Glue by Irvine Welsh
It was all lies.
I kept away from Terry and Billy.
Gally told me that he had the virus. He’d banged up a couple of times in Leith with a guy called Matty Connell. Just two or three times, depressed at how things were going with his kid. The nutter his bird was with, the one the kid called Dad.
Mark McMurray was the boy’s name. Gail’s felly. Doyle’s mate. He’d taken a piece of Gally on two occasions.
Polmont, we used to call him. The Dalek.
Poor Polmont. Poor Gally.
Gally’s first ride produced a pregnancy and a loveless, shotgun marriage.
His first or second bang-up produced the virus.
He told me that he couldn’t handle the hospice, couldn’t handle everyone, his Ma n that, knowing it was drugs; heroin and AIDS. He thought he’d already taken almost everything from his Ma, he couldn’t take any more. He probably thought that death by drunken misadventure sounded better than death by AIDS. As if she’d see it that way.
Gally was a proper boy though, right enough.
But he left us.
He left us, I saw all that, the way he looked straight ahead as we started shouting for him no tae be sae fuckin daft, and tae git back ower the rail. Gally had always been a climber, but he was over the railing at George IV Bridge and looking down onto the Cowgate below. It was the way he was looking down, in a strange trance. And I saw the lot, I was the closest. Billy and Terry were heading down towards Forrest Road, showing him that they were unimpressed by his attention-seeking.
I was right beside him though. I could have touched him. Reached out and grabbed him.
No.
Gally briefly snapped out of the hypnotic state and I saw him bite his lower lip, and his hand went up to that lobe and he twisted on his earring. It seemed that even after all those years, it was still always getting scabby and weeping. Then he shut his eyes and stepped or fell, no stepped, off that bridge, falling sixty feet and smashing onto the road below.
I roared, — GALLY! WHAT THE FUCKIN . . . GALLY!
Terry, turned, froze for a second, shrieked something, then grabbed his ain hair in his hands and started stomping his feet on the spot, like he was on fire and trying to put it out. It was a mad St Vitus number, like something connected to him was perishing, being torn from him.
Billy went straight down the small winding road which took him to the street below.
I looked over the balustrade and saw Gally lying, almost like he was just playing dead, on the road below. I mind thinking that it was somehow all a joke, a piss-take. Like he had somehow miraculously managed to climb doon onto the road and was lying down, kidding on, like when we were kids and we ‘shot’ each other, at Japs and Commandos. The evidence of the eyes seemed weirdly contradicted by a horrific hope, so strong it nauseated, that this was just a bizarre setup. Then Terry looked at me and shouted, — Come oan, and I followed him down the narrow lane to the main road below where Gally lay.
There was a pounding in the side of my face and the tendons in the back of my neck felt like knives. There was still a chance we would surely be back to what we were: just a bunch of cunts out on the piss. But this fantasy, this hope, was shattered when I saw Billy cradling Gally’s body.
I mind of this drunken, dopey cow who just kept on saying, — What happened? What happened? Repeating it over and over like a moron. I wanted her to be dead instead of him. — What happened? What happened? Now I realise that the poor lassie must have been in shock. But I wanted it to be her instead of him. Just for a second or two, then I didn’t want anybody to die ever again.
Most of the people gathered around had come out of the pubs, and they were all looking for the car that had run over Gally, trying to work out which way it had went. Nobody thought to look up to the Bridge.
Then I’m standing in what I think is silence, but they all look at me like I’ve been hurt, like I’m bleeding badly and Terry comes over and shakes me like I’m a wee bairn, and it’s only then that I realise that I’ve been screaming.
Billy’s jist holdin Gally and sayin softly, wi a sad tenderness I’ve never heard before or since from anybody, — What did ye dae that for, Andy? What fir? Surely it wisnae that bad. We could’ve sorted it oot, mate. The boys. What fir that but, Wee Man? What fir?
That was the last time it was special. After that we kept away from each other. It was as if we learnt about loss too young and wanted to take ourselves away from each other before the others did it first. Even though we wirnae really that far fae each other; me, Billy, Terry and I suppose Gally became the four corners ay the globe after that night.
Now I’m going back.
