Glue (71 page)

Carl looked at Terry. — The cunt couldnae fuckin well speak tae grass anybody. He forced a strange laugh.

It didn’t lighten Terry’s mood though. — Gally jumped cause eh kent aboot me n Gail . . . n when eh died eh took the blame wi um, n it kept the likes ay the Doyles oaf ma trail . . . Ah shot Polmont, n ah killed Gally!

Carl was the only one who knew that Gally was HIV positive. Gally had made him swear not to tell. But Gally would understand. He felt sure that Gally would understand. — Listen, Terry; you n aw, Billy. Ah’ve goat something important tae tell yis. Gally wis HIV positive. Wi the skag. Eh used tae bang up wi Matty Connell n aw they cunts doon in Leith, some boys that’ve been deid for years.

— That’s drastic, that’s . . . Billy said, trying to get to grips with it.

Terry was silent.

— Eh only got intae it cause eh wis fucked off aboot Gail n Polmont n the bairn, Terry, Carl said. He raised his voice. — Terry! You fuckin well listenin tae me?

— Aye, Terry said meekly.

— So it
wis
that cunt Polmont that fucked him up by taking the poor wee cunt’s liberty, he said, his eyes red. — Ah mean, ah’m sorry tae hear aboot the boy’s ma, and ah am, cause ah’ve jist . . . ma faither. But two wrongs didnae make a right, n he hud nae right tae dae that tae Gally.

Billy ruffled Terry’s curls. — Sorry tae gie ye a hard time thair. This shocked Terry, even through his dejection. But, Terry reflected,
he didn’t really know the boy now. It had been ages. How much did you change? — Ye did the right thing, Terry, Billy added. — Mibbe ye did it for the wrong reasons, but ye still did the right thing, ye backed um up, like ah should’ve.

— Naw. Terry shook. — If ah’d stoaped um fae gaun eh’d huv been here the day . . .

— Or me, when eh asked me first, Billy said.

— That’s fuckin bullshit, Carl said, — it wid huv made nae difference. Gally topped ehsel because eh wis fucked up by what had happened tae him wi Polmont n Gail. Eh never knew aboot you n Gail, n ye wir enough ay a mate tae try n spare um that. Ye risked a bad doin fae the Doyles and a long prison sentence for assault, or worse, jist tae keep Gally fae knowin. But the HIV wis the last straw wi um. Eh would’ve topped ehsel anywey.

— Aw this stems fae Polmont slashin that boy, Billy said.

— How far back dae ye want tae go? Should Gally huv hud the blade oot at Clouds?

— It’s me. It stems fae me no being able tae keep ma fuckin cock in ma troosers, Terry said miserably.

Carl smiled. — Look Terry, you and Gail were in a shaggin scene. Big fuckin deal. Yi’ll never stop people wantin tae shag. It always hus happened, it always will. It cannae be avoided. Gaun aroond aw tooled-up can be avoided. Eh topped ehsel cause he hud the virus. It wis his choice. It wouldnae huv been mine, but it wis his.

It was Polmont, Carl considered. He thought of his father, the influence he’d had on Gally growing up. The rules: never grass. No, sack that thought. But that was the problem with a moral code, everyone had to subscribe to the same one for it to work. If a few people took the piss and got away with it, everything collapsed.

Billy thought back to the time with the Doyles at the Wireworks. How Doyle had asked about Gally for the fitba a few Setirdays later, and how the Wee Man had been so eager to impress. About how this had carried on to Clouds when Doyle was fighting with the boy. What had come from that? All this? Surely not? Life had to be more than a series of unsolvable mysteries. Surely we were entitled to some fuckin answers.

To Carl Ewart, the world seemed as brutal and uncertain as ever. Civilisation didn’t eradicate savagery and cruelty, it just seemed to render them less lurid and theatrical. The great injustices continued and all society seemed to do about it was obscure the cause-and-effect
relationships around them, setting up a smokescreen of bullshit and baubles. His worn-out brain raced with thoughts which staggered between murkiness and clarity.

