So ah pit oan Coronation Street, wi that nice-lookin lassie, the yin thit looks a bit like wee Jinty, n ah’m sayin tae masel in ma heid: come hame, Jinty, jist come hame or geez a phone tae tell ays yir safe, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur . . .
9
REFUGE IN THE PUB WITH NO NAME
AH’M SITTIN IN the back ay that cab, a satisfyin throb between my legs, nicely in tune wi the vibration ay the motor oan the seat. Wir rumbling doon Daly Road, n it’s fair pishin doon wi fierce gales startin up. — You jist lit ays oaf here, ah sais tae that Terry.
— Strong winds but, he goes. Christ, even wee Jonty, whae could be a fuckin machine, nivir cowped ays like that animal! But ah’m no sayin nowt tae Terry cause he’s goat a big enough heid as it is, n eh really fancies ehsel.
Ah look back at him. — What’s it tae you, son?
Terry looks a wee bit stung at that. — Thing is, you’re obviously gaun intae The Pub Wi Nae Name. Eh points acroass the street tae the boozer. Ah kin see Deek McGregor outside, huvin a fag. — Well ah am n aw. Ah’ve a wee message tae droap oaf.
— Whae fir?
— You’ll no ken thum.
— Bet it’s one ay the Barksies! Evan!
Terry rolls his eyes like ah’ve goat um thaire, n goes, — Amongst others.
— Ye goat ching?
— Aye . . .
— Ah pure want tae dae a line.
— No here. Terry looks oot through the windaes at the deserted streets, hardly even any motors oot. — It’s ma livelihood . . . or one ay thum.
He drives the car doon an unpaved side alley acroas fae the pub. — You ken a loat ay they secluded spots, ay, son, ah goes, cause ye kin tell eh does the shaggin n drugs big time.
Eh jist smiles n gits oot the cab, n comes through the back again, ehs hair aw whipped up wi the wind. — Christ, that’s a fuckin wind awright, eh goes. — Here . . . Eh hands us a wrap. — That’s yours.
Ah fuckin well gies um a look like ah’m no happy, cause ah umnae. — Ah might be oan the game but ah wisnae workin whin we wir daein it, son!
— Hi, Terry goes, — chill oot, Jinty. Ah ken that. It’s a present. Huv a white Christmas. N listen, eh leans in close, — mind what ah sais aboot makin a wee scud movie if ye fancy it. Decent dosh.
— Think ah could?
— Easy. Ye’d huv tae git rid ay that wee pot. Eh pokes ays in the stomach wi ehs finger, but gently. — Ah like it, ah think it’s sexy, but fir the video ye’d need tae cut the carbs oot for a month n git tae that new gym at the Commie. Ye’d be ripped in nae time at aw, then the cameras would roll . . . n eh bats ehs eyes. — Here. Eh looks around. Then eh pits a bit ay ching fae a placky bag oantae the edge ay his credit caird n nods tae me tae git doon oan it. Dinnae need tae be asked twice!
Yessss.
Then Terry takes a hit for ehsel. — Gittin another fuckin root oan awready . . . could gie you another fuckin seein-tae right now . . . His hand faws oan ma thigh.
— Aye, right, cool yir jets, son. Ah brushes it oaf. Ah could go mair boaby, fuckin surein ah could, but wee Jonty could come by any minute. N besides, laddies like Terry, ye keep thum keen. If ye gie thum thair hole oan demand, they start takin the fuckin pish. Been thaire, done that, boat the fuckin T-shirt.
— Moantay fuck! Eh laughs.
— Hud yir hoarses. You jist git in thaire. Ah points taewards the boozer.
Terry grins, cause eh’s a rerr-natured felly under it aw, n eh kin take a tellin, no like some. That fuckin Victor and Kelvin. But wi kin barely git the car door open wi that fuckin gale blawin doon the alley. We finally makes it n struggles oot n wir vernear carryin each other intae the boozer!
