Auld News

We’re baith buzzin when we get back hame. Scanlon reckons he’s found his callin as a diplomat based solely oan us managin tae get the deal done an leave wae the money waeoot incident (if ye discount him nearly gettin his melt knoacked in wae a cosh, that is).

Fuckin staggered we goat away it, so he is – a couple ay chancin bastarts like us. Tae be honest, he’s no the only wan.

He’d done well though, haudin his nerve like that. We baith hud.

He’s wantin tae head oot oan the randan, justifyin it by remindin me that he missed the away day trip tae Dundee wae his supporters bus tae come wae me. Layin it oan thick aboot the reciprocal nature ay aw meaningful friendships an that. Well, mibbe no in they exact words but that wis where he wis comin fae.

Ah don’t know, ah think ah done the big cunt a favour efter the waiy it’d panned oot. We’d heard the results oan the waiy back an his face wis trippin him fur ten minutes as he lamented his team squanderin whit he called a wance-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Ah’ve never seen the appeal; watchin twinty cunts chasin aboot a leather sack ay air. Where’s the gratification in that, know whit ah mean?

It’s no like jumpin aboot, oot yer face at a gig watchin yer favourite band or that, is it? The Stone Roses at Glesga Green in nineteen ninety, or Oasis up at Balloch the other year. Knebworth even! Whit a gig that wis!

We’d goat Access All Areas passes fur that through somebody at the record label, back when ah wis dain somethin wae ma life.

It’s fuckin amazin how things kin turn oan their heid in a short period ay time: Wan minute yer hob-nobbin wae the glitterati; the beautiful people. Doon in the big-smoke, cuttin demos, then a record, then oot oan the road, fuckin actually dain it man. The next thing ye know yer back where ye came fae, scratchin aroon the same auld haunts wae the same fuckin no-marks ye thoat ye’d seen the last ay eighteen months previous; the only endurin legacy ay it, five thoosand singles pressed an oot there that just aboot scraped intae the tap wan hundred fur a couple ay weeks afore fawin oot ay existence, a few anecdotes ay celebrity encounters nae cunt actually believes anywaiy, an a fuckin wicked coke habit.

Ah should really be thankful ah don’t dance wae the broon – plenty ay that doon there an aw – but seein the brass monkeys aboot here growin up, there wis never any fuckin chance ay that happenin. Heroin chic? No aboot here it’s no.

Ah’d tried tae get Scanlon tae come doon wae me when it wis aw takin aff; telt him ah’d get him work wae the road crew. Some buzz fur a young guy; aw they burds an recreational drugs kickin aboot but he wisnae interestit. Sais he’d miss Glesga too much.

Seein him get oot the motor at The Town Tavern, rain stoatin aff the grun, an disappearin between two 62b double deckers that ur stuck at the lights, ah cannae help questionin his position. He kin fuckin huv it.

The two buses pull away an ma reflection comes back at me as though ah’m staunin in a carousel ay mirrors, flittin an jumpin between the windaes fur a second or two an then ah’m gone, just the punters at the bus stoap an the pub behind remain, drizzled an sheer in the evenin light.

 

The rain husnae let up by the time ah get tae McNulty’s. Some poor cunt’s been moved intae the boattom flat. Ah gie it a month afore the cooncil curtains ur bolted back intae position.

Ah telt Scanlon ah’d catch up wae him later. As far as McNulty an they other two nude books know, ah’m flyin solo. Best tae keep the big yin oot ay it, should it aw go tits up. He’s done mare than enough awready.

The controlled entry loack buzzes open when ah get tae the door. Somebody must’ve seen me comin. Happy hardcore techno comes blarin fae the newly occupied flat oan the grun flair. Fuckin rank rotten, Pinky an Perky oan amphetamines, lowest common denominator, schemie shite. Ah nearly turn oan ma heels an bolt just tae get away fae it!

By the time ah’m up the stair it’s nae mare than a dull throb ay bass dissipatin tae nothin as ah walk intae the flat.

‘Where’ve you been? Ah’ve been tryin tae get ye.’ McNulty sais as ah walk intae the room, bag in haun.

‘Oot makin you money, ya cunt, where dae ye think? Met Zander an that an shifted that key. Ah telt ye it’d be a piece ay piss.’ ah sais, noddin tae the bag.

‘Much’d ye get fur it?’

‘Forty G’s. Easiest five grand ye’ll ever make.’

