— She's awright, Calum said, slightly agog. — Seems a nice lassie, like . . .
— Filled mair jars wi abortions thin yir granny hus wi jam, ya cunt, Crooky sneered.
Gillian was coming back. Crooky felt a twinge of guilt as his eye caught hers and he smiled sheepishly at her before departing to the kitchen.
— Listen, Gillian said to Calum, — ye wantin tae buy tickets fir the Christmas draw? Club 86, she smiled, — Hibernian Youth Development.
— Aye, Calum replied, before remembering that he had already bought some. She seemed so pleased, though, he just couldn't refuse. He bought another five tickets.
— What wis ah oan aboot? Aye, the guy who went intae the coma eftir the trip . . .
Calum began perspiring. He could feel his heart beating wildly. He nudged Boaby gently, but Boaby fell out of the rocking chair and leadenly hit the floor with a heavy crash.
— Fuckin hell, Calum gasped, as Boaby lay prostrate.
People gathered round him. The guy with the moustache who had sold Calum the first batch of Club 86 tickets felt for his pulse.
Chizzie grabbed the guy by the shoulder.— Hi, Geggs! Lit me in thaire, he shouted. — You've no goat ma medical trainin. C'moan, Geggsie, ya cunt.
— Hud oan the now. Geggsie waved him away. To Calum, Geggsie's hair across Boaby's sickly chest looked like ugly, rat-tailed tentacles that were draining the life from Boaby's body. Then Geggsie sat upright. — This cunt's deid. Your mate. He turned to Calum accusingly, as if it was Calum who had murdered him. — Fuckin deid, eh.
— Aw fuck . . . dinnae muck aboot . . . Calum pleaded.
Chizzie bent over Boaby's body. — Aye, ehs fuckin deid awright. Ah should ken; medical trainin, registered first-aider at Ferranti's. They sent ays oan tae this course at Haymarket wi that St Andrew's ambulance crowd. Certificate, the fuckin loat, he said smugly. Then he sprang up. — Crooky! Sorry, chavvy, youse broat the cunt here. Ah'm no wantin the fuckin bizzies roond here, man. Yill huv tae take the cunt wi yis.
— Aw. . . Crooky said.
— Nowt else ah kin dae, chav. Try seein it ma wey. No intae the fuckin bizzies comin roond here, eh.
— GIT THE CUNT OOTAY HERE! the guy called Geggsie roared.
— Wi cannae . . . ah mean . . . whaire we gaunny take the cunt? Crooky gasped.
— That's up tae youse. Fuckin radges. Bringing a fuckin junkie roond tae some cunt's hoose. Geggsie shook his head bitterly.
— Nivir even brought a fuckin cairry-oot, another voice sneered. It was the guy with the blond crew cut, the one called Omelette. — Mibbe git ma fuckin tape oan now then, eh. Fuckin saw whit that yin did tae the boy, he laughed.
Crooky looked at Calum and nodded. They got on either side of Boaby, picked him up under his arms and carried him out the flat and into the stair.
— Sorry aboot the wey this's panned oot, chavvy. Yir mate thaire, sound boy, wis eh? Chizzie asked. Calum and Crooky just stared at him. — Listen, mate, ah ken now might no be the right time, but ah meant tae ask ye, ah'm floggin they tickets fir the Chrismiss draw –
— Goat thum, Calum snorted.
— Aye, well, right then, Chizzie said bitterly.
They began to carry Boaby's body downstairs. Thankfully, he was light and small. Gillian and another girl followed them.
— Half the fuckin fanny's away wi these cunts, Omelette moaned, before the door slammed shut.
— This is too mad, the other girl said. — Is it cool for us tae come, aye?
Neither Crooky or Calum responded. The worst of the hallucinations had gone, but everything was still a bit distorted and their legs felt rubbery and unsteady under Boaby's weight.
— Ah want tae see what they'll dae tae him, Gillian said.
— Whit are we gaunny dae? Calum asked, as they carried Boaby down the stair. While he was not heavy, it was as if he was a sackful of water, his weight constantly shifting. They adjusted their grip, and as they walked down the stairs Boaby's legs trailed down the steps behind them.
— Fuck knows! Lit's jist git the fuck away fae this fuckin place, Crooky nipped.
— Euugghh! Euugghh! Dinnae ken how yis kin even touch um, the other girl said.
— Tsk, shut up, Michelle, Gillian nudged her.
They got Boaby out the stair and carried him down the dark, deserted street. His legs and feet dragged along, scrapping his shoes at the toes and sides. Gillian and Michelle at first walked a few feet behind, then alternatively ran in front, or, if they saw someone approach on the same side of the street, would cross the road and make parallel progress. — Ah've never seen anybody deid before, Gillian stated.
