Glue

  Carl looked at his mother, tried to work out whether he saw betrayal, or just incomprehension in her eyes. Then he saw it through her eyes for the first time: she was acting as if she’d done something wrong, as if she was in some way responsible for his fuck-ups. No way; he could look himself in the eye and say that as far as that was concerned, he was a self-made wanker. — I just . . . I just . . . I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m so sorry. I’ve not been much of a son to him . . . or you, he bleated, the depth of his self-pity, of his self-loathing, stunning him.

  His mother looked at him, with a great sincerity in her eyes. — No. You’ve been the best son we could have hoped for. We had our own life and we encouraged you to have yours. We just wished you’d kept in touch a bit more.

  — . . . I know. I was thinking . . . you always think that there’ll be time tae catch up again. Tae square things. Then this happens and you realise that it’s no like that. I could’ve done more.

  Maria watched her son twitching and stuttering in front of her. He was a mess. All she had wanted was the odd phone call, to make sure he was okay, now he was getting all worked-up and self-destructive over nothing. — Come on, son. Come on! she said, grabbing his head in her hands. — You did everything. You saved our home from getting repossessed, saved us from getting flung out on the street.

  — But I had the money . . . I could afford it, he began.

  His mother shook his head again, then let go. — No. Don’t belittle it. You don’t know how much it meant to us. You took us to the States, she smiled. — Oh, I know it’s nothing to you, but to us it was the holiday of a lifetime. It meant so much to your dad.

  Carl’s head pounded with relief at his mother’s words. He’d been too hard on himself. Thank fuck I took them over to the States, took the old boy to Graceland. Saw him standing over Elvis’s grave with a tear in his eye.

  The strange thing though, what really blew him away, was taking him to a bar in Leeds called Mojo. When they played the live version of the American Trilogy at closing time, and set the bar on fire with lighter fuel, with everybody standing to attention. His father couldn’t believe it, because until then Duncan had never believed that people of that generation, the Acid House generation, could be so passionate about Elvis. Then Carl took him to Basics and gave him an E. And he got it. He knew it wasn’t, would never be his in the way that it was his son’s, but he got it.

  Carl wondered if he should tell his mother this. That time her and Avril went away for a weekend in St Andrews. He took Duncan to the Liverpool v. Man United game, then to Mojo through in Leeds, and on to Basics. He’d told her everything, except for the E. No, maybe now wasn’t the time.

  Maria looked at her son, sipped her coffee. What was he playing at? He had everything that her and Duncan had wanted all their lives, freedom from the nine-to-five, but he didn’t seem to appreciate it. Maybe he did in his own way. Maria didn’t understand her son, and perhaps she never would. But maybe that was the way it was supposed to be. All she understood about him was her love for him, and that was enough. — Let’s go back in.

  They replaced Sandra and Billy round Duncan’s prostrate body. Carl looked at his father again, and an almost unbearable tightness rose in his chest. He waited for the intensity of it to wane, but it never did; it remained a constant, unceasing crush.

  Then Duncan’s eyes flickered open, and Maria saw the crazy light in them that was his life force. She heard a great tune, saw a glorious Kilmarnock victory, even though she’d never been to a football match in her life, and most of all she saw him, as he always was, when he looked at her. The warped, worldly flesh around his face seemed to vanish as she was sucked into those eyes.

  Carl saw the moment between them, felt the flashback of that childhood redundancy, that sense of himself as surplus to requirements. He slid back in his chair. This was their moment.

  But Duncan was trying to speak. Maria watched with sick dread as the green line on the instrument started to peak and trough erratically. He was in distress. She grabbed his hand and bent over him to hear him rasp urgently in a low expulsion of air, — Carl . . . whaire’s Carl?

  — Here ah’m, Dad, he said, sitting forward and squeezing his father’s hand.

  — How’s Australia, Duncan wheezed.

  — Fine, was all he could say. It was fucking lunacy. How’s Australia. Australia’s fine.

  — You should keep in touch mair. Your mother . . . you get your mother in an awfay state sometimes. Anyhow . . . it’s good tae see ye . . . his eyes glowed warmly.

  Carl nodded. — And you, he smiled. The simplicity of it all didn’t seem as banal any more. Rather, it was all the sophistication, the embroidery and embellishment and the constant searching for profundity that now seemed the trivial sham. They were content just to be with each other.

