Glue (39 page)

— Disturb ye huvin a wank thaire, Tezzo? ah asks.

A delicious smile plays across the cunt’s mooth as eh raises ehs eyebrows. — Some ay us dinnae need tae handle oor cocks tae shoot spunk, son. Some ay us kin git other people tae dae it fir us.

— Who wis the unfortunate felly ye peyed, n how much did eh coast ye? Gally asked.

Our dear Mr Lawson gies Gally the type ay glance a gatecrashing community-care jakey would git at a cheese-and-wine party. — Aye, well he wis a she n yis’ll meet her later. But speakin ay fuckin poofs, whaire huv youse cunts been? Cosy wee threesome?

We telt him aboot the gaff and wondered whether eh would be up for it. At first he wisnae too sure; eh’d pilled this bird n eh wis meant tae be seein ehr later oan. Also, Terry’s stepfaither wis German and he hated the cunt, so by extension he hated aw Germans, except ones wi fannies. That wis the wey the cunt’s mind tended tae work. Whin wi mentioned the words ‘big hoose’ n ‘rent-free’ the bastard’s attitude changed pretty fuckin sharpish but. — Sounds no bad bit, mair dosh tae spend oan drink n that eh. As long as it’s no too far oot. Some ay us’ve goat shaggin duties tae attend tae in the city.

Birrell’s gittin nippy wi aw this poof’s talk. This fight must be oan ehs mind. In the past it never seemed tae bother him but. Eh wis eywis dead phlegmatic aboot things. No now but. — You said ye liked this hotel, Terry. Ah’ve went n goat settled here now, eh moans, brekin intae a yawn.

— Nivir mind Vilhelm, Terry goes, never yin tae see a good thing passed up. — C’moan, lit’s git packed n check oot ay this doss.

— Ah need tae save some cash, Billy, Gally pleads, turning they big lamps ontae Birrell.

— Right then, c’moan, he concedes, rising from the bed. Poor Billy looks knackered. This change in routine really seems tae have knocked the cunt oot ay kilter. As we’re getting our gear packed (again), he pulls me aside. — Wi’ll need tae huv a word wi Lawson aboot behavin ehsel at this boy’s gaff. Ah dinnae want tae huv the embarrassment ay searchin the radge for pieces ay silverware everytime wi go oot.

Ah’d been thinkin aboot this n aw. — Eh’ll surely no take the piss, the boy’s hospitality n that, ah consider warily, — but yir right, wi’ll monitor the situation.

The cunts at the hotel were far fae pleased when we telt them that
we wir checkin oot a week early. — You booked for two weeks, the manager goes. — Two weeks, eh repeats, hudin up two fingers.

— Aye, change ay plan but eh. Goat tae be fuckin flexible, mate, Terry winks, pulling ehs rucksack ontae ehs shoodir. — That’s a wee lesson tae youse cunts, that’s how yis fucked up in the war. Sometimes ye goat tae change the plan, take advantage ay the new situ that arises. Contingency fuckin plans but, eh.

The manager felly isnae amused at aw. Eh’s a big fat ruddy-faced cunt wi silver, slicked-back hair n glesses. Eh’s dressed in a smert jaykit n tie. Looks mair like one ay ma auld man’s mates fae the Gorgie BMC club oan a Friday night thin eh does
ein Municher
. — But how can I find someone to take the rooms at this notice? eh moans at us.

Terry shakes ehs heid in tired annoyance. — Your problem, mate. Ah dinnae ken how tae run a hotel, that’s your biz. Ask ays aboot sellin juice oaf the back ay lorries n ah’ll git ye clued up. Hotel management: no ma bag, eh tells the boy. Ye huv tae gie it tae Lawson, standin thaire, acting as if the manager ay a German hotel should automatically ken the biography ay a Scottish schemie.

Anywey, the cunt kin huff n puff aw eh wants, ehs erse is oot the windae n we’re offski doon the road.