— Ah huv. Ma grandad. Ah saw him laid oot, Michelle told her.
— Whae wis it that laid him oot? Gillian asked. She visualised somebody killing Michelle's grandad with one punch.
— The priest . . . at the church, Michelle said, in a strange, sad voice.
— Aw aye . . . Gillian nodded in realisation. Then she looked at Boaby. — He goat any money oan um?
Crooky and Calum, and therefore Boaby, stopped suddenly. — What dae ye mean? Calum asked.
— Well, it's no much good tae him now. Better get him intae a taxi or something.
Calum and Crooky considered this for a while. Then Calum said, — The perr cunt's deid! We could be done fir murder! Wi cannae git him intae a fuckin taxi!
— Jist sayin, Gillian said.
— Aye, Crooky snapped at Calum, — the lassie's jist sayin. It's cool, Cal. Dinnae take it oot oan the lassie . . .
Calum was ready to explode. This was Boaby . . . Boaby's body. He thought of Bonfire Night. He remembered raiding other bonies in the scheme with Boaby. Boaby. Boaby Preston. He recalled playing IRA and UDA with Boaby. He remembered shooting him and Boaby playing dead, lying on the grassy bank by the main road. When he got up, the back of his T-shirt was covered in dogshite.
Now Boaby wasn't playing dead and they were all in the shit.
— Ah'm no takin this . . . THIS IS BOABY . . . aw fuck . . . Calum moaned, then once again they stopped suddenly, as a car pulled up alongside them. They froze in a communal terror as they realised that it was a police car. Calum's thoughts quickly turned from Boaby to himself. He could feel his life disintegrating before him, as sure as Boaby's had, silently in that chair, taken by the overdose, too junked to know that he was slowly dying. Calum wondered about his girlfriend Helen; whether he'd ever see her again.
A cop got out of the car, leaving his mate at the wheel. — Awright, folks? He looked at Boaby, then turned to Crooky. — Yir mate looks like he's had a skinful.
Crooky and Calum just stared at him. The policeman had a squashed nose with two large holes in it. His skin was the sickly pink of uncooked pork sausage and his eyes were dulled, slanted and set far back into a large, bulbous head. It must be the acid, Crooky kept thinking, it hus tae be the fuckin trip.
Calum and Crooky shot a fearful glance at each other, over Boaby's lolling neck. — Aye, Crooky said weakly.
— Youse huvnae seen any bother roond here the night, huv ye? Bunch ay nutters huv been fillin in shoap windaes.
— Naw, we've no seen nowt, Michelle said.
— Well, yir mate's no seen nowt by the looks ay him. The policeman looked contemptuously at Boaby's corpse.— Ah'd git him hame if ah wis youse.
Shaking a chunky head a couple of times, the cop snorted with disgust before departing.
They were relieved to see the car speed up the street. — Fuckin hell . . . we're fucked here, man . . . totally fucked, Calum whined.
— That's an idea bit, what that polisman sais likes, Crooky considered.
— Eh? Michelle said as Calum looked incredulously at Crooky.
— Jist listen tae this, Crooky elaborated, — if we git pilled up wi the boady, we're fucked. See, if we could git the cunt tae his hoose but —
— Shite. Calum shook his head. — better jist dumpin him.
— Naw, naw, Crooky said, ?
?? bound tae be a polis investigation, ken?
— Ah cannae fuckin think straight, it's this acid . . . Calum gasped.
— Mad takin acid, Gillian said, chewing on a piece of gum.
Crooky watched the side of her face swell and ripple as she chewed.
— Ah ken whit we should dae. Take um tae the infirmary. The casualty. Tell thum eh passed oot, Calum said, suddenly animated.
— Naw, they kin tell. Time ay death, Crooky told him.
— Time ah death, Calum repeated in a ghostly echo, — . . . ah mean, ah dinnae even ken the cunt really, well, no that well. Ah mean, wi wir mates donks ago bit wi drifted apart, ken? First time ah seen the cunt in years, eh. Junkie now, ken?
Gillian pulled Boaby's head back. His skin looked sickly and his eyes were shut. She spread the lids open with her fingers.
— Euugghh . . . euugghh . . . euugghh . . . Michelle half moaned, half-sneered.
— Fuck off! Calum snapped.
— Eh's deid fir fuck sakes, Gillian dismissed him, closing Boaby's eyes. She took a compact from her bag and began dabbing Boaby's face. — Make um look a bit less creepy. In case wi git stoaped again, likes.
— Barry idea, Crooky nodded in stern approval.
