This Glen cunt looks at ays aw stroppy as ah sit doon, but ah dinnae gie a fuck, ah’ve said ma piece n pit the goods oan display. Time tae jist kick back n see what bites n gets reeled in but, ay. Ah’ve sat back wi ma right leg restin high oan the chair in front, tae lit Auld Faithful display nicely ower the inside ay ma thigh. This Glen boy, he’s haein nane ay it, though, ay. — Perhaps, Terry, you might like to tell us why you’re here?
Ah gies a wee shrug. — A bit deep. Why’s any ay us here but, mate? Ah’ve came along tae this meetin cause ah like a ride, ay. Thoat ah’d meet some kindred spirits! Spice ay –
— I don’t think you understand the meaning of this group, Glen sortay gasps oot, ehs puss aw creasin up. Thaire’s a few tuts aroond the room.
But ah fuckin well dae ken the meaning, cause ah’ve been lookin at the burds’ reactions; maist ay thum’uv goat that stroke-victim turned-doon-mooth oan thum, but that wee honey, the yin thit checked the goods oan display, she’s fair crackin up! Ah’m fuckin well gaun hame wi her! Guaranteed!
This Glen cunt’s still giein it the big yin: — . . . the people in this group have had their lives wrecked by their addictions to sex, and inappropriately acting on those emotions. He looks roond them aw for support.
This big fat bastard stands up. — I’m Grant and I’ve been sober now for eight years . . .
— Well done, Grant, Glen goes, as the other cunts start aw that ‘good oan ye, mate’ shite.
Ah dinnae git this at aw. — Whin ye say sober, does that mean yuv no hud a ride in eight years? Cause if ah hudnae hud a fuckin ride in eight years ah widnae be sober, ah’d be right oan the fuckin pish!
Thaire’s a few gasps n heid-shakes at that but the wee honey in ma sights jist pits her hand ower her mooth tae stifle a wee laugh. The fat cunt, this Grant boy, he’s nearly greetin but, ay. — My addiction cost me my whole life, my family, my beautiful daughters and the love of a fantastic –
Ah cuts um oaf. — Cause ah kin sort ay believe it ay you, mate. No bein wide, but yir a big laddie, likes . . . but in aw the wrong weys, if ye git ma drift but, ay. N yir daein that feelin sorry for yirsel thing, nae burd wants that, ah goes, n turnin tae the lassies, fir support, likes. Feminism in action!
— No . . . you don’t understand . . . I’m sober through choice . . .
Ah’m startin tae fuckin tipple. — Ye mean by sober thit yuv no hud a ride?
The Glen gadge steams in. — Terry, you seem to be fundamentally misunderstanding what this group is about. We’re here to talk about the crippling losses our addiction has cost us. You must have had broken marriages, estranged children, destroyed relationships . . .
This pits ays oan the spot. A sea ay faces, burds, bairns, but maist ay aw fannies, seems tae flash before ma eyes. Shaved minges, Brazilians, ginger, blonde, but they soon get swamped by a pulsin forest ay thick black bushes; which tells us wir back tae the fuckin eighties. — Aye . . . uv hud aw that. N it isnae very nice, ah admit, cause it isnae, n besides, yuv goat tae gie the cunts something. — But you gadges are too gless-is-half-empty. Ah’ve hud a loat ay fuckin barry rides fae some quality fanny, ah explain, — a few muck-buckets n aw, ah’ll gie ye that, but ah widnae change a fuckin minute ay it! Shot over twenty scud flicks!
This Glen cunt sees the wey this is gaun, n tries tae switch the conversation. — Look, this group is about coming to terms with our addiction, not celebrating it.
A burd who looks rough as fuck, but ah’d still gie yin tae, turns roond n goes, — Typical defence mechanism, not dealing with the loss, pain and heartbreak the disease of addiction causes!
— Ye kin talk aboot that aw ye like, but as oor Italian cousins say: ye dinnae take-a the humpy wi the rumpy-pumpy!
