Carpe Diem

Rumour has it that he’s goat a bent copper oan his payroll, McNulty. Gets the heids up whenever the trail starts tae lead tae his door an takes the necessary steps tae circumvent prosecution. Been raided fuck knows how many times but every time, he’s clean as a whistle.

Makes sense ah suppose. Certainly explains a few things. It’s an open secret - ye want tae score, ye go tae him. Aw hours ay the day an night there’s smackheids gaun in an oot the close. Been like that fur years. Would depress the fuck oot ay ye if ye let it.

The close is a fuckin shitehole, even the cooncil gie it a wide berth. Every other flat bar the shoap, as he calls it, is boarded up wae steel shutterin, the windaes, doors, the lot. Couldnae be any mare obvious if he hud a fuckin neon light in the windae. Some cunt’s takin a backhander somewhere man.

Maist ay the cunts that staiy aboot here ur either outright indifferent tae it or if they’re no, they’re too feart tae dae anythin. A combination ay baith, ah suspect. The acceptance ay the status quo through fear ay bein branded a grass an aw that goes wae it, breeds apathy. Cunts ur resigned tae it. In real terms, naebody gies a fuck.

Scannin up an doon the road first, makin sure it’s quiet, ah grab the bag fae the passenger seat an head in tae the close. The grey sandstane tenement’s as grim lookin as it sounds wae green streaks ay mossy stains runnin parallel tae corroded cast iron downpipes on either side ay the main door. It’s rain sodden essence seems tae absorb any exuberance ye might huv, as efficiently as it does, the rain watter.

Pressin the buzzer ah wait fur a reply. ‘Who is it?’ the voice comes through the intercom.

‘It’s me, McShane.’ The door clicks open an ah head in. A scamperin noise comin fae up the stair comes echoin roon the close, the sound ay scratchin paws scuttlin roon the stairwell. An pantin. Then ah see it. Wan ay they fuckin mental lookin bull terriers; like that cunt oot ay Oliver Twist’s dug, growlin at me fae the first landin.

Its goat they black, deid eyes like a shark, vacant an inscrutable. It bares its teeth, drool slebberin aff them an poolin oan the concrete flair. ‘Good boay.’ ah sais, ‘there’s a nice dug.’ an try tae edge slowly taewards it, haudin the leather holdall oot in front ay me like a matador. It lets oot a boomin bark that rattles up the close, amplifyin the effect like the crash ay thunder. ‘Good boay.’ ah sais again, tryin tae placate the cunt wae ma free haun outstretched like fuckin Crocodile Dundee, deludin masel that it might actually help.

It snarls again interspersed wae barkin, only louder this time, afore a sharp whistle fae up the close summons it back, an it fucks off just as quick as it arrived.

At the next landin the interior light’s ripped aff the waw so the only semblance ay illumination is the dull amber glow ay the city’s street light, reflected aff the low clouds, percolatin in through the shuttered windae at the next flair up.  

The door tae the flat’s open so ah walk in. The hallway’s dark wae red an black striped wallpaper, the kind that wis fashionable fur aboot six months in the late eighties. The carpet underfoot is threadbare wae folds an tears in it exposin the flairboards underneath an the full place is bowfin ay the smell ay wet dug.

Daytime tellie comes dronin fae the livin room, the accompanyin glow radiatin oot fae the massive rear projection screen in the corner, reflectin aff McNulty’s gless eye an the silvery scar below it; the hallmark ay the mental street surgeon that hud performed the ocular extraction. ‘Look who it is Ged.’ he sais tae his mate, wan ay the roidheids  fae the wee hooded excursion they took me oan eight weeks ago. ‘It’s yer pal, Stevie. Ye sayin hello?’ Ged stares right through me. Ah’m still gettin the feelin he disnae like me very much.

The dug snarls in solidarity wae its master, snappin its teeth an pullin away fae him, the tension oan the chain-link leash Ged’s haudin lookin like its gonnae snap under the strain.

McNulty laughs at me, frozen as ah am tae the spot. ‘That bag fur me, is it?’ he sais.

‘Aye. It’s aw there.’ ah sais, haundin it tae him.

‘Here, count that.’ he sais, flingin it tae Ged. Ah dae ma best no tae laugh as it skites aff his fuckin baw heid.

‘Here, take that.’ he sais, gien me another holdall.

‘Ah’ll get rid ay this in nae time Tam, this gear’s flyin oot the door. Word’s gettin oot.’

