— Fuck off, ya radge! You're a fuckin arsehole, son! Gillian snapped at him.
— WHAE YOU FUCKIN TALKIN TAE? he roared at her.
— Dinnae ken, the label's fell oaf, Gillian said unfazed, chewing steadily and looking him up and down with scorn on her face.
— IT'S FUCKIN . . . IT'S FUCKIN BURDS LIKE YOU THIT DESERVED TAE GIT FUCKIN RAPED . . . SLAGS WI A FUCKIN MOOTH! Doogie had never been dismissed in this manner by a woman.
— HOW THE FUCK WID YOU KEN ABOOT ANYTHIN! YUV NIVIR HUD A FUCKIN FANNY THIT WISNAE YIR MA'S IN YIR LIFE, YA FUCKIN PRICK! AWAY N SHAG YIR POOFY MATES UP THAIR FUCKIN ERSES! Gillian screamed like a banshee: no fucker talked to her like that.
Doogie stood hyperventilating, seemingly rooted to the spot. His face distorted in uncomprehending disbelief. It was like he had seized up.— You dinnae ken . . . you dinnae ken nowt aboot meee . . . he moaned like a wounded animal, pleading and raging at the same time.
For Crooky, the distortion of the guy's face was magnified twentyfold by the acid. He felt a surge of raw fear which transformed into anger and he ran at Doogie, throwing punches. In no time at all he was overpowered and beaten to the ground, where Doogie and two others began trying to kick lumps out of him. At the same time, the guy with the pork-pie hat exchanged blows with Calum, who was then chased around a car. He pulled at an aerial which came away in his hand and he whipped his pursuer across the face with it, opening up his cheek. The pork-pie-hat guy screamed with pain but mainly frustration and anger as Calum rolled under the car. He felt some boots in his side as he crawled into its centre and safety, but, to his horror, he felt somebody getting under with him. He started kicking and punching, flaying out in a frenzy, before he realised that it was Crooky.
— CAL! IT'S ME, YA CUNT! FUCKIN COOL IT!
They lay breathing heavily, bonded in a state of abject terror, listening to the voices:
— BREK INTAE THAT FUCKIN CAR! START THE MOTOR! KILL THE CUNTS!
Fuck sakes, Crooky thought.
— Gang-bang the fuckin slags! A fuckin line-up!
Aw fuck . . . but they daft cows started it, they caused everything, Calum thought.
— Aye, jist fuckin try, ya cunts! That was Gillian's voice.
Naw, Calum thought, they didnae start nowt. Gillian. She was just sticking up for herself. Cannae let them touch her but.
— Lit's jist git the fuck oot ay here! one voice shouted.
Yea-ehs! Crooky and Calum thought together. Go. Just fuckin go. Please. Go.
— Git the cunt Doogie decked!
Daft cunts.
A consensus quickly formed around this. From under the car Crooky and Calum watched the gang kicking Boaby's body around.
One guy stuck a lighted cigarette against the prostrate figure's red lips. Boaby didn't respond in any way.
— EH'S FUCKED! THAT'S ENOUGH! one voice shouted, and they stopped.
They panicked and departed hastily, one guy in a blue jacket shouting back at Michelle and Gillian: — Youse fuckin boots say anything aboot this n yis ur deid! Right!
— Sure, Michelle voiced sarcastically.
The guy ran back and struck her across the face. Gillian stole across and punched him in the mouth. She made to do the same again, but he blocked her blow and restrained her arm. Michelle had pulled off her high heel and, in a tearing, upward sweep, tore the jagged seg of its point across his cheek, up into his eye.
The boy staggered back in pain, stemming the blood with his hand. — Fuckin slag! Could've hud ma fuckin eye oot! he whined, before moving away with increasing haste as they came slowly towards him, like two small predators circling a larger, wounded animal.
— YOU FUCKIN DIE, YA CUNT! MA BRARS'LL FUCKIN KILL YOU! ANDY N STEVIE FARMER! THAT'S MA FUCKIN BRARS, YA CUNT! Gillian screamed.
The boy gave a frightened, bemused look and turned to trot after his pals.
— GIT OOT FAE UNDER THAIRE, YA FUCKIN ARSEHOLES! Gillian screamed at Crooky and Calum.
— Nup, Calum said weakly. It felt good under the car. Safe. Crooky, though, was starting to feel as if he was being buried alive, as if he was sharing a coffin with Calum.
— Thir away, Michelle said.
— We're sound here. It's the acid . . . aw this shit . . . cannae hack it. Youse jist go hame . . . Calum rambled.
— AH SAIS, GIT FUCKIN OOT! Gillian shrieked, her voice scrapping on their raw nerve endings.
