Ah like Gorgie, but.
Ah like the McDonald’s. Aye sur. The Chicken McNuggets ur the bit ah like best, sur, aye they ur. Ah like the wey whin ye bite intae thum thir aw chewy, n no that greasy wey like a Kentucky Fried Chicken kin sometimes be. Ah like a Kentucky Fried Chicken whin ah’m in the mood but, usually eftir a few peeves, aw aye sur, that ah dae. Jinty ey prefers a chippy. Ah keep tellin hur that she should be mair adventurous. Ye should be mair adventurous, Jinty, ah’d joke tae hur. Aye sur, mair adventurous. But ah like a McNuggets fir a chynge, aw sur, fur a wee chynge. But see this new Eftir Eight McFlurry, ah like that Eftir Eight McFlurry n aw! Jist as a treat oan a Tuesday, but, cause yuv goat tae keep yir money. Funny thing is, ah dinnae really like a Big Mac that much. Ye kin git awfay bagged up eftir a Big Mac.
16
HOTELS AND SAUNAS
BAWBAG: LOAD AY fuckin pish. That wis nivir a hurricane! A total fuckin non-event, that cunt: fuckin well playin at it. Thaire’s a bit ay a mess oan the streets, wi upturned rubbish n that, kicked-ower signs n traffic cones, n one or two broken windaes, but nowt different tae what pished-up cunts dae every fuckin weekend!
Ah’ve droaped oaf a couple ay messages in toon, so ah pop doon tae Liberty Leisure n check oot how The Poof’s business empire’s daein. That Saskia’s still hingin aboot; Polish burd, awfay sexy, eywis wears tight, glittery tops, n a short skirt, like she’s gaun clubbin, but mibbe a bit too fragile n lost-lookin tae be in this game. — Nae Jinty? ah asks her.
— Nup, she nivir came in, Saskia goes, soundin sortay Scottish but wi an East European accent. — Mibbe Bawbag got her!
Ah’m sortay laughin at her patter but this other burd, that Andrea, lookin right at me, says, — Maybe he did.
Ah like Saskia n Jinty’s style, but ah loat ay the lassies here dinnae seem tae be that happy, n ah think ah ken the reason: that wee cunt Kelvin is definitely creepin thum oot. He comes oantae the scene n the laughter stoaps. Ah dinnae like that, yuv goat tae be cheerful at work. Especially if yir work’s fuckin shaggin!
— Business is a bit slow, ay, he says.
— Aye, this Andrea goes, which cracks me up, cause she says it in an English accent and she’s a sortay Chinky burd.
— Git in thaire then, eh goes, noddin tae one ay the rooms, — ah’ve goat a length fir ye.
The cunt looks at me wi a big grin. Ah feel like punchin the skinny wee cunt’s muppet heid in. Even though that Andrea is a bit ay a cow, ye kin tell the lassie’s really scared as she heads oaf, followed by that sleaze bucket. Ah dinnae like aw that shite. Suggest a ride tae a burd, aye, but commandin a lassie tae ride when she cannae refuse, well, that’s no fuckin right. As they vanish, Saskia shoots me this fearful look, like she wants me tae dae something. What can ah dae? It’s fuck all tae dae wi me, ah jist came doon tae help oot The Poof, n it’s his fuckin brother-in-law. Ah says tae her on the quiet, — Let ays ken if Jinty shows up.
— But you can call here.
— Ah dinnae want tae talk tae laughin boy, ay, n ah nods through tae where Kelvin’s probably heapin the misery on Andrea. Ah keep ma voice doon, cause the lassies seem tae hate Kelvin, but in this kind ay set-up thaire’s eywis a grass.
She looks at me for a second, n scribbles doon her digits oan a slip ay paper.