‘Good. That’s whit ah brought ye in fur Stevie. Ye’ve a certain waiy wae people. Never doubted ye fur a minute. Ged there wisnae so sure but then, he’s never been a good judge ay character.’ he looks tae the fuckin drongo who’s leafin through the money, too engrossed in simple addition tae hear whit’s bein said.

‘Aw aye? Where’s the other wan? Away dain yer messages?’ ah sais, regrettin ma impudence immediately. He looks at me, that gammy gless eye puttin the shitters up me as though that’s its sole purpose; like the waiy Ivan the Terrible would put his enemies heids on pikes tae warn any other potential adversaries whit would happen tae them if they came the cunt.

‘That’s a good wan Stevie. Ah like yer patter.’ he sais, grinnin. ‘In a manner ay speakin, aye, he is, away dain a message fur me. Monty’s oot collectin.’

‘Whit like? Tic money?’ ah sais, pushin ma luck.

‘Naw, naw. The drugs ur oan a cash only basis noo. Ye lay it oan fur the cunts, an as sure as fuck they take advantage, then ah need tae hurt them. Unless of course, other arrangements kin be found, an you’d know aw aboot that noo, win’t ye Stevie?’ he flashes his fuckin glakit, edentulous grin at me an ah nearly jump oot ma skin as the intercom buzzer rasps in the hallway. ‘Ged, get that!’ he sais tae big meatbaw heid who flings the wad ay twenties in his haun doon, ragin. ‘Naw, Stevie ma other area ay business is the breid an butter. A community service, if ye like. . .’

The fact that ah’ve no goat the first fuckin inklin ay whit he’s talkin aboot must show oan ma face as he elaborates. ‘. . . aw these fuckin deadbeats aboot here, fuckin degenerate wasters - the cunts that couldnae fill oot an application fur a bank account never mind huv wan, where dae they go when they need money eh? Ye ever thought ay that? Like ah sais, just dain ma bit.’

The sound ay the front door slammin wrenches ma attention fae McNulty’s attempt tae justify his incontrovertible place in the world as a soulless, black hearted cunt.

Big meatbaw heid’s nae sooner sat doon fae gettin the buzzer an there’s a plukey faced burd staunin in the doorwaiy ay the livinroom wearin a Sergio Tacchini trackie. She’s goat brown greasy hair scraped back intae a ponytail which reveals her woeful inability tae evenly apply the Wotsit colour foundation she’s slapped oan tae her dish in a futile attempt at hidin the aforementioned plukes. Wavin a score note in her haun, she stauns there sayin nothin, like a Brit pissheid tryin tae get a drink at a foreign bar. It’s no a drink she’s wantin though, know whit ah mean?

 She’s strung oot, rattlin man. Two tenner bags required. Ah take it as ma cue tae get tae fuck.

‘Right, ah’ll no keep yies any longer.’ ah sais, grabbin the holdall an makin fur the door, gien Ged a wink as ah go. The devil dug makes another lunge, gnashin its teeth an me an the burd recoil as it gags, chokin itsel wae its collar in its attempt tae get at me. This gies meatbaw heid nae end ay amusement as he chuckles tae himsel afore gaun aw cross eyed again as he realises he’s loast count again. ‘Stevie!’ McNulty shouts efter me as ah’m stridin doon the hallway. ‘Keep it comin!’

 

Ah put the bag doon an collapse oan tae Scanlon’s couch. ‘Ah’m no cut oot fur this pish.’ ah sais. He looks at me in the waiy a parent wid tae a recalcitrant wean an turns the tellie oan. ‘Ah don’t know whit you’re lookin so fuckin holier-than-thou fur, ah didnae see you knockin the lines back when they were gettin dished oot that weekend.’ ah sais.

‘Here, don’t blame me fur you makin a rip-roarin cunt ay it. Ah fuckin telt ye no tae go doon that road. Ye were awready in the shit afore that. There wis only ever wan waiy that wis gonae pan oot. Just think yersel lucky yer still breathin ya prick.’ he sais, puffin his chist oot.

‘Aye? Must be fuckin cauld up there oan the moral high grun.’ ah sais, ragin but equally aware that ah’m aimin ma vitriol in the wrang direction. ‘Know whit he sais tae me there - McNulty? Keep it comin! The prick thinks ah’m workin fur him in-fuckin-definitely. Workin? That’s a laugh, int it? That implies that ah’m actually makin somethin oot ay this arrangement.’

