Skagboys (61 page)

It’s a mental scene: a few budgies and a zebra finch flutter aroond Moira; one’s oan her shoodir n another lands oan the back ay her hand. She’s wearin an angora cardigan, but wi nowt else oan underneath, nae blouse, jist a bra, n the cardy isnae buttoned up right cause ah kin see a faded rid scar gaun doon intae her padding, n ah’m sure ah saw something move doon thaire, like her tits. She pills her cardy thegither n fastens a couple ay buttons, n wi baith look away, mortified. Jimmy’s standin sheepishly in front ay the staircase, wi his mooth turned doon. The birds cheep
aroond
us, urgent and demanding. — C’mon, Moira … Jimmy, ah appeal, ah jist want tae see Keith …

Then ah hears this scream: — MARK! GIT THE FAHKIN POLIS!!

The bird leaves Moira’s hand as Jimmy looks tae the kitchen n roars, — SHUT IT!

— Jimmy, what’s the fuckin Hampden …

Fuck sake, ah’m strugglin tae take aw this in, but ah can see that they’ve constructed a wire fence, like a giant cage, tae divide the stairs fae the rest ay the hoose. There’s newspaper aw ower the stair cairpit wi bird shit layerin it. It’s like they’ve made the entire doonstairs ay the hoose – the living room, bedrooms n lavvy – intae a giant aviary, wi thaim just huvin the upstairs hall n kitchen! Moira looks poisonously at me, wi Keezbo shoutin for help, as she opens the cage tae the stairs, guiding the flocking birds through. They follay her like rats wi the pied piper, then she deftly moves oot the wey n shuts them inside, turnin tae me.

— Go, she sais, openin the front door.

Keezbo’s still shoutin, but it’s like it’s comin fae
ootside
the hoose. It hus tae be the auld balcony aviary at the back ay the kitchen! — MARK! HELP US! THUV LOAKED US OOT HERE!

— What the fuck? Ur you oot oan the balcony, Keezbo?

Then his sister Pauline appears, standing on the stairs, inside the cage, as yellay n green n blue n white budgerigars flock, chirpin aw aroond her. — They locked him oot oan the balcony. She turns tae them. — Ye cannae keep him oot thaire, Ma, n she starts sobbing.

Moira’s still hudin the front door open, shoutin, — GIT OOT! and that nosy Margaret Curran cunt pokes her neb in, the hatchet-faced cow a picture ay misery. — Wi cannae stand it, Moira, we’re gaunny huv tae phone the polis if the noise doesnae stoap. It’s been aw day now! N they birds … ah nivir minded the aviary oan the balcony but no in the hoose! It’s insanitary! How much longer?

— As long as it takes, it’s ma laddie’s life!

They start oan at each other, but ah cut in and ask Moira, — What huv youse fuckin done tae Keith?

— They’ve locked him oot oan the balcony, Pauline blubbers, her anguished face pushed against the mesh ay the cage, surrounded by fluttering birds.

Ah push past Jimmy and Moira intae the kitchen. The wire n dimpled glass that divides the room fae both the aviary and the walk-out section ay the balcony has been removed and boarded ower. Keezbo’s ootside,
batterin
oan it and screamin, — HELP US, MARK … FUCKIN HELP US!

— He’s no comin in here till that poison’s oot ay his system, Moira says.

Ah whip roond, right intae her face. — Are you fuckin mental?! He’s in withdrawal, ah say, thinking aboot Nicksy. — He’ll jump oaf or try n climb doon! Let us see um!

Ah turns back n ah’m fighting tae get the big bolts oan the door open. Jimmy isnae stoaping us but Moira’s white scraggy fingers wrap roond ma wrist. — No … no … wir pittin um through that wild turkey –

— Yir killin him, he needs proper fuckin rehab! HE’S SEEK ENOUGH TAE JUMP! ah scream intae her face, and she suddenly relents, loosenin her grip.

