Russell turned round and gasped into it. He felt unmasked, not just as a thief, but worse, as a fool. It was as plain as all the other mundane apparatus of the plant, and he hadn’t even noticed its installation. Russell stood gaping and powerless, as he wondered what the men watching the monitor on the other side saw in his face. Humiliation, fear, self-loathing, but mostly, he assumed, defeat. He turned round and reached down the front of his trousers, pulling out the large flat bag of white powder. Then he handed it over and followed the uniformed men, knowing that whatever happened next, he was leaving the processing lab for the last time.
On the humiliating march down the corridor, flanked by his inscrutable escorts, he saw Michael Taylor again, pushing a trolley of metal food containers from the loading bay, making for the canteen. This time Taylor made eye contact. His expression seemed to beg mercy, but Russell Birch was certain that his partner was only looking back into an empty void.
A Mature Student
AH WAS AVOIDIN everybody and they reciprocated, even Bisto; he and Joanne were still going strong. Ah was like a Quasimodo figure, the smelly, shufflin hunchback expelled fae the ranks ay decent folks, and ah fuckin well loved it. Ah stopped callin home every Sunday. My mother’s unabatin sobs and tears, from gentle to ragin, were too distressin tae behold. Billy had been arrested; charged wi assault oan a boy in a boozer. As ma auld girl telt us the story, ah envisioned him wi a trail ay his spazzy brother’s spunk skited across his pus. Drip, shock, humiliation, accusation, pagger. — But you’re okay, son, aren’t ye? Ma would bleat. — Everything’s okay wi you?
— Aye, course it is, ah’d say, tryin tae maintain an acceptable degree ay focus and concentration.
But the waws were closin in oan us, everything aroond me turnin tae shite. Sick Boy was on at me tae head tae London wi him, for us tae stay with my ‘Ingloid mates’ for a bit. It grew a mair tempting prospect every day. But even wi a growin junk habit ah was too restless no tae look for clues. Ah read wi a voracious desperation. Read everything but what ah was supposed tae read for ma classes. In lectures ah’d sit at the back half dozin and ask some swotty kid tae photocopy their notes. In seminar groups ah often took speed tae buck us up, manoeuvrin the discussions towards ma personal obsessions, wi long, ramblin druggie speeches as ah mentally groped aroond, tryin tae scratch at the phantom itch in ma brain. Phlegm sat in my chist cavity like Wee Davie’s, tricklin down from a constant stream in my sinuses. Ma breathin was fucked. Ah even noticed the wey ma ain voice had changed; it was as if it was easier tae force the sound up through my nose, producing a tinny, whiny sound ah hated but couldnae stop emittin. One lecturer looked sadly at us n said, — Are you sure you should be here?
— Naw, ah told him, — but ah don’t know where else tae go.
It was true. At least ah had some sort of reason to be here, even if ah’d ceased handin in work: ah knew ah’d never get close tae ma 70 per cent threshold ay acceptability now. Ah stopped checkin ma student pigeonhole. People often seemed tae assume ah’d already left, appearin surprised when ah occasionally showed up. In a sense ah had; all they were seein wis the ghostly remnants.
The odd time ah went in the student union bars, ah mocked people and their daft projects, their bands, InterRail travel plans, sporting activities, just because ah knew ah could no longer join in. Ah grew tae hate Bob Marley’s music; ah’d loved it as a punk in London, but loathed the way white middle-class students had shamelessly appropriated it. Headin home tae the residences one night, I saw some drunk and emotional public-school wankers singing about sitting in a government block in Trenchtown. They were singin about livin in a scheme in Kingston, Jamaica. Ah shot them a brutal look and they snapped intae a guilty sobriety. It was pathetic. Ah wis pathetic. People avoided me. Ah’d gone fae being regarded as a warm, witty, fun-loving sceptic, tae a cynical bore: cold and caustic. Yet the more ah alienated people, the stronger ah felt. Ah fed off rejection. There was nowt good or normal or straight that ah couldnae sneer at. Ah was a critic ay everything, one ay the worst kind, whose every ounce ay bile is generated by their ain sense ay failure and inadequacy, risin off them like steam fae a jakey’s pish.
And ah started tae stink like a wino in classes. Before, ah’d always been a bit compulsive aboot personal hygiene, tidiness and order; now ah could feel a permanent swamp ay fire and scum aroond ma weddin tackle, erse and airmpits. It wis like ah wis gaunny combust. One time ah met Fiona in a corridor. We couldnae avoid eye contact wi each other. — You still here then, she said, like a challenge.
But ah could tell that she still cared, or maybe no, perhaps ah was just kiddin myself. Aw ah could say was, — Hi, eh, see ye … n move the fuck on.
