The Poof is far too astute not to realise that threats are a last resort in securing compliance, and that, in the first instance, winning hearts and minds always works best. — Obviously, thaire’s free cowps in it for ye, oan the hoose. Some nice goods n aw.
— Fair dos, Terry says, unable to stop the words spilling from his mouth, even though a part of him is outraged. He has genuinely never paid for sex, and he tells The Poof this.
— We aw pey for it in some weys, The Poof observes.
Terry considers his three previous divorce settlements and the CSA harassment he’s been subjected to, and can’t dispute this. — Yir no wrong. Ah’ll swing by later.
— Kent ah could count on you, buddy. The Poof gleefully, and not too lightly, punches Terry’s shoulder. — Kelvin! he shouts to the sidekick, who pivots, tuned like a dog to a high-pitched whistle, and bounds over.
— Terry, this is Kelvin. Kelv, Terry’s gaunny be helping ye oot at Liberty while ah’m away.
— Ah telt ye, ah dinnae need –
— Done deal, The Poof waves his protests down. — Be nice, he warns.
Kelvin seems to contemplate this, before dispensing Terry a curt, gunfighter nod, which is returned in equally minimal measure. The Poof, catching the vibe, attempts to introduce levity by throwing out some football inanities. If Terry had wanted to extricate himself before, he is now determined to do so. He likes football, watches it on TV and still occasionally goes to Hibs games, but regards it as utterly pointless as a general topic of conversation. He excuses himself and goes to look for Maggie, deciding that it’s time to build bridges. He finds her standing alone by the bar, drinking whisky, seemingly in deep contemplation. He grabs a glass from the table and holds it up to her. — Absent friends?
She reluctantly clinks drinking vessels.
— Sorry aboot the speech. Ah jist thoat it was what Alec wid’ve wanted.
— But what aboot what ma cousin wanted?!
Terry is delighted that the alcohol has brushed aside the professional refinement and Maggie’s tones are, once again, straight out of Broomhouse. — Ah admit, ah wis wrong. Ah didnae think aboot that, Terry nods. The truth is that his speech was partially pitched as a wind-up to Stevie. Alec was a jakey, yes, but at least he had a good heart, unlike his own father, and Stevie had never appreciated that.
— You n him were close, Maggie says.
— He wis one ay the best, n we wir great mates for years, Terry agrees, then his face tightens teasingly. — Mind ay how him and I first met? Through you!
Maggie blushes through her whisky glow. — Aye . . . she says, evoking a younger, previous self to Terry, and with enough flirtation in it for him to feel encouraged.
After another couple of drinks, their chary joint exit follows, with a stroll down Newhaven Road. It is cold and wet, and there are no taxis around. They take the gamble of pushing on to Ferry Road and the only vehicles in the vicinity are the heavy lorries that whip menacingly past them, bound for Leith Docks. Terry senses Maggie is quickly going off any boil she might have been on, but thankfully, a cab approaches, driven by Cliff Blades, a drinking friend of Terry’s from the Taxi Club in Powderhall. — Hop in, Terry! Blades cheerfully sings in his English accent, before he notices their demeanour, dress and locale, and puts two and two together. — Ah . . . you’ve been at the crematorium . . . sorry for your loss. Anyone close?
— Naw, it wis the cemetery, ay. Aye, her uncle, Terry sombrely nods to Maggie, — and a very close pal ay mine. Maggie, this is ma mate Bladesey, and he forces levity into his tone. — Dinnae get him started on Scottish nationalism, for fuck’s sake.
— Scottish independence please, Bladesey ticks.
— No, I won’t be doing that, she says pointedly.
Cliff Blades, despite being English, is a keen advocate of Scottish independence, while Maggie, though privately convinced of the argument, still holds the Labour Party whip in the council chambers.
Bladesey is known to be discreet and drops Terry and Maggie off at her place in Craigleith. Terry is surprised how rampant she is, how Maggie leads him straight to the bedroom without any pleasantries. Surely he couldn’t have expected her to be the chaste, demure teenager he’d encountered in this scenario all those years back? It seems that Maggie is just pleased to get a bit of solid cock inside her, with no questions asked. He’d heard the split from this Colin guy had been long and protracted. Now with her daughter at university, she can let rip again.
And they do, with gusto.
Later, as they are lying in bed, and Terry is looking at his watch, wondering how long it will take him to get another erection after just spending himself (he reckons somewhere between three and four minutes), they hear the sound of the key in the door coming from downstairs.
— What . . . Maggie sits up, torn out of a satisfying post-coital doze, — what’s that . . .?
— Some cunt’s in the hoose, Terry says. — You expecting anybody?
