Glue (62 page)

— Eh hurt wee Jacqueline badly that time . . . eh went mad that night, she bubbled.

I looked coldly at her. — Whaes fault wis that?

She never heard me, or if she did, she chose to ignore the question. — Me n McMurray . . . we were finished. That wis the daft thing. It wis over. Andrew didnae need tae dae that . . . shootin him in the throat . . .

I felt a dry choking sensation in my
own
throat. — Andrew didnae dae anything, I rasped, — and even if eh did, dinnae flatter yirself that eh did it for you. Eh did it for
him
, cause ay the way that McMurray cunt fucked things up for him!

Gail looked at me, disappointment etched on her face. I’d obviously let her down, but I was annoyed that she should have any fuckin expectations of me in the first place. The Regal she had lit up seemed to have been smoked in two inhalations and she got out another. She offered me one and I really wanted a fag, but I said no, because taking anything off that fucking cow would have been an insult to Gally. I sat there unable to believe that I thought I might end up in bed with that fucking monstrous entity. I thought about her and McMurray, Polmont, the Dalek. — So ye packed him in n aw. Ye must be shaggin some other sad cunt, eh? One ay the Doyles, wis it? Did ye git him tae dae Polmont?

— Ah shouldnae huv come . . . she said, getting up.

— Aye, right ye shouldnae uv. Jist git the fuck ootay here, ya fuckin murderin bitch, ah sneered, as she left.

Ah heard the front door shut and felt a surge of regret and sprang to my feet. From the landing I saw her below, the top of her head disappear round the stair bend. — Gail, I shouted, — I’m sorry, right. I heard her heels click on the stone steps. Then stop for a second, then carry on.

That was as much as she was getting.

10.17 am

On entering the Fly’s Ointment public house, Alec noted one of his drinking partners up at the bar. — Alec, Gerry Dow nodded, with a slight frown as he saw the crowd pile in behind his friend. Gerry was old-school to the extent that he resented any young cunts in a pub. The definition of ‘young cunts’ covered everybody younger than himself: i.e., under fifty-seven. They had simply not served their apprenticeship in drink and therefore couldn’t be trusted to behave with dignity when intoxicated. Not that Gerry or Alec could either, but that wasn’t the point.

Rab Birrell and Juice Terry were first up to the bar, the latter’s coffers swelled by another loan from Kathryn.

— Fuckin Batman and Robin here came roond fir ays this mornin, Alec informed Gerry, thumbing at Rab and Terry.

— Well that must make you the Joker then, Alec, or that cunt Mr Two-Face, Terry laughed.

— If ah hud a fuckin coupon like yours, Alec, ah’d want a second face n aw, Rab Birrell sniggered, and Terry started guffawing.

— Awright, ya cheeky cunts, git the fuckin nips in fir me n Gerry here, Alec slurred, the few beers he’d had stoking up the previous day’s drinks in the alcohol-to-urine processing plant that was Alec, all the way back to the 28th of August, 1959.

— Cannae make ye oot thair, Alec. Is that you bein the Riddler now? Terry gagged with laughter.

— You’re the fuckin Riddler, son. So solve this puzzle. Two halfs ay special and two whiskies. Grouse, Alec demanded.

Terry was still amused. — So ah’m the Riddler — that must make you that Mr Freeze cunt, Alec.

Rab cut in, — Or Mr Anti-Freeze, cause eh’d fuckin well guzzle that if eh goat the chance!

As Terry exploded again, Rab was enjoying the feeling of solidarity with him, even if it was at Alec’s expense. It served to remind him that he and Terry were still, after all, meant to be mates. But what did that mean? Surely it was ‘mates’ as defined by Terry, i.e., people that you can abuse with greater impunity than you would ordinary members of the public.

Terry had pushed in beside Lisa and Kathryn, putting another body between Rab and Charlene. — Wir oan the karaoke the night. Doon the Gauntlet. You n me.
Islands in the Stream
.

— I can’t . . . I got this fucking gig . . . The prospect terrorised Kathryn. She didn’t want to think about it.

— Aye, doon the Gauntlet, but.
Islands in the Stream
, eh.

— I can’t cancel out a goddamn gig at Ingliston, Jerry. They’ve gone and sold three thousand tickets.

