Glue (51 page)

You fucking stupid, weak, foolish cow.

Why?

Why the fuck had she

She headed for Lisa’s place.

On the bus, Charlene felt an escalating sense of loss, a diminishing of her self, until the very breath seemed to be being crushed from her. She looked at the youngish man sitting on the seat across from her, bouncing a baby on his knee. The indulgent set to his face. Something twisted again inside her and she averted her gaze.

Outside in the street, a woman was pushing a buggy. A woman. A mother.

Why did she have him back again?

Because she couldn’t stop. She wouldn’t stop doing it,
couldn’t
stop doing it, until he killed her. And then he’d be kneeling down by her grave, pleading for forgiveness, saying that he’d gone too far this time, he knew this and he was so, so, sorry . . .

And her fucking ghost would rise and look at him in the twisted, ignorant love of the imbecile, arms extended, and she’d softly bleat, — It’s okay, Keith . . . it’s okay . . .

Charlene was going to see Lisa. Needed to see Lisa. They’d drunk, joked, done pills, called each other sisters. But they were closer than that. Lisa was all that was left.

It wasn’t that she had to accept that she’d written off her father, that happened a long time ago. But the realisation dawned on Charlene that she’d now done the same to her mother.

Rab Birrell drew the razor slowly across the contours of his face. He’d noticed that some of the hairs on his chin were coming in white. Considering bleakly that he and the type of girls he fancied (i.e.: young, slim) would soon be operating in a different sexual market place, Rab gave himself a methodical, thorough shave.

Love had slipped through Rab’s fingers a few times, and most recently and traumatically, several months ago. Maybe, he reflected, it was what he really wanted. Joanne and him: ending it all after six years. Ending it. She’d given him the elbow and moved on. All she’d wanted was some sex, some affection and, well, not ambition really, she was much too cool for that, but momentum. Instead he’d vacillated, got into a rut, and allowed their relationship to stagnate and rot like food left outside the fridge.

When he ran into her in a club with her new felly the other week his throat went dry. They were all smiles and polite handshakes but something was warping inside him. He’d never seen her look so beautiful, so full of life.

The cunt she was with: he wanted to rip the fucker’s heid off his shoulders and stuff it up his arse.

Rab towelled his face. That was one thing he and his brother Billy had in common, no luck in love. Moving through to the bedroom, Rab pulled on a green Lacoste shirt. There was a knock at the door.

When he went through and opened it, he saw his parents standing in front of him. They stood, open-mouthed for a couple of seconds, like institutionalised package holidaymakers who’d just stepped off the coach and were waiting for a guide to tell them what to do next.

Rab stood aside. — Come in.

— We wir passin on our wey tae Vi’s, his mother Sandra said, stepping over the threshold and looking around cautiously.

Rab was a bit shaken. His Ma and Dad had never been to his flat before. — Thought we’d check oot the new pad, Wullie laughed.

— I’ve been here two year, Rab said.

— Christ, is it that long? How time flies, Wullie said, picking a piece of shaving foam out of his son’s ear. — Scruff order, son, he chided.

Rab felt both violated and comforted by his father’s easy intimacy. They followed him into the front room. — You eatin right now that your wife’s gone? Sandra asked, her eyes focused on her son’s for any sign of duplicity in them.

— She wisnae ma wife.

— Six years sharin the same hoose, the same bed, that’s husband n wife in ma book, Sandra said briskly, as Rab felt his spine stiffen.

Wullie smiled helpfully, — Common-law but, son.

Rab glanced at the clock on the wall. — Ah’d make yis a cup ay tea, but the thing is ah wis jist oan ma wey oot. Ah wis gaun doon tae Easter Road, thir’s a match oan the night.

— Ah need tae spend a penny, son, Sandra said.

Rab shepherded her through the hallway, and pointed at a frosted-glass door as Wullie gratefully sat down on the couch. — If yir gaun tae the game, yi’ll be able tae wear that strip yir Ma boat ye fir Christmas, the luminous green away yin, he urged encouragingly.

— Eh, naw, ah will some time but ah’ve goat tae nash, Rab countered in haste. That strip was fuckin horrendous.

Sandra had heard this exchange, stalled, and moved back into the doorway, unbeknown to Rab. — Eh’s nivir wore it, eh disnae like it, she accused, her eyes filling with tears, then she added, as she turned on her heels and headed through towards Rab’s toilet, — ah kin dae nothing right it seems . . .

