— Beat it, ya mongol … Matty’s snake-like contempt, as he crumbles, the junk slapping him back intae the couch.
THESE CUNTS.
— Chill, Mark. C’mere, Alison goes, beckonin me closer tae her n Lesley n this Sylvia bird, n thir passin a foil pipe roond. — Yir embarrassin yirsel, n that’s pittin it mildly, she chides.
— Didnae ken youse were intae this, Ali, ah says tae her.
— Everybody is, darling. She chews on some gum. — Jist chasin it like, widnae go near needles!
She lights the underside ay the sheet ay foil, n the gear oan it starts burnin, n ah’m moppin up the smoke.
Fucker …
Ah takes a big couple ay dunts intae ma lungs. Ah hate smoking anything, n ah’m fightin no tae go intae a coughin spasm, though ah’m wincin n bucklin n ma eyes are gushin like a broken hydrant …
Ya cunt, ye …
Ah feel somebody gently take the foil sheet n pipe fae ma hands …
— Smokin wit de laydees … Matty says derisively, in a mock-Jamaican accent, face as pallid as white heather. Forrester adds something aboot the girls being okay, and wee Goagsie laughs n aw. Ah turn roond n say, — If youse cunts … Ah cannae finish the sentence, the gears hittin us like a marshmallow sledgehammer. Ah’m too wasted tae care aboot thir shite, besides ah’d rather be stuck wi the lassies than these fuckin spazwits …
Wanky fucked-up twats …
Alison’s a bit bombed, mooth slack n eyelids heavy, but she’s rabbitin oan aboot some new joab she’s goat that she’s startin the morn, savin fuckin trees. Then she’s tryin tae tell us aboot this poetry group she goes tae. Ah kin believe it, cause she wis eywis bright at school, hud that prefect blazer wi the pipin roond it …
— Emily Dickinson, ah lean intae her, — … that lassie could write a fuckin poem …
— Ye know, Mark … Ali forces her features intae a thick smile, — we should huv a proper conversation … like whin we’re baith straight …
— We did … yonks ago. Zeppelin versus the Doors … in the Windsor that time. Mind?
— Right … but ah wis oan mushrooms then …
— Aye … ah might huv been oan acid … ah recall, but ah’m watchin Forrester withdrawin the big syringe fae Matty’s thin airm, noticin weepin track marks for the first time. That cunt’s a minger: eywis wis. He catches us starin at him. — Naebody wis haudin oot on ye, Mark … cunt, ye wir haudin oot oan yirsel … he sais, now in a contented smirk. — Git some proper wirin, man … then he flops back. Ah start crawlin ower, n pill masel up tae sit next tae him oan the settee. — Sorry, man … he goes, n we share a wee snigger n hud each other’s hand like we wir gaun oot thegither.
The big syringe goes tae the two scary fuckers, Sergeant Salt n Pepper and his Ventriloquist Doll, n the cunts are soon disintegrating. Ah think it’s mibbe time tae git away fae them, but the lassies scurry ower tae us n Ali’s propped herself up against ma legs, ah kin feel her back restin oan ma shins. Her braids ur that black n shiny ah huv an urge tae touch them, but ah resist, smilin instead at that Sylvia burd wi her sharp, keen, white features. Goagsie’s gaun on tae a spilled Sergeant Salt n Pepper aboot how Motörhead are really a punk instead ay a metal band, and people start hudin conversations wi themselves, as the sun goes doon n dark shadows start tae faw across the room.
Ah doze off for a bit, then ah feel ma throat constrictin n jerk awake wi that fawin sensation, like whiplash fae a car suddenly stoapin. Matty’s conscious next tae us; the cunt’s eyes are open, starin straight ahead. He’s sweatin, clenchin his hands, diggin his fingernails intae his palms, like he’s oan so much junk he’s cravin again awready. Fuckin radge, ah’d never let masel git messed up like that oan a poxy drug!