Eftir wanderin roond the toon fir a bit we head tae the meat market for a beer. As we’re in the queue fir pints and pretzels, Terry’s eyes are dartin aroond n Gally’s are as well, checkin oot the fanny. It’s mainly office workers n that, but a few tourists n aw. — Tidy, Terry goes, then, — Tell ays that manager cunt wisnae as nippy as fuck. Hotel management! What does eh think ah am? Mind you, oor Yvonne did some ay that at Telford, eh considers. Then eh turns tae Birrell. — Your brar Rab no gaun tae college?

— Aye. Dinnae ken whit eh’s daein but. Billy’s gittin the drinks in n eh’s goat ehsel a Steiner ay lager. Ah nods at um, thinkin aboot the fight. — Take it easy, Billy.

— Entitled tae the odd drink oan hoaliday, eh goes. Ah think eh’s a bit miffed that ehs routine’s been upset wi the pish-saturated running clathes.

— That’s the game Birrell, git it doon yir neck, Terry toasts, smashin thir Steiners thegither. — Birrell means business!

Ah’m thinkin aboot Terry’s sister, Yvonne. She’d shagged both Billy and Gally. No me though. Ah suppose ah’ve always felt a bit left oot, cheated in a sense, as if part ay ma birthright was taken away. But that’s unfair tae Yvonne, it’s just my rivalry with Mr Lawson talking.
Maybe when we get hame I’ll invite Yvonne up tae the club, try tae get oaf wi her, just tae see Lawson’s puss! Anyway, it’s no just Birrell who means Business now, as we instinctively head ower tae a table quite near tae whaire a group ay birds are sittin. Gally’s leadin the charge and it’s an ideal spot. The lassies are just finishin though, and they’re straight up as soon as we sit doon. Ah catch one’s eye n gie ma airmpits an obvious sniff. The lassie smiles and ah ask, — Not going to stop for another drink?

She looks at her mate and then back at me, — I do not think so, she sais, turning and walking away.

Terry looks acroass the table at ays. — Still got the gift ay the gab, eh Carl? Thir fairly fawin at yir feet thair, mate.

This is Lawson heaven; a beer in his hand and him shagging; us celibate.

We had a couple mair, and it’s great sittin here wi a beer, enjoying the crack, watching the world go by. I’m starting tae feel a bit of a cunt aboot Billy’s bag though. Eh’s gaun oan aboot the fuckin cat and ehs training routine. It gits soas ah’m oan the verge ay confessin a couple ay times, which ah ken wid be a mistake, so ah head oaf tae this record shop ah’d clocked earlier, tae check out some techno before the bevvy makes ays too loose-lipped. Gally’s no bothered, he seems distracted, and neither is Billy, but Terry makes a wee comment which ah dinnae react tae. Ye never ken whether that cunt’s sayin it in fun or meanin it fir real. As eh’s meetin ehs bird in a bit I expect it’s probably aw jist a wind-up.

— Behave, Lawson! You fool of a boy! ah shout back as ah depart, and this gets a laugh fae Gally n Billy n the Vs fae Terry. That yin stuck fae way back, ah think it wis fae the school.

So I teamed up wi them later and we moved oot tae Wolfgang and Marcia’s. Terry approved ay the doss, but didnae stick around long. — Shaggin duties back in toon, boys. Dinnae wait up, eh smirked, before departing. We’d gied Terry the address and directions, Billy drawing a meticulous map. We thought we’d gie our hosts a bit ay space, so that night the three ay us went oot. We steyed local, heading fir a meal at this traditional pub: big wooden tables, sparse decoration.

