That Cha Morrison cunt fae Lochend’s inside eftir daein Larry ower. Still runnin oaf at the fuckin mooth, n aw, or so they fuckin well tell us. How come Begbie nivir does time? Makes ye wonder if the cunt’s a fuckin grass. Fuckin innuendo. Ah’ll gie that cunt a fuckin grass awright. That cunt dies: spreadin fuckin innuendo. Cunt’s nipped cause it’s me the likes ay Davie Power wants to git fuckin involved in the world ay business. No a schemie tramp like that fuckin fandan. But that Hong Kong Fuey, the Pilton cunt that goat his jaw tanned when he goat wide eftir ah bairned his slag ay a sister, he’s the cunt ah really feel fuckin lit doon by. No a peep oot ay that cunt, but ah suppose he must’ve goat seek using fuckin straws tae eat his dinner. Still, it’ll be company fir her fuckin bairn whin it comes; that’s what ah fuckin well sais tae fuckin Nelly the other day: her fuckin bairn’ll be oan fuckin solids before that cunt!
Thaire’s nae conversation oot ay fuckin June, good fir pokin jist, yon. Now thit she’s huvin a bairn, she’s chuffed tae jist sit in the hoose watchin the box wi her fags n Babychams. So ah’m gled tae git oot n sign oan the fuckin dole then head up toon n dae some graft. Gav Temperley’s sound, he kens no tae bother us by sendin us tae fuckin interviews, cause ah telt the cunt oan the quiet that ah’ve been daein a bit ay work fir Fat Tyrone Power.
So ah gies them ma autograph, then gits in the motor wi Nelly n shoots up tae George Street, tae the office. Goes up tae see Fat Power n he’s in thaire wi big Skuzzy. Ah’m lookin at this big fuckin map ay Edinburgh oan the waw, n it’s goat aw they coloured plastic tag things pinned intae it, showin whaire Power’s fruit machines are sited. Aw the pins are green, except a couple ay white yins. Power points tae yin wi a chubby finger like a fuckin sausage in a butcher’s windae. — This poxy little boozer. A very lippy auld chap just took it ower. Doesnae want a fruit machine in the shop. Your mission, gentlemen, should you choose tae accept it, the cunt laughs at his ain Mission: Impossible joke, but ah keep ma face straight cause ah’m no here tae laugh at any cunt’s jokes and if that cunt’s goat a fuckin problem wi that, it’s too fuckin bad fir him, – is to convince him of the considerable benefits that would accrue should he choose to reconsider his position.
Nelly’s huvin a wee lassie’s giggle n even Skuzzy’s goat a grin oan his fuckin coupon. Fucked if ah’m playin sidekick tae a two-bob villain but; if the cunt wants his fuckin equity caird he kin git up oanstage at the King’s fir the Christmas fuckin panto. So me n Nelly leave Skuzzy n the fat fucker n head off tae the boozer, tae see this auld cunt.
We’re comin up tae the bar n ah’m realisin that this place is ringin a few fuckin warnin bells. Somethin isnae fuckin right here.
— Lit us handle this, ah tells Nelly, — You stall here.
The cunt looks like he’s aboot tae say something, then shrugs as ah nashes ootay the motor n intae the bar.
Ya cunt, ah’m no wrong aboot this boozer. Sixth fuckin sense. Ah believe thit some cunts’ve goat it; ah’ve fuckin well goat it n it’s stood me in good fuckin stead. Ah ken this shop awright, but ah’m even mair surprised when ah see the auld cunt thit’s workin here. It’s Uncle Dickie, Dickie Ellis, well, he’s really a mate ay ma Uncle Gus, whae wis my ma’s brar, but he wis like an uncle tae me n aw, n the cunt’s delighted tae fuckin well see us. — Frankie boy! Long time no see, son. How goes it? How’s yir mother?
— No bad, Dickie, she’s okay … ah goes. — When did ye take ower this place?