He looks at me contemplatively, well, wan eye dis anywaiy, ‘Fair enough Stevie, ah cannae grumble at that, kin ah? Ye could’ve sais thirty-eight an ah widnae’ve batted an eyelid – but ye didnae. No sure ah’d huv done the same masel if ah wis in your shoes.’

‘Aye well, ah wis hopin that if ah look efter you, you’ll look efter me, know? Ah mean, ah’ve made back the money ah owe ye ten-fold noo man. Ah’ve made mare than any wan ay they two tadgers could’ve in the last three month, ah know that much. Where ur they anywaiy? Thoat it smelt awright in here fur wance.’

‘They’ve tae tie up some loose ends fur me this comin week so ah telt them tae fuck off an get oan wae it. No in the fuckin mood fur the pair ay useless pricks, especially no efter whit happened.’ He’s lookin at me like it’s crystal baws ah possess, as opposed tae the hairy couplin ah’ve goat doon ma troosers – like ah should know whit he’s fuckin talkin aboot, ‘Ah hud a couple ay visitors. Ye widnae know anythin aboot that, wid ye?’ he continues. He pours the dregs ay a boattle ay voddy intae a grimy gless an takes a swally. Maist ay it ends up doon his T-shirt. Fuckin blotto, he is.

‘Harry, ah’ve no goat a clue whit yer oan aboot man. Here, ye no wantin tae count this?’ as sais, unzippin the bag, showin the contents.

‘Soon enough. Put it doon oer there.’ he slurs, pointin tae the table, ‘Sit doon.’

Ah dae as he sais, puttin the bag oan the table an sittin doon oan the chair opposite him. He bends doon tae the table, parkin his snib in the wee pile ay ching in front ay him, blawin hauf ay oot oer the table in the process, afore inhalin a dose, al fresco.

He sits back up, white pooder dusted oer his dish like he’s been belted in the face wae a snowbaw. He gesticulates tae the table, offerin us a sniff which ah politely decline wae a shake ay the heid.

‘Two young cunts showed up here earlier the day, lookin fur a gram; sais you sent them.’

‘Whit two cunts? Harry, ah’ve no goat a clue who yer talkin aboot –’

‘John Coyle.’ he sais, quietly an kind ay tremulously, starin intae the middle distance, ‘ . . . well, no him – his boay. Him an another wan, McDay or McDaig –’

‘McDade!’ ah blurt oot involuntarily, ‘ . . . that’s just Scanlon’s wee cousin. He gies him a wee bit here an there, know? Fuck aw, really. Listen, Harry, ah kin assure ye ah never sent them here. They’re just a couple ay wee bams. Ah barely know them. They’ll just be chancin their luck. Ah’ll talk tae Scanlon, make sure it disnae happen again.’

‘Aw, it’ll no happen again. Ah kin assure you.’ he sais an ah’m wonderin where the fuck he’s gaun wae this, ‘ . . . ah gave that Coyle a fuckin slap an chased the cunts. Telt them; telt him, ah better never see them again roon here again.’

It’s taken me tae noo tae figure oot who the fuck this Coyle is when ah make the connection, Danny Coyle, McDade’s mate. The boay fae that fuckin shite party Scanlon made me go tae. Just a passin acquaintance, he is. No even that.

‘Ah doubt they will then, be back again, that is. Whit’s yer issue wae Danny Coyle, if ye don’t mind me askin? He’s just a daft wee guy, man.’

He takes another drink ay his voddy, finishin it an bangin it back doon oan the gless table, nearly puttin it through the cunt, ‘This here’s the issue.’ he sais, pointin at his gammy eye.

‘Ye’ve loast me. Did he say somethin aboot yer eye cos if he did, that’s oot ay order man. Didnae think the wee cunt wis like that –’

‘NAW HE NEVER SAIS NOTHIN ABOOT IT! He didnae fuckin need tae. Just seein him brought it aw back.’

He’s swayin in his seat, fuckin buckelt he is, man. He keeps shuttin his good eye as though he’s tryin tae focus, afore swiftly rememberin his other wan’s absent waeoot leave, ‘See this here?’ he draws his finger alang the tan oan his face, tracin the scar tissue roon the curve an tappin the gless eye wae his fingernail, ‘ . . . that cunt’s faither did that tae me.’

The revelation certainly sheds some light oan his considerable chagrin where Coyle, the younger, is concerned.

‘Fuck sake man. Is that a gless eye? Ah hudnae even noticed. Thoat it wis just eh, focussin oan the wan place.’ ah sais, tryin no tae sound disingenuous.