Calum looked across the dark blue sky, over to the dead, dulled tenements. The burning street lamps only seemed to emphasise the lifelessness of the ghostly city that surrounded them. There was one shop light, though, that beamed on ahead of them. It was the all-night kebab.
— Ah'm starvin, Michelle ventured.
— Aye, me n aw, Gillian said.
They lowered Boaby onto a municipal bench which lay under some trees at the entrance to a small park. — Wi'll leave Boab here wi you, Cally, n wi'll go ower n get some doners, Crooky suggested.
— Hud oan a bit, Calum started, but they were moving across the road to the kebab shop,— . . . how's it always me that hus tae –
— Stey cool, Cally, dinnae strop oot oan ays. Be back in a minute, Crooky explained.
Cunts, thought Calum. This was a bad move, him left on his jack. He turned to Boaby, whom he was supporting upright with his arm round him. — Listen, Boab, really sorry aboot this, man . . . like ah ken ye cannae hear ays . . . it's like Ian n aw that auld crowd . . . nae cunt kent aboot the virus n that, Boab, every cunt thought thit ye could only git it through shaggin, mind? It wis like only poofs in London, accordin tae they adverts, no junkies up here. Some boys like Ian, they wir jist oan it fir a few months, Boab . . . jist bad fuckin luck, Boab . . . Ah took the test, eftir Ian, ken? Clear, Calum observed, blankly pondering the implications. For the first time, he realised, it didn't seem to matter.
A drunkard in an old overcoat that smelt of stale spirits and pish approached the bench. He stood staring at them for a bit, seemingly rooted to the spot. Then he sat down on the other side of Boaby. — VAT's the thing nowadays, he mused, — VAT, my friend. He winked at Calum.
— Eh? Calum said irritably.
— A rerr baked tattie ye git in that shoap in Cockburn Street son, a rerr baked tattie. That's whair ah eywis go. That shoap in Cockburn Street. Nice people workin in thaire, like, ken? Young yins like yirsel. Aye, students. Students, ken?
— Aye, Calum rolled his eyes in exasperation. It was cold. Boaby's neck felt cold.
— Philadelphia . . . the city ay brotherly love. The Kennedys. J. F. Kennedy, the drunk said smugly. — Philadelphia. Brotherly love, he wheezed.
— Boston bit, Calum said.
— Aye . . . Philadelphia, the drunkard croaked.
— Naw . . . the Kennedys came fae Boston. That wis thair home toon.
— I FUCKEN KNOW THAT, SON! DON'T FUCKEN PREACH HISTORY AT ME! the old drunkard roared into the night. Calum watched his spittle splash against Boaby's face. Then he nudged Boaby. — You'll ken! Tell yir fucken friend here! Boaby slumped against Calum, who pushed him back upright, then pulled on his body to stop him from sliding against the drunkard.
— Leave the boy, ehs fucked, Calum said.
— Ah kin tell ye whair ah wis whin John Lennon wis shot . . . the man wheezed,— . . . the exact fucken spot. He pointed briskly at the ground under his feet.
Calum shook his head in derision. — Wir talkin aboot the fuckin Kennedys, ya tube!
— AH KEN THAT, SON, BIT AH'M FUCKEN TALKIN ABOOT JOHN FUCKEN LENNON! The drunk stood up and started singing: — End so this is Cris-mehhsss and what have we done . . . a veh-ray meh-ray Cris-mehhsss end a hah-pee new yeh-ur . . .
He moved unsteadily down the road. Calum watched him vanish into the night, his voice still audible long after he was out of sight.
The others returned with the kebabs. Crooky handed Calum one. He still had a spare one in his hand. — Fuck! He spat between his teeth. — Ah forgot thit that cunt wis deid, wasted a fuckin kebab! He looked gravely at the spare doner in his hand.
— Oh aye, fuckin selfish ay the cunt tae go n die like that, Calum glared at Crooky, — waste ay a fuckin kebab! Listen tae yirsel, Crooky, ya cunt! Boaby's fuckin died!
Crooky stood with his mouth open for a bit. — Sorry, man, ah ken eh wis ah mate ay yours.
Gillian looked down at Boaby. — If eh wis a junkie, eh widnae huv wanted it anywey. They nivir eat.
Crooky considered this. — Aye, that's true, bit no aw the time though. Remember Fat Phil Cameron? Eh, Cal?
— Aye, Calum nodded, — Fat Phil.
— The only cunt ah've ivir kent whae goat intae smack n pit weight oan, Crooky smiled.
— Bullshit, Gillian scoffed.
— Naw, it's true though, eh, Cal? Crooky appealed to Calum.
