The Student Cunt thought that Jimmy was vibing to the music. — East Coast Project, he said, then, turning to Alec, added with great sincerity, — Some pri-tay interesting things going down there.
— Mmm, Alec said non-committally.
The Student Cunt then turned to Semo. — Your neck of the woods, that's where all those posses have gathered, isn't it?
The woman feeding the baby looked up with interest for the first time.
— Aye, Semo nodded. — It's too fuckin radge.
This was the Student Cunt's opportunity to launch into a spiel concerning his view of what was happening in contemporary society. It was the others' cue to make their excuses and go. Jimmy winced when he heard the Student Cunt describe himself to Alec as 'working class' , making it sound like 'wehking closs'. They departed as quickly as they could, going on to a snooker club for a couple of frames and a few beers. Then Alec left, so they thieved another motor to get back out to the sticks.
In the car, Jimmy couldn't resist trying one of the tabs. After a few minutes, the whole place seemed to go crazy and he could barely see Semo sitting next to him in the driver's seat.
— Just as well you never took any ay these, Semo, Jimmy gasped, as the car turned and sped down the city roads into a wall of blinding light which shot up from the catseyes. They were flying. — Ah'm sayin, jist as well you never hud yin, eh, Semo?
— Shut the fuck up . . . ah'm tryin tae concentrate oan the road . . . ah necked yin ay they tabs n aw n it's kickin in fine style! Semo moaned.
— STOAP! STOAP THE FUCKIN CAR! Jimmy felt the unremitting pulse of raw terror in every cell of his body.
— Fuck off! Ah kin see fine. Dinnae fuckin nudge ays! Semo snapped as Jimmy gripped his arm. — Ah kin see by the catseyes in the road . . . pit oan the fuckin cassette . . .
Jimmy clicked on the play button.
Wonderwall by Oasis came on, Liam Gallagher singing about winding roads and blinding lights.
— GIT THAT OAF! Semo roared. — Switch oan the fuckin radio!
— Right . . . Jimmy shivered. He switched oan the radio, bur Liam kept singing about those winding roads and blinding lights, the song Jimmy's old man claimed was a Beatles ripoff, although he said that about all Oasis songs.
— Ah said switch it oaf! Pit oan the fuckin radio! Semo hissed.
— Ah did! That is the radio! It's oan the fuckin radio n aw! Same song!
— Fuck sakes . . . How mad is that, man, eh? Semo groaned. He couldn't stop the car. Try as he might, he couldn't stop it. — This fuckin car willnae fuckin well stoap!
Jimmy had his hands over his eyes. He looked through them. They weren't moving. — It . . . it hus stoaped. Wir no movin. Wir stoaped, ya daft cunt!
Semo realised that he had parked the car by the side of the road. They got out and made their way tentatively down the street. He looked at the objects that littered the urban landscape through a distorted lens. His limbs were leaden; it was like everything was an effort. Just to keep walking. Just to keep moving. Then they stopped dead.
12
Tazak and Mikey walked down the three-dimensional film set that was Princes Street, absorbing the frozen stillness of the humans, their pets and their vehicles.
Mikey observed some girls, shopping smiles caught in suspended animation. — Hmmm . . . no bad . . .
This was one of the best things in this space game for Mikey Devlin: to just stop Earth time and check every cunt out. Tazak was getting impatient though. It was too much of a psychic energy outlay and it could even send a vibe to the Elders who would investigate and their game would be up before it really started. The best way to halt Earth time was to pick a small, rural spot at night and freeze proceedings in the locality. Operating on this sort of scale was crazy. Tazak was growing irritated with Mikey's fannying about. — C'moan, ya cunt! he shouted. — Wuv goat tae fuckin nash!
— Aye . . . aye . . . Mikey was looking a slim, dark-haired girl up and down. — No bad, he commented, no bad at aw.
Tazak stared with disgust at this chunky, hairy Earth female, with its ugly strips of fur above its tiny eyes; its weird head, with its large, protruding nose and that horrible swelling around the lips of the big mouth. They were truly a repulsive-looking race, yet biologically not so different from his own people. He remembered back to his studies at the Foundation as a Younger, where the others had mocked his small eyes and called him the 'Earthling'. It was ironic that he should be down here now, mixing with them.
