Monty snarls something n slaps Soakin, whae owerdramatically faws tae the groond bawlin hur eyes oot. Craig fae the Young Team shouts, — That’s ma fuckin bairn she’s cairryin! n leathers Monty, whae gits intae him, but the Young Team swarm in, n the Dunfy boys are drowning in a sea ay Burberry. Ambrose steps oot the doors ay the Welfare wi Jenni, n ehs goat that ‘dinnae look at me, ah might be maistly pit bull, but ma soul’s pure retriever’ expression. Ah’m wonderin if thir’s some sort ay command wi kin use tae activate the boy, but the Young Team huv goat it aw in hand n Dunfy take a bit ay a splatterin, or the stragglers dae, cause the rest ay the cunts ur oan thir toes, heading back at speed taewards thir scabby toon. The Young Team gie chase but let it go, preferin tae panel the slowcoaches and the wounded. A mature mob thuv bested, quite a result fir thum, n fir me n aw! Monty’s got away, but yon Klepto’s taken a bad yin n ehs left groanin at the boatum ay the Welfare steps.
Jenni’s now flanked by the Neebour n the Duke, whae fair fly oot the doors ay the Welfare. — What’s going on? she asks, then she sees Klepto takin a fair skelpin fae two young boys at the boatum ay the steps. Ah catch something skite through the air and ah realise that the fork’s been punched ootay ehs puss! She’s right doon, n she pushes past the boys n fair boots the buck-toothed cunt right in the chops! Ya cunt, muh erse fair tightens, nivir mind his. Mental note made: no tae mess. Standin ower um, she shouts, — Ma dad’s Tam Cahill. We know where you live and you are fucking dead!
The boot goes in again. Ah gits doon n pills her oaf um. — Steady, Jen, ah goes, pickin up the bloodied fork fae the groond. Eh looks up at us, as if beggin fir mercy. The Young Team boys stand ower um, open-moothed, waitin fir the signal tae indulge in mair pavement opera. — Ye’d better git doon the fuckin road, pal, ah tells um, mercy bein an underrated quality in this world.
The cunt staggers tae ehs feet, wobbling doon the street like a new-born calf, tae the laughter n cheers ay every cunt. The mobile-phone cameras uv been trained oan um fir some time, documentin the proceedins wi cauld insect eyes; a global media democracy where nae cunt hus a private life n nae cunt escapes humiliation. The only bone ay contention is the size ay the audience tae witness it.
Big Craig shouts in triumph, — The Cowdenbeath Casual Firm came ay age the night! Dunfy pricks! Let’s git this posted up for they Methil wankers tae think aboot next Saturday!
As they congratulate each other, Craig goes, — Kent you wir the man, Jase! eh sais, giein ays a big hug. — Stuck the cunt wi a fork! Right in ehs Dunfy chops!
— I saw the blood, it was spurting from his face like a fountain, Jenni says admiringly, n ah feel like the fuckin King ay Fife awright. Whaever said that violence was shite has never been in that satisfyin position ay vanquishin a bad cunt ay an adversary.
— This is the fuckin man! Craig shouts again, n some wee jailbait neds gie ays pats oan the back.
— Thanks, boys, ah say. — Aye, ah think ye cawed it right, big man, ah tells Craig. — Wi fair witnessed the birth ay a formidable wee mob the night.
— Whaire wir the auld team? Inside wi thir beer n sannies! Craig laughs, lookin at Neebour n the Duke, whae’ve goat the guid sense tae smile n take it aw in jest.
Aye, thir’s cackles aw roond, so ah decide tae chance ma luck. — A wee question, ah whispers tae the wee big cunt. — Did youse buckle thon sign at the Perth Road? That ‘REDUCE SPEED NOW’ hoor?
Craig looks at ays wi ehs mooth open, thinking fir a bit, then ehs eyes come intae slow focus. — Aye. That wis us. How?
— Jist wondered, bro, ah say, slappin the big wee cunt oan the back. — Thanks again fir the backup, likes.
