Thanks fur comin.
Ah’ll come again themorrow.
See ye, Goalie.
See ye.
Ah feel sorry fur Uli. Course, it’s his ain fault. There’s naw a single junkie in the world ye need tae feel sorry fur, naw a single wan. At the same time but, if yiv grown up wi wan, kin tell the same stories, if ye discovered the same streets at the same time, made the same mistakes thegither, it gets ye wonderin. Okay, so Uli’s a junkie, there’s nae two ways aboot it, he’s an auld mate an’ aw but, a kinda friend, ye can’t jist ignore that either. Certainly naw, if ye think back tae oor schooldays when he wis the coolest cunt in the playgroon, hid the coolest hair, the coolest leather jaicket, the coolest moped. Nae other cunt kid pull like he did. If ye add aw that up an’ look at the wey he is theday, ye hiv tae feel sorry fur him, nearly.
Ah feel sorry fur masel an’ aw like. Sadly. Self-pity’s the lowest ye kin fuckin get. Start feelin sorry fur yersel an’ ye might as well fuckin give fuckin up.
A few days later, Gross, the plain-clothes cop turned up oan ma doorstep, in that same grey newspaper reporter’s jaicket he’s aye wearin, an’ they glasses that aye mind ye ae the communist block, ah mean: they secret agent films that aye hiv folk fae commie countries in them. The secret agents in they films — the commie wans — aye wear glasses like Gross. He looked as if he hidnae much sleep last night. He’s known me furra long time, this plain-clothes cop. Wiv helped each other occasionally. We’re a bit ae a double-act awready, jist aboot, Gross an’ me. Naw, it’s right enough, we work thegither pretty well, it’s jist: he gets a significant monthly wage fur whit he dis an’ ah get the occasional backhander if ahm lucky. He wisnae here cos ae oor teamwork this time but. This time, he wis totally fuckin fizzin.
So yir back in business again, Goalie. Didnae take ye long, eh?
Forgive me fur sayin so, Herr Gross, ah dont want tae make nae fuss — if ye compare whit ah get oan payday tae whit you get but, an’ if ye add yir pension oan an’ aw the paid holidays, ye’ll see which ae us two is in business an’ who isnae.
If ah wis you, Goalie, ahd keep ma patter in check so ah wid.
An’ whit if ah tell ye ah hivnae done nuthin? Look at me, Herr Gross, dae ah look like a gangster? You’ve a guid nose fur folk. You’re a guid judge ae stuff like that.
Ah’ll be expectin ye at the station at hawf eleven themorrow.
So Pesche fuckin squeaked. Fuckin rat. How dis the cunt hiv tae bring ma name intae play, jist cos some cunt stashed some drugs in his shitin pub an’ the cops heard aboot it? Cunt mentions ma name jist so he kin say he’s answered their question. Total fuckin tube.
9
Ahd tae make a statement at the station an’ sign it. Gross, the plain-clothes guy, wis furious: thought ah wis lyin through ma teeth. When ah held ma haun oot but as ah wis leavin, he took it, shook it an’ gave it: guidbye an’ thanks an’ aw that.
Mibbe Gross wisnae furious at me at aw, but at himself — cos he’d the kinda joab he his: gets tae spend long eftirnoons wi the likes ae me discussin a few fuckin grams. Tae think ae aw that talent! He kid be daein summit mair meaninful wi his life.
Okay, so if yiv hid enough run-ins wi the polis an’ the judges an’ the authorities an’ the like, it disnae fuckin matter any mair whether yir tellin the truth or naw. Nae cunt’s goney believe ye any mair anyhoo, cept mibbe yir cat — if yiv got wan, that is. Cats ur the only fuckers that still believe ye: believe that ivry time ye come hame, yir goney feed them.
Anyway: ah lied tae nae fuckin cunt. Ah tellt Gross that an’ aw. The truth’s always relative, ah went. An’ if some cunt says: Goalie, be honest tae me noo, ahm bein honest tae you arent ah, ah aye ask first whit exactly he means by that.
