McShane's Reprieve

Starin intently at the rear-view mirror, another motor appears an turns intae the car park, the beams ay its heidlights cuttin through the thick ink ay the night.

It comes tae a stoap, the light hittin the mirror an subsequently ma retinas. Ah scootch doon in the seat oot ay sight.

Shieldin ma eyes, ah peer behind me tryin tae see if it’s him. Fuckin jail-bait this, meetin here. Only wan waiy in an oot. Fuckin nae chance ay gettin away if it’s the polis. Ah’ll need tae huv a word. This isnae on man.

The door ay the motor opens an a couple ay auld cunts get oot an amble in the entrance ay the club. Another private hire taxi.

The car park ay a snooker club, ay aw places is where this cunt - some fuckin high-flyin executive cunt fae leafy, affluent Bothwell, nae less - wants tae meet.

Probably enjoys the thrill ay it; takin a spin intae the East End in his high-powered BMW tae rough it wae the lower classes fur ten minutes afore fuckin off back tae his middle-class bubble where he’ll moralise wae other middle class wankers. They’ll lament the erosion ay traditional conservative values an pontificate aboot how the country’s regressin noo wae the resurgence ay the Labour party, afore poppin the cork ay a magnum ay Bollinger an choppin oot another few lines that wid choke a fuckin elephant. Cunts.

It’s no filtered doon tae the masses yet, the auld peas an barley. No yet. Just the trendy cunts. It’s gonae happen though, just a matter ay time man, an every cunt an their granny’s gonae be intae it. It’s awready started. Demand will dictate supply, it’s inevitable. Market forces. That’s whit these cunts ur always oan aboot int it? Let the market decide? Well it will, ah’m tellin ye.

It’s the high-rollers like yer man that ur intae it the noo. The cunts wae money; corporate executives, lawyers, insurance brokers, accountants - fuckin doactors even! Don’t you fuckin kid yersel anythin tae the contrary. Ah’ve seen it aw recently.

Ah wondered how a cunt like McNulty hud cunts like that oan his radar; how a fuckin degenerate, psychopathic lump ay excrement like him wid come tae be the ching supplier tae this myriad ay well-heeled charlie bandits? Market forces, man.

It’s the same whether yer a purveyor ay fine wines, a dealer ay classic cars or a pedlar ay Peruvian marchin powder - sell the right product at the right price an the market comes tae you. Like moths tae a flame man.

So this is where ah find masel, plyin McNulty’s trade. Some turn aroon, eh?

 

Efter dinghiein the door in Scanlon’s flat up tae the point we were convinced they were gonae come through it, Scanlon hud relented an let them in. Ah received a couple ay digs tae the jaw, rapid, fae the two eighteen stone lap dugs McNulty hud brought wae him an wis frogmarched oot ay the gaff an bundled intae the back ay a van. Ah won’t lie, ah wis thinkin this is it man, ah’m deid. Goodnight Vienna.

Scanlon goat a pass. It wis only right. Fuck aw tae dae wae him, ah’d brought the grief tae his door an ah telt McNulty as much. ‘Leave him oot ay it.’ ah sais.

They stuck a bag oer ma heid an drove the van fur miles. Ah wis as rough as a badger’s tadger that mornin tae. Aw the gear we’d rattled, no tae mention the bevvy we’d tanked oer the course ay the precedin days, hud takin their toll. At wan point ah requested that they take the hood aff cos ah thought ah wis gonae spew but this wis answered wae another crack tae the mooth.

The strong silent types.

Ah couldnae tell ye how long we were in that van. Time hus a waiy ay slowin doon when aw ye’ve goat is yer ain unrelentin thoughts tormentin ye aboot how, an in which waiy yer gonae imminently die.

They drove tae some single track road somewhere, fuckin middle ay naewhere; aw moorland an atmospheric, dramatic skies fur as far as the eye could see.

When they pult me oot the van McNulty gave me the full spiel - ah’d forced his haun an it didnae need tae huv come tae this.

Ah’d pleaded ma case, sayin how ah wis tryin tae get his money, an that wis how me an Scanlon hud been oot an aboot - we were tryin tae sell gear tae make his money back, an that wan line hud led oan tae another, an things hud goat oot ay haun.

