Ah’m hearin aw they noises in ma heid n ah’m thinkin ay Karen oan the couch n her bad tooth n wee Jinty, aw blue n then gold, n gaun doon the hole, a fly comin oot her mooth . . . — What you . . . what you did . . . what you did wis aw wrong!
Eh jist creases up his auld wee face intae a smile. — Whae’s tae say what’s right n what’s wrong, Jonty? N eh points tae the ceilin wi ehs bony hand. — He’ll decide, no you or naebody doon here, that’s fir sure.
— What dae ye mean?
Eh looks right at this wee telly eh’s goat, yin that comes right oot oan a metal leg. Thaire’s this programme aboot animals oan. Ah would watch but ah huv tae stoap cause they kin sometimes make ye greet when it’s a shame for them. Sometimes folks cannae see it but, cause ye learn tae greet inside. — Is it right thit thaire’s aw this pollution, wipin oot different species every day?
Eh’s tryin tae trick us wi words again. Ah pits ma fingers in ma ears. — Ah’ve goat tae go!
N ah runs away oot the ward, n even though ma fingers ur in ma ears ah kin still hear his laughin voice n see that skull-heided smile . . . aye, ah ken, ah do, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur . . .
Cause ah am right in the heid, ah am . . . Jinty’s fault . . . an accident, aye sur . . . but they’d nivir believe ays, they’d jist say he’s no right in the heid n eh’s goat a bad hert.
N ah’m phonin Kind Terry. — Awright, Jonty?
— Ah saw um, Terry, n eh wis bad like you said eh wid be. Eh said bad stuff, aye, he did that, sur, bad stuff that’s no right . . . aw sur . . . n ah’m sortay greetin, thinkin aboot him n Karen n Jinty, n how it’s aw an awfay mess.
— Are ye still thaire, at the hoaspital?
— Aye . . .
— You hud oan thaire, mate, n ah’ll pick ye up. Ah’m no far, ah’ll be thaire in five minutes.
— Aye . . . yir kind, Terry, aye sur . . . aye ye are . . .
— Jonty. Five minutes, mate, eh sais n the line goes deid.
But it’s awfay nice ay um n it cheers ays thit thaire’s guid people in the world like Terry, like new half-brar Terry, tae make up fir the badness ay him up thaire. So ah goes n hus another wee shot at makin the doors open n shut again. But the man in the uniform comes ower n sais tae stoap it or ah’ll brek the doors.
— How many times kin ye open n shut them before they brek?
— Ah dinnae ken!
— But how dae ye ken ah’ll brek thum then?
— You bein wide?
— Naw, ah jist want tae ken how many times ye kin dae it before it breks, soas ah’ll ken no tae dae it that many times!
— Ah dinnae ken! But stoap it! Yir causin an awfay draught, eh goes, so ah stoaps. Ah wis gaunny say thit ah wis tryin tae lit some fresh air in, but here’s Terry anywey and ah’m headin oot n ah’m climbin intae the safe taxi wi him, n the meter’s no oan again. — Lit’s git ye hame, pal, Terry goes.
Eftir a bit ay drivin doon the road, Kind Terry sais, — Tell me, Jonty, dae you ever get voices in yir heid?
— Aye, ah dae! But it’s like me, jist talkin tae masel! Aye sur! Dae you git thum n aw, Terry?
— Aye. N they used tae say jist one thing: cowp thon. Now thir sayin aw sorts ay shite, n ah dinnae like it, mate. It’s worse at night, when ah’m tryin tae git oaf tae sleep.
— Aye sur, at night.
— Kip, Terry sais, — ah’d gie anything fir one fuckin night ay peaceful kip!
N Terry droaps ays hame n ah gits intae the stair n sees where ah pit the barry back in the stair the other night, n now Jinty’s away wi the trams. Ah’m awfay worried that the polis’ll come tae ma door. Ah cannae settle in the hoose n before ah ken it ah’m doon The Pub Wi Nae Name, n ah’ve sectioned it aw oaf by the jukebox. Ah jist want tae kid oan ah’m normal, n dae ma paintin. So that’s me back at it, blottin thum aw oot, jist concentratin. Aye sur, jist concentratin. The paintin.
— Yir daein a guid joab, Jonty, Jake says.
Aye, but a guid joab disnae stoap aw thaim fae bein here, naw sur, it does not. Aye, cause thir aw here awright, n thir aw drinkin. Aye, they are. N daein the devil’s poodir as well, ye kin tell by the wey thir gaun tae that toilet in pairs, aye sur, in pairs. Poodir it’ll be, ay that ah’ve nae doots. Naw sur.