The bar’s a mahogany-panelled shop, stocked wi aw they different whiskies. It’s goat a clean lino flair n it’s smellin ay polish. Auld n tidy, a bit like Dickie, wi the sortay white hair but thin enough tae see the spammy bits oan the scalp, n a neat, trimmed beard n mowser, n they thin, gold-rimmed specs. His coupon fair creases up like an auld accordion. — Goat the licence aboot three months ago.
Ah’m lookin around, casin the doss. — No goat a telly fir the hoarse racin, then?
— Nae telly, nae jukebox n nae fruit machines, he goes, — people come here tae drink n tae talk, Frank. That’s how a pub should be!
— Right, ah goes. Aye, they git aw they commie student cunts in here, and aw the auld fuckers. Aw talkin politics. Like Dickie. Ah’m thinking ah cannae dae nowt tae this auld fucker, but at the same time, ah cannae fuckin disappoint Power. If ah dae that it jist means thit ah git nae fuckin wages n that cunt Nelly or Skuzzy comes in n deals wi auld Dickie. N then Power gits some cunt like Cha Morrison tae dae ma fuckin joab! Ah kin hear that jailbait cunt’s stirrin voice in muh heid right now: Begbie wisnae up tae it, too sentimental …
A fuckin lose–lose situ.
Somethin seems tae tipple wi auld Dickie, cause he goes, — Power’s thugs huv been oan aboot us takin thair fuckin fruit machines. He puffs hissel up. What the auld cunt disnae ken is that he’s no seen thugs yit. — But ah telt them tae git fucked. What’re they gaunny dae tae me? Batter us? Big deal. Ah’m no feart ay Power, ah kent the cunt whin he hud nae erse in his troosers, he goes wi a big smile.
Power’s no the only cunt he kent back in the day. — You kent ma Uncle Gus well, eh, Dickie?
The auld boy’s eyes go aw moist. — Frank, me n Gus, we wir like brothers. Ah kent the whole family on yir mother’s side, the McGilvarys. Good people. The auld cunt grips ma sleeve. — Gus n me, God rest his soul, we wirnae like brothers, we wir brothers. Yir ma, Val; her and ma Maisie wir best friends for years!
Ah’m starin at him, and he lets go the grip n looks worried.
— Look, ah goes, — cause you n me go back, ah’m no gaunny bullshit ye. Ah’m workin fir Power, ah tells um. — He sent us doon here tae pit the bite oan ye.
Ah watch the auld cunt’s face fuckin faw doon like it’s gaunny smack the fuckin lino. — Aw … he says.
— But the wey ah see it, you n Gus wir like brothers. That makes you like ma uncle. Mind ah ey used tae call ye Uncle Dickie?
— Ah mind fine well, Frank.
— Cause ye wir like an uncle tae me. N nowt’s changed. Mind ye used tae take us tae the pictures?
His worn auld face lights up. — Aye. The Seturday-morning matinees. You n Joe. The State, the Salon. How is Joe, by the way?
— Wir no talkin right now, ah tell um.
— Aw … sorry tae hear that.
— Well, it’s doon tae that cunt, ah goes, then ah changes the subject cause ah dinnae want tae talk aboot ma fuckin brar. — Aye, n ye took us tae Easter Road n aw.
— Aye … we were thaire that night when Jimmy O’Rourke scored that second half hat-trick against Sportin Lisbon, mind ay that?
— Aye … ah goes, mindin ay it well, barry fuckin game n aw, — Jimmy O’Rourke … that wis a gadgie that fuckin well played for the jersey, could dae wi some cunts like that nowadays!
Cunt took us tae Hampden n up tae Dens Park n aw. The good thing aboot Gus n Dickie wis that when they took ye tae an away game n went tae the boozer, they lit ye stey in the motor wi crisps n Coke. No like the auld man whae locked up that scabby fuckin van n telt us tae play ootside the pub, usually in some fuckin Weedgie slum. Make a fuckin man ay ye, the cunt goes. A wonder we wirnae kidnapped by fuckin nonces. Nae bairn ay mine’s gaunny be fuckin well treated like that.
