— Aye …
Aye …
Ah’m overwhelmed wi the sense that everything is, was and would be, completely okay. A state ay pure fuckin euphoric bliss passes through us, like sunshine ower shadow, makin things no only right, but just right.
Aye …
A sudden nausea curdles in my gut and ah feel this moist sickness risin up intae ma throat. Swanney sees me dry-retching and passes ower a sheet ay newspaper. — This shit’s strong, forgot ye were a novice, deep breaths … he says.
Oh aye, but nae fear now, Swanolito, ah’m fuckin flyin …
Ah swallow it back doon, ridin it oot, and ah feel great, propping maself up against the back ay the couch. Ah dunno what ah’d expected, mibbe acid-like hallucinations, but there’s nowt like that, everything is as it eywis wis, but it no sae much looks as feels beautiful, welcoming and just damn fine, like aw the sharp edges in the world have blurred and smoothed. Ma stiff and jagged spine is now like a bendy piece ay rubber. A polis baton would bounce right oaf it, smashing the cunt right back in the chops …
Oh aye.
— Good, mate, eh? Swanney says.
— You did something … interesting … there, John. Ah feel the words tumble slowly oot n we’re laughin softly thegither.
Sick Boy is next up, and watching me in wonderment. Then the tourniquet is oan his airm, and Johnny’s spike is gaun intae his big, dark vein.
— This is the best, ah say, as ah watch it hit him, and feel him slump against me, as warm and soft as a big stuffed toy.
— Oh … ya fuckin beauty … he gasps, then throws up onto the newspaper. When he sits up, he fixes me in a dopey smile. — The word … the ‘T’ word … ma dictionary … wis tourniquet … by the … by the Holy Papa’s sweet, low-swingin nutsack … that’s fuckin cosmic …
— Cosmic … ah parrot in slow laughter. We’re gaun naewhaire, we’ve scored a gram fae Swanney, which Sick Boy’s pocketed, and we’re sitting here for a wee while longer in the deep, dozy silence ay afternoon heat, broken only by a kid’s shout or passing car horn ootside. Swanney pits oan a Doors album. Never liked that shite before but ah’m sortay gittin it now. Maist ay aw ah’m enjoyin the slow stream ay delicious talk, wise and daft, posturings and retorts, and how ah’m baskin in the hypnotic afterglow ay ‘Riders on the Storm’, even as ah luxuriate in the track on the first side he’s pit back oan. As the darkness presses in tight around us, ah feel great. Fuck gaun intae toon, and the mean backstreets, where edgy club bouncers spar verbally wi sly, have-a-go drunks, cheered oan by underdressed, goosefleshed lassies wi cries as shrill as seagulls. I’ve nowt but a withering disdain for it all. Disnae matter if it’s Mickey Platini or Franco Begbie, they will aw just have tae wait.
Family Planning
BELLE FRENCHARD HEARD the retching sounds coming from the bathroom, as she advanced up the stairs with a cup of milky tea for her daughter. Instantly, she prayed that it wasn’t Samantha making those noises. Please let it be Ronnie, Alec or George, they were aw oot last night. But no Samantha.
When her daughter, grey and frail, emerged to face her, they exchanged a dark, slow acknowledgement, and Belle just knew. The words tumbled from her slack mouth. — Yir in the family wey …
Samantha didn’t try to deny it. She felt herself stiffening up as she faced the bull-like figure of her mother. She thought about the life growing inside her, and was startled by the absurd truth that she herself had emerged from Belle’s doughy, sweaty frame.
That wee bastard Sean … The first notion Belle settled on quickly crumbled. — But Sean’s been in the fuckin army for six fuckin months … she thought out loud, before demanding, — Whae’s is it!
Samantha glared back into Belle’s deranged eyes, wanted to truculently proclaim, ‘It’s mine.’ But all that spilled from her was a limp, — What d’ye mean?
— What the fuck d’ye think ah mean? Belle stood, hands on her hips, veins bulging in her neck. — WHAE’S THE FUCKIN FAITHER?!
At that point Ronnie, who had been slowly lumbering up the stairs, nursing a brutal hangover, shot into higher animation. A heavy-muscled gym rat, he rarely drank, and was glad of the rush of adrenalin supplanting the lethargy of the booze still clogging up his system. Cold eyes in tight focus, he asked in low, threatening tones, — What’s aw this?
— Tell um, Belle insisted, crossing her meaty forearms. — Tell us whae the fuckin faither is!
— It’s nowt tae dae wi youse!
— Aw aye? If it’s gaunny be livin under this fuckin roof it’s goat plenty tae dae wi me! Belle stridently trumpeted. — Thaire’s nae money comin intae this fuckin hoose! George’s idle; he’s idle. She pointed at Ronnie who felt a rage burn inside him. He hated the way his mother used that term for his employment status. — Alec’s idle!
And now George, lean-framed, with the piercing eyes of his older brother, and Alec, heavier, slower and softer, were up the stairs, lining up behind their mother, the judge, and brother, the sheriff, of the posse that had already decided it was a lynching party. Samantha felt the oxygen being sucked out of the air. — Ye dinnae ken um. He’s fae Leith.
— If we dinnae ken um, we soon fuckin will, dinnae worry aboot that, Ronnie said, voice low wi threat, tensing the muscles in his arm and back, enjoying the power he felt surge through his frame.
— He’s takin responsibility, whaever he is, Belle rasped, head shaking, hand squeezing the banister, then was suddenly zapped by an incredulous afterthought. — How the fuck did ye faw fuckin pregnant in this day n age?
Samantha chewed on her bottom lip, swallowed hard. — Ah wis oot drinkin with Wilma and Katie. Ah forgoat tae git ma faimlay plannin … wi Sean bein away … She cringed at the thought. — Ah met this felly. Wi goat pished, n then …
— Sean’s gaunny dae his nut, George said in malicious glee, savouring the thought, like a connoisseur does a drop of good wine, then added, — but ye ken that, eh?
Samantha half turned into the wall. Sean was not a comforting thought.
— What’s his name? Ronnie demanded.
Samantha’s thin jaw shot defiantly forward. — He’s goat a lassie, he’s no interested in us bein thegither, n he doesnae care aboot the bairn, she said in a righteous burst, feeling the sway and impact of her information. — Sais if ah try n claim it’s his he’ll git a dozen ay his mates tae stand up in coort n say they wir aw wi us n aw, she blurted out, then began to cry.
— Ye surely didnae … Belle couldn’t stop herself.
— COURSE AH DIDNAE! Samantha wailed at her mother. — What dae ye take us fir?!
— Well, this felly’ll huv tae stand by ye, Belle mumbled, a little guilty.
— He’s no gaunny but! He telt us!
— We’ll fuckin well see aboot that, Ronnie said in soft, measured fury.
Belle’s rage cooled, and she put her arm around the girl, all the time perfectly aware that her daughter was manipulating her. — There, there, darlin … we’ll git through this.
Ronnie, though, his huge muscles pumping up with blood, right in front of her, was like a superhero in transition. The way that Franco bastard had treated her had been an insult to him as much as her. He had ripped the pish out of her in that pub, and now he was going to fucking well get it. — Ah’m no gaunny ask ye again, Ronnie said in a low wheeze. — What’s his name?
— Francis, she said softly, — Francis Begbie.