Did you not realise, Tobacco Boy, the detrimental power of your evil smoke, disguise it though you might, on the enfeebled lungs of your younger sibling?
Ah snatch the NME ah left oan the sideboard the other day. Mark E’s ironic grin reminds us ay the Fall tape in ma room that ah’d made up for Hazel, who’s sure tae be at the funeral. Ah decide ah’ll bring it along, and ah’m aboot tae decamp tae that fusty auld den ay music and masturbation, when the phone explodes in a shrill ring, shattering every cunt’s pianny-wire nerves. It’s relentless, but naebody’s movin.
Mein bruder Wilhelm, master ay the accusatory glare: — Is some cunt gaunny answer that fuckin phone?!
I sense your dilemma, Tobacco Boy. Answering the phone would mean having to speak into the mouthpiece, thus depriving yourself of a few precious seconds’ inhalation of nicotine, which you so desperately crave!
— I’m sure it’ll happen, ah declare, grinning at Sharon, — Ah mean, some day, likes, n ah’m rewarded wi the faintest ay smiles back.
— Dinnae start gittin fuckin wide, Billy threatens, — no the day!
This bam is big-time nippy, and ah’m guessing he’s recollecting the time he caught me chugging Wee Davie off. A tough sell explainin tae them aw that it wis solely fir the poor wee cunt’s ain benefit; ah certainly derived zero pleasure fae said act. You can operate fae the purest ay motives but some fuckers will eywis misconstrue it tae fit their ain twisted agenda. But ah ken the mood Bilbo’s in, and tae be honest, ah’m a wee bit scaredy-cat. — It’ll no be for me, ah protest.
We hear the phone being snatched up, my ma saying a few words, then joining us tae augment the dense smoke further wi her B&H. We could aw be cramped in this poky room and still play a passable game ay hide-n-seek. — Mark, it’s fir you.
Billy’s eyes narrow: annoyed and vindicated at the same time. The latter wins and, eftir hudin the stare for a second, we baith start tae laugh: loud, tension-releasing sniggers. Don’t like that lairy cunt, never have; but tae ma extreme discomfit ah’m sometimes compelled tae remember that ah sort ay love him. However, this is Chez Renton; as soon as one cunt gets onside, so another is alienated. — What’s fuckin funny? Ma screams. — Ah dinnae find anything funny!
That lingo will see you in hell, Mater. Another set ay Hail Marys chalked up tae some nonce in a frock later!
Ah upturn ma palms in surrender mode. — Ah’ll git the phone, and ah head through tae the perennially draughty hall where we keep the blower, fixed tae the waw. — Hello?
— Mark, is that yur?
— Aye. Fi?
— How are yur, pet?
— No bad; aw the better for hearing your voice, but.
— Listen, Mark, I’m at the Waverley. Ah wannar come to your brother’s funeral with yur.
First emotion: elation. Second: unease at the plethora of potential social embarrassments that loom. Hazel and Mark E’s tape. Ah well. — Great, eh … thanks, that’s brilliant, ah go, fiddling aroond in the drawer in the feeble wooden stand under the phone. There’s an empty spec case my ma uses for her auld reading glasses. That’ll dae for they works that Sick Boy gied us. Ah stick it in ma jaykit poakit.
— Ah’m getting a taxi now, pet. Wor shall ah meet yur?
— Ask the driver tae take ye tae a pub on Leith Walk called Tommy Younger’s.
— Okay. See yur in ten minutes.
My mother’s evidently been on surveillance, emerging intae the hallway in gunfighter stance. Her thin frame shakes, the cigarette twitching in her hand. — Yir no meeting anybody in nae pub! The car’s ordered! We’re leaving fae here! We go as a faimlay!
— Ah’m meeting my, ehm, muh girlfriend, fae the university.
— Girlfriend? she gasps, as Dad steps oot behind her. — Ye never says nowt tae us aboot nae girlfriend, she accuses, before her big eyes narrow tae slits. — Bit ye widnae, wid ye, Mark, cause it’s aw bloody secrets wi you!
— Cathy … my dad soothes, his hand on her shoodir.
Her heid lashes roond violently, eyes devouring him. — Well, it is, Davie! Mind that wee lassie we heard greetin in the stair? He wisnae gonnae let her intae the hoose!
That wis a cringer … fuckin needy minger followin us hame eftir ah’d cowped her up the goods yerd … them bringin her in n makin a fuss ay her, insistin ah sat up n drank fuckin coffee wi her in the kitchen when ah wanted tae die die die … or thaime tae aw die die die die, ya huns …
As ah feel my neck n ears flarin rid in recall, Billy’s oot now, suddenly interested. — Whae wis this?
— Never you mind, my dad sais, and ah remain silent as a hatchet-wound grin splits Billy’s coupon.
— Bring her here, Ma appeals, flicking some falling ash fae the sleeve ay her jaundice-yellay cardigan, — we’ll huv room in the cars.
— Naw, eh, ah’ll just see yis aw doon there. It might be a bit too heavy fir her being in the funeral party, when she doesnae ken anybody, likes, ah explain, as Sharon appears alongside Billy, cocking a waxed eyebrow.
— Ye mean too heavy fir you! my ma accuses. — He’s still embarrassed by us, by his ain faimly! She turns tae the others in appeal. — Well, he’s away, now, he cannae embarrass ye any mair … that wee sowel that never hurt a fly … that wee angel … and she sparks up again.
— Cathy … my auld man says, still in a conciliatory mode, — lit um go.
— Naw, she says, eyes again shockingly fish-protuberant. — How’s he no gaunny bring the lassie back here? This lassie naebody even kens aboot! He’s never even mentioned her! It’s aw big bloody secrets, as usual! He’s ashamed! she accuses. — Ashamed ay his ain faimlay!
Billy Boy dragons oot some smoke and gies us a feculent glower. — Feelin’s fuckin mutual, ah’ll tell ye that for nowt.
Your powers of smoke inhalation are impressive, Tobacco Boy. Far more so than your cryptic remarks.
Ma looks ceilingward. — Holy Father … what huv ah done …?
— Dinnae start now, no the day, Dad plea-threatens. — C’moan, everybody. Simmer doon. Show some respect for the wee man. Mark, go and meet this lassie, this … he stalls on the word like it’s a moothfae ay exotic food he’s no quite sure aboot, — … girlfriend, but dinnae you be late for the cemetery. And you’ll be in that front pew wi her, alongside me, yir mother, yir brother and Sharon. Got that?
Aw that fuckin fuss n drama ower whaire some cunt sits …
Ah gie a slight nod, instantly aware this action will be too minimalist for him.
— Ah sais got that?
Suspicion confirmed. — Aye, nae worries, ah tell um, skippin doon the hallway, oot ay the archaic, reeking fug intae the respite ay stair n street, and oantae Junction Strasse. A peckish Joe Baxi rumbles doon the road n ah flag him, and we tear up the Walk tae TY’s.
Inside the big cavern of a pub, ah git a nod fae Willie Farrell and Kenny Thomson, a couple ay aulder boys ah vaguely ken. It’s scary, the wey they epitomise Leith gadges; you bar-hop till ye eventually come tae rest in one dive and then just grow auld there. You’ll ken where tae find them in ten, twenty years’ time. Thankfully, Fiona’s only a couple ay minutes eftir us, her appearance liftin me tae the heavens. — Mark … so good ta see yur, honey, she says, then her tongue caresses those top pearly white teeth. She’s fucking enchanting.