handy with the old tongue, is he not?’
‘He must be hungry,’ said Billy. ‘He can probably taste the salt on you.’
Tony was sifting through a small mess of paper and loose tobacco, the debris of Pabs’s previous endeavours.
‘You’ll have to give me the necessary, mate,’ he said. ‘I’m all out.’
‘Help yourself, man,’ said Pabs. ‘There should be a bit... Ah ha ha! There should be a bit there somewhere.’
‘I don’t see it,’ said Tony, once more scanning the table.
Pabs pointed up from the floor.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Check that wee table there, Billy. I think I might’ve... Argh, Jesus! He just licked inside my mouth! You big slobbery bastard! You’re supposed to be Danish not fuckin French!’
Billy, leaning across the chair beside him, found a small piece of hashish behind an ashtray on the table. He picked it up and tossed it to Tony. Tony pointed back towards the table.
‘Pass us the skins as well,’ he said. ‘And the ashtray, will you?’
Once in full possession of the necessary he set about doing the damage. With veteran dexterity he licked, stuck, licked, stuck, filled, burned, crumbled; burned, crumbled, rolled, licked, stuck; ripped, rolled, poked and twisted; and smoothed, between thumb and fingers, an exemplary completed joint.
Pabs, meanwhile, had scrambled crabwise but backwards away from Dooly and was standing yeugh-faced and breathless, wiping himself down with his hands.
‘Here,’ said Tony, and he courteously threw the finished joint towards him.
It sailed, like an imperfect paper dart, through the air, hit him on the chest and fell to the floor. It was hastily trampled and twisted, beneath the ball of a bare right foot, back to its constituent parts.
‘Jesus, Drako!’ cried Pabs. ‘Mind the carpet, eh? What you tryin to do, man? Set the place on fire?’
Tony raised a tolerant eyebrow.
‘Em, Pabs,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t lit, mate.’
‘I mean, fuck sake! Try and be a bit more... What?’
‘It wasn’t lit, mate,’ repeated Tony. 'I was givin it to you for first toke.’
Slowly, expectantly, Pabs lifted his foot.
‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Sorry, man. I thought you had... I doubt you’d get a draw out of it now, eh? Ha ha! Tell you what, you build another one and I’ll go and get you what you came for. Grab a seat, Billy, mate. Just throw all that shite onto the floor. And you can let him off the lead if you like. He’ll not get up to much in here. Now, what did you come for, by the way?’
‘Four grams and an ounce,’ said Tony, again licking and sticking.
‘Four grams and an ounce,’ repeated Pabs. ‘Right. Billy?’
‘That’s for the two of us,’ said Billy.
‘Right. Four grams and an ounce. Right. Right back.’
Dooly, unclipped, went sniffing round the room. Billy, gathering together the jumble of clothes on the chair, set them on the floor beside it and sat down. Tony stood up, poking and twisting, walked around the couch to the window and opened it. Dooly sniffed the change of air. In the kitchen, cupboards were being opened and closed, and the soft suck of the fridge door was heard.
‘Know what I like about this place?’ said Tony. ‘Most of the cunts livin here are on the fuckin dole.’
He bit the twisted end off the new joint and spat it into the street below, popped the joint into his mouth and lit it, all the while surveying, with an unfavourable expression, the mock-urbane façade of the block of flats opposite. With its pitched roof and dormer windows, bay windows and porches, it was itself a mirror image of this block.
‘The council sold off these flats, right, to some fuckin private developer. Every cunt that lived here was moved out and the place was totally renovated. They tried to turn it into some fuckin “desirable area” with their pointy roofs and fancy windows and porches and all that shite. But nobody wanted to pay the prices they were chargin. Not to live here. So the developer was forced to take all the old tenants back again, because they get their fuckin rent paid for them by the dole. They're the only cunts that can afford it. So essentially it's still the same fuckin place it always was, no matter what the fuck it looks like!’
Pabs came back in, holding an upside down box of Kellog’s Coco Pops, ripped open at the bottom, which was now the top.
‘Coco Pops,’ he said. ‘But I’ve not got any milk, though.’
Billy and Tony exchanged questioning looks.
‘Em… What?’ said Tony.
‘Coco Pops,’ repeated Pabs. ‘It’s all I’ve got in. But I’ve not got any milk, though. Do you think he’d eat them dry?’
Billy cottoned on.
‘Oh, right, for him,’ he said, indicating Dooly. ‘No, don’t worry about it, man. I’ll get him somethin later.’
‘Em, Pabs, mate?’ said Tony.
‘Aye?’ said Pabs.
‘Drugs?’ said Tony.
