Glue by Irvine Welsh
Kathryn considered this. — What . . . yeah . . . I got money . . .
— Sound . . . fuck . . . Juice Terry looked around and in a state of annoyance saw Johnny Catarrh and Rab Birrell entering the pub. He was wondering what they were doing in this quarter when he noted the fluorescent greeny-yellow Hibs away top Rab was wearing. There was a midweek game up at Easter Road and Catarrh and Birrell must have come into some dosh if they’d been to that and were now making a night of it down in the historic old port. Terry was always suitably intrigued when any of his associates seemed to be in the poppy.
Rab Birrell and Johnny Catarrh were equally surprised to see Juice Terry drinking outside the more familiar environs of The Gauntlet, Silver Wing, Dodger, Busy Bee, Wheatsheaf and other west-side boozers he frequented. They moved towards Terry’s table but then stalled noting his female company. Catarrh felt instantly resentful. A fat cunt like Juice Terry was always surrounded by women. Slappers, granted, but a ride was a ride and not to be sneezed at. This one was haggard and skinny, but better turned out than most of Terry’s usual conquests. Mind you, that Louise bird Terry had been shagging was as tidy as fuck, but she reeked of gangster connections. A few dubious cunts had given her the message, Larry Wylie being one of them. You never moved in on fanny that took in that sort of cock unless you were sure it no longer had claims on a berth there. It was a pisser though, a Greek god like him currently unable to get his hole for love nor money.
— Awright, John boy, Juice Terry said as Catarrh sat down. Catarrh hated it when Terry referred to him in that way as he was only a couple of years younger than the fat, slovenly cunt. It was almost as bad as being called Johnny Catarrh.
Johnny’s real name was John Watson, a common enough one in Scotland. His older brother Davie was a blues and rock ’n’ roll fan and started calling him Johnny Guitar after Johnny ‘Guitar’ Watson. Unfortunately for Johnny, he was cursed with bad sinus and catarrh problems, and had spent many years unaware that his nickname had been corrupted.
Rab Birrell had stopped off at the fag machine to purchase some Embassy Regal before joining them. Terry made the introductions. Catarrh had heard of Kathryn alright. — Muh Ma’s your number-one fan. She’s goat tons ay your records. She laps you up. She’s gaun tae the concert the morn. Ah read aboot ye in the Evening News. Sais ye hud split up wi that boy fae Love Syndicate.
— That’s correct, retorted Kathryn steelily, thinking of that Copenhagen hotel room, — but that was a while back.
— Ancient history, but, eh, Juice Terry confirmed. Catarrh sucked some mucus down the back of his throat. He wished that he’d remembered to get his garlic pills. They were the only remedy.
— Ah could settle fir your life right enough, Rab Birrell considered, declining as Juice Terry crashed the ash. Johnny didn’t want one either. They were Silk Cut and Catarrh was a purist when it came to cigarettes. — Ah’m a Regal eagle, he smiled, pulling out an Embie.
— Aye, Rab continued addressing Kathryn, — the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle but, ah could go for that. Tons ay birds . . . mind you, you dinnae huv tae worry aboot that, no wi you bein a bird, eh no, ah mean unless yir like, em . . . ken what ah mean but eh . . .
Juice Terry had been mildly pissed off about his friends’ intrusion into his and Kathryn’s little scene, now Birrell’s rambling was starting to really irritate him. — So what are ye fuckin well tryin tae say, Rab?
Rab climbed down, realising that he was a bit drunk and pretty stoned from all the joints he’d smoked at Easter Road, and that Juice Terry could be a nippy cunt who was known to be able to punch his considerable weight. How the fuck did that fat tea-leaf pill a bird like that? Thirty-six years auld and still livin at hame wi ehs Ma. — Jist makin the point, Terry, he said defensively, — the point bein that guys in bands can have thir pick ay birds. If thir famous likesay. But any bird can huv thir pick ay guys . . . is that no right, Johnny? He turned to Catarrh in appeal.
Catarrh was suitably flattered. It meant that Rab was acknowledging his background of playing in bands or his expertise with women, neither of which he’d seen fit to refer to before. He was flummoxed by this welcome, if obscure, flattery. — Eh, aye . . . jist aboot. No an auld hound couldnae, but any young bird likes.