  Fucked and Hassled

  Juice Terry twisted his head and looked quickly across the other side of Dalry Road. Rab Birrell was still following him, though keeping a discreet distance. Haughtily, Terry turned his back and continued his stride down the street. A taxi flashed past, ignoring him as he stuck his hand out.

  At least he’d got rid of that American cow, Terry thought. She was crashed out back at the hotel, and she said she’d phone him in the morning. All her bullshit about planning to stay over in Edinburgh for a while: she’d be out on the first plane as soon as it was light.

  The odd drunk bobbed and weaved down the road. Terry noted, with glee, a couple of tidy-looking boys heading down Birrell’s side of the street, straight towards the student cunt. Maybe he’d get one of those pointless kickings which tended to be meted out disproportionately highly on the streets of Scotland from some working-class males to others. Not for profit, or even to enhance macho reputation, but almost out of a bizarre protocol. But if they gave the cunt a hard time, what would he do? He’d have to back the bastard up. Let them get a few good shots in first though. But no, Birrell knows them. He’s even shook hands. They stand in conference for a bit, then head their separate ways, Rab resuming his pursuit of Terry.

  Rab Birrell reached for his mobile phone in the pocket of his brown leather bomber jacket, and switched it on. He dialled the numbers of two taxi firms he knew off by heart. They were both engaged. He put the phone back into his pocket. Rab was bad at keeping the huff, and was starting to feel the embarrassment at the situation, overcoming his anger with Terry. He crossed into the middle of the deserted road, standing on the white lines of no-man’s-land. — Terry, c’moan mate . . .

  Terry stopped, turned and pointed his finger at Rab. — Dinnae think you’re gittin intae ma hoose. Yir as well jist gaun hame, Birrell!

  Rab shuffled in the middle of the road. — Ah fuckin telt ye, ah said ah’d git Charlene, then ah’ll go.

  Who the fuck was he, Terry wondered. That cunt Birrell thought that he could sook back in after nearly causing ma death. — Hmmmph. Back ower yir ain side ay the road, Juice Terry Lawson moaned, sweeping his hand through his hair.

  — Terry, this is just pathetic! C’moan! Rab took a step forward.

  — YIR AIN FUCKIN SIDE, BIRRELL! Terry roared, adopting a scrapper’s stance. — Git tae fuck ower thaire!

  Rab tutted in loud exasperation, jerking his eyes heavenwards, before heading back over the road. Two men were approaching, this time on Terry’s side of the street. They wore leather jackets and tight trousers. Their hair was cut short and one had a prominent moustache. Terry hadn’t seen them until they were a few steps in front of him.

  — A wee tiff, is it? the one without the mowser lisped. — This yin here’s jist as bad, he pointed at his friend.

  — Whaaat?!

  — Oh sorry, I think I’ve got it wrong.

  — Aye, ye fuckin well did, Terry snapped as he passed them, but then started laughing to himself. How did it look, him and Rab on opposite sides of the road, bickering away at each other. He was being silly, but he was still shook up after hanging upside-down and staring death in the face.
And Birrell wanted him to act like fuck all had happened.

  Another taxi whizzed by. The taxi cunt’s mumpy face as he shook his head glumly, cruising past Terry. Then he heard a car stop over the other side of the road. It was another cab and Birrell was climbing into it. Terry started to cross, but the car shot off, leaving him stranded. He saw Rab in the back, receding from him down the road, face set in a saucy wink and giving him the thumbs-up.

  — FUCKEN BIRRELL BASTARDS!! Terry screeched skywards, as if pleading to a higher power.

  Rab chuckled in the back of the cab, before instructing the driver to do a U-turn. They pulled up and he opened the door in front of Terry, who looked bitterly at him. — You getting in?

  Terry climbed wearily into the cab, and was resolutely silent most of the way out to the scheme. As they drove past the Cross, Rab started laughing. Terry tried to fight it for a bit, but couldn’t help joining in.

  When they got back they found Lisa was sitting up watching the telly. Charlene was asleep on the couch. — Yis git Kath oaf tae bed safely then?

  — Aye, Terry said.

  Lisa looked at their marked faces, Terry’s swollen eye, the blood on Rab’s jacket, his mouth. — Youse been fightin?

  Terry and Rab looked at each other. — Eh, just some boys gittin wide oan the wey hame, Terry said.

  She went up to Terry. — You’re a mess, she said, putting her arms round his neck.

