— What?
— Ah banged up in the lavvy in the Grapes, the stuff we goat fae Swanney. When ah came oot, next ah kent, that pig cunt hud blootered Coke.
What the fuck …
— Right … ah goes, unable tae hide ma disappointment, cause we’d made a pact tae dae it thegither back here. Ah’ve goat tae admit ah wis tempted eftir spending the evening wi Franco. The cunt kept gaun oan aboot what a barry ride that June is, in between tellin us his ain personal version ay the Duke ay Edinburgh Awards; whae wis getting chibbed, and the poor unfortunates that merely had a burst mooth tae look forward tae.
Sick Boy forgets aboot Coke for a second; turns keenly on me. — Did you dae any?
— You’ve goat the stuff! How could ah huv fuckin well done any?
— Ye might’ve sneaked up tae Johnny’s.
Ah realise that if Begbie hudnae dragged us oot n filled us fill ay pish, ah probably would’ve. — Naw, ah tell him, — ye goat tae watch that stuff … then ah panic. — You’ve still goat it, right? Ye didnae dae it aw?
— No way, only a wee bit. Thaire’s still nearly a fill gram left, he says, hudin up the placky bag, showing me the main bean’s intact and maist ay the crumbs are still there.
— Ye wantin some, likes?
— Naw … ah’m takin it easy.
— Aye, ah hud the heebie-jeebies a wee bit, Sick Boy admits. — It’s a bit fuckin rough when it leaves yir system, so that’s me oaf it for a while. Goat tae respect that shite; ah’ll stick tae speed right now, he says, stubbin oot a cigarette in the McEwan’s Export ashtray oan the shoogly table, and producing a wrap and taking a dab. — Wantin a bit?
— Naw, ah’m just gaunny sit in front ay the box, ah tell um.
— Right, see ye. He gits up.
— Ah peyed the rent. Baxter came roond.
— Good man, ah’ll square ye up later oan. Catch ye in a bit, he goes, and the cunt’s oot the door.
Nae point in pressin him for poppy eftir the shite he’s hud tae deal wi, and anywey, it feels good tae be oan ma ain. Ah decide tae have a wank eftir aw, visualising this skinny lassie wi big teeth that works in this baker’s up in Aberdeen. Once ah’ve shot ma duff ower the threadbare broon couch, ah feel a bit low, n realise that um thinkin aboot gear. Ah should’ve took that skag oaffay Sick Boy. Cunt. That wis barry, the other night thaire.
Ah call Johnny, but the phone’s jist ringing, so ah grab ma jaykit and head doon tae Matty’s. He answers the door, pasty-faced n wi spiky black hair, blow-dried off tae the sides tae hide slight premature recession at the temples. His swivel-eyed suspicion only slightly abates whin he sees thit ah’m oan ma tod. A rivulet of snot runs fae his nostril acroas his gaunt cheek like a duelling scar. Fae the angle ay it, he’s been lyin oan the couch in a semi-doze. Matty has the demeanour ay a man destined tae scavenge the remnants ay some other cunt’s feast. Beckoning me in wi a twist ay his heid, he promptly vanishes intae the kitchen, leavin me in the tiny front room. It’s goat this obscenely huge telly dominatin the place, the biggest ah’ve seen.
Matty’s bird Shirley comes ben, a pretty lassie wi an oval-shaped face and big pools for eyes, figure a bit wrecked since havin the bairn, Lisa, whae’s in her airms, dressed in a one-piece romper suit. It’s sortay like Shirl’s still huvin a bairn. As ah sit doon oan the couch, Lisa climbs oan toap ay us. — Hiya, pal … terrible twos, eh? ah nod tae Shirley as the bairn goes fir a tug ay ginger hair.
— Tell us aboot it. So how’s university life? Shirley asks. Despite the extra pounds there’s still something sexy aboot her. It has tae be they big hazelnut eyes, eywis pregnant wi pathos.
