinty any mair. Eh takes the joint fae me and shuts up tae take a pull. — Mind you, neither are we. A quarter ay a century, that’s us now. Fuckin ancient.

Eh’s right, it makes me shudder tae think aboot it. Mind you, ma auld man sais ‘once ye hit twenty-eight, that’s you had it’, so it gies us a bit ay time yit. Things have changed a lot recently; we dae our ain thing mair. Gally and Terry still hing aboot a lot thegither through still steyin in the scheme. Well, Gally dosses in this flat in Gorgie, but it’s mainly jist a giro n rent-cheque drop address n eh’s never away fae the auld bit. Me and Billy see quite a bit ay each other, usually roond the clubs. We’re town boys these days, so ah tend tae hing oot wi Billy mair. Our auld men are mates, they worked thegither, so it was like our friendship was sort ay pre-ordained. Ah still lap Gally up the maist really, even if eh does piss ays oaf when eh comes intae the club. Eh serves up pills, which ah dinnae mind um daein, but sometimes the quality isnae that good, n it fucks up the night. N sometimes eh isnae very discreet. Terry’s a tea-leaf, it’s a different world, eh’s goat ehs ain networks. We’re still close but, though maybe no as much as before.

Aye, the march ay time n the wey things change. But fuck aw that; now is the time for feasting and rejoicing and the deflowering of beautiful maidens . . . we wish.

God, that Elsa n Gudrun . . . but Rolf’s bird Gretchen . . . aye, thir’s no much tae choose between them. That’s it when you see a load ay fit lassies thegither, it’s the cumulative effect. It takes ye a while tae pick oot the differences. Ah’m tryin tae be cool, because ah hate makin a cunt of maself in front ay birds, and it’s easy done on alcohol. Ah’m thinking that this would be the place tae dae some serious shaggin wi a tidy bit ay fanny right enough. Ah could hole up here fir a few days wi one ay they wee German dolls, git away fae my demanding colleagues for a bit, especially Mr Galloway who seems up and down like a yo-yo.

A huge black cat’s come intae the room. Gally wis strokin it fir a bit, now it sits oan the arm of a chair, lookin at Birrell, starin at him. He’s giein it the boxer’s stare back.

Marcia moves over to it, shoutin something in German, and it runs away, jumping oot the windae. Then she turns to us and says, — A dirty stray.

— That’s nae way tae talk aboot Gally, ah goes, and a few ah them
get it and laugh. Wolfgang goes, — Yes, I should not be giving him the feed. He sprays the piss when he comes in.

— Now I am tired, this Marcia suddenly says, rolling her eyes.

— You must all stay here, Wolfgang slurs, ehs eyes aw hooded. This cunt’s well stoned. Marcia shoots him a look but eh doesnae catch it. — Stay for the whole week if you like. There is lots of room, eh goes, waving the joint aroond.

Ya beauty!

That Marcia says something in German tae him, then she puts oan this dead false smile and turns tae us. — You are on holiday, and you are not wanting to be tied down to us, she goes.

— Naw, ah goes, — it’s been great, honest. Youse are the nicest people we’ve met, ah say, aw stoned. — Eh Gally?

— Aye, n no jist here. Wherever we’ve been, eh coos, lookin starstruck at Gudrun n Elsa. — N that’s gen.

Ah look ower at Birrell, who’s sayin nowt as usual. — If it’s no problem wi youse it would be great, ah goes.

— Then it is settled, Wolfgang goes, lookin curtly at Marcia, as if tae say, This is
ma
folks gaff, mind?

— Magic, Gally says, nae doubt thinkin ay the dosh he’ll save.

Billy’s lookin mumpy but. — We’ve jist went n goat settled. N thir’s Terry tae think aboot.

— Right . . . ah wis tryin tae forget that cunt . . . ah turns tae Wolfgang n Marcia. — It’s really kind ay ye, and we’d be delighted tae stey wi youse. There’s another one of us though, ah explains.

— One more is no problem, Wolfgang says.

Marcia makes nae attempt tae hide her exasperation. She blaws oot some air and heads away, hands flying, talking in German, slamming the door behind her. Wolfgang gives us a couldnae-care-less look accompanied by a stoned shrug. — She is just a little uptight on this day.

Gretchen looks at Wolfgang mischievously, — Wolfgang, you must be for giving her more sex.

Wolfgang, completely cool, goes, — I am trying but maybe I am smoking too much dope to be very good at the fucking.

Everybody starts hee-hawing in stoned laughter, well almost everybody. Birrell manages a slight smile for a few seconds. What an impression tae gie cunts ay Scottish people. Still, it just makes me n Gally try aw the harder.

— Brilliant! Deutschland Über Alles, ah goes, raisin ma bottle.
Everybody but Birrell toasts, n eh shoots me that boxer’s look, which is useless through this stoned haze.

