Ah sees ma cousin Malky n ah waves um ower! Ah cannae believe ma luck! Eh’ll tell Hank ah wis in! Eh’ll vouch for ays! — Malky! ah shouts. — What ur you daein here?
— Jonty! N eh’s right ower to me as Ronnie n Terry ur comin oot the lavvy. — I’m down to see a friend, Colin Murdoch, who works as a part-time taxi driver. He droaps ehs voice. — We’re thinking of setting up a local private cab-hire firm, and we’re just canvassing to see who’s game for jumping ship, Malky goes, lookin ower ma shoodir at Ronnie but gaun, — Do you know who that is?!
— Aye sur, it’s Terry n Ronnie, n ah grabs Terry’s airm. — Ma cousin Malky!
— Sound, Terry nods at Malky. — Mind ay ye fae ehs ma’s funeral, but Ronnie does that thing like eh disnae see um. Mibbe eh’s shy, mibbe that’s aw it is.
— Ah yes, that was so sad, Malky sais tae Terry.
Then ah nearly dies cause thaire’s a big mob ay laddies fae The Pub Wi Nae Name thit walk in. Thir lookin roond like they own the place. Then Evan Barksie looks at ays, n ah turns away, n eh’s straight ower tae Terry.
— What ye brought us doon tae this mingin tip for, Lawson?
— Ye got the poppy or no? Terry goes.
— Aye.
Terry nods tae the bogs n they vanish inside.
— What you daein here, Jonty? Tony Graham asks. — You’re no part ay oor syndicate.
— He’s part of my goddamn syndicate, Ronnie says, stepping forward.
Then Malky sais tae Ronnie, — Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind me interrupting but I’m a businessman myself, and I’m a great fan of The Prodigal. I couldn’t help hearing the rumour that you’re involved with the syndicate!
— I dunno anything about a goddamn syndicate!
— But you just said –
— Figure of speech, Ronnie sortay snaps.
Malky winks at um, then at me. — I see.
That Craig Barksie’s giein me the evil eye, eh is that, sur. — What’s the fuckin hold-up? eh goes, lookin tae yon lavvy whaire Terry n Evan Barksie are dealin the bad poodir. — Let’s git the deal done n git the fuck oot ay this tip, n eh’s lookin around wi that burnt coupon, whaire the chunks ay muh ma exploded oantae his puss.
This boy wi one leg, whae’s sittin at the table, hus heard this, n goes, — Youse shouldnae be in here. Then eh turns tae ehs mates. — Ah bet these are private-hire cunts, come in tae snoop around!
Malky looks aw nervous n turns away fae the boy. — I understand. Eh taps ehs nose at Ronnie. — These things require discretion.
Ronnie boy sort ay looks at him, then at me n Terry, whae’s come oot the bogs wi Evan Barksie. — What the fuck is this shit?
— Cousin Malky, ah goes. — Aye sur, cousin Malky, aye, aye, aye . . .
Craig Barksie goes, — This place is fuckin well daein ma heid in!
Malky leans intae Terry. — Listen, I hope you don’t think I’m being pushy, but are you involved with the syndicate?
Evan Barksie’s lookin daggers at Malky, then at me.
— You polis? Terry goes.
— No . . . and I’m not press, and he looks at Merican Ronnie n droaps his voice. — I really want to be part of . . . you know, I want to be involved in the syndicate. Jonty here will vouch for me, n eh looks at ays wi hope in his hert. Me!
— If you vouch for me wi Hank thit ah wis in here, ah will that, sur!
— Of course, cuz . . .
— Set up yir ain fuckin shite, Evan Barksie sais, — you’re nowt tae dae wi us. We’re oaf tae Magaloof!
— Eh’s cousin Malky, Terry, Ronnie, ah tells thum, — cousin Malky fae Penicuik, aye sur, Penicuik, aye, aye, aye, aye . . .
— Ah left Penicuik a while ago, Jonty, you should ken that, Malky goes.
So ah sais, — Ye nivir really leave Penicuik but.
Evan Barksie moves ower tae his mob in the corner, some ay thaim fae The Pub Wi Nae Name.
Ronnie’s pit ehs hand back intae ehs poakit. — Terry, these assholes are giving us the stink eye, n eh nods ower tae Evan Barksie in the corner, whae’s lookin at ays. — We oughtta go.
— It’s ma fuckin club, Terry sais, — ah’m gaun naewhaire. Cheeky cunt tried tae say ma ching wisnae worth a sook, n eh’s oaf ehs fuckin tits oan it!