The coroner returned an open verdict. Terry refused to even consider the possibility of suicide. I think Billy guessed though.
I went to London, basing myself there. A residency in a small, happening club which moved to bigger premises. Then onto a big, corporate superclub. I made a few tunes of my own, then did a few mixes. Then an album, then another one. Basically, I lived out the old Snap fantasy of success while trying to play bass. I was never a bassist though; never a Manni, Wobble, Hooky or Lemmy, not even a fuckin Sting. I didn’t get a bass feel from my ham-fisted efforts, which were never in synch with my internal vibe, but I did get a bass ear. That helped a lot when it came to mixing records. Things happened slowly, but steadily. A big dance record, Groovy Sex Doll, which crossed over into the mainstream charts. That set me up bigtime. They played it on Top of the Pops, with me pretending to play a keyboard while some lycra-clad models from an agency danced away. I took off on a vodka and cocaine binge, shagged one of the models, hung around the Met Bar and some Soho clubs, had deep and meaningful discussions with various pop stars, actors, writers, models, television presenters, artists, newspaper and magazine editors, and exchanged loads of phone numbers. Heard the accents on the voicemail change. What should have been an interesting two months, a summer, became a turgid six years.
I don’t regret doing it. You have to run with it when it’s your time, or else you’ll lament it later. I do regret sticking around for too long, letting that sad, sickening, destructive process grind me down. On a plane back from New York and an excellent gig at the Twilo, I made a career decision: I wasn’t for having a career any more.
I had a foot in both camps, as I’d always admired the house heads who kept it real: Dave the Drummer, the Liberator boys, that sort of crew. Basically, that was my time, the underground parties, teaming up with the tribes. The blunt truth of it is that it’s better. It’s better fun, a better laugh. So it was a purely calculating, mercenary move on my part, leaving the boiled-frog environment of the celeb circuit.
So I was playing at the old-skool raves and parties; the dance music press were asking: HAS N-SIGN LOST THE PLOT and I was having the happiest, most fulfilled time of my life. Then the Criminal Justice Bill started to kick in, and beneath the toothy smiles the UK continued to be an oppressive place for those who didn’t want to party on their terms. And their parties, their Cool Britannia parties: they were fuckin shite.
So we moved; first Paris, then Berlin, then Sydney. Spiral punters, Mutoid punters, they all seemed to wash up in Sydney. Lately I’ve been getting fucked up a lot. That always tells me it’s time to move on. Some people spend years in counselling trying to cope with being fucked up. I just move on. The fucked-upness always goes. The conventional wisdom is that you’re running away, you should learn to cope with being fucked-up. I don’t hold with that. Life is a dynamic rather than a static process, and when we don’t change it kills us. It’s not running away, it’s moving on.
Yes. This has made me feel better. You can’t beat self-justification. I’m not running away, I’m moving on.
Moving on.
The last time I saw them was at the funeral, nine years ago. The funny thing was with the likes of Billy, Terry, Topsy, I never thought about them as much as I thought I would. It’s only now, now that I’m so close to home.
The conne
There’ll be nae Gally though.
I loved wee Gally, that little cunt, that selfish fuckin little shitbag. Probably more than ever now, because he’s potted. He doesnae disappoint anyone now, he only did that the once. The image of his broken body on that road will stay with me for ever.
The girl back in Munich, years ago, ninety, ninety-one, eighty-nine or some shite, Elsa her name was. Gally went away with her mate. — Your friend is strange, she said, — he did not, with Gretchen . . . they did not . . . she liked him, but they did not have proper sex.
I was wondering what he was thinking of. Now I knew, like he knew. He was far too nice a guy to fuck anybody with the virus.
He apprenticed us all in loss.
If only he loved himself as much as he loved the rest of the world.
He’s deid, so he’s easier to love than Terry or Billy. I still like them though; so much I can’t let them subvert the way I feel about them by allowing them anywhere near. I like the idea of them. But we can never have what we had; it’s all gone: the innocence, the lager, the pills, the flags, the travel, the scheme . . . it’s all so far away from me.
What was that Bowie refrain we sampled: Draw the blinds on yesterday . . .
The bus back into the city centre. I’m fucked. Actually I’m beyond fucked. Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing through my ears instead of my eyes. Buchanan Street Bus Station.