They considered this point for a while and then looked at Kathryn in appeal. Their accents were almost impenetrable to her, but being drunk was helping. — I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand.
Juice Terry slowly explained the proposition to her.
— I guess so, she replied warily.
— Nowt tae guess, Catarrh laughed, — thet’s the wey it goes. Always hus been, always will be. Endy story.
Kathryn shrugged. Juice Terry drummed his empty glass on the table. — Set ’em up then Kath, eh hen. There’s the bar, he pointed a few feet away. Kathryn looked uneasy at the throng of packed bodies between her and the bar. The alcohol was definitely assisting though. The doctor had told her not to drink on those anti-depressants but Kathryn had to admit that she was enjoying herself. Not the company especially, though it was certainly different to what she was used to, but the lack of inhibition, the feeling of breaking out and letting go. It was good to be away from all the management, band, crew and record-company assholes for a while. They would be wondering about her. Kathryn smiled to herself and pressed towards the bar.
Juice Terry looked up and watched as she jostled to the bar. — She’s intae that wimmin’s lib in aw they songs, so she kin go up n git the Don Revie in.
Catarrh nodded in empathetic agreement. Rab Birrell studiously avoided reacting, which vexed Terry a little.
While she waited as the pints of lager were being poured, Kathryn was apprehended by a large woman with thick arms, steel-wool hair and glasses. — It’s you, eh! she asked.
— Er, I’m Kathryn . . .
— Ah kent it wis you! What ye daein here!
— Er, I’m in with some friends — er Terry over there . . .
— Yir jokin! That fuckin waster, Juice Terry! A friend ay yours! The woman wobbled incredulously. — It’s aw he kin dae tae git oot ay his bed once a fortnight tae sign oan. How dae ye ken him?
— We just got talking . . . Kathryn said, her own amazement mirroring the woman’s as she contemplated the question.
— Aw aye, eh kin dae that aw right. That’s the one thing eh kin dae. Jist like ehs faither, she spat with real hostility. — Listen, hen, the woman pulled out a taxi card, — will ye sign this fir ays?
— Yeah . . . of course . . .
— Ye goat a pen?
— No . . .
The woman turned to the barman. — Seymour! Gies a fuckin pen! Gies it! Here!
Her raucous tones stung the already overworked barman into further activity. Terry heard them, recognised them and looked up in slow apprehension. It was that big cow his auld man had been with, after he’d left Juice Terry’s Ma. Big Paula fae Bonnington Road. Her that used tae run the pub. Kathryn was talkin tae her n aw! This was fuckin nonsense, Terry thought, ye come doon tae Leith tae avoid cunts ye ken and ye find yirsel surrounded by them.
Kathryn was happy to sign and get back to Terry and the boys with the drinks. Terry had resolved to ask her what Big Paula was saying about him but had got into an argument with Rab Birrell which was becoming increasingly hostile. — Any cunt that does that deserves tae fuckin well die. That’s ma view, Terry snapped, challenging Rab.
— Bit that’s shite, Terry, Rab argued, — that’s what ye call an urban myth. The casuals widnae dae that.
— These casual cunts are fuckin bampots, Terry stated. — Razor blades in the flumes? What’s aw that aboot? You tell me.
— Ah’ve heard that story, Catarrh agreed. In fact, this was the first occasion he’d heard this. Catarrh had run with the fitba casual boys years ago but had extricated himself when the enterprise became a little rich for his blood. None the less, he still did everything in his power to stoke up their notoriety and his celebrity by association.
This annoyed Rab Birrell. He’d enjoyed being a casual, although those days were long-gone for him. It was far too heavy now with all that surveillance shite these days, but he’d loved it. Great punters, great times, great laughs. What the fuck was Johnny playing at spouting all that bollocks? Rab Birrell hated the way that people were so anxious to believe over-the-top bullshit. To his mind, it only kept others in a state of fear and served as a social-control mechanism. He loathed but understood the manner in which some of the police and media celebrated that kind of nonsense, after all it was in their interest. But what was Johnny doing backing up that sort of shite? — Bit that’s aw it is, jist a fuckin story . . . made up by some twats . . . ah mean, what would they want tae dae that fir? What would the so-called casuals, even though they dinnae exist any mair, want tae be pittin razor blades in the flumes at the Commie Pool fir? Rab Birrell reasoned, looking at Kathryn in appeal.