A fuckin relief tae git inside! It’s mobbed. Terry disnae drink in The Pub With No Name, at least ah’ve no seen um in here, bit he seems tae ken a few regulars. Ah’m hopin eh steys, at least till wee Jonty comes doon, then ah’m thinkin, naw, mibbe no.
Terry sees Evan Barksdale, whae’s goat the meatier build ay the beer drinker, compared tae ehs twin Craig’s mair voddy physique. They disappear tae the bogs, obviously for a line n tae dae business. Ah’m talkin tae Jake, whae runs the pub, then ah gits oot ma phone n ah sees aw they missed caws fae Jonty, n ah’m tryin tae git a hud ay him. — Better tell Jonty tae git roond here before Bawbag kicks in! Dinnae want him stuck in the hoose, ah sais tae Jake, but ah cannae git a signal.
— Aye, Bawbag, Jake sais.
Eftir a bit Terry n Evan Barksie come oot the bog. — Right, gaunny huv tae leave yis, Terry smiles. — Duty calls.
— Stey, Tez, ya fuckin tight-ersed Hibby cunt, yir no gaunny dae any business the night! Evan Barksie goes.
— Git tae fuck, a scabby wee hurricane’s no gaunny stoap me daein ma thing. Money never sleeps, mate, Terry laughs. — Right, ya fuckin Jambo paedos, catch yis whin ye smell better, eh sais, then eh heads away. Craig Barksie, Tony Graham, Lethal Stuart n Deek McGregor are aw roond the pool table, n they watch Terry go.
— Fuckin wide cunt, Evan Barksie sais, turnin tae me. — How dae ye ken that fuckin Hobo tramp?
Ah nivir kent eh wis a fuckin Hobo! Wid’ve thoat twice aboot giein um ehs hole if ah kent that! It’s nane ay Evan’s fuckin business but. — Eh wis seein a mate ay mine, ah goes.
— Aye, eh’s good at daein that, Barksie sais, n ehs mooth goes aw tight n ehs eyes aw slitty. — Wisnae seein you n aw, wis eh?
Ah’m lookin right n ehs wee eyes. — What’s it tae you?
Evan Barksie shuffles n ehs voice droaps, n eh’s tryin tae force cheer intae it. — Wee Jonty widnae be too chuffed.
— Ah dae what ah like.
— Aw aye? Prove it!
— How?
— Come for a line wi me. Eh nods tae the lavvy.
— Awright.
Well, we goes intae the laddies’ bogs n thaire’s two traps. We gits in one n Evan Barksie starts cuttin oot a huge line. Wi takes half each. Ma eyes ur waterin n my hert’s thumpin. — Ye awright? he goes.
— Aye . . .
— A loat ay folk here, eh gies a wee smile showin oaf mingin yellay teeth, — they think wee Jonty’s punchin above ehs weight.
— Aye . . . is that what you think as well? ah goes. Fuck, ah’m strugglin here, sweatin, n ma hert’s poundin away like the clappers.
— Jist sayin likes.
This isnae real! It’s no good fir ye tae snort that much coke: ye kin peg right oot. Ah’m mad fir it but. — My hert . . . whoa . . .
— Lit’s see, Evan goes, n eh pits ehs hand oan ma chist. It feels good huvin it thaire, lookin at his daft wee smile as eh stares at ma tits. So ah dinnae dae nowt when eh undoes the two toap buttons oan ma blouse n spreads his palm oot. — Barry tits, by the way, eh goes. Then eh sais, — Get them oot then!
— Chop oot another fuckin line first, ah sais, though the sweat’s still rippin oaf ays n ma hert’s bangin like a drum machine. Ah’m fuckin mad fir this ching but!
So eh does, n wi git oan it again n wir baith fuckin rattlin big time. Then Evan unbuttons ma blouse n lits it faw doon ma shoodirs. — A fuckin waste . . . eh goes, n eh unfastens ma bra. Eh’s goat baith ma tits n ehs hands n eh’s right beside me, rubbin up against us. — Lawson rode ye, eh?
— Aye . . . ah tells um, gittin intae it, — eh rode ays wi ehs big cock . . . so you fuckin gaunny well dae it then . . .?