Ah gits back in the motor, no feelin sae happy. Ah punches in Saskia’s number and texts her: Any news about Jinty, give me a wee shout. Terry X
Aye, thaire’s some no bad rides thaire n The Poof says fill yir fuckin boots, it’s oan the house. But fuck that; even if it’s oan a free pass, ye want tae be wi a burd that’s intae it, like that Jinty, no yin that’s jist punchin the fuckin cloak. Besides, a welt like this, they should be fuckin well peyin me fir ma services! Guaranteed! That Jinty kent the score, n ah’m wonderin when she’ll be back in.
A text flies back, fae Saskia: Yes and please the same if you hear. S.
Nice lassie. But ah’m no for prostitution at aw. It’s no right that lassies like that Saskia are pit in the position whaire they huv tae sell thair bodies for cash. Much better money makin a few porno flicks wi the likes ay me n Sick Boy. Ah dinnae want tae mention that though, in case it gets back tae The Poof, n eh accuses ays ay poachin his employees, or worse, tries tae git involved in aw oor shit. I’m way too tangled up wi that cunt awready.
Pillin up Easter Road n ah sees that new manager boy, him that came ower fae Dublin, comin oot a shop wi an Evening News, so ah toots n gies um a wee wave. Goat tae be an improvement oan that last useless cunt. Ah picks up a fare oan London Road. It’s another moosey-faced cunt, whae’s soon askin ays, — How’s it wir gaun this way?
— Trams . . . one-wey system . . . re-routed . . . council . . .
The phone’s gaun, n it’s that Suicide Sal. So ah meets up wi her in Grassmarket, whaire ah’m droapin oaf this miserable fucker. Tight cunt gies ays a fifty-pence fuckin tip. Control’s oan starting thair bullshit:
PLEASE PICK UP FARE IN TOLLCROSS.
But it’s no Big Liz, so they kin suck ma fuckin boaby, if the cunts could git thair erse-tight lips around it. Ah type in:
JUST PICKED UP A FARE IN GRASSMARKET.
Sal gits intae the cab, n she’s lookin a lot better now. Like thaire’s a bit ay life back in her eyes. Nowt like a decent fuckin ride tae restore perspective! Guaranteed!
The greatest thing aboot shaggin a burd in the back ay a real taxi, like the hackney cab: after yuv rode her, she cannae git in the front wi ye. Thaire’s that nice bit ay distance, ken? — Whaire’s it we’re gaun for a ride? ah goes, turnin roond. — You’re gittin it good style, every hole filled. Brought a wee pal along. Ah huds up the vibrator thit ah usually keep under the seat.
She arches a sly brow. No daft that yin: kens that move sets oaf a definite baw-tremor. — So are all Edinburgh taxi drivers drug-abusing sexual perverts?
— Only the yins worth talkin tae!
She hus a wee giggle at that. — We can go to my hotel. I’ve a room at the Caledonian until tomorrow, then I have to go back to my mother’s at Porty.
— Barry, ah goes. — Lit’s live it up while yuv goat the space!
Ah like a cowp in the back ay the cab, but a bit ay deluxe suits ays doon tae a tee. One thing ah’ve learnt ower the years, if fate gied ye a welt like a hoarse, no a hoarse’s cock, mind you, but the actual hoarse, ye fuckin well yaze it. But if he gied ye a tongue like Doaktir Who’s skerf, yuv goat tae fuckin well deploy that bastard n aw. So wir up in this smart room oan the bed. Ah’m right doonstairs, lickin away like a Jambo at plate gless, n gittin a bit fruity wi the vibrator. Sal’s a bit tense n wary at first, but some lassies jist need a wee bit help in being sexually liberated. Everything’s negotiable. As ah eywis say: fuck off means naw, naw means mibbe, mibbe means aye n aye means anal. Guaranteed!
So wir soon sweatin away n she’s gaun mental, climbin oan toap ay us, jist aboot ripped the fuckin rug oaf ma chist at one point! Jesus fuck almighty! Aye, it turns oot a rerr wee session. It passed what ah call ‘the absent camera regret test’. That’s whin yuv done a load ay scud movies’ worth ay ridin, n ye think: ‘ah wish tae fuck ah’d recorded this yin.’
