Tazak looked at his friend. — Wi ready tae hit it?
30
Cheers went up as a thrashing telepathic bass line rocked the planet and the crowd jumped and swayed as a series of blinding lasers shot out from the craft. An Earth voice, a Scottish voice, asked: 'Are we havin a fuckin good one?' and the crowd screamed in unison: 'Yes!' They certainly were, the only dissenting voices coming from the Fubar crew who were signalling for more. — Lenny D! some cunt shouted.
An opening appeared in the craft and a small balcony extended from it. An Earthman walked out onto it. A huge cheer filled the air as his image was beamed for miles around. — We've goat the best fuckin sound system in the universe here! Mikey roared.
Shelley looked up from the crowd. This man was even more fantastic than Liam from Oasis . . . he was the man of her dreams.
At that point the man said: — And now gies a top Planet Earth welcome tae this big, skinny, spammy cunt whae's made it aw possible! Fae acroas the cosmos, Planet Cyrastor, massive respect for our fuckin main man, Tazaaaak!
Tazak joined Mikey on the balcony. He felt humbled by the reception the Earth crowd gave him. No way was the big alien cunt about to lose the floor with the stakes so high, and punters jumping about for as far as his large brown eyes could see. Vibing like fuck, he unleashed a psychic virus of beautiful and powerful sound unequalled anywhere in the universe.
The Earth crowd had known nothing like it. Even those who had been privileged to attend some of the biggest and most happening events since 1988's summer of love had to concede that this one was a bit special. Even club snobs agreed that the almost non-existent toilet and catering facilities failed to put a downer on the awesome nature of this event.
When he was exhausted, Tazak brought it down, and staggered from the balcony, back into the craft, to a tumultuous reception. — Cheers . . . that's me fucked . . . he telepathically flashed to the hordes below.
Inside the craft, Mikey was devastated. This was to be his big moment, but there was no way he could match that. The Earthman went out and did his best, using the full range of the psychic powers he'd developed, even extending himself past his breaking point, but very quickly into his set some groups were already chanting for the return of the big alien. He cut his performance short and returned to the interior of the craft, totally humiliated.
— Good one, Mikey conceded to his show-stealing friend, as he entered the amphitheatre which was the craft's central Will propulsion temple.
— It wis the fuckin best! Ah fuckin blew these Earth cunts away! Tell ays that wisnae something else! Tazak roared triumphantly.
— Aye, right, Mikey moped.
Tazak turned to his friend. — Listen, mate, you goat any snout oan ye? Ah'm gantin oan a fag, eh.
— Naw, Mikey said, reaching in his pocket and producing one of the jellies his brother had taken from Jimmy. — Take one ay these.
— What are they? Tazak asked, examining the egg-shaped capsules.
— Thir jist pills. They take away the snout cravin until wi kin go doon and git sorted, eh, Mikey shrugged. His face twisted into a smile, when, from the corner of his eye, he saw the alien neck the capsule.
31
Tazak was still recovering from the gig when Ally, Denny and Bri came through a door into the craft's central Will propulsion temple. There was another human with the casual mob. Tazak, who had grown used to differentiating members of the species, thought he looked like Mikey. The Cyrastorian glanced over at his colleague. — What the fuck are these cunts daein here? They've no goat authorisation.
Mikey smiled. — Ah gied thum authorisation but, eh. That's ma brar. He nodded at Alan, who smiled at Tazak, showing a full set of Earth teeth like Mikey's.
— You dinnae fuckin gie nae cunt authorisation oan this fuckin ship, Mikey! Tazak pointed at himself.— Ah'm the only cunt that gies any cunt authorisation! Right?!
Mikey stood up. — Naw, it's no right, mate. Ye see, thaire's gaunny be some fuckin changes roond here. This is ma fuckin ship now.
— Fuck off, Piltonian, dinnae you start gittin wide oan ays, Tazak scoffed, as Mikey squared up to him.
— You're no the only cunt wi psychic powers, Tazak. Mind that, Mikey warned.
Tazak laughed like a drain. This would be fuckin sad if it wasn't so funny. It was time this so-called top boy was put in his place. — Huh, huh, huh! Ye saw what happened tae your psychic powers oot thaire! Tazak turned to the Hibs crew and pointed to the hull of the craft. — Eh loast the fuckin flair! He shook his head forlornly at Mikey. — Listen, Earth cunt, ah might have taught ye aw that you ken, bit ah nivir taught ye aw thit ah ken!