Edinburgh, Scotland
2.02 pm
The Business Bar
The Business Bar was crowded. Festival punters and office workers merged easily in a smug but probably unfounded complicity, imagining that they were in a place which was at the centre of the world for those three weeks of the year. Billy Birrell was standing at the bar, holding court, drinking a Perrier water. His eyes raised in a surprised but not hostile manner as he caught sight of his brother. A fuckin Hibs away strip. Still, at least it was further proof that he wasn’t hanging around with aggro-merchants. Then Billy saw Terry and his face visibly dropped. But he was with someone . . . that lassie . . . it was Kathryn Joyner! Here, in the Business Bar! She was getting some looks as well, but what was she doing with them?
— Billy! How goes it? Juice Terry extended a hand which Billy Birrell grasped tentatively. Terry looked in bad shape. Overweight. He really had let himself go.
— Awright, Terry, Billy Birrell said. He shot his brother Rab a glance. Rab shrugged back sheepishly. Lisa looked Billy Birrell up and down, evaluating eyes blazing like Don King’s.
Terry ushered Kathryn towards Billy. — Vilhelm, I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine. This is Kathryn Joyner, Terry felt his shoulders shake as he added, — she’s been known to chant the odd number. Kathryn, this is an old associate of mine. Robert’s brother Billy . . . or ‘Business’, to give him the title we locals are wont to use.
Billy Birrell knew that Terry was wasted and just being a wide cunt. He really never changes, Billy thought, with a contempt so fierce it caused his guts to burn and almost made him shudder. Attending to the American singer, Billy couldn’t help but think, god, this woman looks rough. — Kathryn, he smiled, extending his hand. He turned to a girl behind the bar. — Lena, can we have some champagne down here; a magnum of Dom Perignon, I think.
Terry was looking at a picture of Business Birrell with the footballer Mo Johnston on the wall. — Mo Johnston: a character, eh Billy?
— Aye . . . Billy said warily.
He looked at some more pictures behind the bar. — Darren Jackson. John Robertson. Gordon Hunter. Ally McCoist. Gavin Hastings. Sandy Lyle. Stephen Hendry. Characters, eh Billy?
Business Birrell bit his lower lip and glanced swiftly over at his brother, an expression of accusation forming on his sharp features.
While everybody was tentatively checking each other out, Post Alec had already arsed half the champagne, and was talking to two arty, Festival, touristy women. — . . . course, ay cannae work cause ay ma back . . . bit ah’m daein the windaes fir a mate . . . The dissonance of this comment sank home and Alec stood for a moment stupefied by guilt and drink. He fought through this paralysis by bursting into song. — A wee song! Cause your mine . . . me aw my . . . spe-shil lay-dee . . .
Lisa smirked at this, eagerly lifting a glass of champagne and passing others to Rab and Charlene.
Terry laughed. — Jakey alert! Then he turned to Kathryn and put one arm round her waist and another round Billy Birrell’s shoulder. — Ma auld mate Billy Birrell, Kath. We wir mates, long, long before ah wis mates wi Rab, he explained. — Of course, eh disnae like tae be minded ay they times now. Eh no, Billy?
— Ah dinnae need tae be minded, Terry. Ah mind well enough, Billy told him coolly.
To Terry, this sober Billy Birrell was so unyielding, it was like he was made out of bronze. The cunt looked well, but why wouldn’t he? He was probably on every exercise programme and special healthy eating diet and nothing-to-excess lifestyle you could think of. He’d aged a bit of course; his hair was thinner, and his face a bit more lined. Birrell. How did that fucker get any lines on his face when he never moved it? But it was Billy, he did look good, and Terry felt a pang of nostalgia. — Mind wi went tae the National at Aintree. The World Cup in Italy, ’90. The Oktoberfest in Munich, Billy?
— Aye, Billy said with more wariness than he intended.
