Glue (16 page)

Ah looks ower n sees her face, aw hard n serious n cocky n ah jist wish she would mibbe smile like she wis daein earlier, n no look like she wis gaunny offer ays a square-go, bit ay cannae smile either, cause thir’s too many cunts aroond thit would take the pish. So ah nods tae the door n wi head oot n roond the corner, tae the alley doon by the back ay Clouds jist behind Tollcross n wir doon thaire n ah’m neckin her n tryin tae git the tit, but she’s pillin ma hand away n she’s no even gaunny gies the fuckin tit n that’s nae fuckin use tae me . . .

. . . ah’ve goat tae git a real bag-off . . .

. . . ah dinnae want tae be a virgin . . .

— Dinnae be a fuckin lesbian then, ah goes.

— Ah’m no fuckin lesbian, right son!

— What’s fuckin wrong wi ye then?

She pills away fae ays, n starts gaun ower tae whaire hur mates are. Ah starts tae say somethin, n she jist turns roond n goes, — Piss off you, right.

Her mate looks a fuckin wide lassie, hard-face, dark hair. The type wi mental brars, ye kin jist tell. She looks at me n goes, — Fuckin beat it, son. Right? Just fuckin well beat it!

Just then Caroline Urquhart and hur mate Amy are comin oot wi Terry n that Simon Williamson boy, this gadge fae Leith. It seems thit eh’s a mate ay that Renton n Tommy n Matty as well as Joe Begbie’s brar. Terry’s laughin n eh’s goat ehs airm aroond Caroline n she looks at ays like ah wis fuckin . . . like ah wis fuckin nowt . . .

N then ah hear this shoutin n everybody looks acroas tae whair this pagger’s takin place n it gies me the excuse tae git the fuck away n ah’m movin ower. Billy grabs ma wrist n goes, — Leave it, Gally, this is Dozo Doyle wi these Clerie cunts. They’re nowt tae dae wi us.

— Fuck off! Ah pushes past um n ah pill oot the fuckin chib n ah’m ower. Then ah stoap n think; what the fuck um ah daein here? Ah jist stand thaire. Dozo’s paggerin the Clerie boy n the guy’s mates clock the knife n thir oaf doon the road. The blade did the trick! That Polmont’s jist standin daein nowt. The Clerie boy’s doon and Dozo’s bootin at him. Then Polmont nods at me n eh takes the chib off ays, and ah jist gie’s um it, n eh bends doon n rips the other gadge’s face apart wi it. My hert jist goes bang, as ah see the boy’s skin open up and nothing for a second, then a gash and blood tearin oot ay it. Doyle looks doon at the boy. — Fuckin Clerie wank!

The boy’s hudin ehs face thegither, n eh’s sayin stuff, daft stuff thit
means nowt n ah’m lookin doon at um. It wis meant tae be a square-go . . . Dozo n the boy . . .

Ah jist stand rooted tae the spot as Polmont hands the blade back tae me. Ah take it, ah dinnae ken what fir. Cause it’s mine, ah suppose. Polmont looks at me and makes a face, and Dozo shakes ehs heid. They laugh and start walkin away.

A couple ay guys come over, watching me, watching the boy, the blood. Then they’re gone. One sais somethin, but ah cannae hear um. The guy’s still goat ehs hands ower one side ay his face n eh looks up and sees me wi the knife. Eh looks at me in disgust, like ah’m an animal.

Ah turn n run acroass the car-park doon the lane n intae the main road. Ah run fir ages, only stoapin whin ah’m oot ay breath. Then ah throw the knife away, intae one ay they big bins. It takes ays a while tae realise whair ah am. Ah’ve been gaun in the wrong direction. Ah backtrack, but by a roundabout wey n take the backstreets hame, avoidin the main roads.