— Cause thir bams, Juice Terry said.
— Look Terry, you never even use the Commie Pool. Rab Birrell again turned to Kathryn. — Eh cannae even swim for fuck’s sake!
— You can’t swim! Kathryn accused, giggling slightly at the thought of Terry’s love handles spilling over a tight pair of swimming trunks.
— That’s nowt tae dae wi anything. It’s the mentality ay cunts thit pit razor blades on the flumes ay a public swimmin pool that wee bairns yaze, what dae ye say tae that? he cross-examined.
Kathryn considered this. It was the work of sickos. She thought that kind of thing only happened in America. — I guess that’s pretty gross.
— Nae fuckin guessing aboot it, Terry stormed, switching back to Rab Birrell, — it’s oot ay order.
Rab shook his head. — Ah agree wi ye. Ah’m agreein that tae dae that is oot ay order, bit that’s no the casuals, Terry. No way. Does that sound like them tae you? Aw aye, we’ve formed a mob tae go swedgin at the fitba, so lit’s aw go doon the Commie Pool and pit razor blades in the flumes. That’s bullshit. Ah ken a lot ay they boys; it jist isnae thair fuckin style. Besides, thir isnae even any casuals these days. Yir livin in the past.
— Bams, said Juice Terry stroppily. While he had to admit that what Rab Birrell said was logical and probably correct, he hated to be bested in an argument and grew even more belligerent. Even if it wasn’t the casuals who did that, Birrell should be big enough to concede the more general point that they were bams. But naw, no smart poofy college-cunt Birrell. It proved another point to Terry: never gie a schemie an education. There was Birrell on some poxy course at Stevenson for ten minutes and he thinks eh’s fuckin Chomsky.
— Ah’d heard that happened at the flumes. Heard that the blood flowed rid fae one ay the chutes intae the pool, Catarrh stated with insect coldness, his eyes narrowing and his lips tightening. He savoured the shiver and disgusted pout he thought he saw from Kathryn. — Flowed rid, he repeated under his breath.
— Bullshit, said Rab Birrell.
Catarrh though, was warming to his theme. — Ah ken they boys as well as you Rab, you should ken that, he said in an ominous tone, hoping that Kathryn would pick up the enigma and sense of danger in it, be suitably impressed, blow out Juice Terry and take Catarrh home with her to America. They’d go through a ceremony, if only for green-card purposes, and resident alien status would be his. Then he’d be installed in a studio with a top backing band and return to Britain with a triumphant string of Claptonesque guitar-led hits behind him. It could happen, he thought. Look at that Shirley Manson lassie oot ay Garbage, her that used tae be in that Goodbye Mr McKenzie. One minute standing behind Big John Duncan and a set ay keyboards on stage at The Venue, the next setting America alight. He could do the same. Then they’d call him Johnny Guitar, his real name, instead of the hideous degradation he’d been saddled with.
Juice Terry had the munchies bigtime. He was thinking that he could go a curry. Terry was fed up with the way the conversation was heading: straight into Catarrh’s casual tales. He would go on for ever if you let him. Everyone else had heard them several times before, but that never stopped Johnny. Especially now that he had a new ear to bend in Kathryn. Terry fancied that he could see way down the line to Catarrh on his deathbed. There he would be lying, a ninety-year-old wizened Catarrh with tubes hanging out of him. A dithering, sedated auld wife and concerned children and grandchildren would have their ears close to him to hear his breathless, croaking last words and they would be: . . . — and then thir wis that time we were at Motherwell . . . nineteen eighty-eight, eighty-nine season, ah think . . . we hud a mob ay aboot three hundred . . . aaagghhhh . . .
Then the line on the ECG would go flat and Catarrh would head off to that great swedge in the sky.
No, Terry wasn’t having any of that shite this evening. That cunt forgot that it was people like him, Juice Terry, who put in their shift on the terracing before there was a big, hard, fashionable team as back-up. The old scarfer crew back in those days were, admittedly, a pretty crap mob. They tended to romanticise the odd glorious victory, but gloss over or ignore the numerous times that they were ran; Nairn County (pre-season friendly), Forfar, Montrose. Also, they had more vindictive battles with each other than with anybody else. A shite mob really. He had to admit that the casuals who followed them were a class apart, but no Birrell or Catarrh. They were never anything like top boys.