We’re aw fucked though, and ready tae turn in. Rolf and lassies leave and Gally’s giein them the eyebrow as they depart. — See yis the morn, girls, eh slurs. Birrell seems edgy, probably the fight, but eh gets up and does ehs handshaking routine again.

We get our billets. Birrell n Gally go into this one room. It’s a boys’ room wi two beds. Ah’m next door in the wee lassies’ room, and it seems like I’m gonnae be sharing with Terry, as thir’s two single beds. Gas mask time. Ah pick the bed nearest the windae and slip oaf ma clathes and slide under the sheets. They’re that fresh and clean, ye’d be scared tae even huv a wank n them. Ah can imagine that Marcia just like them; aw stiff and cool. Ah’m even gittin worried aboot sweatin, fir fuck sakes. Ah mind ay thinkin in they hotels that it’s a long time since ah’ve slept in a bed wi sheets n blankets rather thin a duvet. Now ah’m in another yin. Wi ma luck, ah’ll be spunkin the sheets right up wi a technicolor wet dream.

Even though ah feel a wee bit like one ay they cunts in a haunted-hoose horror movie, ah’m totally fucked n ah drift oaf intae a deep sleep.

And here ah ahm in the dock and thir aw thaire, accusing ays, pointin the finger. Juice Terry’s standin up, lookin ower tae the prosecutor, who looks like McLaren, the manager ay hud whin ah worked in the furniture manufacturing warehoose. The cunt who accused ays ay bein a fascist cause ay that daft salute that appeared in the
Record
when we wound the photographer boy up ootside The Tree, pretendin we wir John Cleese oot ay
Fawlty Towers.

Terry’ll pit the cunts right aboot ays
.

—
Carl Ewart . . . I can’t defend his behaviour, eh shrugs. — We’ve all made mistakes in the past, but for Ewart to publicly align himself to a regime which practised genocide on a systematic scale . . . it’s frankly unforgivable
.

Birrell gits up. — I would ask that the full penalty of this war crimes commission be visited upon the Jambo cunt, eh sneers, before turning tae me and whispering, — Sorry, Carl
.

There’s a faint noise comin fae the gallery . . .

Then the judge comes intae ma vision. It’s fuckin Blackie n aw, the housemaster fae the school . . .

The noise is gittin louder though. Blackie bangs ehs hammer oan the desk
.

Then Gally gits up, and eh’s ower beside ays in the dock. — Fuck aw youse cunts, eh shouts, — Carl’s fuckin sound! Who the fuck ur youse cunts tae judge anybody? WHO THE FUCKIN HELL ARE YOUSE!?!

N ah kin see Terry n Billy changin thir minds now, n the chant’s gaun up, n we’re aw standin thegither. Thir’s a mob ay faces fae the gallery, Hibs n Herts n Rangers n Aberdeen n wir aw singin WHO THE FUCKIN HELL ARE YOU at the bench and first thir lookin angry, then worried, then thir retreatin; the judges, the teachers, the bosses, the councillors, the politicians, the businessmen . . . thir aw runnin oot the court . . . Blackie’s the last tae go . . . — Do you see the mentality of this scum, eh shouts, but it’s drooned oot by oor laughter . . .

. . . fuckin brilliant dream . . . the best one ah’ve hud. Ah wake up but, burstin fir a pish.

Ah get up and go oot intae the hallway. It’s as dark as fuck. Muh bladder’s burstin n ah cannae find a bog. Ah cannae even find a fuckin light, cannae work oot where ah’m gaun. Ah runs ma hand along this waw until it hits a door frame, and the door itself is slightly ajar so ah slide through the space intae the room. It’s no a bog though, ah ken that much, though ah kin hardly make oot anything . . .

Oooohhhfuckincuntthatyeare ah’m gaunny pass oot n pish masel . . .

Then ah nearly trips ower something oan the flair n ah think ah’m definitely ruptured now, but ah grit ma teeth, crouch doon n see that it’s a bag ay some kind. Ah pills ma pants away fae ma cock, baws n achin bladder n ah jist pish n pish n pish intae it, n ah hope thit it’ll no seep oot bit the bag seems waterproof. Ah dunno what’s in it, but fuckin hell . . . aw . . . fuck orgasms and drug highs, this is the best feelin in the world, tae have this pain taken away!

Ah finish in grateful relief as the pain subsides n the room comes mair intae definition. Thir’s two beds wi some cunts fast asleep in them. Ah dinnae stoap tae find oot whae it is, ah nip swiftly and silently back oot and intae ma ain room n git under the sheets n ah’m back in the land ay nod in nae time.

Ah gits up in the mornin and immediately clock thit the bog wis right next door oan the other side, bit ah fuckin missed it. So fuckin what, unless you’re caught red-handed, fingers in the till, you have tae deny aw knowledge. The shower’s excellent and high-tech for such an auld gaff n ah stey under it for a long time, littin the jets pummel ays awake, then ah dry off and git dressed then head doonstairs. Gally’s already
up, sittin oot oan the patio overlookin a big gairdin. It’s a misty mornin though n wi cannae see much. Thir’s nae sign ay Birrell yet. — Good morning Mr Galloway, ah goes, Morningside tea-room style.