— Nae problem. We Beath boys huv tae stick thegither, Craig says, in a passionate address tae the rest ay the Young Team, then adds, — CCF!
— Fife Central, ya hoor, ah nods.
— That’s right… Ah hear a semi-breathless groan n turn tae see thit perr Richey’s goat tae ehs feet.
A fist tae the side ay ays coupon followed by a boot in the kidneys shuts him up. — Git fucked, ya tube, a hard-faced wee Young Team boy says.
Richey staggers oaf doon the road, groaning in agonised ecstasy. — See ye later… Jason… eh gasps.
— Is that your mate? Craig nods. — Cunt’s eywis gittin wide wi us oan the fuckin train… Anyway, see ye, Jase, Craig says, gesturin tae ehs posse tae head oaf. We see a stunned Klepto still haudin ehs face as eh staggers doon the road. Ehs powerless as a wide wee cunt ay aboot twelve runs eftir um n boots um up the erse, tae the laughter ay the mob, whaire still filmin proceedins wi thir phones.
— Whaire ye gaun! Soakin Wi Rain shouts eftir the departin Craig.
— Ah’ll phone ye! eh sais, hudin up ays mobile, then laughin as eh retreats, exchanging play kung fu kicks n a big laugh wi one ay ehs mates whae made some comment. Soakin Wi Rain turns tae these other two lassies, urgin thum tae follay the Young Team. Thir fair takin thir time respondin tae the lassie’s request, but.
Ah well, that’s young cunts fir ye. They dae what they dae; 80 per cent ay thum’ll grow oot it, the other 20, well, that’s why yuv goat prisons n cemeteries n drug overdoses. Ah wis thinking, anwey, thit Kravy wid huv bit the dust if eh’d hit the unbent sign, perhaps no quite as spectacularly, mind you.
So that night, n it’s been an exhaustin yin, n it’s good tae git tae kip eftir sayin goodbye tae ma Fife buddies. Thought the Neebour n the Duke wir pretty graceful aboot it aw, mair so thin Reg Comorton, whae skulked away doon the street. The auld man didnae seem too bothered, but ye could tell thit aw eh wis thinking aboot wis gittin Frances back hame n roadtestin yon new placky hip ay hers. A win-win situ fir sure; if it doesnae stand the punishment, then it’s surely grounds fir a big compo claim against the NHS. But eh’s left us the hoose, n wi git in, too shagged oot fir any ridin, passin oot in the bed.
It’s a murky dirty morning n wir oan the back ay the bike, ridin oot ay toon, hurtling doon a road, jist passin the spot where Kravy went oaf the bike. N ah feel free, cause the speed doesnae worry me, ah’m drivin us oot ay here n ay kin feel Jenni hudin oantae ma waist but as soon as ah appreciate the sensation wir no longer linked or even oan the bike cause wir fawin through blackness, hurtlin through space…
30.
TRIP
I ELBOW JASON in the side. He wakes up with a start. — We’re in the motor, he gasps in a happy relief. How he can sleep through Marilyn Manson blasting out ‘This is the New Shit’ on the car stereo is beyond me.
I rub his head, tousling his hair. — You don’t say. Where else did you think we were?
— I had a terrible dream… it wis awfay…
— I heard you mumbling in your sleep. C’mon, Jay, how do you expect me to stay awake and drive when you keep dropping off? I moan, looking quickly back to a drooling Ambrose. — Just as well I’ve got you here, isn’t it, boy?
Poor dear doesn’t know he’s going to be banged up in quarantine for four months. Jason catches him sniffing at a ‘Northern Soul — Keep the Faith’ holdall on the back seat. He leans over and pulls it onto his lap. — Fuck off, Ambrose, ya cunt, he shakes his head, — yir no gittin that, ya hoor ye. He unzips it and looks again at Kravy’s yellow-white skull.
— Keep that zipped up, I urge him, — it’s a bad habit to get into, looking at it all the time.
He quickly complies, nodding and fixing me with those big, stary eyes. — Aye. Right enough, he stretches out and yawns. — Tell ye what but, ah’m gled thit Neebour Watson wanted tae buy yon bike.