Wullie rose, grabbed Rab’s arm and pulled his shocked son close to him. — Listen, son, he whispered urgently, — yir Ma’s no been well . . . since she came oot ay hoaspital eftir that hysterectomy she’s been awfay emotional, he shook his head. — It’s been like walkin oan eggshells, son. It’s ‘is that you oan that Internet again’ or if ah’m no it’s ‘Billy bought ye that expensive computer, ye no gaunny yaze it?’ eh shrugged.

Rab gave him an empathetic smile.

— Indulge her, son, make it easy for me. Pit that bloody strip oan fir the fitba. Just the once, a favour, tae yir auld man, Wullie pleaded desparately. — She’s goat this intae her heid, it’s aw she talks aboot.

— Ah like tae buy and wear ma ain clathes, Dad, Rab said.

Wullie squeezed his arm again, — Go oan, son, jist the once, a wee favour.

Rab raised his eyes to the ceiling. He went through to his bedroom and opened the bottom drawer in his chest. The electric yellow-green strip lay unopened in its cellophane packet. It was repulsive. He couldn’t go out like that. If the boys saw him. A fuckin replica strip . . . He ripped it from the wrapping, jerked off his Lacoste shirt and pulled the garment on.

Ah look like a fuckin lollipop man, he thought, as he examined himself in the mirror. Ah’m wearing the replica shirt, the mark of the wanker everywhere. All ah need now is tae get a fuckin number.

9 TOSS 10 TWAT 11 WANKER 15 SHEEP 25 SILLY WEE LADDIE 6 SPOILED BRAT 8 GLORY HUNTER

He went back through to the front room. — Aw, it’s awfay smart, Sandra cooed, seemingly appeased. — It’s really space-age.

— Millennium Hibs, Wullie smiled.

Rab’s countenance remained poker-faced. He believed that if you let people take liberties, even, or perhaps especially, those closest to you, then it set a bad precedent. — Ah dinnae want tae chase yis folks, but ah’m runnin late. Ah’ll gie yis a bell n yis kin come up and ah’ll cook yis a meal.

— Naw, son, we’ve satisfied our curiosity. You can come tae yir
mother’s fir some proper food, Sandra said, her face lifting in a tight smile.

— We’ll git ye doon the road, son, Wullie said, — it’s oan oor wey tae yir Auntie Vi’s.

Rab’s heart seemed to fall an inch in his chest cavity. Vi stayed on the way to the ground, there would be no time to double-back and get rid of this monstrosity. He put his brown leather jacket over it, zipping it up to check that it covered the strip. Noticing his mobile phone on the coffee table, he picked it up and stuck it in his pocket.

As they went down the street to the bus stop, Sandra grabbed the zip and yanked it down. — Wear yir colours wi pride! It’s a warm night! Yi’ll no ken the benefit later oan if it turns chilly.

Thirty next month, and she’s still tryin tae dress ays up like a fuckin doll, Rab thought.

He’d never been so pleased to part company with his parents. He stood for a while and watched them go, his mother stout, his father still lean. He thrust the zip on his jacket up and went into the pub. Entering the bar, Rab clocked the boys sitting in the corner; Johnny Catarrh, Phil Nelson, Barry Scott. To his horror, Rab didn’t even realise that, as he came in, he’d instinctively undone his jacket again. Johnny Catarrh looked at Rab’s top, first in disbelief, then with a crocodile grin.

Rab realised what had happened. — Dinnae Johnny, just dinnae, he said.

Then Gareth approached him. Gareth, the most style-conscious cunt ever to stride a terracing. Unlike most of the boys, who came from what Rab would term ‘the clued-up working-class’, Gareth had attended Edinburgh’s poshest school, Fettes College, where Tony Blair was educated. Rab always liked Gareth, liked the way he played up, rather than down, his upper-middle-class background. You never knew when he was taking the piss, he acted a stickler for dress and manners and he alternately amused and appalled the town and scheme boys with his tongue-in-cheek hectoring. — Why can’t we behave like proper Edinburgh gentlemen! We are not Weedgies! He’d mock-harangue in his Malcolm Rifkind accent on train journeys. The boys usually loved it.

Now he looked at Rab. — You’re such a rugged individualist when it comes to fashion, Birrell, Gareth said. — How did you manage to forge such a resolutely unique sense of style? Not for our Rab the crass dictates of consumerism . . .

Rab could only smile and take the brickbats.

The pub was crowding out with enthusiastic supporters, growing more so with every passing drink. Rab was thinking about Joanne, about how he should be delighted to be free, but how it certainly didn’t feel that way. He asked Gareth if he missed the excitement of the old days, particularly now that his friend was an established vet with his own practice, had a partner and a child, with a second on the way.