Billy had to phone Fabienne in Nice. He’d get out there next week, relax for a bit on the Côte d’Azur. He’d been working too hard, taking too much on. One day he’d be independent of Gillfillan and Power, that was always his goal and he never let up in pursuit of it. But when he saw the likes of Duncan Ewart, or when he thought about age’s reductive effects on his own parents, well, life was too short.

— How’s . . . eh, your thyroid gland, Billy? Carl asked.

— Fine, Billy said, — but ah need the thyroxine. Sometimes ah forget n take too much, n it’s like ah’m oan speed.

Terry wanted to talk some more. Billy had a French girlfriend, Rab had said. Carl had a lassie out in Australia, a New Zealander. He wanted to know about them. There was so much more to talk about. He’d see Lisa later on. It was great to see Carl again, even under the terrible circumstances with poor auld Duncan.

To think that he’d been so down on Carl after Gally’s death. He’d misread things, thought that Carl wanted tae get intae all that ‘lit’s jist take an E and tell each other how much we miss and loved Gally’; thought that he was just into cheapening his memory. But it wasn’t like that. It never had been.

Carl was thinking about this. The memory of Gally seemed to be sliding in and out of reality, like he himself was on the plane. He morbidly saw this as a sure sign that death was closing in. He saw it in his father’s eyes. He’d cool it on the drugs and get into shape. He was a middle-aged man, halfway through his three score and ten, not a boy.

— Can ah buy you boys a drink, Terry asked.

Billy looked at Carl, raising his eyebrows a little.

— Ah could handle a beer, but just a couple, eh boys. Ah’m beyond fucked and ah should get back tae muh Ma’s, Carl said.

— Ma auld lady’s wi her, Carl, n yir Auntie Avril n aw. She’ll be fine for a bit, Billy said.

— Wheatsheaf? Terry suggested. They nodded. He looked at Billy. — Ye ken something, Billy? Ye never say ‘brutal’ anymair. Ye used tae say it aw the time.

Billy thought about this, then shook his head in the negative. — Ah cannae mind ays ever sayin that. Ah used tae say ‘drastic’ a lot. Still do.

Terry turned to Carl in appeal. Carl shrugged. — Cannae mind
any ay us sayin ‘brutal’. Billy used tae say ‘desperate’ sometimes, ah mind ay that.

— Maybe that’s what ah wis thinking aboot, Terry nodded.

They walked across the park, three men, three middle-aged men. One looked a bit plump, the other muscular and athletic and the final one was skinny and dressed in clothes some might have considered a bit young for him. They never said that much to each other, but they gave the impression of being close.

Carl pulled the sliding shelf out from underneath the mixing desk, exposing the keyboard. His fingers flitted across it, once, twice, three times, making minor but crucial modifications on each occasion. He was aware of Helena coming into the room. Had he not been so absorbed, his heart would have sunk to note Juice Terry following her. Terry crashed heavily down on the large couch in the corner, groaning in loud, unselfconscious distraction and stretching, letting out a roar which climbed to orgasmic proportions as his body reached its tensile limits. Content, he started browsing through an assortment of newspapers and music magazines. — Ah’ll no disturb ye, boss, he said with a wink.

Carl caught Helena’s ‘I’m sorry’ expression as she left the room with feline stealth. That was the problem of being back in Edinburgh, and having your studio in your house. It could get like Waverley Station and Terry, in particular, seemed to have taken up residence on that fuckin couch.

— Ah mean, Terry continued, — the creative juices n aw that. Thir must be nowt worse thin whin yir oan a roll tae huv some cunt come in n start rabbitin away in yir ear.

— Aye, Carl said, getting down and looping his keyboard riff.

— Tell ye what but, Carl, ah’m gittin gyp bigtime offay that Sonia bird. Baith sides: dodgy. Keepin well away fae that anywey. SWAT-team shag; ye go in, dae the biz, then git the fuck oot as soon as possible. SAS-style, he explained, then, putting on an upper-crust accent, added, — so many dehm fine cheps didn’t make it bek.

