Bobby thinks aboot this, then announces, — Ah wis jist feelin … he sweeps his hair back tae show a furrowed brow, — … saucy! Then he waltzes tae the table as Les, Mitch and me cannae help chortling away. Even Sean’s lightened up. Wee things like that seem trivial but those were the kind ay glorious mini-victories Bobby effortlessly specialised in. It made getting shot at worthwhile.
After work ah sees Sick Boy at the Fit ay the Walk, standing at the bus stop, large eyes scanning this waiting lassie, as he rubs his pointed five-o’clock-shadow chin in contemplation. Ah watch his expression shift in a heartbeat fae baleful, like a baby animal throwing itself oan yir mercy, tae cruel and arrogant. He’s just ready tae make his move. His black, collar-length, mod-cut hair has a glossy sheen to it, and he’s wearing a white V-neck shirt tae highlight his dusky Mediterranean skin, inherited fae his Eyetie ma. He’s got broon canvas troosers wrapped roond legs that seem a wee bit too long for his body, and he’s wearing decent trainers for a change — he usually wears expensive Italian shoes, always knock-off. Sick Boy’s constantly on the pull, and ah disturb the cunt just as he’s aboot tae pounce. — Rents … he says irritably, nodding at the lassie, — … I was working …
— Take a brek, n come for a beer, ah tell him, cause ah need tae talk aboot movin intae the gaff in Montgomery Street.
— If you’re buying. Too many baboons in this neck ay the woods, anywey, he moans. Baboons are what he calls lassies wi bairns: Brat Attached, Bugger Off Onto Next.
We go intae the Central and start chewing the fat. He collapses oantae a bar stool, while ah elect tae stand. Sick Boy’s doing his usuaclass="underline" running doon Leith, telling us that he’s meant fir better things. — I know things are hard, but there are just so many pusillanimous fuck-ups in Leith.
— What?
— Pusillanimous. It means lacking the will or courage to go on. Moaning. Whingeing.
An auld cunt wi a bunnet and nae teeth, whae’s been standin at the bar next tae us, chips in. — A loat ay people widnae like ye sayin that, he warns, eyes fired up.
— Ever heard ay the term private conversation?
— You ever heard ay the term public house?
Sick Boy raises his brows, seems tae consider this, then goes, — Fair fucks, you’ve got me bang tae rights, boss, and he shouts up another round including the old boy, who pulls up a bar stool, glowing wi a sense ay privilege. However, the auld cunt takes it as an opportunity tae tell us the story ay his life, makin it oor cue tae guzzle up n escape.
As we emerge intae the warm sunlight ay the fading summer night, that nosy saw-faced auld cow fae the Fort, Margaret Curran, is comin up the road, wi her big bag ay washing. She scowls indignantly as she spies a Paki family, well, ah shouldnae really say that cause thir mair likely tae be Bengali, waitin at the bus stop.
— Why is that poisonous minger always carrying a bagful ay washing? Sick Boy asks as she comes closer.
— She goes up the laundromat aw the time, jist soas she kin hing oot wi her mates, ah tell him, mimicking her voice: — Ah always take it up the Bendix, son.
— Oo-er, missus! Sick Boy goes.
Mrs Curran passes us and ah cannae resist it, n go, — Ye been takin the dhobi up the Bendix again, Mrs Curran?
— Aye, Mark, every day. It’s a never-endin struggle, even wi Susan movin oot tae get mairried. Ma Olly n Duncan get through a lot ay washin.
— It must be a bit sair, Sick Boy says, the bad bastard, — ah mean, a big load up the Bendix every single day.
She looks dumbfounded and hostile, her mooth curling doonwards, heid jerkin back like it’s oan an invisible chain, as if she’s tippled.
— Ah mean, yir hands n yir airms n that, he qualifies.
Ma Curran relaxes. — Naw, son, ah git a walk up thaire, n chat tae ma pals, n ah take the bus back tae the Fort, she explains, then looks at me in hostility. — So how’s the new place?
— It’s no that new. We’ve been thaire four years now.