— Aye . . . Evan’s gaun fir ehs zip. And then, fae outside, thir’s a knock oan the door.
— Jinty! Ur you in thaire? Eh! What ur ye daein? Jinty? Aye, yer in thaire! Aye sur! Aye!
It’s wee Jonty. Oor eyes ur poppin oot oor heids n Barksie pits one hand ower ma mooth, n a finger acroass ehs ain lips.
— Ah ken yir in thaire, Jake n Sandra fae behind the bar telt us, aye they telt us likes, aye, aye, aye . . . in thaire, Jinty . . .
— Jonty, ah’m jist huvin a wee bit ay a livener . . . ah tells um. Ah cannae even be bothered tryin tae pit ma blouse back oan, ah’m fuckin melted.
— Jinty! Come oot! Come oot!
Dinnae touch thon bad stuff, please dinnae, Jinty . . . n ehs wee voice is brekin up.
— Ah’ll be oot n a minute, dinnae trouble yersel, Jonty! N ah’m lookin at Evan n wuv both goat oor hands ower oor mooths now, tryin no tae laugh oot loud!
Wee Jonty’s voice is that high, it’s like somebody’s cut his perr wee baws oaf! — Ah kin see another pair ay feet in there! Under that door! Aye sur, aye ah kin, aye. Ah ken it’s you, Barksie! What ur yis daein? What ur yis daein in thaire?
— JONTY, GIT TAE FUCK! Evan shouts. Ah shakes ma heid n starts laughin.
— What ye daein . . .? What yis daein in thaire? Come oot! JINTY!
— Wir jist powderin our noses, Jonty, ah goes. — Ah ken you dinnae like it whin ah dae that, so you go ben that bar n git ays a Bicardi n Coke, n we’ll be oot in a minute . . . ah goes, n ah starts shuttin up ma blouse.
— Nup! Come oot! JINTY! PLEASE! Please come oot, Jinty darlin, aw please, aye, aye, aye . . .
Evan Barksie’s face screws up again. — JONTY, AH’M FUCKIN WARNIN YE! SHUT IT!
— AYE, ah goes, cause eh’s startin tae git oan ma nerves, embarrassin ays like that, — GIT HAME OR GIT UP TAE THE FUCKIN BAR! A FUCKIN BICARDI N COKE, WELL!
Then thaire’s a bang, then another, n the door comes flyin in! Eh’s burst the lock! Ah’ve goat ma wrists in front ay ma tits tryin tae cover masel. — JONTY!
— YOU . . . Eh looks at me, then at Barksie, then back tae me. — Jinty, come hame! COME HAME WI US NOW!
Evan Barksie steps forward n pushes Jonty back oot. — Git tae fuck, Jonty, ah’m telling ye!
— This isnae right, Jonty’s gaun, n eh looks at us, then looks at the flair. Eh’s shakin his heid gaun, — Naw, naw, naw . . . n eh turns n runs oot the bogs.
Ah’ve goat ma blouse back oan, n ah’m gaun eftir him. Evan Barksie grabs ays by the wrist n goes, — Leave the fuckin wee muppet, n eh tries tae kiss us, but ah pushes him away.
— Git tae fuck, n ah goes outside intae the bar, but it’s mobbed, n ah sees Jake opening the doors n Jonty gaun ootside. N ah gits thaire n Jake goes, — ANYBODY WANT OOT GIT OOT NOW! AH’M LOCKIN US IN TILL IT STOAPS!
— YA FUCKIN BEAUTY! somebody shouts.
A chant goes up: — BAWBAG, BAWBAG, BAWBAG, BAWBAG! BAW-HAW-BAG, BAW-AW-BAG . . .
Ah dinnae ken what tae dae, but whin ah turns roond n sees Evan Barksie wavin a big bag ay ching n shoutin, — Perty time, ah ken ah’m gaun naewhaire fir a bit, ay.
