Yet I find myself oddly resenting them, this duo who look so alone, so scared. It’s pathetic and wrong tae feel this way, but tae me the cunts are strangers, intruding on our wee scene.
Day 34
Some fucker’s always upset some cunt the previous day, so breakfast is generally where the nervous reparations are made. The porridge is good this morning, thick rather than watery or lumpy.
Molly getting humped regularly by Sick Boy has upset Seeker, who — as alpha male — obviously feels that he should have first dibs on any ganting-on-it minge. Too bad for him that, in human society, dominance is always a wee bit more complex than in the animal world. The hardest cunt might no always be the biggest fanny merchant; in fact, they very rarely are. Sometimes they might be behind the handsome gadgie or the gabby, cocky fucker, or even the sportsman, comedian or intellectual in the riding queue. No wonder they can get so uptight.
Seeker and I are still doing the weights. It’s been this ritual, much more so than the group or individual sessions with Tom, that’s kept me going through this nasty and debilitating bout of depression. The other day, when I tried tae tell him I wisnae up tae it, the cunt just wisnae hearing us. ‘C’moan. Yir daein it.’ I know enough about psychopaths through Begbie to sense when they have their non-negotiating heids on, so I got up and struggled through my sets. And yes, by forcing myself intae it, feeling the burn, getting the blood circulating, my mood started to swing north.
So I’ve been saved by the biggest drug dealer in the city!
Him standing over me, mother hen watchful behind those cold, dark lenses, ready tae catch the weights in his huge hands when I work tae the point ay failure. Ironically, through this activity, thicker veins are coming up oan my airms, forcing themselves tae the surface ay ma skin. I wonder if this is the real motivation?
I found a skipping-rope in a drawer the other week, and I started doing boxer’s three minutes skipping, one minute rest, working up to six rounds after the weights, and I’m still at my push-ups and squat thrusts. I reciprocate and get Seeker intae the rope, despite his initial cynicism. It looks strange, him skipping on the back patio, stripped to the waist, hair tied back, mirror-lens shades still on.
Started writing mair stuff in the journal. Trying tae think ay how I got intae this mess. All that came out was being with my auld man in Orgreave.
Day 35
Feeling fucking brilliant again! That rope rules. Can’t shut the fuck up in the one-on-one session with Tom. Although I ken I’ll probably feel different tomorrow, I’ve decided right now that he’s an excellent gadge. He’s actually read Tender Is the Night, and it’s great tae have somebody here who you can talk tae about books, films and politics. A long discussion on Scorsese and De Niro, him insisting that their best collaboration was Taxi Driver, me holding out for Raging Bull. ‘Taxi Driver was Schrader’s film,’ I insist, ‘he was the genius behind it.’
I sit outside in the garden after dinner, when everybody else goes straight tae the telly. The evening shadows the overhanging trees, as sparrows flutter down to feed off our discarded crumbs. I can hardly hear the rambling, squabbling junky voices above the booming tones of the television newsreader.
Journal Entry: Stabbing Eric ‘Eck’ Wilson at school
It was second year at school, in the Tecky Drawing class, and the teacher was out somewhere. Two blows to the back of my head, with accompanying slack-jawed laughter. Not the first time this had happened, and I knew instantly who the perpetrator was. I turned round, instinctively pulling out the flick knife.
SLAM! One in the hand of Eck Wilson. Horror! His coupon was a sight to behold. SLAM! The chest. SLAM! The gut. The nastiest, most contrived strike, really wanting tae hurt the paralysed Eck wi that yin.
They weren’t bad wounds, but they drew blood and Eck went into shock. As did I. Among those who witnessed this was Fort joyrider Gary McVie (RIP) whae took the blade offay us. ‘Gie’s that, Mark,’ he said, pocketing it. He shouted at everybody tae sit doon and shut the fuck up, and they did, bar a couple ay sooky cunts whae clucked away as the teacher, Mr Bruce, came back. I worried that Bruce would see the blood, then the polis would come, and I’d be taken off to the chokey. But the bell went and Eck walked out, slightly doubled over. He never grassed, and after rabidly threatening to kill me outside, he left and went somewhere tae get his wounds treated.
I saw him a couple ay days later in Geography. I was chivless and terrified, a knot of fear in my guts. I envisioned a physical fight and I was confident that Eck would kick my cunt in. But he didn’t: he sat beside me and started tae sook up, offering me sweeties — sherbet lemons, as I recall — saying ‘we’ve always been mates …’ which was, of course, nonsense.
I sat in silence, enjoying and drawing power from the desperate eager-to-please fear in his eyes, and the taste of the sweetie, wedged against the roof ay my mooth, as it slowly dissolved in a burst ay sherbet.
Day 36
Sick Boy leaves, packing up his belongings, including the infamous tattered Collins dictionary. A tool for enlightenment in most hands, but deadlier than a loaded revolver in his. His sister Carlotta picks him up in her Datsun. She looks so sexy … I’ll have forty wanks aboot her the night! Too fuckin right! He was a bit perturbed at my heavy flirting. At one stage my palms are running up and down her bare arms, and I’m catching the scent of her black glossy hair. Trying tae get as much sense data as possible for later. She was giggling, and Sick Boy broke off a clinch with a heartbroken Molly tae gie us a half-playful, half-vicious kick on the shin.
‘Look after my man here,’ I tell Carlotta, locking him in a matey embrace, enjoying his uncomfortable, helpless wriggling in my now stronger arms.
I only became pals with the cunt in the first place, soas I could go roond for him and ogle his sisters, and his ma, before she got fat. You only got in the hoose if his hostile prick ay a faither was oot. If he came tae the door, he’d go, ‘So you’re the laddie fae the Fort then, eh?’ aw snobby, like the Bannanay flats were fuckin Barnton or something! He’d make ye wait oot ootside till Sick Boy wis ready, where ye’d invariably git hassled by local radges whae kent ye wir fae the other side ay Junction Street.
‘Behave,’ Sick Boy says, eyes pilled in narray focus, ‘and I’ll see ye in a few weeks.’
‘I’ll be oot next week,’ I remind him.
‘I’m gaun tae Italy for a spelclass="underline" but for real this time. Dae me good to get out ay this savage Pictish swamp,’ he says, looking round disdainfully over the trees tae the smoky-grey sky, before turning tae an anxious Molly.
‘Phone me as soon as ye git back!’ She wraps her thin arms around him.
I can see his face over her shoulder. He winks at me and widens his eyes before whispering in her ear, ‘You just try stopping us, babes. You just try stopping us.’ Then he breks oaf abruptly and heads tae the car.
We watch them leave. Molly runs inside. Tom puts a light hand oan ma shoulder. ‘You’ve lost Danny, Johnny and now Simon. But cheer up, you’ll be finished next.’
Back in the recky room Molly looks devastated, but Keezbo’s consoling her, which keeps the fat Jambo cunt oot ma road.