Ma eyes were drawn tae the knuckleheids gettin tooled up fae the van. A couple ay iron bars.

Ah’d stoapped talkin at that point. In ma heid, ah’m awready deid. Ah wis resigned tae it. Ah wis just waitin oan it comin.

Ah don’t know if whit came next wis premeditated or if the cunt just chainged his mind but he sais there’s another waiy - ah work fur him noo, puntin gear fur him until such times that he decides the debt’s paiyed aff.

Needless tae say ah wis receptive tae this option, given the alternative. The two steroid abusin lackeys were fuckin visibly deflated at the turn ay events, flingin their coshes back intae the van in disgust.

They made sure tae rattle ma heid aff the door an waws ay the van another dozen times or so afore fuckin the hood back oer ma heid, drivin back up the road, an arse an neckin me oot tae the kerb, back oan tae the street near Scanlon’s gaff.

An that wis fuckin that. He didnae need tae go aw Hollywood an dae the full abduction routine, as far as ah wis concerned, he awready hud me by the baws.

The thing is, ah don’t think it wis a routine designed tae scare the shite oot ay me. He didnae need tae dae that.

It’s ma considered opinion that ah wis supposed tae be gettin it that day. Done in, buried in a shallow grave, another fitnote in history. Another insignificant, gaun-fuckin-naewhere flicker ay a life, extinguished. Blawn oot like a caunel.

Sounds better like that, poetic even. Better than heid battered intae a pun ay mince by two iron bar wieldin roid heids, anywaiy.

 

The wee Nokia 3110 Pay-as-you-go phone they gave me beeps in ma poakit. A text message:

Sorry mate, running l8. be there in 10. D

The fuckin wanker ah’m waitin oan - Derek. . . some-fuckin-hing, the executive cunt fae Bothwell. He’d spraffed oan the last time ah met him aboot his joab - some fuckin microchip, computer pish, like ah gie a fuck. Too full ay their ain self-importance, these cunts.

Their specialist subject is invariably themsels, an the only thing their interestit in hearin is their ain voice. Add intae the mix cocaine an ye’ve created a monster.

Ah developed ma penchant fur it through bein involved wae music an that. Aw aye, by East End ay Glesga standards, ah wis positively bohemian. Played bass in a band that shall remain nameless, but were hoverin oan the periphery ay success.

We were good like, even supported The Happy Mondays when they played Glesga in nineteen ninety. That wis follied up wae a small European tour that generated some label interest afore the singer an lead guitarist hud a monumental barney, the guitarist bludgeonin the singer’s heid wae an Epiphone Les Paul oer some “artistic differences” an that wis that. Fucked afore it really started. We’d never even made any money tae progress tae Gibson instruments man. Ma brief foray intae the arts was oer an aw ah hud tae show fur it wis an endurin taste fur cocaine.

Be careful whit ye wish fur kids, that rock an roll kerry oan’s no aw it’s cracked up tae be, ah’m tellin ye.

Scanlon an aw the boiys fae the fitba wurnae far behind gettin intae it. Tellin ye, just a matter ay time afore the full place is hoachin wae it. Market forces man.

The ecstasy generation hud arrived an wis ongoin. The acid-house ay the late eighties an the illegal raves we’d aw went tae, pilled up - loved up, hud morphed an evolved intae the clubs.

Up an doon the country, every weekend there’s cunts gurnin, oot ay their dials, in near hypnotic states, makin shapes tae aw manner ay electronic music spannin multiple genres, full ay wee white pills.

In amongst these crowds ur yer trendies. Upwardly mobile cunts wae a few bob in their tail an urnae feart tae spend it; an when they get back tae their city centre apartment or their swanky townhoose in the West End efter the clubs an want tae keep the party gaun, whit dae they want?

Cocaine, that’s whit.

No be long tae it trickles doon tae the schemies though. It’ll be danced oer, cut wae anythin cunts kin get their hauns oan tae bulk it up an spread it further. This will inevitably result in an inferior product. Cunts won’t care though cos by that point they’ll be gripped by charlie fever. Some ay us ur awready in the midst ay it. Let the market decide. Ah’m tellin ye man, it’s comin.

