Glue (42 page)

We get tae our feet, Gally stuffin a moothfill ay breed intae him as we depart. Terry’s lookin at one the bouncers, starin at the cunt in a low, breathless laugh, makin ehs eyes go aw big. — Gies it then, cunt, eh sniggers, shakin ehs hips and pursin ehs lips. — Me n you Fritzy boy. Ootside, come ahead!

Ah grabs ehs airm n pushes um taewards the door, laughin like fuck at ehs pantomime. — C’moan, Terry, leave it ya daft cunt!

The German boys are lookin a bit confused, n ye kin tell they dinnae want tae start anything here, but ah’m worried aboot the polis bein called. It would gie that vindictive auld boot oan the council great pleasure tae see some schemies git banged up, but oan the other hand it would be bad publicity for the city if it made the papers, so we’ve mibbe goat a bit ay leeway yet. As long as nae cunt kicks it off, that is.

Wi move oot, wi Terry walkin slowly and provocatively, like eh’s darin the German boys tae huv a go. Eh looks roond the hall and shouts, — CCS!

It’s aw jist fir effect, cause Terry never goes tae fitba these days, let alaine wi the mob. They dinnae ken what the fuck eh’s on aboot though, n thir no comin ahead. Eh looks aroond, then happy thit thir’s nae takers, eh moves away tae the door.

As we go oot, the auld bat, Councillor Morag Bannon-Stewart, they call the cunt, goes: — You’re a disgrace to Edinburgh!

— Git oan it, cap chick, suck ma fuckin cock, Gally rasps tae her horror and outrage, and wir oot oan the street, feelin aw pleased but indignant at the same time.

It’s barry here, the rows ay tables packed wi dedicated drinkers and the sounds ay the oompah band. If ye cannae get pished in this environment, you never will. It’s no jist a gadges’ thing n aw, thir’s stacks ay birds here, aw up for it. This is the life, the Hacker-Psychor tent at the Oktoberfest, and the Steiners are soon gaun doon awright, fuckin goodstyle! Ah wisnae that intae alcohol any mair, but this was the best time ever. At first wir aw sittin thegither at these big, wooden
tables, but eftir a bit we start movin aroond. Ah think Birrell’s the keenest tae circulate, cause Gally’s really been nippin ehs heid aboot chorin. — Stall the now, Birrell, eh pleads, as Billy gets up, — a bit ay fuckin Gemeinschaft!

Billy can be a funny cunt; a great guy, but a bit puritanical in some weys, likes. So eh moves over n starts talkin tae these English guys. Terry’s eyein up the fanny even though eh’s wi this Hedra bird. That’s Terry; ah love um but eh is a total cunt. Ah often think that if he wisnae my mate and I just met him for the first time, I’d be crossing the road if there was a second yin. Ah join Billy, anxious tae stretch my legs. The English boys seem sound enough; wir talkin away a load ay pished shite wi them: swappin drunk tales, rave tales, fitba mob tales, drug tales, shaggin tales, aw the usual crap that makes life worth livin.

At some point in the proceedings, this fat cow, ah think she’s German, gits up oan one ay the tables n she’s goat her toap off, big tits floppin aw ower the place. We aw cheer n ah realise that ah’m cabbaged, well pished, n the oompah band’s drums are throbbin in ma heid and the cymbals are crashin aw aroond ma ears. Ah stand up, jist tae prove that ah kin, then ah move aroond the tent.

Gally buys me another big drink and says something aboot Gemeinschaft bein us, but ah cannae be bothered wi his pished shite cause eh’s gittin that physically clingy wey eh gits when eh’s fucked, hudin oantae ye n draggin ye aboot. Ah lose him and find masel sittin next tae these lassies fae Dorset or Devon or something like that. Wir smashin oor Steiners thegither n talkin aboot music n clubs n pills n the usual stuff. Thir’s one ay thum ah’m really intae, she’s awright; Sue, her name is. She’s no bad-lookin but it’s mair cause she sounds like the lassie rabbit in that Cadbury’s Caramel advert, the one that tells the Hare boy tae slow doon, jist take it nice n easy. N the Hare boy’s eyes are aw ower the place, a bit like Gally’s whin eh’s E’d up. Ma eyes are mibbe the same now but, cause ah’ve goat a vision ay me n this bird lazily making love aw day under the sun oan a Somerset farm n soon ma airm’s roond her n she lets me snog her for a bit then she’s turning away n mibbe ah’m bein too eager here, too much lip pressure . . . Mr Hare, that’s me, it’s aw the techno, the hardcore ah’ve goat immersed in, eywis in too much ay a hurry so jist you relaaax Mr ’Are . . .

