— What d’ye mean, likesay?
— You ken them, Spud. The Perfect People. Never takin drugs, unless it’s hash or alcohol, which doesn’t count. Always saying the right things. Never stepping out of line. He’s just dying tae be one ay them.
— He’s only tryin tae help the lassie, but, Si.
— And that fucking smarmy little poof Hamish and his poxy van … who the fuck does he –
Well, thaire’s nae reasonin wi the cat whin he’s like this, so ah’m relieved when we hear Begbie’s voice blastin up the stairwelclass="underline" — SICK BOY! GET YIR FUCKIN ERSE DOON HERE! YOU N AW, SPUD!
— Fuck, Sick Boy snaps, but he’s headin doon anyway, n ah’m right behind um.
So we’re loadin up, me daein wee bits, n eftir a while Rents comes doon n helps. Ah’ve fair cleaned up wi the auld tomfoolery, but it’s makin a jangle in ma poakits, so ah sneak back up tae the bog n relieve Tommy, whae’s been watchin the lassie. She’s sittin oan the lavvy seat, gittin her breath. — Eh, yir muscle’s needed, Tam, ah point at ma airm.
— Right … Keep an eye oan her, Tommy goes. — When she’s strong enough tae stand up, get her back intae the bedroom so she kin lie doon.
The lassie looks at us, n she’s sobbin softly, pillin this gown somebody’s brought for her roond herself, sippin a gless ay water. Thaire’s something aboot her face, round, kind, n wi big, dark eyes; she’ll no grass us up. Ye kin pure tell. Wi gits chattin n she tells us that she felt depressed bein here, away fae her family.
Eftir a bit ah helps her stand wi ma good airm, n takes her back tae her room n tells her tae lie doon, then ah goes n lits the boys ken the score. We decide that Tam’s gaunny leave separate wi her n me, n git us a cab up the hoaspital. The story’ll be she’ll be thaire when the doss goat turned ower, n it’ll pure be oan the hozzy records. When she comes back, she’ll sortay discover the burglary n call the polis. The lassie’s totally game for this: ye kin tell thaire’s no much love loast wi the employers.
— She sais she’ll no grass us up, but whae kens what the sow’s gaunny be fuckin sayin tae other people up thaire, in fuckin Spanish? Franco goes.
— She’s just properly seen me n Tommy n Spud, we’re really the only yins at risk, Rents says. — We just fuckin well saved her life, so ah’m happy tae take a punt thit she’ll keep stumpf.
— Awight, but it’s your fuckin sentence, Begbie snorts but thankfully seems tae agree, n they git back tae loadin up the vans.
Eftir a bit, me, Tam n this Carmelita lassie, wearin jeans, trainers, a jumper n a big black coat, step oot intae the evening. It’s dark under the orange street lamps n it’s goat tons caulder. We’re walkin slowly up tae the main road, whaire Tam flags doon a cab.
— Hurt ma airm … eh, arm, ah explains tae the Carmelita burd.
— Ye awright? Tommy asks her.
Carmelita nods aw sortay ashamed, letting her hair faw ower her face, as Tommy opens the cab door. Me n her gits in. — You two be okay? Tam asks.
— Aye, sound, Tommy.
So it’s me n Carmelita sittin up in the A&E. It’s fill ay the usual bams, maistly catnipped-up felines whae’ve hit the food bowl at the same time, hud a wee spat n clawed each other crazy. — Ye must miss bein hame, in Spain likesay, ah sais tae her. — Be barry in Spain.
— Yes. This winter was so cold, much colder than Seville.
The lassie’s quite sound; aye, it’s sad tae think ay a young burd tryin tae dae that tae herself. It just goes tae show that naebody really kens what’s gaun oan in somebody else’s heid. It’s pure answers oan a postcaird time, ken? — Dae ye no like workin here?
She’s lookin straight ahead, then she turns tae us. — My mother is ill back home, my boyfriend … he is killed in a motorcycle accident. The family here do not treat me in a good way. I got so drunk and I feel so very, very down … thankfully you and your friends were sent by God to find me.