— Whaire ye been, Jonty? Tony goes.
Craig Barksie shouts, — Been giein wee Jinty the message again, ya dirty wee cunt? Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!
— Kin tell by the look oan ehs face, eh! Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi! Tony goes.
— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!
Dinnae listen tae thair voices, thair laughin voices, jist keep oan paintin . . .
— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!
— Dirty wee cunt! Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!
It’s no right, nae sur, it’s no right at aw . . .
— Dirty lucky wee cunt! When did last git your hole, ya cunt? Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!
Ah want tae go, it isnae right bein here . . . keep paintin . . .
— Cheeky cunt!
Naw sur, naw sur, naw sur . . . dip the roller in the tray, squeeze oaf aw the durty big drips, run it ower that patch ay auld paint oan the waw . . . once . . . twice . . .
— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!
. . . like yon song once, twice, three times a lady, sung by the darkie boy that did the awfay nice song aboot stalkin the Chinky lassie, aye sur, eh did that, awfay nice song . . .
Cause ah’m jist paintin away, loast in the paintin, no hearin thair bad voices, cause ah sees thum at thair table n ah dinnae like thair table, ah dinnae like this pub. N whin ah say ah dinnae like the table ah’m no gaun oan aboot the table itsel, ah’m gaun oan aboot the company at the table. It’s the company that’s wrong, the company that made ays fight wi ma wee Jinty. Aye they did. So when ah finish that bit whaire the jukey is ah tell Jake thit ah’m done fir the day.
— Yuv done a guid joab, pal, eh sais.
Ah jist nods n ah walks tae the door, n ah’m no lookin at anybody. Like muh ma used tae say aboot the yins back in Penicuik, back at the skill. Ignore thum aw. Aye. Aye. Aye.
— Yuv chased um away!
— Hi, Jonty! Bring Jinty doon! Ah’ve goat a wee line fir hur, Evan Barksie’s gaun in ehs takin-the-pish voice!
— Shi’s wi the trams! ah turns n shouts back at thum, n ah wish ah hudnae said that.
— That’s what thir callin thum now!
N ah’m oot oot oot oot oot ay thaire, sur, aye that ah am, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur.
34
AULD FAITHFUL 1
AWRIGHT, TERRY, YA fuckin doss
cunt, ah’m ready fir duty but
what’s the story wi you, eh, ya
fuckin bam?! Ah’m gantin oan
fresh minge (no thit the minge
you provide ays wi is usually that
fuckin fresh, ya manky twat, but
ye nivir hear me complainin) but
ah’m no fuckin well intae this,
ay! What huv ah ivir fuckin well
asked ay ye? Ah’ve ey performed
even whin yuv flung peeve intae
yirsel aw night, n snorted enough
ching tae stoap Ron Jeremy gittin
a fuckin root oan! Nivir even goat
stroppy whin ye nearly halved me
in two oan that porno shoot! Aye,
think that yin wis aw a bundle ay
fun, ya fuckin choob? Well, ye kin git
tae fuck wi aw this bad-hert shite;
what’s yir fuckin hert or yir fuckin
brain ivir done fir ye that ah’ve no?
Fuckin nowt! Well, you’d better jist
fuckin well shape up, ya useless cunt,
cause ah’m fuckin well chokin oan
pussy n if ye think ah’m jist here tae
empty the fuckin stagnant peeve oot
ay your swollen bladder ye’d better
be fuckin well thinkin again, ya radge,
cause that wisnae the fuckin deal! So
ah’m tellin ye now, Lawson, man the
fuck up cause you’re th
e yin thit eywis
sais thaire’s nae point livin withoot a ride
n the auld ‘Juice’ Terry Lawson, no this
mortality-obsessed auld sweetie-wife,
wid huv jist said: ‘Doaktirs? What the
fuck dae they cunts ken?’ n jist went hell
fir leather n jist plundered every fuckin
pussy fae Pilton tae the Pentlands, naw,
fae the North tae the South Pole, tae make
sure thit Auld Faithful here wis gittin ehs
fuckin rations, ya fuckin useless corkscrew-
heided cunt. Mind, yir no gittin any younger,
Lawson, yi’ll probably be fuckin deid soon
anywey, wi the peeve n the ching, but that’s
no ma department, so ah dinnae gie a fuck.