N thir aw ower, surrounding ays, sortay standin close and crowdin ays aw oot. Ah dinnae like this, no one bit at aw.
— This is a funny show, wee dimwit Jonty here, wi ye, Terry? Lethal Stuart goes.
— Thaire’s a few fuckin dim-witted cunts in here the day, Terry goes. — The wee man isnae one ay them.
— You’re the cunt oaffay that TV show! Evan Barksie goes tae Ronnie.
— Takin the pish ootay fuckin Scotland, wi they gowf coorses! Tony sais.
— You fired that fit burd, that Lisa, hur wi the big tits! Craig Barksie sais.
Fair play tae Ronnie but, ay, eh turns oan um n goes, — She was fucking incompetent, you scatterbrained asshole!
— What . . . what did you jist say? Craig Barksie steps forward.
— Cool it, Terry sais tae um. Craig steys whaire eh is bit doesnae step back, naw sur. Aw, ah dinnae like aw this, naw sur, ah do not.
— What the fuck’s these private-hire cunts daein in here? the boy wi the stump goes.
— Look, we were just trying to find out the lie of the land, cousin Malky goes.
The stumpy boy isnae happy. Eh turns tae the other two boys at his table, Like taxi boys, one of thum wi glesses, whae sounds aw funny n English, then back tae Malky. — So yir admittin it? Yir admittin yir private-hire!?
— Must’ve fuckin rode it but, mate . . . oan yir show . . . ah’d’ve fuckin rode it, Tony sais tae Ronnie.
— Thaire’s other things in life, Terry sais, then stands back, like eh’s shocked at his ain words, aw aye, like eh’s aw shocked.
— Dinnae git fuckin wide, mate, Evan Barksie goes tae Ronnie, — yir no in some fuckin posh New York place now!
— This goddamn shithole! I could buy and sell this place and raze it to the ground, Ronnie shouts.
— Naw ye couldnae! the boy wi the stump roars in ehs face.
— Who owns this place? Ronnie’s gaun aw rid, like eh’s aboot tae huv a hert attack – that’ll be the devil’s poodir, aye it will. — I’ll make them a cash offer right now! Ronnie looks aroond. — The building’s worth jack—
— How dae you ken what ah’m worth, ya fuckin capitalist American bastard? the boy wi the stump shouts.
— All that’s worth anything here is the land . . . Ronnie goes. — I’ll give you ten million dollars!
— Much is that in real money? Evan Barksie laughs.
— Eh’s goat the poppy! Tony sais. — Showed ye ehs hoose oan the telly. Barry fuckin doss, likes.
This wee boy wi glesses gits up. Eh’s goat a voice that’s aw English. — The committee, under the CIU rules and regulations, article 14, paragraph 22, states categorically, and I quote: ‘that the acquisition of any assets by the club, and the disposal of said assets (including property) held by the club, requires a two-thirds committee majority at the AGM or EGM, the latter of which also needs a two-thirds committee majority to be instituted –’
— What! Is this how you do business? Ronnie shouts in his face. — Fuck this Soviet Third World socialist bullshit! You’re goddamn assholes! All of you! I’ve seen your kind before! In our country they call them ghetto-dwelling losers! New Orleans!
— Nice tae be nice but, Ronnie, nice tae be nice . . . ah goes.
— Actually, I think you’ll find that Scotland is developing into a mature democracy, the English felly sais.
— Aye . . . aye . . . Scotland, ah goes.
— N what are you sayin, ya fuckin retard mongol? You want yir cunt kicked in? Evan Barksie goes tae me, standin awfay close.
Ah’m lookin at the burnt bit oan ehs face, the bit eh disnae ken ah gied um, naw sur, eh does not . . .
— STOAP STARIN AT MA FACE!
— FUCKIN SACK IT, BARKSD
ALE, AH’M TELLIN YE! Terry shouts. — You’ve goat what ye came for, so git the fuck oot ay here!
Evan Barksie sortay blinks like eh’s shocked, then eh moves forward, but ehs mates hud um back. Tony goes tae um, — That Ronnie Checker’s here tae buy Herts oaffay Vlad, ya daft cunt, leave thum.
— Terry, I think we maybe oughtta leave, Ronnie goes.
Now The Pub Wi Nae Name boys huv went tae thair corner whaire thair drinks are, n thir drinkin up, but thir makin five-one signs at Terry, n callin him a Hobo.