That mawkit-pussed hoor Curran’s goat intae the hoose. Ah hear her moanin away at us fae the hall. — You left here! You’re no welcome back! Away tae yir ain bit doon the river, tae the hoose
we
should’ve goat!

— We’re no thaire any mair … moved oot, ah tell her n watch her stupid bovine coupon hing slack in uncomprehending shock, as ah work one bolt open. Ah kin hear Keezbo groan oan the other side. — They gave us a better place doon by the Shore, ah lie tae Curran, as ah work on another bolt. — Aw the windaes face oantae the river … n thaire’s a private balcony that fair catches the sun … lovely spot …

She’s choking in fury. — Balcony … river … how the … how the bloody hell … how the hell did youse …? she stammers, then a glint snaps intae her eye. — Your auld place … it’ll be empty now then, eh?

Ah click back another bolt. Fae the corner ay ma eye, ah notice that one budgie’s still attached tae Moira’s angora cardigan just oan the ootside ay her placky tits. Jesus fuck …

That angora cardy’s worked its wey open again n thaire’s some baby birds in her tits, ye kin see thair wee heids poking up, mooths open, demandin tae be fed.
What the fuck
… Ah look at her, n she gies us a hard, tight-moothed stare, that says, ‘So?’

Ah turn back tae the last bolt … ah cannae watch this …

— Your hoose! Margaret Curran insists, — that’ll be it empty then!

— Naw … a Paki family moved in last week. Ah work the bolt loose as Jimmy says something tae Moira aboot makin herself decent.

— How did they … how in the name ay Christ did they …? Curran’s freakin oot n gittin ready tae visit the Housing Association. The bolt snaps back n the door flies open.

Keezbo stands in his long coat, lookin like a big pink sausage wrapped
in
black puddin. — They tried tae fuckin kill us! Youse! He points at Jimmy and Moira, — YOUSE!

The big budgie on Moira’s jumper flies up as she looks at Keezbo in horror, pillin the cardigan tae her tae conceal the nest ay birds in her tits. She realises that he’s ripped doon the mesh they pit ower the balcony. — DINNAE LIT CHEEKY BOY OOT! THE WILD BIRDS’LL KILL UM!

— FUCK YIR BUDGIES! YOUSE TRIED TAE KILL US!

— WE’RE THE BUCKIN YINS TRYIN TAE BUCKIN WELL SAVE YE! Moira roars back in his face, n ah realise she’s no goat her teeth in, n she turns tae Jimmy: — TELL UM, JIMMY!

— Ah wis cauld, Keezbo moans in desolation, — cauld n hungry!

— Hungry fir buckin drugs, drugs, drugs! Moira squeals, — TELL UM, JIMMY! BE A BUCKIN MAN, BI CHRIST, N TELL YIR LADDIE WHAIRE HE’S GAUN WRONG!

— Moira … c’mon …

— Ah’ve goat poppy, Keith. Ah shakes the boax. — We’ll open it up n git sorted oot!

— Ah ken how tae open these yins, Mr Mark, he goes, his eyes huge and luminous, as Moira scowls at Jimmy n slams the balcony door shut, enticing Cheeky Boy back tae her false bosom.

— Now everybody hus tae calm doon … Moira – Jimmy pleads.

— CALM BUCKIN DOON! AH’LL GIE YE CALMIN BUCKIN WELL DOON, JIMMY YULE! IT’S YOUR BLOODY LADDIE!

— Nae time, ah goes tae Keezbo, lookin ower the balcony tae see Matty standin aroond oan the concrete forecourt. — MATTY! But it’s windy up here n oor voices get carried away as we shout. — MAH-TAY!

Eventually the daft cunt looks up wi a scoobied coupon.

— What’s gaun oan here? Jimmy demands, stepping oot ontae the balcony as Moira’s blusterin aboot where she went wrong. Then she suddenly threatens, — Ah’m gittin the buckin polis oantae the baith ay yis! See how yis like that!

