— Aye, right, she goes.
Ah squeeze her thigh n shout at him, — Steady, ya fuckin choob.
— Aye, fuckin well calm doon, you, eh? Ali says.
— Whae the fuck ur you? Forrester ignores her, challengin me.
Ah grips Sylvia’s leg again. — Bruce Wayne, ah goes, n that gits some laughs. In frustration, Forrester kicks the sole ay ma trainer, n ah lunges in slo-mo tae ma feet n squares up tae the cunt n we’re right in each other’s faces.
— Ladies, please. No handbags, Raymie lisps, — I beg of thee.
— Neither ay you boys is much ay a fighter. N yir baith skagged up, wee Goagsie helpfully reminds us.
Forrester and me baith have the grace tae look embarrassed, as a mutual tremor ay wary acknowledgement passes between us. Then our host looks witheringly back at Sylvia. — Fuck who ye like, ya daft bitch, he says, turnin oan his heels and headin oot, slammin the door shut behind him. As ah faw back intae the couch, ah hear his feet gaun up the stairs.
— Thanks very much, she shouts back at him, then turns tae the room in appeal. — Like ah need his fuckin permission? Last ah looked he wisnae ma faither, n ah dinnae mind ay mairryin um!
— Ah nivir bother askin ma faither whae ah kin shag, ah idly observe.
— Gled tae hear it, Sylvia says in clipped tones as Ali stifles a giggle.
— Me neither … groans Matty, — … unless it’s muh ma.
— That’s only good manners, ah shrugs.
Raymie looks at the Eric Thewlis gadge, n his face goes straight and he says, — You really should gie yir ma a bell, n eftir a puzzled silence, every cunt tipples n laughs. A daft round ay shite talk starts up, but aw this effort has knackered me n ah’m driftin back intae a semi-crash. Ah kin vaguely hear Goagsie arguing wi one or baith ay these dinguls in the corner aboot people ah dinnae ken, n one gadge called Seeker, whaes name’s been bandied aroond a lot lately. The next thing ah ken is ah’m ootside blinkin in the cauld n gittin in a taxi wi Matty, Goagsie, Lesley and this Sylvia bird, headin back tae Leith.
— Did you ken that Ali’s ma’s dying? Lesley goes.
— Aye? Fuckin hell …
Sylvia’s hand on my thigh.
— She’s goat the big C.
— Cancer? ah goes.
— Aye … Lesley cringes, as if hearin the word exposes ye tae the disease. — It wis in her breasts. Hud a double mastectomy, but it’s no done any good. It’s terminal.
— A double mastectomy … cunt, that’s where they cut baith the tits oaf, right? sais Matty, and ah cannae help glancin at Lesley’s ample cleavage. Lesley shivers and nods. — Sair yin, Matty goes, — especially as it never worked. Cunt, how bad would that be, tae go through gittin yir tits cut oaf n still telt yir gaunny die? he speculates in noxious cheer. Then he says, as if inspired, — Cunt, Fat Keezbo’s ma, Moira Yule, she hud that, eh, Rents?
— Aye, but she wis awright, they goat it in time, ah goes as Sylvia whispers tae me that ah’ve goat a nice erse.
— She went fuckin scatty but. They fuckin budgies, Matty laughs.
Ah gie him a harsh look tae tell um tae shut up, then rub Sylvia’s thigh. Keezbo’s ma did go a wee bit doolally wi gittin that aviary in the hoose, but ye dinnae start talkin aboot a mate’s faimlay business like that. Fair play, the wee cunt doesnae make a meal ay it. — Where is Ali, anyway? ah goes, suddenly worried that she’s no wi us.
— Cunt, she went wi Raymie tae Johnny’s, Matty goes.
Goagsie’s melted intae the windae n makes a sort ay groan. — Tryin tae tell me aboot Seeker … he mumbles, — ah ken fuckin Seeker …
Ah’ve goat the tweakins ay a semi in ma troosers. — Ye game? ah whispers in Sylvia’s ear, catchin the smell ay fags n cheap perfume.