Whit’s honest? Is it honest if ye say tae some cunt who his a really ugly rash oan his face, eh excuse me, yiv got a really ugly rash oan yir face. Is that bein honest? Lookin at it objectively, it mibbe is. At the same time but, it’s totally fuckin unnecessary. If some cunt assures me, afore he gets tae the point, that he wants tae be honest wi me, that he’s aye fuckin honest, summit goes ping in ma brain, an’ ah tell masel, watch oot, Goalie, it’s wan ae they honest cunts, get ready, mate, all hell’s aboot tae break loose.
It’s the same thing wi the truth. If ah tell Gross, the plain-clothes guy, that ah personally hiv fuck-aw tae dae wi the few grams they found at Cobbles, then that’s ma truth. Course, there’s mibbe anither truth an’ aw: course, ah fuckin know whose they kid be an’ who — in the Fog — is a drug dealer an’ how much business they dae an’ whit the street value is an’ where they get it fae an’ aw that. That much wis clear, it wisnae whit we wur talkin aboot but. Course Gross knew that an’ aw, whit wis he goney dae aboot it but? Stuff dis get shifted here, aye — an’ he’s chasin the crumbs an’ if he dis actually catch some cunt, it’s probably jist some layaboot who wisni smart enough. See even the wans, the wans jist wan level higher than the tubes oan the bottom rung but — Gross cannae get near them, even.
Ye know summit, Goalie.
Ah know less than nuthin, Herr Gross. Ahm extremely sorry, that’s the wey it is but.
Dont gi’e me any ae yir crap, Goalie. Ah know ye know summit.
Ah know ah kid kill a coffee an’ a smoke.
If ye tell me whit ye know, ah’ll get them tae fetch ye a coffee. An’ mibbe ah’ll make an exception an’ let ye smoke in ma office.
If ah knew summit, ahd hiv tellt ye it long ago, Herr Gross. Ah widnae want ye hivin tae dae overtime cos ae me, whit wi yir wife awready waitin fur ye, wi the dinner ready. Ahm naw comfortable eether wi the thought ae ye bein late an’ disappointin yir wife cos ae me. Bet ye, she’s an amazin cook an’ aw.
Gross his tae stop himself smilin. Mon, Goalie, go fur it, jist tell me the truth jist. Cannae be that hard, can it?
Which truth dae ye want tae hear?
There’s only wan truth.
That’s a bold proposition, Herr Gross. Will ah tell ye summit? See when we played fitba as schoolboys, back in the day, o’er at the Reitplatz, we used tae use oor schoolbags as goal-posts. How often dae ye think — when a shot wis waist-high, say — we didnae know hid the baw went in or naw?
That wis in! the guy whose shot it wis wid say.
Naw, it hit the post, whoivver wis in goal wid answer.
Aye, the inside ae the post an’ then it went in, the first guy wid make oot.
Naw, it hit the post an’ went oot furra bye-kick, the keeper wid say.
Baith o them wur tellin the truth as they seen it. Yet they accused each ither ae bein bare-faced liars. Untruthmongers. It wis a problem wi the truth, that. It wisnae their fault but. Naw, it wis the fault ae the council that widnae think ae pittin up a couple ae real goal-posts fur us weans back then. That’s how oor generation nivver achieved fuck-aw. When it came tae sport, at least. That’s a truth an’ aw. Know whit ahm sayin?
Wance again, Gross hid tae stop himself laughin, ah reckoned. Then he got aw serious but again. Ye talked nuthin but shite the last time ye wur here an’ aw. It didnae get ye anywhere but. If yid at least behave normally when ye wur in wi me — at least a bit, at least — ah kid mibbe help you. Honestly, Goalie. Know summit? Wi you, ah aye hiv the impression yir coverin fur someone else. Ye think yir morally obliged tae or summit. There’s wan thing ye hivnae unnerstood but, an’ that’s: the guys yir coverin fur hiv nae morals. They’re laughin up their sleeves at ye.
Oho, Herr Gross, that’s Manitou speakin noo. Lord hiv mercy. If we want tae discuss morals but, we first need tae think aboot whose morals we mean. Ur we talkin aboot the morals ae the wans that invented the bloody things in the first place, or the morals ae the wans who end up payin fur ither folk’s morals?