Compliant with shame and fear, they wriggled out from under the car.— Shh, Calum moaned, — yi'll huv the polis here, eh.
— Eh, nice one. Eh, thanks, girls, Crooky said. —. . . Ah mean, eh, yis did awright stickin up fir yirsels against these cunts.
— Aye, well done, Calum agreed.
— That prick hit Michelle. Gillian pointed at her friend, who was putting her shoe back on and sobbing wretchedly.
Crooky's bushy eyebrows knotted in pity. — We'll git the cunts eftir, eh, Cally? Git a squad thegither. Couldnae huv hacked swedgin oan the acid bit, ken? Cunts obviously dinnae ken whae thir dealin wi. They wirnae hard cunts. Fuckin wankers. Mind you, ah thoat ah wis fucked whin they goat ays doon, bit they wir kickin each other mair thin me, the daft cunts. Ah'll git they cunts though. See, if it hudnae been fir that acid, eh, Cal!
— Mad tae take acid, Gillian said.
They looked over at Boaby. His face was bashed in at one side, like his cheekbone and jawbone had collapsed. Calum thought again about the time he had pretend-shot Boaby in Niddrie, as a child, when Boaby had played dead. — Lit's jist go, he said.
— Cannae jist leave um, Crooky ventured, shuddering. That could've been ma fuckin face, he thought.
— Aye, we'd better go. The polis'll git they bastards fir it. They killed um really, Michelle said tearfully. — Everything dies, thaire's nowt naebody kin dae aboot it . . .
They walked away from the body in a silence punctuated only by Michelle's sobs, through the night, towards Crooky's place in Fountainbridge. Crooky and Calum staggered wearily on ahead, Gillian had a comforting arm around Michelle, a few yards behind them.
— Thinking aboot Alan? Gillian asked her.— Time ye goat him oot ay yir system, it really is, Michelle. Ye think he's greetin aboot you now? Huh! she sneered. — Ye should jist git the first guy ye see tae screw yir fuckin brains oot. That's your problem, ye need tae git laid.
— Ah loast that joab in the bank thanks tae him . . . Michelle whimpered, —. . . a good joab. The Royal Bank.
— Forget him. Start enjoyin yir life, Gillian said.
Michelle gave Gillian a hostile pout then forced a smile. Gillian nodded at Crooky and Calum who were still lurching on ahead. The two women started laughing loudly. — Which one dae you fancy? Michelle asked.
— Nane ay them really, bit ah cannae stand him wi the eyebrows. Gillian pointed at Crooky.
— Naw, he's awright, Michelle said, — it's ehs mate, that Calum . . . eh's no really goat any erse oan um.
Gillian considered this. Michelle was right. Calum didn't really have much of an arse. — As long as he's goat a fuckin cock, she laughed, flushing with a hormonal itch.
Michelle joined in with the laughter.
Gillian kept her stare on Calum. He was quite skinny, and had both big hands, big feet and a big nose. These factors combined, surely, she thought, made it odds-on that he would have a big cock.
— Right, well, you fire intae that Crooky n ah'll fire intae his mate, Gillian whispered to Michelle.
— Suppose, Michelle shrugged.
They went up to Crooky's flat and sat around the gas fire. The flat was frozen and they kept their coats on. Gillian got up on the couch and began massaging Calum's neck. He was coming down from the acid and her touch felt good. — Yir awfay tense, she said.
— Ah feel tense, was all Calum could say. Ah wonder why, he thought, recounting the events of the night. — Ah feel tense, he repeated in a nervous snigger.
Michelle and Crooky were crouched on the floor, whispering to each othe
r.
— Yi'll probably think ah'm a slag n that, just say if ye do, Michelle said softly to Crooky.
— Naw . . . Crooky said, doubtfully.
— Ah used tae work in the bank, the head oafice, Michelle said, as if underlining her inherent respectability,— the Royal Bank. She emphasised the 'Royal'. — Ken the Royal Bank ay Scotland?
— Aye, in the Mound, likes, Crooky nodded.
— Naw, this is the Royal Bank, that's jist the Bank ay Scotland you're thinkin ay. This is the Royal Bank ay Scotland thit ah used tae work fir. The head oafice. St Andrew's Square.
— The Royal Bank . . . Crooky acknowledged. — . . . Aye . . . the Royal Bank, he repeated, looking into her dark eyes. She looked beautiful to him; those eyes, her red lips. The lipstick. The visuals from her lipstick, even coming down. Crooky realised that he loved women who knew how to wear lipstick and he thought that Michelle certainly came into that category.