  — Ye should see the other cunt, Terry replied, stealing a glance over at Rab.

  Rab didn’t want to wake Charlene, but he got on the couch with her, and into an embrace. She opened her eyes for a couple of seconds to register him, went, — Mmmm, and then drifted off again, tightening her grip around him. Rab let exhaustion take him into unconsciousness.

  Terry and Lisa were still feeling a slight buzz, though starting to zone off a little bit, in front of the fire. Soon they too fell into a slumber.

  A sharp, chirpy insistent buzzing in the room brought them back to consciousness, one by one. It was Rab’s mobile.

  Terry was livid. Could that cunt not switch that fuckin schemie toy off? Rab tried to fish the phone out of his pocket without disturbing Charlene. It proved impossible and the phone slipped out and fell on the floor. Rab scrambled to it, getting it into his grip. — Hello . . . Billy . . . What? . . . Naw . . . Yir jokin.

  Terry was about to berate Rab for leaving his mobile switched on, but was intrigued that Billy called. — If he’s phoned tae apologise for ehs behaviour earlier the day, tell um tae fuck off!

  Rab ignored Terry as he listened to his brother. — Right . . . Rab said a few times, eventually hanging up. He looked over at Terry. — You urnae gaunny believe this. Carl Ewart’s back, n ehs auld man’s in hoaspital.

  — Duncan? Terry asked, with real concern. He’d always liked Carl’s dad.

  His head thumped. Carl was back. Fuckin hell. Carl. Inspiration flashed in Terry’s nut. He could feel a scam coming on, and his mate needed him. Carl. Terry got up, and left a groggy Lisa on the floor. It was bad form leaving a bird like that, especially as they were a vital component in Terry’s ‘Shh! The Six S’s Hangover Cure’, which he’d one day resolved to write a book on. This consisted of, in order: shag, shit, shave, shower, shirt and shandy. The latter was the pint of lager tops in the pub, that first-pint inch of lemonade which never survived the subsequent rounds. But he went through to the bathroom, ran a quick bath and got changed.

  When Terry re-emerged, face red with the heat from the bath, Lisa looked up from her place on the rug. Rab and Charlene were comatose again on the couch.

  — Where are ye gaun, Lisa asked.

  — Gaun tae see ma buddy, Terry said, pulling back the curtains to let the light in. The streets were deserted but the birds were singing in the trees outside. He turned back to Lisa. — Ah’ll no be long. Thir’s a proper bed up thaire if ye want tae crash oot, he smiled. — Ah’ll phone back here in a bit. Rab! Terry shouted.

  Rab twisted round and moaned, — What . . .

  — Look eftir the ladies. Ah’ll call ye oan the mobby.

  The End

  Billy Birrell was surprised to see a scrubbed and changed Juice Terry Lawson heading down the corridor towards him. Terry’s eye was out. That wasn’t me, he thought, I punched the cunt on the jaw. Maybe he fell onto it after that. Slightly guilty, Billy said, — Terry, in conciliatory tones.

  — They in thaire, aye? Terry looked into the ward.

  — Aye. Ah’d leave them but. Duncan’s no goat long. Muh Ma’s jist gone away, but ah’ll wait here fir thum, Billy explained. — Thir isnae much ye kin dae, mate.

  Aw aye, Terry thought, and what the fuck are you gaunny dae, bring the poor old cunt back fae the deid? That toss-bag Birrell was still tryin tae play the big virtuous cunt. — Ah’ll wait for them as well, Terry sniffed. — Carl’s ma mate n aw.

  Billy shrugged, as if to say, suit yourself.

  Terry minded that Billy was far less sensitive than his brother, and impossible to wind-up or guilt-trip in the same way. The only way you could get to the cunt was through direct insult, and then you risked a punching, something he’d also been reminded of lately.

  Thinking along the same lines, Billy said, — Sorry aboot huvin tae hit ye thair Terry, but ye hud a go. Ye left ays nae option.

  Ye left ays nae option. Hear that cunt, Terry thought, does eh think eh’s in fuckin Hollywood or something. Fuck it though, Carl’s auld boy was dying. It wisnae the time tae go aw daft. Terry extended his hand. — Fair do’s Billy, sorry tae act the cunt, but thir wis nae herm meant.

