N eh steps doon tae a massive applause and a standin ovation that goes oan till eh left the chapel, as the coffin went doon.
Ootside, it’s me n Kravy’s ma sayin thanks tae the mourners. — It wis Jason, ah hear her say tae muh auld man, — he wis the one that made the whole thing special.
It’s back tae the Miners’Welfare fir the do eftir; sausage rolls, egg n cress, fancy cakes, tea, whisky, the fuckin loat, wi pit oan a guid spread. The wee collections in the toon’s boozers peyed fir it aw. Jakey is in ehs element; people ur plyin um wi drink, telling um tae stert ehs ain church; a real Church ay Scotland. N it hus tae be said, eh’s scrubbed up well fir the do. Thir’s nae whiff oaf ay um but wino n eftirshave. Ah wrap an airm roond ehs auld shoodir. — Ye took the words oot ay muh mouth, ah telt him. How dae ye follay thon?
Jakey winks at ehs. — The laddie might huv been a fickle, drug-dealin hoormaister, but, n here’s whaire it gits crucial…
Ah join in chorus: — Eh wis oor fickle, drug-dealin hoormaister!
Jakey laughs n ah pat um oan the back again. — Whit ye gaunny dae, Jack? Ye canny sit oan that bench the rest ay yir days.
Eh gies a wee shrug. — No that bad a place tae be, Jason. Still goat the C of S pension. Huv tae confess thit since ay loast yon tenure ay the Manse things huv been a bit slack.
— That wis ower ten years ago, ya hoor.
— Eleven n three months, son, and it’s flown like a hoor’s bloomers off a washin line in March. But what can ye dae against the Calvinist repression ay the Kirk?
— It wid huv helped if ye believed in Jesus Christ, though, Jack. They wir bound tae git upset wi that.
— Nonsense! Very few ministers, when ye get them on thir ain, will admit tae believing aw that Christ-wis-the-son-ay-God garbage, eh snaps in scorn. — Wi aw huv tae go along wi this Hans Christian Andersen-Lewis Carroll shite world view tae appease the brainless elements, but maist ay us are educated enough tae ken that’s jist wee bairns’ nonsense. Besides, it wis the hoorin thit finished wi me n the Church, no a disbelief in some moanin-faced auld hippy!
Ya hoor, ah wis nearly compelled tae rise tae Cat Stevens’ defence thair, till ah realised eh wis talking aboot that other cunt. Ah wis intrigued tae ken a bit mair, but eh wis gittin loud n thir wis duties tae attend tae, so ah made ma excuses n mingled.
Mrs F, as wis her due, goat a wee bit drunk n emotional, n the auld boy wis gallant or opportunistic enough tae take her hame (delete tae taste, ya hoor), nae doot keeping a guid tight hud ay her gaun doon they steps ay the Welfare.
So later ah hud thum back upstairs at mine; me, wee Jenni, the Duke n Neebour Watson, wi the remains ay Kravy in the urn, well, maist ay um. Aye, the open casket wis nivir gaunny play. Snooty wee Lara nivir showed up fir some reason, Jenni reckons she wis oot wi thon Big Monty cunt.
— This is sick, Neebour Watson goes, as ah mix up some ay the boy’s ashes wi the coke n speed n rack up the lines oan ma copy ay Tea for the Tillerman.
— Sick yir minging furry hole, ah retaliates, savourin the delicious feedback ay a sexy wee giggle fae Jenni. — Kravy wis a free spirit; he wid huv goat aw the New Age significance ay wir ceremony, ya hoor, ah explain tae thum.
— I think it’s so beautiful, Jenni says, squeezin ma thigh, n thir’s a wee bit ay blood rushin tae the auld hee-haws here. — I wish I could have done something similar for poor Midnight.
— Ye cannae compare a hoarse wi a human being, the Duke goes.
Wee Jenni shakes her heid emphatically. — We all love beautiful souls, primal souls, whichever vessel they’re housed in, she says. Sweet wee chick, but mibbe a wee bit oan the doolally side. Kent ay should huv gone the fill hog n pit thon new Marilyn Manson CD ah boat oan display.
— The boy will live oan in us aw, ah sais, gaun doon oan the first line.
Well, it wis no a bad hit but ah huv tae say thit it might huv been a bit better without Kravy bein in the mix. Awfay rough oan the beak n the lungs. No thit ah wis grudgin the boy, likes.
Ah gies Jenni the second snort, n she fair hoovers it aw up. Eftir, she throws back her heid, wrinkles her beak fir a bit n her eyes water up, but she fights it back.
— Awright? ah asks.
— Yeah… it’s quite nice, she grins, taking a big breath. — I just find the idea of him being inside us all really exciting! She sneezes, then squeezes ma leg again.
The Neebour n the Duke take thir shoat. Eftir a decent passage ay time, ah say tae thum, — Right, folks, ah’m gaunny huv tae chase yis oot. Aw except you, Jenni, we’ve goat a wee bit ay private business tae discuss, ah explain, as the lads file despondently oot, nae doot Goth-bound fir last orders.
Once thir oot the road, ah git tae the wardrobe. Ah take oot the styrofoam beer-carrying box. Openin it up, wi look at wir boy again, liberated fae the middle ay some shoodir-high jaggy nettles. Ghostly white, but blue aboot the eyes n lips, like a plasticine model ay ehsel, n startin tae seriously ming now.
— What are we going to do wi him? she gasps.
— Ah’ve goat an idea. N it’s goat tae be done soon. Eh’s in bad shape n ah’m sure thir’s still some ay they maggot hoors in the neck. Bit first wi hae another line, in tribute.
As she goes doon oan it and gits the buzz, she says, — I haven’t done coke for ages; not since Lara and I went up to St Andrews and tried to gatecrash Prince William’s graduation ceremony. She had a friend who graduated at the same time. We didn’t get near the Prince, though.
— A sensitive laddie, ay that ah’ve nae doots, ah tell her, but muh eyes nivir leave perr Kravy’s deid lamps in that rid-helmeted heid.
20.
FLOORED
I WAKE UP on Jason’s floor. I think it’s the next morning. He’s lying next to me and we’re both fully clothed. So nothing went on. My sinus stings with the speed, cocaine and ash mix, and my throat feels like sandpaper.
I stand up and crouch down over him, kissing his forehead, but he’s dead to the world. I go downstairs and head out into the street, just as his dad is coming round the corner, and he looks as sheepish as I feel as we give each other a thin grin of acknowledgement.
I’m suffering badly with this hangover and I know that it’s going to get much worse once the cocaine and alcohol still in my system start to wear off. I recall Jason playing some interesting music, the likes of which I’ve never heard before. I climb into the car, which has been parked outside all night.
As my backside makes contact with the seat I feel wetness on my arse. I’ve probably been sitting in something. My armpits whiff a little. I should go home, shower and sleep, but I’m restless and excited and I go up to see Lara. When I get to the house, Dr Grant answers, his face lined, lean and tubercular. It’s as if the respiratory diseases he diagnoses in the district’s former mineworkers have somehow, by a strange osmosis, filtered into his own lungs. You can see why Lara loves to go out and fuck cavemen. How else would she get a reaction from this repressed, stoical figure? Despite the fact that she’s ‘grown out’, as she puts it, of Marilyn Manson, there’s still an anger in her that runs deep. Her habits are still the same and they’re worse than mine. She’s just good at the civilised veneers. Fuck that, I’ve seen what that shit does. My mother being a case in point.