Glue (58 page)

Does he fuck. Robert Birrell just goes, — Ah like you n aw, and there’s no self-conscious, jerky, frozen-time look into the eyes, no tense pause for the interpretation and misinterpretation of the signal. There’s just two mouths and tongues coming together in a relaxed, languid way and two psyches twisting together like snakes. Rab Birrell is both pleased and disappointed at the same time to note that there is no erection in sight because he is on a transcendental love trip with this Charlene lassie but a shag would be nice and he must bear this in mind because priorities change later but fuck that just now. Just sitting here
snogging, touching her arm. After Joanne had gone, he’d spent a night screwing a girl he’d picked up in a pub, without getting anywhere near this level of intimacy.

Lisa is next to them and she’s saying to Rab, who’s come up for air, — Ye like cocktails?

— Aye . . . Rab says hesitantly, thinking that this lassie has no need to buy him a drink, an expensive cocktail . . . besides, he’s on the E trip . . .

Lisa looks at Charlene and laughs, — She could tell ye a few.

— Yuv goat tae admit it but, eh pal, thit Scotland’s a friendly place, the young guy at the bar said to him. Franklin thrust his hand further into his trouser pocket. — Eh that’s right pal, eh.

— Yeah, he replied nervously.

— We’re different fae the English, the young man emphasised. He was skinny, had short hair, bad skin and wore a long sweatshirt, which hung on him like a tent, and baggy trousers frayed at the edges. The last couple of pubs had been brighter than the first ones, but there was still no Kathryn.

— Ah kin git ye anything ye like but, mate, you name it. Ye wantin a bit ay broon?

— No, I don’t want anything at all, thank you, Franklin countered curtly. His hand tightened round the notes in his pocket.

— Ah kin git ye some speed, good stuff. Or some E’s? Pure MDMA mate. Charlie. Oaf the rock n aw mate, best yuv ivir hud, the youth scratched at his arm. Two white marks out each side of his mouth gave his lower jaw a puppet-like appearance.

Franklin gritted his teeth. — Nothing thanks.

— Git ye some jellies. The boy’s jist ower the road. Geez twenty offay ye the now, n ah’ll be back in a minute.

Franklin just stared at the young man.

The youth extended his palms. — Awright then, ye kin come up tae the boy’s hoose wi me. Test the gear. How does that sound?

— I’m telling you, I’m not interested.

A group of stout men in their fifties were playing darts. One of
them came over. — The boy telt ye, ya junkie cunt, eh’s no interested. Now git the fuck oot ay here!

The young boy cowered away, and headed for the door. As he exited, he shouted back at Franklin, — You’re fuckin well chibbed, ya fuckin Yankee cunt!

The darts players laughed. One of them came up to Franklin. — Ah’d git oot ay here if ah wis you, mate. If ye want tae drink in Leith, yir better gaun doon tae the Shore. Roond here yir face’s goat tae be kent or yi’ll git some cunt oan yir case. It might be welcome, it might no, but that’s what’ll happen.

Franklin gratefully took the man’s advice, his own experience not exactly contradicting that proposition. He headed down to the waterfront and had a couple of lonely, maudlin drinks. There was no sign of Kathryn and there were loads of pubs and restaurants here. It was useless. He’d called back at reception, but she hadn’t returned to her room. Despite this, feeling defeated by now, he intended to turn in. He got another cab back up to Edinburgh.

— American, aye? the cabbie asked as they sped up the Walk.

— Yeah.

— Over fir the Festival?

— Yeah.

— Funny, cause you’re the second American ah’ve hud in ma cab the night. You’ll never guess who the first one wis, that singer, Kathryn Joyner.

Franklin fused rigid with excitement. — Where, he asked calmly, trying to keep control, — did you take her?

Terry and Johnny, both attempting to pursue a certain agenda, were getting a bit irritated as people kept coming up to Kathryn. This E’d brotherhood and sisterhood was okay, but they had business to attend to. Thus Terry found himself in accord with Catarrh when Johnny asked Rab Birrell, — Let’s go back tae yours.

— Eh, awright, said Rab . . . I’ll just see. He hedged his bets, looking over at Charlene and Lisa. Rab was determined that he was going nowhere without Charlene. They were up for it, but it was
Kathryn who was at first reluctant. — Terry, I’m having such a great time!

As usual, Terry had an answer. — Aye, but that’s when ye should move oan. Whin yir huvin a great time. Cause if ye wait till yir huvin a shite time before ye go, ye jist take that shite time wi ye tae the next place.

