Terry glances over, sees a slight reaction from Sara-Ann at the mention of Liz’s name. — Ah’ve been maistly off the system though, cause ah’m workin fir this boy, Ronnie Checker, ken the American cunt oan the telly?
— Business takes balls! Jack shouts.
— Ooh, I should imagine he would be something of a tyrant to work for, Bladesey says.
— Nah, eh’s a fuckin shitein cunt really, ay, Sal? Feart ay that Bawbag! Fuckin crappin ehs breeks! We hud tae go roond the other night n hud the cunt’s hand, ay?
— He seemed to think it was some kind of Hurricane Katrina/New Orleans-type deal, Sara-Ann laughs.
— Well, says Stumpy Jack, — never mind shitey hurricanes, ah’ll tell ye whae the real cunts are: they bastards in Control! Tryin tae git ays tae take a test! Sayin ah’m no fit tae drive a cab! Been drivin a fuckin cab for years!
— Be private hire for you next, Jackie boy, Doughheid observes.
— Private hire? Nivir kent one ay they cunts that didnae huv a record the length ay yir airm!
Terry nips to the toilet for a pish and a line, and on his return is delighted to see Sara-Ann bringing a round of drinks on a tray. — Class, he nods to the others, — ah like that in a burd.
Sara-Ann looks at the men around the table, in a deep socially anthropological way. She thinks about how, although she grew up in this city, she’s never spent any time in the company of men like these.
— Well, I’m an old-school chap in many respects, Bladesey contends, — but willingness to pay one’s way is an attractive feature in anybody.
Sara-Ann cracks a half-smile at him. — So what attracts you to a woman, Cliff?
Bladesey blushes slightly. — It would have to be her eyes. They say it’s the gateway to the soul.
— They’ve no goat fuckin eyes in your case! White-stick job, mate, Stumpy Jack says.
— What aboot you, Terry? Doughheid asks. — What is it attracts you to a woman?
— Just the fact that thir women’s enough for that randy cunt, Jack roars, then looks sheepishly at Sara-Ann. — Sorry, doll, ah didnae mean it like that –
— Shut it, ya fuckin splinter-thighed muppet, Terry roars, then turns to Clifford Blades, and puts his arm round him. — Ah’m wi you, Bladesey, it’s what you said, mate; nowt sexier in a lassie than the eyes. As in ‘aye, ah will suck yir boaby’, ‘aye, ah will sit oan yir face’.
As the drunken laughter erupts, the karaoke operator enters and starts setting up in the corner.
— It looks like it’s going to be one of those nights! Bladesey shouts.
— Ah cannae git too fucked up, Terry says, looking in mild appeal at Sara-Ann, — cause ah’ve goat tae drive this American bam up tae the Highlands the morn.
— I want more drink! Sara-Ann announces.
— Only if ye agree tae dae karaoke with me, Terry states.
— Done!
— Game on, and Terry goes across to the operator, tells him to put on Journey’s ‘Small Town Girl’.
23
WHITE FUNNY STUFF
MIND WHIN AH first met ye, Jinty, in the pub oan Lothian Road? Aye sur, Lothian Road. Mind ay that, Jinty? Mind what ye sais tae ays? Ye goes: ‘Yir no that brainy, ur ye, Jonty?’ Ah meant tae say back, ‘Well, mibbe you’re no very brainy either, Jinty; ye might be brainier thin me, but yir still no that brainy.’ But ah said nowt cause ye wir brand new, aye ye wir, n then ye said, ‘Well, it doesnae matter but, cause yir a nice felly n ah like ye.’ N then we went hame n did it. Ye sortay moved in eftir that cause ye telt ays thit the boy ye wir steyin wi had kicked ye oot, n ye didnae want tae huv tae go hame n stey wi Maurice.
Mind when we first did it? The winchin? You goes, ‘Whoa, Jonty, yir a bigger boy thin ah thoat! Yir an awfay big laddie, mibbe no tall or brawny but aw the weight ay ye is in yon cock!’ N ah gied ye it awright, Jinty, mind ah gied ye it? Split ye right up the middle n ye liked it! Sure ye did! Aye sur, aye sur, aye sur. Makes ays feel bad but: aw them in that Pub Wi Nae Name makin a fool ay my boaby. Aye, they probably jist want ays tae paint doon thaire so thit they kin torment ays mair. You nivir made a fool ay ma boaby, Jinty.
Aye sur, ye wir ma girl, Jinty. Cept whin ye goat pished. Ye cheynged whin ye goat pished but, ay. It wis a different thing, Jinty, aye sur, a different thing. The demon drink, aye sur, the demon drink. N that funny white stuff, naw naw naw, ah’m no wantin tae talk aboot that . . . pit ye in the jile . . . ye dinnae want the jile. Cause it turned yir dad funny, aye, Jinty, Maurice, yir faither, he went funny in the jile, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur . . .
N ah telt ye, Jinty, whin ye came back n wi hud that row, n you said ye wir gaun oot again, ah said, ‘Dinnae stey oot wi thon Bawbag oan!’ That wis what ah said. Aye, ah did. No thon night whin the gales wir blawin doon the Gorgie Road at a hunner n sixty-five mile an ooir. N ye widnae listen, ye wanted tae go back tae that pub, wi thaim, in ye wid’ve jist went again for mair funny white stuff so ah hud tae stoap ye, Jinty, aye, ah did, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye, aye, aye, aye, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, Penicuik sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye, aye aye, that’s right, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur. Aye.
Shid nivir huv left Penicuik.
Naw sur.
Naw.
24
INSTRUMENTS OF THE DEVIL
YA CUNT, THAT wis some session, doon the Taxi Club last night. Some cunts say the Taxi Club isnae what it once wis, n it isnae, but it’s still one ay the cheapest pints in toon, n that hus tae count for something. Suicide Sal got pished as fuck but, n she wis anglin tae git back tae mine. Ah body-swerved that yin n she passed oot, so ah took her back oot tae Joppa. On the wey thaire she fuckin woke up n telt ays tae pull ower somewhere, already pillin her clathes off. Fuck sakes. Ah found a spot n banged her back tae sleep, but it wis some graft. A total goer and a tidy ride, but that shaved minge ay hers needs either another fuckin trim or tae grow oot a bit, cause it nearly tore the fuckin scrotum oaf ays. Baw sack like a fuckin blown-oot tyre oan the motorway! But job done: she wis fuckin wasted eftir that ride n aw the peeve. Hud tae cairry her oot the cab n hud her up when ah pressed the bell. The auld girl came oot n dragged her in; ah could hear another shoutin match gaun oan. But that wis me offski.
Up early this morning tae git doon tae the sauna, eftir stoapin oaf for breakfast at this place oan the Walk that does good porridge. Complex carbs: set ye up fir a day’s shaggin. When a burd sais, ‘What’s your fuckin secret, Terry?’ ah ey tell them: porridge. They think ah’m jokin but ah’m no: best source ay complex carbs but, ay.
That wee Jinty wis a bit ay a scrubber, aye, but wi aw are given the chance. Another tidy enough ride though, and that’s the main thing. Ah’m no that struck oan the vibe doon this Liberty place, n ah dinnae like tae think ay her bein in bother. Burds, even somewhere like that, shouldnae be huvin trouble at aw: you’ve goat tae respect fanny.
So ah check doon the sauna, but thaire’s jist that Andrea, wearin a black eye, n that grinning-pussed wee Kelvin cunt. Thaire’s nae Jinty, n nae Saskia either, which sort ay makes ays feel worried. So ah dinnae hing aboot n git back up tae the motor. Ah call Saskia, but it goes tae her answerphone. It’s goat nippy ootside, everybody’s wearin their winter clathes, yir even seein the odd hard cunt in a jackit or jumper.
Ah’m back tae Gorgie n check in at The Pub Wi Nae Name. The Barksies are in thaire, n Evan (at least ah think that’s Evan) is oan the pool table wi some muppet. — Barks.
— Tez.
Evan kin be awright, in fact eh kin be a bit ay a laugh oan his good days. But basically eh’s one ay they moanin-faced cunts that’s doon oan every other fucker. Been like that since school; ey has that ‘how uv they goat that, n ah’ve no’ sort ay mumpy, snidey wey aboot um. Weird tae think how eh used tae bully The Poof back then. Wi aw did, ah suppose, but Evan took it tae extremes. Ah even telt um tae fuckin cool it a few times. — Nae sign ay th
at wee Jinty burd?
— Nah, that wee Jonty cunt disnae lit her oot. Eh caught her bein a wee bit naughty wi me in the bogs. Hi hi hi! That night you wir in: you droaped her oaf, mind? eh goes, n ehs mate, a skinny cunt in a V-neck jumper, sniggers. It’s that Lethal Stuart boy. Evan lines up his shot, looks up fae the table. — The night the hurricane wis oan. Mind?
— Right. Nice one. So whaire’s this Jonty boy?
The Evan Barksie twin points oot this dippit-looking wee cunt in the corner, which is sectioned oaf, n eh’s paintin away at the waws in the alcove. Ah’m watchin um sortay starin oaf intae space, as eh paints in smooth, steady strokes.
FUCK ME!
AW NAW.
Ah ken that wee cunt’s puss! Eh’s fuckin Hank’s brar, which makes him one ay that auld cunt’s up the hoaspital! Which makes um, technically speakin, ma fuckin half-brar, even though ah’ve no spoken a word tae the wee radge in ma puff! N ah’ve jist banged the dippit wee cunt’s burd!