We couldnae understand what the fuck it said oan the menu n nane ay the staff nor customers could speak English; this wis the sticks. It wis a bit like expectin some cunts in a pub in fuckin Peebles or Bathgate tae be spraffin ze Deutsch. Gally’s spoken German wisnae bad, but eh couldnae make heid nor tail ay this menu. In the end, wi
jist took pot luck. Birrell goat loads ay sausages, Gally goat eggs n cabbage n rice, n ah goat loads ay beef and gravy wi this stuff thit wis like pickle. Wi mixed n matched soas that every cunt wis mair or less chuffed. Then eftir a few drinks wi moved oantae a posher lakeside bar n watched aw these rich auld cunts in thir pastel suits walk thir wee scabby dugs along the banks ay the lake, and aw the yachts head intae the marina and the sun go doon oan the Alps like a Leith hoor oan a sweaty knob.

A chill got intae the air, so we headed inside for another few beers. We blethered for a bit, slaggin off Terry, as he wis the cunt missing. Billy kept yawning, and eftir a bit Gally started tae git oan ma tits: drunk, slurrin n talkin shite, askin the same questions n sayin the same thing ower n ower again, n pillin ye aboot. This wis aw the kind ay shite that we thought we’d goat away fae when we started takin E’s. Eventually, we decided tae git the cunt hame. That night ah fell intae a sound sleep between they sheets. Clear conscience, ye see.

Ah gets wakened up by Terry in the night. He must’ve found his wey back tae the gaff. The cunt climbs intae bed wi me. — Fuck off Terry, your bed’s ower thaire . . . ah goes, but eh’s no movin, n ah’m no sharin a bed wi that dirty, tapped cunt. So ah gets oot n dives intae his. The cold wet hits ma legs. The corkscrew-heided cunt’s pished his ain fuckin bed.

It wis a terrible night, n ah’m as annoyed as fuck at Terry. The cunt wouldnae move, so
ah
hud tae turn the mattress over in ehs bed n try and conceal the pish, n pit the sheets ower the radiator tae dry thum oot. He just lay thaire, in a fuckin coma. Ah ripped ma sheets n blankets oaf the cunt and slept oan the overturned mattress.

The next mornin, ah wakes up tae the sight ay No-Sae-Lean Lawson, in ehs stained Y’s, lyin oan the bed opposite. Ah goes through tae see Billy n Gally. Galloway’s up; it looks like eh’s been up aw night. Eh’s reading a German phrasebook. Billy takes ages wakin up, n struggles intae ehs tracksuit. Aw ah git is him mumblin ‘brutal’ or ‘desperate’ as eh heads oot for ehs run.

Ah go doon tae the kitchen n get some coffee. Marcia’s doon thaire, she tells me that Wolfgang’s gone tae see some laywer aboot the
sale ay the gaff. We struggle tae make polite conversation; it’s pretty clear tae us that this Fräulein feels oor presence is unwelcome, and it’s just as clear tae her that we ken this, but dinnae gie a fuck. It’s dawned oan her that she’s no gaunny be able tae shame us intae packin oor bags, so it’s jist a matter ay countin the days.

So, we head back doon tae the local pub. It’s lunchtime, it’s a crackin day, so we sit in the busy beer garden, next tae a couple ay auld boys. Ah’m sittin in silence, thinkin aboot this part ay the world, how beautiful it is, how it was the ‘centre ay the movement’ as ma auld mate Topsy said excitedly, when ah told him we were oaf here.

Terry kens ah’m nipped at the cunt. Ah’ve no come tae Germany tae clean up some jakey’s pish. — These German cunts are your mates, Carl, so ah thoat they’d be mair likely tae forgive us if they thoat
you
pished the bed. Yuv goat tae think tactically.

— Ah
dinnae
ken these people, Terry, ah’ve jist met the cunts, and ah
didnae
pish thir fuckin bed. You did.

Terry sticks two palms up. — You gaunny keep this fuckin strop oan aw mornin? An international comradeship ay like-minded musical souls throughout the world, Ewart, that’s yir bag, eh goes. — Tell ye what but, it’s as well ah didnae stey at ma new bird’s. She wouldnae huv been too happy if ah pished the bed at hers. We went back tae the festival but, then she stuck ays oan the train, that’s aw ah mind. Thank fuck for that cunt in the taxi . . .