— Fuck you, Lawson, Evan Barksie shouts ower, — n we ken yir jist hingin aboot wi that muppet simpleton cause ye wir kno—
Terry jumps ower n batters Evan Barksie in the mooth, aw aye, n Barksie faws back, hudin it but no bleedin even though ye kin tell it wis a sair batterin, aye it wis, n it aw goes mental. Everybody’s fightin or shoutin or hudin n somebody kicks me up the erse fir nowt! Aye sur, that they did. Ah goes tae turn but some beer comes flyin ower, then a gless, n it hits Malky n cuts ehs hand n thaire’s a big row n they boys, like the boy wi one leg, come ower n shove the other boys taewards the door.
— Git the fuck away fae here, the one-legged boy sais tae us, n tae Ronnie. — You ought tae be ashamed of yirsel!
— ASHAMED?! ME? GOD DAMN YOU!
So Terry’s sort ay shepherdin us aw oot the door eftir The Pub Wi Nae Name boys. — Sorry, Jack, Bladesey, eh says tae the boys fae the club. — Ah brought them here. Ah thoat they’d behave. Ah’ll git thum oot – c’moan, boys, eh sais tae us.
Terry’s pushin us oot the door, n wi gits intae the car park. Some ay The Pub Wi Nae Name boys ur waitin outside. — I’m going to bring my lawyers down here and sue your miserable asses . . . Ronnie shouts at thum.
Lethal Stuart steps forward, and rams the heid oan Ronnie, aw God ah kin hear the crack ay his neb. Aw sur, that’s a sair yin awright.
— Fuck sake, Terry goes, n moves forward as Stu runs back ower tae the mob ay boys.
The other boys are outside now tae, the boy wi the stump n the English felly wi the glesses. The stumpy boy goes tae Terry, — Ye ought tae be ashamed ay yirsel, Lawson, bringing they private-hire paedos tae oor club for drug deals!
A boatil comes flyin, flung by Barksie, n Terry’s ower the road eftir thum, n ah am tae, but thir backin away! Sure they are, the bullies! Aw thir daein is screamin threats as they go doon the road. Ah wish ah hud ma petrol bombs, aye sur, ah dae! Dae ah no but!
Then ah sees Malky comin oot wi the tooil roond ehs hand, lookin aboot, n Terry’s gittin Ronnie in the taxi. — Jonty, come oan, pal! So ah climbs in, leavin Malky lookin aw sad.
Then Terry droaps Ronnie oaf at the hoaspital. When eh’s gittin his nose reset, we’re sittin in the waiting room. Ah whispers tae Terry, — Ye see that thing ye pit in real faither Alec’s grave?
— Aye . . .
— Wis that that missin boatil ay the nice whisky, the other yin that Ronnie wanted? Terry looks at ays, then looks aroond the other people in the waitin room. — What did ye pit it in his grave for, Terry?
— Ah couldnae bring masel tae erse it, Jonty, Terry pills me close, whispers in ma ear, — even though it’s a lovely whisky. N ah didnae want Ronnie tae huv it, tae take it oot ay Scotland.
— But ah thoat eh wis yir mate, Terry, ah goes.
— Eh is, sortay. But eh’s a greedy cunt n it ey does a greedy cunt good tae learn how tae lose, n no tae git thair ain wey aw the time. Tae be like the rest ay us.
— So yir sortay helpin um really?
— Aye, helpin um tae join the human race. But that’s beside the point, cause that’s doon tae him. Eh’s goat two oot the three: tae ma mind that’s enough for any cunt. Ah couldnae sell it, see; it’s way too hoat for collectors. So ah wanted tae pit it somewhaire that Ronnie could never git tae it. Leave it wi somebody whae’d appreciate it. Alec’ll keep it safe doon thaire till aliens land oan Earth n find it, or, mair likely, till some cunt like Ronnie excavates it when they build mair shitey flats. But ah’m gittin you ootay here the morn, pal.
— How’s that?
— Cause you’re gaun oaf tae London, mate. You’ll be shaggin fir Penicuik soon.
— Aye . . . aye . . . shaggin fir Penicuik, aye sur, aye sur, that ah will, ah goes.
49
IN GOD WE TRUST – PART 4
I’M HOLDING MY nose into a bloody hanky wondering why it is that every lowlife in this Aids chamber, this fucking New Orleans without the heat or the music, has to headbutt people in the face! — I’m gonna sue . . . that’s fucking twice this has happened in this goddamn place . . .
Terry ran after those assholes, but they’ve gone and he comes back from across the street, out of breath. — Fuck suin, these cunts fuckin well die. He bends over, resting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his wind, looking up. — Ah’m meant tae be avoidin stress!
