— Tony’s got us the interview, Nicksy says. — We gotta keep it together ta get yer actual job. We get in, we can start bringing gear back through. They got a different customs arrangements for staff, and he got lads there that’s all on the firm.
— Sounds pretty sweet, ah concede.
— But we gotta keep it together or the whole thing’ll go tits up.
— Easier said than done, ah nod tae the foil, n take another poisonous dab. — Yuk … coffee time.
— Yeah, it takes a lotta gumption ta keep it together now. Nicksy’s speeding, stabbing the air. — We’re all under the farking cosh. The thing is ta keep moving. Keep off their farking lists or you’re screwed. Everything is temporary. Don’t expect a job for life. A house for life. A bird for life.
— Sayin that tae Sick Boy the other day. Rippin off the state is a noble act in these circumstances. It’s fuckin obvious if ye have even half a brain cell. Ah focus on Nicksy. — Ah mean, we’re only gaun for this job this affie cause ay the chorrie prospects, right?
A loud, throaty laugh bubbles fae him. — I enjoy ripping orf the farking state as much as the next geezer, but you Jocks are something else; you see it as a sort of birthright.
Cheeky cunt, him; ah’ve gotten intae mair giro and housing benefit fiddles doon here than ah ever did up the road. It’s easier wi the different boroughs so close tae each other. But ah’m no complainin, ah’m grateful tae git hooked up wi Tony’s syndicate.
The phone goes and ah answer it, even though ah ken it’ll be some lassie for Sick Boy. The notepad is full ay girls’ names, aw looking for ‘Simon’. — Hello?
— Awright? That you, Rent Boy?
Fuck.
Begbie.
— Aye … Franco! Muh man, ah manage. He starts gabbin excitedly, tellin us that he’s moved in wi June.
— … so ah goes tae her, under the mistletoe at her ma’s, ye fuckin game? N she goes, ‘Ah certainly am,’ ken aw that daft soft wey wi a big fuckin smile oan hur coupon? Daft cunt only thought ah wanted a fuckin kiss under the fuckin mistletoe. Aye, that’ll be fuckin right.
Kiss me underneath the mistletoe, do, do, do … Franco n me at primary, singing that song wi aw the other wee laddies n lassies. The wee lassies lookin coy, the wee laddies gittin beamers. Wonder if he minds ay that? What’s your name, what’s your nation …
— So it shuts its fuckin eyes n puckers its lips aw that fuckin daft wey, n ah gits a hud ay its heid n ah’m sayin, ‘It’s a fuckin gam ah’m eftir, ya daft fucker,’ n ah’m loosenin ma belt, gaun, ‘C’moan, nae cunt’s in yit! Git thum roond it!’ … You still thaire?
— Aye …
We also sang that song aboot the Titanic sinking: ‘It was sad when the great ship went down … husbands and wives, little children lost their lives, it was sa-had when the gray-hate ship went down.’
A Scottish education … wonder if he minds ay that?
— Cause tae me that’s part ay the fuckin excitement n aw that, ken? Well, she’s no too fuckin chuffed, bit she kens the Hampden Roar, so ah’ve pushed it doon oan its knees, n this is in the front room ay her ma’s hoose, under the fuckin mistletoe. So wir gaun fir it, nice n steady, n ah’ve goat it by the hair now, twisted roond ma hand so as tae control the fuckin pace, n ah’m fuckin batterin it in thaire, gittin right fuckin intae it, ken that wey whin yir eyes ur aw screwed up n yir mooth’s fuckin puckered?
— Eh … right …
— Well, ah sortay sees this cunt through these half-shut eyes, n tipples it’s her fuckin auld man! The cunt’s only fuckin well went n walked in. She’s goat her back tae um, she cannae see um comin, eh. Turns oot he’d just been in the gairdin, in that fuckin shed probably huvin a fuckin wank, the mingin auld cunt, n he goes, ‘What the hell’s gaun oan here?’
— Aye?