— Hmm, Carl purred, almost lost in music and only vaguely aware of what Terry was on about.

Silence may have been golden for some, but for Terry empty airways constituted waste. As he flicked through the
Scotsman
he contended, — Tell ye what but, Carl, this fuckin Queen’s Golden Jubilee’s gittin oan ma nerves, it’s aw ye hear ay.

— Aye, Carl said distractedly. He dug his heels into the carpet and dragged himself and his castored chair across to the record deck where he stuck on an old seven-inch Northern Soul single. Then he twisted back to his huge mixing desk and computer, the sample he’d just taken going round and round on the loop. He clicked the mouse deftly, plundering a bassline.

It was overlaid by a sharp, intermittent ring. Terry’s mobile had gone off. — Sonia! How’s it gaun darlin! Funny, ah wis jist aboot tae phone you. Great minds think alike, he rolled his eyes at Carl. — Eight’s hunky-dory by me. Course ah’ll be thaire! Aye, ah goat it. Forty-two quid. Looks the biz but. See ye the night. Ciao, doll!

Terry read one of the reviews in a music paper.

N-SIGN:
Gimme Love
(
Last Furlong
)

It seems like N-SIGN can do no wrong since his dramatic resurrection. Last year we had the bizarre team-up with MOR star Kathryn Joyner, yielding the century’s Ibiza anthem,
Legs on Sex
, followed by the No.1 album,
Cannin It
. The new single finds the man in a more soulful mood, but it’s an irresistible offering from the too-long-missing-assumed-fucked gadgie of the groove. Beyond wicked; follow your feet and your heart across that dancefloor. 9/10

Best thing that happened tae Carl, Terry considered, and he was just about to share that thought as his mobile went off again. — Vilhelm! Aye, ah’m here wi Mr Ewart. The creative juices ur flowin awright, kin ye no hear um, he asked, briefly holding the phone in Carl’s direction and making orgasmic noises. — Oooohhh . . . aaagghhhh . . . oooh la la . . . Aye, eh’s daein fine. So that’s defo? Good, ah’ll tell the man himself, he turned to Carl. — Rab’s stag’s oan the weekend ay the fifteenth, in Amsterdam. That’s defo. You’re okay wi that?

— Should be, Carl replied.

— Hi! Nivir mind fuckin well should be! Git it doon thaire, Terry commanded, pointing to Carl’s big black desk diary.

Carl moved over to the book and picked up a Biro. — Fifteenth ye say . . .

— Aye, fir four days.

— Ah’ve goat this track tae finish . . . Carl moaned, writing: RAB’S STAG A’DAM in four boxes anyway.

— Stoap the whingein. All work and nae play, ye ken whit they say aboot that. If Billy here can take four days oaf fae the bar . . . Billy? Billy! BIRRELL YA CUNT! Terry shouted into the dead phone. — The ignorant cunt’s only gone n hung up oan ays again!

Carl smirked a little. Terry’s new found enthusiasm for the mobile phone had been a curse to all his friends. Billy had the best management technique though. He simply passed on the required message and then hung up.

— See bit, Carl, yuv goat tae admit, Terry advanced, returning to an earlier consideration, — it wis me thit goat ye teamed up wi Kathryn Joyner, by me meetin her in the Balmoral n bringing her oot, makin mates wi her.

— Aye . . . Carl conceded.

— That’s aw ah’m sayin, Carl.

Carl cupped a headphone over one ear. That was all Terry was saying. That would be the fuckin day.

Terry rubbed his number-one cropped hair. — The thing is but, it really kicked things oaf fir ye big time again . . . ah mean eftir that hit, the album wis guaranteed tae dae well . . .

Carl put the headphones down, clicked the mouse a couple of times to exit from and shut down the programme. He swivelled around in the chair. — Awright Terry, ah ken ah owe ye a favour mate.

— Well, Terry began, — thir is a wee something . . .

Carl braced himself, sucking air into his lungs. A wee something. There was always a wee something. And thank fuck as well.