He shuddered in recall at the occasion, when, with Mikey, he had coupled with one of these creatures, a small, almost hairless female. They were all in a very high transcendental state at the time, but he had felt disgusted with himself afterwards. Even more irritated at this recall, he hissed at his Earth host, – Ah sais nash! Wuv goat things tae dae!
— Aye, right then, ya cunt, Mikey moaned. He had to concede, there were things to do.
13
Shelley was dreaming again. She was on the ship and the alien was standing over her. There was a man there this time, a human being. It wasn't Liam. It looked a little bit like Alan Devlin.
14
Ally Masters was having the dream also. He was coming home with Denny McEwan and Bri Garratt through the city centre. Soul Fusion had been a good one but the fanny werenae biting and, if the truth be told, the Es were a bit smacky. He was feeling them. Everything seemed to be slowing down. Then, through a blurred haze, a strange light flooded into Ally's eyes. At first he thought it was just the inappropriate appreciation of a distant street lamp brought on by the pills, but its intensity and ubiquity was too overwhelming. This was growing into an amorphous mass of protoplasm and he was heading through it, even as it seemed to be forming a structure around him. He sensed that others were walking alongside him, but he couldn't turn his head. He tried to shout to Denny and Bri but nothing came out.
Then, in a strange instant, he found himself fully awake and in what seemed like an immense white amphitheatre.
— Is this the fuckin whitey tae end aw whiteys or what? Ally asked, looking at Bri and Denny. His friends' eyes had shrunk to pinpricks. He felt a strong ammonia-like sting in his nostrils.
— No fuckin real, man! Denny said, tentatively touching the white walls, which had looked smooth but on closer examination and touch seemed to be composed of tightly packed, glowing encrustations.
Then, where there had previously only seemed to be a wall, a door opened and two large aliens, naked save for a loincloth to cover their genitals, and devoid of bodily hair, walked into the huge amphitheatre. — Awright, boys. How yis daein? one of them said.
The Earth thugs were too shocked to reply. Then, without looking at his friends, Bri Garratt asked, – Aw, fuckin hell, man . . . what the fuck've wi goat here . . . ?
— Fuckin aliens, man! Wild! Denny McEwan gasped.
— Well, fuckin aliens or nae fuckin aliens, nae cunt fucks wi the Hibs crew, Ally snarled, then turned to the Cyrastorian youths. — Ah dinnae ken what youse cunts are aboot, but if yis fuckin well want bother yis uv came tae the right fuckin place . . . The East Terracing top boy pulled out his Stanley knife and advanced towards the tall, thin creatures.
The aliens remained unfazed by Ally Masters' approach. The Earth Casual sensed his hosts' dismissive arrogance. He lashed out at the spokesperson, only to feel his blade bounce against an invisible wall which the Hibs boy could just about visualise as a quivering and pulsing translucent membrane, just a few inches from his would-be victim.
— Yir shitey fuckin Stanley knives are fuck-all use against oor force field, eh, Earth cunt?! the alien sneered.
— Fuck . . . Ally moaned.
— No sae fuckin wide now, ya fuckin Earth tube, another alien laughed.
The top alien gestured languidly and the Stanley knife tore out of Ally's grip and stuck in the wall. — See, Earth cunt, youse think thit yir a hard crew but yir jist a bunch ay fuckin shitein cunts in the whole intergalactic scheme ay things. We
've no even started here yit. Whaire's yir top boys hing oot?
— What the fuck dae youse cunts want? Ally demanded.
— You tae shut yir mooth fir a second, the alien smiled through his thin lips. — Ah'm Tazak, by the way. Ah ken youse cunts so dinnae bother wi the introductions. Tazak lit up a cigarette. — Ah'd crash the ash, bit ah'm runnin a wee bit low. Anywey, here's how it is: thaire's nae fuckin wey that youse cunts'll run us, so dinnae even think aboot it. But we're here tae help youse. We need cunts doon here tae run the fuckin show fir us. We want youse cunts, cause youse speak oor fuckin language. Could've landed in California in the desert like in aw they crap films ay yours, but we went tae Midlothian but, eh.
— How here but? Ally asked.