— If I’m being totally honest, they were the best years of my life, and they’ll never be equalled. But you can never go back and the greatest quality of all is being able to look at something that’s good and know when to end it before it all turns sour. But do I miss it? Every day. The raving too. I miss the fuck out of that as well.

Joanne had gone, and Rab, bar one unsatisfactory shag, had been sexless since. Andy had moved into the spare room; he now had a flatmate instead of a girlfriend. He was a student. Studying to be what? Thirty years old, no bird, practically unemployable. What a scoreline. Rab envied Gareth. He seemed to know what he wanted to do straight from the off. His training had taken a long time, but he’d just stuck right at it. — What made ye become a vet anywey? Rab once asked him, half thinking he’d get a discourse on animal welfare and spirituality and anti-species fascism.

Gareth set his face deadpan and spoke in measured tones, — I see it as a way of making amends. In the past I’ve been responsible for causing a fair bit of suffering to animals, he added, smiling, — particularly on trips to Parkhead and Ibrox.

They finished their drinks and strode round to the ground. A new stand was under construction, the condemned old rust-bucket torn down. He remembered his dad taking him and Lexo there, with Billy and Gally. How they felt posh because they were in the stand! That fucking old wood and corrugated iron slum! What a joke. The old boys would stamp their feet doo-doo, doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo-doo . . . Hibees! Rab reckoned it was more to do with keeping the circulation in their feet going than anything that was happening on the pitch.

Now it was the Festival Stadium, or three sides of it were. The old-school punters still huddled under the spartan former terracing, on the east side of the ground, just waiting for the bulldozers and builders to render them extinct, or turn them from football fans into sports consumers.

Rab turned to Johnny, watching as he howked up some phlegm and splattered it onto the concrete of what was the old terraced floor of
the east stand. Soon Johnny would be slung out the ground under police escort for that behaviour. Enjoy it while you can.

She’ll be
minted
with all her royalties by now anyway, Taylor smirked, — as long as . . . ha ha ha . . . as long as . . . the tax people haven’t deducted anything at
source
, he wept in laughter. The drinks were sliding down easily and Franklin and Taylor were on the brink of making a night of it, but Franklin pulled back. — Best check on the bitch, he slurred, wincing inside at his own words; part of him hating the easy complicity he entered into with Taylor after a few drinks. But she
was
so fucking self-obsessed. Taylor was right. What was the big deal about lifting a fork to your mouth, chewing and swallowing?

He rang her room from his mobile phone but there was no reply. In mounting panic, he hurried back to the hotel, envisaging a bony corpse on the bed alongside a bottle of vodka and some sleeping pills. Taylor followed eagerly, a similar image burning his head. But for him the same prospect instigated a state of excited arousal, and he was already thinking of the track listings for the ‘Best of . . .’ double album. Then there was the boxed set, and, of course, the tribute album. Alanis would cover a Kathryn Joyner number. Essential. Annie Lennox . . . a must. Tanita Tikaram . . . Tracy Chapman . . . Sinead. Those were the names which immediately sprung to mind. It had to be broader-based though, and you needed quality. Aretha was a long-shot but it was possible. Joan Jett as a wild-card entry. Dolly Parton for a country number. Perhaps even Debbie Harry or Macy Gray could be enticed. Maybe even Madonna. The possibilities spun through his mind as the hotel doors came into view.

Both men were astonished to be told that Kathryn had left with a man about half an hour earlier.

— You mean she checked out? Franklin gasped.

— Oh no. She’s just gone out, the girl at reception said efficiently, no-nonsense eyes glaring at him from under a black fringe.

She never went out with strangers. The bitch was agoraphobic. — What was he like, this man?

— Quite big, sort of corkscrew hair.

— What?

— Like a perm, the kind that people wore ages ago.

— What state of mind would you say she was in? Franklin asked the receptionist.

— We don’t attempt to psychoanalyse our guests, sir, she told him briskly. Taylor allowed himself a little smirk at that.

After a long bath, she put the
Pretty Woman
video on the VCR. Lisa felt a rush of guilt with the surge of power that brought the vibrator in her hand to life. As if she hadn’t had enough cock in Ibiza, all shapes, sizes and colours, but that was often it with cock, the mair you had, the mair you wanted. That itchy piss-flap had flared up again, and a carefree scratch had become an exploration. Then technology came into its own. It got to the stage of the video being switched on and the slow, delicious tweaking of the clit. Richard Gere knew all about foreplay right enough, nobody had been able to send Lisa into such rapture. Now let’s see if Dicky is dicky enough to finish off the job . . .