‘Aye,’ said Pabs. ‘Don’t mind if I do, man. Don’t mind if I do. Don’t be throwin it at me this time, but. I’ll come over and get it. Give me a second til I…’
‘Em, Pabs, mate?’ said Tony.
‘Aye?’ said Pabs.
‘I meant you were supposed to be gettin our drugs.’
‘Oh, right, aye. Ha ha! Right. Aye. I knew I went out there for somethin, eh? What was it again? Four ounces and what?’
‘Fuck sake, Pabs, man! I only told you two fuckin seconds ago!’
‘I know, man. I know. But my eggs are totally scrambled, eh? Three whole days I’ve been up for! And I’ve had a million different orders to try and remember, what with everybody stockin up for the gi…’
‘Four grams and an ounce,’ interrupted Tony.
‘Four grams and an ounce,’ repeated Pabs. ‘Right. Aye. Right. Right back.’
Dooly dogged his footsteps out the door.
Tony was leaning on the windowsill smoking, when, on the block opposite, a window was thrown open. And, with barely a breath to dampen their clarity, or soften their impact, the artful lyrics of ‘that song’ drifted out into the street, desecrating his tranquillity and imposing themselves, for the umpteenth time that day, on his now gradually altering consciousness.
...done things that other men will never do
I’ve tasted pleasure, tasted pain
Felt the sunshine, felt the rain
But I’ve always...
‘Is this some kind of a fuckin joke?’ Tony growled, drawing himself in and slamming the window. ‘What is it with this cunt the day? Is it his birthday or somethin? Did he fuckin die or what? “Tasted pleasure, tasted pain”! He’ll taste fuckin pain all right if I ever get my hands on him! Shameless little cunt! Cunts like him couldn't give a fuck if they're singin songs or hostin fuckin game shows, as long as they're in the public eye! “One of the fuckin lads”! I swear to fuck, if country and western ever became fashionable this cunt would be struttin about in a ten-gallon hat claimin he was born and raised in Nashville!’
Pabs came back in and threw, like dice, a handful of drugs onto the table: four grams and an ounce, cocaine and hashish; the coke in four small resealable clear plastic bags, the hash in two half-ounce bits each cellophane wrapped. Beside these he dropped a larger plastic bag, knotted at the top, that must’ve contained about a thousand little white pills.
Tony sat back down.
‘What the fuck’s that?’ he said, handing Pabs the joint.
‘Tamazepam,’ said Pabs. ‘Or Diazepam. One of the pams, at least. You want some?’
‘What did you do? Rob a fuckin chemist?’
‘I’m sellin them for Daz.’
‘Did he rob a fuckin chemist?’
‘Don’t ask, man,’ said Pabs. ‘I’ll give you thirty for half price. Help you sleep.’
‘Thirty?’ said Tony. ‘Aye, right you are. I’ll set my alarm for November.’
‘What about you, Billy?’
Billy shrugged.
‘Not my kind of thing,
really,’ he said.
‘They’re fuckin dangerous, man,’ said Tony. ‘Total blackout material. Remember Coshy? Took a load of them one night and broke into the centre. They reckon he climbed all the way in through the heatin ducts. Polis found him in Boots’s fuckin ransackin the place! Poor cunt woke up next mornin to three months inside. The fuckin dogs had been chewin on him and everythin, man, and he didn’t know a fuckin thing about any of it! Fuck that for a laugh! Anythin can happen on that shite. And I mean fuckin anythin!’
‘Suit yourselves,’ said Pabs, as he proffered Billy the joint.
‘No thanks, man,’ said Billy. ‘Not for me. I don’t want to get too comfy. I’ll need to be makin a move soon. Get him fed.’
And he thumbed in the direction of the hallway, where Dooly, the thrill of the new having seemingly worn off, was whining by the front door impatiently.
‘He’s fine,’ said Tony. ‘ You can sit for a fuckin wee while.’
‘Aye, man,’ said Pabs. ‘Sit for a wee while, will you? Here, have a toke or two. A day wasted is never a wasted day, eh? That right, Drako?’
‘Exactly, Pabs, mate. Exactly. I couldn’t’ve put it better myself.’
Inevitably, Billy succumbed.
‘Aye, all right,’ he said, reluctantly accepting the proffered joint. ‘I suppose a toke or two won’t hurt.’
One joint finished, another was begun. And another. And another. Time went by. Who knows how much? An hour, maybe? Maybe two. But time enough certainly for any nonsensical gibberish (spoken mostly by Pabs), penny philosophising (Tony) or sporadic bursts of uncontrollable laughter (originating in Billy but spreading to Pabs, while Tony looked on disparagingly, which only made matters worse) to have passed long since, leaving only