Sick Boy is a cunt though, and he certainly didnae help. — Sweet sixteen, ain’t that peachy keen, he grins, the caress of his Judas palms forcing her weirded smile, — n school aw kicked intae touch, eh. That’s us aw legalled up now, eh, babe? A union blessed by the state! He’s wearing a pork-pie rude-boy hat, which he’s somehow picked up, probably off one ay the girls, which ye can see is annoying the fuck oot ay Nelly.
Nelly clocks me looking at the hat. Flashes us a smile that says ‘that is fucked’. Then he goes in a low voice, — See Goagsie’s got the cowie. Cunt was caught sneakin intae that clinic.
— It wid jist be fir his methy script, but. Wir aw gaun thaire now.
— Nah, the cunt broke doon in the boozer whin he goat fuckin pilled up aboot it. Greetin like a wee fuckin lassie, Nelly snorts.
Ah’m lookin tae Sick Boy, who’s aw ower Maria but at the same time flirting wi Jenny. — A wee honey, this lassie. See, if ma hert wisnae devoted tae you, Maria, he half threatens tae her discomfit and Jenny’s giggles.
Matty gies us a tense nod. — Cunt, lit’s fuckin split, ah’m seek tae fuck, he sais oot the side ay his dribbling mooth.
Ah turns tae Sick Boy. — Ye comin?
— No … Ricky Monaghan has a connection. Ah’m gaunny stall here and see if he shows.
— Cunt, Monny’ll no huv nowt, Matty spits in contempt.
— Take yir choice, red or black, spin the fucking wheel. I’m steyin here, n his arm tightens roond Maria, who looks aggressively at us.
Ah nod tae Matty. It seems important tae keep movin, and we elect tae leave them tae it.
So Matty n me’s in the street, exposed in that cruel light wi aw they straightpegs millin roond, cunts whae mean ye nowt but herm n hassle, n ah’m tremblin like a Cadbury’s Flake gaun intae an anorexic model’s mooth.
— Listen, Mark, sorry aboot that … sayin that aboot Davie, likes. It wis oot ay order.
— Forget it, ah goes.
— Cunt, it’s jist thit ah’m aw strung oot n that.
— Forget it, ah repeat, too edgy tae get intae any shite wi the cunt right now.
We shuftie intae the shoap tae procure snout for Matty. Mrs Rylance is behind the counter; magnesium shock ay hair eruptin fae her big ruddy face. She sees ma eyes gaun tae the yellay collection tin. — Animals cannae tell ye when thaire’s something wrong, son. Tae be honest, ah prefer them tae humans. Or some humans, she fixes us in a pitying gaze. — How’s ma Danny boy daein? Lovely laddie.
— Seems tae be better, but eh, ah state gruffly, badly wantin tae split, lookin at Matty slowly prospectin in his pockets for change, hating being a slave tae the petty and pointless addictions ay others. — He’s away oan this project now.
— Project … the auld bat parrots mindlessly as she gingerly fishes the coins fae Matty’s soiled paw like they were jewels fae a blocked toilet bowl.
A group ay young kids come in and her hawk eyes narrow on them from behind those lenses. Ah see Matty’s face freeze as ah pawkle the yellay collection tin oan the counter, swiftly stickin it intae ma holdall. Charlene taught us that yin; eywis huv a chorrin bag. Theft is as much aboot opportunism as planning. Executing the deed, ah’m lookin aw the time fae the steel-wool heid ay Mrs Rylance, as she chastises the bairns, tae Matty, his shifty eyes scannin roond.
We head ootside and as the door shuts behind us Mrs Rylance’s howls tear oot, — MA COLLEKSHUN! MA CATS’ COLLEKSHUN! WHAE’S TOOK MA CATS’ COLLEKSHUN?! But it’s directed tae the perr kids as we steal doon the road. We’re gaun right back up tae Swanney’s once we open this fucker. We catch our puff in Queen Charlotte Street, shakin the placky collection boax. Thaire’s a fair weight in it. It’s fill ay they new pound coins.
We suddenly realise that we’re right acroas the street fae Leith Polis Station, so we get the fuck ootay the road n take a 16 back up tae Tollcross. Johnny’s no in but thankfully Raymie’s hame. — Come and buy my toys, he sighs in a Bowie-Tony-Newley-era voice, before shutting one eye and looking at Matty. — Weren’t you sine die’d, Matty me boy? Perhaps youse might want tae conclude this business before the White Swan returns?
— Aye …
So we start fartin aroond wi a knife but we cannae get this cunt ay a tin open! Matty stabs it and the blade skites oaf that reinforced placky, back intae his other hand that’s hudin the boax secure, spurting rid blood onto the yellaw boax n the fag-burned wooden flair. — YA BASTARD! he screams, sucking up his ain blood like a vampire. Ah take ower, but it’s totally fuckin useless. We can see it’s fill ay ten-bob bits n pound coins but we cannae even prise any oot, wi these inverted teeth blockin us.
Fuckin hell’s bastardcunts!
Raymie gets a hammer oot and batters it, but the thing just isnae yielding. — I serenade, they decorate, he says, laying down the tool. His remarks, apropos of nothing, once humorous, now grate like fuck. Ah pick up the hammer and huv a go at the fucker but this evil unyielding resin, this synthetic, carcinogenic, non-biodegradable pishy fuckin polymer will barely fuckin scratch. Even a hacksaw widnae dae it; this needs a fuckin grinder oan it. Raymie’s getting impatient. — Gentlemen, you should leave this humble abode before Johnny returns. Business ain’t booming on the supply side, chickadees, and there will be fuck all happening in the Salisbury Crag department till you get this open.
Raymie’s a strange yin, but he’s daein us a favour. Johnny’s goat funny wi dough and mair volatile wi aw the speed and downers he takes. If he thinks he’s bein fucked ower he’ll hud oot.
Matty and me look tae each other and decide tae split n see if Sick Boy’s contact, Monny, has somehow emerged. We head back doon tae the port, but then elect tae bodyswerve the Fit ay the Walk n the Kirkgate for Keezbo’s at the Fort. He lives on the D floor ay Fort House, two doors along fae whaire ah grew up. — Ah’m gaun up tae see Keith, Matty, you stey doon here.
— What fir?
Ah open up the holdall, takin oot n shakin the collection tin close tae his lug. The side ay his face seems tae seize up like he’s huvin a stroke. — Cause ah’m gaunny droap this fuckin thing doon tae ye. You let it hit the deck n split open, n then fling the dosh intae the bag. Okay?
Matty’s blinkin like some cunt’s flung pepper in his eyes. — But … cunt, it might go aw ower the place n –
FUCK WIS THAT?
Wi baith hears this yabberin sound echo fae above. It rolls around in ma heid. Raw panic crackles ower the back ay ma neck. Ah’m fucked awright, it’s this cunty methadone … Ah tug Matty’s jaykit sleeve. — Keezbo n me’ll be right doon tae help ye, wi dinnae fuckin well huv time tae discuss it!
Matty sucks back some snotter n nods, lookin roond n shiverin. Ah droap the bag at his feet. Ah’m right in the stair n boundin up tae the D flair. Oan the balcony ah sees Keezbo’s mother n faither; Moira, wi her signature frizzy broon hair n horn-rimmed glesses, n Jimmy, still a chunky wee barrel ay a gadge in white shirt n black trews, standin ootside thair flat. As ah stride taewards thum, the shouts git louder; thaire comin fae inside Keezbo’s. Jimmy n Moira look tae each other in panic n they step back intae the flat n try n shut the door oan us. — What’s up? Is that Keith shoutin?