For those who can't be bothered reading parts 1-4 here is a very quick summary.
Danny (narrator/addict) took his friend Johnboy (nice guy/real job) up to Indian Sammy's (psycho/funny) to buy a small quantity of cocaine (half ounce) that would see him through to the end of the week. Whilst there Sammy revealed Stevie (Sammy's ex-assistant) stripped naked and tied to a chair. His crime? Stealing an ounce of smack.
Ah tried tae ignore the rising volume of London Calling and concentrate on assuring George Osborne that we really were in this together after all, and that constantly punching his smarmy little baby face wiz hurting me just as much as it hurt him. However, by the time Joe Strummer spat about Beatle mania having bitten the dust, Ah realised it wiz just a dream and George wriggled free fae the kitchen chair tae which he wiz bound by a roll of gaffer tape pinched fae the shipyard. Ah rubbed ma eyes wondering where the day went and answered the phone. “Aye, whit is it, Johnboy?”
“Ye heard anything?” he whispered, as if we were in on a secret.
His voice rose. “Aboot you know fine well whit: Sammy’s.”
“Naw, mate, Ah’ve just woke up this minute. Ah didnae get tae sleep till…” Ah remembered seeing something on Sign Zone, but couldnae remember whit, Ah wiz too busy trying tae watching the dude in the corner. After that Ah shot a few cunts on Modern Warfare 3. “…till God knows when.”
“Ah never got any sleep,” said Johnboy, stifling a yawn. “And then work wiz usual pish; built fuck all. Nothin tae dae aw day but think aboot last night.”
“Can ye believe the nerve of those Tory cunts?”
“Whit? Fuck them. Whit we goany dae aboot Stevie? It’s driving me mental.”
Ah tried tae sit up but ma body wiznae quite ready so decided it best tae put ma head back down until the Six O’clock News came on. “Ah’m no goany dae anything, mate. You any ideas?” Ah could’ve punched myself as soon as Ah’d asked. Tae a conspiracy theorist like Johnboy, thinking of worst case scenarios was as good as having a few lines. Wae a full day tae ponder he’d have at least a hundred ideas, all of them shite.
“Have ye tried phoning Jake?”
“Ah cannae dae that, Johnboy.”
“It’ll mean Ah cannae be trusted tae keep ma mooth shut.”
“We have tae dae somethin.”
“Well, we don’t really have tae dae anything. It’s none of our business.”
“Ye cannae say that. It’s your fault…”
“How the fuck is it ma fault? The wee cunt stole off the wrong guy. He should’ve known better.” Ah thought of singing ‘tae steal fae someone as beautiful as Sammy’ but ma mouth wiz too dry and Johnboy wiz already getting a bit wound up wae ma apathy.
“It…it’s your fault ma heid’s up ma arse. Ah need tae dae something. And if Ah need tae dae something you need tae dae something.”
“Whit ye want tae dae…storm the place wae balaclavas on…waving aboot your Desert Eagle replica?”
“Don’t be so fuckin stupid.”
“Look, stick the kettle on. Ah’ll be down in five minutes. Maybe ten.”
Yesterday’s jeans and t-shirt smelt okay but having dribbled a wee bit in ma boxers while sleeping Ah had tae find a clean pair, or the cleanest available. After freshening ma face wae a council wash in the kitchen Ah flattened ma hair before clearing ma nose wae a good blow and a spray of Vicks. Two Polo mints later Ah wiz ready fur the new day.
The pile of unopened mail by the front door had another new entry. However, this one wiz different fae the usual mix of bills and junk mail trying tae flog me credit cards and unsecured loans; it didnae have ma name on it. Ah opened it tae reveal a thin book that had seen much better days: Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince. Ah’d never heard of him but flicked through a few pages and threw it back on the pile, then picked it back up again thinking Johnboy might like it, seeing as he wiz intae all that royalist shite.
Johnboy’s mum, Janet, opened the front door just as Ah wiz about tae ring the bell; a sturdy woman wae big hands that had done more manual work than Ah’d ever dae. A keen church-goer; actively involved in organising tea mornings, tombola, garden fetes, and, more recently a Chippendale-type evening featuring the local rugby team, which, according tae Janet, sold out faster than Take That.
Ah gave her ma best smile, as she watched me take ma shoes off, and entered. The lobby wiz decked in old woodchip wallpaper, painted over throughout the years; this year’s colour wiz the same as last year’s colour: Magnolia. Family photographs lined the walls, covering generations in their prime, and Johnboy wae a full set of teeth in primary school. Janet had removed his wedding photo the day he split fae the nutter.