— Mr Ewart! eh goes back in the same voice, the cunt seems on the up again, — how goes it, my fine fellow? How’s the capital gadgie this morning?

— Excellent Mr G. Whaire’s Secret Squirrel? What’s happened tae the big fit sportsman then? Eh’s no still goat the hump wi us for sortin um oot some free digs, hus eh? ah laughs. — Thoat he’d be up in the trees lookin fir nuts.

— Playin wi ehs nuts in ehs fuckin scratcher ah bet, the lazy cunt, Gally laughs. — Couldnae wake the fucker up. Some sportsman!

Ah starts tae tell Gally aboot ma dream.

Dreams are funny cunts, nae doubt aboot that. Ah’ve read a lot about them, from pop psychology tae Freud, but naebody kens for sure. That’s what ah hate most aboot the world. Too many twats sayin this is how it is. This is how it is
for thaim
, they mean. Where’s the fuckin doubt? Where’s the fuckin humility in the face ay the wondrous complexity ay this great cosmic universe?

— Sounds a load ay shite tae me, eh laughs, but ah think eh’s chuffed thit he came oot the best in it.

— But you must huv some weird dreams n aw ya cunt, ah sais tae um as Billy comes out ontae the balcony.

Gally shakes ehs heid. — Naw, ah nivir dream, eh goes. Billy’s lookin really angry n eh’s hudin up a wet tracksuit.

Ah decide tae tactically ignore Billy for a bit. Gally husnae seen um yit. What Gally says sounds like a load ay shite tae me. Every cunt dreams. — Ye must fuckin dream Gally, ye jist cannae mind ay it, mibbe cause yir a deep sleeper n that, ah tell um.

— Nup. Ah’ve nivir dreamt, eh sais, shakin ehs held. The cunt’s huvin nane ay it.

— Even as a wee laddie?

— No since ah wis a kid.

— What did ye dream ay then?

— Ah cannae mind, jist daft stuff, eh goes, lookin ower the gairdin as the mist starts tae clear.

Billy’s carrying the soaking wet tracksuit n runnin shoes by his fingertips, hudin them oot fae him. Eh’s goat this sportsbag turned inside oot. Eh wrings them oot for a bit. Eh’s looking well nippy as eh hings the drippin tracksuit ower the balcony. Ah feel masel shrinkin doon in the seat.

— Galloway, did you pish oan ma tracksuit last night?

— What’s aw this, Billy? Gally asks.

Billy wrings oot the legs ay the tracky bottoms again. — Ah hud tae wash oot aw the runnin clathes in ma bag. They wir soaked n they wir boggin, it wis like some cunt hud pished ower thum, eh sais, lowering ehs voice. — It’ll be that cat through thair, that filthy bag ay shite. This is brutal. If it comes near me it’s gittin tanned, ah’ll tell yis that for nowt.

— We’re enjoyin thir hospitality, Gally goes. — Dinnae start gittin aw wide wi folk, Billy.

— Ah’m no gittin wide wi anybody. Ye’d ken aw aboot it if ah wis gittin wide. Ma fuckin tracky . . . it’s fuckin desperate.

— N we’ll have tae pey them back, huv thaim ower tae Edinburgh, ah goes.

Gally goes, — Aye, tae the scheme. Thi’ll fuckin well lap that up, right enough.

— Naw, ah goes. — Ah’ve goat ma gaff, Billy’s goat his. Thir’ll be plenty room.

— Aw aye, you n Billy’ve goat yir nice city pads. How could ah forget that? eh sneers. — And I did not piss oan yir precious fuckin tracksuit, eh turns tae Billy. Ah jist raise ma eyes, Billy does n aw. This isnae like Gally.

— Fuckin hell, ah goes, — you two’ve goat right oot ay the wrong side ay bed this mornin. Ah’m almost lookin forward tae seein Juice Terry again.

Wolfgang and Marcia come through. They’ve goat some breakfast thegither ben the kitchen. — Good morning my friends . . . how are you? Wolfgang goes.

— Jist keep that cat oot ma road, Billy sais.

— I am sorry . . . what has happened?

Gally tells him the story.

— I am sorry, he repeats.

— So ye should be, Birrell goes. Gally nudges him. — Well, ma tracksuit . . . I’ve goat tae keep trainin, Gally. Ah need tae dae at least five miles a day.

We get our breakfast and agree that we’ll stay for the week. To be quite frank, Gally and I were embarrassed by Birrell’s moaning, thinking that he would be the last yin tae let the side doon. We head out back tae the hotel to get our bags. Gally and I open the door on
Terry’s room, and he’s lying on the bed channel-hopping, but he seems furtive before he sees it’s us.