Wir lying thaire in the kip, n wi order a boatil ay rid wino n a sanny oan the room service. Shouldnae be drinkin n drivin, but ah’ve goat a wee livener in ma tail tae sort ays oot. Sal’s talkin aboot leavin London, n gettin a place back up here. — I’ve had it there, she says, fixin me in a kind ay look that ah’m no that sure aboot. Ah mean, ah cannae say nowt, it’s doon tae hur whaire she lives. Ah feel like tellin her: dinnae fuckin think aboot movin on account ay me! Ah’m no that gadge, ay. Mental burds; needy, crazy, strength-sappin n soul-destroyin, aye, but mair often than not barry fuckin rides. Eywis good tae spend a bit a time wi thum: eywis a relief tae git the fuck away fae thum!
So the whole day’s taken up wi the Ian McLagan, n ah’ve a goat a big fuckin grin oan ma coupon like an oil slick oan a coral reef, as ah gits back intae the cab. Ah sees a lassie in a red coat
pass, wi black hair, n for a minute ah think it’s that wee Jinty, but it’s no. So ah gies Saskia at the sauna a quick bell, but thaire’s still nae sign. Then thaire’s a call fae Ronnie. — Can we do Haddington tomorrow? I mean, will it be safe to travel?
— Aye, of course it will.
— Will the emergency travel restrictions be lifted?
— There’s nae travel restrictions. The hurricane’s away, ay.
— You guys are fucking weird, eh goes. We make arrangements for the morn n eh signs off.
Eftir a couple ay jobs, one where ah got the number offay a dirty-lookin posh auld doll fae the New Town, Sal phones again, n ah cannae resist gaun back tae the hotel fir a second session, which is even mair mental thin the first. It’s aw shaggin, cleanin oot the minibar, daein some rails, then repeatin, tae the point ay exhaustion. Her exhaustion, obviously, no mine, that’s guaranteed!
The next morning ah wakes up n the place is fuckin trashed. Fuckin rock star, ya cunt! So wi goes doon fir breakfast, baith a wee bit bleary. This posh-doorman-type ay cunt, fuckin conci-fuckin-French radge, wearin a dipstick uniform, he comes ower. He gies us a look n sais, — A gentleman usually shaves before breakfast.
Wide cunt. So ah goes, — Ah prefer tae wait until ah’m wide awake. Ye kin easily nick the scrotum otherwise.
That shuts the fucker up, standin thaire like some cunt’s rammed a rid-hot poker up ehs pile-ridden erse. Suicide Sal’s huvin a laugh aboot it, so it’s aw good. It’s barry seein her laugh like that. A smart, fit, youngish burd wi aw that talent tryin tae top hursel? Writes fuckin plays n aw! Ah could barely write my fuckin name tae sign on, back in the day. She can dae aw that, and she wants tae jump oaf a fuckin bridge? She must be fuckin mental! Ya cunt, of course she is, that’s the fuckin problem but, ay!
Any roads, that fill breakfast looks good, but ah gits a feel ay ma love handles and thinks: mibbe some porridge n berries ur oan the agenda. Thon scud hotline oan the cheeky phone could go any time: Sick Boy gies ye very little notice when eh’s ready tae shoot. It’s no like Hollywood, if ye make a few grand fae one movie, a couple ay months later yir shootin the next yin. Ye need tae be ready. So that’s ma choice.
As it comes ower, she goes, — I never thought of you as a healthy-eating sort.
— Ah like ma oats, ah tell her wi a wink. — Maybe a wee cowp eftir?
— You’re a monster, she goes, shakin her heid. — A total addict. You can’t go a few hours without having sex!
— Aye.
— You really should go to a sex-addiction group.