‘You takin the fuckin piss, ya cunt?’ he sais, tryin tae staun up but keelin immediately back oer oan tae the couch, ‘Naw man, no at aw. Never even registered man.’ Easy Stevie, don’t lay it oan too thick noo, fur fuck sake, ‘ . . . ah’m no meanin tae be funny, an that is fuckin heavy man – brutal, in fact, but should ye no take that up wae his Da? It’s no the boay’s fault.’

He gies us a look like ah’m miles aff it wae that statement, pure perplexed wae it as though the cunt that done him’s livin vicariously through his boay or somethin.

‘He’s a fuckin Coyle int he? He’s his Da aw oer the back. It wis like gaun back in time; like the bastart’s hauntin me –’

An oan he goes, ramblin oan incoherently aboot some fight way back when, an ah’m lookin at the cloack an thinkin how ah’d rather be just aboot anywhere else than sittin here listenin tae this fuckin clown, ‘Right Harry, ah better be gaun. Saturday night, eh? This phone’s gonnae be buzzin as soon as ah put it oan. Time waits fur no man an that.’ ah sais, staunin up.

‘Ah goat him back but, din’t ah?’ he sais, conspiratorially, ‘ . . . took us a while. Years it wis, but ah goat the cunt. Don’t you fuckin worry aboot that.’ He sticks his face back in amongst the coke oan the table an snorts another straightener joltin him back intae some semblance ay cohesion, ‘ . . . ah fuckin goat him awright.’ he sais.

‘Listen Harry, ah don’t think ye should be tellin me aw this. Ah don’t need tae know. Ah don’t fuckin want tae know.’ It takes a second but it’s as though he comes tae his senses an realises whit he’s dain; the voddy an gear an years ay conscience bearin doon oan him – makin him spill his guts tae anycunt in earshot – as though it’ll relieve him ay a burden ay guilt or whitever the fuck his angle is. Ah’m no interestit man. Ah’ve goat ma ain problems, aw ay which come fae his direction. Ah’m fucked if ah need his woes oan tap ay it.

‘Aye well, ah don’t suppose it matters noo. Just you make sure they get the message, right?’ he sais, reachin oer tae the holdall wae the money fae the Houlihans, openin it, ‘Ye counted it?’ he slurs.

‘Aye.’ ah lie, ‘it’s aw there.’ Of course it’s aw there. It disnae make sense fur it no tae be. Ah’m the only access they’ve goat tae the Templeton’s supply chain, albeit through this fuckin prick. They’d need tae be a whole new category ay stupit tae gie us a light payment. They’re gonnae want mare so it stauns tae reason that this transaction goes smoothly; seamlessly, waeoot a hitch, know whit ah mean?

‘Right. Ye kin fuck off noo. An just furget aboot aw that ah wis talkin aboot. Auld news man. It’s finished.’

‘Ah’ve awready furgoat.’ ah lie, again, ‘Harry, aboot this – situation, like ah sais, ah’ve done ma bit. Paid ma dues an mare, so ah huv, so the waiy ah see it, we’re sound noo, eh?’

Wae nae hint ay warnin, he picks up the gless again aff the table, launchin it at me. It comes hurtlin taewards ma face but ah swerve, the sound ay a hunner fragments ay gless fawin like raindraps, created in an instant as the tumbler smashes intae the waw oer ma shooder, ‘WE’LL BE SOUND WHEN AH FUCKIN TELL YE WE UR!’ he screams at us. The syrupy remnants ay whit remained in the boattom ay it ur streaked doon the artex an ah’m rooted fur a second where ah sit, stunned, ‘This is the waiy ah’m gaun noo. This is where the dough is. The smack an the money lendin don’t come near it. That’s whit the boays ur windin up. Collectin whit’s owed an that. Fae noo oan we’re focussin aw oer attention oan this. You’re no gaun anywhere yet. Nae fuckin chance.’ he spits.

An that’s fuckin that. He’s no tellin me anythin ah didnae know, or at least hudnae speculated wid happen. Ah just hud tae ask the question; hud tae hear the soulless, mercenary prick say it again. Here wis his opportunity tae dae the right thing. His last fuckin chance. Don’t say ah didnae try, know whit ah mean?

 He bends oer again tae take a sniff an ah leave him tae it, fuckin off oot the flat tae the throbbin pulse ay techno gettin incrementally louder again wae each step ah take as ah bolt doon the concrete stairs ay the close.