Ootay ma cunt oan alcohol! Ah go up tae the bar and buy a round for this lassie n her mates wi some schnapps as chaser. We down them, then Sue and I are up dancing at the front tae the oompah band, it’s mair jist blind flayin aroond really, and this English cunt, a Manc boy,
eh’s got ehs arm round ma neck and he’s gaun, — Awright, mate, where you from, and ah’m like, — Edinburgh, n this boy’s awright which is as well cause ah kin see ower ma shoodir that Birrell’s jist went n punched some cunt who might be one ay this guy’s mates. It didnae seem a hard shot, but it’s one ay they short, economical boxer’s punches and the guy goes straight ower oan ehs erse. The mood changes in a strange way, and even through the muffled layers ay intoxication yir sensitive tae it. Ah separates fae the Manc guy who looks a bit shocked, and catapult forward intae Sue n we’re drunkenly careering oot the tent n staggering behind this caravan wi the sound ay this generator gaun.

She’s got her hands in my flies and I’m trying to get her jeans loose, they’re a bit fuckin tight but ah get a result. Ah find her crack under her pants and ah slide in one finger and it’s moist, this’ll go up her cunt no danger, cause I’m hard as well, though I always worry wi the alcohol in such situations. Sometimes your cock can be hard, but the root can let you down. We can’t configurate properly for a bit, but I sit her on top of this generator, vibratin away tae fuck, and she’s out of one leg of her jeans and her pants are of the fairly loose white cotton type, you can push them aside without needing to take them off and it’s a bit tight at first but it’s going in awright. Wir fuckin, but no in the slow, languid Cadbury’s Caramel way ah wanted, it’s a nasty, jerky tense shag, with her pressing on her hands, pushing off the shakin generator and ontae me. Ah’m pushing up into her and I’m watching the sweat oan her face and we’re a lot more estranged from each other fucking than we ever were when we were dancing. There’s shadows lurching past us and thir’s assorted loud agitated voices; English, German, Birrell and fuck knows what else.

I’m thinking about getting her back to Wolfgang and Marcia’s, and that bed and some slow fucking, some slow Cadbury’s Caramel fucking; aw languid and sensual, when this lassie runs ower tae us but she’s no really seeing us cause she’s puking her guts out, and she’s trying tae hud her hair back fae her face but it’s nae good. Now ma horizons have shrunk n ah’m just wantin tae blaw ma muck intae Sue. Ah can feel her pushing me away from her and I’m out, she’s pulling her jeans legs on and zipping and buckling up and I’m trying to get ma cock into ma pants and troosers, like a half-wit trying tae dae a puzzle.

— You alright, Lynsey? Sue comforts her mate, who jist retches again. Then she shoots me a glance as if it’s me that’s responsible fir
this dozy cow’s condition. Mind you, ah boat that roond ay schnapps, bit ah didnae force any cunt tae drink it.

It’s pretty fuckin obvious fae Sue’s expression and body lingo, she’s now turned away from me, that she regrets aw this. Ah hear her sayin drunkenly tae herself, — Didn’t even have a fucking condom . . . so fuckin stupid . . .

And well, ah suppose it is n aw. So now ah’m startin tae huv regrets. — Ah’m away inside tae find the boys . . . see ye back thaire, ah say, but she’s no listening, she doesnae gie a fuck and neither ay us came so it could hardly be called a successful shag by any stretch ay the imagination. This is just fucking though: nowt tae worry aboot. Yuv goat tae huv crap sex occasionally, just tae git some perspective oan the barry shaggin. If every ride wis textbook porno, then it would be meaningless, cause thir’d be nae real reference point. That’s the wey ye huv tae look at it.

Ah move oan, trippin n nearly fawin ower a tent rope, staggerin past this boy wi a burst nose. Ehs mate’s helpin um, eh’s goat the gadge’s heid back. Thir’s a lassie follayin them gaun, — Is eh awraat, in a north ay England accent, — is eh awraat?

They ignore her n her face creases up n she looks at me n goes, — Well fook yis then! But she follays them anywey.

Back in the tent ah wander roond for a bit before ah see Billy, who looks really pished. Eh’s starin at his knuckles intensely and rubbin them. — Billy. Whaire’s Gally? ah ask, thinkin thit Terry’ll be wi that Hedra bird, bit Gally wis oan ehs ain.

Birrell looks at ays aw wide n hard, through slitty eyes, then eh sort ay sees it’s me n relaxes a bit. Eh stretches oot the fingers oan ehs hand. — Ah cannae go aroond hittin radges, Carl, ah’ve goat a big fight comin up. If this knuckle’s burst Ronnie’s gaunny go crazy. Bit they wir gittin wide, Carl. What could ah dae? They wir gittin wide. That’s brutal. Terry should’ve been here tae sort it aw oot!

— Aye, right enough. Whaire’s Gally? ah ask him again. Odds on thit the doss wee mutant’ll’ve got intae bother somewhaire. Ah’m a bit surprised at Billy though, he’s meant tae be the sensible fucker.

— Eh wis bein seek. Eh wis seek doon a lassie’s back. Eh wis dancin wi her. Whaire’s Terry? Ah hud tae deck three radges oan ma ain. Whaire wir youse?

— Ah dunno, Billy. Ah’ll find them. You wait here, ah tells um.