Forrester’s ower, crouchin beside us, n he’s chattin tae the lassies, but in a sleazy wey. Thank fuck they two creepy fuckers ower by are spangled; Sergeant Salt n Pepper’s nearly asleep. The dwarfish fucker’s heid lollin around like it’s gaunny faw oaf his shoodirs. — Naw bit, how long bit …? Forrester slurs at the girls.
— How long what? Ali says, in wasted indifference.
— How long should a gadge n a lassie be gaun oot thegither before they go tae bed?
Ali turns disdainfully away tae Lesley sayin something that ah dinnae catch, but it sounds like, — Chop them doon before they infect everybody, n Forrester looks up like a mumpy bairn tae register ma reaction. Ah try tae keep ma expression neutral. Probably realisin he’s nae chance gittin intae Ali’s or Lesley’s keks, he persists wi this Sylvia lassie. — Naw, how long bit?
— Wi you, ah’d say forever.
— What?
— Even here, Mikey, naebody’s gaunny sleep wi ye, and she blows some cigarette smoke right in his face. — Even. Fuckin. Here.
— Dinnae count on it, Raymie says, standin up n pullin oot a big, white cock, then comin ower and wavin it in Mikey’s coupon. — Get them roond this then, gadgie, c’mon honeybunch!
— Fuck off! Mikey shouts fae his hunkers, pushin him away as we aw start chucklin.
Raymie thankfully complies, floppin back oan a mattress, tellin us ay his youthful amateur gymnast days, when he practised obsessively until he was able tae perform self-fellatio. — Ah kin still git the bell-end n even a bit ay the shaft oan a good day, but no a proper right-tae-the-back-ay-the-throat gam.
— Tragic, Lesley says.
— Agreed. So if any ay you fair damsels would like tae help oot …
Nae takers, as the Sylvia lassie gets up, then forces herself doon next tae us on the couch, makin us bunch along n push up against Matty, whae mumbles something vaguely hostile. Sylvia’s chewing gum but ah cannae mind if she chased some skag like me n Ali n Les. A John Lennon song plays fae a shitey tape deck but ah’m hummin that Grandmaster Flash yin in ma heid …
— If ah could dae that ah’d nivir leave the hoose … Goagsie says tae Raymie.
— You never do anyway, Gordon. You are one housebound, helmet-suckin, hamster-chopped harridan …
Everybody has a wee chuckle at that, cause Goagsie is a bit ay a baw-faced cunt.
— Cunt, Matty laughs, and he sounds a bit like his auld self, — ah’d be telling masel a hud a heidache eftir a couple ay weeks!
— You’re a new face, this Sylvia’s sayin tae me, — A nice yin tae.
Ah ken she’s just flirtin wi us tae wind up Forrester, whae’s takin aw this in, but ah get intae it. Eftir a bit ay wasted small talk we start snogging. Her lips feel numb on mine, but her proximity is comforting and ah’ve never felt so relaxed neckin a bird before. Ma tongue is probing every crevice in her mooth, gaun ower her teeth n gums, but despite the intimacy it feels more detached than sexual. It obviously doesnae look that wey fae the ootside, cause we hear a shout: — You’re a cunt, Sylvia, a total fuckin cunt!
We breks off tae see Forrester standin ower us, lookin well pissed off, hand goin through his sparse hair.
— That’s no a very nice thing tae say tae a lady, ah interject. And it isnae, ye kin call a gadge a cunt, but it isnae very congenial tae say that tae a bird.
— You fuckin well keep oot ay this.
Fuck …
Ah’m tryin tae get up but ah’m wedged in between Matty and Sylvia, and wi the gear in ma system ah kin hardly move. Ah push up but ma hand’s oan Sylvia’s thin black leggings and Matty’s filthy jeans, and he twists away wi a curse like ah wis tryin tae molest him.
— You’re nae good, Sylvia. Always the fuckin slag. Never been any good. Anywhere. Have ye? Forrester taunts in a low, creepy voice.