But the auld cunt Dickie jist fuckin well smiles aw sad like he’s gaunny burst intae tears n shrugs, — Any blood ay Gussie’s wis eywis gaunny be faimlay tae me, Frank.
— Aye. N as ah say, you wir like ma uncle, n nowt’s fuckin changed, ah goes. Cause ah mind that’s what happened; the auld cunt basically took ower eftir poor Gus fell offay that fuckin bridge. So ah knocks back the nip. — N that’s the story Power’s gittin.
Dickie shakes his heid. — Listen, Frankie, son, ah’ll take the machine. Oot ay respect for your position, that auld white heid nods aw sad. — Ah dinnae want ye fawin oot wi Power if yir workin fir him.
— Nup, ah goes. — Yir no takin any fuckin machine ye dinnae fuckin well want, ah dinnae care what Power or any cunt sais. If the cunt wants tae make a drama oot ay it, ah’ll tel
l um tae fuckin well git oan the stage.
— Dinnae be daft! I’ll take it, Frank, n the auld cunt’s fuckin beggin us. — Ah’ll take the machine. It isnae really a big deal.
— Nup, ah’ll fuckin well sort it, ah goes, headin oot. — See ye later.
So ah gits ootside intae the car n Nelly goes, — Is that it sorted?
— It will be, ah says. — Take us back up tae Power’s office.
Nelly shrugs n lights a fag, without fuckin crashin thum, which is bad fuckin manners, n drives oaf. We gits back up the toon, n ah bails oot n heads tae the office. That cunt steys in the motor, wi the fuckin mumpy face oan um.
Ah’m back in Power’s office, lookin at the young receptionist bird that wisnae here before, n ah kin feel ma hert gaun boom-boom-boom. But then ah’m thinkin, what’s he gaunny dae? He’ll huv tae fuckin well kill us tae fuckin well stoap us. Ah dinnae fuckin well care if it’s Power or Skuzzy or any cunt; they’ve goat tae fuckin well realise that. But ah’ll stey cool. Eftir aw, the cunt’s been awright tae me.
Whin ah goes through Skuzzy isnae thaire n Power’s leanin back in the big chair. — Frank, take a pew. How did it go?
— Listen, Davie, ah goes, sittin doon in the seat oan the other side ay the desk, — mind whin ah started like, you sais any time ah needed a favour?
— Aye … ah mind, Frank, Power goes, suddenly lookin cagey. Cunts like him dinnae like it whin ye answer a question wi another fuckin question.
— It’s Dickie Ellis; ah never kent it wis him that had the boozer. He’s a sortay relative ay mines. Ma uncle. Ah ken you’ve been good tae us …
— You’ve been good tae me, Frank. Power stubs oot a cigar. — Ah like the wey ye handle things.
— … but ah dinnae want the auld cunt tae git any hassle. So ah’d appreciate it, as a favour tae me, likes, if ye could lit the fruit machine pass here. Any other cunt ah dinnae gie a fuck aboot, but no auld Dickie.
Power sinks even further back in that big fuckin padded chair, then suddenly moves forward, pittin his elbays oan the desk n restin that big shaved heid oan his fists. He looks us right in the eye. — Ah see.
Ah huds the gaze, starin straight back at the cunt. — Ah’m askin ye this as a favour between you n me. Nae fuckin strings. If you say naw, ye cannae dae it, ah’m right back doon thaire n that fruit machine goes in. No matter what it fuckin well takes, ah goes, makin sure the cunt gits what the fuck ah’m oan aboot.
Power picks up a pen and drums it oan the desk. He never breks the stare. — You’re loyal, Frank, n ah like that. Ah can understand that this has put ye in a difficult position. Tell me, though, now the cunt’s tappin his front teeth wi the pen, then pointin at us wi it, — why dae ye think ah sent ye doon thaire?