— Goat tae land somewhere. Might as well be here as anywhere else, eh? Besides, we ken the score. It's only Scotland. Nae cunt listens tae youse dippit fuckers. Anywey, we'll make every cunt listen tae us. Whae runs things doon here now?
— Like, the main men n that? Ally asked.
— Aye.
— Well, that's like in London, or Washington, eh? Denny turned to Ally, who nodded.
— Fuck off, these cunts dinnae rule us. Bri tapped his chest.
— Aye, but that's the fuckin government, ya cunt. Like Westminster . . . or the White Hoose. That's whaire the real power is.
— The only fuckin White Hoose ah ken is the one in Niddrie . . . Denny laughed.
Tazak was growing impatient. — Shut it the now, Earth cunt! Wir talkin serious business here! We'll fuckin gie they cunts a wee demonstration ay what we kin dae. They kin pit the polis oan as much fuckin OT as they like – this is the mentalist crew in the universe thir dealin wi here! They've no seen real fuckin swedgin yit! We'll fuckin show thum swedgin! Swedgin thit could tear a fuckin solar system apart!
The top boys looked at each other. This alien cunt, this Tazak, talked a good pagger. They would bide their time and see if the cunt could deliver. They could feel the adrenalin pumping through their bodies. Masters and his crew sensed that they had been preparing themselves all their lives for something like this to go off, and they were determined not to let the colours down.
15
The chippy was doing great business. Not from the travellers who were barred by the growing number of police from crossing over the flyover, but from the reporters and camera crews who had come to observe the phenomenon. However, Vincent, the proprietor, was still a far from happy man. There had been a break-in the other night. The fags and cash had been secured in a strongroom and the lock was intact. The thieves, in their frustration at only being able to get some confectionery, had splashed the contents of industrial-sized chip-sauce containers all over his shop. He had an idea who the culprits were. It had to be that Ian Simpson and that Jimmy Mulgrew. He'd see Drysdale about this.
16
The energy was there. It was telling them to come to Scotland. In London, in Amsterdam, in Sydney, in San Francisco, the posses on their comedown heard the message. They would all head to Rosewell in Midlothian for the greatest ever gathering of human spirits. The energy crackled in the air. Posse leaders, seemingly driven, pointed the way to this small settlement on the fringes of Northern Europe. The authorities, sensing something was in the air, watched and waited.
At the chippy, Vincent was dumbfounded. The lock for the strongroom was intact and all the cash was present, but, miraculously, the cigarettes seemed to have vanished.
17
It's almost 4 a.m. and Andrew, Jimmy's dad, feels that his son should be asleep and his mates should be home, instead of upstairs in Jimmy's room playing those cheap tartan techno tapes which they buy in the Asian discount store up the South Bridge. Parental control had become a blurred concept since Jimmy had filled out and met his old man's warning gazes with challenging, hardened eyes.
Jimmy's dad is not too sensitive though, and as long as it's low enough for him to hear the telly, then it's not a problem. The doctor's Valium has taken the edge of Andrew's pain. His wife is long gone. She got fed up with Andrew's depression, impotence and lack of cash since his redundancy from Bilston Glen, and went to live with a day-centre worker in Penicuik.
Jimmy should be sleeping. Fuckin school, Andrew thinks, then remembers that his son left last year. Andrew feels that Jimmy's mother must be giving their son money. Money which goes on drugs, when Andrew finds himself lucky to manage a fuckin pint down the club on a giro day. That selfish wee cunt and his mates were always off their tits on something or other. Like the other night; they had come back in some state. Acid. He knew what it was. These wee cunts thought they had invented drugs.
It's ten years since he was made redundant from the pit. History had vindicated Scargill, sure, but that counted for fuck all. The era had been about selfishness and greed and Scargill was simply out of time and Thatcher was in. Andrew had put in his shift on the picket lines, went on demos, but had sensed from the off that it wasn't going to be a glorious time for the old industrial proletariat. The vibe was important. The vibe then was small and petty and fearful, with too many people eager to embrace the false certainties their masters and assorted lackeys bleated out.
In a way it is healthier now: nobody believes in anything these lying bastards ever spout. Even the politicians themselves seem to rap out the old bullshit with more desperation than the traditional smug conviction everyone's grown accustomed to. The vibe is changing alright, but what is it changing into?