After this incident ah more or less stopped gaun tae the uni. Basically, ma plan, such as it was, wis tae stay in ma residence. Ah’d bang junk with Don and, occasionally, genitals with Donna, ironically, the prostitute from the bar where ah’d ditched Fiona. Ah started visiting it regularly, working up the bottle tae approach her. She took us tae a functional flat with Van Gogh sunflower prints, which was obviously just used for clients. Ah spent maist of the time eatin her pussy rather than fuckin her. I wanted to develop some expertise in that. Tae ma embarrassment, she had tae tell us it was called cunnilingus. Sick Boy would never have made that mistake. Ah’d cairry on till dosh or libido was exhausted, or ah formally got kicked oot, whichever came first.
Ah still wandered through the city like a phantom. At all hours. Then one day Don was gone. Naebody in the dockside pubs had seen him. There were aw sorts ay theories as tae where the radge had fucked off tae, maist ay them based oan his ramblings; Copenhagen, New York, London, Hamburg, Peterheid. Ma money was on the latter. It was mair than possible that Don could’ve been lying deid in his flat, overdosed oan the couch, but ah couldnae be ersed tae check. Then ah saw Donna in the street, and a Down’s syndrome wee lassie came running up intae her arms. Ah shuffled doon the road, and kent ah would never visit her again.
Aberdeen suddenly seemed to have an omnipresent silence about it; a post-apocalyptic hush and stillness, where you could sense the sky sealin you in, like glass round a snow-shaker toy. It was ower for us here and ah was sweatin and shiverin oan a bus back tae Edinburgh. One bag full ay filthy clathes, the other stuffed wi books. And ma very first port ay call was Tollcross and Johnny Swan’s doss.
Ah’m there for aboot ten minutes when the door goes and it’s Spud and Sick Boy, lookin as fucked as me, but delighted tae be in the hoose ay pain relief. We’re literally drooling, eye-popping, neck-sinew-strained, skin-crawling monsters as Swanney takes his sweet time cooking. He’s in exuberant form, offloading his fucked-up obsessions oantae us. — Ah’ve nowt against darkies as such, but thaire’s way too many ower here now. Pakis tae. That sort ay unselective breedin dilutes the fortitude ay a race. The morals go tits up. If the Germans invaded now, we’d huv nae chance. Ye git us?
— Aye, ah’m sayin, but feelin as alienated fae the boys here as ah did the right-on students in Aberdeen. Twat. Fuckin Nazi twat. But ah don’t care. Gie’s the gear. — You cookin, or what?
It’s like he disnae hear us. — Ah dinnae believe n sendin thum aw back; the birds kin stey, especially they westernised Asian birds … phoar … he smirks, showin his rotten teeth. Sick Boy turns away in disgust.
— Luckily maist ay them widnae come tae Scotland, too cauld fir the dark skin.
Shut the fuck up and cook cook cook cook …
— Ah dinnae think that’s right, likesay, Spud says. — It’s mair like cause thaire’s nae jobs up here, ken? N computers dinnae really count, cause ah dinnae believe in computers, man.
But now, thank fuck, Swanney’s giein the matter at hand some proper attention; the gear has been placed in the spoon wi the water, and the lighter’s burnin away underneath it. — Jobs dinnae come intae it. It’s a well-known fact that niggers jist come ower here tae sponge offay the state, but. It’s like revenge fir aw they years ay slavery wi the British Empire n that.
Post-colonialism or some shite, that’s the fuckin scientific term. Tell thum, Rents, he signals us tae suck the gear intae ma works, oh thank you, Swanney, thank God tae fuck, ah will goose-step aw the wey tae the pollin booth tae vote National Front if ye like … — Psychology. He taps his heid.
— Too right, ah tell him. It’s mair physiology ah’m worried aboot right now, wi ma dodgy Danny McGrain’s; ah’ve got this boy tapped up and ah’m worried that ah’ll lose the cunt, he’s as precarious as a hard-on after a bottle ay whisky. But ah pierce the skin, slide it in, then let go … — Got ye again, ah gasp in laughter, smilin at the others. — Too quick for youse cunts …
Escape tae oblivion, where they cannae get at me …
Then it’s back tae the flat wi Sick Boy and Spud, whae’s moved intae the room, so ah was on the couch. We’re daein a bit mair gear, even though ah’m still buzzin oan the last shot. These boys certainly huvnae been hudin back in my absence. — You should’ve stuck wi the uni, Sick Boy coolly tells us as he cooks, then expertly tourniquets hissel wi a Leith Academy school tie, dark blue wi that badge wi the boat n ‘Persevere’ emblazoned on it. His veins triumphantly spring intae the light like an army advancing over a hill. — You were the only cunt oot ay the lot ay us that could have got an education.
— You could’ve. Ah heard you were a swotty wee cunt at primary.
— At primary, aye, he concedes.