Terry looked at her doubtfully, shaking his head. — Whae sais? Yuv goat tae go wi the vibe. They cunts that manage ye, thair no mates ay yours, no real mates. Ye want some cunt like me as yir manager. Think ay aw the publicity ye’d git if ye went missin! Ye could stop at mine for a bit. Nae cunt wid think ay lookin fir ye in the scheme. Ah mean, in the spare room thit ma Ma hud, n ye could . . . eh, jist chill. Terry was about to say that he needed somebody to cook and clean but he just managed to stop himself in time.

— I dunno, Terry . . . I guess I dunno what I want . . . 

— Nae cunt’s gaunny find ye at ma bit. It’s a good scheme; no like Niddrie or Wester Hailes. Graeme Souness came fae oot that wey, no that far fae me. He kens how tae dress, designer suits n that. Loads ay cunts in the scheme’s boat thir hooses. Aye, ye git a mair entrepreneurial type fae that scheme. Take moi, for example.

— What?

— Ah dinnae expect ye tae grasp aw this the now, but the offer’s thaire, Terry told her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Johnny starting to doze off, his head falling forward then shuddering back awake. Catarrh was fucked. Fuckin lightweight cunt. What was needed was to keep moving, sort out some drugs: speed, or even mair charlie. He had an idea, announcing it loudly across the table, and specifically at Rab. — This is a wee bit low-life fir our American guest. What aboot one in the Business Bar?

Rab was alarmed. Kathryn noticed, but couldn’t work out why. — What’s the Business Bar?

— His brar’s.

Lisa looked at Rab in astonishment. She had thought him a bit of a wanker, the kind of sincere studenty type that Char always seemed to go for. — Are you Billy Birrell’s brother?

— Aye, Rab said, feeling chuffed and hating himself for it.

— Ah hud a mate that worked in the bar, Lisa informed Rab. — Gina Caldwell. Ye ken her? She was almost going to add that Gina shagged ‘Business’ but checked herself. It was more info than they needed. A weakness of hers, she reflected in amusement.

— Naw, ah nivir really go thair, Rab said.

— I’m happy to stay here, Charlene said, too quickly for Lisa not to give her a glance. There she was again.

Rab turned to Lisa. She was a cool bird, but she was giving him a vibe. Through a wave of tiredness he thought about how he wanted to get on with her, if only because she was Charlene’s mate. — It’s only cause ma mother’s hud a hysterectomy that ah’m wearin this strip . . . he mumbled, but all she got was his lips moving.

Terry steamed in. — I’m sure that my auld mucker ‘Business’ would be very, very hurt if he found out that we were on the toon wi Kath Joyner and we didnae bring the lassie in tae say hello. I think that a spot of early lunch in the Business Bar might be just the thing, he smirked, drinking in Rab’s discomfort. Even jakied out and with Post Alec in tow, they’d have to get in. It was his brother and Kathryn Joyner.

— It’s no just Billy’s bar, eh’s a partner wi Gillfillan. Eh’s goat tae watch . . . it’s no jist Billy . . . Rab pleaded to nobody in particular and consequently nobody was listening. He was full of trepidation. Terry was enjoying this. Catarrh was coming intermittently out of his coma for long enough periods to nod encouragement to Terry and to repeat the odd mantra of ‘Business Bar’. Fuck it, Rab considered, he was with Charlene, and nobody else. Terry could take Alec along, and Johnny. But why the fuck should Alec not be allowed to drink in a pub in his own city? Especially as it rolled out the red carpet for all those Festival snobs who were just up here for five minutes. The fuckin door policy. A stylish café. Style fascism was just another way of reasserting the class system. Fuck that. His own brother surely wouldn’t be such a cunt!

Surely not.

Lisa didn’t like this pub. She’d lost a nail extension and got a beer stain on her white top. She was keeping an eye on Charlene. She
shouldn’t have let her go with that Rab, with anybody, come to think of it. She seemed alright just now, but the comedown was surely approaching. This pub wasn’t the best place to have it. The Business Bar sounded better.

The Fly’s Ointment seemed to her like a clearing house for lost souls. Lisa fancied that she could see the dramas of future despair in pre-production: the rapist chatting to his victim; the crook drinking easily with the guy who’d eventually grass him up; the boisterous bosom buddies in the corner, waiting for the alcohol to eventually overload and overheat the brain, when, in rage or paranoia, one would be smashing fist or glass into the other’s face, long before closing time. The ugliest and the scariest thing of all, she thought, looking round at her own company, was that you couldn’t sit back smugly and exclude yourself from the equation.