— Fuckin right, ya cunt. So ah jist turns roond n sais tae the fucker, ‘What does it fuckin well look like, ye durty cunt? Git the fuck ootay here,’ n the cunt jist fucks right off, fuckin mumblin away a load ay shite as he goes. Could feel hur panickin, she’s gaggin n tryin tae pill away, but ah keeps a tight fuckin grip, she’s gaun naewhaire till ah shoots ma duff, n she fuckin well kens it n aw. N ah does that thing in the porno, ken whin ye pill oot n shoot aw ower the burd’s coupon? Well, she’s shitein it, eyes aw big, till she gits a fuckin wad shot right in hur pus! Ya cunt, ye’d huv thoat thaire wis two fuckin barrels in this pipe intead ay jist yin. Face like a painter’s radio, ya cunt!
— What did she say aboot her faither?
— Ah’m gittin tae that, ya fuckin impatient fuckin rid-heided cunt, Franco snaps, making me super-glad ay that sweet four hundred miles. — So she’s wipin the spunk offay her face, gaun aw fuckin panicky, ‘Whae wis that, wis that ma dad?’
‘Fuckin durty pervert sneakin up oan cunts like that,’ ah goes.
So she goes aw that fuckin ice-cauld, frigid, huffy wey, but fuck her, ye need a wee bit ay fuckin romance at Christmas. So she goes ootside n ah hears thum shoutin at each other n she comes back in, sayin she’s been kicked oot the fuckin hoose. So ah says, ‘Right, wir gaun roond tae muh ma’s.’ ‘Thanks, Frank …’ she goes n starts packin, aw fuckin grateful now, ken? Well, ah wisnae gaunny leave hur thaire wi that fuckin pervy auld cunt, wis ah?
— Right …
— So she’s goat some stuff thegither, n this big fuckin poker-ersed donkey-faced faither cunt comes back through n starts oan at her again. ‘You’re a disgrace,’ he goes, fuckin standin thaire shakin his daft heid like a fuckin mongol. ‘You’re the fuckin disgrace, mate,’ ah telt the cunt, ‘sneakin up oan cunts like a filthy auld pervert!’ ‘What …?’ he goes, looks at us, then turns tae hur, n sais, ‘You two deserve each other. You’re out of control, June Chisholm, what a little slut you’ve become —’ ‘But, Dad —’ she’s fuckin whingin. ‘Just go,’ the cunt sais, ‘the baith ay yis, just get oot ay ma hoose!’ So ah just says tae hur, ‘C’moan,’ n gits her ootside. Then ah goes back in n squares up tae this cunt. ‘If she’s a fuckin slut then that’s aw doon tae you: you fuckin well brought the cunt up,’ ah tells um. ‘N dinnae shout the fuckin odds at me, cunty baws, or yi’ll git yir fuckin mooth burst, right? Ye might be her fuckin faither, bit yir no ma fuckin faither!’ So the cunt fuckin well shites it! Dirty, wide auld cunt. ‘Aye, ye’d better fuckin well no say nowt either,’ ah goes. Cheeky cunt him but, eh?
— Too right, should’ve burst the cheeky fucker’s mooth, ah supportively suggest, just tae encourage the radge tae resort tae mayhem now thit ah’m miles away n dinnae huv tae deal wi the consequences!
London, I love you!
— That’s exactly whit ah fuckin well telt Tommy, he says in tight, proud affirmation. — But ah jist fuckin leaves it, eh, cause ah’m no wantin tae git involved in thair daft fuckin faimlay business, but that cunt better watch hissel. So anywey, it’s moanin n greetin, so ah gits it hame, then it suddenly fuckin well cheers up n starts gaun oan aboot us gittin a place thegither. Ah thoat, she’s no fuckin kippin wi me, no in a single bed, she kin stey oan the fuckin couch. Ah goat it tae come through fir a fuckin ride then sent it right back oantae the settee eftir ah’d cowped it. Fuck that, ya cunt, ah need ma fuckin beauty sleep! Hud the horn later oan, so ah wakes hur up n brings it back through fir another fuckin session. But in the mornin it’s aw fuckin faces; her, muh ma n oor Elspeth, lookin at ye like fuckin sugary porridge.