— Nuht . . . Maggie is out of the bed and into a robe. Terry follows, pulling himself into his grey trousers. Used to leisurewear, the material feels strange against him.
On going downstairs, Maggie immediately heads into the open-plan kitchen and sees her daughter Amber, making a sandwich. — What . . . I thought you were in Glasgow, at the university . . .
— I’ve come home for Lacey’s twenty-first this weekend. Amber briefly looks up.
— I’ve been at my uncle Alec’s funeral; I was just having a lie-down . . .
— Evidently, Amber snorts, as she sees a bare-chested Terry appear behind her mother.
Maggie is torn. Part of her just doesn’t want her daughter to see her like this, while another part tries, in futility, to stress to herself that it’s no big deal. — I . . . we . . .
— Mum, what you do with your life is your business. Really. She looks at Terry.
— Terry. Ah’m . . . eh, I’m an old friend of your mother’s.
— That’s also pretty apparent, Amber says. There is a charge in her voice, and Maggie can’t make out whether it is because her daughter disapproves, or is hostile to any assumption on her part that she might. — Well, I’m going to stay at Kim’s and give you guys some space.
— Nae need, ah’m just off. Shift on the taxis, ay. Nice tae see ye, Scarlett.
— I’m Amber.
— Sorry, wrong colour, Terry grins, and heads back up the stairs.
After a spell, Maggie follows him into the bedroom, where she finds him putting on his shirt and buttoning it. — Fuck!
— She’s a tidy young lassie. A credit tae ye, Terry says, pulling on his jacket.
Maggie sees the glint in his eye. — Don’t even think about it!
— What dae ye take ays for! Never crossed ma mind, Terry protests. He is never as convincing as when he is blatantly lying, and despite a lifetime spent in council chambers, Maggie just about buys it.
Terry calls Bladesey to see if he is still in the neighbourhood, but he’s taken an airport job. Doughheid is around, however, and he picks him up fifteen minutes later, taking him to his South Side flat.
Terry immediately gets changed, then ventures back out in his own cab, as there are some deliveries to drop off in west Edinburgh, mainly the schemes: Broomhouse, Wester Hailes, Sighthill and Saughton Mains. Having completed this task, he thinks about heading down to Liberty Leisure, The Poof’s facility, but opts to swing by the Gallery of Modern Art at the Dean Village, in case there is any posh fanny kicking around. He is delighted when two young women flag him down and climb into the cab. — Whaire’s it to be, girls?
— The Minto Hotel, one says in an American accent.
— Sound. Whaire’s it ye come fae?
— The USA.
— Aye, ah’d figured that one out, Terry says. — Whereaboots in America?
— Rhode Island.
— Rhode Island? Tell ye something for nowt, Terry whips his head round, winking, — they should call it ‘Ride Island’ if thir aw
like you pair!
2
GUARANTEED
AH LIKE STEYIN in Oxford Street, cause you’ve got it aw here in the South Side. Quiet street, close tae the toon for office minge, near the university fir young student fanny, and a nice wee spot tae take lassies fae the scheme. Nowt too fancy, jist a tidy wee front room wi a big L-shaped settee, a bedroom wi a king-sized, n a wee kitchen wi aw that protein-shake stuff – ah live oan they cunts, me. Ah dinnae keep much furniture in the pad; ah like tae call it minimalist in design concept. Ah’ve goat a bookcase wi some books Rab Birrell lends ays which ah nivir fuckin read but ah keep tae impress the student burds. Moby-Dick, Crime and Punishment, that sort ay shite. That Dostoyevsky cunt, ah tried tae read um but every fucker hud aboot five different names, n ah left the scheme tae git away fae aw that! Too fuckin right.
Ah go tae Hog’s Head for second-hand music n film, git ma free Wi-Fi in the Southern Bar. The Commie Pool’s jist roond the corner; swim n trim, lean Lawson. Aye, we’ve goat the loat here in the South Side. Nae Starbucks in Leith, maybe doon by the civil service at the docks, but no the real Leith! Loads ay wee cafes tae, ah never bother wi the boozers here much, jist the Southern fir the Wi-Fi, ay.
And drivin a taxi is the best joab ah’ve hud in ma fuckin puff. Guaranteed. This is Juice Terry’s finest hour; even the gig as aerated-waters salesman on the juice lorries cannae compete wi this! The fuckin night owl here, heid gaun aw weys, lookin oot the windaes ay the TX4, ready to swoop on stray Mantovani! And they pey you! It’s aw oan the meter, n the meter disnae tell fibs. It’s best in August, wi aw the snobby tourist rides in the toon, but this time’s barry n aw, cause the festive period’s roond the corner n fanny are stoatin aboot rat-arsed. Problem wi Scotland is, aye, thaire’s tidy fanny, but wir a bit mono-ethnic. Loads ay dark-heided lassies, a few blondes, gingers n brunettes, but maistly aw white. Ah envy some cunt cabbyin doon in London; you git tae mix it up a bit mair doon thaire.