This was true. Despite his immersion into Cyrastorian culture, Tazak, with that show outside, had painfully demonstrated to Mikey that he had a repertoire and volume of psychic skills which the Hibs boy could never hope to emulate.
However, the ex-CCS man had one trick up his sleeve. — See that fuckin pill ah gied ye the now? Fir the snout cravin?
Tazak looked hestitant. Mikey flashed his teeth. Ally and the other boys looked lairy.
— Well, it wis nowt tae dae wi fags. It wis a jelly. Any minute now, aw your psychic powers'll be fuckin useless, eh. The only Will you'll be able tae access'll be the one ah hope yuv made oot fir yir next ay kin, ya cunt!
At these words Tazak felt his senses spinning out of control. He tried to orientate himself through the exercise of the Will, but he was unsteady on his long legs.—. . . Ughn . . . feel . . . suddenly . . . cunted . . . he gasped, staggering backwards against the glistening, encrusted hull of the ship.
The Hibs boy seized his chance and decked the gangling, foal-like alien with a chunky fist to the side of the creature's face, toppling the frail Cyrastorian like a stacked tower of playing cards. — No sae fuckin wide now, ya fuckin streak ay alien pish! Lesson in life: nae cunt fucks wi the Hibees boys! The cosmic thug grinned arrogantly as he sank the boot into his old intergalactic comrade's skinny ribcage.
Ally Masters and the boys moved in for the kill. — Nice one, Mikey! Lit's fuckin well stomp this cunt!
Mikey, though, halted the advancing Hibs boys. He looked down at his friend, who was shaking, making a high, agonised noise that he had never heard before, and his skin was losing its indigo-blue hue, becoming a sickly pink. — Leave um! The cunt's fucked!
Mikey backed away in horror from Tazak's high-pitched, resonant squeals which produced no intelligent words, although it was obvious the Cyrastorian was trying to speak them.
— What is it? Ally said.
— These cunts arenae used tae bein touched physically. That's how thir that weak-lookin. They cannae survive withoot their psychic shields! Ah've probably fuckin killed um! Mikey fell to his knees.— Tazak mate . . . ah'm fuckin sorry . . . ah didnae mean tae –
— Keep away from him!
Mikey turned to see an advancing Elder. He wore the white robes of the Appropriate Behaviour Compliance. Although this Cyrastorian looked the same as the rest of the race to the other top boys, Mikey had learned to distinguish them and he knew this one. — Gezra . . . he whispered.
— You've caused a fair bit ay bother, eh, Earth cunt . . .
— Ah didnae mean tae . . . Mikey stuttered.
The Appropriate Behaviour Compliance Elder had heard it all before. — Now it's time fir ye tae pey bit, eh.
The other Hibs boys tried to run the Cyrastorian Elder, but there was nothing the football thugs could do as light and sound burst and ripped all around them. They shut their eyes and held their ears to try to block out the shattering pain, but it seemed to be inside of them; twisting, ripping and splintering their bones. Unconsciousness mercifully took them, one by one, Ally Masters defiantly the last man to pass out.
32
Gezra had a lot of work to do. Firstly, Tazak had to be repaired, otherwise the youth would be reduced to the carrion phase, which was unacceptable. It had been centuries since any Cyrastorian had expired before their allocated time span
. Death was not appropriate behaviour for one so young. Fortunately, the reparations proved non-problematic for such an experienced master of the Will.
The next phase he needed help with. He had to send for a Cyrastorian task force. This was unprecedented, but the behaviour of Mikey and Tazak meant that the entire inhabitants of Planet Earth needed memory-wiping. It was a big job, and the Principal Elders at the Foundation would not be amused at this state of affairs.
33
Shelley woke up feeling as if her head was going to explode. Her guts were in a turmoil, and she had shooting, stabbing pains in her abdomen. She made her way unsteadily to the toilet, unsure of which orifice to put towards the bowl. In the end she sat on it and felt a sickening shudder followed by a violent excretion of the life she had within her. She fell to the floor, her blood trailing across the bathroom lino. Before she slid into unconsciousness, the young woman had the strength to pull the flush, so that she would never have to look at the matter she had miscarried.
Lillian heard the screams and was quickly at her daughter's side. Ascertaining that Shelley was still breathing, she ran downstairs and called an ambulance. When she got back to the bathroom, the young girl was semi-conscious. She looked at her mother and said, — Sorry, Mum . . . I didnae even like the boy . . .