— When we git back, you sort oot they sheets, Terry. Right?

— Chill oot, ya fuckin radge, eh goes, then winks. — Mind you, mate, ye picked a good doss. Ah’m no sae sure about that Marcia bird. A bit nippy, but nowt that a guid length willnae sort oot.

— N you’ll
sort oot
they sheets. Right?

The cunt ignores me.

— Ye gaunny phone yir Ma ower in Saughton Mains tae git her tae come n dae them fir ye? ah snaps.

Terry thinks for a second, as if considering the possibility. Then eh turns ehs back n starts talkin away tae the auld fellies.

Wanker. Gally’s sittin wi this daft baseball cap eh boat yesterday. Bayern Munich. Ah think it’s jist cause they (luckily) knocked us oot in Europe. Eh looks like a community-care cunt in it. Few people look the part in these things. Especially these twats that turn them roond n pill a lock ay hair through them; at least the cunt’s no done that. There’ll be a few cunts intae burnin auld photaes, that’s for sure. Eh’s starin oaf intae space as usual, but Billy’s goat a grin oan ehs face, watchin me n
Terry gittin oantae each other. — Good tae see you smilin again, ah comment.

— Aye, ah ken, eh says, shakin ehs heid. — It’s jist this trainin . . .

— It would git me doon, right enough, daein aw that runnin n huvin tae watch what ah ate n drank, oan hoaliday n that, ah say.

Billy shakes ehs heid. — It’s no that, Carl. Ah normally like trainin. It’s just the last week or so, even before we came here, it’s been desperate. Ah jist feel sae tired aw the time. It isnae me, eh says ruefully. — It’s brutal, n aw this pishin aboot husnae helped.

— What d’ye mean tired, like no well?

— Ah dinnae feel right . . . inside. It’s like ah’ve goat some virus or something. Nae energy.

Gally chips in at this. — What dae ye mean a virus, how the fuck kin
you
huv a virus?

Billy looks at him. — Ah dinnae ken. Ah jist feel knackered. It’s desperate.

Gally nods slowly, as if tryin tae understand, then has a wee chuckle tae himself. — Ah’ll git the drinks in. Orange juice again, Billy?

— Jist a water.

Thir wis a silence for a while, but it wisnae uncomfortable, it wis welcome. Terry wis sittin back aw cool, but, wi that ah’m-sure-ay-maself bearin. So ah huv tae ask. — Awright, Lawson, you win. What aboot you then, how did you git oan last night? Ah clock ehs beer gut, comin under ehs rid shirt n ower ehs blue shorts. Then ah turn n look at Billy’s washboard stomach. It disnae seem that long that thir guts looked the same. Blackpool back in eighty-six.

Terry runs ehs hand through that corkscrew mop wi a flourish. — Spot on. Ah’m meetin her again later oan, he says, but ehs voice is trailin oaf a bit doubtfully.

— Ye dinnae seem that chuffed, Gally says, pickin up the vibe.

— Well, the thing is, ah’ve goat a bit ay an itchy knob. Didnae bother wi a condom, eh no, cannae fuckin well git thum here in the chemist’s.

Ah spot a chance ay a wind-up. — Typical fuckin Pape stronghold, ah goes. One ay the great myths aboot Scotland is that it’s Protestant v. Catholic. The truth is that it’s anti-Catholic v. Catholic. Maist anti-Catholics have never been tae a church ootside weddings and funerals. Naw, ah never believed in that Protestant and Catholic shite, it’s a load ay nonsense, but these fuckin Pape cunts
should
come intae the twentieth century, it has tae be said. And it’s good tae noise up they
Hibby bastards occasionally as well, even if not one person here is really Catholic. Ah think Birrell’s half-Catholic, like me, but ah’m no sure.