— No bad fir some, she says bitterly. — They’ve goat thaime on D Landin now. She turns tae the Asians, climbin oantae the 16 bus. — A whole faimly, n the Johnstones’ auld hoose. She purses in disgust. — The smell ay that cookin makes ye seek. Bloody seek tae the gills, n it stinks the dryin green right oot. That’s how ah take it up the Bendix sae much.
— Any excuse, ah chide, noting that Sick Boy’s lost interest in the game and is now checkin oot this passing lassie; coupon, tits, erse, legs, but maist ay aw, handbag.
— Nae excuses aboot it, this country isnae fir the white people thit made it any mair. Mrs Curran shakes her heid, then turns and continues her goose-step up the Walk.
Sick Boy’s also oan his heels. — Listen, Mark, huv tae go, catch ye later, he says, off in pursuit ay the lassie. Ah watch him for a bit and he soon falls intae first step, then conversation, wi her. Cunt. If ah tried that wi some bird, she’d huv the polis right oan us in a second. Naebody could accuse him ay bein pusill-whatever-the-fuck-ye-call-it.
So ah’m left on ma tod, but ah’m quite chuffed aboot it. The sun comes oot and ah test ma back by grippin the bus shelter roof, n daein a couple ay pull-ups, before headin oaf doon the road.
Notes on an Epidemic 1
AT A NATIONAL referendum on 1 March 1979, the people of Scotland voted by a majority to reinstitute a parliament. This would restore some degree of sovereignty to their country, after almost three hundred years of undemocratically imposed union with England. George Cunningham, a Scottish, London-based Labour MP, put forward an amendment to the Devolution Bill, which rejigged the rules so that this parliament would not be automatically offered to Scottish citizens.
The Conservative Party, led by Margaret Thatcher, came to power in May 1979. With a meagre percentage of the Scottish vote, it was thus argued that they had no democratic mandate, but they steadfastly opposed and vetoed the setting up of the Edinburgh parliament.
Too Shy
— THAT’S THE FUCKIN tragedy ay Scotland. Frank ‘Franco’ Begbie, heavyset, with a number-two cut, tattoos on his hands and neck inching towards the light, makes the declaration from a bar stool in an austere Leith Walk hostelry, one never destined to feature in any Edinburgh Pub Guide. For emphasis he punches Spud Murphy’s thin biceps, the casual sledgehammer blow almost knocking his friend off his seat. — Nae fuckin qualification fir the European Nations Cup again!
In evidence Franco points to the television mounted in the corner of the pub, above the jukebox, which, through blazing luminous colours, shows two sets of Continental footballers taking the field. Tommy Lawrence tenses his tight, muscular frame, arching his neck towards the screen, and even lazy-eyed Mark Renton does too, because it’s Platini time again. They scrutinise the lines of alert players in mid-shot as the camera pans along their ranks, looking for clues as to how the game might unfold. From the shabby bar they find themselves in — nicotine-stained walls, cracked floor tiles and battered furniture — they’re wondering how it feels to be up there, chests expanded, mentally focused, ninety minutes away from at least some kind of immortality.
Spud, dirty-blond hair sticking up in tufts, grimaces, massages his injury, trying to dissipate that insistent throb Renton and Tommy knew so well. Regarding his near-tearful expression, Renton is moved to affectionately consider that if Oor Willie grew up in the Kirkgate, wore washed-out Fred Perry shirts, shoplifted and took loads of speed, he and Spud would be dead ringers. Apart from the Dudley D. Watkins scribbled golden smile, Spud has two expressions: totally-scoobied-as-to-what-the-fuck’s-going-on and the constantly-on-the-verge-of-tears look he is currently deploying. Assailed with self-pity and self-loathing, regarding his folly in sitting next to Begbie, he glances around. — Aye … it’s bad, likesay, he concedes, wondering how he can manoeuvre into another seat. However, Tommy and Renton particularly, himself suffering with an injured arm and back, are determinedly keeping Spud in between themselves and the animated Franco. Staring down the lighted barrel of Frank Begbie’s Regal King Size, the tip blazing like a third eye as inhalation hollows the smoker’s cheeks, an overwhelming sense of ‘what the fuck am I doing here?’ descends on Renton.