10
THE BAG OF THE BAW
TALK ABOOT FUCKIN warnin bells! It’s pishin wet wi they gales, n thaire’s this lassie oot, walkin doon Queensferry Road, which is fuckin deserted. She’s headin taewards the Forth Road Bridge! At this time, and in this fuckin weather! A fare’s a fare but, ay, n besides, the jumpers are usually gadges: very seldom dae ye git fanny tryin tae top itsel that wey. Aye, sent us oan a fuckin course, soas we could spot the hari-kari crew. They telt ye aw the things ye need tae say tae try n stoap thum. Like counsellin n that. No that ah ever fuckin well bother; cunt wants tae jump, lit thum fuckin well jump, ay. Fuck aw that nanny state George Bernard’s; some cunt’s made thair mind up aboot it, they must huv good fuckin reasons. It’s no fir the likes ay a total stranger tae say any different. Wouldnae be me anyway! Jump oaf a cliff, then some burd phones ye up the next day deciding she’s gaunny gie ye yir hole eftir aw? Naw, fuck that! Too much tae live for, me but, ay. Mind you, ah kin understand how some gadges that urnae gittin a ride wid want tae jump: fuck that fir a game ay sodjirs!
But wi a burd it’s different. Naebody in thair right mind wants tae see good fanny gaun tae waste. A burd’s minge is meant tae be hot for the rumpy-pumpy, no aw cauld, stretched oot oan a slab, though thaire’s some dirty cunts thit wid go fir that. Ah blame that fuckin Internet, littin bairns watch extreme porn, whin thuv no even hud a proper wank. That shite would fuck any cunt’s heid up. Too right! Ah mean, ah’ve made the odd scud flick, aye, but it’s ey been consenting adults, nae dodgy stuff.
So ah stoaps, n the lassie gits in the cab. Her black hair’s plastered tae her heid by the rain, her long black coat’s heavy wi it, n her eyes ur aw fogged ower. — Awright, doll? A bit blustery tae be oot the night but, ay. Nivir heard ay Bawbag?
But this burd, she’s jist sittin thaire, starin oaf intae space wi they dark eyes, probably broon, set in a roundish face. The lights ur oan but thaire’s nae cunt hame. — The bridge, she sais in this accent that’s either posh Scottish or English.
— So what’s happenin oot at the bridge?
She suddenly looks at ays aw offended. Like it’s nane ay ma business.
— Dinnae look at ays like that, ah’m gaun, — wi that moosey face oan. See, if you jump oaf that bridge, it’s ma case the polis git oan! Ah’ve goat tae ask they questions!
She’s lookin right at ays in that wide-eyed horror, like the burds they huv in the movies like Scream, but, kinday no like Scream n aw, cause her mooth’s gaun aw tight, like ah’ve rumbled her.
— But that’s up tae you, ah shrugs. — It’s your business. Jist tell ays if ye are, so ah kin gie the bizzies some story, like ye telt ays ye wir gaun tae yir sister’s in Inverkeithing, then sais ye wir sick n hud tae git oot n puke, n the next thing ye’d cowped yirsel ower the rail, that sort ay shite. Goat tae cover ma erse but, ay.
She puts her heid in her hands and mumbles something ah dinnae catch, then jerks up and goes, — I can get out here.
— Naw, ah’ll take ye tae the bridge. Ah shakes ma heid. — Wey ah see it, if yir determined tae dae it, ye will. N it’s fuckin kickin up big time ootside. Ye might as well go thaire in comfort, n she disnae even flinch at that. — Tell ye one thing but, ah pits her in the picture, — yir no gittin oot this cab withoot peyin the fare first.
— I wasn’t – I’ve got money . . . She reaches intae her purse.
— How much?
— Seventy pounds and some change . . .
— No bein wide, ah goes, glancin in the mirror, — but ye might as well jist hand it aw ower . . . if yir sure, like. Jist that it would be a waste ay dosh, ay, jumpin wi aw that in yir poakits. No being wide, likes.
The burd looks angry, starin at ays for the first time, then sortay shrugs n settles back in the seat. — If I was ever in any doubt that this was the right time to leave this fucking place, you would have convinced me, and she reaches forward again n shows the contents ay the purse.