Terry changed the subject quickly. — Bet you’ve goat tons ay dosh but eh, aw they hit records, he ventured at Kathryn, returning to one of his own familiar themes. Fuck Catarrh, he was the one setting the agenda here.
Kathryn smiled benignly. — I’m lucky I guess. I get well paid for what I do. I had a run-in with the IRS a while ago, but my back catalogue’s doing okay. I got a bit put by.
— Ah’ll fuckin bet ye huv! Terry sang, pulling in Catarrh and Birrell. — John Boy! Rab! Hear this! What’s aw that aboot? You tell me! He nodded at Kathryn.
Her eyes took on a faraway look. — Sometimes money isn’t everything . . . she said softly, but nobody was listening.
— Well peyed fir whit she does! Gold records! Number-one hits! Ah’ll bet yir fuckin well peyed! Right then, Terry rubbed his hands together, — it’s settled. The Ruby Murray’s oan you!
— What . . . Ruby . . .
— The curry, Terry smiled, — bit ay grub, he added, making eating gestures.
— Could handle a fuckin nosebag but eh, Rab Birrell admitted.
Catarrh shrugged. He didn’t like to waste drinking-time eating but you could get lager with a curry. He would have some popadoms, they fitted the bill. Johnny instinctively distrusted any kind of foodstuff which didn’t resemble crisps.
— I don’t wanna eat anything . . . Kathryn said in horror. She had come out to get away from Franklin and his obsession with her eating. Her drink-addled mind seized the full implications of this. Perhaps they had been hired by that control freak, to get her to eat. It may be all an elaborate ruse, the whole damn thing.
— Right, ah’m no sayin that you huv tae eat, that’s your business, bit ye kin watch us. C’moan Kath, you’ve goat the poppy. Ah’m skint till ma giro oan Tuesday and thir’s nae chance ay a sub fae that Jewish cunt Post Alec until ah’ve done the fill week at the windaes.
— I wanna buy dinner for you guys. I can do that, but I don’t wanna eat anything . . .
— Barry, Terry enthused, — ah like a bird that pits her hand in her purse. Ah’m no one ay they auld-fashioned cunts, ah believe in equality fir fanny. What wis it that commie cunt said? Terry asked, turning to Rab, — You should ken this bein a student, Birrell. Fae each accordin tae thir abilities tae each according tae thir needs. That means thit you’re in the chair. This is Scotland, we share n share alike here, Terry said, then considered the itch in his piles and the damage a vindaloo could do the next morning. Fuck it though, you sometimes just had to go for it.
— Okay, Kathryn smiled.
— See you, Catarrh slurred, — you’re sound, ken that, he said, touching Kathryn’s forearm gently
— Some ay thum oan fuckin good wages n aw . . . her thit works fir the Scottish Office . . . Terry shook his head bitterly, recalling a night out he’d had a while back with a lassie he’d met in the Harp. The cow guzzled her wey through half his fuckin giro in Bacardi and vanished withoot gieing him as much as a peck on the cheek. While he was annoyed at Johnny’s ostentatious display of tenderness towards Kathryn, he was forced to admit that he had a point.
— What is this manto? Kathryn asked.
— Eh fanny . . . eh birds . . . chicks, ken? Terry explained.
— My god. Don’t you guys have any personal politics?
Juice Terry and Johnny Catarrh looked at each other for a couple of seconds and shook their heads slowly in unison. — Nup, they agreed.
Pished, Drugged, Laid
Charlene stood before Lisa, who was grinding her teeth in exasperation. Before her friend could speak, Lisa said, — Aw it’s you. Right. Wir gaun oot. Wir gittin pished, drugged and laid.
— Can I come in for a bit first, Charlene asked meekly, her dark, haunted eyes staring right into Lisa’s essence.
Lisa looked at the bags at her friend’s feet, and Richard, the video and vibrator were erased from her mind like they never happened. — Aye . . . come in, Lisa urged quickly, stopping to pick up one of Charlene’s bags.
They went through to her lounge and dropped them on the floor. — Sit doon, Lisa ushered, — what’s up? Wis thir naebody in?
Charlene’s eyes looked strange and wild to Lisa, and the younger woman cackled like a witch, a flickering spasm twitching the side of her face. — Aw aye, somebody wis in awright. Somebody was fuckin well in.