Calum shrugged and then nodded in acknowledgement. — Fat Phil used tae take ehs shot, then go radge for a sugar fix. Eh'd head up tae the Bronx Cafe n buy a huge bag ay donuts. Ye couldnae git near they fuckin donuts n aw. Better chance ay gittin the cunt's skag oaf ay um thin one ay they donuts. He goat better though, goat cleaned up . . . no like poor Boaby. Calum looked sadly at the greying corpse of his friend.
They silently finished their kebabs. Crooky took a bite out of the extra one, then slung it over a hedge. Looking at Boaby's body, Gillian seemed sad for a bit, then she put a little lipstick on his blue-tinted lips.
— Nivir hud a chance, Calum said, — boy like him. The cunt goat in too deep, ken? Thaire wis that many ay they boys, good fuckin guys n aw, well, some ay them, bit jist like any other cunts, good n bad in every crowd, ken . . . ?
— Mibbe ehs goat that Aids anywey, Gillian speculated.
— Euuggghh . . . Michelle screwed her face up, then, looking thoughtful, said, — What a shame. Imagine how ehs ma must feel.
Their deliberations were disturbed by noises coming from down the street. Calum and Crooky tensed up. There was no time to run or manoeuvre. They sensed instantly that the owners of the voices, manically screaming a medley of drunken football songs at each other, were just indulging in a spot of practice for the time when they could vent their aggression on some external force.
— Better nash, eh, Calum said. He saw the dark demons come into full view, illuminated by a shining moon and the sparkling street lamps. How many there were he could not be sure, but he knew that they had him fixed in their sights.
— HI, YOUSE! one of them shouted.
— Who the fuck ur you shoutin at? Gillian sneered too loudly.
— Shhh! Calum hissed. — Lit us handle this, he pleaded. He was panicking. Fuckin daft slags, he thought, it's no thaim thit gits the fuckin doin. It's us. Me.
— HI! ANY AY YOUSE CUNTS SEEN THE FUCKIN POLIS? one guy shouted. He was tall and powerfully built with shoulder-length greasy hair and blazing eyes devoid of reason.
— Eh, naw . . . Crooky said.
— WHAIRE YIS FUCKIN BEEN? the greasy-haired guy shouted.
— Eh, a perty, Crooky nervously told him. — The mate's flat n that, eh.
— That yir felly, doll? another guy with a pork-pie hat said to Gillian, while looking Calum up and down.
; Gillian stood silently for a moment. Her stare never left the face of her questioner. With a harsh contempt in her voice she said, — Might be. What's it tae you?
Calum felt a simultaneous eruption of pride and fear. Magnified by the acid, it was almost overwhelming. He felt a muscle in his face twitch wildly.
The guy in the pork-pie hat put his hands on his hips. He bent his head forward and shook it slowly. Then he looked at Calum. — Listen, pal, he said, attempting to sound reasonable through his obvious anger, — if that's yir burd ah'd tell her tae watch her fuckin mooth, right?
Calum nodded sheepishly. The youth's face had distorted into that of a cruel gargoyle. He had seen that image before; on a postcard of Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris. The demon had been looking down on the city, crouched high up on a ledge; now it had come to Earth.
— What's this cunt goat tae say fir ehsel? The greasy-haired guy looked at Crooky and pointed to the body of Boaby. — Eh's goat fuckin lipstick oan! YOU A FUCKIN POOF, MATE?
— Eh, the boy's – Crooky began.
— LIT THE CUNT SPEAK FIR EHSEL! HI, PAL, WHAIRE'S IT YIR FAE? the greasy-haired guy asked Boaby.
No response was forthcoming.
— WIDE CUNT! He lashed out and slammed a chunky fist into Boaby's face. Crooky and Calum relaxed their grip completely and the body fell heavily to the ground.
— EH'S DEID! EH'S FUCKIN DEID! Michelle screamed.
— Eh fuckin well will be in a minute, the greasy-haired guy said, pointing down at the body. — C'MOAN THEN, YA CUNT! YOU N ME! SQUARE FUCKIN GO! GIT UP THEN, YA RADGE! He started booting up the corpse. — THE CUNT'S FUCKED! SEE THAT, YA CUNTS! He turned in triumph to his mates.
The pork-pie hat guy upturned his palms, then extended his hand to his greasy-haired pal. — One fuckin punch, Doogie, cannae say fairer than that. He curled his lower lip and half shut his eyes. — Took the daft cunt oot wi one fuckin punch.
The guy called Doogie, swollen with a belligerent pride, looked at Crooky and Calum. — Whae's next?
Calum's eyes furtively scanned around for potential weapons. He could see nothing.
— Eh . . . we're no wantin any bother like . . . Crooky said in a weak gasp.
The guy called Doogie stood immobilised for a second. His face contorted as if he was trying to assimilate a barely digestible concept.