Ah dinnae care for Lothian Road but yuv goat the Filmhoose, Usher Hall n the Traverse here, eywis decent spots for posh fanny, ay. But nane aboot; the shows must be in progress. It suddenly starts tae rain, really chuckin it doon, n a crowd ay boys ur jumpin oot at ays, waving me doon, but ah jist speed up n watch them jump aside, laughin as the fuckin muppets shout and swear eftir ye. Ah’m no interested in these cunts; it’s lassies ah want. But ah decide tae stoap, fir the sport, tae git a wee deek at they relieved faces, then ah lit thum git close before shoutin, — GIT TAE FUCK, YA FUCKIN VICTIMS! Then ah’m oaf like fuckin shot doon the road, enjoyin the looks on they coupons in the rear-view mirror!
Fae the wine bars tae the bingo halls, cradle-snatchin (turn ay phrase, legal limits, like) tae ambulance-chasin, fat, thin, posh, destitute; everywhere thaire’s fuckin Gary Busey, you’ll see me purrin up kerbside in this fast black, ready tae run it right up thair fuckin erses!
These Yankee burds didnae half doodle-dandy, did they no, the other night! That wis a result! Of course, ye eywis go for the lassies oan hoaliday, thaire’s nowt like gittin away fae it aw tae lower a burd’s inhibitions. Now ah’ve goat another Septic oan the mobby, that fucker Ronnie fae the other day, him wi the heid like one ay they dinosaur radges, the yin that stabs the T-rex in the gut wi ehs horn, before gaun ower the cliff wi the cunt. — I need to get taken to East Lothian within the next few days. A place called Haddington.
— Piece ay pish, bud. Ken it well.
— Great, I was thinking about tomorrow but I hear a hurricane is gonna hit the city.
— Aye, so thir sayin, that Hurricane Bawbag.
— This is serious shit. Katrina totally pulped New Orleans, and you guys don’t seem prepared for this!
— Naw, mate, aw ye git here is wind n rain, same old, same old fir us but, ay.
— I don’t think you’re grasping the magnitude of the situation here, Terry.
— Dinnae worry, buddy, you jist stey holed up in the Balmoral till it aw blaws ower. Lit room service look eftir ye. N if ye want company, dinnae ask that concierge cunt, thi’ll jist set ye up wi some snooty hoor that’ll take ye tae the cleaners. Ah’ll bring a couple ay game lassies roond whae ken how tae perty, n it’ll cost ye nowt but yir minibar tab n mibbe a couple ay Gs. This burd ah ken, done some scud wi her, she’s the toon super-groupie; she’s banged every sportsman, TV personality, fitba player n stand-up comic that’s set fit in this place. Her nickname’s ‘Venue 69’ cause she’s that busy during the festival. She’d love tae git your notch oan her bedpost. Gen up.
The Ronnie felly’s voice is fused wi steel. — I thought you didn’t know who I was!
Fuck, ah blew that yin, but ah stey cool. — Hudnae a Scooby till ah googled ye this morning. I like tae check aw my clients in case thaire’s anything dodgy gaun oan. Nae offence likes. Business takes balls!
Course ah kent the cunt, right fae the off. A wee silence, then eh goes, — Very enterprising . . . you can’t be too careful. But I have to ask you to be discreet.
— My middle name, buddy boy. Ye cannae bedroom-hop like the Juice felly and no ken the meaning ay the D-word inside oot! So ye wantin that intro tae the fanny or ur ye no?
— That won’t be necessary. I’ll call you, he goes, n the cunt hings up.
Decent fuckin deal but; gittin peyed big bucks by the week but eh’s only gaunny need ays a few times tae run um doon tae Haddington! Wonder what business eh’s goat doon thaire. Well, that’s his, no mine. Meantime ah kin still dae ma ain fuckin thing! Ma ship’s fuckin well come in, awright!
Ah checks the phone: a load ay messages fae different burds – they couple ay young things fae Rhode Island n aw! They were tidy, n maist ay aw, game as fuck. Although Sick Boy sais chasin it’s the best sport, ye cannae eywis be bothered chippin away at thair defences. Sometimes ye jist want tae slap the fuckin goods oan the table n go: ur ye in or ur ye no? They wir fuckin in awright, wir they no! Shame that they’re off tae the Continent the day.
Ah’m sniffin aroond for minge oan the Bridges, but nae burds are flaggin me doon, so ah picks up another fare, this stiff-backed cunt in a tin flute, carryin a briefy. Dinnae think thaire’s a tip in this fucker.