“Have you eaten dinner yet, Daniel? I’ve made far too much, and John says he’s not that hungry tonight. He’s looking a bit pale.”
Ah played along. It wiz nice tae practice ma English in case Ah got a real job again. “Hello Janet. No, I’ve not eaten yet; was going to phone a pizza later. Mm, something smells nice.”
“Well, you save your money. I’ll give you and John a shout when it’s ready. He’s upstairs having a lie down.” She sparkled as she danced along the hall humming Madame Butterfly, wiggling an arse that could incubate a thousand eggs.
Wae ma stomach rumbling, and knowing Johnboy wiz only goany talk a lot of shite, the smell of fresh food cooking and Janet’s cheery disposition almost pulled me straight into the kitchen after her. Never one for processed food Janet took great pleasure making restaurant-class dishes fae yesterday’s leftovers, and wiz nae stranger tae sharing them at the Salvation Army.
Since Ah’d been made redundant she’d been feeding me every time Ah visited and giving me Tupperware dishes of healthy options tae take home. Maybe, having noticed Ah’d lost a bit of weight, she’d put two and two together and got five. Ah’d told her Ah joined a local gym and wiz in training fur a 5K charity run so had to watch whit Ah wiz eating. Ah couldnae tell her it wiz using too much cocaine that suppressed ma appetite. She’d have a fit.
Tae Janet drugs were drugs and that wiz that. If you were on the drugs you were a junkie. If you took a drink during the week you were an alcoholic. There wiz nae middle ground. In her eyes Ah’d always been one of the whiter-than-white high-fliers among Johnboy’s friends; a good Christian like herself and no intae any of that Catholic and Protestant nonsense. Obviously there wiz still a lot of white about and plenty of flying high, but Ah didnae think those were the kind of revelations she’d appreciate, especially just before dinner.
Ah found an unwashed Johnboy building a joint in his room, wearing blue work overalls that looked like they’d seen the launch of the QE2 and a pair of Rangers slippers. Two mugs of tea brewed on the bedside table. Ah sat on the edge of his bed straight across fae the wheel-less Kawasaki KX 125.
Parking a motorbike in his bedroom wiz supposed tae be a temporary measure but it ended up staying there long after he’d moved out to get married. His walls, a mixture of black and grey, still sported graffiti from when we were at school. But even though it wiz me that wrote it, Ah wiz pretty sure Johnboy had never actually sucked cock.
On his window a sticker advertised the Loch Lomond Rock Festival at Cameron Wildlife Park in 1980. A reminder of the time his dad took him tae see The Stranglers. He wiz only three years old but swore he could remember them singing No More Heroes. Of course, nae cunt believed him. The curtains were not the usual heavy-duty black velvet ones that characterised his room and its historical teenage inhabitants back in the day by always being drawn. His mum had replaced them with a white net curtain. There’s no denying it brightened up the room but looked as out of place as a bride at a funeral.
Johnboy opened the window before lighting his joint. Even if Janet did walk into the room she wouldnae have a clue what the smell wiz, but Johnboy still seen opening the window as showing some respect. He sipped tea fae his Charles and Diana engagement mug. Ah reached fur the plain white mug and gave ma tea a cooling blow hoping he wiznae ready tae talk about last night yet.
“Well,” he said, passing me the joint. “Huv ye any ideas?”
Ah noticed the roach wiz wider than Kerry Katona’s fanny and feared getting a mouthful of Embassy Regal tae go wae the shite Johnboy wiz about tae share. “Something will turn up, it always does.”
“Whit aboot an anonymous phone call?”
“Ye oot yir box?”
“Naebody needs tae know.”
Ah sucked too hard on the joint and spat out several bits of tobacco. “Whit’s wrang wae you? Ye huvnae, huv ye?”
“Been thinking aboot it aw day. Ma heid’s fuckin bustin’.”
“Right, okay. Ah’m sorry fur takin' ye there in the first place. Ah shouldnae huv done it. But ye cannae be phoning the polis.”
“Ah don’t want tae be mixing wae people like Sammy. He’s no right. Did ye see how quick he turned on us last night? That’s no right, man. Ye should just get a normal job. Anything tae keep yirsel busy.”
“There’s a recession on, Johnboy. We cannae all build battleships.”
“There’s plenty work oot there, if ye look in the right places. Anything’s better than ending up in a fuckin wheelie bin.”
The cunt wiz starting tae sound like a Tory bastard and giving me a sore heid. “Look, Ah know where yir coming fae. Ah’ll look fur a job…soon. Just want tae get ma heid th-gither first. Dae ye want a quick line before dinner?”