— It's okay, darlin, it's okay . . . Lillian wheezed in a soft mantra, mopping her sick child's brow, awaiting the ambulance's arrival.
They took Shelley into the hospital, where they kept her for a few days. The doctors told Lillian that she had had a miscarriage with some bad internal bleeding, but there would be no lasting damage. They advised her to put the girl on the pill. Lillian was too relieved to have strong words with her daughter; they would come later.
Sarah visited Shelley and told her that Jimmy was asking after her. Shelley was pleased to hear this. Jimmy was okay. Not as cool as Liam, but better than that Alan Devlin, who had just used her, getting her pregnant like that. She felt relieved. Whatever she told herself, she hadn't really wanted a baby.
34
Alan Devlin was upset. He had rediscovered his long-lost brother, only to find that Mikey had been sent to jail. The polis had finally caught up with him for that wounding offence at Waverley Station, all those years ago. Alan jacked in the garage job – there seemed little point in hanging around such a dump as Rosewell. These wee lassies from the school were fuckin jailbait and he wanted none of that; he saw what prison was doing to his brother.
Alan went back into the city. Working as a barman in a Rose Street hostelry, he met a trendy woman from London who was up for the Edinburgh Festival. Romance blossomed and he moved down to her place in Camden Town, and currently works behind a bar in Tufnell Park. He regularly returns to Edinburgh, to visit his brother Mikey in Saughton Prison, but he finds the visits very distressing. Mikey has lost his marbles a little, going on about aliens who come to his cell in the night and insert all sorts of probes into his orifices.
It hurts Alan to admit it, but he reckons that his brother has become a bit of a shirtlifter on the inside, and all this aliens stuff is just a form of denial.
But in the chilling silence of frozen Earth time, Mikey's anguished soul screams its mute pleas for assistance and clemency as Tazak's crew remove his immobilised body from his cell, and take it to their craft for further investigation.
The State of the Party
Crooky and Calum sat in a spartan but popular pub on Leith Walk arguing about whether or not it was a good idea to put something on the jukebox.
— Pump up the jukey, Cal, your turn tae feed the beast, Crooky ventured. He'd just bunged in a quid and he knew that Calum had money.
— Waste ay fuckin dosh, Calum said.
Crooky grimaced. He hoped that this cunt wasn't going to be in one of his tight-arsed moods. — Ah bit c'moan, ya cunt, pump up the fuckin jukey! he implored. — Ah cannae handle this nae-sounds-in-a-pub shite, man.
— Hud yir hoarses. Some daft cunt'll pit something oan in a minute. Ah'm no wastin fuckin poppy oan a jukey.
— You're fuckin flush, ya cunt.
Calum was about to continue the argument but his attention was arrested by the presence of a figure who shambled over from the bar to the corner of the pub, tentatively clutching a soda water and lime. Reaching his destination, this apparition just let his legs collapse, slumping down onto the padded seat. He sat in a still trance, broken only by an intermittent twitch.
— Deek the cunt thaire, man. That's wee Boaby Preston. Boaby! Calum shouted over, but the small, grey-fleshed figure in the old leather jacket ignored him.
— Shut up, fir fuck sakes. That cunt's a fuckin junkie. Dinnae want somebody like that in tow. Paupin cunt, Crooky said. — Nae fuckin passengers the night, Cally, eh?
Calum scrutinised Boaby Preston. In the dirty, diminished figure staring at the glass, he caught sight of someone else, someone Boaby Preston had once been. Childhood and adolescent memories bounced around in his head. — Naw, man, you dinnae really ken the cunt. Sound fuckin guy. Boaby, Boaby Preston, he repeated. It was as if by saying his name often enough, Calum felt that he could somehow summon back the old incarnation. — The stories ah could tell ye aboot that cunt . . . BOABY!
Boaby Preston stared over at them. After straining for recall for a moment or two, he nodded a bemused half-acknowledgement. Calum experienced a depressing sadness at this lack of recognition and an embarrassment that, in front of Crooky, his familiarity had not been reciprocated by his old friend. Recovering from this setback, he rose and went over to Boaby. Crooky reluctantly joined them.
— Boaby . . . ya daft cunt . . . yir still no banging up, ur ye? Calum asked in weary compassion.
Boaby smiled slowly and made a non-committal gesture with one hand.