Well, that gits a few laughs, before it gits aw borin again n ye huv tae listen tae cunts gaun oan aboot how ridin’s fucked up thair lives. Fuck that: take shaggin n peeve oot ay the equation n yir left wi the square root ay sweet fuck all! N the only root ah’m fuckin well bothered aboot is Auld Faithful’s, whae’s stiffenin nicely. Down, boy . . .
That wee raven-haired honey, she’s a total wee clart; gies ays a wee slow wink. Ya cunt! She gits ma ‘ah’m game’ yin right back at her! You wi the hair that’s awfay inky, yir fuckin well getting the stinky pinky! Guaranteed!
Of course, when it’s coffee brek we’re straight oot the fuckin door n intae the cab, right up tae the fuckin Pentlands. Ah’ve pilled up in a secluded spot n wir in the back, n ah’ve soon goat ma hands slappin against the roof ay ma cab n ah’m pumpin away good style!
Wuv baith come like the Spanish Inquisition, then wi sit gaspin away in the back for a bit. Then ah thinks ah’d better git the lassie’s name. Ah hate it whin ye ride some burd n ye forget tae git her name, n, mair important, gie her yours. Jist soas she kin lit her mates ken but, ay.
— Ah’m Terry, by the way.
— Ah heard ye say, at the meetin.
— Right . . . you’re . . .
Ah realises that she’s fuckin distressed n nearly greetin. The guilt and regret seems tae huv kicked in early big time. — I’m anonymous . . . or I fucking well should be!
— What’s up?
Now the tears ur flowin n she goes, — I’ve done it again! I’ve fallen off the fucking wagon! I have to call my sponsor . . .
The burd’s as pissed oaf as fuck: the coupon oan it! Ye eywis try n calm thum doon in this situ. — Awright, doll, ah’ll take ye hame. Where’s it ye stey?
— South Side, she goes, turnin away fae the phone, then back tae it. Ah start up, but ah’ve goat the mike oan so ah kin hear every word ay her call. — Kerry, it’s Lorraine . . .
At least ah’ve goat her name.
— . . . I had an incident, this taxi driver . . . he had a huge cock . . . ah see hur lookin at ays, but ah’m keepin ma eyes oan the road. Fuckin balm tae the ego that yin, but! — . . . it was at the meeting . . . Yes, a really big cock . . . Yes, we left the meeting at the coffee break . . . I dunno, but it was big . . . I’m very close to yours now . . . She bangs on the windae. — Turn right into Rankeillor Street!
Fuck sake, it’s practically roond the corner fae me! So ah does, n ah parks up. Thaire’s another burd, a bit aulder, waitin at the stair door. She looks at ays as ah git oot the cab, n ah see her glancin doonstairs tae the ootline ay Auld Faithful, whae’s back in semi-mode already. — Hi. I’m Kerry. So you were at the meeting too?
— A pleasure, Kerry. Ah’m Terry . . . Terry n Kerry, ah jokes, but the lassie’s coupon steys serious. So ah tells her, — Aye, I was.
Her eyes go really wide, n she turns tae that Lorraine. — So Terry’s vulnerable also . . .
This wee dark-heided Lorraine burd looks at ays, aw confused, then back tae her.
Kerry turns tae me again, her heid twistin like crazy. — You shouldn’t be alone either, Terry. Then tae Lorraine. — The pair of you, come up and have some coffee. We have to process this.
Ya cunt, did we no fuckin well process it awright! Ah wis up the pair ay thum aw fuckin night! Wish Sick Boy wis still here, ah’d huv goat the cunt roond wi ehs camera, n goat that yin doon! Perr Lorraine wisnae too chuffed in the morning, ower coffee n toast, when ah asked her fir a tenner. — It’s oan the meter, ye kin check. Thaire’s an auld sayin in the taxi trade: the camera might lie but the meter fuckin well doesnae!