— Tae git the fuckin machine pit in, ah goes.
Power shakes his heid. — Ah dinnae gie a fuck aboot the machine. Ye dinnae run a business by strong-armin n threatenin every cunt. Maist times they see sense, n if they dinnae, we move on and respect thair decision; if they huv enough fuckin savvy tae stey discreet. He raises his brows tae make sure ah’m gittin his fuckin drift. Then he goes, — But auld Dickie’s got a fuckin mooth oan him, Frank. Ah’m perfectly happy for him no tae have any ay our machines in his pub, but his gob is such that he sees that beneficence as a weakness. In short, the auld cunt thinks that me, he points tae hissel wi the pen, — and, by extension, you, n now the cunt’s pointin the pen at me, — are a pair ay fuckin fannies.
Ah feel masel tense up. Ah’m thinkin aboot that auld cunt doon the boozer. Cunt’s been playin us fir a fuckin mug!
Fat Tyrone Power kin see that ah’m no fuckin happy. — What I suggest, Franco, is that you go back doon there and have a wee conversation wi yir Uncle Dickie. He gets tae keep the machine oot ay the boozer, ma favour tae you, Power smiles like a big fuckin fat cat thit’s jist stuffed a budgie doon its fuckin throat, — but make sure he kens that this is solely down tae his connection wi you, ma respect for you as a colleague, and, the cunt grins even mair, — ma general sunny disposition.
— Right … cheers, ah sais, n ah gits up n turns tae go.
But then the cunt sais, — One good turn deserves another. Ah need a wee favour.
— Nae worries. Ah sink back intae the seat.
— This fuckin smack, it’s aw ower the toon. Every cunt’s intae it.
— Tell us aboot it. Fuckin daft cunts, ah goes.
— Too right, a mug’s game for sure; but thaire’s money in it, big money. The place is flooded wi it, n some cunt that isnae me is laughin aw the wey tae the bank. Ah’d love tae ken whae’s puntin it and whaire thir gittin it fae. If ye could keep yir eyes n ears open, ah’d be obliged.
— Right, ah goes, — ah’ll dae that, n ah’m thinkin ay Rents n Sick Boy n Spud n Matty n aw they daft cunts that’ve goat intae that fuckin shite. Ah kin see what it’s daein tae they fuckers, especially that rid-heided cunt Renton, n if ah find oot whaire it’s comin fae, ah’ll no be pittin it Power’s wey, ah’ll be dumpin it in the fuckin Forth n droonin the cunts fuckin well puntin it!
So ah heads right back doon tae the motor. Nelly’s reading the Record n eatin a bacon roll. Cunt nivir even sais eh wis gittin a fuckin roll. We’d aw like tae fuckin well sit thaire readin the paper n eatin fuckin bacon rolls! Wide cunt. So ah tells um thit wir gaun back tae the boozer. Cunt looks aw snidey n goes, — Power tell ye it’s goat tae go in?
— Power telt us fuckin nowt, ah tells the cunt, n that shuts his fuckin pus.
Nelly does that slow noddin ay the heid he ey does whin the cunt’s impressed but disnae want tae say. He takes a bite ootay his roll. The cunt kens thit that means thit it’s me thit’s Power’s main fuckin man in Leith, no him, even though that means fuckin nowt tae me. Whin wi gits back doon tae the pub, ah tell um tae keep the fuckin motor runnin.
Ah goes inside n takes Dickie through the back tae the office. — It’s aw sorted, nae fruit machine’s gaun in here.
