— Can ah buy you boys a drink, Terry asked.
Billy looked at Carl, raising his eyebrows a little.
— Ah could handle a beer, but just a couple, eh boys. Ah’m beyond fucked and ah should get back tae muh Ma’s, Carl said.
— Ma auld lady’s wi her, Carl, n yir Auntie Avril n aw. She’ll be fine for a bit, Billy said.
— Wheatsheaf? Terry suggested. They nodded. He looked at Billy. — Ye ken something, Billy? Ye never say ‘brutal’ anymair. Ye used tae say it aw the time.
Billy thought about this, then shook his head in the negative. — Ah cannae mind ays ever sayin that. Ah used tae say ‘drastic’ a lot. Still do.
Terry turned to Carl in appeal. Carl shrugged. — Cannae mind any ay us sayin ‘brutal’. Billy used tae say ‘desperate’ sometimes, ah mind ay that.
— Maybe that’s what ah wis thinking aboot, Terry nodded.
They walked across the park, three men, three middle-aged men. One looked a bit plump, the other muscular and athletic and the final one was skinny and dressed in clothes some might have considered a bit young for him. They never said that much to each other, but they gave the impression of being close.
Carl pulled the sliding shelf out from underneath the mixing desk, exposing the keyboard. His fingers flitted across it, once, twice, three times, making minor but crucial modifications on each occasion. He was aware of Helena coming into the room. Had he not been so absorbed, his heart would have sunk to note Juice Terry following her. Terry crashed heavily down on the large couch in the corner, groaning in loud, unselfconscious distraction and stretching, letting out a roar which climbed to orgasmic proportions as his body reached its tensile limits. Content, he started browsing through an assortment of newspapers and music magazines. — Ah’ll no disturb ye, boss, he said with a wink.
Carl caught Helena’s ‘I’m sorry’ expression as she left the room with feline stealth. That was the problem of being back in Edinburgh, and having your studio in your house. It could get like Waverley Station and Terry, in particular, seemed to have taken up residence on that fuckin couch.
— Ah mean, Terry continued, — the creative juices n aw that. Thir must be nowt worse thin whin yir oan a roll tae huv some cunt come in n start rabbitin away in yir ear.
— Aye, Carl said, getting down and looping his keyboard riff.
— Tell ye what but, Carl, ah’m gittin gyp bigtime offay that Sonia bird. Baith sides: dodgy. Keepin well away fae that anywey. SWAT-team shag; ye go in, dae the biz, then git the fuck oot as soon as possible. SAS-style, he explained, then, putting on an upper-crust accent, added, — so many dehm fine cheps didn’t make it bek.
— Hmm, Carl purred, almost lost in music and only vaguely aware of what Terry was on about.
Silence may have been golden for some, but for Terry empty airways constituted waste. As he flicked through the Scotsman he contended, — Tell ye what but, Carl, this fuckin Queen’s Golden Jubilee’s gittin oan ma nerves, it’s aw ye hear ay.
— Aye, Carl said distractedly. He dug his heels into the carpet and dragged himself and his castored chair across to the record deck where he stuck on an old seven-inch Northern Soul single. Then he twisted back to his huge mixing desk and computer, the sample he’d just taken going round and round on the loop. He clicked the mouse deftly, plundering a bassline.
It was overlaid by a sharp, intermittent ring. Terry’s mobile had gone off. — Sonia! How’s it gaun darlin! Funny, ah wis jist aboot tae phone you. Great minds think alike, he rolled his eyes at Carl. — Eight’s hunky-dory by me. Course ah’ll be thaire! Aye, ah goat it. Forty-two quid. Looks the biz but. See ye the night. Ciao, doll!
Terry read one of the reviews in a music paper.
N-SIGN: Gimme Love (Last Furlong)
It seems like N-SIGN can do no wrong since his dramatic resurrection. Last year we had the bizarre team-up with MOR star Kathryn Joyner, yielding the century’s Ibiza anthem, Legs on Sex, followed by the No.1 album, Cannin It. The new single finds the man in a more soulful mood, but it’s an irresistible offering from the too-long-missing-assumed-fucked gadgie of the groove. Beyond wicked; follow your feet and your heart across that dancefloor. 9/10
Best thing that happened tae Carl, Terry considered, and he was just about to share that thought as his mobile went off again. — Vilhelm! Aye, ah’m here wi Mr Ewart. The creative juices ur flowin awright, kin ye no hear um, he asked, briefly holding the phone in Carl’s direction and making orgasmic noises. — Oooohhh . . . aaagghhhh . . . oooh la la . . . Aye, eh’s daein fine. So that’s defo? Good, ah’ll tell the man himself, he turned to Carl. — Rab’s stag’s oan the weekend ay the fifteenth, in Amsterdam. That’s defo. You’re okay wi that?
— Should be, Carl replied.
— Hi! Nivir mind fuckin well should be! Git it doon thaire, Terry commanded, pointing to Carl’s big black desk diary.
Carl moved over to the book and picked up a Biro. — Fifteenth ye say . . .
— Aye, fir four days.
— Ah’ve goat this track tae finish . . . Carl moaned, writing: RAB’S STAG A’DAM in four boxes anyway.
— Stoap the whingein. All work and nae play, ye ken whit they say aboot that. If Billy here can take four days oaf fae the bar . . . Billy? Billy! BIRRELL YA CUNT! Terry shouted into the dead phone. — The ignorant cunt’s only gone n hung up oan ays again!
Carl smirked a little. Terry’s new found enthusiasm for the mobile phone had been a curse to all his friends. Billy had the best management technique though. He simply passed on the required message and then hung up.
— See bit, Carl, yuv goat tae admit, Terry advanced, returning to an earlier consideration, — it wis me thit goat ye teamed up wi Kathryn Joyner, by me meetin her in the Balmoral n bringing her oot, makin mates wi her.
— Aye . . . Carl conceded.
— That’s aw ah’m sayin, Carl.
Carl cupped a headphone over one ear. That was all Terry was saying. That would be the fuckin day.
Terry rubbed his number-one cropped hair. — The thing is but, it really kicked things oaf fir ye big time again . . . ah mean eftir that hit, the album wis guaranteed tae dae well . . .
Carl put the headphones down, clicked the mouse a couple of times to exit from and shut down the programme. He swivelled around in the chair. — Awright Terry, ah ken ah owe ye a favour mate.
— Well, Terry began, — thir is a wee something . . .
Carl braced himself, sucking air into his lungs. A wee something. There was always a wee something. And thank fuck as well.
Irvine Welsh, Glue
(Series: # )
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