What ah’m sayin is that we’re gonny huv a
serious fuckin problem, you n me, if you
dinnae start gittin yir act thegither n gittin
me the fanny ah deserve! Ah dinnae care if
it’s tight young things, or slack auld pots, I’ll
fuckin well fill thum aw, but you’ve goat tae
keep your fuckin side ay the bargain. Listen
good, Terry, cause ah’ll tell ye one thing, pal: ye
really dinnae want tae faw oot wi yir auld pal
here. So that’s you fuckin well telt, ya cunt!
35
SCOTLAND’S SMOKERS ON THE OFFENSIVE
TERRY WAKES IN the thin, reedy sunlight, sweating, with his chest heaving. Last night he’d collapsed on top of his bed in his tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt. The heating had been left on full blast making the flat feel like a sauna. On blinking awake, he contemplates the terrible, weird dreams that plagued him.
After rising, showering and dressing, Terry looks down at the outline of his cock, springing to the right in his tight nylon tracksuit leggings, and mutters a curse, resolving that he is going to wear jeans to work. The tracky bottoms are far too sexualising.
In the cab, driving is difficult. Even with the pills, the horny twinges won’t completely subside. He tries to avoid looking at passing women. Yet when he glances away from the road, he is confronted by the swelling at his groin. — You’re tryin tae kill me, ya cunt, he says to the bulge.
— What? a voice comes from the back.
— No you, mate, Terry says, turning round to address Doughheid. Lost in his thoughts, he has forgotten he’s picked up his friend and is driving him up to the court.
Doughheid’s nerves are finely shredded. Terry fancies he can practically feel him vibrating against the cab’s upholstery. — Somebody’s killin me, that’s fir sure! Ah’m gaunny lose ma licence, Terry! Ma fuckin livelihood; aw for a wee bit ay fuckin tarry!
— Could be worse, mate, Terry declares, again moved to glance down at his groin. Perhaps the doctor’s chemical ministrations are finally having some effect. Auld Faithful now seems inert, but all that realisation does is trigger a dull, sinking thud in his chest.
— How? How can it be worse?! Doughheid squeals.
— At least ye kin git yir hole, ya lucky cunt, Terry muses. — Stoap moanin.
Doughheid’s eyes bore manically into the back of Terry’s head. — You deal loads ay ching, n then ah git caught wi a wee bit ay tarry! Whaire’s the fuckin justice in that!
Terry decides not to respond. Doughheid is irate and, after he is banned, there might be some exit interview with Control. He wants to keep his old mate onside, to make sure Doughheid’s disinclined to grass him up. The worst thing is being unable to tryst with Big Liz. You can’t snub Big Liz; that is asking for trouble. He’ll have to explain his predicament to her. He pulls the cab up at Hunter Square. He and Doughheid exit and silently make for the court buildings. Terry opts to stay for the case, taking a seat in the public gallery, beside the usual assembly of students and dole moles who head there for the entertainment.
The judge is a slack-featured man in his sixties, who looks wearily at Doughheid. It’s plain to Terry that this case is just part of another personal Groundhog Day to him. — Why did you have that marijuana on your person?
Dougheid looks back wide-eyed. — Ah’ve goat anxiety issues, Your Honour.
— Have you seen a doctor?
— Aye. He jist telt ays tae stoap daein sae much ching but, ay.
A series of guffaws erupt from the public gallery. The magistrate is less amused: Doughheid is fined a grand and banned from driving for a year.
Terry meets his friend outside, where Doughheid is talking to his brief. He hears the lawyer say that it ‘would be futile’ to consider an appeal. Terry sees it as a decent result. — At least ye kin still ride, mate. This bad-hert thing hus made me reassess my priorities, he sadly discloses.
— What? Yir jokin! What um ah gaunny dae fir a livin?
— Ah once went through a period where ah jist steyed in ma auld bedroom at muh ma’s, Terry muses, lost in his own sad narrative. — Goat a bit depressed eftir this mate ay mine topped ehsel, n this burd ah wis seein jacked ays in. Obviously, ah still hud a couple ay manky lassies come roond tae watch porn wi ays, n sit oan ma coupon.
— So? So what does that mean?
— At least yir a free man, and ye kin git yir hole, Terry ruefully laments, — that’s better thin me. He pats his chest. — Better thin huvin a dodgy ticker. One fuckin bit ay excitement then, boom: goodnight Vienna, endy fuckin story, the baw’s oan the slates. Sometimes ah think, thaire’s nae point, just fuckin well go fir it.