— Ah watched yir academic career explode in hormones the day Elaine Erskine came intae school in second year, wearin that rid miniskirt.
— Less talk mair rock, man, Spud moans, impatient for his turn as he watches the Scottish news. Mary Marquis is readin, n ah think ay Wee Davie’s monstrous cock in ma hand and his gurglin spazzy breathin.
— Aye, Sick Boy recalls, big broon eyes glazing, — when she got sent hame tae change, ah wis right doon the road eftir her. Telt Munro in Geography ah wis feelin totally fuckin Zorba n gaunny puke up. Caught up wi Elaine oan the Links, provided a shoulder tae cry on, while complimenting her on her spot-on fashion sense. Fit birds should wear nothing but miniskirts –
— C’moan, Si … bang it! Spud pleads.
— Those fucking lovely tits that squeezed every bit ay sense fae me, made us brainless sluts thegither, stupefied by each other’s flesh. And me, constantly planning and scheming tae manoeuvre her away fae the older, cooler cunts who coveted her minge …
— Simon, c’moan, mate, please, ah’m pure sufferin a bit, Spud gasps.
— … within the week, ma cherry was exploding like the last firework above the fuckin Castle on Hogmanay.
— SI! C’MOAN!
— Patience, Danny boy, a wee bitty shadow before the sunshine, Sick Boy smiles, suckin up some gear and passin the spoon tae the grateful Spud, — Aye … aw ah’m sayin is it set us on a path, Rents, and it’s no necessarily the one I’d have chosen, he muses, his teeth clampin ontae the tie as his lovely big veins bulge in his arm, mair options than you ken what tae dae wi. — No necessarily the one I’d have chosen … he repeats, piercing, sliding in the needle, drawing back blood intae the barrel ay the syringe, then slamming the potion towards base.
A cauld but bright morning, the groond thick wi snaw and the hooses weighed wi a dense filigree ay ice, as a cheery sun glints offay towers ay cloud. After a derisory bit ay kip, ah got up and dressed, steppin ower Spud, washed up oan the flair in the narrow hall, n wis back at Gillsland’s, hollow and metallic, like an empty, discarded can ay shavin cream. They’d taken ower the unit next door, and Gillsland had completely swerved fae high-end shopfitting and custom joinery, tae building even mair house panels to desecrate central Scotland wi shitey boxes.
Les was still obsessed wi his Monday-morning shitein competitions, but now ah struggled tae produce a Malteser. — What’s up wi you, Mark? Les asked me, aw hurt. — What kind ay diet you been oan up in Aberdeen?
The skag diet. Soon it’ll be the diet ay choice for all our porky, suburban housewives.
But the work suited us. While the other boys moaned about becoming de-skilled, just robotically workin the compressed airguns, knockin nails intae frames and boltin aluminium ties onto them, wis fair game fir me. Ah could stand there, junk-sick and miserable, and batter off ten panels in an hour withoot exchangin a single word wi any cunt.
House Guests
TOTALLY SKINT, MAN, n the bread trap ay Christmas n New Year looms. It’s a awfay scene. Mind you, everybody’s in the same boat. Begbie comes roond the gaff, n yuv nivir seen a rooster in such a foul mood, ken? — Spud, he goes, pushin past us intae the flat, lookin around fir Rents n Sick Boy. — Whaire the fuck ur they two cunts?
— Dinnae ken, man, every cat jist sortay comes n goes here, ken? ah tell um. Ah’m feelin a bit shitey, jist tryin tae tidy up a bit roond the gaff, ken? Sortay pill ma weight a bit, likesay.
The Beggar Boy isnae a happy camper but, n it’s Cha Morrison fae Lochend that’s gettin the blame. He’s up in coort next month fir chibbin Larry Wylie, and everybody except Franco is pretty chuffed, man. Two dodgy bamsticks oot ay circulation through the jail and hozzy gigs, likes, sortay a pure result aw roond, ken? For every cat except Francis James Begbie but, whae’s takin Larry’s chibbin as a personal attack oan him. Franny Jim husnae been too chuffed lately, so whin he comes tae us wi news ay a hoose thit wants screwed, ah’m wary, Christmas hireys or no.
Cause yet again it wis a pure case ay me n ma big mooth! Thing is, it’s the same gaff ah mentioned tae him likesay yonks ago, huvin inside info fae the deliverance ay a sideboard thaire last year. Thoat it wid be in one ear n oot the other. But the Beggar Boy’s a pure elephant gadgie; sort ay never forgets, ken? — No that hoose but, Franco! The polis’ll pure go through the list ay aw the people that’ve been thaire ower the last year, n guess whae thi’ll pit in the frame, man? The disgruntled ex-delivery gadgie that’s been peyed oaf!