JESUS FUCK ALMIGHTY!
At least it’s no as bad as what happened tae ays before. Shagged a burd oan hoaliday in Tenerife, found oot she wis one ay that auld minger Henry’s! Ya cunt, ah couldnae git up for an ooir eftir finding that oot! So now ah’ve goat a golden rule wi toon fanny, even when ye meet them oot ay toon, like oan hoaliday: ask them whae thair fuckin faither is.
The boy looks ower n half smiles ay ays, n ah thinks aboot gaun ower tae um, bit naw, fuck that, ah jist gies um a drinker’s salute back. He grins back at ays, aw shy, then looks away tae the waw. So ah sit at the bar wi a boatil ay Beck’s n watch um.
— Eh’s no aw right in the heid, the other Barksie, Craig, goes. — Came intae the bogs n washed ehs welt in the fuckin sink, then dried it under the dryer. Fuckin retard.
— Some welt oan the boy but, this gadge Tony laughs. — Wee cunt’s like a fuckin tripod!
Makes sense; if the boy’s knobbin that feisty wee ride Jinty, eh’d need something gaun fir um, n him packin a welt is likely tae be it. Straight fae the Lawson gene pool, probably aboot the only decent thing that cunt Henry gied us both. Cannae talk tae the boy but: dinnae want tae draw attention tae the fact that ah’ve banged ehs missus. Perr boy looks that dippit eh probably doesnae even ken she’s been graftin as a Roger Moore.
I get in the cab and head tae the golf coorse tae pick up Ronnie whae’s telt ays tae meet um thaire. Eh’s wi that stiff-ersed cunt, Mortimer the boy’s name is, and they’ve been huvin another wee barney. — Make that your priority! Ronnie snaps, sendin the muppet oaf wi a flea in ehs ear. The radge turns n gies me a funny look as he heads oaf tae ehs motor. Ronnie shakes ehs heid in disgust, then smiles at me. He’s wearing a hat wi Atlanta Braves oan it; the Mohawk must be flattened doon. We heads tae the Balmoral, n he goes upstairs tae git his stuff thegither. Ah’m waitin for him in the lobby, so ah phones Saskia again. This time she picks up, which is a wee relief. — Terry . . .
— Awright, pal? You okay?
— Yes, I was just for having some flu. There is still no word from Jinty?
— Naw, ah say, n hear her sneeze. — You’d better get back tae bed wi some Lemsip. Ah’ll see ye later n shout ye if thaire’s any news.
— Okay . . . I will too, if I am hearing something. Thanks . . .
— Sound, cheers. Ah hings up as ma mate Johnny Cattarh phones, telling ays some ketamine story that ah kin dae without hearin, n ah’m gled tae git shot ay the cunt. Drug tales are like dream tales and shaggin tales: only interestin if thir yir ain. Ah only watch porn tae make a list ay the lassies that ah’d love tae work wi. Which is basically thum aw, mind you. It wid be nice tae git doon tae Tufnell Park n see Camilla n Lisette again. Top burds. So that pits ays in mind tae call Sick Boy, whae picks up right away, which is unusual. — Terry.
— Simon! How goes?
— Busy. Your point is, caller?
— Ah’m rarin tae git intae some scud! Nae scripts oan the go?
— Nothing on the slate, apart from Shagger 3, which as you know, is Curtis’s movie.
That wee cunt wi the stutter. Fuckin taught the bastard aw eh kens n aw. — Right . . .
— I’m taking a wee break and working on the distribution. The website’s being revamped, which requires a substantial investment in both time and money. But it’ll make the downloading and processing of credit-card details easier, so we’ll hopefully get the pay-off in sales. I’m rebranding Perversevere Films as quality erotica, Terry, and script development takes more time in the premium market. Can’t even see us shooting Shagger 3 till closer to spring. Have you been keeping up with those acting classes?
— Aye, ah lie. Ah stoaped last year. There wis only three burds in the fuckin group, and once ah’d rode them aw, thaire wis nae real point.
— Good, well, stay patient and stay trim.
— Sound. In the meantime, ah’ll keep talent-scouting!
— I’m sure you will. Till later, he goes, hingin up. He’s an abrupt cunt, but ah’m no bothered as Ronnie’s appeared oot ay the lift. The hat’s away but the Mohawk’s still combed back.
— Jist tryin tae sort oot some shaggin work, ah grins, waving the cheeky phone.
— You got a one-track mind, Terry. Ronnie shakes ehs heid, then ehs eyes crinkle up. — So, hey, how’s ole Occupy the Streets doing?
— Ah’m no sure she’s an Occupy the Streets sort ay burd, ah goes, checking the emails list on the cheeky phone. — She writes plays, like fir theatre n that.
— Theatre, huh? Never my thing, he says, but ye kin tell he’s thinkin aboot it.
