— You … well, if you … if you fuckin bring thaim intae it, Keezbo stammers, — ah’ll tell the RSPCA aboot you keeping birds in yir tits! That’s no right in the heid!
— Thir no in ma tits! Ah’ve nae tits! And now ah’ve nae buckin son, bi Christ!
As they rage on, ah shakes the tin, as Matty gies a daft wee salute. Ah drops it n watches it fall, hittin the deck wi an explosive crack as it splatters open n the coins strew in a glittering shower across the forecourt. Fuck, ah didnae think they’d scatter like that! Matty’s thaire, but a crowd ay young kids are appearin fae fuckin naewhaire n they’re rummagin wi Matty for oor fuckin poppy! — FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF, YA WEE CUNTS … DINNAE LIT THUM … FUCK!
Keezbo n me are right oot through the kitchen, past his ma, dad, Pauline n fusty-fud Curran, oot the front door, along the balcony, n wir bombin doon the stairs as fast as we can.
— DINNAE LIT CHEEKY BOY OOT! Moira shouts.
We gits oot n doon the stairs n thaire’s Matty pathetically shoutin at these thievin wee bastards, — Gie’s it back …
We’re pickin up the fuckin coins n the wee cunts are leggin it, but then Mrs Rylance comes roond the corner and sees the yellay shards ay the shattered collection box n she’s pointin n screamin, — IT’S MA MONEY … IT’S THE CATS’ MONEY!
Mrs Curran’s gittin in oan the act, screamin doon fae the balcony, — THIEVES! THIEVES! THE RENTONS N THE CONNELLS. … DURTY THIEVIN GYPSY BASTARDS! THEY GIT EVERYTHING THIT ISNAE MEANT FIR THUM!
We’re scramblin fir the dosh but Jesus fuck, thaire’s a cop car pullin up, n two polis git oot, so we’re offski, oor poakits laden wi change. We kin hear them radioing fir help, and we head doon Madeira Street, nashin ower Ferry Road, doon Largo Place, n the steps taewards the river, coins swingin n jinglin. One copper’s goat back intae the motor, but one stocky cunt’s fuckin well flyin eftir us as we hit the Water ay Leith walkway. But fuck him, ah even looks back, like he’s gaunny catch us doon here, his wee pish-hole-in-the-snaw eyes set in a white, bulbous face, growin riddir by the second, as he stores air in his cheeks, the fat hamster-faced cunt so comical ah kin feel ma sides spazzin up jist thinkin aboot it. They send this overfed Gumley-raised suburban jackass oot tae chase three Leith schemies? Boys whae wir specifically fuckin bred tae run fae the polis? Labdicks dinnae huv a fuckin scooby!
Sure enough, when ah look back again, he’s stoaped, gaspin, bent ower hudin his knees, as we pass under the Junction Street Bridge. Then he stands like an incompetent fitba player, blawin hard, shaking his fat noggin in disbelief, as if a ref will blaw the whistle and we’ll suddenly stop n take a disgruntled walk intae a meatwagon as a rid caird gits raised skywards. No dice, fat boy! This tree-lined riverbank loves us, this rash ay warehouses, cobbled streets and tenemented dwellings adores its sons and hates auld flatfoot who’s brought nowt but grief doon here since the year dot. Even Keezbo’s takin the pish oot ay him, breathin quite smoothly, though his face is crimson n the sweat’s whippin offay him. Matty’s away ahead, then lookin back, stoapin, n littin us faw intae line. — Cunt, he says breathlessly, — wee cunts were right in thaire … it wis they wee Maxwells fae Thomas Fraser’s … shouldnae even be at the Fort …
Ah’m thinkin ah could nip up the steps at West Bowling Green Street n duck intae the parental home, but ye never shite oan yir ain doorstep, so we keep tearin doon taewards the Forth, passin the ducks swimmin by the derelict factories and the new apartments. We see the Bannanay flats towerin behind the new constructions across the water, as we slow doon tae catch our wind n try tae look casual. Keezbo’s breathin hard, hands oan his hips, Matty’s heid’s swivellin roond like an owl’s. Ah realise we’ve left the Sealink bag, but that’s fuck all.