— But –
— Sorry, hen, but cannae make any allowances, it’s ma livelihood, ay.
Ah collected up n left thum tae it. Checked the missed calls n the emails oan the cheeky phone. A stack ay thum, n aw fae burds. Ah’m solidly booked!
The phone goes again n ah take the call cause it’s Jason.
— Terry. How goes?
— Good, Jase. Good, pal. Lovin the cab work and it’s aw tickin ower otherwise, ken? Listen, might have something fir ye tae look at, legal documents, ken?
— My speciality is property, Terry, but I help people buy houses, not protect people who break into them.
— Hi!
Ah’ve never broken intae a hoose for years!
— Glad tae hear it. Listen, I’m coming up soon. I’ve got a bit of news. I’ve just got engaged to Vanessa. Probably wait till later next year when she finishes her master’s before tying the knot.
— Congratulations, pal. She’s a fine lassie, ah tells um, n ah wis gaunny say fit lassie, but ah mind that ehs ma son n ye huv tae make an effort.
We catch up for a bit then ah goes doon the Southern Bar wi Russell Latapy, the lappy, for the free Wi-Fi. Ah gits online and starts looking at the expensive whiskies. Ah’m fuckin blown away.
The Trinity whisky, a blend of rare stocks, including some that have been maturing at the distillery for more than 150 years is produced by Bowcullen in Glencarrock, Inverness-shire, and has proven very popular with serious collectors. The first bottle was purchased via an agent by an anonymous American buyer, described only as a ‘high-profile client’, while the second was purchased by Lord Fisher of Campsie. The third is on display at the distillery museum in Glencarrock, where it shall remain, most emphatically not for sale.
This is why Ronnie’s here; he’s got one ay the three unique vintage Bowcullens and the daft cunt’s willing tae pey $200,000 for the remaining two boatils. Or mibbe even mair. Good tae ken!
20
WHAT’S COOKIN IN THE CUIK?
PENICUIK’S A TWO-BUS journey, sur, aye it is. Ye git one tae the Bridges, then the other yin’s what the paper called ‘a long spin out to the periphery of the city and the mining town nestling in its jaws at the foot of the Pentland Hills’. Ah eywis minded that, cause it makes the Cuik famous for bein in the paper, like it’s New York or somewhere. Aye, it does that, sur. Ah like tae sit upstairs in front lookin oot the windaes, cause it fair helps wi ma motion sickness. Aye it does, but ah’m still a wee bit queasy as ah git oaf a couple ay stoaps before the centre ay toon, headin tae muh ma’s hoose in the scheme.
Ah ken ah should huv gone tae muh ma’s ages ago, cause she nivir gits oot. Aye, she nivir gits oot at aw. Too fat tae leave the hoose since ah wis at school, n even too fat tae git oot ay bed for years now. Oor Karen looks eftir her. Now Karen’s goat awfay fat n aw. Aye sur, awfay fat.
Wir doonstairs in the kitchen n Karen makes ays a pizza. Frozen pizza. Barry. — Barry, ah goes.
— Aye, ye ey liked yir pizza, Karen goes, n she’s eatin a bit n aw. — So how’s Jinty?
Ah dinnae ken what tae say. It’s like she kens something isnae right, that wey she’s lookin ay ays. Ah dinnae like it whin folk look at ye like they ken things ur no right. Cause even if they ken something’s no right, they dinnae ken what it is that’s no right. Ye huv tae mind that. Aw sur, ye dae.
— What’s up, Jonty?
But ah jist look at her n sais, — Jinty’s left ays.
Karen’s eyes go aw wide. — Another felly?
— Ah dinnae ken. She wis oot wi some laddies doon The Pub Wi Nae Name whin Bawbag wis oan, aye . . . aye . . . aye . . .
— Ah’m sorry tae hear that, Jonty, Karen goes. — Ah ey thoat youse wir good thegither.