Boom boom boom. The tartan techno beat thuds insistently. Boom boom boom. Andrew hits the volume button on the handset, but the fuckin tartan techno, it's moving up too, keeping pace. Then Mrs Mooney next door is thumping on the wall. Andrew lets his knuckles go white on the rests of the chair.
Upstairs, Jimmy and the boys are celebrating. The duty cop at the substation, PC Drysdale, had given them the coveted crime number they required to advance their criminal injuries claim. Drysdale had taken in the young team's fictitious rantings all too eagerly. He had little time for the local yobs, but far less for those fucking travellers who were making life on his patch a complete misery. It would only take one flashpoint incident for something horrendous to go off, then his promotion board chances would be well and truly jeopardised. This sensitive-policing bollocks had its limitations. Drysdale's instincts told him to wade in and bang up some likely-looking crusties. However, he knew the line that Cowan, the head guy on the promotion board, would be taking.
18
The Hibs boys were being less than cooperative with the aliens. — How the fuck should we help youse? Ally Masters asked Tazak.
The alien puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette.— Youse kin dae what yis fuckin well like –
He was interrupted by another voice: — Cause we're daein you a favour, ya fuckin radge! The Earthlings stood shocked at the presence of one of their own kind.
The Hibs boys stared in disbelief. It was Mikey Devlin, Alan Devlin's brother. The cunt that vanished. Now he was back. He was still clad in Nikes!
— Mikey Devlin! Ally Masters said, looking Mikey up and down. — Very . . . eh, eighties gear, ma man. The trainers like. Whaire ye been hidin?
— Hyperspace, eh, Mikey smiled, — n ah've goat a tale tae tell youse cunts thit's a loat mair important thin fuckin labels.
He told the boys the story.
— But how could ye just leave like that? Bri Garratt demanded.
— Turn yir back oan yir mates? Ally asked.
— Turnt ehs back oan Scotland, Denny McEwan sneered.
The parochialism of his old crew was getting on Mikey's tits. — Fuck Scotland, ya daft cunt! Ah've been aw ower the fuckin universe! Seen things youse cunts couldnae fuckin well see in yir wildest dreams!
Denny held his ground. — Fuck it, Mikey. Dinnae come back here n slag off Scotland, that's aw ah'm sayin.
Mikey looked tiredly at Tazak. These cunts were just not getting the message.— Scotland . . . he scoffed, — it's jist a fuckin spec ay dust tae me. Shut the fuck u
p aboot Scotland. Ah'm back here tae make us the top fuckin crew oan Planet Earth!
19
The weather had broken. It pished rain from the heavens. Trevor Drysdale tried to get a good night's sleep for his promotion board interview the next day. Only the thought of those crusty bastards, drenched in a cold field, gave him the warm satisfaction to lull him into soft dreams. As anxious as he was the next morning, Drysdale had prepared well. Interviews were all about cracking codes, finding the current vogue; one minute liberal rhetoric, the next the hard line. The best professional in any bureaucracy was always the one who could control his or her prejudices and learn the dominant spiel with conviction. How one acted, of course, was totally irrelevant, as long as the espousal was effective. With Cowan, it was the liberal bullshit he wanted, so Drysdale would give him it, in shovel-loads. For Cowan, toeing the line was almost as important as personal tidiness.
20
Clint Phillips has been body-swerving Jimmy and Semo since his hospital discharge and the registration of the crime with PC Drysdale. They meet up with Dunky by the quarry, who tells them that Clint has intimated to them that he does not intend to share out the proceeds from the Criminal Injuries Compensation Board. A very aggrieved Jimmy and Semo decide to put the frighteners on Clint. They will steal a car and drive it at speed at him, across the forecourt in the garage.— Show the cunt wir no fuckin aboot here, Semo said.
21
Trevor Drysdale looks at his reflection in the mirror. He has backcombed and blow-dried his hair. He looks a bit poofy with a quiff, Drysdale thinks, but Cowan would approve of the softer image, which is much less severe than his normal Brylcreemed look. Drysdale considers that he cuts quite a dash in his light grey Moss Bros suit. He was moving out of this ugly hellhole, taking on supervisory responsibilities. The South Side Area Station was calling.