There’s a slip road that cuts oantae a street leadin tae the courtyard ay this new yuppie scheme n we could cut through it, but the homesteaders are unlikely tae be shy at pickin up the blower if they see natives hingin aboot their property. So we press oan, at a brisk march. Oan the bridge at Sandport Place, we dinnae even see them tae oor right, lurkin oan the slip road ay Coalhill, waiting for us, no in a meatwagon, but in two squad motors.
FUCK …
Thaire’s nae runnin left in any ay us now. We run oan junk and we’ve burned the dregs ay that ootay oor systems.
They handcuff me n Matty thegither, and Keezbo on his ain, wi his hands in front, n wir taken tae a holdin cell up the High Street. Funny, but although ah’m bein plunged intae what promises tae be the worst sickness ah’ve ever known, ah’m relieved in a wey, just cause it’s aw ower. Now ah’m anticipatin the next big challenge: gettin detoxed. Ah’m thinkin, they’ll help us, surely tae fuck, they’ll no leave us like this, cause ah’m rattlin n that methadone is fuck all use.
Keezbo’s really fucked. He’s nearly greetin, as he keeps gaun up tae the Judas Hole n bangin oan the door. — Ah goat oaf the balcony, he moans, — now ah’m stuck in here!
Dae yir fuckin nut in, that fat cunt.
Matty’s sittin oan a bench, heid focused oan the flair in front ay him. Two polis come in wi cups ay tea, n he looks up n takes the words oot ma mooth: — We really need the hoaspital, mate, he says tae one copper. — We’re aw really seek, like.
The polisman keeps his face set in a neutral expression. He’s a fairly lardy cunt but with keen eyes, a porker who’s just demolished his trough’s contents but eagerly awaits its new load ay swill. — I wis thinking that ah might check youse intae the North British Hotel for a couple ay weeks. Till yis ur feelin a wee bit better like. Or maybe youse might prefer the Caledonian?
Like the daft cunt he is, Matty turns tae me n Keezbo n goes, — Dunno, what dae youse think?
— Ah think you need tae learn tae spot a wind-up, Matty, ah goes.
— Aw … right …
The cops are laughin thair heids oaf at his miserable torn-up coupon. Keezbo’s sittin doon oan the bench and is turned away intae the waw, n while ah feel like ah’m betrayin Matty, ah cannae help, even through ma pain, joinin in the joke.
Junk Dilemmas No. 3
THE COPPER STARES at us in utter contempt. Nae wonder; aw he sees in front ay um is this mingin cunt, twitchin n spazzin oan this hard seat in the interview room. — Ah’m oan the programme, ah tell um. — Check if ye like. Ah’m aw seek cause they nivir gied us enough methadone. They said they hud tae fine-tune ma dosage. Check wi the lassie at the clinic if ye dinnae believe us.
— Boo-fucking-hoo, he sais, a mean expression oan his face. — Why am I not tearing up on your behalf, my sweet, sweet friend?
This cunt has cold black eyes set in a white face. If he didnae huv a dark pudding-basin haircut and his neb wis bigger, he’d be like one ay Moira and Jimmy’s budgies. The other polisman, a louche, slightly effeminate-looking blond boy, is playing the benign role. — Just tell us who gives you that stuff, Mark. Come on, pal, give us some names. You’re a good lad, far too sensible tae get mixed up in aw this nonsense. He shakes his heid and then looks up at me, lip curled doon thoughtfully. — Aberdeen University, no less.
— But if ye check yi’ll find that ah’m oan the programme … at the clinic likes.
— Bet these student birds bang like fuck! In they halls ay residence. It’ll be shaggin aw the time in thaire, eh, pal? the Pudding-Basin-Heided Cunt goes.
— Just one name, Mark. C’mon, pal, begs Captain Sensible.