They get back into the cab and head for the Taxi Club in Powderhall. Bladesey, Stumpy Jack and Eric Staples, a former Hibs top boy who became a born-against Christian, are all present, and a round of drinks is shouted up as they commiserate with Doughheid.
— At least you’ll no have Control oan yir back, Eric says to the disgraced cabbie.
— You’ve always goat Control oan yir back, Terry, Stumpy Jack smirks, — in the form ay Big Liz!
They all laugh at this, except for Doughheid and Terry himself.
— Where’s that new lassie ay yours, Terry? Jack asks.
— Which one? Bladesey chuckles. — Between taxi driving and all his film-making activities there seems to be quite a few of them on the go!
Doughheid becomes animated for the first time, studying the uncharacteristic encroaching doom on Terry’s face, as Jack recounts a tale of trying to stop two young women getting in a private cab. — Private hire? Fuckin sex cases. Widnae let any lassie ah ken git intae a cab wi one ay they mingin jailbirds!
Eric informs them that he’s met a girl from his Bible group. Her strict religious views mean that her fanny is off-limits until she sees an engagement ring, but she reluctantly does anal. He gives the impression that he’s in no hurry to propose. — Best wait, he winks, — till we get the message fae the big man, and he looks to the ceiling.
This conversation rankles Terry, who inside is fizzing and flailing in self-pity. He makes his excuses and leaves, to a round of strange looks passing between his friends.
Outside it’s very cold. As Terry gets into the car, he is suddenly suffused with defiance.
FUCK IT.
So he drives out to Portobello to Sal’s. She is delighted to see him, and drags him straight upstairs to the bedroom, barely scenting the unfamiliar reticence in his movements, as she tells him that her mum is out at Jenners for an afternoon coffee, whipping off her drawers and unbuckling Terry’s belt and tugging down his jeans. She assists his cock out in its jack-in-the-box spring towards her; even through the medication it’s stiffening up and she’s right down on it.
Terry lies back on the bed looking up at the pastel-coloured shade, which casts a vapid light across the room.
Ya cunt, she’s fuckin killin ays . . .
Fuck it, wi aw die . . .
Aw ya cunt!
Then Terry is aware that his heart is racing and he hears a voice boom out: — STOAP!!
He is as shocked as Sal is. It seems to come from
anywhere but his own throat.
— What? What is it? Sal looks up at him, a strand of pre-cum hanging from her bottom lip to the bell end of Terry’s cock.
— It’s nowt, he says urgently, now desperate for her to continue.
Then the door swings open and Sara-Ann’s mother, Evelyn, stands watching them. She halts a couple of seconds, then raises an imperious brow and turns away, closing the door behind her.
— FUCK! Sara-Ann Lamont screams. — Nosy old fucking cow!
Terry sees it as a sign. This woman has saved his life. Without her intervention, he wouldn’t have been able to avoid the full-on session that would pop his fragile heart. He springs up, and starts to dress in haste.
— Oh my God. Sara-Ann lets her eyes roll. — What . . . where are you going?
— Ah’m oot ay here, Terry says, and heads downstairs, followed by Sara-Ann, pulling on her own clothes.
— Terry, wait, she begs.
Evelyn is lurking at the bottom of the stair. She jumps out and confronts them, an arcane sneer on her face. — Isn’t your friend staying for his tea?
— Nup, ta, but goat tae nash, ay, Terry nods, then turns to Sara-Ann. — See ye, and he opens the front door and steps out into the chilled air.
Sara-Ann charges out after him. — What’s wrong? What’s up with you? We aren’t fucking kids! I do what I like, and that poisonous old bitch can’t stop us screw—
— Look, ah’m no well, Terry snaps. — It’s best we dinnae see each other for a while. Ah’m sorry.
— Well, fuck you, Sara-Ann screams, turning to see her mother standing, arms folded, in the doorway. She storms past her into the house as Terry goes into the cab and pulls away.
He is just passing Meadowbank stadium, as Ronnie Checker calls. So distraught is he at his plight, Terry confides to the American the grim extent of his problem. Ronnie suggests they meet at the Balmoral.
On his arrival at the hotel, he sees Ronnie in the lobby, sat in a huge leather chair by the fireplace. His Mohawk is flattened down and he wears a Pringle sweater. A golf bag is by his side. Terry slides an identical chair closer and sits beside him. — That is a tough break, Terry, Ronnie sighs, — especially for a guy like you who can’t stop thinking about pussy.