— Aye, might jist dae that, ah goes, laughin, but thinkin, that’s food for thought. Nowt ruled in, nowt ruled oot. This porridge, but, different fuckin class! The auld girl nivir made it like that!
17
UNFAZED BY THE PHENOMENON
THE PUB IS no longer smoky, but the ghosts of cigarette fumes past seem to linger. In a corner by the jukebox, the Barksdale twins sit nursing a symbiotic hangover with their more sprightly comrades, Tony, Lethal Stuart and Deek, the newspaper spread across the table in front of them. The Daily Record contains a piece about how the newcomer pandas braved Hurricane Bawbag from their enclosure in Edinburgh Zoo.
‘They seemed remarkably unfazed by the phenomenon,’ said a senior zookeeper. ‘It looks like they’ve already picked up some of that famous Scottish stoicism.’
Evan Barksdale’s mouth sets tightly as Jonty MacKay comes into the bar and asks for a glass of milk. It’s poured by Sandra, the barmaid, very nicely, Jonty thinks. — There ye go, Jonty.
Of course Jonty is aware that the boys in the corner are looking at him with the milk. Then Craig Barksdale shouts him over. — You picked up a Bonyrigg Rose, Jonty? STD clinic? Like the clap?
— Nowt like that, naw sur, jist tryin no tae drink, naw sur, Jonty shakes his head. — Bad fir ye tae drink too much, aye sur.
— Is it fuck!
— Mulk in Thepubweynaename! Plitikill kirrectniss gone mad! Deek offers.
Jake, who has been behind the bar polishing glasses, looks at Jonty and says, — That milk’s on the house, pal.
— Thanks, Jake, aye, thanks . . .
— Ah hear that you’re good at the paintin, Jonty.
— Aye, the paintin, aye sur, aye, aye aye . . .
— No fancy daein the pub here? It wid huv tae be early-morning shifts though, cause ah cannae afford tae shut it. Yir jist acroass the street but!
Jonty considers this. The extra money would come in handy. — Aye, Jake, ah kin git up early, aye sur, aye . . .
Evan Barksdale, who has heard this exchange, lifts his eyes from the Record on the table. As Jonty joins them, he hears Evan postulate, — This fuckin panda business, ah kent thaire wis something no right aboot that. Notice how they’ve awready admitted that thir Fenian bastards!
Tony chips in, — The two pandas they goat fae China at the zoo ur Fenian bastards?
— Aye.
— Beat it!
— Ah’m fuckin tellin ye!
— Git away!
Jonty’s eyes go from Evan to Tony.
— Stoap that wi yr eyes, ya muppet, Evan goes. — It’s like he’s at fuckin Wimbledon! Hi-hi-hi-hi!
Laughter ripples around the table. — Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!
Jonty wonders what they mean by this. There is no tennis here, in this pub.
— They awready called yin ‘Sunshine’ like ‘Sunshine on Leith’, n thir sayin it’s a Hibs supporter, Evan Barksdale says. — Dirty fuckin Fenian Chinky Hobo tramps. Just when the council fuckin backtracks on its pledge tae help us wi a new stadium!
— Yir no wrong, Barksie, Lethal Stuart cuts in. — Notice how that Hobo tramp Riordan went ower tae China tae play? Then the next thing ye hear is that thaire’s two fuckin pandas headin tae Edinburgh? These fuckin specky Proclaimer cunts’ll be playin a gig ower thaire next!
— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi! Tony laughs.
— Aye, ye might fuckin laugh, but it’s no right. Evan Barksdale shakes his head and looks at Jonty. — What you fuckin well sayin then, Jonty?
— Ah like pandas, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, but ah dinnae think thir bothered aboot Hibs n Herts. Mair likely tae be Dunfermline or St Mirren wi they colours. Aye sur, black n white, sur. Aye. Aye. Aye. Dunfermline. Aye. St Mirren. Aye.