— Shite, Begbie shakes his noggin aw that dismissive wey, — this is the fuckin Lothian and Borders Polis. These doss cunts are fuckin useless for anything other thin fuckin parkin tickets. Aw water under the fuckin bridge now, ya cunt, trail way fuckin cauld, n he opens the curtains n looks oot acroas the street.
— But the boy’s a barrister, Franco, Conrad Donaldson QC!
Ken whin somebody jist isnae hearin ye, but? That’s pure Franco. News he disnae want tae hear, that cat’s pointy ears jist swivel roond n aw the bad sound jist flies intae space. — Any fuckin peeve in this doss?
— Eh, aye … The ears twist back intae position, n he goes tae the kitchen n helps hissel tae a boatil fae the fridge, one ay they Peroni’s Sick Boy bought fae the posh offy. He opens up n takes a glug glug slug, screwin his coupon up, hudin it at airm’s length n lookin at the label. — Fuckin Italian? Beer? Italians make fuckin wine. Sick Boy ay aw people should fuckin well ken that. Ah’ll pit that cunt right! Fuckin Italian beer!
— But Conrad Donaldson QC, ah says again, notin Franco’s still drinkin the Tally ale.
— Aye, but aw the mair fuckin reason, cause the cunt’s a defender, Franco says, pointin the boatil at us. — Defends bams like Morrison, so the polis hate the cunt. They’ll dae fuck all fir that bastard, he sais, readin the Peroni label again.
— But, Frank –
— Nae fuckin danger at aw! Lexo fae the casuals wis telling us thit this QC fucker … QC, what’s that fuckin stand fir … queer cunt? He punches ma airm sair, n ah wish the cat wid stoap that, man; even though it’s meant in affection, it’s like still bullyin, ken, it’s still likesay sayin ‘ah’m the big hard gadgie n you’re the wee sappy dude’, likesay. — Aye, the queer cunt wis defendin um in that case, n he’s gaun oan holidays for six weeks tae America. Ah’ve cased the hoose, big fuckin Ravvy Dykes pad. Nae cunt aboot, so wi go thaire the night. Endy fuckin story. He looks ootside again. — Ye must huv some fuckin clue whaire Rents n Sick Boy ur? Might huv fuckin well sais whaire they wir gaun! Fuckin Italian beer … Still, nae sense in cuttin oaf yir cock tae spite yir baws. He gulps it doon n o
pens up a second.
— Eh, ah think they might be away gittin moosetraps. We’ve goat mice, likesay.
Franco raises his furry brows n looks aroond the kitchen. — Ah thoat this fuckin hovel wis way too gantin fir any fuckin self-respectin moose!
Well, ah dinnae say nowt, cause ah hud a big argument wi Rents n Sick Boy aboot it, cause ah dinnae hud wi killin mice. Thaire hus tae be a humane wey ay deterrin thum, without hurtin thum, likesay. Ma idea wis tae git a cat, jist tae scare thum. One or two might huv goat killed, but the rest wid git the message n move oan. But Rents started gaun oan aboot being allergic.
Me n Franco decide tae head oot n track thum doon, so wi pads the hoof doon tae the Walk. We gits tae the Cenny n Tommy’s thaire; soas Second Prize, blootered, wi pish marks oan his troosers but like thuv sortay dried in, ken? But thaire’s nae sign ay Rents or Sick Boy.
— They must still be lookin for moosetraps, ah go.
— Aw aye, Tommy raises his brows, — is that what they fuckin call it now?
Begbie catches something n seems tae tipple. — Thi’ll be hingin aboot wi Matty n that fuckin junky Swan! Another cunt oaf ma fuckin Christmas caird list.
— Didnae ken ye kept a list, likesay, Franco, ah goes, lookin ower at Second Prize, who’s sortay mumblin tae himself, n kinday fawin asleep in the corner, eyelids crashin doon like shoap-windae shutters. Business pure closed fir the day, ken?
No fir Franco, but; the cat looks at us aw jungle-jungle stalky-stalky, low hackles n that. — Every cunt keeps a fuckin list. He taps his heid. — A Christmas caird list, n that cunt’s fuckin well oaf it!
Wi that cat in this mood ye pure jist huv tae … what’s the word? … acqui … acqui … faw intae line. So wi head ower tae the snooker club, leavin Second Prize tae his forty winks. — Fuckin liability, that cunt, Franco goes. Crossin Duke Street, we hits the club bar n Begbie talks tae two shaven-heided wideos wi gold chains n sovie rings. Ah clocks Keezbo oan the green baize, playin a frame wi this wee gadge in a rid hooded toap whae looks a bit like a lassie but no a good-lookin yin, ken? Then ah sees Rents, Sick Boy n Matty ur sittin right at the back in the corner watchin thum. Matty comes ower, n says he has tae go, tae git back tae Shirley. Ye kin see Franco giein um the evil eye, like he’s pittin a hex oan the gadge, ken?