It starts tae rain. The lights fae the street lamps reflect oan the blue-black pavement makin ays feel sick n dizzy n ah zip up ma Harrington n button the collar. My guts burn wi every step ah take. Everytime ah hear a police siren or see a cop car, ah think it’s fir me. Ma hert flies up tae ma mooth n ma blood jist runs cauld. Ah see the toon change; the shoaps become the posh toon hooses, then it’s the tenements, then it’s like nowt for ages, then the dual carriageway n the lights ay the scheme.

Wir hingin aboot the shoaps at Stenhoose Croass oan Sunday mornin. Sundays are shite and they git shiter the longer they go oan. Thir’s nowt tae dae but tae talk aboot the weekend and feel the fear and the depression creep up oan ye until it’s Monday mornin. Ah once sais tae muh Uncle Donald whae works oan the estate at Rentokil, — Does it git any better whin ye leave school n go tae work? Eh jist shook ehs heid n laughed at ays as if tae say; aye, that’ll be fuckin right.

Bit it’s still the mornin n aw the weekend triumphs ur fresh. Especially wi that wide cunt Terry whae goes, — Ma fuckin cherry’s still goat a nip oan it fae ma wee schoolgirl last night. Smooooth fuckin
ride, eh huds ehs hands oot n thrusts ehs hips aw slow. He goat nowt offay her, no offay Caroline Urquhart.

Fill ay fuckin shite that cunt.

—What aboot aw that ‘ah widnae touch her’ garbage ye used tae come oot wi? ah goes.

— Well, Terry smiles, — ah thoat, now thit ah’m workin, it’s no bad huvin a wee bird fae the school tae ride now n then.

Billy looks aw impressed by the lyin cunt, n ye kin tell thit Terry laps that up. Birrell goat stuck right in at the fitba n he wis the boy really, well, him and Gent, even if Terry wis the yin thit wis nicked. N eh never crawls up tae Doyle n that like Terry does. Ah think Billy’s right intae Caroline Urquhart n Amy Connor n aw. Every cunt is, even if they lie aboot it, like Terry. — She wis gaun oot wi that big boy, wis she no? eh asks.

— Naw, the cunt dumped her. Eh’s gaun oot wi another lassie now. So ah wis oan hand tae lend a sympathetic ear . . . eh grins, — . . . n a sympathetic tadger n aw, eh laughs, thrustin ehs hips again. — Ah should be thankin that big cunt cause eh taught her the ropes awright. Ah thought she’d be aw that jerky, stiff wey, like a wee virgin, eh goes spitting oot the word ‘virgin’ like it wis ‘leper’, — bit naw, the big cunt must’ve rode aw that oot ay her, gied ehr fud a guid breakin in fir ays. Dirty wee cow kent how tae gie a gobble n aw. Too right she did! Jist aboot fuckin well gammed it offay ays!

Bullshit.

She widnae huv sooked that sweaty cunt’s dirty knob.

— Whae wis that boy thit bagged oaf wi her mate? Billy asks.

Terry takes a swig ay the Irn Bru eh’s goat. — Simon the boy’s name is. Good lad. Eh goat a tit-ride offay Amy Connor. Eh’s a mate ay Joe Begbie’s brother, that cunt Franco thit goat done wi me. Ah’m jist hopin thit ah’ve no goat a dose offay that wee Caroline, cause ah’m oaf doon tae Lucy’s fir Sunday dinner this afie, n ah ken whit’s fir eftirs!

— Thoat she wis pissed oaf wi you gittin nicked? Carl asks.

— Aye, that cunt ay a faither ay hers is tryin tae poison her against ays. Thing is, it’s nae good. Once a bird’s hud Terence Henry Lawson, that’s her spoiled n only the best will do. They cannae git enough ay it man! Guaranteed!

The big-heided cunt passes the juice ower tae me.

Ah nod the Irn Bru boatil away n eh passes it oan tae Carl, whae takes a slug. He’s lookin aw pleased wi ehsel. Mibbe eh goat ehs hole offay that fat ginger. Ah fuckin well hope no, cause it would mean that
ah wis the only one here that husnae hud it now. Billy’s hud it oaf Kathleen Murray, n offay Terry’s sister Yvonne n aw.