— Thanks, son, but ye shouldnae huv went tae any trouble, he whines, n he’s gaun oan aboot muh uncle n muh ma n grandma, right until ma heid stoatin intae his fuckin coupon shuts the auld cunt right up. The specs fly offay his face n hit the flair, n ah’ve goat ma hands roond that scrawny auld throat n ah’m throttlin him ower the desk. — Ahh … ah … Frank … ah’ll take it … ah’ll take the fruit mach—
— AH DINNAE WANT YE TAE TAKE THE FUCKIN MACHINE! Then ah lits ma voice go doon tae a whisper: — Ah telt ye: that’s aw fuckin well sorted oot!
— Heeeuughhh … Francis … heeeuughh … it’s … dinnae …
— But if you fuckin well mooth oaf aboot Power again, ah haul the auld cunt doon oantae the deck n boot um in the ribs, — that fuckin fruit machine is the least ay yir fuckin worries! Right?!
— Ri-right … the auld cunt gasps.
Ah boots the fucker again, n he lits oot this big groan n starts pukin up. Thaire’s nae real buzz fae daein an auld cunt, but ah hate the bastard fir pittin us in this fuckin position, so he takes a fair auld leatherin.
Eftir a bit, ah realises it’s jist ma auld Uncle Dickie, the gadge that took us up tae the Salon fir the pictures and Easter Road fir the fitba, when ma auld man never gied a fuck n couldnae be ersed leavin the fuckin boozer. So ah helps um up n finds the specs, pits thum oan um, gits him oot intae the bar. — Ah’m sorry, Frank … sorry tae pit ye in this position … he wheezes.
Ah kin smell the fuckin whiff n realise thit the auld cunt’s pissed hissel. Like a fuckin jakey! Mingin auld bastard! A big dark wet stain, right acroas the auld cunt’s baws n thighs. The lassie oan the bar looks like she’s gaunny fuckin well shite hersel. — Ye awright, Mr Ellis?
— Aye … it’s okay, Sonia … take charge the now …
— Does he fuckin look awright? ah snaps at the dozy fuckin hoor. — He’s hud a bad faw. Ah’m takin him up tae the hoaspital.
So ah gits the moanin auld cunt intae the bogs, n tells um tae clean up best he fuckin well kin before gittin um oot the side
door n intae the back ay the motor. Nelly looks at him. — Auld Dickie goat a fright n pished hissel, ah goes. Nelly says nowt, but ye kin tell wi the look he gies Dickie he’s no that fuckin well impressed wi him either. Too right. Fuckin disappointment tae me, that auld cunt.
Skin and Bone
AT THE KITCHEN table, Cathy Renton silently gaped into space, smoking her cigarette, occasionally pretending to read the Radio Times. Her husband Davie could hear his own breath, heavy with fatigue and stress, over the bubbling pot of stovies on the hob. Time seemed to hesitate, as frail and weary as either of them; Davie found the burden of his wife’s silence even more heartbreaking in its insidious, levelling way than her sobs and tortured soliloquies. Standing in the doorway, letting his fingers pick at the paint on the frame, he considered just how much they had all interacted through Wee Davie. Now he was gone, and Billy, idle and unsettled in civilian life since his army discharge, was in bother with the police. As for Mark, well, he didn’t even want to think about what he was up to down in London.
His middle son had become a stranger to him. As a kid it had seemed that Mark, studious, obliging and with a cogent serenity, was the one who embodied the pre-eminent qualities of both he and Cathy. But a contrary, wilful streak was always apparent. While lacking Billy’s upfront aggression, a colder aspect was often visible in Mark. He was odd with Wee Davie, seeming repelled and fascinated by him in equal measures. With adolescence’s onslaught his secretive nature had acquired an underhanded, calculating feel. Davie Renton optimistically believed that we all hit a point in life where we strived to become the best possible versions of ourselves. Neither of his remaining sons had gotten to that junction yet. He hoped that by the time they did, they hadn’t ventured too far down the wrong track to get back. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the respective angers of Billy and Mark. The problem was he understood them only too well. It was Cathy’s love, he thought, watching the blue smoke rising from the tip of her cigarette, that had been his own get-out-of-jail-free card.