— That’s right, Moira! Margaret Curran shouts.

— You … well, if you … if you fuckin bring thaim intae it, Keezbo stammers, — ah’ll tell the RSPCA aboot you keeping birds in yir tits! That’s no right in the heid!

— Thir no in ma tits! Ah’ve nae tits! And now ah’ve nae buckin son, bi Christ!

As they rage on, ah shakes the tin, as Matty gies a daft wee salute. Ah drops it n watches it fall, hittin the deck wi an explosive crack as it splatters
open
n the coins strew in a glittering shower across the forecourt. Fuck, ah didnae think they’d scatter like that! Matty’s thaire, but a crowd ay young kids are appearin fae fuckin naewhaire n they’re rummagin wi Matty for oor fuckin poppy! — FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF, YA WEE CUNTS … DINNAE LIT THUM … FUCK!

Keezbo n me are right oot through the kitchen, past his ma, dad, Pauline n fusty-fud Curran, oot the front door, along the balcony, n wir bombin doon the stairs as fast as we can.

— DINNAE LIT CHEEKY BOY OOT! Moira shouts.

We gits oot n doon the stairs n thaire’s Matty pathetically shoutin at these thievin wee bastards, — Gie’s it back …

We’re pickin up the fuckin coins n the wee cunts are leggin it, but then Mrs Rylance comes roond the corner and sees the yellay shards ay the shattered collection box n she’s pointin n screamin, — IT’S MA MONEY … IT’S THE CATS’ MONEY!

Mrs Curran’s gittin in oan the act, screamin doon fae the balcony, — THIEVES! THIEVES! THE RENTONS N THE CONNELLS. … DURTY THIEVIN GYPSY BASTARDS! THEY GIT EVERYTHING THIT ISNAE MEANT FIR THUM!

We’re scramblin fir the dosh but Jesus fuck, thaire’s a cop car pullin up, n two polis git oot, so we’re offski, oor poakits laden wi change. We kin hear them radioing fir help, and we head doon Madeira Street, nashin ower Ferry Road, doon Largo Place, n the steps taewards the river, coins swingin n jinglin. One copper’s goat back intae the motor, but one stocky cunt’s fuckin well flyin eftir us as we hit the Water ay Leith walkway. But fuck him, ah even looks back, like
he’s
gaunny catch us doon here, his wee pish-hole-in-the-snaw eyes set in a white, bulbous face, growin riddir by the second, as he stores air in his cheeks, the fat hamster-faced cunt so comical ah kin feel ma sides spazzin up jist thinkin aboot it. They send this overfed Gumley-raised suburban jackass oot tae chase three Leith schemies? Boys whae wir
specifically fuckin bred
tae run fae the polis? Labdicks dinnae huv a fuckin scooby!

Sure enough, when ah look back again, he’s stoaped, gaspin, bent ower hudin his knees, as we pass under the Junction Street Bridge. Then he stands like an incompetent fitba player, blawin hard, shaking his fat noggin in disbelief, as if a ref will blaw the whistle and we’ll suddenly stop n take a disgruntled walk intae a meatwagon as a rid caird gits raised skywards. No dice, fat boy! This tree-lined riverbank loves us, this rash ay warehouses, cobbled streets and tenemented dwellings adores its sons and hates auld flatfoot who’s brought nowt but grief doon here since the year dot. Even
Keezbo’s
takin the pish oot ay him, breathin quite smoothly, though his face is crimson n the sweat’s whippin offay him. Matty’s away ahead, then lookin back, stoapin, n littin us faw intae line. — Cunt, he says breathlessly, — wee cunts were right in thaire … it wis they wee Maxwells fae Thomas Fraser’s … shouldnae even be at the Fort …

Ah’m thinkin ah could nip up the steps at West Bowling Green Street n duck intae the parental home, but ye never shite oan yir ain doorstep, so we keep tearin doon taewards the Forth, passin the ducks swimmin by the derelict factories and the new apartments. We see the Bannanay flats towerin behind the new constructions across the water, as we slow doon tae catch our wind n try tae look casual. Keezbo’s breathin hard, hands oan his hips, Matty’s heid’s swivellin roond like an owl’s. Ah realise we’ve left the Sealink bag, but that’s fuck all.

