FUCKIN CUNT.
So ah get a rip-off price for them, Matty pretendin tae look through the records n tapes oan display but mentally countin oot every note n coin the boy pits in ma hand. When we get ootside we see Olly Curran comin up the Walk, the straight-backed National Front closet-buftie fucker. — Awright, Olly?
— Yesss … he sais in that sleekit snake-like wey ay his, lookin doon his beak, first at me, then Sick Boy, then Matty. Ye can tell he thinks we’re the scum ay the earth: a big disgrace tae the white master race. — You’re a Connell, he says tae Matty in mild accusation.
Matty, fag in hand, turns his earring like he’s tryin tae tune in his brain. — So?
— You dinnae stay at the Fort now, Olly shakes his heid.
— Nup, Wester Hailes, eh.
Olly dispenses a security-guard look, one too thick and crass even for a polisman, then thaire’s a silence. So ah goes, — Ye got a fair auld military starch in that collar, Olly.
He smiles, his devious eyes fill ay imbecile’s hate, then looks aw self-congratulatory n goes, — Well, some of us like tae keep up standards.
— Aye, well, it’s certainly looking pristine. Heard yir missus takes the dhobi up the Bendix.
— Yesss, he whistles softly, wary but smug, — she certainly does.
Sick Boy nods and says, — Ah kent a bird whae wis mad on that. Ye couldnae stick anything in the washing machine. Eywis hud tae go up the Bendix.
— Aye … sometimes it can be a pest, Olly muses, — because she’s got a perfectly good washing machine.
— But if she’s used tae takin it up the Bendix … Sick Boy sniggers.
Ah’m fuckin well strugglin tae keep a straight face, n Matty’s open-cavern mooth n squashed-grape eyes indicate the cunt’s aware some wind-up’s gaun oan but he’s scoobied as tae what it’s aw aboot.
— Aye, Olly declares, — her mother wis just the same.
— She surely must use the washing machine sometimes but, Sick Boy contends.
— Very rarely.
— I’ll bet you like tae stick a load in there but, eh? Sick Boy goes.
— Oh, ah do try sometimes, but it’s Bendix, Bendix, Bendix aw the way wi her.
— Do ye ever take a load up thaire yirsel? ah ask him.
— In my younger single days, aye. But ah wis a sailor then, and neatness was expect— what … what … Olly’s gaun, as we cannae contain oorsels any mair, — what yis laughin at? Youse ur bloody well on something! Ah ken youse! Ah ken yir game!
— What game is that then? ah goes back.
He looks at ma wrist, pus seeping fae rusted mounds ay crust, on white, goosefleshed skin.
— Industrial accidents, ah wink, but he turns in disgust and strides up the Walk.
— Right up the Bendix! Sick Boy shouts. It hurts tae laugh. My sides sting wi it. But ah realise that the joke is oan me, oan us, as the pain sets in and we look at each other, blinded by snotter, feelin like lepers in our ain place. Passers-by ur starin at us in horror and loathing: ye kin feel their contempt. — Lit’s git the fuck ootay here, Sick Boy sais.
Pain. Psychic pain.
N thaire’s mair ay that tae come when we git up tae Tollcross. Matty opts tae wait ootside. — Cunt, ah’m no welcome, eh, he says. Inside, the tomatay plants in the windae look as rotten and shabby as Johnny, whae sits thaire wi lines ay speed. Ah make the big mistake ay giein him the cash ah owe him. He snaffles it, then refuses tae sub us anything else.
— Jist a wee bag, mate.
— Sorry, chavboax, it’s business, buddy boy.
— But ah jist gie’d ye some dosh, ye ken ah’m good fir it.
— Nae hireys, nae gear. Thaire’s no a lot gaun aroond so what thir is goes tae the boys wi the poppy upfront. Ah’d git the dosh n ah’d move sharpish if ah wis youse.