That Maggie Orr, her fae Billy’s stair, she’s comin doon the road wi this lassie that’s goat glesses. Looks really nice but. They stoap ower by the chippy. — Terry, c’mere the now, she waves him tae come acroass.

Terry’s standin ehs groond but. — Nup, youse come ower here, eh goes, aw cocky.

— Naw, the nice-lookin lassie wi the glesses nods back at Maggie, n she’s screwin up her face, makin oot like Maggie doesnae want tae see Carl or Billy. Billy’s no botherin but, eh’s goat the paper, n Carl jist looks away, ehs hands oan ehs hips. Billy rolls the paper up n hits um oan the heid wi it. Carl says something like, — Wanker. Terry shrugs n goes ower tae the lassies.

That barry lassie wi the long black hair n the glesses looks ower at me n smiles. Ma hert goes boom. She seems dead nice, different fae some ay thum roond here. Then Terry looks roond at ays n aw, then laughs wi this lassie n eh pushes ehr, then grabs ehr, n it’s like eh’s ticklin ehr. She’s laughin away n tellin um tae stoap it. Eh shouldnae be daein that tae a lassie like that, a nice lassie. That’s okay tae muck aboot wi slags like that, but no the likes ay this lassie. Maggie doesnae like it either, n Terry sees this, so eh goes ower tae
ehr
n starts ticklin ehr, then eh picks ehr up, n she’s screamin, — TERRY! n we kin see ehr knickers, n eh lits ehr doon n she’s goat a beamer. Thir doon the road, n the bigger lassie that’s nice is laughin, but Maggie’s beetroot rid, hur eyes waterin. She’s sortay laughin a wee bit n aw but. Terry sprints back ower tae us.

— Shag-happy, thon pair, eh laughs, as they head doon the road. Eh sees me lookin at um. — Whoah, eh goes tae ays, — that big Gail, she fancies you Gally. She goes: ‘Whae’s the wee cutey-pie wi the big eyes?’

Cheeky fuckin cunt: takin the pish. Carl n Billy ur laughin at ays, n Billy pinches the side ay ma face. Ah’m ignorin that big wanker Terry, ignorin thum aw. — Aw aye, aw sure, ah goes.

Billy opens the
Sunday Mail
again. Terry, the fuckin big man, that cunt’s loving it aw. They made a huge fuckin deal aboot that shite at the match. They fuckin Glesgay papers: they nivir bother whin they scruffs run riot through here. Terry’s fuckin stupid face n that stupid fuckin hair. Aw ower the paper. Cunt thinks eh’s a fuckin star. It’s aw fuckin bullshit.

WE NAME HIBS THUG

The smirking, unrepentant thug who brought terror and shame to Easter Road on Saturday is aerated waters salesman Terence Lawson (17). Millions of armchair fans watched last night’s popular
Sportscene
programme where a George Best-inspired Hibs pulled off a victory against Rangers. But the match was overshadowed by serious disturbances in and around the ground. ‘These people are not real football followers,’ said Inspector Robert Toal of Lothian Police. ‘True fans should denounce them. They are hell-bent on destroying the game.’ The insolent face of Lawson being carted away from a serious affray he had instigated was too much for many genuine supporters. Bill McLean (41) of Penicuik said: ‘This is the first game I’ve been at for years and it’ll be the last. There’s too much hooliganism these days.’

MAFIA

Lawson is reputed to be the ringleader of a notorious Edinburgh football hooligans gang known as ‘The Emerald Mafia’ because of their attachment to the Hibs Football Club and their extreme ruthlessness.

VIOLENCE

Lawson is no stranger to violence. Last year the brawny, permed-haired thug was convicted of a brutal assault on another young man outside a city chip shop. We can reveal that he also has convictions for the vandalism of a telephone box and the malicious scratching of the bodywork of an expensive car with a set of housekeys. The car belonged to Edinburgh businessman Arthur Rennie.