Kathryn thought about this, and conceded the point. This night had started off strange, but had slowly turned into something wonderful. And Terry had come through for her so far, so she was happy to go along with him. Terry, for his part, was surprised to see that two of the girls he’d seen earlier on were with Rab Birrell. They were the ones who’d been with the lassie he’d insulted.

Lisa looked at him and pointed, — That wis brilliant! Her Ma’s minge gittin eaten by a pit bull!

Rab looked nonplussed as Charlene and Lisa laughed their heads off. Terry did too, then said, semi-apologetically, — Sorry tae take the pish oot ay yir mate . . .

— Naw, it wis barry, Lisa smiled, — she’s a stuck-up cow, her. She wisnae wi us. We jist bumped intae her, eh Char?

— Aye, Charlene agreed. Rab had given her some chewing gum and she was chomping twenty to the dozen.

— Great, Terry nodded, all the time aware that he’d have never dreamed of apologising if he believed the girls were really offended.

They got their coats and exited into the cold. Kathryn was transfixed by the E-inspired orange sodium tracers from the street lamps and she didn’t see the man get out of a taxi and walk right past them into the club. They carried on down the road for a bit, before veering off a sidestreet and into a stair. The steps were worn down as they climbed up one flight, then another. — Where’s the goddamn elevator, huh Kath, Terry coughed in a put-on American drawl as they mounted step after step to the top-floor flat.

— Too fuckin redge, ya cunt, Kathryn said in a bad Scottish accent, trying to mimic a phrase Johnny Catarrh had taught her in the club.

So the American singer Kathryn Joyner found herself back at the flat of Rab Birrell. Lisa was impressed by the size of Rab’s record collection. — Magic, she said, rummaging through the vinyl and CDs which were racked on the walls. Rab Birrell neglected to mention that most of them were somebody else’s, a deejay pal of theirs, and he was
just looking after them, and the flat for that matter. — Anything anybody wants tae hear?

— Kath Joyner! Terry shouts —
Sincere Love
!

— No Terry, damn you! She never sang that fucking song any more. Never since Copenhagen. She hated it. It was the one she’d co-written with
him
. It was the one that every asshole seemed to ask her for.

Charlene makes a plea, — No mair dance music the now, Lise, ah’m danced oot eftir that fortnight in Ibiza. Find some indie stuff, some rock ’n’ roll.

— A wee bit thin on the ground wi that, Rab confesses.

— Current rock ’n’ roll music’s shite. The only person daein anything interestin thair now is Beck, Johnny ventures.

Kathryn’s eyes widen. — Gad Jahnny, thet is so right! Play Beck. Beck is just the coolest spirit!

— Aye, that’s barry, Terry agrees, moving over to help Lisa search. He looks in the pile of seven-inch singles. — Goat it, he says, moving over to the record deck. He puts the music on, and the familiar pub jukebox riff of
Hi-Ho Silver Lining
fills the air.

— What the fuck is that? Lisa asks, as Rab starts sniggering. Johnny does too.

— Beck. Jeff Beck, Terry went, singing, — Ha ho silvah ly-nin . . .

Kathryn looks solemnly at him. — That wasn’t the Beck we had in mind, Terry.

— Right, Terry says, deflated, sitting down on a beanbag.

Rab Birrell gets up and puts on Shannon’s
Let the Music Play
and starts briefly dancing with Charlene and Lisa, before grabbing Charlene’s hand and leading her over to a seat built into the bay window of the flat.

Terry feels old and humiliated. To console himself, he starts racking out lines of cocaine on a CD case.

— Fuck off Terry, we’re still oan the E vibe the now, Rab says, turning from the window seat in the flat.

— Some ay us kin handle our drugs, Birrell.

Kathryn is also content to stay on the E vibe. After Shannon finishes, someone puts a CD on. Kathryn likes the music, and she is up dancing with Johnny and Lisa. This young girl seems very beautiful to the American singer, but she is appreciative rather than intimidated by it. The music is fantastic to Kathryn’s ears, beaty, driving but soulful, and full of rich textures. — Who is that?

Johnny hands her the CD case. She reads:

N-SIGN: Departures

— Mate ay Terry’s here, Johnny says, then, noticing her interest, starts to regret it. — Fae ages ago like, eh adds, going into a seductive, off-beat dance movement which both Kathryn and Lisa, to his relief, decide to copy.

Rab Birrell is sitting holding hands with Charlene, pointing out at Arthur’s Seat. — It’s a beautiful view, she says.

— You’re a beautiful view, he tells her.

— So are you, she replies.

