— Naw, I’m just a bit pished, been oot aw day, ah tell him. He moves onto some others while an aulder polisman quizzes Dickson. The paramedics have loaded an oxygen-masked Coke intae the back ay thair van. I feel the gear rubbing at me, in ma system and in my pocket, so ah slip the fuck away from this sordid drama, heading up tae Junction Street where I jump in a cab up tae the Infirmary. I’m sitting in the A&E, feeling great, waiting for Coke, but I drift into a doze and when I snap out of it the clock on the waw says it’s forty minutes later, and there’s a gungy taste in my dry mooth. It takes ages but ah manage tae locate the ward Coke’s been admitted tae. When I get up there, Janey, Maria and Grant are sitting outside in a cul-de-sac waiting area. — What happened? Janey gasps, rising.
For a perverse second I think of the chips Coke never brought back. — Dunno, ah wis in the bogs, and when ah came oot he wis gone. Then they said he wis through the back wi Dickson. He was unconscious when we found him lying there. We called the polis and the ambulance. What did the doctors say?
— Head injuries; thir runnin tests. But he’s no woke up, Simon. He husnae woken up! And I feel Janey’s full, ripe body against me, see wee Grant looking wacko and the tears condensing in Maria’s eyes, tears ah want tae lick dry, and ah’m telling them all, — It’s awright … he’ll be fine … they ken what they’re daein … he’ll be fine.
And I know it’s just not the case, but ah’m hugging Janey and thinking about how much a life can change in the time it takes tae fix up.
Held Out
THE VISIT TAE the parental home was a mistake. Once you’ve vanished it’s best tae stey that way; tae return is tae rematerialise intae the madness of others. Ma and Dad gab urgently aboot Wee Davie in the hospital, pressing me tae visit him. I cannot stand my mother’s fantasy that he ‘asks after me’ when the poor wee fucker scarcely has a scooby as tae whae’s in the room. Ah felt like screaming: try tellin some cunt whae gies a fuck.
— You ken how he goes, son, you ken how he says: Maaarrryyyk … and she obscenely imitated that scary chant he does in the early evenings.
Wee Davie gets aw the expert attention he needs fae the NHS. He not only has chronic cystic fibrosis, he’s also been diagnosed with muscular dystrophy and extreme autism. The odds ay aw these conditions occurring in the one person have been estimated at aroond four billion tae one by a senior medical examiner at Edinburgh University, tae whom my wee brar is somethin ay a celebrity.
Just when ay thoat the beer-swilling discussion roond the kitchen table couldnae get any worse, it sure as fuck did, as my ma and dad, succumbing tae mild drunkenness, started ludicrously talking aboot Emma Aitken, a lassie fae ma primary school. — Aye, he ey liked that wee Emma. Took her tae the school qually, Dad teased.
— What did ye git offay her? Billy asked wi leering malevolence.
— Fuck off, ah bit back at the contemptible clown.
— Ah’m sure he was a perfect gentleman. My ma idly ran her fingers through ma hair, making us pull away, as she turned tae Billy. — Unlike some.
— You’re no telling me that ye didnae go fir the tit, Billy laughed, then guzzled oan his can ay Export.
— Git tae fuck, you, ya bam.
My auld man’s index finger swings between Billy n me like a clock’s pendulum. — Enough, youse pair. This conversation’s for the pub, no the hoose. Show a bit ay respect tae yir mother.
So it was great tae relaunch back up tae Montgomery Street. Despite his name bein on the rent book (or maybe because ay it) Sick Boy’s seldom here. The gaff’s in a perfect location: at the Walk end ay the street, just in between Leith and Edinburgh. It needs some new furniture, but. There’s an auld couch in the front room and a couple ay beanbags n these two auld wooden chairs by a nasty-swaying table. In the bedroom you’ve goat a shitey divan n an auld cunt’s wardrobe. There’s a wee box bedroom n aw, but it’s fill ay Sick Boy’s clathes. The kitchen has another wee table n two dodgy chairs sittin oan these broken flair tiles that trip ye up in the dark, n a cooker ye cannae see cause it’s that covered in grease, while the fridge makes these scary rattlin noises. The bog … enough said.
A knock at the door and it’s the landlord, Baxter. A bit ay a mumpy-faced auld cunt, but if ye mention Gordon Smith, Lawrie Reilly or any bygone Hibs stars, his coupon fair lights up. — They say Smith was the best ever, ah volunteer, as he pulls oot a tatty auld rent book, his emphysemic wheeze like an auld diesel train grinding intae Waverley Station.
Only one ay Baxter’s eyes works. The functioning lamp blazes wi imposing luminescence. The other yin looks like a shaved twat in Penthouse, crusted ower wi fanny batter. — Matthews, Finney … he croaks wistfully, settling doon intae a rickety chair at the kitchen table, as he licks his thumb and turns the book’s pages, — nane ay them were in same league as Gordon. Ask Matt Busby who wis the best player he ever saw!
Second Prize?
There’s nae real wey tae respond tae that, so ah gie the auld cunt an inane smile n soak up his reminiscences.
Auld Baxter eventually departs, banging on about Bobby Johnstone as he goes. He’ll get tae Willie Ormond by the time he hits the Fit ay the Walk. Wi the place tae masel, ah consider huvin a J. Arthur Rank but ah’m too fucked eftir that shift at Gillsland’s the day. At least we were oot ay the factory, daein real joinery, fitting oot another pub, this time in William Street. Ah cannae wait tae go back tae the uni. Ah enjoy the crack wi the boys, but ye bring a book in there n every cunt’s takin the pish, except Mitch, but he’s packin it in, so thi’ll soon be nae cunt left tae talk sense wi. But before that it’s the InterRail, wi Bisto, Joanne and Fiona. Of course, that’s if the lassies show up and it isnae aw jist talk.
I’m watchin a World in Action programme aboot Ugandan Asians in Britain, and Sick Boy comes in, eyes rid, face colourless, lookin like he’s seen a ghost. As it happens, that isnae too wide ay the mark. — It’s Coke. He’s deid.
— Coke Anderson? Fae your bit? Yir jokin!
Fuck me, a sombre shake ay his heid tell us he isnae. — He was in a coma and they pulled the plug this morning.
Apparently Dickson fae the Grapes panelled Coke and smashed his heid in. That boy’s a cunt; wis chucked oot the polis for daein people ower in the cells. Every copper does that, n fair enough, maist drunken radges that git banged up for a night would rather take a couple ay skelps fae some inadequate fascist, and be turfed oot in the mornin, than face the hassle n expense ay a coort appearance. Dickson got really overzealous though, n wis asked tae leave, or so the story goes. They say it wis him that panelled Second Prize eftir he went oan that bender when Dunfermline freed him: that could have been any cunt though. Poor Coke but; Sick Boy tells us the lights went oot and never came back oan. Thaire’s a coroner’s report next week. That is beyond fucking brutal.
Sick Boy keeps running his hands through his hair, then shaking his heid. The occasional ‘fuck’ explodes fae him in a gasp. — Janey and the kids are devastated, he says, lookin roond the flat like he’s just stepped in it for the first time and doesnae like what he sees. — I’m goin doon thaire … Cables Wynd House … lend a bit ay moral support.
Ah ken he’s in shock cause ah’ve never, ever heard him call the Bannanay flats ‘Cables Wynd House’ before, unless it’s tryin tae impress some rich festival bird fae oot ay toon.
— Thing is … he looks away, then ruefully back to me, — … ah goat a bit skagged up when it was aw gaun on …