  Billy didn’t believe a word of that, but you couldn’t get into that kind of shite right now. He took Terry’s hand and shook it firmly. When they broke off, there was an awkward silence. — Any nice lookin nurses aboot? Terry asked.

  — Seen a couple.

  Terry craned his neck and looked into the ward. — Is that Ewart thaire? Eh’s still a skinny cunt.

  — Eh’s no really changed that much, Billy agreed.

  Over her son’s shoulder Maria Ewart could see Billy Birrell and Terry Lawson, his old pals, standing back in the doorway at the exit from the ward.

  Maria and Carl crouched closer as Duncan tried to talk again. — Mind the ten rules, he wheezed at his son, squeezing his hand.

  Carl Ewart looked at the broken parody of his father, sprawled under the sheets in his bed. Aye, they really worked for you, he thought. But just as this thought formed in his head, it was overwhelmed by a surge of passion from his heart which lifted right through him, stopping at the arc in the roof of his mouth. Words were spilling out of him, like shimmering golden balls of light, and they were saying, — Of course I will, Dad.

  When Duncan died, they hugged his corpse in turn, crying and moaning softly, aching all over and inside with the unbelievable pain and disbelief of loss, tempered only with the relief that his suffering was over.

  Terry and Billy stood outside in glum silence, just waiting until they could be of service.

  There was a red-headed nurse and Terry felt his fevered brain becoming obsessed with her pubic hair. In his mind’s eye he could see a piece of grey matter inside his own skull, with silky, ginger curls spinning from it. The woman had a sweet, freckled face, and she gave him a smile and he felt his heart drip like honey spilled from a jar. That’s what he needed, he considered, a classy wee bird like that to look after him. One like that, and one like wee Lisa, a bit mair feisty and game. One was never enough. Two birds, both of whom were up for it, but also into each other. He’d be like that Man about the House cunt in that old sitcom. But the birds would need to have lesbian tendencies as well. No too much soas yi’d git left oot mind, he thought, fine-tuning the fantasy a little.

  — How’s Yvonne daein? Billy asked.

  — Still mairried tae the Perth boy. Big St Johnstone fan. Follays them everywhere. The bairns are gittin big.

  — You seein anybody?

  — Well, ye ken how it is, eh? Terry smiled
as Billy gave an expressionless nod back. — Yirself?

  — Been wi this French lassie for a couple ay years, but she moved back tae Nice at Christmas thaire. Long-distance romance; nae good, he said.

  They carried on like that, until they felt it appropriate to go in and see Carl and Maria. Billy put his hand on Maria’s shoulder, and Terry copied the gesture with Carl. — Carl, he said.

  — Terry.

  Billy whispered to Maria, — Just let me know what ye want tae do. Okay? We can go or stay here for a bit.

  — You go hame son, ah’d like tae stey for a bit, she said.

  Carl felt a bit jealous; Billy was doing what he should be doing, saying what he should be saying. Not that Billy said much, but when he did, it was usually spot-on. Knowing when to shut the fuck up was a great and underrated talent. Carl could spraff shite with the best of them, but sometimes, especially at times like these, you could sense the limits of bullshit. It was the likes of Billy, the timely interventionists, who really had it sussed. — Naw, we’ll stick aroond. Till yir ready. Thir’s nae hurry, he told Carl’s mother.

  They stayed long after the line on the oscilloscope was flat. They knew Duncan wasn’t there any more. But they hung around for a bit, just in case he came back.

  Billy called Maria’s sister, Avril, and his mother, Sandra. Then he drove them all out to Sandra’s. The women sat in with Maria, while the boys went out, walking aimlessly, finding themselves in the park.

  Carl looked up at the dull sky and started to convulse in tearless, heavy sobs that shook his thin frame. Billy and Terry glanced at each other. They were embarrassed, not so much of Carl, but for him. He was still a gadge, after all.

  But through Duncan’s death something hung in the air between them. There was just something, some kind of second chance, and even Carl seemed to sense it through his grief. He seemed to be trying to steady himself, to catch a breath, to say something.

  They saw some young kids, they must have been about ten, playing football. Billy thought back to when they used to do the same. He considered time, ripping the guts out of people, then setting them in stone and just slowly chipping away at them. The newly cut summer grass had that sweet-and-sour whiff. The machines seemed to tear up just as much dogshit, ripping open toalied-over crusts. The kids were fighting with grass, stuffing it down each other’s necks, just like they used to do, not even thinking about being smeared with canine shite.