Terry, miserable on the beanbags, overhears this. Birrell’s got a new girlfriend. Now we’re all forced to witness a sickening display ay E-induced smarm as he gets his hole for the first time in yonks. Beck. Who the fuck was that? Some fuckin American poof. He could kick himself. Bad referencing was an unforgivable crime in some quarters, worse than no referencing at all. And the place in the big, wide world where it would be most harshly judged would be in the anal, student gaff of that cunt Rab Birrell. It was fast turning into a nightmare, Terry thought, as he fine-chopped the lines of coke, which nobody but him seemed to want. Catarrh has two birds slavering all over him, and Rab Birrell’s playing mister fuckin smooth because he’s E’d up. Terry takes brutal stock of Rab’s student pad. The wallpaper. The beanbags. The plants. Two fuckin guys in a flat wi plants! Rab Birrell, the so-called Hibs boy as well. But that cunt was always mair CC Blooms than CCS. In the District Court of his mind where Rab Birrell is on trial charged with being a poncy student cunt, Terry is assembling an absolute fucking welter of evidence. Then he sees it. It’s the artefact which digs at him at a new level, way beyond irritation, slapping him into dumbfounded outrage. It’s a poster of a soldier being shot with the word WHY followed by a question mark. That, to Terry, just sums up that cunt Birrell: his politics, his affectations, his stupid student shite. He could almost hear him now, saying to that daft wee clubber lassie, aye, it makes ye think, doesn’t it, then going off into one of his daft lectures about whatever garbage him and his new college chums talked about. Stevenson College Birrell, Stevenson College.

And Rab’s brother. Billy. His old best mate. Terry minded the time, the one and only time, he’d gone into the Business Bar, and okay, he’d had a few and he’d been in overalls from daeing a bit of painting
on the side. But ‘Business’ had all but blanked him, given him a disdainful, — Terry, followed by a ‘come back when yir better dressed’ look which had made Terry feel like a total cunt in front of the posh George Street wankers who drank in there. Through the druggy reverb and N-SIGN’s music, he fancied that he could hear them now, ‘I actually know quite a lot of rather unsavoury people in this town. Have you met Billy Birrell? The ex-boxer? Runs the Business Bar? You must come in and meet Billy. He’s a character.’ And there would be ‘Business’ Birrell, the fucking Rembrandt Kid, saying in hushed tones to one of the wee lassies he employs in order to get into their knickers, ‘Look after Brendan Halsey. A big noise in Standard Life. Oh look, there’s Gavin Hastings! Gavin!’

Birrell. Making a cunt of himself. He’d never be one of them, and they’d never really accept him. Just standing there and letting them patronise him, and him not even seeing it, or worse, him noticing it and putting it down to ‘business’.

The Birrells and their fuckin pretensions.

Rab was looking at the poster which Charlene had taken a fancy to. — It really says a lot that poster, eh? she said, urging him on in support.

— Aye, Rab replied with less enthusiasm than he felt she wanted. He hated the poster with a vengeance. It was put up by his flatmate, Andrew, and Rab always joked about that nauseating student left-wing kitsch but this one really did irritate him. To Rab it epitomised that smug, complacent right-onness. Let’s make those daft wee statements to show how profound and sussed-out we are. It was a load of bollocks. Andrew was okay, but he didn’t give a flying fuck about war. It was just a lazy way to a pompous cred.

He turned to see Terry looking at the poster with an expression of abject disgust, and he knew what Juice was thinking and he had an urge to shout ‘It’s no fuckin mine, right.’ But Charlene was tugging at his hand and they were off to his bedroom to cuddle, snog, whisper secrets and if it led to them exploring each other and sharing body fluids as well, then that was okay by one Robert Stephen Birrell. Rab Birrell was enjoying the passivity, the freedom from the burden of being the uncool cunt in the transaction who was always pushing. Sometimes we still need a good pill to decondition us, loosen us up, get rid of all the uptight shit.

Terry watched them go through to the bedroom with something approaching rank despair. Not only had Birrell and Catarrh hijacked
his night with Kathryn, they had rubbed his nose in it by pointing out that this prize he coveted was a mere bauble to be discarded when brighter ones came into view. Catarrh was going home with the two of them if he wasn’t careful. Catarrh in a threesome and Terry on his puff. Catarrh! The warning bells rang to a crescendo in Terry’s head. Snorting one line, then another, he felt his heart race and his spine fuse into a rod of iron. He stood up and bounded to the door, exiting into the hallway. A few moments later, he returned draped in a white duvet, a similar colour and material to Johnny’s shirt. Striding onto the floor, Terry slowly insinuated himself behind Johnny and started doing an exaggerated parody of Catarrh’s stylised dancing.