So we’re in the fuckin sherbet, makin good time, clearin the city n gaun ower the Forth Road Bridge, n ah’m tellin um aboot Johnny. — Cunt wis tellin ays aboot that fuckin ketamine. Telt ays that he didnae ken what he wis daein, it wis like travellin back in time n losin ooirs. Ah sais, ya cunt, ah’m fuckin well like that aw the time wi this knob. Aw the blood goes fae the heid n ye wake up in a strange place a few ooirs later wi the polis bangin oan the door, fittin ye up fir the register n a cell in Peterheid! Time travel? Ya cunt, ah’ve started cawin Auld Faithful here the fuckin Tardis!
— Interesting . . .
— Wrecked fae last night, bud. Too much peeve n shaggin, ah goes n fingers a wrap in ma poakit. — Here, ye fancy a wee bitty posh up the hooter, mate?
Ronnie looks at ays, tryin tae work oot what ah’m talkin aboot.
— Ching. Racket. Bugle. Gak. Charlie.
— Oh . . . I’ve told you I don’t do drugs, Terry.
— Ye cannae really class a bit ay ching as a fuckin drug these days, mate. Besides, it wisnae that the other night whin Bawbag wis rattlin oan yir windae!
— That was an emergency . . . No, I hate drugs, though I believe that they are instruments of God, designed to snare and eradicate the feckless ghetto dweller, thus lowering the tax burden. I choose to follow a diet prepared by an expert nutritionist, designed for those who aspire to longevity.
— Each tae their ain. Dinnae listen tae they so-called experts but, mate, thir aw part ay an industry that’s there tae con ye oot ay yir dosh. Ah pits the radge in the picture. — He’s peyed tae gie ye advice, right?
— Yes. Considerably.
— Well, ah’m giein ye it for free. You can say it’s worthless, that ah’ve nae expertise. Or ye can be enlighted and think, ‘This cunt has nae vested interest, so he might just be on the ball here.’ Whae dae ye pey for advice? The likes ay that cunt Mortimer, whae only tells ye what eh thinks ye want tae hear. That’s nae good tae you!
— Okay, okay . . . God, Terry, you sure can talk. What the hell’s the point you’re making here?
— You’ve goat aw they organs in yir body: liver, kidneys n aw that. The function ay they organs is tae process aw the shite ye pit intae yirsel. Right?
— Yes . . .
— So if you’re no giein them the occasional bit ay shite, n jist puttin poofy stuff through them, thir no gittin tested. So they never build up tae the level ay resistance they need tae be at. Think
Scottish teams in Europe. Then some real disease hits ye, like Real Madrid style, n they’re useless, cause they’ve never hud serious game time. It’s science, mate, it’s how aw they tribes’ auld-school medicine men would go n take aw sorts ay poisons n walk intae the forest or desert. They’d trip, then spew, n then shite like a squaddie, and come back aw purged. N they cunts lived donkey’s years. Ah hud the wrap. — Gie the cunts a wee test. A rigorous trainin stint, ah call it. No gaun ower the score, but a wee workoot, likes.
Ronnie’s defo thinkin aboot this; eh starts teasin up that Mohawk. — You really believe that? That the occassional test is the best way of keeping your vital organs ticking over?
— Of course! Everything has a function! Lit thum git oan wi thair fuckin joab! Ah’m no sayin go ower the score, but the odd wee toot isnae gaunny dae ye any herm!
— Dammit, Terry, I hadn’t touched drugs since freshman year, before that Ballbag came along . . . and now . . . you are a bad influence, eh goes, lookin at ays aw pretend hurt, but the cunt takes the wrap n sticks a bit oan ehs key n snorts it.
Ya cunt, ah’m sure that fuckin Mohawk stiffened up at that toot!
— Listen, you’ve taken me into your confidence regarding your activities. Could I presume to do the same?
— Of course, Ronnie, wir muckers, ah tells the cunt, which is obviously shite. This is business n thaire’s nae sympathy in business: that cunt should ken that mair thin maist. It’s gittin tae be quite a barry drive now, as we’re hittin the banks ay Loch Leven.
— The land thing is important, but it’s just another development deal. It’s all about legacy, that’s what guys like Mortimer don’t get. I’m here to get something that only one other man on this planet has, because there are only three of them in existence. I already have one, and I want the other two. Both of them are here in Skatlin, and I’m closing in on them. He taps his beak. — This is all hush-hush, you understand. I have rivals.
The cunt’s talkin aboot they Bowcullen Distillery boatils ay whisky, but ah’m obviously no littin him ken that ah ken what ehs eftir, n how much eh wants tae pey. They sais oan that distillery website that the third boatil wisnae fir sale, bit that’s probably jist shite, tae drive the bids up. Everything’s fir sale if the fuckin price is right.