The hanky’s soaked and somebody hands me a towel, probably has more disease on it that anything else, but it staunches the flow of blood and I climb into Terry’s taxi. That strange little Jonty guy who was caddying is with us. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten involved in that scuzzy ghetto drug shit of Terry’s! We head to this hospital which is like the campus of every 1970s college you wouldn’t wanna attend. I’m about to demand that they take me to a real hospital, but they give me a sedative and reset my nose.
I try to pay but they won’t take it.
I get back out and Terry’s waiting with the little guy. — What’s up, Ronnie? Terry asks. — Beak looks aw set nice.
The little Jonty asshole does what he always does and repeats what Terry just said. Don’t they have schools in this goddamn place?
— They won’t take my goddamn card, Platinum Amex . . . what kind of commie hospital is this?
— It’s free, ya bam!
— Free, aye, free, this goddamn nutcase constantly repeats.
— It shouldn’t be free! This is – Then I feel something garrotting me inside and I turn to Terry. — No . . . oh my God . . .
Please Lord God Almighty, do not do this to me. I am your most loyal and humble servant!
— What is it now? Terry’s asking me.
— The Skatch! THE GODDAMN THIRD BOTTLE OF SKATCH!!! HAVE YOU GOT IT?
— How would ah huv it? You kept a hud ay it. Terry shakes his head. — Ye wouldnae let it leave yir side. Ye hud it in the club . . . check the Joe Baxi –
— The club, aye aye, aye, the club, this fucking retard parrots on.
God damn them all to hell!
I run out to the cab, followed by the others. The cold stings my nose. I can’t see a goddamn thing inside. Then Terry opens up to confirm: there’s nothing there. — I MUST HAVE LEFT IT IN THAT FUCKING CLUB!! I CAN’T LOSE TWO FUCKING BOTTLES!!
We’re heading back up to that shithouse Taxi Club. My heart is racing. To lose one bottle of Trinity is a fluke, but to lose two . . . it makes me a loser. A goddamn one hundred per cent, gilt-edged loser. I cannot let this happen to me! I must have dropped it when that asshole assaulted me. I need to speak to my legal people, and I’m punching in numbers on the phone . . .
Please God . . . let the Skatch be there . . .
This little retarded caddy friend of Terry’s is still saying the words ‘club’ and ‘whisky’ over and over and all the way to the shithole I have my tongue between my teeth and I’m controlling my bite, but soon feeling the distracting pain and the taste of my own blood. Now this little asshole is looking at me and pointing at my mouth and saying what I still think is ‘club’ over and over again, but I soon realise that it’s ‘blood’, and mine is trickling down my face and on to my goddamn shirt. I hate them all, and that crazy Sara-Ann with her fucking plays . . . and another fucking email from her pops into my phone with the headline: SUPPORT IS MORE THAN WRITING A CHEQUE! No wonder Terry was so keen to dump that crazy bitch on me!
GOD, PLEASE COME TO MY RESCUE!
We get to the club, and the assholes who caused all the trouble are gone. But this table of b
ums are still sitting around with dominoes in their hands. That asshole with the one leg . . .
And my whisky . . .
MY GOD! OH MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS?!
It’s opened! The assholes have opened it! There’s about two-thirds left, but that is totally irrelevant. They opened my fucking bottle of the Bowcullen Trinity . . .
— Too late, Terry says, — the gannets have descended!
That crow-faced gimpy asshole with the porcine eyes looks up at us. — So ye got rid ay they bams then, eh? Private-hire fuckin sex-offender cunts . . .
— Aye, sorry aboot that, Jackie boy, they’ll no be in here again, Terry says. — How’s the whisky, mate?
— No bad, the old asshole says.
God sacrificed His only son, Jesus Christ, so that those people would be saved. Is this what saved is? Is this what it means? To live among cretins? Why, God? Why?
Another leather-faced bum says, — Nah, ah’d take a nip ay Grouse ower that shite any day ay the week. That’s never a whisky that! No worth a sook, ay-no.
— Well, I thought it wasn’t too bad myself, although I have to say that a nice eighteen-year-old Highland Park takes some beating, this Limey prick in glasses says.
— ASSHOLES!!!!
I fall to my knees and I’m screaming at them all, pounding the ugly, stained carpet tiles in this rancid room, cursing all the assholes in this goddamn hellhole! I pray for a proper hurricane to come back, to wipe, please God, this shithole off the planet!
KILL THEM, GOD!
KILL THEM, JESUS!
BRING BACK THAT GODDAMN HURRICANE BAWBAG!!!