Ah’m no huvin that cause they jist met at Hank’s once n they nivir goat oan, naw they didnae. It wis like her n Morag ganged up oan Jinty, n ah dinnae like that, naw sur, ah did not, cause ah’ve hud folk gang up oan me tons ay times, n it isnae nice, naw it’s no. Jist cause Jinty sais tae hur: ‘Funny aboot you n Jonty bein brar n sister, wi Jonty bein that thin n you bein awfay fat.’ Karen dinnae like that! Naw sur, she did not. Now she’s lookin at ays n ah’m gaun, — She’ll be back. She’s done it before, aye she hus. Aye.
— Well, mibbe, Karen sais in a sortay snidey wey. But ah’m no gaunny argue, naw ah am not, cause it’s barry tae be back in muh ma’s auld hoose. Aye sur, the auld hoose. The yin wi aw the China dugs oan the mantelpiece, n no jist Wally dugs, but pugs n Labradors n Alsatians n Jack Russell terriers n aw. Ah ey wanted a dug cause ah wisnae allowed yin eftir Clint died, but Jinty ey sais, ‘Dinnae be daft, what dae wi want a dug fir?’
But wi hud aw they China dugs here that muh ma liked. Ah eywis think back tae how the hoose wis whin ah lived here. — Ye mind ay Robbo and Crabbo, ah asks Karen, — the two canaries, aye sur: Robbo n Crabbo?
Karen looks intae the corner tae whaire that cage used tae hing. — Aye, ah mind wi hud tae git rid ay thum, whin real faither Henry came back, cause they went fir his chist, Karen goes.
Aye, that wis sad whin eh came back, cause eh made us git rid ay Robbo n Crabbo. Billy MacKay, he lit ays keep burds, cause eftir Robbo n Crabbo ah hud Stephane. But Stephane wis mair ay a budgie. N blue. But ah’m laughin n ah’m thinkin ay Robbo n Crabbo gaun fir the auld man’s chist, like they wir pit bulls, rippin the tits oaf um wi razor-sherp beaks, aye sur, ah’m laughin, but Karen isnae laughin, cause she’s aw sort ay upset, n then she’s greetin.
— What is it?
— Eh’s dyin, ay. In the hoaspital. The Royal. Real faither Henry.
— Aw, ah goes, thinkin, jist yin bus though, the hoaspital. That’s if it’s the Infirmary. One bus fae here. Two fae Gorgie but. Billy MacKay wisnae a real faither but eh wis better cause eh nivir battered ays but. — Aye, the hoaspital. The Royal.
— N ah feel like ah should go n see him, Karen sais, then she goes, — Ah dinnae ken what fir, eh nivir treated us right. Ah suppose cause she cannae git oot tae see um, n she points up the stair tae whaire Ma is. — Bit eh nivir treated us right, Jonty. Ay-no? Even Hank wis nivir treated right by oor blood faither. Eh trained us aw bad, ay, Jonty?
— Aye, aye, he nivir wis good. It wisnae right, ah goes. — Naw sur.
Karen’s face is aw rid, under that blonde hair. Blonde hair, aye, like Ma’s used tae be. — Eh’s still oor faither but, eh, she goes, but she’s still greetin, even mair. — That hus tae count fir something! N she looks like she’s beggin ays tae say something.
Ah dinnae like tae see a lassie greet. Jinty, gie hur ur due, she’s no much ay a greeter. But Karen’s made different. Eywis greets. Real faither Henry used tae say thit she gret at the droap ay a hat. — What’s wrong?
— Ma life’s wrong, that’s whit’s wrong! Karen bawls. — Ah’m stuck wi hur. She points up tae the ceiling, meanin muh ma upstairs. — N ah’m gaun the same wey, she sais n spreads her big, meaty airms. — Look at ays! Ah’m a pig!
— No yir no!
— Aye uh am! Naebody wid ivir fancy me!