Uneasy at this reaction, Calum stormed into an anecdote. Surely, he thought, if he could whip up enough gusto, enough enthusiasm for bygone days, he might entice the old Boaby Preston to come out from his lair deep within the recesses of this parcel of jagged bone and gaunt, grey flesh which approximated him. — Ken whae ah saw the other day thaire, Boab? The boy thit stabbed ehs auld man cause eh widnae gie um the money fir a Mars bar. Mind ay him? Cunt fae doon the scheme: funny glesses, bit ay a spazzy cunt?
Boaby said nothing, but forced an inane grin.
Calum turned back to Crooky. — This wis whin we wir wee laddies like, back doon the scheme, eh. Thaire wis this cunt . . . cannae mind ay the boy's name, but eh stabbed ehs auld man cause eh widnae gie um the money for a Mars bar, fae the ice-cream van, ken? Well, one time we wis in the Marshall – this wis years later like – me, Boaby here n Tam McGovern. Tam clocks this wee cunt n goes: that's the cunt that stabbed ehs auld man cause eh widnae gie um the money for a Mars bar. Ah goes, naw, that's no the boy. Mind, Boaby? Calum appealed to his wasted old friend.
Boaby nodded, the smile stuck to his face like it had been painted on.
Calum continued. — Bit Tam's gaun: naw, that's the cunt. This boy's jist sittin oan ehs puff readin the News, ken? Bit me n Boaby, we wirnae sure, eh no, Boab? So Tam goes: ah'm jist gaun ower tae ask the cunt. Well, ah sais tae Tam: if it wis the boy, ye'd better watch oot cause the cunt's fuckin tapped. Well, Tam goes: fuck off, that wee specky cunt? n goes ower. Well, the next thing we ken is thit the wee cunt's glessed Tam, cut the side ay ays face open. It wisnae that bad, bit it looked it at the the time. So the boy runs oot ay the pub n we wir right ower n chasin efter the cunt, bit eh bombed up the road. Tae tell ye the truth, we wirnae gaun that fast, eh no, Boab? This wis donks ago now though. Bit ah saw that cunt the other day; oan the 16 comin doon the Walk, eh.
Crooky was starting to get bored. Junkies bored him. Pests, if in need, dull if their needs had been met. Certainly, they were to be avoided at all costs. What the fuck was Calum playing at here? Auld mates or no, you couldnae play the social worker tae a skag merchant, he thought in irritation. So Crooky was pleased when he noted a sallow-skinned guy with dirty black locks and a large hooked n
ose come into the pub and take a stance up at the bar.— Thaire's the Raven. Mibbe see if the cunt's goat any eckies, eh? Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! He raised his thick eyebrows.
— Thaire's supposed tae be somethin happenin at the Citrus the night, eh, Calum told him, turning from the impassive Boaby.
— Ye wantin any Es if ehs goat thum? Crooky asked.
— Aye . . . no if it's they doves but. Ah hud yin in the Sub Club in Glesgay last week. Yir up fir an ooir then yir jist fucked. Buzz jist goes like that. He snapped his fingers. — Aw they Weedgie cunts wir oan the Malcolm Xs n aw, pure fuckin buzzin, n thaire's me aw frustrated n comin doon.
A concerned frown moulded Crooky's face. — Aye, right. No wantin nane ay that.
He made his way to the Raven. They briefly exchanged pleasantries, then hit the gents' toilet.
Calum turned back to Boaby. — Hi, Boab, listen, man, really great tae see ye again. Mind whin it wis you, me, Tam, Ian n Scooby? That wis some fuckin squad, eh? Dae anything, any time. Ah'm no bein a borin cunt or nowt like that, Boaby, bit it's, likes, ah've been wi Helen fir four years now, ken? Ah'm still intae gittin oot ay ma face n that, bit no the smack n that, ken? Look at perr Ian now: deid likes. The virus, Aids n that, ken?
— Yeah . . . Ian . . . Gilroy . . . said Boaby. — Nivir really liked the boy, ken? he mumbled, an old grievance briefly animating him through his smack apathy.
— Dinnae talk like that, Boab . . . fuck sake . . . the boy's deid! Dinnae talk like that.
— Ripped me oaf . . . Boaby slurred.
— Aye, bit ye cannae hud that against the boy, Boaby, ken? No whin the boy's deid, that's aw ah'm sayin. Like ah sais, ye cannae hud nowt against a boy that's deid.