SICK

Last night Lawson’s mother, Mrs Alice Ulrich (38), stood by her son. ‘My Terry can be a bit daft, but he’s no thug. He’s just been hanging around with the wrong crowd. I’m getting sick of this.’ Lawson was arrested along with two youths, aged sixteen and fifteen, who for
legal reasons cannot be named. The case will be heard in a fortnight’s time at Edinburgh District Court.

— It’s no a fuckin perm, Terry goes, running ehs hand through ehs hair. — This isnae fuckin permed.

Eh thinks ehs shite disnae stink. Juice lorry skivvyin wanker. — It’s cause yir auld man wis a fuckin nigger, that’s aw it is, ah goes.

Ah wish ah hudnae said that. Terry disnae git oan wi ehs auld man. Ah think eh’s gaunny dae ehs nut, but eh disnae git angry. — Well at least eh hud fuckin good skin, eh goes back, pointin at ma face. — Skin like that n gittin yir fuckin hole, they dinnae mix mate, eh winks, n every cunt’s pishin thirsels. — Nae wonder yir S.A.V.

Ehs face is gaun aw tight n ah’m wonderin, what the fuck is he oan aboot . . .

Billy looks blankly at Terry. — What’s that?

— Still a virgin, Terry goes.

Thir aw laughin like fuck at me; shakin, hudin each other up. Whin ah think thuv stoaped, thir’s another wave that starts up as ah see somethin fir a minute in Terry’s eyes as they meet mine, it’s nearly like an apology before it’s blawn away by they big donkey brays. Muh hand flies up tae muh spot oan muh face. Ah couldnae stoap it gaun thaire. Ah’ve another one now. Aye, n thir laughin even mair. Carl, whae sneaked away wi that fuckin ginger boot n thinks eh’s the last ay the rid-hoat lovers cause some dog naebody else wants gied um it. Birrell, whae nivir even goat a neck . . .

— Fuck off you ya cunt, ah kin hear masel sayin, but ah’m that ragin that ma breath’s catchin in ma chist.

Terry.

Cunts.

Fuck them aw. Thaire no fuckin mates . . . — FUCK OFF LAWSON, YA POOF!

— N you’ll make ays like, aye? Terry goes, starin it ays.

Ah turns away, n ah think eh half-kens it’s cause ah’m feart ay what
ah’ll
dae rather thin ay what he’ll dae. — Dinnae go in the fuckin cream puff like a wee bairn, Gally. It’s you thit sterted it wi aw this nigger shite, eh goes.

— Ah wis only fuckin jokin, ya cunt.

Juice Terry. The fuckin big man. Hawkin fuckin boatils ay juice roond schemes . . .

— Well ah’m only jokin aboot your fuckin plukes, eh goes, n Ewart n Birrell ur laughin again.

Wankers . . .

Ah takes a step forward n squares up tae Terry. Ah’m no fuckin well feart ay that cunt. Nivir fuckin well huv been. Aye, they aw think eh’s a big hard cunt now, bit ah ken better. The cunt forgets thit ah fuckin well grew up wi um. Eh’s standin ehs groond awright, but thir’s a wariness aboot him.

Billy’s in between us. — Stoap gittin wide wi each other. Right? Supposed tae be mates. Youse two are brutal.

We’re still facin each other, glarin at each other ower Billy’s shoodir.

— Ah sais stoap gittin wide. Right? Birrell goes, ehs palm pushin against ma chist. That cunt’s gittin oan ma nerves as much as Terry. Ah wis oot ay order sayin that, right, but the cunt should’ve took it as a joke. Ah feel masel leanin forward intae Birrell’s shove, makin it soas eh either hus tae really push ays back or ease off. Eh nods tae me n eh eases oaf. — C’mon Gally, eh sais, firm but reasonable.