Michelle sensed his desire. — You n me through thaire then, she said, nodding urgently at the door.
— Yeah . . . sound . . . the bedroom. Aye, the bedroom, Crooky smiled, raising his bushy brows.
They got to their feet, Michelle eagerly, Crooky tentatively, and crept across to the door. Crooky caught Calum's eye and puckered his lips and fluttered his brows at him as they departed.
— That leaves you n me, Gillian smiled.
— Eh, aye, Calum said.
They lay out on the couch. Gillian took her coat off, and draped it over them. It was a large, brown imitation fur. Calum liked the way she looked in her short red dress. Her arms seemed okay now; he realised that it must have been the acid.
Gillian was aroused by the hardness of his body. She couldn't make out whether it was muscle or just large bones under his skin. She began touching him; rubbing his crotch through his jeans. He felt himself go hard. — Feel ays, feel ays well, she said in a soft, low hiss.
He began kissing her and twisted his hand down her cleavage. Her dress and bra were so tight he couldn't expose any tit without his activities causing her to wince in discomfort. So he disentangled his hand and ran it up her thigh, getting his fingers inside her pants. She pulled away from him, springing from the couch, but only to undress. Gillian ushered him to do the same. Calum got his clothes off quickly, but his erection had gone. Gillian got back on the couch and pulled him to her and he achieved stiffness again for a bit, but he couldn't sustain the hard-on.
— What is it? What's wrong? she snapped.
— It's just the acid . . . it's like . . . it's like ah've goat a girlfriend, ken? Helen. Ah mean, it's like ah dunno if wir still gaun thegither like, cause, eh, well, wuv no been really gittin oan n ah've moved oot, the flat n that, likes, bit wir still sortay seein each other like . . .
— Ah'm no wantin tae fuckin mairray ye, ah just want a shag, right?
— Eh, aye. He ran his gaze over her nakedness and got hard without feeling himself stiffening.
They pulled the coat over their naked bodies and went for it. The union was based on a grinding genital interaction rather than any deep psychic communion, but it was hard and intense and Gillian came quite quickly, Calum shortly after. He felt pleased with himself. At one stage he had wondered whether he'd be able to hold on for her. He could do a lot better than that, he thought ruefully. It was the acid, Boaby, all the shit in his head. He could do a lot better, but this wisnae bad under the circumstances, he thought happily.
Gillian was content. She thought she wouldn't have minded getting there again, but at least he'd managed to keep it up until she'd come. It was okay, it had cleared things out a wee bit. — That wisnae too bad, she conceded, as they fell into a post-coital slumber.
Later, Calum felt Gillian moving, but pretended to be dead to the world. She had got up from the couch and had started to get dressed. Calum then heard whispering conversations and realised that Michelle had come into the room. This made him feel embarrassed at his nakedness under the coat. He tugged it tighter to ensure that his genitals were completely covered.
— How was your night? Calum heard Gillian whisper softly to Michelle.
— Shite. He didnae ken what tae dae. Like a fuckin virgin. Couldnae git it up. Kept gaun oan aboot the fuckin acid . . . Calum could hear Michelle dissolve into tears. Then she asked, with a sudden eagerness, — What was he like?
Gillian struggled into her dress, then considered, for what to Calum's ears was a painfully long time. — No bad. A bit ay a grunter likes . . . Aw, perr Michelle . . . it didnae happen for ye . . . ah should've gied ye him, she gestured a thumb at Calum, who felt a twinge behind his genitals.
Michelle rubbed her tearful eyes, smearing thick eyeliner around the sockets. Gillian went to speak but couldn't get a word in before Michelle started talking. — It wis jist thit wi Alan, well, it wis brilliant. At the start it wis brilliant. It goat crap later oan, whin eh wis wi that fuckin hoor, bit see, at the start . . . nuthin could beat it.
— Aw, Gillian said softly, considering Alan and contemplating his sexuality for the first time. She would mention Michelle's eyes later. She turned to Calum, shaking him gently. — Hi, Calum, wakey-wakey! Yir gaunny huv tae wake up. Ah need ma coat. We're oaf now.
— Eh, right . . . Calum mumbled, opening his eyes. He felt as if his brain had been pickled and his body seemed to have been battered all over. At least he was back down, though, free from the acid and its malevolent games. — Lit's ays git me keks oan then, he pleaded.
They went behind the couch. — Wi'll no look, honest, Gillian said.
This sparked off a laugh from Michelle which to Calum's ears had a disturbing predatory harshness to it, particularly with her dark eye sockets, but he pulled on his pants, then his jeans and handed Gillian the coat.