So ah’m thinkin aboot lassies, n two in particular: Suzanne Prince and Yvette Bryson. The two ah fired intae bareback that weekend nearly ten year ago when ah wis oan a downer after the third divorce. As a result ah goat two wee bastards oot ay the deal. But I’m aw for Guillaume n the Ginger Bastard keepin thair mas’ surnames. Feminism, but, ay. Mind you, if it hud been up tae me ah’d huv hud that fuckin tube up baith thair snatches and been suckin like a double-teamin Calton Hill buftie till ah tasted claret, then spat baith the bloody bastards intae the lavvy pan. But they wanted tae keep thum, ay, so thir here, n ah’ve nae complaints, jist as long as the name Lawson’s kept oaf the certificates. Too fuckin true!
Baith Suzanne n Yvette are independent women, n ah think ah’m ootay the woods now, but people and thair circumstances fuckin well change. Ye cannae droap yir guard cause the CSA’s goat long airms. Well, thir no gittin intae these fuckin poakits . . .
Ah’ve double-backed doon Prinny n ah’m headin up the Mound. Cunt in the back’s goat a coupon oan um so ah’d better start gabbin if ah want tae sniff oot a tip. — So what’s it ye dae yirsel, mate?
— Medicine.
— Doaktir, aye?
— Of sorts. I’m a specialist, the cunt goes, lookin ootside. — Why are we going this way?
— Trams . . . one-wey system . . . re-routed . . . council . . . So what d’ye specialise in? See me? Ah specialise in love. Mind that song? Sharon Broon? ‘Ah Specialise in Lurve’ . . . mind that yin? Naw?
— I don’t think so.
Blood oot ay a fuckin stane wi some cunts. — What’s it you specialise in then, mate?
— Gynaecology.
— Gyn-a-fuckin . . . ya cunt! Ah nearly run through a rid light cause ay turnin back tae the boy. Eh snaps forward in the seat. As well eh belted up or the poor cunt would have squished through th
e Judas Hole n been sittin in strips oan ma fuckin lap! — Sorry, mate . . . ah wis jist thinkin, you’ve probably seen mair fannies than me! Yir no wantin an assistant, ur ye?
The guy pushes ehsel back in the seat. — I don’t really think –
— Tell ye what, mate, ah ken my wey aroond a burd’s fanny! Tell ye that fir nowt! Ah’ve mibbe no goat aw the technical terms like you, but ah ken when ye push this button, BANG! This happens! Fill that hole, WHAM! Ya cunt ye, ah goes as a lorry tries tae cut ays oaf as wi rumble doon taewards Cameron Toll.
— Thank you. I’ll bear that sterling advice in mind, the boy says, but then the mobby goes off, nowt unusual aboot that, but the name THE POOF comes up on caller ID. Ah ignores it but ah’d better git doon tae the cunt’s sauna soon and take a wee peek.
Ah’m no keen on this gig, cause once ye git tagged a criminal, crime comes lookin for ye. Ah’m nae gangster or career tea leaf or drug dealer, but ah never look a gift horse in the mooth. If somebody offers ye a wee tickle n it looks tasty, then aye. But thaire’s bams whae outline the maist pointless, ludicrous jailbait propositions, jist usually cause thir lookin for something tae dae, a bit ay adventure. Ye tell these cunts, nicely of course: git tae fuck. Drug dealin is a big risk and a load ay hassle for no much reward. Cabbyin’s borin, n scud’s a nice wee earner for the luxuries, but ye cannae rely oan it. I’ll dae bits for Connor, but no for Tyrone or The Poof if ah kin help it. The supervision ay scrubbers n pimps, well, it’s jist no ma bag, ay.
— This is the Infirmary, if you just pull in here, a voice comes fae the back.
— Sound. Gaun intae look at some mair fannies then, mate?
— Something like that.
— It’s tough shift, but some cunt’s goat tae it! Come tae think ay it, ah git tae look at a loat ay fannies in the back ay this cab. Usually no the kind ye want but, ay-no, mate?
— I suppose not . . . Well, thank you.
— Tell ays one thing, mate, gaun back tae the technical side, like. Ken how Eskimos huv goat a thousand words fir snaw, youse boys, gynaecologists, huv youse goat the same fir fannies, aye? Bet yis huv, ah goes, daein the auld trick ay no openin the doors until the wallet comes oot, n above aw, keep talkin! The guy peys me way too much; result! A fucker like that wid nivir huv tipped if ah wis a sooir-faced cunt. That mumpy cunt Doughheid, he eywis moans aboot the tips. It’s cause yir a sooir-faced cunt, ah ey tells um.