— Goat ye thaire, Barksie, Tony goes.
— Fuck pandas, Evan Barksdale sneers. — Dinnae even see what the fuss is aboot wi they daft cunts. Thi’ll no ride each other tae save thirsels fae extinction n thi’ll no change thair diet.
— A plitikly kirrect bear, Deek says. — Madness!
— Same again? Craig Barksdale points to the emptying glasses. — Tennent’s?
— Aye. Tennent’s, says Tony.
— Aye. Git ays another pie n aw then, ya cunt . . . Lethal Stuart appeals. — Ah’ll gie ye the money!
— Aye, Tennent’s, says Evan Barksdale.
Craig Barksdale turns to Jonty. — What you wantin then?
— Naw sur, naw sur, ah’m fine jist sippin at ma mulk, aye sur.
Craig Barksdale rolls his eyes but is quite relieved that Jonty has refused a beer. — Aye, they dinnae ride, they fuckin pandas, he sings to his brother.
— Ya cunt, Tony announces, — ah could go a decent ride right now!
— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!
— So you no gaunny git Jinty in the family wey then, Jonty? Tony asks.
— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi! They all sit round in their seats to study Jonty’s reaction.
— Naw, a crestfallen Jonty tells them. — Naw sur. Naw.
— It’s aw fuckin money, bairns n that but, Jonty, Tony says sadly. — Yir life’s no yir ain. It’s good tae gie a burd a bairn, it stoaps thum ridin aboot wi other boys; unless it’s a real slag, of course. A real slag will ey ride aboot n thaire’s nowt ye kin dae aboot it. But mark ma wurds Jonty, gie a lassie a bairn – jist yin or two mind, cause any mair wrecks a burd in the fanny department. The ridin’s nivir the same eftir a bairn. Ma Liza, she jist lies
back n takes it. Nae enthusiasm. He shakes his head sadly. — Is it still like it wis it the start whin you ride wee Jinty, Jonty?
— Naw, Jonty tells him, now feeling very sad. Cause it wasn’t like that.
— This conversation’s takin a fuckin depressin turn, Evan Barksdale shouts. — That’s wi fuckin Christmas comin up but, ay.
— Aye, meant tae be the season ay goodwill, Lethal Stuart says. — Any cunt goat ching? Some cunt phone some fucker!
Jonty can no longer stand it. — Ah’ve goat tae go, aye sur, that ah have, he says, rising from his chair.
— Aye, thaire’s money there, Jonty hears Evan Barksdale contend, his adversary raising his voice as he leaves the pub. — Sneaky wee cunt, n he gits tae paint the pub! When did he last buy a fuckin round? That’s aw ah’m sayin, Tony.
Jonty pushes through the doors and heads down the street reasoning that it is unfair that he should buy a round of drinks when he is only on free milk. It is growing cold again, but the rain has stopped, although the pavements are black with wet, and frosting in patterns that entrance him. On an impulse, he puts the sole of his shoe on one, destroying the intricate ornamentation, almost moved to tears that his actions have resulted in the elimination of something so beautiful.
A free newspaper, lying discarded on the pavement, distracts him from his pain. He picks it up.
He isn’t that long back in the flat when the doorbell rings. Jonty keeps the door on the chain, only opening it to the extent of its meagre limit. A young woman looks back at him, her nose wrinkling, as if she smells something bad and Jonty has to concede that it is a bit dirty indoors, with Jinty being ill. The house needs cleaned. He will have to pull his weight more.
— Is Jeentee in? The girl sounds foreign. Maybe Polish. — I am Saskia, a friend of hers from work.
— Naw, Jonty says, shaking his head. — Naw she is not, naw sur, naw naw naw . . . n she’s no gaun back tae that place either, he informs Saskia, thinking about The Pub With No Name. — Ah ken aw aboot what happens at that place! Aye ah do! Durty things! Aye sur, aye sur . . .