— Eh, aye, right, ah goes. It wis mair like wi wir sent by Begbie oan the chorrie, or, in the case ay Rents n Sick Boy, sent by skag tae find her. Ah suppose the gaffer in the sky works in mysterious weys but, n we could’ve likesay pure been His agents. Him as that Bernard Lee gadge n us as Bond n Carmelita as the exotic foreign spy that pure gits saved. Sent by skag tae save her. The way this airm’s nippin, ah widnae mind a wee shot ay the Salisbury right now, ken?
Whoa, man, a wide-eyed honey ay a nurse wi blonde hair pinned back n a sexy fringe comes ower tae us. There’s a kitten ah widnae mind sharing a basket wi. — Carmelita Montez?
Carmelita looks at us wi big tearful eyes, n goes tae shake hands. Ah awkwardly take her hand in ma good yin. — Thank you, Dahnee … she sobs, as the ultra-fit nurse leads her away tae a treatment room.
Nice lassie, n she isnae gaunny grass us up, ah jist ken that. Ah ken it’s wrong tae hud oot oan the boys wi the coos and bulls, but they’ve plenty other loot tae divvy, ken? Thing is, ah’m jist wantin sorted oot up here cause ah’m feelin bad, bad, bad, man. Ken? Ye sortay wonder if the cats’ll gie ye morphine fir a burst airm. If no, ah’m pure hightailin it doon tae Johnny Swan’s, wi aw these rings, neckies n bracelets in ma poakit.
The Hoochie Connection
ALEXANDER IS BARRY in bed. Makes love like he wants you tae enjoy it, no like he’s just there tae dae his business, like some laddies I could mention. It freaks us but, when he starts telling me that I’m beautiful, n that he wants tae see more ay me. He’s my boss, we see each other every day, I tell him. Not what I mean, he goes.
Beautiful. What Dad often said: when I first saw your mother at the Alhambra, not the pub, the dance hall, he’d always add, I’d never seen anything so beautiful.
I ken I’m no bad and I can make masel look dead smart, but when a guy tells you that you’re beautiful, what’s aw that aboot? Freaks ye oot, n that’s pittin it mildly.
I want to explain tae him that it’s a nice diversion, but that’s all it is. Trouble is, he is my boss. I swear tae God, I excel in making things difficult for masel. He steyed round at mine the other weekend. It wisnae a good idea. He’d left this bag in the bathroom, wi his shaving gear in it; a razor, stick and brush. I keep meaning tae bring it in for him, but somehow I cannae. Dunno why. Maybe cause it would be tacky taking it intae the office. It’s no cause ay him, anyway! Aye, he’s just a diversion.
Anyway, after this evening’s session, I head up the Hoochie to meet Hamish. He’s mad intae poetry and he likes ma stuff. I ken it sounds wanky, but we meet up, drink coffee, get a bit stoned and read each other’s shit. Hamish and I never fuck; I don’t know if he’s queer, shy with lassies or just sees me as a mate, cause he’s a strange guy, hard tae read, but I like him. ‘I hate it when friends fight and I hate it when friends fuck,’ he once said, though it was like a sort ay rehearsed speech. I used tae ask him if he was gay, but he maintained he wisnae interested in sex wi other men. He’s no really ma type but I’d probably bonk him; he has a certain charisma, and that goes a long way. A couple ay years back, him and me went tae Reading for the festival, then oantae Paris for a few days. It was weird tae sleep in a bed wi a guy withoot shagging him, even though I once woke up with his hand on my tit.
That makes me think of my mother, sitting at home, titless, both breasts removed by the surgeon’s scalpel. Androgynous and skeletal; I swear tae God she looks like Bowie on the cover ay David Live. I should be spending time wi her but I can hardly look at her. Now I know that I’ll do anything: cock, drugs, poems, films, or just work, tae avoid thinking about her.