Lisa saw a worn-out woman sitting, looking in distress, her looks gone before their time, and a fat ruddy man sitting next to her glowing, talking loudly in a half-laugh, half-sneer, words she couldn’t make out. No doubt though who was in control there. Another woman in a man’s world, always vulnerable, she thought. She felt her hand tighten on Charlene’s, wanted to ask her if she was okay, was the comedown kicking in, were the demons starting their remorseless dance, but no, she was laughing and her eyes were still big and engaged. Still off her tits, not yet turning in. But that might come. Who the fuck am I kidding, it will come, for everyone. Occupational caning hazard. So watch her.

But somebody else was watching her. And no, Lisa still didn’t trust him. She would trust Rab Birrell with any of her other mates, it wouldn’t be an issue, it wouldn’t be her business, but no Char, no now. And now he was taking her by the hand and leading her up to the bar and Lisa was up too, instinctively following them. Terry grabbed her hand as she went past in pursuit. He winked at her. She smiled back, then nodded to the bar, continuing her surveillance.

She saw Rab with Charlene, he had ordered two pints of water, into which he poured the contents of a packet he took from his jacket pocket, making the liquid cloudier, the sediment not dissolving completely. — Drink it, he smiled, raising one glass and gulping.

Charlene hesitated. It looked vile. — You’re joking, she laughed, — what is it?

— Dioralyte. One of these in ye and you replace the fluids and the salts the bevvy and drugs take out. Cuts the severity of the hangover by about 50 per cent. Ah used to think it was daft, a bit poncey, but for
sessions like this, ah always dae it. Nae point in lying in your bed feeling ill for a few days and jumping out yir skin when the phone rings when you dinnae have tae . . . well, no as much, he smiled, raising his glass.

That sounded good. She forced it down, as Lisa approached in horror, her head full of images of rhoyponol and GHB. No way was he taking her home. — What’s that ye gied her? she started to ask Rab, but felt her voice tailing off as he gulped down the last of it, before explaining to her.

On their second drink, Alec and Gerry were in song at the bar. — Yew-coaxed-the-bluesss-right-out-of-the-horn-ma-ae-ae . . .

— Keep it doon, boys, the barman warned.

— Drink in here enough . . . only fuckin singin a wee song, Post Alec grumbled, then ignited in sudden inspiration, — Eyamalinesmin from the counteee . . .

Alec never got to mention that he guided the main line. — Right, Alec, that’s it, oot, the barman snapped. He’d had enough; yesterday, the day before. Alec had managed more last warnings than one of his heroes, Frank Sinatra, had last concerts. Now it was enough.

Terry stood up. — Right everybody, let’s go. He turned towards the barman. — Wir gaun tae a mair salubrious haunt, the Business Bar, he said loftily.

— Aye, that’ll be right, the barman scoffed.

— What’s that meant tae mean? Terry asked.

— Aye . . . fuckin radge, Catarrh spat, backing up his friend.

— You’ll no git served in thaire, and ah’ll tell ye something else, if yir no oot ay here right away, ah’ll be right oan tae the polis.

— Kathryn Joyner here, Terry slurred, pointing at Kathryn, who was trying to disguise the fact that she was mortified.

— Yeah, it’s been swell. Let’s go, she urged the others.

As they were leaving Charlene saw him, he was just sitting there.

And then he saw her and smiled widely. — There’s ma wee lassie, he said, slightly drunk with his friends, playing dominoes.

— Wee lassie, naw, I’m no a wee lassie now. I was when you interfered with me, she said calmly. — Nae mair silence, nae mair lies, she looked him in the eye. Watched that sick, sugary sparkle leave it, as his friends bristled in their seats.

— What?

Charlene felt Rab’s grip tighten on her shoulder and she twisted and ducked to shrug it off. Lisa had recognised Charlene’s father as well. She moved alongside her friend and Rab. — That’s him? Charlene heard Rab ask Lisa, who nodded sombrely.

Lisa thought then how she must have told him, told Rab.

Rab pointed at the man, his steady voice saying, — You are a fuckin disgrace. He looked around at the men beside him. One or two of them had hard faces, one or two had reputations. — Youse are fuckin disgraceful n aw, drinkin wi that rubbish, he shook his head.

The men tensed up, they weren’t used to being spoken to like that. One of them looked at Rab, his face set in annihilation mode. Who were these cunts, this young guy and these lassies, and why were they slagging off the company?

Charlene sensed she had the ball at her feet. How to play it, how to play it.