Another motor turns intae the car park, the light burnin in again intensely, illuminatin the motor an the row ay hedges in front ay me as it comes roarin up next tae me, skiddin tae a stoap oan the loose gravel.

It’s that Derek prick, sittin there wae his floppy fringe, tappin his fingers oan the steerin wheel tae the aural shite he’s goat floodin oot the stereo. Fuckin U2’s latest offerin, Discotheque.

He opens the door, music still blarin, afore he turns the engine aff, gettin oot an dain that self-assured, haun aloft button press oan his car keys that pretentious cunts like him like tae, announcin - tae any cunt that gies a fuck - their arrival. As though the music an the tear-arsin it up the car park wisnae enough, know whit ah mean?

He gets intae the motor. ‘Steve, sorry about that. Got caught up there, y’know how it is, yeah?’ he sais. ‘Never mind that pish, ye ever heard ay bein inconspicuous? Fuck sake, ah’m kerriein a bit here, know whit ah mean?’ ah sais, noddin tae the holdall lyin oan the flair.

‘Steve. . .’ he sais, in that innate, haughty tone - it rips right oot ay him. ‘You gotta just take a chill pill, y’know? Does you no good getting yourself wound up. Here, I’ve got something for you.’ he sais, pushin a wad ay folded notes intae ma haun, then claspin it wae his other wan fur just a bit longer than is comfortable.

‘Derek. . .’ ah sais, psychin masel up ‘. . .yer clearly a smart man. Ye’ve obviously been successful in yer chosen field.’ he nods alang wae me in complete agreement. ‘Well, dae ye no agree that this location isnae the best, ay aw possible locations available, tae conduct oor business?’ he stares at me, incredulous.

‘No idea what you mean Steve. This is a good a place as any.’ he sais lookin oer his shoulders tae somehow illustrate his point. ‘Y’know, if it’s a problem I can always call Bill, see if he can send someone else.’ It takes me a minute tae register who Bill is.

McNulty. William or Wullie McNulty tae me, an every other cunt ah know.

Bill apparently, tae this cunt.

‘Naw, there’s nae need fur that.’ ah sais, unsure if ah should be readin anythin intae it.

‘Good stuff. I like you Steve. Some of the others have been well. . . uncouth, to say the least. I feel comfortable dealing with you. Wouldn’t want any misunderstandings to get in the way of that, y’know? Bill is a man that comes up with the goods but he lacks. . . substance, y’know?’ Aye mate, if ye say so. No lackin in substances though, is he? Ah gie him the gear oot ay the holdall oan the flair afore pappin it on tae the seat in the back. ‘Excellent. It’s always the best this stuff, that’s why I’m a repeat customer!’ he sais, openin it up an dabbin his gums wae it, chucklin tae himsel like his patter’s fuckin tap drawer.

Ah eye up the gear, ah could be dain wae a straightener if this cunt is any barometer ay the waiy the night’s gonae go. ‘Fuckin too right it is Del Boy.’ ah sais, ‘here ye go, get that doon ye.’ Ah offer him the ching ah’ve just scooped oan tae the corner ay ma bank caird fae his gear. This cunt’s no gien a fuck, so neither ah’m ah. ‘Ye don’t mind if ah. . . ?’ ah sais, takin a dig masel, no botherin tae wait fur an answer.

It’s no long tae ma skin feels like it’s meltin aff ma face, fully anaesthetised by the ching, an Derek’s patter starts soundin bearable. Ah tell him how U2 ur pish an that the only thing they’ve ever done ay any real merit is The Joshua Tree but he just looks at me an nods in a waiy that ah assume he’s done many times in his life.

That nod cunts dae when they huvnae goat the first inlklin ay whit the other cunt’s talkin aboot. It’s a well known, seldom spoken ay phenomena where each party in the conversation knows the arrangement; that is, they know fine that the listener has not a fuckin scooby whit their spraffin oan aboot, but they magnanimously let the charade play oot, runnin its natural course.

He talks aboot some multi-million poun deal he's goat comin up wae some Korean computer chip outfit; an how the company he represents ur gonae be outsourcin the labour tae them cos it wis the only viable thing fur them tae dae, in terms ay maximizin their profit margin.

Ah duly reciprocate an nod alang but the truth is, ah know whit he’s talkin aboot. Market forces man. Let the market decide.