Ah stoaps at the rid light, turns n reaches through the Judas Hole tae take the poppy, n crams it intae ma poakit. The road’s empty, thank fuck. — Ah’m no bein funny like, ah’m no tryin tae stop ye, gen up, but ah’ve goat tae ask: what’s a good-lookin young lassie like you wantin tae dae this fir?
— You wouldn’t understand. She shakes her head. — Nobody does.
— Well, explain tae us, ah goes. Cause they sais oan that course tae try n git thum talkin. — What’s yir name? Ah’m Terry, by the by. Ah git kent as ‘Juice’ Terry cause ah worked oan the juice lorries way back. Sometimes ‘Scud’ Terry cause . . . well, ah’ll no bore ye wi the details.
— My name is Sara-Ann Lamont, she says, like she’s a robot. — I get called Sal. S-A-L. Sara. Ann. Lamont.
— You fae up here, Sal?
— Yes, Portobello originally. But I’ve lived in London for years.
— Lamont, ye said, aye?
— Yeah . . .
At least it isnae Lawson: thank fuck. Yuv goat tae check, wi that cunt ay an auld man ay mine huvin chucked ays spunk around toon like a lunatic sprayin asylum waws. — What’s it ye dae doon thaire, like, what line ay work ur ye in?
Another bitter wee shrug, then she pushes the wet tresses ay hair oot her eyes. — I write plays. Though the rest of the world seems to disagree.
— Nae felly doon thaire, somebody who’ll be worried aboot ye?
— Ha! She laughs, aw sort ay cynical. — I’m fleeing an emotionally abusive relationship. I’m back in my home city with a specially commissioned play at the Traverse. It was s
upposed to be the return of the prodigal daughter. But the critics have not been kind and I’ve had enough. Does that answer your questions?
— So yir gaunny kill yirsel ower a felly n a play?
— You don’t understand –
— Find another felly. Write another play, if that yin wis shite. Shot this prisoner-ay-war scud flick once, They Do Like It Up ’Em; wisnae that great, but it didnae deter –
— It wasn’t shite! she goes, now aw angry fir the first time. — You just don’t get it! But I’m not surprised.
Awright, so the burd’s gaunny be fish food in twenty minutes, but ah’m no that struck oan her patter, ay. — Aw ah see, ah dinnae understand cause ah jist drive a cab, is that it? Cause ah drive a taxi ah cannae be expected tae understand the complex mind ay an artiste?
— I didn’t say that!
— Ah’ve done a fair bit ay actin, no stage, but screen, n ah understand the process, ah’ll huv ye ken, ah tell her. People think scud’s jist aboot bangin away, but as ma mate Sick Boy ey says, ‘Wir telling a story here,’ so yuv goat tae ken yir lines n hit yir mark. No sayin ah’m fuckin Brad Pitt, but then again ah’m no sayin that cunt’s Juice Terry! Last year whin we wir shootin Doctor Scheme: A Thorough Examination ah hud tae stick one thermometer up this burd’s fanny, n the other up her erse, n say, ‘The hottest hole is the one that gets this fat dick, baby.’ Sounds fuckin straightforward enough but it’s no that easy whin thaire’s cameras on ye, lights shinin in yir coupon, n a boom mike overheid n Sick Boy fuckin prancin aboot shoutin orders at ye!
But she’s oaf oan one but, ay. Aw good: lit thum talk, the boy oan the course says. — All I ever wanted to do was write, she shouts. — Four years of my life went into that play, and they didn’t get it! They didn’t get me! Those sneering men I could understand, that cabal of sad old queens, but when the jealous fucking so-called sisters turned on me . . . She shakes her heid, lettin they wet locks fly. — No, I’ve had enough . . .
Thaire’s no a loat ye kin say tae that. Ah look at her in the mirror. She reminds me a bit ay that burd fae Liverpool ah made Anal Torpedo 3 wi. That was when ah played the captain oan the whalin ship crewed by burds, aw wearin fishnet tights. Catchphrase: ‘Thar she blows!’