Terry was wi Gally, who was lookin a bit rough awright. Thir wis
sick doon the front ay ehs black T-shirt, ehs hair wis stickin up wi sweat n eh wis pantin heavily. Terry wis smirkin away, laughin ehs heid oaf. — Second-division material, eh roars, turnin tae Hedra and this German guy. — A poor ambassador. Hi Galloway, act like yir Hibs for fuck sake. He points at Gally, singing, — Are you Jam Tarts in disguise . . . oh shitey, shitey; shitey, shitey, shitey, shitey Gallow-way . . . Then eh suddenly nods tae me, — Whaire’s Secret Squirrel? Saw um flinging a few punches back thaire. Cunt hud loast the plot. The boys wirnae even botherin um. Eh cannae handle the bevvy now. Ah think eh heard the bell n ehs heid, Terry laughed. — Seconds away! Ding-dong! Eh starts singin the Secret Squirrel theme tune, — He’s gat tricks, up his sleeve, most bad guys can’t believe . . . a bullet-proof coat . . .

A small world? It’s a primary-school globe as some German boys ur comin up tae the guy that’s wi Terry, and one ay them’s Rolf. We acknowledge each other straight away, shakin hands. — We are going on to a party, he says, lookin aroond disapprovingly at the beery scene and over at the oompah band, still playin oan, — the music will be better.

That suits me fine. — Barry, I say. The boys might no ken the word, but there’s nae mistaking the drift. They say that body lingo is at least fifty per cent ay communication. Ah dinnae ken aboot that, but speech and words are overrated. Dance doesnae lie, music doesnae lie.

— Ah’m up for that, Terry goes, — it’s gittin too fuckin messy here, eh. Then eh starts talkin like that wee boy wi the glesses n the fez, the one thit’s Secret Squirrel’s mate, — We weel get ee peel doon Seecreet’s neck before he goes n keels some kawwnt! Then eh reverts back tae ehs ain voice, — Git the love vibe back intae um. The cunt thinks it’s last orders doon the fuckin Gauntlet!

Wi get Billy and we’re flounderin in an unruly mob tae the site exits, tripping over tent ropes. People look at us nervously: we’re like exhausted salmon tryin tae git upstream tae spawn. As we leave the site, ah’m startin tae get ma bearings. Wi head for the city centre, and ma thoughts turn tae that Sue bird and the fun ah could’ve hud, n how it was a weakness tae git so pished and slow and stupid oan that farty auld man’s drug. We seem tae be walkin for ages. Billy’s behind us, still rubbin ehs hand. Eh’s shoutin ahead tae Terry, gaun: — Whaire the fuck wir you, Lawson? Whaire wir yis?

Terry’s jist laughin n brushin him off, — Aye, aye, sure, awright Birrell, awright. Sure, sure, sure . . . Ah’m worried though, cause Billy
seldom, if ever, swears. He’s like his auld man that wey. Ehs brother Rab swears like a trooper, so dae the rest ay us.

— ANY CUNT THEN! Birrell venomously screams into the darkened street, and everybody looks away. Terry rolls ehs eyes, purses ehs lips n goes, — Oooooh! Rolf goes tae me, — We will not get into the party with him the way he is now being. It is possible that perhaps we will be arrested instead.

— It’s mair thin jist fuckin possible, mate, Terry laughs. Eh’s goat his airm roon that Hedra bird, he’s no giein a fuck.

Ah goes back n calms Billy doon, pittin ma airm aroond ehs shoodirs. — Stey cool, Billy, wi want intae the gig, for fuck sakes!

Billy stops n goes aw rigid, then eh winks at ays and looks as if nothing has happened. — Ah am cool, eh goes, then adds, — totally cool. Then eh hugs me and says that ah’m ehs best mate, eywis huv been. — Terry n Gally, thaire great mates, bit you’re ma best mate. Mind that. Sometimes ah’m harder oan you thin the rest, but that’s cause you’ve goat it. You’ve goat what it takes, eh sais, almost like a threat. Ah’ve never seen Birrell like this in years. The pish has gone straight tae ehs heid and there’s a mob ay demons behind his eyes. — You’ve goat what it takes, eh repeats. Then eh sais . . . — brutal, tae ehsel, under ehs breath.

Ah dinnae ken what the cunt means, although ah appreciate the sentiment. Well, ah suppose Fluid’s daein awright, but it’s just a great night oot n a laugh n some cash n ma poakit. Ah slap him oan the back as we walk acroass this wasteland by they railway sidings and come intae this huge industrial estate. Thir’s lights oan, n lorries, it’s like some cunts are still workin. The club or rave or ‘party’ as the German boys call it, is in a huge, cavernous auld building which is obviously illegally occupied. It’s surrounded by what looks like still-working factory and office units. Ah turn tae Gally, — If this doss disnae git busted within twenty minutes ah’ll lick Juice Terry’s foreskin, ah laugh at him, but the perr wee cap gadge is still too pished tae respond. We walk inside. Gally’s scrapped maist ay the zorba oaf ehs T-shirt n zipped ehs bomber jacket up at the front. Ah’m delighted when we get in, cause it hud turned really cauld gaun doon that road.