— C’mon, Johnny, we’re mates …
— Nae mates in this game, chavvy, we’re aw acquaintances now, he goes. — The White Swan’s just a cog in a wheel these days, compadre. He fills his lungs wi sulphate. — Ah’m a branch manager ay Virgin rather than the owner ay Bruce’s Record Shoap. If ye ken what ah mean.
He’s right. There’s nae white now, n the broon’s hit toon big time. Swanney’s puntin it for somebody else, so he’s way doon the peckin order. So we wir back tae square one. Matty starts moanin when we hit the bottom ay the stair. — Nowt? Cunt, what dae ye mean, nowt?! The cunt accuses us ay hudin oot oan him n the argument carries oan doon the road. — Fuckin mongol, he goes.
— Ah wish ye’d stoap this mongol shite, Matty.
— Jist cause yir brother wis one, he says, the taboo words sizzling oot ay the mingin wee fucker’s tight campfire mooth.
— Naw, Down’s syndrome was just about the only medical condition the spazzy wee cunt never had, ah tell him, shaming him and myself at the same time.
— Telt ye wuv nae fuckin gear, Sick Boy narks at him. — N stoap aw this hudin oot shite. Tell us how you can possibly hud oot oan a moochin cunt whae’s nivir pit his hand in his poakit in the first fuckin place!
Matty shuts up at that, n we walk on in silence. We get tae the Fit ay the Walk, fucked and shivering, tae hear a blood-coagulatin screech: — SI-MIHN!
Two antsy jailbait chicks are ootside the Central, beckonin us ower. It’s the last place we want tae be right now but they willnae take naw fir an answer. It’s that Maria Anderson lassie and her wee pal, Jenny. It turns oot Jenny’s Shirley’s cousin, so Matty doesnae look too chuffed. Ah’m no either. Ah tell her tae bolt, n she nods like she’s gaun tae, but keeps hingin aboot, no in any hurry tae nash. They willnae git served in the Cenny, so we go tae the Dolphin Lounge. We’re sittin in a corner, aw drinkin Pepsi cause it’s fill ay sugar, n Nelly comes in fae the Crown Bar next door, n gits a pint n joins us. He starts spraffin shite about Begbie and Saybo, but ah’m no interested as ah’m tryin tae tune oot aw the conversations roond us n think ay whae ah kin hound fir skag. He’s droning in ma ear though, and he asks, — Dae ye think thit ah made the wrong move?
Ah huvnae been listenin tae him, n ah’ve no got the faintest idea what he’s oan aboot, so ah say, — You made the decision, Neil, ah shrug, catchin that Jenny’s eye, n ah git an apologetic glare which quickly steels intae defiance. Fuck her, daft wee hairy; thir fawin like dominoes now n ah’m naebody’s social worker, least ay aw ma ain.
Nelly gies us his tortoise-lipped expression. — So?
Another two young girls come in tae join Sick Boy’s harem. — Sealink, one lassie goes, pointing tae the now empty holdall at ma feet, pronouncing it Sealunk, in proper Leith style. Normally ah’d be sniffing at some ay the crumbs ay Sicko’s rich man’s table, but no way right now. Bowie, Iggy and Lou, aw gone. Fuck sakes, ah’m hurtin inside. — Look around the world, baby, it cannot be denied, ah assert tae Nelly.
— Too fuckin right it cannae! the cunt goes, thinkin thit ah gie a fuck aboot his dramas. Ah think it was the Boy Søren who said, one can advise comfortably fae a safe port, and total unconcern is the safest of all.
Sick Boy’s main girl is wee Maria, the death-masked beauty ay the Bannanay flats. A looker, but a proper wee skag hound. There’s whispers that Sick Boy goat her hooked; but in thair stampede tae discern the sinner, people usually miss the point wi aw this ‘which evil bastard got ma son or daughter oan drugs?’ bullshit. Once the shit’s oot there, people are gaunny try it. It’s as futile and pointless as tryin tae blame some other kid at school cause their bairn caught a cauld. Forget transmission, it’s transition that’s the issue. Basically, it’s aw self-loathing because they never saw when thair bairn became somebody else.