There’s a slip road that cuts oantae a street leadin tae the courtyard ay this new yuppie scheme n we could cut through it, but the homesteaders are unlikely tae be shy at pickin up the blower if they see natives hingin aboot their property. So we press oan, at a brisk march. Oan the bridge at Sandport Place, we dinnae even see them tae oor right, lurkin oan the slip road ay Coalhill, waiting for us, no in a meatwagon, but in two squad motors.

FUCK
…

Thaire’s nae runnin left in any ay us now. We run oan junk and we’ve burned the dregs ay that ootay oor systems.

They handcuff me n Matty thegither, and Keezbo on his ain, wi his hands in front, n wir taken tae a holdin cell up the High Street. Funny, but although ah’m bein plunged intae what promises tae be the worst sickness ah’ve ever known, ah’m relieved in a wey, just cause it’s aw ower. Now ah’m anticipatin the next big challenge: gettin detoxed. Ah’m thinkin, they’ll help us, surely tae fuck, they’ll no leave us like this, cause ah’m rattlin n that methadone is fuck all use.

Keezbo’s really fucked. He’s nearly greetin, as he keeps gaun up tae the Judas Hole n bangin oan the door. — Ah goat oaf the balcony, he moans, — now ah’m stuck in here!

Dae yir fuckin nut in, that fat cunt
.

Matty’s sittin oan a bench, heid focused oan the flair in front ay him. Two polis come in wi cups ay tea, n he looks up n takes the words oot ma mooth: — We really need the hoaspital, mate, he says tae one copper. — We’re aw really seek, like.

The polisman keeps his face set in a neutral expression. He’s a fairly lardy cunt but with keen eyes, a porker who’s just demolished his trough’s
contents
but eagerly awaits its new load ay swill. — I wis thinking that ah might check youse intae the North British Hotel for a couple ay weeks. Till yis ur feelin a wee bit better like. Or maybe youse might prefer the Caledonian?

Like the daft cunt he is, Matty turns tae me n Keezbo n goes, — Dunno, what dae youse think?

— Ah think you need tae learn tae spot a wind-up, Matty, ah goes.

— Aw … right …

The cops are laughin thair heids oaf at his miserable torn-up coupon. Keezbo’s sittin doon oan the bench and is turned away intae the waw, n while ah feel like ah’m betrayin Matty, ah cannae help, even through ma pain, joinin in the joke.

Junk Dilemmas No. 3

THE COPPER STARES
at us in utter contempt. Nae wonder; aw he sees in front ay um is this mingin cunt, twitchin n spazzin oan this hard seat in the interview room. — Ah’m oan the programme, ah tell um. — Check if ye like. Ah’m aw seek cause they nivir gied us enough methadone. They said they hud tae fine-tune ma dosage. Check wi the lassie at the clinic if ye dinnae believe us
.

—
Boo-fucking-hoo, he sais, a mean expression oan his face. — Why am I not tearing up on your behalf, my sweet, sweet friend?

This cunt has cold black eyes set in a white face. If he didnae huv a dark pudding-basin haircut and his neb wis bigger, he’d be like one ay Moira and Jimmy’s budgies. The other polisman, a louche, slightly effeminate-looking blond boy, is playing the benign role. — Just tell us who gives you that stuff, Mark. Come on, pal, give us some names. You’re a good lad, far too sensible tae get mixed up in aw this nonsense. He shakes his heid and then looks up at me, lip curled doon thoughtfully. — Aberdeen University, no less
.