‘Look, calm doon.’ he sais, ‘here, get a blast oan that.’ he hauns me a joint that’s sittin oan the coffee table. ‘Ah’m gonae make a cup ay tea, ye wantin wan?’ he sais.

‘Naw ah don’t. Ye any fuckin beer in there?’

He goes intae the kitchen an ah open the holdall, gettin a block ay the gear oot. Cuttin a corner ay it aff wae his penknife that’s lyin oan the table, ah chop a few lines oot, takin the biggest wan fur masel. Goat tae be done, know whit ah mean?

Scanlon walks back intae the room an hauns me a can ay Miller Pilsner -  fuckin piss watter but it’ll need tae dae. That petroleum fuckin taste fae the gear needs washed away. ‘You’re a fuckin glutton fur punishment, ya cunt.’ Scanlon sais, sittin doon, pickin up the note an snortin a line.

‘Fuck him anywaiy. Ah’ll bulk it oot. If he thinks ah’m jumpin aboot like fuckin Don Kiddie-on-ay wae a holdall full ay gear, dain his biddin an no gettin a sniff, then he’s on tae plums.’ Scanlon draws his beak alang the table takin another wan - in whit ah kin only assume is a show ay support - while he considers whit ah’m sayin.

‘So, no fur the first time, it begs the question: Whit’s the exit strategy, eh? Whit ur ye gonae dae?’ he sais, tryin tae perfect a fuckin whimsical expression he does when he thinks he’s bein profound.

‘Ah’m huvin another Patsy, that’s whit ah’m gonae dae.’ ah sais. ‘Ah’ll think ay somethin.’

The video for North Country Boy, the new single by The Charlatans comes oan the tellie an gets me right in the mood fur a blow oot. Underrated, they boays. Their keyboardist died durin the makin ay the album the single’s taken fae, a fuckin shame man, so it is. Ye never know the minute dae ye? Carpe Diem that’s whit ah say. Ah make a mental note tae buy the record as soon as it’s released.

The lines that Scanlon hud so effortlessly hoovered huv the desired effect, an emboldened, an wae renewed vigour, he’s away tae the shoap tae get a kerry oot.

Ah check the paiy-as-ye-go phone McNulty gied us fur messages. There’s nothin there yet but there will be. Turnin it aff an puttin it back in ma poakit ah reflect oan whether this is the best course ay action, promptly decidin that it is. Ah’m fucked if ah’m gaun oot meetin cunts. They kin wait. We’re gettin on it.

Leafin through Scanlon’s C.D. collection ah pick oot Second Coming by The Stone Roses an stick it oan tae his recently acquired Bose stereo, crankin it up a bit. Best ay gear man; the big yin disnae fuck aboot when it comes tae his tunes, the waiy it should be, know whit ah mean? The long intro at the start ay the album emanates fae the speaker, fillin the room wae mad exotic jungle sounds messin wae ma buzz afore Breaking into Heaven kicks in.

Ye’ve goat tae let it play through; the album as a medium is no tae be trifled wae. It’s how it should be listened tae - in its entirety.

That internet is gonae huv an influence oan it. Fuck knows how, but it will, know whit ah mean?

Loads ay cunts say this album’s pish compared tae their first wan but they’re missin the fuckin point. It’s no meant tae sound like the first wan! Like aw good bands they’ve evolved, explorin other musical avenues, surgin onwards. Fuckin been listenin tae their da’s Led Zeppelin albums afore they startit this wan if ye ask me. Like, they’ve moved in a linear direction insteid ay advancin tae the next stage or whitever. Still fuckin good but, know whit ah mean?

Scanlon’s staunin behind me wae a bag ay cans, laughin at ma enthusiastic chantin as a turn roon, dain that mad Manc kinda dance; mare ay a swagger, really.

 

How many times do I have to tell you,

You don’t have to wait to die,

You can have it all, anytime you want it,

Yeah, the kingdom’s all inside

 

Sais it aw there in the lyrics; we’re the architects ay oor ain destiny, aw ay us, ye’ve just goat tae make it happen man. It might be the gear talkin, but ah’m right on board wae it. Ah don’t go in fur aw that whits fur ye’ll no go by ye pish, The future’s no been written yet, know whit ah mean?

The riff fae Driving South comes through the speaker, clear as a fuckin bell an ah spark the can ay Red Stripe Scanlon’s just flung me.