— Well, eh, cheers then . . . Michelle, eh, Gillian. Eh, Gillian, ye goat a number? he asked tentatively. Calum didn't know whether or not he wanted to see her again, but it seemed a good idea to at least offer. He thought that Gillian was a bit of a nutter.
— Yir no gittin ma number. You gie ays yours, she said, passing him a pen and a piece of scrap paper from her bag. It was a voucher for the Club 86 Hibernian Youth Development Christmas Draw. — Did ah flog ye one ay they raffle tickets? she asked.
— Aye, ah bought five, he replied, writing down his number on the back.
Gillian looked at Calum, then at Michelle, then back at Calum. — That wey if ah want tae see you, ah kin. Ah dinnae like laddies hasslin ays oan the phone: Come oan oot, Gilli-ihhnnn, she said scornfully in a creepy, insipid voice. Then she went over and kissed Calum and wrapped her arms around his naked torso. She whispered in his ear, — You're gaunny fuck me again, really soon. Right?
— Eh, mmh, he muttered incoherently, — eh, aye . . . yeah . . . likes. Calum remembered that point in a nature programme he'd seen where the female praying mantis ate the male praying mantis's head during sex. He watched Gillian departing with Michelle and could certainly imagine her French-kissing praying-mantis-style.
Alone in the front room, Calum sat watching morning television and smoking cigarettes. He rummaged in his jeans and pants, rubbing at his penis and balls and smelt Gillian on his hand. He thought of Helen and Boaby and started to feel depressed and lonely. Then he forced himself to make some tea before Crooky came in.
— Good night? he asked Crooky whose face was split by a hatchet-wound grin.
— The best, mate, the best. That Michelle, man; the Royal Bank, whoa, ya cunt ye! Takes it aw weys! She wis fuckin gantin oan it, bit Crooky wis up tae the joab.
— Gie her the message, aye? Calum asked, his face ashen.
— Ah fuckin split her right up the middle, man. The Royal Bank'll no be able tae sit oan a bicycle seat eftir that! Crooky here, he drummed his chest with his index finger, — ah'm well in credit wi the Royal Bank. Ah only made one withdrawal, but no before ah hud pit in quite a few fuckin big deposits, if ye catch ma drift. Wir talkin high interest n aw, ya cunt! Ah should've telt her, if ye
want any ay yir mates sorted oot, take the address doon n send thum up tae Crooky . . . he's simply the best . . . do . . . do . . . Crooky burst into song, thrusting his hips: — He's beh-rah thehn awwil the rest . . . he's beh-rah thehn eh-eh-he-one, thehn eh-ne-one ah've eh-eh-vah met . . . he's simply the best . . . do . . . do . . .
Calum left Crooky to his dancing. He couldn't be bothered slagging him off. A sadness had gripped him, Boaby relentlessly intruding into his thoughts. When had Boaby really died? Sometime long before last night.
— What aboot you, Cal? How wis it wi Gillian? Crooky suddenly asked, with a smirk on his face.
— No up tae much really, ma fault likes. The acid, ken?
Crooky shot him an expression of theatrical disdain. — That's a poor excuse, Cally ma man. Take Crooky here, he pointed at himself,— or tae gie him his official title: SIMPLY THE BEST, nae amount ay drugs kin knock this boy oot ay his stride. That's whit sorts oot the highly skilled time-served men fae the also-rans.
— Suppose yuv either goat it or yuv no, Calum acknowledged wearily.
— That's it, Cal, natural talent. Aw the coachin manuals in the world cannae instil that.
Calum was thinkin about Boaby, and about Gillian. — Ah once saw this documentary aboot insects, n thaire wis this prayin mantis, ken they big, radge insects?
— Aye . . . fuckin evil-lookin cunts, eh.
— Well, the lassie prayin mantis eats the laddie prayin mantis's heid whin thir shaggin . . . ah dinnae mean the lassie prayin mantis n the laddie prayin mantis . . . ah mean, like, male n female, ken?
Crooky looked at Calum. — What the fuck's that tae dae wi anything?
Calum bowed his head and put his hand in front of it. Crooky saw that he was trying to cover his face from him. When he finally spoke, Calum's voice was urgent and breathless. — We . . . saw Boaby . . . Boaby . . . we saw Boaby die . . . it shouldnae be like this, it shouldnae be like nowt's jist happened . . . ah mean . . .
Crooky slid onto the couch beside Calum. He felt stiff and awkward. He tried to speak a couple of times but he was gripped by a paralysis. Maybe that was to stop you from rabbiting, from talking shite, he thought. Maybe it was right that he couldn't say anything to his friend, who kept his face turned away from him. After a long silence he looked at the telly and asked, — What's this shite?