— Ah’ve seen the world, ye see. It’s the fuckin same everywhaire really, eh Kath, Terry said. Then, without waiting for a reaction added, — Used tae box, oor Billy Boy did, Kath. Couldnae box eggs mind you, Terry clenched a fist and gently pressed it against Billy’s chin. — Could’ve been a contender, eh champ? Billy pushed Terry’s hand away. Instinctively, Terry tightened his grip round Kathryn’s waist. If Business was going to put Terry down, then she was going with him. See how the image-conscious cunt liked that. The spin the Evening News would put on it:
American singer and international celebrity
Kathryn Joyner was knocked over in an
incident in a city pub yesterday. It is understood
that capital sporting personality Billy ‘Business’
Birrell was involved.
Billy Birrell. His friend. Terry thought of Billy and him with their sports duffel-bags, striped sloppy-joes, naytex jeans and parkas. Then onto the Ben Shermans and Sta-prest, through to the capped-sleeved T-shirts, the Adidas and the Fred Perry. A twist of poignancy shot through him, instantly metamorphosising into melancholy. — Ah went doon tae Leith Victoria that time wi ye Billy . . . ah should’ve stuck it oot. Mind Billy . . . mind . . . Terry’s voice went low and desperate and almost broke as he thought of Andy Galloway, lifeless on the tarmac, N-SIGN Ewart over in Australia, or wherever he was, his mother, Lucy, his son Jason, a stranger, Vivian . . . then he squeezed tighter at Kathryn.
Jason. He picked the name. That was it. He’d said to Lucy that he’d never be like that old cunt, the bastard that left him and Yvonne, that he would be a good faither. He’d become so obsessed with making himself appear different from the fucker, he’d not noticed it had all been superficial characteristics he’d worried about and that they’d turned out like two peas in a pod.
Terry remembered the time that he’d tried to make an effort to become part of Jason’s life. He’d collected him from Lucy’s and taken the kid to the match at Easter Road. The boy was bored, and making conversation was like pulling teeth. Once, submitting to a pang of emotion, he tried to hug Jason. The kid was as tense and embarrassed as Birrell was now. His own son had made Terry feel like somebody from the beast’s wing in Saughton.
The next Sunday, he thought that he’d take Jason to the zoo. He’d accepted that the kid mig
He went to Mrs Galloway’s door. — What dae you want? she asked, in a ghostly coldness, her large eyes – eyes just like her son’s – expanding, sucking you in.
Terry couldn’t stand her look, it cut him to the quick. Under that gaze he felt like a would-be escapee from a concentration camp, blinded by the searchlight beams. Nervously he coughed. — Eh . . . ah heard ye hud the wee lassie some weekends . . . eh, ah wis jist thinkin like, ah’m takin the wee boy tae the zoo oan Sunday . . . if ye wanted a brek ah could take wee Jacqueline n aw like . . .
— You must be joking, she said icily, — let ma granddaughter oot wi you?
She didn’t need to add ‘after what happened to my son’, it was written in her face.
Terry went to say something, felt the words stick in his throat as emotion threatened to overwhelm him. He forced himself to look pointedly at Susan Galloway, understanding her pain through his own hurt. If he could just fight through that hurt and hold the stare, then maybe she’d come round and they could talk properly, share the pain. Like Billy fuckin Birrell would have done. He once saw Billy in his big flash car, Mrs Galloway getting out, and Billy helping her with her shopping. Aw aye, Birrell’s little practical help would be welcome of course, that would do nicely. But Birrell was a ‘capital sporting personality’ and now a successful businessman. Even Ewart, that drug-addled cunt, was a top deejay and rumoured to be a millionaire. Naw, you needed a scapegoat, and in this age the guy left behind in the scheme fitted the bill. It dawned on him then that this was his lot. And he’d loved Gally just as much as the rest of them. Turning away from his dead friend’s mother, Terry walked off in sobriety as unsteadily as the hopeless, pathetic drunkard she believed him to be.
Now he was even more unsteady. He held onto Kathryn tighter still, and looked over at Lisa who gave him a beaming smile. She was a brilliant lassie, a cute, sexy bird who loved drinking cocktails and getting fucked. Couldn’t be more his type, a dream come true really. Over the years he’d let his standards slip, but now he was with Lisa. She should be more than enough . . . and so Juice Terry bolstered his ego and restored his equilibrium. He would have to do better. Get out more. Take an interest. He was moping away for a Golden Age that had never existed and life was passing him by.