— If yir huntin, she smiles back harshly.
The rest disembark at the Fit ay the Walk, n me and Sylvia carry on doon Duke Street n up tae hers at Lochend. She calls it ‘Restalrig’ but it’s pure Lochend. And ah hate Lochend. It’s beyond wide. The place teems wi psychic assassins ready tae burst yir mooth. Normally ah’d be twitchin anxiously at shadows up here at this time ay night, especially as ah’m aboot tae bang one ay their birds, but as the taxi pulls away and a group ay swaggering wideos are lopsidedly winding towards us, ah strangely feel nae fear whatsoever.
The leader ay the pack gies Sylvia a gelid smile, carving concern oantae her coupon, then ah git the same treatment. — You’re Begbie’s mate, eh? Billy Renton’s brar?
Ah’ve never met this cunt before in ma puff but ah ken fae Franco’s obsessions exactly whae he is. — Mr Charles Morrison.
— What? Ah get a hollow-moothed, limp-jawed stare as his lips crawl back fae his teeth and his eyes bug oot.
— A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Your reputation precedes you.
Morrison looks briefly bemused. His expression is leaden and pained, wary of conspiracy. A heavyset sidekick pipes up, — Whae’s this cunt?
Ah’ll never fuckin look at the others, far less talk tae them. Only Cha is important and ah don’t take my eyes off him for a second. His face is chalky, but it possesses a strange dignity and feral beauty, underneath the orange sodium street lamp. Then his features crease and a throaty chortle emerges and ah start tae get worried for the first time as he announces, — Ah like this cunt’s patter!
And it seems he does. So ah’m spraffin wi these radge-gadges for a bit, then ah feels Sylvia’s tug oan ma sleeve, a gesture that doesnae go past Cha. — You’d better go, mate. Duty calls, eh? he sniggers complicitly. — See yis.
Dismissed by Cha, we head intae Sylvia’s stair, and the refuge ay the flat. Ah’ve impressed her the night by standing up tae Forrester (no really a big danger) then fronting it wi Cha Morrison (a risky undertaking by aw accounts). — You’re feart ay nowt, you, she says in admiration.
— Naw, ah’m feart ay everything, ah tell her, which, when acknowledged, probably yields pretty much the same outcomes. Still, ah’ve done something right, cause she’s no fuckin aboot, guidin us intae the bedroom. Ah’ve never seen so many clathes; oan the flair, hanging oot ay cupboards, spillin fae suitcases and holdalls. But they’re thrown off the bed and ah’m on her and we’re snoggin again, then gettin oor kits oaf. Sylvia briefly huds up a yellay nightdress, frayed at the helm, as if she’s considering pittin it oan, but then wisely dismisses the idea. She isnae a shy lassie, though; she grabs ma cock and watches mesmerised as it stiffens in her hand. Pulls back the foreskin tae let ma cherry surge gratefully intae the light. My fingers glide ower that sweet fur, parting her dark, moist crack, and when she lets go ay ma knob it takes the place ay ma hand, and ah push, heart racing with that appreciative jolt ay completion as it slides home.
So we’re banging away like fuck. She doesnae seem skagged but ah’m numb n ah’m no being very creative, just gettin intae ma stride n tryin tae hump and sweat the junk oot ay ma system. It’s barry, cause ma back feels awright. Maybe it’s the gear, but although ah’m sustainin the erection, ah cannae seem tae blaw ma muck, even when she ‘positively gushes’ as Sick Boy would say.
The lady was positively gushing.
Eventually, ah dae something that ah never thought ah’d dae, n ah fake an orgasm, groanin, then makin my body tense. She’ll probably be able tae tell thaire’s nae stuff inside her cause we never bothered wi a flunky. In a joltin chill ah suddenly think aboot Begbie and that mad wee Pilton biler in the boozer. Even though ah’ve shot nowt ye kin still git undetected traces ay spunk and ‘it just takes one’ as our auld science teacher Mr Willoughby used tae say. — You’re … ehm … awright, ah ask, — ah mean, the pill n that?