— First year wis great, Shirl, looking forward tae gaun back, ah say, takin evasive action as Lisa’s goat what looks like a Farley’s rusk in her hand and seems determined tae wedge it intae in ma coupon, — Thanks, pal, but ah ate awready … Ah turn back tae Shirley. — Ah’m enjoying working back at Gillsland’s for the break, the crack wi the boys n that, ah tell her.
Ah’ve goat tae say that the flat is fuckin mingin, n it’s no jist the bairn wi the nappies n that. It’s like Matty’s dragged Shirley doon tae his level; she wis nivir a scruff at school. Ah ken Matty’s a mate n his dad wis an alkie, but it hus tae be said that the cunt is, eywis wis, n will eywis be, a fuckin tramp.
— Still seein Hazel? Shirley asks, in that coquettish but interrogative wey lassies have.
— Naw, no really, just as mates. Met a lassie doon in Manchester a few weeks back, said ah’d go doon tae see her. Been workin too much though, tryin tae get money for this trip tae Europe.
— Very nice. Wish ah could go tae Europe. Nae chance ay that now. She looks wi rueful affection at the bouncing bairn, jumping up and doon oan ma lap. — Maybe when she gets bigger, she says, then asks, — How’s yir brother?
— Fine … ah say, unsure ay whether she means Wee Davie or oor Billy.
— Any word oan gittin him hame?
Wee Davie. — Naw.
— Funny man! Lisa shouts at us.
— That’s right, pal. Sound judge ay character, ah smile at Shirl, liftin the bairn and makin fartin noises against her belly, which she laps up.
While this weird wee domestic scene is gaun oan, weird for me any roads (it’s scary that cunts actually live like this), ah clock boaxes ay snide goods piled up in the corner, behind the big chair. Kennin Matty it’ll be cheap shite, n ye kin see it in the toap yin that’s already opened; there’s a nylony-style bomber jaykit in a placky bag that looks better quality than the merchandise it contains. You could buy togs oan Junction Street that wid be high-end fashion in comparison. Shirley chuckles as Lisa renews her rusk assault on me, but ma threshold for this shite hus been reached.
Take this bairn oot ay ma fuckin face now.
Matty comes oot fae the kitchen, n makes a face at Shirley whae’s gettin up and headin in, leavin me wi Lisa. Ah can hear raised whispers fae behind the door and Shirley doesnae seem chuffed. Matty eventually appears in time tae save Lisa gurgling mair bits ay rusk ower us n sais, — Cunt, let’s nash.
Shirley isnae happy as she lifts the bairn. Ah’m sayin nowt, n she’s no lookin me in the eye.
Despite huvin the appearance ay a demented leprechaun n snufflin like he’s goat a bad cauld, Matty fair bounces doon that stair like a man possessed, tae the extent that it’s hard tae keep up wi um. Was ey a fast cunt at school n back in the Fort. No that much skill oan the fitba field though, but plenty pace. — What gruesome fuckin knock-off have you goat in they boaxes, Connell?
— Usual shite, he cheerlessly informs us. — Nae room in the bedroom, n Franco’s moanin aboot us pittin too much in the lock-up. Cunt, you goat poppy fir a taxi? he asks.
— Nup, ah lies. Ah shelled oot oan Sick Boy’s fuckin rent n ah’ve goat this Europe trip tae pey fir, so sometimes ye huv tae caw canny.
— Fuck, he goes, — cunt, huv tae be the bus.
— Whaire we gaun?
— Muirhoose.
— Telt ye ah saw Nicksy a while back, eh?
— Aye … London?
— Naw, Manchester. He wis askin eftir ye.
— Aw.
We gits oan a 32 at Junction Street. Matty’s as quiet as a corpse as the bus chugs along. Like he’s tuned oot everything.
— Things okay? ah ask.
He jist smiles, exposin a bank ay yellay teeth. Mingin cunt, takes five minutes a day tae brush yir choppers. — Birds, he rolls his eyes. — We finally goat offered a hoose offay the cooncil.
— That’s awright. The flat’s maybe a bit wee fir youse and truckloads ay squirrelled chorrie.