— Aye they wid, ah tell her. N ah kin see that she disnae believe ays so ah pits ma airm acroass her shoodir n goes, — See, if ah wisnae yir brother, ah’d fancy ye! N ah dinnae ken how ah sais that, probably jist cause Karen’s kind. Aye sur, she’s ey been kind tae me, n she gied us that pizza; she did that. Whin yir awfay lonely wi Jinty no speakin, it’s nice haein folk bein kind tae ye. Aw aye.
Karen looks ays right n the eye, n goes, — Dinnae lit that stoap ye . . . you bein muh brar, likes.
Her face is awfay serious n ah dinnae like this. — But ah’m wi . . . ah mean . . .
— It’s no like anybody’s gaunny ken, Jonty. If ye dae something n it’s your secret, naebody else kens aboot, it disnae really count as bad. How kin it, whin it’s no hurtin anybody else?
— Disnae count . . .
— It disnae count if naebody kens. Whae’s gaunny ken? Whae’s gaunny be hurt? Ma cannae git doon the stairs. Naebody’s gaunny ken. That’s the beauty ay it, Jonty! Naebody’s gaunny ken!
— Naebody . . . naebody, sur . . .
— Ah need a felly. Brian stoaped callin roond whin ah goat big. Gittin big doesnae stoap ye wantin it but, Jonty . . .
— Disnae stoap ye . . .
So wi goes tae the couch n Karen sais, — We’ll need tae be awfay quiet, but.
— Aye, ah goes. Ma dirty wee boaby-pipe’s aw hard n she takes ma zip doon n grabs a hud ay it. Ah dinnae like that, cause it’s no aw the soft wey thit Jinty does it.
Then she goes, her face aw pinched, — Geez it well, stuff it in ma fuckin fanny!
N ah’m no happy now, naw sur, bit it’s like the
dirty boaby-pipe’s got its ain life n she’s gittin her skirt up n her pants doon, her big thighs wobblin like fightin bairns. Ah dinnae want her tae start makin a fuss, no wi muh ma upstairs, so ah’m thinking ah’ll git this ower wi, aye, n ah’m gittin ma troosers doon n tryin tae find the lassie sex hole in aw her fat. It isnae easy, no like wi Jinty, ma wee Jinty, but ah’m archin back n pushin it in n she goes, — Dinnae kiss ays cause that’s right mucky, but squeeze ays, Jonty, squeeze ays hard . . . fuck me, Jonty!
— Aye . . . n ah’m lookin at the pile ay washin oan the chair beside the couch, n ah’m pumpin n squeezin . . .
— That’s it, Jonty . . . yuv goat strong airms n a big cock fir a laddie that wee n thin . . . harder . . .
Ah’m worried aboot yon creakin noises yon couch is makin. Then ah hears Ma gaun, — Whae’s doon thaire!
— JIST JON-TAY . . . Karen shouts up.
— Bring um up! Bring um tae see ays!
— AYE . . . ONE MINNIT!
— WHIT YOUSE TWO DAEIN DOON THAIRE!?
Karen starts gaun that red wey thit a loat ay lassies go whin thir ready tae git tae the finishin line, as Jinty ey called it. ‘Keep gaun, Jonty, till ah croass that effin finishin line,’ she used tae say. Jinty could sometimes speak bad. Ah dinnae hud wi that talk, n it’s worse oan lassies, aye it is, n it causes trouble. But ah’d go, ‘Aye, Jinty, aye ah will, aye, aye, aye . . .’ But it’s Karen now n she makes a long, shrill n squeaky sound. She does that. Aw aye. Aw aye.
N then it’s aw peaceful. Even Ma’s stoaped shoutin. Karen whispers in ma ear, — Dad used tae dae this tae ays. Real faither Henry, no yon Billy MacKay, he nivir touched ays. But whin eh came back that time; that Henry, mind? Ah wis aboot twelve. Eh did it in ma bedroom, Jonty, whin he goat up in the night. He said that eh couldnae sleep wi hur any mair. Said ah wis a woman now that ah wis at the big school. Made ays feel like yin, even if ah wisnae really.